Trip to the Tate Modern – my modest reflections on the artworks

Monday, 18th July 2022; 11am. London had one of its hottest days on record. Temperature soaring to a high of 38C. Nonetheless, I've decided to go on an excursion around the Tate Modern. I had actually intended to visit the Mark Rothko exhibition, the Seagram Murals. But no luck. There were no Rothkos on display. I think they were at a different gallery or in transit.

So instead, I decided to tour the art gallery. It’s free of charge – unless you visit a special exhibition but other than that, you don’t need to book. 

Below are some of my reflections on some of the artworks. I am not as clued-up on art, and I have never studied it etc…, so these are much inchoate thoughts and opinions at this juncture. I plan to do some researching and perhaps visit a few more galleries in due course. So, who knows, perhaps my thoughts will change again.

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Low tide London outside the gallery.

The Tate Modern is just on the River Thames. It was 38C on Monday 18th July. Not a cloud in sight.

An understated entrance.

The Tate Modern is too big to photograph. It’s an expansive ashlar structure, like a foundry, harking back to the industrial epoch.

A former power station.

Cavernous space, with slits of windows, help the Tate Modern retains its original power station spirit of Giles Gilbert Scott. An imposing contrast to its cheerless entrance, it has a breezy cool environment on such a hot day.

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Conceptual art (2015) by Haegue Yang

This “suspended sculpture” was made with over 500 Venetian window blinds. Apparently, this was created in commemoration of artist Sol LeWitt’s Structure with Three Towers. For me, I don’t think I like this installation much. I appreciate that artists are trying to be thought-provoking or “conceptual” – but if that was in my home, I’d probably take it down and put it in the skip. As I type these words, it occurs to me that – notwithstanding the illumination from the suspended structure – could this be compared to a gigantic chandelier in an expansive lobby?

Fire! Fire! (Al fuoco, al fuoco) (1963) by Enrico Baj.

Enrico Baj was influenced by “surrealism and dada” (yes, that’s an actual word: read about it on Oxford Art Online). It seems he was “inspired by children’s art” and power and military images. It does look like the “figure” is on fire. However – once again, I don’t like this. I don’t like the distorted eyes, monstrous misshapen mouth (with only a few teeth) and that a person is on fire. Surreal – it is. I get the undertone about the military – but this leaves me feeling uncomfortable. That’s probably the intended effect. Humm.

Alpine Ibex (2017) by Jimmie Durham.

This is an actual Ibex skull attached to bits of furniture. I think it’s hideous and ugly – perhaps even slightly offensive in the mockery to which the animal was subjected. I don’t think I like surrealism.

Windows Open Simultaneously on the City (1912) by Robert Delaunay.

I think this is quite interesting and feels uplifting. It turns out that the Eiffel Tower is represented here in the centre in verdant green. I think this is supposed to be cubism. I like the fact that the painting feels as if I’m looking into a landscape with various mountainy inclines and perhaps the faint distant outline of the topmost of a tree. The shades of green and orange are quite pretty. Yes, I do like this.

Bottle of Rum and Newspaper (1913) by Juan Gris.

Cubism: this scene was described as an illusion in a familiar café. “UM” for rum and “JOUR” for journal. A table at the centre. I think I can make the spherical heads of two people? However, unlike the above, I am left floundering twisting-my-head in an attempt to make shapes “fit”. I don’t think I like this and I don’t like the darker colours. It feels like an enclosed space. I don’t find this inviting.

Atlantic Civilisation (1953) by André Fougeron.

André Fougeron was a leader in the French Communist Party in the 1950s. This piece is supposed to capture the soi-disant “Americanisation” of Europe. I think it’s nasty, horrible, and I don’t like it at all. I think it’s prejudice distilled, and thus, devoid of any measured perspective. The menace in this sort of effortless anti-Americanism is the way in which people use criticism of America to imagine that their own countries don’t have those “problems”. A kind of “hmm, not sure I understand, must be an American thing” as though war, racism, poverty, pollution, sexism, and death don’t exist in Europe. The scapegoating of America – as the repository of all maleficence and intolerance and so on – is usually accompanied by a purblind outlook of its counterpart. Academics – such as the late Eric Hobsbawm – found themselves championing the USSR as an evolved socialist sanctuary. Political commentary like this really turns me off.

Biloxi, Mississippi, 2005 (2005) by Mitch Epstein.

