Ferocity and Fantasy

I will start with a short and somewhat unrelated introduction. Last year I explained to my tutor that I wanted to write my dissertation on fantasy art, by which I meant the portal worlds of Charles bear and apocalyptic landscapes of Thomas Hirschorn; worlds that engulf the viewer as a means of escapism. I was informed however that using the word fantasy would only suggest one type of art... art like this...

I still maintain that fantasy art should not be confined to this vile, unicorn frosted display which is why I was so thrilled to read the title of this exhibition, Childish Things: Ferocity and Fantasy in Recent Art, which is, in essence, so opposed to the 'Fantasy Art' stereotype.

The baltic conditions within the Fruitmarket gallery throughout December seem to have deterred its usual visitor levels meaning that if you do brave the sub zero temperature in an extra layer (or ten) you are almost definitely going to have the gallery to yourself, bar one lone gallery assistant trying not to drop off, a rare treat in the pre-festive bustle. As for the content itself, the common misconception is that this is an exhibition aimed at children...not so. In fact many an enthusiastic child has run out of Susan Hiller's brutal Punch and Judy compilation, An Entertainment, sobbing with an angry parent chastising the gallery for miss-advertising. The common thread however linking the seven selected artists is their desire to re-visit their own childhood, generalised notion of childhood and objects of childhood in particular (toys, if you will).

Following on from Johan Grimonprez and, more recently, Martin Creed dealing with broad concepts of order and repetition with a logical, practical approach to art, the selection in Childish Things returns to a more personal approach. While the curator, David Hopkins, is a specialist in the fields of Dada and Surrealism and therefore has a vested interest in the ready-made, it has to be said that the majority of the works in this exhibition explore the notion of the lone, skilled craftsman. Jeff Koons' Bear and a Policeman holds the signature of the wood crafter while the work of the hand is evident in every stitch of Louise Bourgeois' Oedipus Complex. Helen Chadwick's transferred images peal slightly from their wooden objects while even Paul McCarthy's Sound of Music bears the out of focus crackling of originality. Mike Kelly's giant stuffed toy, the most ready-made of all the works, is covered in the stains and rips of everyday childhood wear and tear. It was a feature of his own home for many years before being wrapped in cotton wool and transported by private jet into the white cube.

There is so much to this exhibition that appealed to me. Someone said to me while I was there, 'you cannon help but fall in love with Louise Bourgeois' Oedipus,' – this looks a little stranger in writing but anyone who has seen the piece would, I'm sure, agree. The idea of scattering the objects through the upstairs gallery, mimicking the childhood playpen experience and placing the adult into the state of the child was brilliant but for me sadly, not quite enough. The thing is, we get it, we get that childhood is a scary time of unknowns which ironically shape the rest of your life. Showing a Jeff Koons on a nice white plinth with a little sign next to it explaining what it is just isn't the point. In my opinion it could have done with a little less emphasis on the hot-shot names, a little more 'stuff' and a lot more fantasy.

Bobby Niven at Sierra Metro

After a bout of bad luck in Edinburgh post-graduation (or perhaps the mere realisation that the recession is in fact a reality) I am now decidedly determined to persist with this blog and not jump ship in pursuit of warmer climes (and home comforts). Whether this is a wise move remains to be seen. The strong work ethic I pride myself on has dwindled and so, in an attempt to re-kindle a little enthusiasm for the subject I spent five arduous years studying I have hired out some studio space and now return to writing, with a little more free time and post-festival resolve. No longer a blog counting down the final year of study, I take a new direction - to map the aimless life of an arts graduate and inject the situation with a little humour.

It was with this stoic attitude and in mind that I trudged my way through the snow blizzards in impractical footwear last Sunday to view Bobby Niven’s latest cinematic works at Sierra Metro. Neither the bus breaking down nor the dwindling light and impending snow shower dampened my determination as I finally reach Granton industrial estate and battled my way to the lighthouse - the site of Sierra Metro. Colder inside than out and certainly darker, I was greeted by one, lone member of staff huddled over an electric heater. Had I finally reached the end of the world? There is no denying that selecting Niven’s work for this location was little short of genius. His first film, Hermit’s Castle, a journey to Assynt examining the story of architect David Scott, left the damp, dark, empty interior of that gallery feeling like a five star hotel. Even the wooden benches morphed into deluxe armchairs as the desolate landscape engulfed us. The story goes (and I hope I’ve got this right) that the structure in the film was built by an David Scott in 1955 in an attempt to escape city existence, however, after a single night sleeping in his creation he mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again.

Niven worked with both a cinematographer and a sound engineer to create this stunningly shot, eerily sonic piece. You latch onto a sound, or an image, some recognisable point of contact, only to have it whipped from under your feet. Is it a model? No it’s a castle. A helicopter? A bubbling stream? There is a constant play on what you know and what you think you know. Was it strictly necessary however to film this architecture with a fire burning inside it? What struck me most about this work was the overwhelming feeling that the viewer, through the eyes of the camera, was the first witness to the scene post abandonment 55 yrs ago. This illusion is shattered by this other, fire burning presence within the structure. It loses a little mystery, the notion of unearthing or rediscovering and lends, instead, a touch of 80s horror film to the set.

The second film was rather different yet equally disconcerting. More documentary in its formation, it tracks a little of the life of Galip Körükçu, an elderly potter living in Avanos, Turkey and the founder of… ‘The Hair Museum’ which houses over 16000 hair clippings obtained from women. Niven once again hones in on the uncanny nature of this gentleman’s practice - potter by day, collector of female hair by night (purpose unknown).

So what to make of Niven’s practice? Why does he focus on the local, historical views of highly specific people and places. Hermit’s Castle could be anywhere, yet it has its own resounding story. So too does Chez Galip. Each year Körükçu selects, at random, four contributors to the hair museum to take part in one of his pottery workshops. Niven sets the scene ready for the story to be told. Do these highly particular, singular histories have a space in contemporary art, so focussed are we know on the ‘we’ over the ‘I’? Perhaps we are finally witnessing a shift - the return to the personal - I shall investigate this theory further…