Sunday, July 4, 2010

Malaise at Beaubourg

During my days as a conceptual artist, I used to enjoy contemporary art. A lot.

What a difference a few years can make . . . 

Yesterday during my visit of the elles@centrepompidou collection on the 4th floor  of the Centre Pompidou Museum, I felt a sudden urge to flee. A strong aversion to the so called works of art from contemporary women artists, bombarding me with their messages of angry, depressed, arrogant, cold feminism. Culminating with Betty Tompkins's Fuck Painting, a black and white photorealistic closeup of heterosexual intercourse, on a 7 by 5 feet canvas. And Sigalit Landau's Sado Hula's masochistic video performance of herself with a barbed wire hula hoop.

Not even Niki de Saint Phalle's fantastic Crucifixion could save the show . . .

Last night, I dreamed of a woman artist who was dying of brain cancer.


  1. There are days - way too many of them, in fact most, where I feel just the same about any of our typical messaging media. And there are days where I see all this as a movement of energy. That is all. These folk expressed it and I can marvel at how well they expressed it but never the less they are just forms - devoid of independent existence. Just energy out there mirroring what is inside me. Be still dear heart and note that they are not you but they stir something in you that is also not you.

    Much peace to you. Miro