Stephen Friedman Gallery
While looking at David Shrigley's humourous and macabre installation at Stephen Friedman Gallery, T and I started a discussion on the idea of Carnival. We were referring to that particular period in our human yearly time of public revelry that tend to go for a week before Lent, in Roman Catholic countries, and that involves processions, music, dancing, and the use of masquerade. Something that Bacchus would have been proud of, and would be participating if he was still allowed to be around by those same who prohibit his presence and organise this noisy orgy. Carnival is in February, before Easter. Carnival in the Summer doesn't make any sense. OK, February is cold and August is warmer. But, let's be honest, it is like to do a "post-colonial" work about the Antilles Françaises or about the Pacific Islands and the impact of globalisation on those/these micro-community, without living the warmness of my living room, in London (Europe). Or, instead, contribute to a Turner Prize nominee art work with some work of mine, i. e. with a drawing. I will always stay as an observer. A participant-observer, but, nonetheless, an observer. Anyway, throughout the evening I felt an awkward sensation. A combination of disruption and dislocation: What to say?! How to be and behave towards the other?! and What to think about what the other is expressing?! and, consequently, engage with it! In these perceptive moments my stomach starts to groin; my mouth taste's bitter. So, Carnival in August?!
