Fairies, gods and ‘thin places’ exist at Speke Hall, finds Stephanie Gavan; all you’ve got to do is look up and listen…

Arriving at the visitor centre, I am handed a map of the grounds by a soft-spoken girl behind the desk. My eyes widen as she springs to my side, tracing the route with her finger. The grounds seem vaster than I remember as a child. I wonder if I should have worn more suitable shoes. After 10 minutes or so I find myself approaching a wooden gate at the edge of the estate. I consult my map before entering and then, silence. Encased by trees, the light oozes through the branches. It creates a sort of slowed down, strobe effect as I walk deeper into the woodland. In a trance-like state, I almost miss the installation itself. I stop myself and gaze up to find the branches of a magnificent oak tree adorned with hundreds of mushroom-like bonnets. There is something ominous about their suspension. I think of witch trials. A mass of pale pink and blue ghosts subtly swaying as women’s voices chant and hiss in my ears. Every now and then I find myself turning around just to check. I’m still alone.

The Bell Tree (2018) is a multi-sensory installation by artist Serena Korda commissioned by the National Trust as part of its Trust New Art programme, which aims to connect communities with heritage in the city through contemporary art. The work consists of 300 porcelain mushroom bells, each one handmade and hung from an old oak. Accompanying this is a downloadable soundscape made in collaboration with South Liverpool choral group Mostly Madrigals, North East a cappella group Mouthful, and the Bell Ringers of St. Michael’s Church. An unusual site for contemporary art, Speke Hall’s woodlands date back to the time of William the Conqueror, over 1,000 years ago. Steeped in history, and known locally as a hotspot for hauntings, the estate seems like an appropriate location for the equally unusual concerns of Korda. Working across performance, sculpture and sound, her practice explores forgotten histories and folklore, ritual and tradition.

Through my earphones, a herd of voices chant “dead man’s bells, dead man’s bells” – one of the many names assigned to the bluebell flower on account of its poisonous nature. In Spring, bluebells can be seen to carpet the ground of the forest, transforming it into a sea of purple and blue. At the threshold of Autumn, however, that palette has been exchanged for warmer tones.

The dawn of November brings its own sense of witchery; amplifying the mysticism at the core of Korda’s work. Through further reading, I made some interesting discoveries. It’s said that fairies ring the bluebells to call meetings; and if you overhear them, you risk being spirited away, never to be seen again. The plant is known through scientific communities by its Latin name, hyacinthoides non-scripta, which is borrowed from the hyacinth flower of Greek mythology. As the story goes, this flower first appeared from the blood of the dying prince Hyacinthus. His lover, the god Apollo, shed tears that marked the petals of the flower with the word ‘alas’ as a sign of grief.

Giving equal importance to the imaginative and rational mind, Korda creates balance between scientific and spiritual domains, connecting what can and cannot be seen or heard. Reading through the visitors guide, the phrase ‘thin places’ jumped out at me. After some research I discovered it’s origin in Celtic folklore: “Heaven and Earth are only three feet apart, but in thin places, that distance is even shorter”. Previously explored in her sound sculpture for Glasgow International (2016), The Bell Tree is a continuation of Korda’s investigation into these thin places. Here, in this woodland, there is a definite sense of slipping through some thinly veiled realm. The chanting becomes spell-like and looking up, I’m drawn back to my Catholic upbringing: head-tilted towards the altar as a reminder that there is something much bigger than you. Something that you, in your smallness, could never fully comprehend, only sense.

My phone runs out of battery and I am transported back to the damp earth; my time with the fairies rudely interrupted by the roaring of planes departing from the nearby airport. Yes, I definitely should have worn different shoes.

Stephanie Gavan is a recent graduate of Liverpool-based literature organisation Writing on the Wall’s 12-week Write to Work programme, and is a #BeACritic alumna

See Serena Korda’s The Bell Tree at Speke Hall, Liverpool, until Sunday 28 July 2019. Open daily from 10.30-4pm

A smaller version of The Bell Tree is located in Bluecoat’s garden, free Mon-Sun 11-6pm daily. The Bell Tree is a co-commission between Trust New Art and Bluecoat

All images courtesy of photographer Chris Egon Searle

Watch the Royal Academy director discuss key art movements that have shaped his personal view of — and dedication to — the arts…

“The spiritual dimension in art is much broader, more nebulous, and I think more important…” We invited arts broadcaster, writer and Royal Academy director Tim Marlow to deliver a one-off, hour long public lecture at Tate Liverpool earlier last year (Saturday 16 May 2015, 11am-12.30pm). Entitled The Value Of Art — and completely selling out Tate’s auditorium — Marlow aimed to ask the big questions: Why does art matter? What does it tell us about ourselves and the culture in which it was/is created? How do we assess the importance of art? Promising no definitive answers, and entertaining throughout with personal anecdotes, Marlow discussed some of the key artworks and art experiences — from Gilbert and George to Rembrandt — that have shaped his illustrious career.

With over 20 years’ experience presenting arts programmes for the BBC, Sky Arts, Channel 4 and Five, in addition to writing extensively for newspapers and magazines on arts and culture – including the Times, the Guardian, the Independent on Sunday, Arena and Art Monthly — Marlow was the perfect person to invite to Liverpool to as the invited guest critic for #BeACritic 2015: part of a wider campaign to encourage more critical discussion of the arts.

The #BeACritic project is an annual programme of mentoring and commissioned critical articles initiated and supported by The Double Negative Magazine, Liverpool John Moores University and Arts Council England. See a video of #BeACritic 2014 — led by ArtReview’s Oliver Basciano — here.

The #BeACritic cohort have been commissioned to write their own critiques, reviews and features throughout 2015 for The Double Negative, receiving £100, editorial feedback and support.

Laura Robertson (editor)

Watch our short film on #BeACritic 2015; plus read more about the project, and read the growing number of commissioned articles, on our website

Read more on Twitter #beacritic

With thanks to LJMU graduates GreenBrick Film, and to Tate Liverpool for hosting us

If a life offline isn’t the path to real life, then what is? Ahead of FACT’s new exhibition about social media, Amy Jones analyses the concept of authenticity through the prism of celebrity advertising and theatrical performance…

Last month, professional Intagramer Essena O’Neill deleted her Instagram account and posted a video to YouTube denouncing the fakery of a life lived online. In it, she detailed her disappointment that followers and likes didn’t equal happiness, proclaiming that “social media isn’t real life.” She also provided an ‘exposé’ of the way big brands and celebrities are using social platforms for their own gains. The post went viral and led to an out pouring of support for the 18 year-old internet starlet, with many joining the ‘movement’ and quitting Instagram too.

