The Problem of Morton Bartlett: 'Alternative Guide to the Universe': Hayward Gallery

Until 26 Aug 13

This man is Morton Bartlett.

He was a private man, that is, he was a man with a private life, more than or equally intense as the rest of us. His private life now hangs in exhibitions worldwide.

According to all clues, Morton never hurt a fly. He would only, quietly, return from his daily routine to his apartment, to build an array of dolls of almost life size children, complete with hair, eyelashes, sexual parts and all. Painstakingly working for one year on each. Then he would make them clothes and backgrounds and whole worlds. Then he would photograph them, in moments of the everyday or in sexually suggestive poses. Crying or punished or in random situations. The dolls were only the vehicle, the photos were the end purpose. Talismans. or better, fetishes.

They have apparently been the inspiration for the Chapman Brothers.

But why are they here?

Morton kept his bizarre surrogate family a secret from the world. Allegedly, he used to carry some of the photos with him, and showed a few but that was all. Then art dealers, after his death, parade them all over and I suspect, though I hope I am wrong, making money on the way.

Morton was an orphan. He eventually did well for himself, had a stable foster home, business, apartment. He instructed in his will that all his estate goes to a Home. But since there was no special clause on his dolls and photos, those were considered exempt and the art dealers came into the picture. So, this is how this man’s private world is now viewable around the world.

All three times I saw the photos or the dolls exhibited I couldn’t resist feeling a sense of the absurd that they were there, thinking of how many people that are even suspected of fancying kids are witch hunted all over the world. Yet he is a curiosity, fancifully accepted during private views.

But mostly, I felt a sense of the unfair. Not fuelled by the fact that yes, maybe this is the last of the taboos. My concerns lie in the fact that while he was alive and there was a short lived exposure of his work, he withdrew this exposure. Maybe his doll-children, his doll-lovers, his doll-family were never to be exposed to the filth of the world. What right then does anyone have to bring them back out, to get infected? To expose them? To make us see this man that was hard working, hurt, with a shitty childhood reduced to this sick genius, half man half monster, but perfect over champagne talk? Who can give a blank permit like this in the name of (outsider) art?

Then should no outside artist be exposed if not explicitly consenting? No, not even for a second would I ever think that, Dagger’s children drawings should remain in obscurity. But their function seemed to be one of storytelling and delusion. In the end, Dagger might had accepted his world to be made public was he ever asked or revealed. And ‘outsider’ art is to me the most honest and fascinating art currently.

But Morton Bartlett, the scared internal child or the scary sick man or just the man absorbed by his fantasies or all the above, had a choice; and he said no. The filthy hands of the world started invading his perfectly fabricated memories and like any loving brother or lover he protected them.

I had these thoughts pounding in my mind since I first saw many of these photos in the Horse Hospital exhibition in March. I was intrigued, confused, unsettled and mildly obsessed with the whole affair and I was so happy as it is not often that an exhibition offers you this and for this I was very pleased with the curators.

This is why I was surprised with the Hayward Gallery’s view on Morton Bartlett. A room is dedicated to him as part of the otherwise fantastic ‘Alternative Guide to the Universe’ exhibition. I was surprised to feel that there was a definite censorship of Morton’s controversial side. Where were the naked, suggestive children? I think there was one photo and that was only nude, not suggestive. Is this positive censorship?

Morton Bartlett is, and has to be, all of his photos. Fabricating a different Morton Bartlett is sad and unacceptable. Creating him in our own image. Where Morton Bartlett is safe, he is no more the foundling, the abortion, the shame, the rejected, the one that found solace in his horrifying dolls. Where he is just the charming recluse that our philanthropy and intellectualism can care for. Worse sin than his inner world being paraded in full, despite his will, is his world being paraded selectively. Because when all his sides are exposed, whether we agree or not with the exposure, an unnerving thought process begins, and that is what life is all about.

But exhibiting him partially is exhibiting him clothed. Safe. A shame hidden like we do in life. ‘The inspiration for the Chapman Brothers’, that is all Morton is good for. We castrate him again, abandon him again and there aborted, he fits best.

Morton Bartlett, I think you creep me out. You were probably troubled and abysmally alone. Yet, you were Adam. You are pure. And that is why instead of propagating your obscurity I write this. Because it saddens me to think you are maybe slowly being moulded into our own doll, the way you moulded yours.

Designed, built and dressed to only fulfill our self-gratification.



more info:
http://www.thehorsehospital.com/now/morton-bartlett/
http://www.southbankcentre.co.uk/whatson/alternative-guide-to-the-universe-exhibition-73950
http://www.frieze.com/issue/article/guys_and_dolls/

Punchdrunk: 'The Drowned Man'

Paddington, until 06/07/14 LAST CHANCE

So, there was Theatre. And then there was Punchdrunk. No actors to enter from the left, no linearity, no more walls to be broken, nothing left unchallenged, including our reservations. The BAC’s Masque of the Red Death reaffirmed, reimagined and reinvented the theatrical and the art experience in its entirety, the same way the free event in Old Street later on reinvented advertising.

