Review: Warhol, Rothko and Bacon in London

Recently I made a whirlwind trip to London that allowed me to gorge my eyes and ears on banquet of art that filled up the early winter emptiness of my head with a mad swirl of invention. First up, I hit the Andy Warhol exhibit, "Other Voices, Other Rooms" exhibit at the Hayward Gallery at the Southbank Centre. The guidebook lists its contents as "21 films, 1 clouds installation, 40 screen tests, 6 videos, 42 tv-episodes, 16 drawings..." and on and on. I'd never really thought about the direct link between Warhol and Capote, but it's impossible to miss in the midst of this exhibit. That shared hunger for absorbing the rich and famous drove them both and, one might predictably say, cost them both a lot, but what's amazing to see in this jumble of time capsules and ephemera as well as the completed work is just how rich a vein they both mined. Rather than a shallow wallow in pursuit of acceptance (not that it wasn't that as well) there's an endless fascination for what fame is and what people will do to achieve it (almost anything sometimes).

The hunger seems to be at an all time high at present, which amazes me. I'd love to be able to make loads of money with my writing, but I'd prefer that people express no interest in the person behind the words (besides, I am incredibly dull, always talking about the blackness of black pudding, for instance -- you would be bored) and have no interest in being interviewed on chat shows (yes, I am peculiar that way). Warhol had a genius for touching that hunger in others and expressing it in often macabre and funny ways. You know the celebrities he invented from the talented folks like the Velvet Underground to the more ephemeral "stars" like Edie, Candy and Holly. You already know them, they're the super stars. The surprising things were the tv soap project which was very funny even though it was little more than bickering, and the fun snippets that filled the tv-scape and the simple delight of the Silver Clouds installation -- mostly because there was a window so you could watch other people go through the room. They tended to just push the mylar balloons out of the way and walk into the gift shop (the latter surely the capstone of the exhibit). They missed out: playing with the giant balloons was a delight, though. Too many adults just can't play.

Saturday was Rothko day at the lovely Tate Modern, my favorite museum. The turbine room was filled with bunk beds and monstrous thingees as part of Dominique Gonzalez-Foerster's TH 2058, but as many reviews had said, it was better in idea than execution. I liked the giant dino skeleton, the big spider, and immense apple core, but it wasn't quite enough. Scale alone isn't enough (big is big, though). I'm not sure what was missing, but it never really affected emotionally and that's a miss.

How was Rothko? Amazing, utterly amazing. Repetition and variation -- things that obsess me, too -- are keystones of his later work. As Rothko said, "If a thing is worth doing once, it is worth doing over and over again." Immenseness of scale and depth of color -- so many of his paintings had been brought together for the first time. It's hard to write coherently about these works. They're hypnotic. Rothko's paintings strike directly into my subconscious. I don't know many painters like that.

The exhibition focused on his late work and the series painted for -- and then withdrawn from -- the Seagram building. Honestly, what were they thinking? Who could eat with those paintings hanging overhead? How could such intensity allow you to break your gaze away? The huge middle room where eight of the Seagram murals were hung was always chock full of people and murmuring conversation and still all I could do was stand there with my mouth open, staring. Prams everywhere, children running around and all I could think was, why? I realise people want to expose their kids to great art, but some of these late paintings are so intense and despairing it seems cruel.

Rothko tends to be one of those painters you either love or hate. I adore him. I've spent hours in the Rothko room at the Mod, written stories there, and filled my head. I've experienced the cool calm of the Rothko chapel, a little oasis in the middle of Houston. For others, the canvases are simply color splashed across a surface. In an exhibit this big, you can really see the amazing variety even within sequences of similar colors and the layering of paint and color that show the process Rothko worked so patiently to achieve. Absolutely stunning and a singular chance to see many of these works in one place.

Sunday was Bacon day, so I headed over to the Tate Britain in the cold cold drizzle (it always seems to rain when I go over Pimlico way). I had expected wonders from the Rothko exhibit, but I hadn't quite realised how much the Tate had gone all out for Bacon, including a bunch of talks (none while I was there, alas!), study days, a symposium and family events including "Bend it Like Bacon" where you could try to recreate the figures in the paintings and "Bacon for Beginners" where young artists would look at Bacon's beasties and then create their own. How can you tell it's not an American museum? No, no, not because it's publicly funded (although that's a giveaway, eh?). It's because that session was labeled "for under 5 years." Despite the recent panics over knives (admit it, it's a panic), there's still a willingness in Britain to let children do scary things WHICH THEY LOVE! I remember it well.

The exhibit is enormous. The layout is odd as you find yourself in cul-de-sacs wondering whether you've reached the end, only to peer around the corner of the room you already went through and find there's another room you haven't seen on the other side. The rooms bear names like "Apprehension" and "Crisis" and "Epic," stark labels that the paintings match. If you only think of Bacon as gaping grimaces and tortured flesh, this exhibit serves as a reminder of all the variations through which Bacon passed and offers many surprises, from the 1933 crucifixion which hints at all the early paintings destroyed to the unexpected whimsicality of a sudden spray of water which seems to splash right out of the frame among his late work. There is a reel of BBC interviews that show Bacon murmuring with erudition in that silky voice which always seems so at odds with the frank violence of much of his work. Wonderful! There's also a fantastic exhibit catalogue -- highly recommended.