I’ve always been fascinated by the intense and rapidly evolving environment of social media, so much so that for the past year (shameless self promotion siren!) I’ve been developing an exhibition all about it called Follow. Opening at FACT (Liverpool) this week, the show looks critically at the ways in which we understand and shape our identity online, through artists including Constant Dullaart, Simon Whybray, Cecile B. Evans, and Kurdwin Ayub.

Naturally then, when I heard about O’Neill’s radical statement, I took great interest. What interested me particularly was the amount of traction the video had gotten, both in the press and throughout the Internet. It really struck a cord with people far beyond her 500,000 Instagram fans. My personal opinion is that people should never continue to do things that make them unhappy and her choice is her own; but what can we learn from O’Neill’s break up with social media and her search for a real life away from Instagram?

Let’s start with her claim that social media is ‘fake.’ Social media sites like Instagram rely on people conforming to and abiding by a number of codes for ‘being’ on the site. Our peers, our idols, our favourite brands, and the many companies that use the site as prime marketing real estate, influence us. It perpetuates specific value systems; i.e. people with more followers and images with more likes are ‘valuable’ and more visible than those without. On top of this, like most — if not all — spaces on the internet, a lot of what the site produces and how it functions is mediated by consumption.

Instagram’s relationship with advertising is sophisticated and, at times, disturbingly subtle. Brands, as O’Neill lays out in her video, use individuals with high follower counts to sell their products for them and the clarity of what is and isn’t an advert is poorly regulated. With many users being guided in particular directions by the brands that hire them, I think it’s easy to agree with O’Neill that Instagram is not the most ‘authentic’ of spaces.

For O’Neill, this led to a feeling of divorce between a seemingly happy and complete online life (in the eyes of the specific codes for happiness on Instagram: health, wealth and beauty) and an unhappy life offline. This realisation that the two spaces might not reflect one another led to a personal revelation that Instagram was an ‘inauthentic’ space and resulted in her decision to delete her account.

This idea of appearing happy online and being unhappy offline is something O’Neill repeatedly expresses during her 20-minute video about the evils of social media. This is where O’Neill introduces us to the concept of ‘real’ life. The life where you can be your true self; where, as O’Neill says, you can “be free and loved.”

In his essay Authenticity as a Service: Networked Society and the Disavowal of Self-Representation (dis magazine (2015)), Rob Horning outlines the complexities bundled up in the idea of authenticity; detailing the extensive and highly successful use of ‘authenticity’ in advertising.

‘[…] Authenticity remains potent as a marketing tool, if not a personal ideal or moral crusade. We still habitually judge people and things in terms of their ‘realness’, even when we know there can be no reference point, no essence that can make the assessment sound.’

For Horning, authenticity is just another marketing tool, another goal that can only be reached by the consumption of a particular product, lifestyle or experience. Even O’Neill uses her search for authenticity as marketing tool when, at the end of the video, she pleas with her followers:

“If you like my videos, or my posts, if they are of value to you, then please support me because I can’t afford my real life right now.”

The ideals perpetuated by our society are so ingrained in the way we understand ourselves that the search for ‘realness’ is just as wrapped up in consumerism as those people, profiles and adverts that we see as fake. The only difference between ‘fake’ and ‘real’ is that ‘real’ has a bigger marketing budget.

If authenticity itself is a marketing tool, then removing yourself from Instagram in search of ‘the real’ is a fruitless endeavour. In her search for ‘realness’, O’Neill is simply creating a different set of criteria for the perfect life, no doubt influenced by a new set of people and a new framework, but equally as problematic. She encourages her viewers — those who agree with her statements about Instagram — to follow her to her new website letsbegamechangers.com. Here, she offers us a kind of tool kit for a more authentic life away from social media: vegan recipes, self-help books and music which for O’Neill all add up to a better, more authentic lifestyle.

But what if, rather than providing us with a more ‘real’ life, these things just provide us with a new set of criteria to help us construct our ‘authentic’ identity? O’Neill might feel that she has autonomy over herself on her new website, but what about her followers?

If a life offline isn’t the path to real life, then what is? Are the forces acting on O’Neill, on all of us, escapable in any realm? For this I turn to seminal performance theorist Victor Turner and his ideas around acting and ‘real life.’  In his essay Acting in Everyday life and Everyday Life in Acting (from his book From Ritual to Theatre: The Human Seriousness of Play (1982), Turner positions theatre as the purest form of representation, more so even than ‘reality’ itself. ‘[Theatre]‘, he notes, ‘presents the false face in order to portray the possibility of a true face.’

Turner is looking at a specific type of theatre that presents the drama of everyday life. He notes: ‘In modern theatre, stage-roles undermine everyday life roles, declaring the latter ‘inauthentic.’’ By acknowledging the fact that behaviours can be mimicked and attitudes, opinions and personalities adopted convincingly by those they do not belong to, the actor reveals the grand illusion of identity, exposing the possibility that it’s not real.

For Turner, this results in a more real representation of self because we are aware of it’s ability to be performed. By playing the role of an individual different from yourself in a play, one acknowledges that that an identity and a reality can be ‘acted’ and, in turn, critiques the idea that any individual can be truly ‘authentic.’ In a world where the lines between real and fake are so unclear (and sometimes even appear to be the same thing), the idea of performance becomes liberating. It becomes authentic in its reality as performance.

If authenticity and ‘realness’ have been adopted as marketing tools, and fakery is really no use to anybody, then perhaps we find comfort and can be at ease with social media, the wider world and even ourselves by acknowledging the actors, the props and the scripts. We’re all playing a role; half the battle is acknowledging that. In her search for ‘realness’, all Essena O’Neill is really doing is changing stages.

Amy Jones

This article has been commissioned for the collaborative #BeACritic project — an annual programme of mentoring and commissioned critical articles for North-West-based writers, initiated and supported by The Double Negative, Liverpool John Moores University and Arts Council England. See more here

Visit Follow at FACT Liverpool from Friday 11 December 2015 to Sunday 21 February 2016 – FREE

Top: Essena O’Neill’s video on YouTube denouncing the fakery of a life lived online. Images from top: exhibiting artists in Follow: Simon Whybray; Cecile B. Evans, What A Feeling (detail) (2014); Kurdwin Ayub

Awkwardness, arts activism, and the HIV virus as a “clever trickster”: David Graham discusses this and more with the artist behind Homotopia festival’s focus exhibition…

The global pandemic of HIV and AIDS takes centre stage in John Walter’s visually arresting, in your face artwork Alien Sex Club. Shown at Ambika P3 in London earlier this year, Walter’s vibrant work — which takes the shape of a ‘cruise maze’, a spatial form common to sex clubs and gay saunas – is currently at Liverpool’s Homotopia festival: the only lesbian, gay, bisexual and trans combined arts organisation in the North of England.

