COCAINE KATE

Hot Dang!!! Got about a hundred posts to catch up on before my imminent departure from this green and pleasant land. Lets start with Miss Moss...disdainfully referred to as Kate Moist by the Highgate intelligentsia who suspect she lowers the tone - having the gall to impose her sordid rock n roll presence on one Samuel Taylor Coleridge's rickety old mansion.

I was first seduced by Miss Moss's entrancing features via Corinne Day's low-fi fashion photography in a 1990 issue of seminal style publication The Face. The cut glass cheekbones, dreamy wide-set eyes, pneumatic poutastic lips exposing a wonky vampire grin and heroin chic styling were a revelation after the boring glamorous razzamattazz perfection of the '80s. 

Corinne Day's photographic style helped put La Moss on the map and signalled the beginnings of what would evolve into the riotous epoch known as Cool Britannia, soundtracked by Britpop, diseased by Tony Blair. These images appeared last year in a small show at Mayfair's Gimpel Fils Gallery celebrating Day's iconic and innovative photographic style. Day sadly died of a brain tumour aged 48.

 

 

The later images of old Mossy were honest and brave, graphically depicting a real woman looking every one of her 38 years. These enormous close-up shots were especially notable in our image-obsessed world, increasingly relying on the artificiality of Photoshop to make YOU feel insecure so you will BUY MORE SHIT. Don't believe the bullshit peeps. Even Kate Moist has crows feet. And don't they look charming.  

 

 

 

 

CHRISTINE KEELER

My quintessential '60s British moment has always been the Profumo Scandal of '63, rather than the awful 'swinging sixties' hippie zeitgeist that followed. The notorious affair had all the hallmarks of a classic gutter press story...glamour, politics, international espionage, suicide and underage call girls all played out within the inner circle of the upper echelon of conservative British politics. These were the bunga-bunga parties of the early 60s, Christine Keeler's innocent beauty tempered by the cynical cock-teasing power of a young woman entirely cognizant of her female potency, particularly entrancing to powerful middle-aged Tory stiffs.  

London's Mayor Gallery in Mayfair featured these photographs from Keeler's personal collection at a small show in 2010. Classically beautiful studio portraits cut with seedy Soho bar glamour shots were balanced out by the fresh-faced naiviety of our herione playfully sunbaking in the rolling pastures of Albion. She must have loved these particular images herself, and my favourite is the one of Keeler tucking into a home-cooked chicken dinner on her first night of freedom from Holloway prison (below). The saucy minx. These photographs seem to symbolise some kind of end of an era of post-war British innocence, the beginning of the breaking down of conservative social conventions into the repugnant maelstrom of acceptable behaviour we take to mean civilisation half a century later. Keeler looks like shes having so much fun. Just good clean good time girl fun. Hooray!

FRIEZE ART FAIR 2011

Really keen to crack on with TOMORROW'S fine reportage from the black lungs of Londinium TODAY but just a couple more art related ones I'm catching up on from last year...do forgive me. Rewinding back to October last year for the Frieze Art Fair in Regents Park, I think in its 9th year now and increasingly reeking of rank commercialism as each year passes. The fair is just that - a huge commercial enterprise enabling more than 500 international galleries to hawk their wares in overcrowded marquees crawling with hipsters, art students (at least those that can afford the admission price) and various London ace-faces hoping to get their sweet mugs featured, drunk, at the opening in the Standard Evening's magazine.

Being a nit-picking little so and so, I thought the calibre of the work on show was disappointing...and again proved the art rule I swear by that you need to syphon through 90% of utter tosh in contemporary art to discover the 10% that truly, and often for reasons only know to yourself, resonates. The work pictured above (all artists featured in this post unknown as I was sans notebook...apart from Gavin "The Man" Turk, bottom pic) did just that, its initial shock value giving way to a general low-level creepiness and fascination with a situation that the majority of people would normally never have the misfortune to experience. The work is probably taking centre stage right now in the Saatchi/Nigella dining room, affording privileged guests like Rebekah Brooks and Dave Cameron the opportunity to drink Baileys from a shoe and suck Nigella's creamy eggnog off the toes. Hooray!

Having a healthy sense of smut, a feminist bent, appreciation for glorious architectural monuments, a taste for appendages, an Eastern European fetish, a long and tawdry history with British indie music and a well documented love of my man Gavin Turk...may I now present a selection of my favourite pieces from the Frieze.



THE YBAs AT 50

Yes, The YBAs, those Publicity-Obsessed Marketing Geniuses...sorry, artists...have come of age and some guy called Jeremy Cooper has cashed in on a book all about them in this mid-career stage of their working lives. Having not read the book or listened at all to him (or the publisher's 'PR representative') gasbagging at the launch, I'm not sure whats in it (though I assume its some mildly interesting interviews)...but the party was refreshingly low-key and hipsterish at the Bethnal Green Working Mens' Club in East London.

