Boroughly Explorations: Lambeth
Highs of 28 degrees today, mid-July, in London. So of course, that's the perfect day for a 20,000 step trek south of the river.
I met up with a friend to see the Damien Hirst exhibition at Newport Street Gallery in Lambeth, that runs until October. Although aware of Hirst and his work - him being something of a household name due to his famous pieces involving dead animals preserved in formaldehyde - I'd never been much of a fan, principally because I'd never gotten the chance to see any of his work in the flesh.
A new play by Joseph Charlton called Anna X, currently running at the Harold Pinter Theatre, has a line that goes 'Hirst isn't an artist; he's a businessman', the reasoning behind this assertion being that he sells concepts. With the shark in formaldehyde, he takes an apex predator, defangs it, neuters it of its danger. Death, after all, is the ultimate apex predator. If modern art isn't your thing, much of what you might find in this exhibition would probably frustrate you. Personally, I urge you to visit. There are pieces here that I had immediate, visceral reactions to (one in particular I couldn't hold back an 'oh fuck').
The first was a box with five holes cut into it. Hirst explains above the piece that he was motivated by a dream he had where he was held in place in a box. I feel that the description here was superfluous - the meaning is already implicit.
The second, which I haven't pictured, was horrific. Throughout the exhibition, there are works consisting of boxes filled with various items. When not filled with formaldehyde, these clear, perspex boxes have holes in them. In the penultimate room of the exhibition, there is a huge clear box with no holes. Inside, are thousands of flies. Most are dead, the others crawling over them. It's an Apocalypse. This box faces the entrance of the room. As I walk around the box, I see another box conjoined to it. Inside is the reason for the thousands upon thousands of flies, most dead, some yet living. A severed cow's head, a trail of blood. It's brutal, horrific. I hate it, but fuck, what death.
Death pervades Hirst's work - from preserved animals, to frozen cow heads, to autopsy photographs, to an infinity of pills. And yet, Newport Street Gallery is an airy, beautiful space. It contrasts and showcases the work so nicely; immediately one of the most welcoming galleries I've visited.
After finishing at NSG, we walked up the road to Centaur Street, to see a free, open-air permanent installation that is something quite special. Under a tunnel in Lambeth are hung on the wall a sprawling tribute to the well-known and much-loved British poet William Blake, in the form of around 70 mosaics. It is instances such as these, where art and heritage combine and are made accessible to all, that my faith in the people of this country is restored. Until the next General Election, anyway.
I could wax lyrical about The Tyger, and why the first stanza is a perfect four lines of poetry, but I don't have to. Read it for yourself, in mosaic form.
After sampling some high art, it was time for some low. The Leake Street Tunnel is a hands-off graffiti area, where artists can go about their business without the threat of arrest. It makes for an ever-evolving, always colourful delight for the eyes.
And DBZ fans.
There is plenty to see and do in Lambeth, so if you fancy a meander around various artistic hot spots - perhaps before heading north to Borough Market for lunch/dinner - there's nowhere quieter on a sunny day in mid-July.