However, this headlining exhibition is by no means exclusively for or about an LGBT audience. Walter is adamant that his work is not solely aimed at this community; statistics show that gay men remain one of the groups most at risk of HIV in the UK, yet heterosexual people accounted for 45% of new diagnoses in 2012.

Meeting Walter, one realises that he is his work personified. Aesthetically, he is the human equivalent of a dazzle ship, wearing a different, brightly patterned shirt saturated in colour at each of our interviews. His densely layered creative vision has been formed from collaborations with Dr Alison Rodger, senior lecturer and honorary consultant in infectious diseases at University College London; filtering out confusing medical terminology in order to make the work accessible and palatable to an audience old and young. Walter professes to be an “artist activist” and an “image breeder”; his work is a reminder or a wake-up call for everyone that thought HIV and AIDS were part of the past.

Alien Sex Club has taken shape at a triad of different locations in Liverpool: soft sculpture the Walker Art Gallery, discussion and alternative tarot readings at The Bluecoat, and a large focus exhibition at Camp and Furnace.

Walter describes each location as an “entry point”; the “safest” of which is the Walker. In true Walter fashion, Pug Virus — a vibrant pink, imposing inflatable fabrication — jolts the senses as one ascends the gallery’s grand staircase. The placement of this benign, friendly blancmange-like structure is skilfully juxtaposed with the neighbouring Victorian paintings on display. Pug Virus is the perfect precursor to Alien Sex Club as it sets the tone for the more exuberant elements of the exhibition; or as Walter notes, “it sets the brain on a weird trajectory.”

Walter admits to walking a sensitive tightrope with his choice of subject matter; he plays with the viewer through his work but by no means trivialises the fundamental complexities of sexual health. His knowledge, credibility and “respect for the virus as a clever trickster” is reflected in the esteemed support he has received from health professionals and collaborators as well as funding from The Wellcome Trust. Walter’s artistic relationship with HIV/AIDS in the form of Alien Sex Club is more than a casual fling; it is a manifestation of a long-term, meaningful engagement with theoretical and empirical research for his PhD.

Walter’s exhibition at Camp and Furnace is by no means conventional but more of a sensory experiential event. One is greeted by friendly invigilators who reassuringly explain the narrative and journey that you are about to embark on; befriended by and temporarily becoming the custodian of a well-dressed marrow, you enter through an ‘immunity curtain’ before descending into a multi-sensory labyrinthine structure. Walter rejects minimalist subtlety for a maximalist assault on the senses; the traditional gallery space is replaced by, Walter says, a “clubby, grubby” atmospheric gay maze, contextualising the significance and growth of HIV/AIDS amongst this demographic.

Walter by no means superficially touches on this theme, but unashamedly and unapologetically confronts the transmission of the virus in order to bring the on-going issues of HIV/AIDS to the forefront of our consciousness. The slightly abstract, somewhat peripheral advertising campaigns of the 1990s are in complete contrast to Walter’s strategy and USP – disseminating a serious message through play, fun and colour.

Less is more is not part of Walter’s artistic vocabulary. He goes in with a fully-loaded visual canon, ready to eradicate myths and misconceptions, and resulting in a sensory overload of neon, audio, digital and printed works, colour and performance. His determination to avoid preaching is achieved through a stimulating range of work; as a result, Alien Sex Club deserves multiple visits to fully appreciate and comprehend the evolution and threats that HIV and AIDS pose as well as the promising advances in medical technology.

Walter has a reputation for producing seductive worlds that, in his words, “cause awkwardness”. This was evident on the opening night, as a diverse group of hesitantly giddy visitors descended into the neon lit depths of the ‘alien’ space; reinforcing, one hopes, Walter’s ethnographic aims for the work and his on-going research.

Although Alien Sex Club will close its doors at the end of November, the resulting discourse will inevitably and unfortunately continue as the fight against HIV/AIDS is not over. The legacy of Walter’s magnum opus is already tangible. Free HIV tests have been available during the exhibition; a welcome and important service accessible outside of the confines of conventionally daunting medical environments.

Alien Sex Club is an ambitious project whose future is unknown beyond Homotopia. Walter describes it as a “kit”, but queries whether it could become a HIV Roadshow in its current state and scale. Once prompted, the artist considered the effectiveness and logistics of separating his work into smaller “pods” or “capsids” in order to roll it out to a wider, receptive audience, thus extending its potential and longevity.

Historically, Homotopia festival has successfully launched an educational aspect to their portfolio in the shape of Project Triangle: developing hate crime awareness and homophobic bullying resources. Although Walter will be working with local health organisations — such as Sahir House and The Armistead Centre — whilst the exhibition is open, there are no plans for Homotopia to engage with schools focusing on sexual health using Walter’s work as catalyst point.

Although censorship is advised in parts for a younger audience, in my capacity as an artist teacher in secondary education it is disappointing that Homotopia has not linked the mandatory Physical, Social, Health Education (PSHE) requirement of the curriculum to their education programme. The demand and need certainly exists.

The headline-grabbing and alarming slogan Silence = Death was commonplace in the early years of HIV/AIDS, instigated by activists and disseminated via the media. Now, Homotopia’s optimistic mission statement, ART = LIFE, injects vitality into the arts. With Alien Sex Club in mind, perhaps this simple equation should be refined to Art + Education = Life?

Nonetheless, John Walter’s Alien Sex Club is a highlight of Homotopia’s thought-provoking offer. Just as the festival has evolved over the past 12 ground-breaking years, Walter’s work celebrates the huge steps that have been achieved to secure a healthier and safer future.

David Graham

This article has been commissioned for the collaborative #BeACritic project — an annual programme of mentoring and commissioned critical articles for North-West-based writers, initiated and supported by The Double Negative, Liverpool John Moores University and Arts Council England. See more here

See Alien Sex Club at Camp and Furnace, Liverpool, until 29 November 2015 — FREE

See Homotopia festival at venues across Liverpool until 1 December 2015 — ticket prices vary

All images courtesy Rob Battersby, with thanks

Although they may not be as instantly accessible as his Iron Men, an afternoon spent with Gormley’s Elemental drawings is time well spent, says Kellie Grogan…

Antony Gormley uses art as a way to engage in a collective consciousness and explore the corporeal aspect of being human; inhabiting a body, living consciously within it and experiencing the world through it. His 2005 installation Another Place exemplifies such aims: one hundred cast-iron sculptures — moulded from Gormley’s own body — face out to sea across the length and breadth of Crosby beach, Merseyside, and have helped make Gormley one of Britian’s most recognisable artists working today.

