Excitable little puppy art historian waves his paws and dribbles over low aspiration low grade art."Please like me, please give me a job." Woof woof!
But throughout he is hideously lying his soul away.
That's the problem these days. Not the artists, but the Art Historians. The telly presenter-performers. The curators of your ignorance.
This one is called Alastair Sooke, but it really doesn't matter what they're called, they all seem to arrive pre-compromised by the industry.
Because this programme is not really about Warhol, it's about the performing presenter.
Warhol is just a vessel for Sooke's increasingly laughable analysis.
He is either a frustrated actor/performance artist, or so utterly inculcated into the scam of the Warhol Foundation/ Trust (or other revenue stream) and so to perpetuate the daubs of trivia that is pop and conceptual art. Or he is a deluded fool. Maybe all of the above ... it happens.
He presents throughout in the rote style, with preposterous extrapolations purporting to relate to the dreary Warhol images, none of which is Andy's own work of course: he didn't have an original idea in his blonde be-Wigified little head - he reproduced other peoples work i.e. Copies/sampled photos and grabbed second hand processes of others (silkscreen) and simply adding REPETITION ... the zero aspiration variant.
As in the Marilyns, or the Campbells soup cans. Yawn.
Oh yea, nearly forgot: some of them transition to be a bit faded ... shattering, poignant, the human condition laid bare. Etc.
Sooke makes it up as he goes along, never avoiding the verbose, quite unburdened by considered thought. He decides to imagine an inner life for this thinnest of gruel.
Drab film footage of a clearly insular and bored Bob Dylan sitting motionless and expressionless awaiting his Warhol photo shoot gets the schtik : apparently this footage was innovatory because as Alastair clarifies superbly, it "still has resonance and currency even for contemporary artists". Quite, the conceptual blaggers, art dealers (and most art historians) are all terribly keen on harvesting as much of your currency, er ... but that would be of the folding or BACS type, as they can 'curate'.
Ultimately in his zeal to appeal or to think of something of interest to make up or relate with regard to the ultra low grade art of Warhol or his life, Alastair Sooke reveals a creepy FAN type interest, sharing schlock newspaper reports to camera of Warhol's life in a voyeuristic section near the end. Perhaps included to add to the drama or the emotion or the intelligence, or the beauty. Or just about anything Please GOD - and so to compensate for the absence of any actual artistic content: but Sooke was all the while eyes wide performing, one could almost hear the lip-licking.
Forget about art, that left the building already.
_____________________________________________________
But throughout he is hideously lying his soul away.
That's the problem these days. Not the artists, but the Art Historians. The telly presenter-performers. The curators of your ignorance.
This one is called Alastair Sooke, but it really doesn't matter what they're called, they all seem to arrive pre-compromised by the industry.
Because this programme is not really about Warhol, it's about the performing presenter.
Warhol is just a vessel for Sooke's increasingly laughable analysis.
He is either a frustrated actor/performance artist, or so utterly inculcated into the scam of the Warhol Foundation/ Trust (or other revenue stream) and so to perpetuate the daubs of trivia that is pop and conceptual art. Or he is a deluded fool. Maybe all of the above ... it happens.
He presents throughout in the rote style, with preposterous extrapolations purporting to relate to the dreary Warhol images, none of which is Andy's own work of course: he didn't have an original idea in his blonde be-Wigified little head - he reproduced other peoples work i.e. Copies/sampled photos and grabbed second hand processes of others (silkscreen) and simply adding REPETITION ... the zero aspiration variant.
As in the Marilyns, or the Campbells soup cans. Yawn.
Oh yea, nearly forgot: some of them transition to be a bit faded ... shattering, poignant, the human condition laid bare. Etc.
Sooke makes it up as he goes along, never avoiding the verbose, quite unburdened by considered thought. He decides to imagine an inner life for this thinnest of gruel.
Drab film footage of a clearly insular and bored Bob Dylan sitting motionless and expressionless awaiting his Warhol photo shoot gets the schtik : apparently this footage was innovatory because as Alastair clarifies superbly, it "still has resonance and currency even for contemporary artists". Quite, the conceptual blaggers, art dealers (and most art historians) are all terribly keen on harvesting as much of your currency, er ... but that would be of the folding or BACS type, as they can 'curate'.
Ultimately in his zeal to appeal or to think of something of interest to make up or relate with regard to the ultra low grade art of Warhol or his life, Alastair Sooke reveals a creepy FAN type interest, sharing schlock newspaper reports to camera of Warhol's life in a voyeuristic section near the end. Perhaps included to add to the drama or the emotion or the intelligence, or the beauty. Or just about anything Please GOD - and so to compensate for the absence of any actual artistic content: but Sooke was all the while eyes wide performing, one could almost hear the lip-licking.
Forget about art, that left the building already.
_____________________________________________________
