Jordanna
I’m certain I’m not the only person in the world who would harbour a sense of dread upon learning that one of the highlights of the weekend itinerary for an artist friend’s 60th birthday celebration involved an exhibition titled “Beyond Form” at the Turner Gallery, focusing on abstract art.
Artists could likely debate the definition of abstract art endlessly. My own vocabulary lacks the sophistication to articulate precisely what I anticipated encountering. However, if you can untangle the competing notions swirling around concepts of ugliness and lack of discernible meaning—incapable of sparking any connection whatsoever —that’s essentially what I braced myself for. The lengths we go to for love.
The first surprise was the building. So much glass. The Turner Gallery boasted an abundance of glass—long strips of rectangular panes, meticulously arranged like transparent canvases along an entire wall that faced the sea. The glass strips were the frame for a grand canvas, with the ever-changing masterpiece of the sea stretching out beyond. This sight alone made the visit worthwhile, and I hadn’t even stepped into the exhibition to begin airing my uninformed opinions.
I was worried that I would misbehave. I was sure that there would be hundreds of people wandering around making pretentious comments about what they saw and I would want to pop pins in opinions. I then forgot and started to enjoy myself.
While I can’t claim to have loved everything I saw, nor could I make sense of much of it, there were plenty of pieces that provoked me to pause and question. Some even stirred a genuine appreciation within me. Even when I didn’t particularly like a piece, there was something about it that compelled me to stop and scrutinise, especially if I could interact with it.
One work that utterly fascinated me was Lynda Benglis’; “Untitled”;. Despite reading the description, I remained clueless about its nature and construction. Two months later, I still vividly recall it,having affectionately dubbed it “pile of poo”—not meant disparagingly, but rather as a testament to its vitality. It seemed imbued with life, as if it could stir and shift at any moment. The contrast between its tactile appearance and the reality once you touched it proved endlessly intriguing.
In the end, my visit to the Turner Gallery proved to be an unexpected bonus in this weekend of celebration. A journey of exploration and appreciation, challenging preconceived notions and leaving me with a more open curiosity for abstract art.