His figuartive work has fostered such an affinity and kinship within the community that a public campaign managed to stop their planned move to New York in 2006, securing the Iron Men permanent residency at Crosby. This year marks their tenth anniversary. In celebration, Gormley has brought an exhibition to The Atkinson in Southport, 15 miles north of Crosby beach. However, this is an art show in which you will find neither iron nor sculpture; Elemental decisively offers an insight into his prolific output of drawings — testament to Gormley’s own words, that “a day passed without drawing is a day lost.”

In Elemental, Gormley has brought together two sets of drawings: Body & Light and North Light, installed simply across four gallery walls. Body & Light consists of 37 frames that feature the artist’s exploration of depth within the body, as well as depicting the body immersed. Drawn at Coniston Water in the Lake District, they were completed between 1990 and 1996. The 14 drawings which make up North Light were created in 2014 during a period of time spent in Norfolk.

Both sets of drawings are on handmade paper, using pitch-black ink and casein to create oozy, seeping marks. Using an economy of ink, Gormley makes muted grey tones and allows the whiteness of the paper to be a significant part of the completed drawings. This makes the drawings verge on abstraction; which, interestingly, may be a little less instantly gratifying to those visitors drawn here because of Gormley’s public sculptures. Hung formally on white walls, and never exceeding paper 16 x 24 inches, this is another side of Gormley’s practice that simultaneously feel linked to and removed from the sculptures of Another Place.

Part of why Another Place worked so well is that it has an immediacy to it, giving a broad range of people the opportunity to engage with and see oneself in relation to the sculptures — or ‘surrogate bodies’ as Gormley calls them — in outside places. At Crosby beach, one is often buffeted by high winds, standing in tidal pools and tasting salt on the air; all of which add to the experience. At Elemental, people have to walk into a traditional gallery space; cutting themselves off from the natural world and their surroundings, the opposite of Gormley’s most popular works. Where the picturesque, stormy clouds of Crosby beach frames the Iron Men, the white walls of the Atkinson can’t compete.

But taking these drawings on their own merits, there is actually much to be gained from Elemental. The vastness of Coniston Water is a significant influence for the Body & Light drawings, with water proving an effective study for Gormley’s ideas. Up, for instance, shows a body submerged in water, moving and reaching across the page toward the light at the top left hand corner. It brings to mind the feeling of exhilaration of such a moment, when one punctures the water’s surface to catch a breath; re-living it through looking at the drawing connects the viewer back to such lived moment.

The technique used to create the drawings also feels particularly fitting; the flow of black ink over white paper is visually and physically not too far removed from the constantly flowing water which inspired them. Throughout these 37 frames, bodies and spaces emerge, captured in ephemeral moments; unmistakably human forms appear in enclosed areas within the darkened page, with rays of light popping through. Gormley once described the sculptures of Another Place as being surrogate bodies for us all to jump into and experience the world anew; viewed in such a context these drawings have the potential to work on the viewer in a similar way.

It feels like Gormley is trying to tap into those lived moments in which the environment engulfs the body; in which we slightly lose ourselves outside of the otherwise more quantifiable dimensions of our bodies. It is great to see the genesis of his more public works manifested through drawing.

North Light, unlike Body & Light, and the vast majority of Gormley’s work, puts the corporeal aside. Using black ink and casein in much the same way, grey tones show emerging forms of light and dark, horizons come into focus as does the world outside of our bodies. Astral matter floats in and out, again achieved with a sensitive use of the ink. Gormley gives form to what might be seen in more abstract wanderings, what we perceive as our reality and the drifting of our mind in dreamlike states.

To some extent, the simplicity of this set allows more room for our own projections of what we are looking at. The circular forms of ink in differing grey intensities allude to the universe at large, the happenings of our solar system. They spur on thoughts about the grandness of the universe, an effective record of those moments where we scale ourselves against our surroundings. They have an almost meditative quality. Tehyre remote: all architecture is removed, technology removed. Perhaps this set could be thought of as a visual manifestation of what the Iron Men are searching for out at sea.

At first sight Elemental may seem far removed from Gormley’s more recognisable work. However, these drawings can be viewed as a fitting accompaniment to the likes of Another Place. With a body of water influencing the first set, and the wider world we inhabit influencing the latter, the visitor is called upon to immerse themselves in familiar human experiences, within us or around us. This is definitely a common thread running tightly through all of Gormley’s work. He wants us to recognise and contemplate what it is to be human, and to feel as other human beings do. To Gormley, the value of art lies in fulfilling this ambition. In sticking to such a principle, Gormley stays true to his own musings and steers his own direction.

Although they may not be as instantly accessible, time spent with Gormely’s Elemental drawings is extremely worthwhile; a contemplative experience that lingers beyond The Atkinson’s gallery walls.

Kellie Grogan

This article has been commissioned for the collaborative #BeACritic project — an annual programme of mentoring and commissioned critical articles for North-West-based writers, initiated and supported by The Double Negative, Liverpool John Moores University and Arts Council England. See more here

See Elemental by Antony Gormley at the Atkinson, Southport, until Sunday 15 November 2015 – free entry. Opening times: Monday-Saturday 10am-4pm; Sunday 11am-4pm

Images from top: ROAD II (2014), carbon and casein on paper, courtesy the artist; installation shot at the Atkinson, Southport; HORIZON II (2014), carbon and casein on paper, courtesy the artist

Read Antony Gormley In Conversation: Iron Men At 10

See Pete Goodbody’s picture gallery of Gormley’s studio in London

Ellie Woods sees an abandoned Scottish town through the eyes of an amnesiac at FACT’s current, discordant exhibition…

Shona Illingworth wants us to experience the edge of the world. At least that’s what it feels like. Edging down a dark passageway in Lesions In The Landscape at FACT (Liverpool) – past a sign stating that the door is to be kept closed to preserve the immersive experience that awaits within – we are confronted with three large screens. All around the room, the shapes of countless speakers can almost be made out in the dim glow of the emergency exit signs. At first it is silent, but then a sudden note is sung out as an imposing column of rock appears on film. A Gaelic hymn surges as the camera moves along with the motion of the sea waves. Gannets call loudly overhead.

This is St Kilda, as seen through the eyes of Illingworth: a collection of tiny islands in the Scottish hebrides which make up the most remote part of the British Isles. Evacuated in 1930, it now exists as a World Heritage Site and is also one of the most important nature reserves for sea birds in Europe. Present day St Kilda is also seen through the eyes of Claire, an amnesiac who has lost all of her past memories, along with her ability to create long-term memories anew.

