Turners Turnips

Well, its finally gone and done it. I watched the Turner Prize presentation on the telly. And yes, in my opinion, it finally committed suicide. In its desperation to find art thats diferent they came up with………………..furcoats sewn onto chairs, …………………. interior design……………………some videos about people who think or are pretending or really are supersoldiers, brainwashed into springing into action on a secret comman………..and I think another that was so banal Ive forgotten it completely. I shall, and I suspect others will, completely forget everything and every so called artist who were nominated this year.

I just recalled…….it was some sort of opera using non-words to interpret an accident using sound………….OMG.

Other years have been awful, but I still remember some of them, even if I didnt like them. Tracy Emins bed, which didnt win, but still stays in my memory. Grayson Perry. An awful video of policemen and women. Paintings that were mostly black. A shed that was also a boat, I think. A bicycle that powered itself when ridden, or something. And so on. Some of those I hated, but they have lingered. But this lot……….Im not even sure its really art, and Muriel wotsername, a professor at Glasgow university, also on the show, also wasnt sure that some of it was art.

And the presenter…………never heard of her………….had so little to say yet managed to cock it up.

And the prize goes to………….Assembly………….who go around renovating old buildings and who have spent three years…………..yes three years, renovating a childrens playground somewhere in Glasgow. How is that art? Why isnt it architecture? or………..or………..or……..anything but art?

Its really depressing. Its really uplifting too. The latter because it surely marks the end of the Turner Prize.

Love all, hurt none, and walk in soft shoes

Isi Tart

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