There is no doubt or discussion on how Punchdrunk are still the forefront of immersive experience, copied so badly by so many and so successfully by others like the Secret Cinema. Immersive, inclusive, they have come back to London to set up a wonderful game for all. ‘The Drowned Man’ might be pricey but be assured that this price is cheap for what’s on offer. Refresh your Woyzeck and Day of the Locust quickly and offer yourself to this faceless game of what’s a set and what’s not, on a spotless trip back to early Hollywood, fears, black magic and jealousy.

And at this point, I would ask the readers that are Punchdrunk novices to stop reading and just book their slots.

For the rest, fans and followers for years, it is here that the storyline turns a bit sourer. Because ‘The Drowned Man’ came and left without any extra heartbeat. Though the attention to detail was, again, fascinating and impressive, it felt cerebral. I realised very early that what I was feeling was amazement, the scale of it all fascinating and the imagery of the highest stage production and art installation taste. But all this, only in my head. For three hours I walked and roamed, trying to catch a glimpse of the soul I hoped for, but didn’t. Though I also was of the few blessed to actually have a small interactive experience, this was also lost in the vastness and the impersonality of it. The actors have been replaced by silent dancers. The improvised, private, intimate conversations replaced with dance routines. Masses of audience encouraged, like sheep, to run after dancers, missing whole worlds in between, and reaffirming their social importance as followers. The impersonal of the masked faces seemed to saturate everything.

There is an accounting concept called ‘economy of scale’: the point where a company decides if going big as an entity or as a product actually is beneficial or not to the organisation and its end goal.

There are no economies of scale here. ‘The Drowned Man’ by expanding, lost its uniqueness. Still utterly impressive, but soulless. While you used to wear a mask as a character and be everything, now you wear a mask to be nobody. You walk, you watch, you observe, feeling a bit clever getting a clue here and there but you are back to where you belong: the audience.

I am certain that the experiment Punchdrunk started at the dawn of the new century is not over, it’s not a cycle closing into itself. No. I feel this was another experiment on how big the game can grow, and not for any profit but to include as many as possible of everyone, to make it massive in scale and democratic in inclusion. But somehow it feels this new experiment has failed. Even though I still spent that night in dreams of things I saw in that evening of seeing things I have dreamed. But like Woyzeck, I felt lost. I felt directed by those in charge on what to do. I felt jealous of the beautiful overwhelming feeling I felt in the previous shows. Jealous of the time that I was special, I was the only one, when it was only me and them and all the other individuals. Jealous of the new people that came in and felt amazed and in love cause they don’t know what that love used to be. And this jealousy, I fear, is holding the knife that might kill my love.

UPDATE 10/02/14: Since writing the above article, revisiting the event and having conversations with a lot of Drowned Man Addicts, I am pleased to be able to reassess a few of the views and comments made. Though I still feel that its gigantic scale makes it impossible for someone to get inside the beauty and genius of it in just one visit, I think my review has been quite harsh. I am very pleased to hear that the group have been granted the council extension and I urge everyone that can afford it to definitely save up and go.

UPDATE 19/06/14: My 6th and last visit last night to 'The Drowned Man'. Amazing as always, still new things to see and experiences to be had. Thank you and goodbye. You have been ingenious and exquisite.


more info:
http://punchdrunk.com/
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-23329899

Mark Cousins: 'What is this film called love?'

Kill your Idols, or take them for a walk. Man with a movie camera, Mark Cousins, takes a laminated picture of Eisenstein and us on a three-day derivé through Mexico City and memory that is light hearted but immersive, full of humanism and the God in the detail.

Either by necessity or as a statement, his embrace of DIY/no budget filmmaking perfectly complements his continuous efforts to democratise Film. Without a hint of condescension, he takes us through the streets and through the film and the thought processes behind each moment shot or contemplated.

Arrogance in Cinema becomes passé when you love both the medium and the audience. Denying the institutionalised and snobbish attitudes that often penetrate art house filmmaking, the ‘Man’ embraces solitude as space, not as loneliness, and celebrates the moment of godliness inherent in all of us. The exact moment of art.

‘What is this film called Love?’ will probably not end up in a pantheon in the history of film. It is not clear to me if some choices regarding the editing and the voiceover served their intentions. But even if the film does not rise to the magnitude and magnificence of ‘The First Movie’ or ‘The Story of Film’, its ideas, ideals and propagation of art as potential inherent in all elevates it to a highly important, essential and thoroughly political viewing.

Robinson, is finally unbound.

more info:

http://whatisthisfilmcalledlove.co.uk/

http://www.variety.com/review/VE1117947849/