The eerie voices of the hymn singers fade and Claire’s voice emerges, her image fading in and out of the centre screen. The birds still flit around but their images are now in negative, and we get a sense of the familiar becoming obscured. As Claire describes her experience of losing her entire past, the links between herself and the depilated archipelago of St Kilda become clear. If our experiences make us who we are, then the inability to remember these has left Claire grasping at ephemeral memories, relying solely on the knowledge of others in order to reconstruct her life.

Similarly, St Kilda was abandoned 85 years ago: the homes visible on screen now stand in ruin. We rely on outsiders to surmise its stories and it is Illingworth who takes on this role. Born in Denmark but raised in the Scottish Highlands, her Gaelic lilt is in harmony with these desolate and otherworldly scenes. Archival footage of the evacuation is presented as she describes the story behind the desertion of the islands. Everything is disjointed, the jolting footage lagging between each screen. It proves difficult to focus on the images along with Illingworth’s narrative, under which disconcerting ambient and synthesized sound effects can constantly be heard.

A lot of effort is required in order to follow exactly what is happening as Lesions In The Landscape jumps between Illingworth, Claire, and also Martin A. Conway: a neuropsychologist who attempts to explain some of the science behind Claire’s condition. The camera swings violently around, surely imitating the ‘sensecam’ which we later learn Claire wears around her neck. This device takes intermittent photos which can then be pieced together later in order to form something which would resemble a memory path, triggering recollections. The whole discordant nature of the installation seems entirely purposeful and allows the viewer some insight into life with amnesia.

This work is very typical of Illingworth, who has a history of exploring memory from a psychological perspective through sound and video installation. It is understandable why she would be intrigued by such a subject when the ruminations of Conway only act to inform us on just how little we understand of how the human brain functions. The idea of identity is also a common motif in Illingworth’s work, and this is really brought out by the inclusion of St Kilda’s mysterious past. A past where most of the focus is placed on its dramatic evacuation, as Illingworth powerfully states: “Its history is dominated by its last gasp.” This parallels with Claire, who may never recall anything before the onset of her amnesia.

As the speakers die out and the video fades back to black, we return to the busy environment of FACT’s foyer. This almost comes as a shock to the system after sitting in dark isolation, so consumed by the melancholic images and harmonies of Illingworth’s creation. Upstairs, in Gallery Two, the Amnesia Museum has been curated as an archive of the installation and a deeper exploration of amnesia itself.  Upon entering, the eyes are immediately drawn to a central podium on which two mysterious shapes sit, their white surfaces contrasting sharply against the background of the, again, dark room. These are labelled as two differently ratioed models of the lesions which grew in Claire’s brain, causing her right temporal lobe to be permanently damaged. Illingworth’s context for the title becomes clear: with their cliff-like surface, the lesions closely resemble the jutting presence of St Kilda’s sea stacks.

The continuation of the artistic process is closely documented throughout the exhibition, with stills from various camera angles, maps created from GPS tracking of those involved in the process, and more archival images whose contents are described by Illingworth on a looping track. And this is not the only sound in the room. In the bottom left corner hangs a web of speaker-like devices, letting out a series of dissonant notes. Standing in the centre of these, one immediately recollects this as the unearthly sound repeated throughout the downstairs installation. A placard explains that these were the signals given off by an electroencephalogram, which Claire wore as she explored the islands. It almost feels uncomfortable to in some way be experiencing the memories which she failed to retain.

This unnerving feeling stays with you as you leave Lesions in the Landscape, away from the cacophony of noise yet still suffering from the ringing ears. The installation is a haunting one, with memories of it pervading long into its aftermath, an imprint of the gigantic sea stack looming over every thought. It is emotionally draining to conceive of a future for the lonely islands of St Kilda and for Claire, the personification of its tragedy. But there is no doubt to the power of Illingworth’s creation. The Gaelic hymns, like a spell, call you down into the dark to sit, isolated, and look out to sea as if you were right there on the islands. Right on the edge of the world.

Ellie Woods

This article has been commissioned for the collaborative #BeACritic project — an annual programme of mentoring and commissioned critical articles for North-West-based writers, initiated and supported by The Double Negative, Liverpool John Moores University and Arts Council England. See more here

See Lesions In The Landscape at FACT, Liverpool, until 22 November 2015 — FREE

It is obvious from the passion displayed by its practitioners that live art is here to stay. If we can give artists in the North-West more moral and financial support, says Garry Cook, then who knows what they could end up producing?

As live-art continues to position itself at the cutting edge of performance, the North-West of England has established itself as an innovator in this ultra-niche area. But just how difficult is it to write, produce and deliver inventive performance in this genre – and what support is available for its artists?

Good, contemporary live art focuses on creating experiences while pushing the boundaries between humour and despair, surrealism and reality, confession and misinformation. The genre sits somewhere between satire and social criticism: where inhibitions and standard politically correct rules do not necessarily apply. It is this attention to detail which makes collaboration, support networks and, ultimately, funding so crucial to a live artist’s future development.

I’ve seen live-art executed brilliantly by artists: such as Jade Montserrat’s homage to Josephine Baker, Shadowing Josephine; or Frances Kay’s hugely hypnotic live wine drinking and critique of beauty and conformity, Sorry. Then I’ve seen it delivered brutally. Female duo LEAK who, wrapped in cling film, pissed and defecated into mixing bowls before simulating sex acts on each other on the floor of a dirty basement toilet (where the emphasis was less on simulating and more on stimulating). As I said, normal rules do not apply.

The North-West is incredibly fortunate to have a well-established support network for artists. Venues like Contact Theatre, Z-Arts and the Centre For Chinese Contemporary Art (CFCCA) (all Manchester) put on their own events, as well as hosting exciting external happenings — like Manchester International Festival, Domestic (‘Performance stripped bare’), Emergency (‘A free day-out for the curious’) and Flare International Festival of New Theatre. New arts venue HOME acts as a sort of bridge between these and conventional theatre. In Preston, the University of Central Lancashire is doing great things with its growing Derelict live art programme.

For individual shows, active organisations like hÅb – which has been around since the mid-1990s but started running Word of Warning (WoW) in 2012 — are crucial: not only for development, but by also offering a sense of artist inclusion through their consistently engaging and active profile. But WoW – who are also behind the aforementioned Domestic and Emergency festivals — are just one segment in a complex network of support for artists.

Take The Midnight Soup, for example. Performed by Leo Burtin, it is a beautifully surreal performance, delivered across a dinner table where the audience are the guests, helping to prepare and eat the food. The show, about suicide and family, has been hugely supported: not just by a large creative production team, but also funders, including ARC (Stockton Arts Centre), Live At LICA (now renamed Lancaster Arts at Lancaster University), Talk with LEAP development agency, Lancaster University and Word of Warning. Additional support — providing rehearsal and workshop space, technical equipment, and places to sleep — came from The Lowry (Salford), Residence artist community (Bristol) and Space Six studios (Newcastle).

