Of the many bad things this virus has brought, cancellation of this year’s Turner Prize isn’t high on my list. But each year about this time I Google to discover which four pieces of art have been shortlisted. My knowledge of art, I hasten to add, is limited. It would take an indulgent mother to attach anything I could draw to her fridge with a magnet.
No, the reason I enjoy the Turner is that the pieces of “art” are hilariously ridiculous. You know the stuff: an unmade bed, a garden shed that got a bit wet, a painting done in elephant dung, a collection of sticks. I’m not the first person to be unimpressed. A Government Culture Secretary once openly gave an assessment of the shortlist that referenced the rearward evacuations of male cattle.
It’s the descriptions. The Turner isn’t anything to do with art, it is a creative writing competition. It’s the wildly imaginative, and often horribly pretentious, “meanings” artists endow upon plastic spoons and pickled animals that is the real art. I’m always reminded of Danny Kaye singing, “Look at the king, the king, the king . . .”
The prize is £20,000, so I might enter one day. I’d submit an empty crisp packet (salt & vinegar not cheese & onion, I’m not a complete Philistine) and say it was a symbol of the potato’s potential to transform into another life form (a crisp). I’d suggest this represents humankind’s future evolution into a space-faring, pan-dimensional life form.
I’d assure them: isn’t it grand! Isn’t it fine! Look at the cut, the style, the line! But then claim it can’t be fully appreciated for another billion years. Only then will the pan-dimensional life-forms nod their much-evolved, very large heads and say, “It’s altogether, but altogether, the most remarkable crisp packet that we have ever seen.”
I’m sure I’d be shortlisted. I might even get the judges singing along.
Not everything you hear or read should be swallowed whole. People construct impressive collections of words, usually long ones, adopt a sombre tone and earnest expression then smile and try to sell you snake oil.
But you can choose not to believe. Or, at least, withhold judgment until you’ve checked facts, had a think, and taken a look from all angles. Are the sleeves really velvet and the cape ermine? Are the hose blue and the doublet a lovely shade of green?
Be especially sceptical if they’re trying to talk you into buying a suit.
Word of the week
Iconoclast (noun)
A person who attacks cherished beliefs or institutions. EG: “I’m an iconoclast when it comes to Turner Prize art”.
Read the latest Oh my word! every Saturday in The Courier. Contact me at sfinan@dctmedia.co.uk
