Anish Kapoor the MCA


Anish Kapoor puts the medium in-your-face.

Large fun-hall mirrors. What are they doing in a ‘high-art’ context? At first I couldn’t grasp it, and I certainly couldn’t smell it. I had to think. Portraits. Distortion. Object vs subject. The necessary reciprocity of relativity and objectivity in perception. Sort of.

The watcher watching the watcher being watched…”That’s me!”….or” Is it art?”…. or”Who am ‘I’ anyway?”.

Enter pigment. Sumptuous lashings of the stuff. Again no smell. As someone who once saved up my tips to afford a 37ml tube of series 1 violet, I cringe at the opulence. Cadmiums, cobalts, titaniums. A poetry of pigments. A truck-load of buttery red-ochre earth-like mudbath squishy ancient sun-dial with mechanical arm ‘reinventing’ the composition gradually, evoking erosion. Earth time, earth space. The colour of it all.

More pigment, released from it’s bindings, dragging our eyes around. Red, yellow, white, no blue. Yves Klein has appropriated blue forever. Perfect primary colours singing in perfect pitch, dis-harmonised by strange little off-key shapes and piles.

Someone had to recreate those voids, artists (beginning with Mark Rothko) have been painting them forever. Now we can see the real thing. A void. Man on the brink of it. Contemplating it. Pitting ourselves against it. In the end he really is showing us ourselves, empty within and without, wandering round the MCA. Wondering what it’s all about.


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