I do think this is an arresting photograph. The savagery and brutality of the scene is counterposed by its unmistakeable serenity: calm against a cloudless sky. Mitch Epstein, apparently, captured this tranquillity following Hurricane Katrina of 2005. To my mind, the unfortunate characteristic is that the photographer appears to have used this natural disaster to project morality about the human condition. In this case, he is quoted as saying; “I am trying to find and convey truth about how we Americans live, what we want, and what it costs to get it”. I don’t really like that comment. There is no end of people using natural disasters – like AIDS – as a means of projecting forth their personal grudges against humanity.

Composition C (No.III) with Red, Yellow and Blue (1935) by Piet Mondrian.

I find this artwork complicated: the real language of abstract painting. It’s complicated because the painting is simple. Straight lines and the main colours. In literature, Vladimir Nabokov once said that the morality of writing stems from its style. In other words, it’s not the substance of the work per se; but the craft of the writer (as an artist) and how they command language on the page. I imagine a similar mentality with such a painting. For me, if I can draw an aesthetic appreciation from prose arising – not necessarily from its substance – but from the mere wordcraft of the writer; then so it must be that it doesn’t matter that I cannot see trees or sunset on a given landscape. On the other hand, I do feel that there should be some rules as a form of courtesy on the reader or viewer. You cannot just pick and cram any sets of words to form whatever sentences in a piece. That would be a serious imposition on the reader, perhaps a bit of rudeness even. Therefore, I can’t shake the feeling that this work is just too abstract. According to the Tate Modern, “Mondrian was suggesting an idealised view of society. Each individual element contributes to the overall composition of the work … This was intended to symbolise the relationship between the individual and the collective.” I don’t think I could have divined such a view without some aid from the art gallery.

No. 98 2478 Red/135 Green (1936) by Georges Vantongerloo.

It seems Vantongerloo “was one of the pioneers of a mathematical approach to abstract art”. The painting is designed in terms of the units of space, and there is a pattern in terms of their sizes. I am not sure whether I could find this interesting or appealing beyond the interval of a few minutes.

Gironde (1951) by Ellsworth Kelly.

I do quite like this. There is a warmth and radiance to the colours. It seems Mr Kelly was inspired by shadows falling on a staircase at the home he was staying in, in France. He transformed those impressions into a bit of an abstract-ism. I think I can follow this artwork, and it feels warm.

Composition (1962) by Felicia Leirner.

Some part of me thinks this is a stretch too far – veering towards the absurd. This is supposed to be a “mournful ‘reflections upon life and death’”. At most, it has an unsettling and harsh structure and I suppose its black hue connotes the underworld. However, I don’t readily ‘read’ death – if anything, it feels like the contortions and deformities of war. On the whole, I don’t really like it. I don’t think it’s interesting.

The Bowl of Milk (1919) by Pierre Bonnard.

Yes, I do like this. Not so abstract as to render it undecipherable. I really like warm colours. I find it soothing and relaxing. We can feel the radiant cosy sunshine, the sea beyond the balcony, lovely flowers in a vase; but a faint penumbra conceals the lineaments of her face and a cat (whose milk is being – presumably – set on the floor). This was painted around WWI. Yes, interesting.

Still Life with Sheep (1938) by Marie-Louise Von Motesiczky.

Not quite sure how to think about this oil painting. I think the assorted yellow and black shades are quite pretty and it evokes the feeling of a homey kitchen; but otherwise, not fully sure about these porcelain sheep and some strange fruit. Maybe that’s what makes it appealing. It seems Von Motesiczky and her mother were Jewesses fleeing from the Nazis following the annexation of Austria. She painted this in a hotel room in Amsterdam aged 32 in the very year of the annexation. Hmm.

Interior at Gordan Square (1915) by Duncan Grant.

Duncan Grant – apparently of the Bloomsbury Group – paints rectangles “as the front and back rooms of 46 Gordon Square in London”. It’s not so abstract that I’m feeling mystified, and actually I quite like the bright colours. Though, I may need to see an outline of the house plan. So, it’s interesting.

Mandora (1909) by George Braque.

