Lowenna Waters
I recently turned 21, and for that landmark of a birthday, my dearest granny very thoughtfully got me a subscription to The Spectator magazine. I am not sure if you are acquainted with such mentioned enigma, so I shall expand. It is an exceptionally Tory political satirical magazine, aimed at middle-aged public school boys. I hasten to add, simply because I read this particular Conservative bible, it does not necessarily represent my own politics. In the words of Winston Churchill, “if you’re not a liberal at 20, you have no heart. If you’re not a Conservative at 40, you have no brain.”
The relevance of my beloved granny’s gift is that this magazine, whilst having an hilarious “Mrs Mills-esque” section and a rather good Arts section (from which I take a few tips), is chock full of masterfully crafted columns. A particular favourite of mine is by the self confessed “self indulgent wibbling” Times writer Hugo Rifkind. I have him to thank for the inspiration for this column, which in his lead is indeed, I fear, somewhat self indulgent and wibbling. His latest column was structured around that fine art that is column writing.
The most important factor he mentions is having a cracking structure, and shoehorning in some sort of content in an elegant unobtrusive fashion. Therefore, continuing in my “self indulgent and wibbling” manner, I shall proceed to enlighten you, dear reader to some of my recent social, artistic and partying endeavours, of which there have been plenty: who can resist tequila fuelled bike rides at four in the morning when the summer period is upon us?
The most important factors are having a cracking structure and shoehorning in some content
Anyway, by sheer coincidence I have recently entered into many discussions about the bond that men form in wartime. One such conversation was had with an individual who had some very interesting tattoos that he acquired in a gypsy camp in a Eastern European country. The other was with a delightful old man, with faded red hair and a crinkled freckled face. He described the bond between men who are willing to give their lives for each other as something that cannot be recreated anywhere.
Now to tenuously link this with the main subject of this column, I recently saw the Dali exhibition in York in the new gallery space Bar Lane Studios. The Gallery is associated with York St John University, and they have a series of exceptional exhibitions lined up, as well as a Mac suite cafe and studio space upstairs. But the Dali exhibition is, before you get too excited, just a set of lithographs and prints, which are all signed by Dali himself and are all for sale.
The next exhibition to be shown in the gallery is a Matisse series of similar lithographs and prints. This is an exciting addition to York’s somewhat fusty art gallery collection, offering an opportunity to see some high end art in York; exactly what is needed. Anyway, talking of fusty, I must maintain the structure introduced by my trusty Hugo. Continuing on my “self indulgent wibbling” theme, I implore you to go to parties and meet interesting young men with gypsy tattoos.
Why, and the Dali, of course. Dali is showing at the Bar Lane Studios Micklegate until June 23.
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June 23, 2010
Re: “But the Dali exhibition is, before you get too excited, just a set of lithographs and prints, which are all signed by Dali himself and are all for sale.”
If in fact this Dali exhibition does contain actual -lithographs- created by Salvador Dali, much less signed by Dali, that would be something to get excited about.
As for the so-called -prints-, what are you talking about as an Arts Editor?
Rhetorically, are you speaking of prints made by Dali’s shoe in the mud, prints made by a dirty hand of Dali on a wall and so on?
That aside, how do you know Dali actually signed them?
Considering the contentious issues of authenticity and history of forgeries surrounding anything attributed to Dali, one would have to suspend disbelief or just believe.
Gary Arseneau
artist, creator of original lithographs & scholar
Fernandina Beach, Florida