I mentioned somewhat flippantly the other day that I intend to take part in Spencer Tunick's installation in Dublin on June 21st. I neglected to explain why.
Some of the people I have told about it since have balked at the idea of taking part, as have some of the bloggers who have written about it. Aonghus is one, and the question he posed was an interesting one: will this "art" be remembered in twenty years time? In a century?
I would argue that yes it will. I will certainly have a memory of the event in 20 years time and I imagine that the other participants will too, as I doubt getting bollock naked in public is an everyday experience for many of them. Whether or not it enters the canon of great works of art remains to be seen. Personally I doubt that it will, but that would in no way dissuade me from taking part. It will be an event - not just a photograph (though I will have a limited edition one of those too, which is something the flatmates would probably prefer I didn't hang in the sitting room).
I have no idea what Tunick's art means, but I'm getting an idea of what it means to me. Aonghus mentioned that the images Tunick has published fill him more with a sense of horror than a sense of wonder and I can understand why. Tunick's photographs, regardless of the artist's intention, represent whatever we choose to see them as metaphors for. For me they can sometimes evoke images of genocide; the beauty of the naked human form smothered in the crowd, sensuous curves and seductive forms suffocated. They speak to me too of more positive things; of shared experience, of simplicity. Of how alien the unclothed body looks when framed by the city. Of vulnerability and fragility. As photos go, they're fierce talkative. But the mere fact of them appeals to me more than anything else. How often do crowds of hundreds, thousands even, come together voluntarily to create a work of art? That gives me a sense of hope.
I'm not one for prancing around in my smalls, much less for prancing around in my nothing-at-alls (I've written before about my insecurities). Taking part in the installation is going to present a major challenge to my confidence. I don't expect that it will help me to overcome my insecurities but at least it encourages me to engage with them. Besides, the rest of the folk there will presumably be suffering the same to a greater or lesser degree (I see mentions of shrinkage, inappropriate erections and - most worryingly - Guinness shits elsewhere) so there's some comfort in that. I chose the two pictures that accompanied my previous post deliberately because they represent my greatest fears about this installation; that we'll have to touch (shivers) or that it will end in a big mucky tangle of limbs (my third choice would have been the one where they're all bent over in rows - essentially looking up the arse of the person in front...). For all my bluster and bravado, it's going to be scary. But already it has opened fresh discussions in unlikely company on body image, self-confidence and decency. On that basis alone I think it is eminently worthwhile.
I think it will be an exceptional experience. I certainly fucking hope so - there's not much that gets me out of bed at 4.30am.
Some of the people I have told about it since have balked at the idea of taking part, as have some of the bloggers who have written about it. Aonghus is one, and the question he posed was an interesting one: will this "art" be remembered in twenty years time? In a century?
I would argue that yes it will. I will certainly have a memory of the event in 20 years time and I imagine that the other participants will too, as I doubt getting bollock naked in public is an everyday experience for many of them. Whether or not it enters the canon of great works of art remains to be seen. Personally I doubt that it will, but that would in no way dissuade me from taking part. It will be an event - not just a photograph (though I will have a limited edition one of those too, which is something the flatmates would probably prefer I didn't hang in the sitting room).
I have no idea what Tunick's art means, but I'm getting an idea of what it means to me. Aonghus mentioned that the images Tunick has published fill him more with a sense of horror than a sense of wonder and I can understand why. Tunick's photographs, regardless of the artist's intention, represent whatever we choose to see them as metaphors for. For me they can sometimes evoke images of genocide; the beauty of the naked human form smothered in the crowd, sensuous curves and seductive forms suffocated. They speak to me too of more positive things; of shared experience, of simplicity. Of how alien the unclothed body looks when framed by the city. Of vulnerability and fragility. As photos go, they're fierce talkative. But the mere fact of them appeals to me more than anything else. How often do crowds of hundreds, thousands even, come together voluntarily to create a work of art? That gives me a sense of hope.
I'm not one for prancing around in my smalls, much less for prancing around in my nothing-at-alls (I've written before about my insecurities). Taking part in the installation is going to present a major challenge to my confidence. I don't expect that it will help me to overcome my insecurities but at least it encourages me to engage with them. Besides, the rest of the folk there will presumably be suffering the same to a greater or lesser degree (I see mentions of shrinkage, inappropriate erections and - most worryingly - Guinness shits elsewhere) so there's some comfort in that. I chose the two pictures that accompanied my previous post deliberately because they represent my greatest fears about this installation; that we'll have to touch (shivers) or that it will end in a big mucky tangle of limbs (my third choice would have been the one where they're all bent over in rows - essentially looking up the arse of the person in front...). For all my bluster and bravado, it's going to be scary. But already it has opened fresh discussions in unlikely company on body image, self-confidence and decency. On that basis alone I think it is eminently worthwhile.
I think it will be an exceptional experience. I certainly fucking hope so - there's not much that gets me out of bed at 4.30am.
