Red

'Red' is John Logan's fantastic biopic of Mark Rothko starring Alfred Molina as the self-indulgent Abstract Expressionist and Eddie Redmayne as his assistant. Set in the period when Rothko and Pollock were at the height of their fame, just after Pollock's death it brings all of Rothko's insecurities into the forefront as an artist being rubbed out by the next best thing - the massively popular Pop Art culture that was a product of the Brand culture at the start of American consumerism.

More than the brief look into Rothko's life, albeit fictional, I enjoyed Logan's tightly written playscript. He covers themes that are still relevant for artists even today and pokes at the artists that still sell-out to consumer brands today, whatever new form they may take. He grapples with vivid language to bring out startlingly simple images of death related to white snow for example. If I was to make any criticism of the written work it would be to say that the writing holds no surprises. The story has a predictable rhythm, the words are well-chosen and build the mounting tension ver well.

Molina is exacting and precise in his performance. Unlike most US actors who fail abysmally when they take to the stage, Molina's British stage training holds out well for him and he delivered an enjoyable performance, one that I would recommend to any artist to attend before the 6th of Feb 2010.

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?

Seraphine de Senlis

I went to see a new movie that's out called 'Seraphine.' It's in French, with English subtitles. It's about Seraphine Louis, a cleaning lady for middle class families in rural France who began painting at the age of 41 because her guardian angel told her to do it. After hours spent in the day doing physically demanding labour of cleaning people's houses, beating the dirt out of laundry on river banks and working at the butcher's she would go home and paint all night by candlelight. The few centimes she earned she spent on paint and canvases instead of food and rent. To this day, no one is sure what materials she used to create the glossy, waxy look of her paintings which were mostly flowers in colourful bloom. (The one on the left is painted on a two metre long canvas). It is speculated that she used paraffin and wax stolen from prayer chapels in church, mud and twigs from river banks and blood from the butcher's shop where she worked. She was a devout catholic and sang the latin mass and hymns as she painted at night.

As the story goes, she painted herself into a mental asylum and eventually died in comfortable isolation in her seventies. But, not before she was discovered by a German art collector and dealer named Wilhelm Uhde who turned out to be her patron and protector.
The movie was cinematically evocative from the deep throated sounds of latin mass being sung to the click-clackety metallic heels worn by Seraphine's character, played by Yolande Moreau. It won awards at Cannes and not without reason. I recommend this movie to art fans and artists (writers, dancers, actors etc.) alike if not for a life-like depiction of what it is to be consumed by passion for your art and driven to express it through your physical being, then at least to appreciate the stellar performance of Yolande Moreau.

I've finally found a reason to visit Paris again (after at least two years away) - the Musee Malliol where a few of her paintings are supposedly on permanent exhibition. Anyone with me?