blood on paper

Alia and I went to the V&A yesterday to catch the last day of the Blood on Paper exhibition. It was pretty frustrating, actually, from a curatorial standpoint I suppose. For such visceral subject matter to be presented in such a distant and privileged way just felt wrong.

“Books do more than transmit texts and images. They proclaim authority, permanence or ‘culture’. They give out messages as we approach them, and as we open or hold them. Their physical presence alone has the power to stimulate memories, to reveal a particular universe of thought or to provoke a dialogue…The works of the artists represented here insist on the importance of The Book as a physical object and as an idea…The passionate commitment of those involved in creating these works is reflected in the title, Blood on Paper.”

The sad contradiction of the value of the works on display (not to mention the rigidity of the curatorial rules that the V&A obviously has to adhere to), and their inherent intended physicality was pretty clear. The multiplicity of each work (i.e. the pages) was uncomfortably dealt with, buried under glass. The intrinsically narrative nature of each book couldn’t be expressed by the resulting single page displayed for each piece.

So frustrating, because the works on display were beautiful: Louise Bourgeois’ felt; Francis Bacon’s suitcase; Ed Ruscha’s catalogue of stains; thick layers of gritty paint; smooth brass; clean cut edges; blood; on paper; behind glass.

Tea&A – ritualistic and lovely as always. A visit to the V&A always leaves us with a kind of unusual creative clarity and renewed sense of wonder that lasts at least as long as the bus ride back south.