Anish Kapoor

The first time I set eyes on Anish K was at the Tate Modern at least five years ago. All I remember was a red square that if I stared at long enough sucked me into its bloody vortex. A living womb. It was disturbing to say the least. Emotional. Graphic. But, quiet.


Here are the pics from some of his best works at his latest exhibition at the Royal Academy, taken by stealth (allow me to get on my soapbox about that - you can take pictures of all the greats up close and personal at the National Smithsonian Art Gallery and MoMA; I was practically ramming my digital cam up Rembrandt's nose, but not in London. Why is that? Answers on a post-card.)

Visceral. I know. Cannisters of blood-red paraffin and oil shot once a day into a corner of the Royal Academy rooms. There was splatter everywhere. He used the same material shaped into a block 10 by 10metres roughly that was gliding back and forth through three rooms with arches, again, smudged at the edges by the red paraffin as it slid past. A room steward told me that it takes an hour and a half to get from one edge of the room to the other.

This room was full of poo-shaped cement piled on top of wooden pallets. The rooms before smelled of paraffin and oil, this one of cement. There was The Hive which smelled of iron rust. Did anyone else notice?