Then there are the individuals: Mark Whitelaw, core artistic collaborator; Becci Sharrock, creative producer; David McBride, lighting designer (week to 10 days); Lucille Acevedo-Jones, costume/set designer (week to 10 days); Phil Cole, paid intern and production manager/stage manager; Adam York Gregory, website, design, promotional materials; and Rajni Shah, mentor. It is a long list.

Burtin says the unofficial list is even longer: “On top of these guys are all the artist-friends whom I tested bits of material on, who came in for an hour or two during rehearsals etc… That list is ever growing. Without the support I got from other people and organisations, there would be no show.”

On the issue of financial support, Chris Fagan, the man behind Liverpool’s The1st4 platform, puts it succinctly: “Funding is crucial; there isn’t enough money in putting on live-art events for it to become fully self sufficient.”

But while funded artist support is great for those who can get it, there clearly needs to be a more general sustainable model where artists can earn a living from touring work, a practice which is becoming increasingly expensive. The industry knows it has got problems in this area. Arts Council England launched a £45million Strategic Touring Fund in 2012 to research and address these issues; it is still open for works spanning 2015-18 (the last deadline is Friday 22 January 2016 for those that are interested).

Fuel Theatre has had success in developing touring; working with They Eat Culture in Preston on increased local engagement while developing a show with Andy Smith entitled The Preston Bill. Part of this project included offering bursaries to local artists to develop work in response, and using the ‘Pay What You Decide’ model (already used successfully by Stockton’s ARC).

Of course, attaining funding is an art form in itself. Some are simply better at getting it than others. It is vital that more support is given to developing artists who are not proficient in writing applications. For every supported artist, how many struggle to finance and develop their work before giving up the dream for good?

Just one interaction between a producer or developer could be the difference between an artist going on to greater things, or opting for the nine to five comfort of a call centre. You can only get so many ‘regrettably your application has been unsuccessful on this occasion’ emails before despondency leads to retirement. Failed application feedback is the most common way this interaction is carried out currently, but you would be surprised how many organisations offer this service but fail to deliver on it.

It is no secret that the biggest problem facing live art is its ability to reach out to new people. Too often, the innovative, ground-breaking performers working within live art are performing to other innovative, ground-breaking performers. It is almost a closed shop – but not by choice. This is where councils are failing performers. Arts development officers, along with libraries and museums, must offer more support to artists. They have knowledge and reach in marketing and local engagement terms which no artist could achieve on their own.

Though things are slowly changing, too often arts development officers have been keen to bask in the glory of an independently-run event on their patch while failing to offer support in the development of artists and their work. There is evidence of this changing now with some institutions, like Liverpool’s Bluecoat gallery and the Harris Museum in Preston, who are both bringing live-art into their buildings with increasing success. In Lancaster, their multi-disciplinary First Friday event generates a buzz around the city every month.

UCLan’s Derelict festival has also enjoyed success by placing performers in city centre venues. But it is clear that there is space in the North-West for festivals to match the profile of Fierce in Birmingham and Bristol’s In Between Time. Fagan agrees that new festivals – backed up by performance being incorporated into exhibition programmes within museums – is the best way to foster new talent.

“I think to see it develop and grow there needs to be some kind of platform or festival which attracts established and new artists to come and work in the area”, Fagan notes. “That’s one possible way that live art could become sustainable. One development I have seen over the last few years is the inclusion of performance as part of a gallery’s exhibition programme.”

Addressing the problem of earning money, Fagan is blunt: “I don’t know of any artist supporting themselves directly through their art. Many teach or run workshops. Many, especially the younger artists, support themselves through the regular part time bar or office jobs.”

Lancashire-born artist Frances Kay, whose first major performance was at Poolside Emergency in Liverpool (an off-shoot of Emergency, Manchester). She studied a theatre and performance foundation degree at UCLan. Kay describes a successful contemporary performer as “an artist who is making enough money to sustain their performance”. Kay finances her career with bar work at the local Wetherspoons.

“There are levels of making money as an artist, but the most general answer is it’s pretty difficult,” she adds. “Again, it depends on the life-style you want to live. There are alternative ways of living, where so much money is not an issue, but to live, say, a ‘normal lifestyle’ in UK – then I honestly do not know whether I could work full-time as an artist. I would like to. I do know, however that it is not any time soon. My view of being able to work as an artist full-time [would] include more than just performing and finding another way to bring in some dosh, [possibly] relating to performance, theatre or education.

“I do not feel I could end a career as an artist until I have attempted to work full-time, which has not happened yet. I have always worked full-time in pubs, clubs, and shops whilst being a performer. Although I do know that if the adrenaline rush of creating or performing a piece is lost, then it’s probably time to hang up.​”

It is obvious from the passion displayed by its practitioners that live art is here to stay. But if we can give them a bit of support — moral and financial — then who knows what they could end up producing?

Garry Cook

This article has been commissioned for the collaborative #BeACritic project — an annual programme of mentoring and commissioned critical articles for North-West-based writers, initiated and supported by The Double Negative, Liverpool John Moores University and Arts Council England. See more here

Are you an artist or organisation interested in developing a touring programme? Arts Council England’s £45million Strategic Touring Fund is still open, for works spanning 2015-18. Last deadline Friday 22 Jan 2016, see link

Would you pay $25,000 to do an internship at a top entertainment company? No, neither would Hannah McHaffie; here she looks at graduate expectations and asks: should it be an honour to work in the arts in any shape or form?

I recently bought a £50 train ticket and went to London for a 30 minute meeting to discuss the prospect of working, voluntarily, for an arts magazine. Keen to develop my film journalism skills by gaining editorial experience, I was delighted at the prospect of interning at said magazine for a month; however, I was quickly informed that no expenses could be covered.

I already work four days a week as an arts programme assistant for cultural production company They Eat Culture (Preston). Taking time off paid work to pursue such unpaid opportunities, that give me experience in the journalism career I actually want, has become a common occurrence for me over the last year. The whole affair made me question why the arts always seems to ask so much from the people who work within it, and even more so from the people keen to start working in it.

It is common knowledge that the arts are woefully underfunded, with institutions like the BFI bracing themselves for further cuts this year, after a 15% chop was made to their funding in 2010 and a further 10% in 2013. The arts are hardly a priority when it comes to current Conservative policy makers. Of course, when looking at where our government’s money goes, we could argue that a need for arts professionals pale in comparison to a need for NHS nurses or disability services.