This is cubism. George Braque has painted a lute at the centre. According to the Tate, “it’s fragmented style suggests a sense of rhythm and acoustic reverberation that matches the musical subject.” I think you can catch a bottle behind the lute. It’s interesting that the lute is in the centre suspended, with unnaturally harsh and abrasive – almost sharp – three-dimensional linear structures. The brownish, leafy, and grey evokes an autumnal mood. It’s unclear where the source of light is in the painting. It feels like a dizzying hallucination. I must say I find this painting interesting – but I don’t warm to it easily. It makes me feel uncomfortable. I don’t think I would like to have this painting hanging in my kitchen.

Glass on a Table (1909) by George Braque.

It seems this painting may have been influenced by Picasso. The idea was to “explore new ways of representing reality”. Some of the glass appears shattered and broken but perhaps that’s the idea. According to the Tate, “breaking up familiar items, and reordering them, he could get closer to a true likeness of the object”. Reality is warped and, for me, this isn’t a relaxing painting. Once again, as above, Braque is drawn to harsh discordant colours. I think this is too complicated and unwelcoming for me although I do appreciate the artistic craftmanship.

Seated Woman with Small Dog (1939) by Meraud Guevara.

I really like this oil painting from 1939. There is something enigmatic and disquieting about it. It feels like there’s a sombre undertone to the painting. We don’t catch the stoical (glamourous?) lady’s gaze which complements the overall note of melancholy. The inert lifeless dog, the chamber devoid of furniture and vibrancy, an agar doorway at the back intimating (perhaps) something beyond? Yes, I do think I like this painting. It makes me wonder.

Dish of Pears (1936) by Pablo Picasso.

I can’t say I find this very appealing. I get that Picasso is depicting life in the abstract: he has set a black-and-white backdrop with two-dimensional pears on two dishes in a limited range of hues. But, for me, I am not sure I like this. I get it’s a bowl of fruit, but – in a way – it’s not really fruit, as we know it. I think it’s interesting, but that’s about it.

Autumnal Cannibalism (1936) by Salvador Dali.

I found this fascinating. At the gallery, I inched closer to the canvas to study the details. This painting is like an abstraction from a lucid dream. You’ll have to forgive me, but the above facsimile doesn’t do nearly enough justice to the original. The stylishness in the details on the canvas and overall opulence of colours contrast with the essence of the painting; namely, two shapes devouring each other. According to the Tate, this “mutually-destructive embrace may be a comment on the Spanish Civil War”. Apparently, the landscape in the background is set in Catalonia which is also quite beautiful. I think this is aesthetically stunning.

Head III (1953) by Graham Sutherland.

I don’t get this at all. Apparently, this is the merging of insects and fossils? According to a contemporary critic, Sutherland’s work was “the now prevailing cosmic anxiety”. It reminds me of the Alien from the eponymous movies, but other than that, I’m disappointed. How can an Englishman produce something so hideous and repellent? Why insects?

Sleeping Venus (1944) by Paul Delvaux.

This painting was enormous. It spans an entire wall. According to the Tate, this oil painting was rendered in Brussels during the Second World War while the city was being bombed. I like the juxtaposition of the elegant classicism against the horror and the terror. The skeleton standing by a voluptuous woman (Venus​​, the Roman goddess of love and beauty). Hands raised to the sky in despair while a nonchalant lady saunters by. Very clever.

Nude woman in a Red Armchair (1932) by Pablo Picasso.

The model was Marie-Thérèse Walter. Picasso painted her entirely in voluptuous curves. Her face is split, and she has two different skin tones. Not sure what to think of her “middle” boob. I guess Picasso wanted us to see it too. Honestly – I am not sure what to think of this. It seems a bit – if you’ll pardon me – simple. It doesn’t make me think much and I don’t think the caricature is all that beautiful.

Man with a Newspaper (1928) by René Magritte.

Four indistinguishable scenes – apart from the disappearance of the gentleman with his newspaper. What to think of this? I noticed that the colours were a bit darker in the bottom duo; perhaps indicating the passage of time? I feel there’s something forlorn in this painting, the loss of someone? It’s interesting.

Paintings (1980s) by Gerhard Richter.

There was a large room adorned by six huge paintings of Gerhard Richter. Although it is quite abstract, it also feels a bit realistic. The painting above was, to me, the most beautiful and engrossing of the six. There is a fluidity to the painting, as if I’m overlooking a lake. Pretty.

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The end. 

Below is a concluding photograph of my visit. I subsequently met my friend and went on a Thames River Cruise from the Bankside area of London. Temp was 38C. So lots to drink but a lovely day afterwards.

Yours truly and the BFF.