sat 19/10/2019

Modern British Sculpture, Royal Academy | reviews, news & interviews

Modern British Sculpture, Royal Academy

Modern British Sculpture, Royal Academy

Not so much an overview, more a series of inspired connections

Rebecca Warren's 'Helmut Crumb', 1999, conflates the names Helmut Newton and Robert Crumb and depicts female sexuality as imagined through both artist's eyes

Austere, elegant, impressive. Edwin Lutyens’s Whitehall Cenotaph is a thing of beauty, a monument that embodies permanence in the face of all that is impermanent, and solidity in the face of all that is ephemeral. It’s an inspired decision to bring it indoors, for inside a hushed gallery, away from the rush of traffic and stripped of its flags and sculpted wreathes, Lutyens’s memorial can at last be properly admired as a work of art.

The audacious, often puzzling turns this exhibition takes are no less startling than that first room

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Sounds great. look forward to seeing it.

An excellent review that leaves me positively slathering to see the show. Not the slightest bothered at the prospect of not seeing Gormley and Kapoor. Not sure about omission of Butler, Chadwick and co. Surely a survey has to bear some relation to what actually happened, rather than what the curators would like to have happened. Still its intriguing, and rather refreshing that a review of an exhibition of British 20th c sculpture manages to get by without mentioning Moore or Hepworth. Will shut up and get down there toot sweet.

Like the footballers of today who once got buses to the match with their fans but now distance themselves from the plebs in monstrous cars with blacked out windows, here too the artists have distanced themselves with the smoke and mirrors of alleged intellectuality. This made all the more obvious with the sublime beauty of Moore and Epstein just meters away. I suppose many will say that the great creative tide of the late 20th century has completely washed over me. I have disappeared beneath the waves while above Cap’n Emin and Boson Opie ride high and dry down Dean Street for another celebratory rum ration at Grouchos. I don’t feel like that. I feel like the tide has gone out to an arid scratch on the horizon and I’m sitting on the abandoned beach sniffing Duchamps latrine and only Damien’s flies for company. more on my blog

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