But it is also fair to say that those who work in the arts recognise its vital involvement in upholding our country’s well-being and self-expression, never mind creative economy — worth £8.8 million per hour according to a government report earlier this year. Artist Bob and Roberta Smith, aka Patrick Brill, recognises the potential fallout from under-valuing the arts; he started an Art Party in 2013, and passionately campaigns for changes in our national curriculum. “Art, images, artefacts, songs and culture”, says Brill, “are the principal means by which human beings define themselves.”

I know the value of art; but I also see other fellow graduates settling into secure careers, saving for property and progressing into real adulthood… and here I am, jumping on and off of trains, spending my last £10 of the month on a cinema ticket, all in the name of film and my devotion to it. Being an arts graduate means so much more than seeking employment; it is seeking passion and gusto in the things you do on a daily basis; making an artistic ‘difference’ and contributing to the world around you. Yet only 18% of those employed in the cultural sector come from working class families, according to a recent study by Goldsmiths. With evidence like this proving that working in the arts is becoming an increasingly elitist occupation, does this mean it should be an honour, or a luxury, to do so in whatever capacity?

Liz Rymer knows the British film industry inside out, having worked within it for decades before turning her hand to lecturing in Film Studies at Leeds Trinity University. When asked about the difficulty of making it in the arts now, Rymer acknowledges that “it’s not an industry for those who aren’t prepared to work hard”, but also believes that “employment in the arts is the preserve of the middle class.” During my time in higher education, I felt optimistic about my chances of gaining employment and believed by completing my MA in Film Studies I would only enhance this. Despite now holding bachelors and masters degrees, it is my networking and persistence that have got me into arts-related employment.

Rymer concurs. “My advice to my students is that they make and treasure their contacts. It is largely through connections that they will hear about jobs – mostly freelance – and advance their careers.”

As the saying goes, apparently it’s not what you know, but who you know.

I never felt that the arts industry was elitist when I was an undergraduate at university; but now, two years on, that impression has hit me hard. Working every hour under the sun in Edinburgh’s most depressing bar, whilst also meeting academic deadlines and attending an intense schedule of seminars and screenings, I was just about able to fund my studies and pay my rent. When Edinburgh Film Festival rolled around we were all encouraged to volunteer – a way of making contacts and advancing our career prospects.

Volunteering is the sturdy base of any arts festival which, when handled correctly, can benefit both parties, especially when volunteers receive good mentoring and training. Cathryn Peach, creative producer of arts engagement company Wild Rumpus (Cheshire), believes wholeheartedly in the power of volunteering. “I can confidently say that I wouldn’t have the job I have now if I hadn’t volunteered. I also have countless bits of knowledge which I use on a daily basis, from previous volunteering.”

It is also, unfortunately, one which is only available to those with the time and money to volunteer. This is a frustrating predicament for my post-graduate self, who had to give up a chance to volunteer at Edinburgh Film Festival because of financial and academic commitments. Peach also recognises the crippling effect of money on those unable to throw themselves into the experience. “Due to the hours required, those who can afford to go without a wage benefit the most. The job market needs to become more responsive to identifying and opening opportunities for whom this isn’t so easy.”

It frequently seems that those unable to fund their own valuable, volunteer opportunities are still expected to do so in this elitist arts game. The result? The opportunities are snatched up by those young people with wealthy parents who are able and willing to fund those voluntary positions that can open doors to a good career.

Coming out of university a year ago, I secured my first position on a paid internship scheme run by Curious Minds (Lancashire), an organisation dedicated to improving paid, creative employment for graduates, young people and aspiring arts sector workers. I’m still there; gaining experience, working and saving a little, which makes me lucky compared to many in my field.

“Internships should not only be accessible to those with the financial means to get by without a wage”, Hannah Baldwin told me, who is development coordinator there; “precluding those from less wealthy backgrounds and perpetuating elitism, for which the arts often criticised.”

Yet even this paid internship has come at a cost: I’ve had to sacrifice my independence. My salary being what it is (low) has forced me to remain at home with my parents until I can afford to rent elsewhere. Meanwhile, I book time off of work to visit film festivals, interview, review, and develop my critical writing skills as a freelance film journalist through different outlets. The article you are reading right now has only been made possible due to a critical writing bursary. For others, unpaid internships feel like the only option, forcing them to sacrifice income in order to gain experience.

One final note to chew on. In February earlier this year, the Harvey Weinstein Company auctioned off a three-month unpaid internship for $25,000; a painful truth which captures the elitism and damaging class divide that has apparently become ever present – and widely accepted — in the arts. This heinous concept of the privilege of unpaid internships brings me back to my initial question: should it be an honour to work in the arts in any shape or form?

To do anything you love for a living is an honour and to do something you hate is a tragedy. People love and hate their work all over the globe in all different fields. With the arts being underfunded, there is always a pressure on organisations to rely more heavily on the underpaid or unpaid. To survive as an arts graduate means to carry a great deal of self-awareness of one’s worth. To love the arts, but have your contributions to it be undervalued, is a futile notion. You should always be honoured to love what you do; but if that means working in the arts, then just be careful that your struggles are rewarded and your worth acknowledged. Otherwise you’ll end up hating working in the industry you love, and that’s the greatest crime of all.

Hannah McHaffie

This article has been commissioned for the collaborative #BeACritic project — an annual programme of mentoring and commissioned critical articles for North-West-based writers, initiated and supported by The Double Negative, Liverpool John Moores University and Arts Council England. See more here

Image, top, courtesy Curious Minds

Watch how our #BeACritic campaign has impacted aspiring arts writers so far…

Earlier last year, our #BeACritic project saw the Royal Academy’s Tim Marlow travel to Liverpool to share invaluable advice with 15 aspiring (and North-West of England based) art critics. Watch our film to find out more; plus read more about the project, and read the growing number of commissioned articles, on our website.

Marlow, who was invited to lead the second #BeACritic masterclass on Saturday 16 May 2015, 11am-12.30pm, has over 20 years’ experience presenting arts programmes for the BBC, Sky Arts, Channel 4 and Five, in addition to writing extensively for newspapers and magazines on arts and culture – including the Times, the Guardian, the Independent on Sunday, Arena and Art Monthly.

Marlow said of the project: “Some of my best friends are critics; some of my worst enemies are critics. We need them. Please nurture the #BeACritic project.

“In a Twitter-invested society, where anyone’s opinion thought up in the heat of any moment, somehow has cultural validity, please encourage rigorous, considered critical thinking. We need the #BeACritic project.”

2015 participant  Laura Harris – who was one of 15 writers selected out of over 100 talented applicants who responded to our open call — called the day “a really valuable insight for young critics to see someone with an established career”.