Presumably Tracey Emin was too busy talking to the taxman about poetry (and entirely legal, Tory-sponsored tax avoidance loopholes) to attend such a humble event, with Damien Hirst no doubt locked in negotiations with one of Charles Taylor's henchmen regarding his next shipment of Liberia's finest commodity. However, the ever reliable, down to earth family man and shit hot post-ironic artiste Gavin Turk put in an appearance, spinning vinyl on the decks with what looked like one of his sons but more likely some Goldsmiths' Masters graduate art-world intern. I was hoping for a sighting of Sarah Lucas, but she must have been burrowed away in glorious hermitage, stuffing scrunched up copies of hoarded News of The Worlds into pairs of nude hosiery from Oxfam.

So there you have it...another post ostensibly about something, but in reality utterly superficial and pointless. Did someone mention YBAs?

POST MODERN KENSINGTON PALACE

Back in 1997 I stared at the telly in my far-flung colonial outpost in total disbelief, gawking at the mournful British public in shock, planting a sea of flowers outside Kensington Palace gates and  grieving over the death of their sad, lonely (and reputedly crazy) Queen of Hearts. I've been lucky enough to live very close to the Palace since then and have this year managed to worm my way into their volunteer workforce.

One of the advantages of this kind of gig is the free access to the impressive exhibitions, lectures and  'infotainment' these kinds of historical institutions are renowned for. After several months refurbishment, the Palace reopened in a blaze of glory on 29th March and no stone has been left unturned in terms of luxurious thick carpets underfoot, moodily ambient lighting and atmospheric exhibits which totally contemporise the modern 'palace-going experience'. 

Much as I love the traditional National Trust-style visit to an historic residence, Kensington Palace has truly created a unique selling point with what they call an 'experience' - a completely curated environment themed around elements of HRH Victoria's life. Unabashed disgruntlement at the lack of traditional museum labels, bright lighting and glass cabinet exhibits from a certain contingent was a refreshing testament to the success of the Palace's post modern re-imagining and its attempt to remain innovative and engaging to a broader cross-section of audiences.

Artist Julie Verhoeven has created a bespoke wallpaper (below) illustrating the many glamorous guises of the Queen of Hearts in a quirky, watercolour treatment so kitsch it seemed to reference Japanese anime. The Diana 'room' also included an 80s Versace dress the lady herself had worn, its very texture, fabric and dimensions seemingly larger than life when experienced 'in the flesh' after witnessing such a multitude of 2D images over the years courtesy of the world's gutter press.

The liberal use of silhouetting, light projection and individually hand-crafted installations all combined with the classic motifs of Albion history such as seafaring to create a truly magical atmosphere within the palace walls and enable the history of the rooms to come to life. After all...the cat can look at the Queen can't she?

PETE'S PIPE PICKLE...PETER DOHERTY, ARTIST, COB GALLERY LONDON

I know...I couldn't believe it either, is there no end to this bohemian oaf's talent? A difficult one to defend I won't deny but I maintain my respect for Doherty's determination to live life entirely on his own terms - two fingers to the red tops and dreary suburbanite haters, (styled by Primark, engaged to university sweetheart, holidays in Mallorca) lurking around office water coolers across this green and pleasant land accusing him of leading the kids astray with his blatantly drug-addled buffoonery or worse - obvious lack of talent. Lets face it, the guy is hilarious with his antics and if he was good enough for Cocaine Kate then hes good enough for me. Its called rock'n'roll people!! Nobody gave a shit when Keef spent half the '70s on the nod.

Peter, being a Rimbaud-reading boho now lives in Paris where his brand of louche decadence is perfectly acceptable, positively encouraged in some arrondissements. Everything about Peter from his nonchalant sartorial elegance to his pretty-boy-lost-in-a-dream-world-of-fey-literary-heroes-adrift-in-Arcadia countenance seems to fit like a glove with the je ne sais quoi, that indefinable charm of the City of Light. His reported recent friendship with a certain Madame Sarkozy seems the perfect Parisian fusion of his charisma and her inherent rebellion. Underneath the artifice...they are two sides to the same coin, the post modern Birkin and Gainsbourg.

LL Cool P....Parisienne mademoiselles know the score...

So Mr. Doherty has now evolved his notorious blood fetish into a new career as an emerging visual artist - his idiosyncratic canvases recently exhibited at the Cob Gallery in London's Camden Town. A few of Doherty's mono and neutral toned multimedia pieces were mildly interesting (below)...combining elements of collage, his own putrid blood, tabloid newspaper imagery plus the detritus of a chaotic life with his largely illegible 'word vomit' pencil scribblings.

Far more striking were the installations in the gallery's basement. Featuring all manner of symbolic, Dohertyesque objects (Babycham anyone?), the subterranean opium eater's cave was draped with threadbare flags, sweat-stained backstage passes, ancient typewriters, vintage guitars and beautiful antique crucifixes. The only things missing were burnt foils, dirty spoons and a crack pipe stained with Amy Winehouse's lipstick. Vinyl punk albums littered the floor and a decrepit Beatles poster from the (sadly) now defunct News Of The World gave the installation a real sense of authenticity, as though you were poking through this genuine music fan's own personal wreckage of the Albion Rooms circa 2001. Which I probably was. I love Doherty's celebration of his Englishness and pride in the ancient motifs of a once great country now consigned to the imagination of poets and dreamers. As a songwriter, Doherty's talent lies in evoking this lyrical imagery of a lost utopia. As a visual artist he offers up the tangible, literal interpretation.