http://www.thehistoryvault.co.uk/british-folk-art-at-tate-britain/
British Folk Art
Tate Britain, London, 10 June
– 31 August 2014
I imagine them sitting
together, heads huddled close, whispering, choosing what to embroider next: two
dancing pigs, a peacock with a fabulous tail, an anchor, or a sprig of daisies.
Over the course of a year, their quilt becomes filled with an eclectic mix of
motifs, sewn by both their hands. They add in their initials, HB and CAS. In
1891, Herbert and Charlotte marry, and the Bellamy quilt is passed down through
their family until it is donated it to a museum in the 1970s. Today, it hangs in
Tate Britain as part of the British Folk
Art exhibition, a beautiful familial object now transformed into art.
Walking
into the vibrant first room of this exhibition, you are confronted by objects.
A whole sunshine-yellow-coloured wall is filled with shop signs – a golden padlock,
stout boot, gruff-looking bear and sun, to name but a few – all of them
enormous. The scale is unexpected: ‘folk art’ often conjures up objects on a smaller
scale – pincushions and corn dollies, more usually from a rural context. The
display begins, therefore, with a provocation. If you thought you knew what
folk art was – and, the curators argue, the concept is incredibly difficult to
pin down – then your assumptions are overturned. Throughout the exhibition, we
find out that folk art is both urban and rural, large and small, male and female.
It is objects from homes, shops and ships, by makers known and unknown.
The
exhibition does not have a defined linear narrative, nor are there clearly
defined groupings of objects. Instead, things are arranged according to loose
categories: things from towns, the sea, and the countryside. Some are grouped
together because they are similar in form or according to more traditional art
historical conceptions of the figurative and the abstract. Objects that are
more familiar in a museum context, particularly from social history
collections, are here in abundance. Much about the exhibition can be enjoyed by
simply looking at these glorious things. One is often overwhelmed by the amount
of work and skill that the making of monumental figureheads or quilts of over
10,000 pieces must have entailed. Superficially, many of these objects somehow
seem more accessible than ‘fine art’; evocative, like the Bellamy quilt, or
instantly legible, like John Vine’s painting of three magnificently enormous
pigs. But although we can admire them, we cannot know them. Objects do not
speak for themselves, and some of these pieces are so individual and idiosyncratic,
their makers unknown, that any deeper understandings are elusive. Some might
argue that to enjoy things for their aesthetic appeal is enough, and that this
is what experiencing art should involve. Whilst there is much pleasure to be
gained from simply looking, a greater level of appreciation can always be
gained by understanding about contexts of production and use: this is as true
of Western fine art just as much as it is for art from elsewhere. Here, folk
art proves to be particularly elusive in yielding meaning.
Whilst
the notion of folk art is all-encompassing, there are several noticeable
absences throughout much of the display. For all the stress on ‘folk’, people
are shadows within the exhibition. Few makers are known, and even when there
are names, individual biographies are rarely extensive. There is little
information about the regions and communities that things come from, about the
collective identities and traditions that they supposedly represent. The final
room contains a fantastic array of photographs which provide a greater sense of
who and where some of these things might have come from, and the particular
customs and lifeways with which they may have been associated, but this is
limited. The other thing missing is the contemporary. The newest artefacts here
are from the 1950s and 60s. Searching for the folk art of today could be
equally thought-provoking.
The
fundamental question at the heart of the exhibition could be ‘is it art?’ Definition
is deliberately shied away from, the curators rather encouraging us to think
about the ways in which objects may slip between or occupy multiple categories
(‘art’, ‘social history’, ‘domestic artefact’, ‘curio’). That question
confronts you everywhere, but there are no answers here; this is either
liberating or frustrating, depending on your perspective. Fundamentally, though,
the central question is ‘what is art?’ The exhibition in this reading is not
about ‘folk art’, but is an unsettling of the notion of art itself. Power is
inevitably at play: anonymity, for example, is partly symptomatic of names not
being thought important enough to remember. Even when makers’ names are known,
their positioning in relation to the artistic canon can be precarious. Alfred
Wallis is regarded as an artist but Mary Linwood is not; her needlework
reproductions of works of art, once wildly popular, are now out of fashion
despite their temporary foray into a twenty-first century art exhibition. There
are issues of taste and connoisseurship, training and skill, and the
institutional structures within which art is embedded. For art to be art it
must be recognised as such. It is not enough to simply revel in the making of
beautiful things.
Despite
the eclecticism that the curators display, there is still a danger that folk
art appears to be ‘other’ then, coming from other times and, often, from other
places, away from the metropolitan gaze. From the Tate’s perspective, it is
also largely from other collections. Whether or not folk art is a useful term –
and its nebulousness raises questions – this exhibition is a visual treat and a
tantalising taste of a world of objects. Certainly, it makes me want to visit
or return to the collections that Tate borrowed from. There, perhaps, I may not
find answers to the questions that this exhibition raises, but I will learn
something different: about contexts of making and use, and about as much of the
history of these artefacts as it is now possible to know.
No comments:
Post a Comment