Harris continued: “It was also interesting to reflect on criticism as a practice, which is something a lot of critics — that sit in their bedrooms and write articles — don’t really do.”

The #BeACritic project is an annual programme of mentoring and commissioned critical articles initiated and supported by The Double Negative Magazine, Liverpool John Moores University and Arts Council England. See a video of #BeACritic 2014 — led by ArtReview’s Oliver Basciano — here.

The #BeACritic cohort have been commissioned to write their own critiques, reviews and features throughout 2015 for The Double Negative, receiving £100, editorial feedback and support.

Laura Robertson (editor)

Read more on Twitter #beacritic

With thanks to LJMU graduates GreenBrick Film, and to Tate Liverpool for hosting us

As we say goodbye to Brian Sewell, Laura Harris asks what it means to be a critic: from the pages of first century literary criticism, to the pages of 21st century newspapers…

Brian Sewell died last week. A controversial art critic, Sewell (born 1931) was infamous for his vicious pen. From Princess Diana to Nicholas Serota, Sewell’s abrasive criticism made no concessions in its victims; even if this led him to err on the wrong side of sexist. Perhaps the most evocative of his feuds was with R.B. Kitaj, who blamed Sewell’s scathing criticism of his work for the death of his wife. The critic appears here as a malevolent character; but should Sewell, in the name of arts criticism, have sugared his pills?

Even within the ivory towers of the art-world, opinion is divided about the role of the critic. Earlier this year, Tim Marlow — Royal Academy artistic director and arts writer — advised the 15 winners of the #BeACritic campaign (an annual programme of mentoring and commissioned critical articles for North-West-based writers) to “be nice” in their criticism. This, he explained, was the best way to “nurture a small arts scene like Liverpool’s”. Contrary to the wilful divisiveness of Sewell, Marlow was suggesting that critics should be little more than the ad-men of the art-world whose raison d’etre is to encourage and promote.

Both of these men can’t be right. Should the critic be constantly nipping at the ankles of the art-world, keeping it on its toes and forcing it to keep moving? Or should the critic rather be an oarsman of the arts, servant to its tides? A survey of the critical canon shows this debate to be nearly as old as art itself.

Ancient literary commentator Zoilus (400-320 BC) made a name for himself as perhaps the first ‘malevolent’ critic. His Homeric Questions (now lost) nit-picked Homer’s epic poems, criticising their discontinuities and alleged blasphemy. Criticising one of ancient history’s most loved and revered artists won Zoilus few friends, and his notoriety reverberated through the ages, earning him a place in Cervantes’ preface to Don Quixote (1605) as a ‘scoundrel’: ‘Every poet has his Zoilus’.

English satirical poet Alexander Pope (1688-1744) certainly considered his contemporaries to be blighted by such Zoiluses.  In 1711, he turned his pen on these detractors, composing An Essay on Criticism:

‘…The gen’rous Critick fann’d the Poet’s Fire,

And taught the World, with Reason to Admire.

Then Criticism the Muse’s Handmaid prov’d,

To dress her Charms, and make her more belov’d…’

Pope’s poem advocates the critics’ capacity to nurture the arts through flattery, while condemning critics’ tendency towards being ‘spite[ful]… fools… itching to deride’. Such a description is strikingly similar to the characterisation of Sewell by the contemporary arts world.

It was in 17^th and 18^th century France, however, that visual arts criticism became a more prominent pursuit. At this time, the Salons of Paris were flourishing, early iterations of the ‘degree show’ displaying works by recent graduates and early-career artists. In 1725, these exhibitions became public, marking a shift away from a closeted art-world to one that relied on public favour and patronage. Such an atmosphere paved the way for the burgeoning careers of critics, most notable among them Denis Diderot (1713-1784).

Diderot’s reflections of the French Salons are seminal texts in the critical canon, particularly his work on The Salon of 1765. In the preface, Diderot sets out the scope of his criticism of which contemporary critics ought still to take heed:

‘Here is my criticism and my praise. I extol or censure in accordance with my own feelings, which should not be taken as law… the phrases ‘that’s beautiful’ and ‘that’s bad’ are quickly uttered; but the justification of one’s  pleasure or displeasure requires time’.

Keen to highlight the subjectivity of his writings, Diderot sidesteps the troublesome critical tendency to make objective value judgements, or to rely on what Pope had called ‘true taste’. Instead, Diderot carves out a place for the individual voice of a contemplative critic who offers justification to back up their appraisals. He places the critic in opposition to the ‘superficial and distracted eye’; this discouragement of snap judgements reverberates in an age of tweeted and blogged criticism.

With such foundations set in place, criticism flourished. John Ruskin (1819-1900) is a particularly lively character in the critical canon, and, although he championed many artists from JMW Turner to William Morris, he, like Sewell, was not always ‘gen’rous’ in his criticism.

Ruskin versus Whistler, November 1878. Incensed by Ruskin’s description of his Nocturne in Black and Gold: The Falling Rocket (1875) as a ‘pot of paint [flung] in the public’s face”, Whistler took Ruskin to court. While Whistler won, it was hardly one in the face for negative criticism. His reward was pitiful and costs refused: the artist was bankrupt.

In contemporary criticism, it is not just Sewell whose opinions have landed them in controversy, if not in court. The outrage surrounding Guardian art critic Jonathan Jones’s condemnation of the centenary poppy display at the Tower of London last year as ‘a nationalistic tragedy’ hints at the public predilection that the critic ‘be nice’. Suddenly Jones found himself on the other side of criticism: damned as a ‘sneering’ member of the ‘Leftie lot’ by Robert Hardman at The Daily Mail. Even David Cameron waded in, calling the poppies ‘extremely poignant’.

From the pages of first century literary criticism, to the pages of 21st century newspapers, the role of the art critic has defied definition. Certainly, Sewell’s personal opinions are often offensive and misjudged. However, even when he managed to keep his objectionable personal politics distinct from his criticism, his negative reviews were rarely well received. This leaves little space for a critic to be popular if they fail to heed Marlow and ‘be nice’.

Throughout the colourful history of art criticism, both critics and artists alike have managed to agree on one thing: that all criticism must be well-founded. In this, Sewell often failed and, resultantly, his criticism could appear spiteful. However, well-founded criticism should never be shunned in the name of nicety. To do so is to ignore the important role of criticism to hold the arts to account. Be a critic, and be honest.

Laura Harris

This article has been commissioned for the collaborative #BeACritic project — an annual programme of mentoring and commissioned critical articles for North-West-based writers, initiated and supported by The Double Negative, Liverpool John Moores University and Arts Council England. See more here

Read Darren Murphy on The Difference Between the Blogger and the Art Critic