the Royal Academy educates about Australia...

So the art establishment has decided that it is time to revisit Australian art... it has been 50 years, almost 2 generations since the last significant retrospective...and as the colonial parent, it has a role to inform the masses about what has happened to those wayward children expelled in the early 1800's. There is a small recognition that some English (and many Europeans) voluntarily took their chances to start a new life in a distant (and alien) place. It was with mixed emotions that I acquiesced to sample the Royal Academy's paternalistic mission to mount a retrospective of Australian art simply titled "Australia". I decided to ignore the assumed arrogance of their capacity to summarise 200 years of civilisation through 200 two dimensional art pictures.

It became clear that their focus was to showcase the natural landscape through 2 familiar genres; the original (mainly European) landscape painters who captured the idiosyncratic colours and unique southern scenes, albeit often illustrated with a token aboriginal and kangaroo; and the early 1900's impressionists who captured many English traditions down under. I was so impressed to see my absolute favourite picture from Queensland Art Gallery (Sydney Long's Spirit of the Plains), together with quite a few of the cigar box paintings by Tom Roberts, Charles Conder and Arthur Streeton.

I can understand how they might have wanted to use familiar styles of painting to make contrasts with the light and natural beauty - but I was sad that there was not sufficient context for people to understand what was actually happening in Australia at the time. I was quite shocked to overhear 2 educated women being astounded that they had lots of buildings, even church steeples out there... in 1865!

Politically they were wise enough to begin the exhibition with some very impressive aboriginal art - the big names and classic styles were well represented, and we saw an enormous black and white panel of Emily's Big Yam dreaming positioned high above eye level and some art displayed just above floor level, to demonstrate the aerial effect of evident contours. I was looking for some detailed explanations and I suspect most people saw this 'primitive art' as interesting and colourful. Clearly many established art critics had absolutely no idea what they were looking at.

As we moved through to the last 2 generations, I was pleased to see Brett Whitely, John Olsen and Fred Williams. I was impressed that they had suspended Olsen's "Sydney Sun" so it could be viewed from below. But again, there was no real context or attempt to explain how life was quite different out there!

The last few galleries were tokenistic and random. I left with mixed feelings...as an Australian, it was fantastic to see some wonderful old and new friends, but I fear that most of my english peers have no idea about life down under and this limited representation of Australian art did not really move them out of their own comfortable critical framework where any significant misunderstood difference is seen as evidence of lesser intelligence and civilisation...

Someone who'll watch over me...please

3 men in a cell in Lebanon; an American, Englishman and Irishman...reflected as 3 men on a small dark stage in The Theatre at Chipping Norton. This quaint auditorium was transformed into a small theatre in the round, and we really felt like we were in there with them...not the usual fun Saturday night frivolity. I was taken back over 20 years to the media stories of John McCarthy, Brian Keenan and Terry Waite. I had read their books and was deeply engaged in their personal and public struggles. So we were brought back to the shared cell where the hostages were barefoot and chained, but determined to survive, despite personal and nationalistic differences. We saw the personal struggles to maintain sanity and variously compete with and support each other. At times this dramatic dialogue confused insanity and humour. I was so grateful to be able to go home to my own space, on my own...

life is good but cheesy...About Time

I loved his earlier films: Four Weddings and a Funeral, Bridget Jones's Diary, Notting Hill and Love Actually. So it seemed logical to see Richard Curtis's recent film, About Time. This time, Domhall Gleeson plays Tim, the 20 something geeky lawyer, in search of love. However, I do think I preferred Hugh Grant, or perhaps I am over that deep seated insecurity that audiences find so endearing. This time, the movie adds a new dimension through exploring the relationship of sons with their dad. Bill Nighy plays the father who confesses to his son on his 21st birthday, just as his father had confessed to him, that men in this family can travel in time. It provides the perfect cover for Tim to relive those awkward moments and become the masculine hero he wants to be. But his transformation seems very forced and the resonant British stiff upper lip seems pervasive to me. Sadly, I wonder if his cute American wife Mary (Rachel McAdam) is meant to attract her country's viewers. The comparison to the movie Sliding Doors does not convince me. Perhaps I have grown out of these quaint English eccentricities?

an oasis for modern art in Venice

The Peggy Guggenheim Collection - an amazing, creative and peaceful experience in a city overflowing with art...From the shady entry courtyard, sculptures were planned to fit in with the trees and garden. I felt like a personal visitor to Peggy's previous home, the low profile Palazzo Vernier dei Lono. Although there were only 4 rooms, I was constantly surprised at the range and choice of all the greats of modern art over the last 100 years.

So many paintings were recognisable by artist, although I had not seen many of them. Of course there were some wonderful surprises; sleek sculptures from Giacometti and early colourful shapes from Pollock. Peggy had collected art with a passion and she seemed to know who would become great. A highlight was the private terrace facing the busy Grand Canal. There were great views from inside also. The cafe also provided great coffee for reflecting and enjoying the garden.

Venice Biennale - looking to the future

This enormous exhibition takes place every two years in Venice, and seems to summarise what's important and predict future trends. Quite a challenge, really, but it is shared across 2 different thematic contributions, and distributed across the 2 major locations and across lots of other city venues. Most of the 88 national pavilions are located in shady boulevards in the Giardini. While there are national pavilions, some represent their own artists. The messages are all mutli-layered but very contemporary. In the Japanese pavillion, the video artist Koki Tanaka invites groups of hairdressers, potters, poets and pianists to collaborate, and links this to strategies for survival after the recent earthquake.

The Russian artist Vadim Zakharov is inspired by the Greek legend of Danae, and lust and greed are epitomised through the corrupting influence of money separated into male and female dominions. The Korean artist Kimsooja reshapes the Korean pavillion into a larger than life kaleidoscope, complemented by a dark soundless room. In contrast, France and Germany swapped pavilions and then Germany invited Ai Weiwei along with several other german artists to present a room each. So there was a global theme within the national pavilions.

The other half was a gigantic curated exhibition, shown in both sites titled The Encyclopedic Palace. This represents 150 artists from 38 countries and aims to describe how we know what we know! It is phenomenal and overwhelming in every sense. I felt a scientific reductionism towards obsessive detail and exploration at the most basic levels. There was almost a post-surrealist revival with a lot more video options. I tried very hard to understand and then gave up, accepting that I could only engage with and appreciate a small proportion. I wonder if these will be the artists who emerge from the masses to direct the future for us all...

Marc Chagall writes his own My Life

Marc Chagall's early autobiography was written when he was living in Moscow in 1922, when he was 35 years old. This quirky self-illustrated memoir describes his childhood in Witebsk, Belorussia and alternates between his survival in poverty as the eldest of 8 children and his search for artistic inspiration. He managed to live in Paris for 4 years from 1910, and then returned to his hometown as Commissioner of Arts, during and after the Bolshevik revolution. But he left Russia in 1923, never to return, living first in New York and then back in Paris - I would like to read more about his later years, but it seems he did not document them, in the same way...