Chez Kay
Andrew Kay pays lip service to pornography and art
Ever since I was a student I have been facinated by synchronicity, the simultaneaous occurence of events that appear significantly related but have no dicernible casual connection. Yes, you’re right, that is a dictionary definition for something that you may easily define as ‘a coincidence’. But it does seem amazing to me that in a place as large as London I can bump into a sequence of old friends within the space of 24 hours in the oddest variety of places.
I spent last weekend in London and met one pair of old college friends at the Barbican. The current exhibition, Seduced: Art and Sex from Antiquity to Now, was, of course, the common link. The chances of being there on the same day at the same moment bizarre.
‘‘Tate ‘Disney’ is a more appropriate name for Tate Modern, London’s favourite family outing’’
Anyway we took advantage of Gill’s membership and went in. It’s an odd show. Not shocking, really. Most lovers of art will have seen most of what is on display at some time, as will most lovers of pornography. No, what is odd is viewing material of this kind as a collective audience. Erotica is on the whole (careful how I spell that), a solitary or intimate experience between lovers or sexual partners. Here we all were, on a cold Saturday afternoon, looking at a massive collection – en masse.
After a while you become complacent about the content. In such surroundings much of the magic is lost and the intimacy ruined. It must be faced that a large amount, art as well as pornography, is originally created solely for the purpose of titilation. It could easily be said that much of this is porn achieving the status of art.
What I found most interesting was the audience’s behaviour. Throughout the exhibition there are small screening rooms with U-bend entrances to minimise light spilling into the projection rooms. Inside there were seats, but you could hardly get to them for the clusters of people jamming themselves in the narrow entrances, desperate to see but too scared to go any further than the door.
Was this perhaps a fear of penetration? A reaction to the content that questioned one’s level of commitment? Maybe the curators should have provided a free supply of hooded prophylactic anoraks to afford the crowds a sense that they were indulging in ‘safe’ sex.
On a more positive note, the exhibit is not open to under 18s, unlike the Gilbert And George retrospective at Tate ‘Disney’, a more appropriate name, I feel, for Tate Modern, London’s favourite family outing. Here I spent far too much time avoiding three wheel buggies and inquisitive toddlers. Yeuk!
