Sheer Art Attack

Before getting to the meat of this week’s column, Sam should point out that that he too has created a piece of modern art called ‘Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963-95’, which is similarly festooned with names, and on permanent display in London. A durable, if controversial work, readers might know it better as The Millennium Dome.
Not that size matters, of course, but you’d have to say that Trace may have over-reacted a bit when she told David Frost of her anger at the public’s response to the conflagration, estimated to have destroyed work worth millions of pounds. Old Frostie had asked how she felt about people who “sniggered” at modern art. Trace replied: “I’m not saying they have to understand it. What I’m saying is don’t laugh when it all burns down. It’s just not fair and it’s not funny and it’s not polite and it’s really bad manners.”
A few points here. Firstly, she should understand that not all sniggering is lame – there is such a thing as a snigger with attitude. Secondly, if sniggering is still deemed unacceptable then I, for one, am prepared to compromise – and guffaw loudly instead. Finally, just what is there to understand about her little tent, anyway?
Given the explicitly autobiographical title, then I’d have to say the work does exactly what it says on the tin, leaving no room for misunderstanding, not to mention barely enough for a couple of sleeping bags and a can of insect repellant.
Trace doesn’t see it that way, of course. Explaining why she simply can’t replicate the work, she says: “I had the inclination and inspiration 10 years ago to make that. I don’t have that inspiration and inclination now. My work is very personal, which people know, so I can’t create that emotion again – it’s impossible.”

Christ on a bike, it’s just as well rockers aren’t so precious about their work, otherwise the mighty Quo would have ground to a halt around 1971 – and that, we can all agree, would have constituted a much greater body blow to British culture than the torching of a tent, a pickled sheep and whatever else was cluttering up the old warehouse.
Still, you’d have to have some sympathy for Trace – no sooner had her bivouac been reduced to ashes than the press was reporting that another of her works, a piece for the supermodel Kate Moss, had been found dumped in a skip.
Described as a one-off piece of neon tubing spelling out the words ‘Moss Kin’, it was valued at 100,000 squid. Frankly, Sam wouldn’t shell out 10 squid for such a thing, even if it spelt out the name of a real legend like ‘Moss Keane’. So it’s no surprise to learn that it had been left in the skip by removal men who thought they were simply throwing out a bit of rubbish.
Here, we find echoes of the old gag about people in a modern art gallery solemnly gathered around, and making approving noises about, a fire extinguisher. In fact, we find these echoes every time a bunch of chin-stroking bores assemble, and begin bandying about words like “post-modern”, “paradigm”, “structuralist” and “sub-text”.
My old mate Richard Dawkins, a smart scientist and god-bating atheist to boot, suggests that any time you encounter someone using the phrase “post-modern”, you should instantly demand that they define what they mean. The good professor predicts that in the course of the tortured exertions which will inevitably follow, they will entirely disappear up their own backside, leaving the air purer in your immediate vicinity and the world one bullshitter less.
Which can only be a good thing, as my old chum Stephen Fry would agree. Stevo once complained about a film critic who appeared on a television programme talking about some classic movie or other. For ten or fifteen minutes, remembers Fry, the bloke waffled on about “this narrative…this essay… this exercise”, never once referring to the thing as a film, let alone a movie. Understandably, the normally polite Fry wanted to poke him with a sharp stick.

They’re all around us these pseuds, making talk of movies, music and art sound about as appealing as a swim in a vat of cold porridge. Better by far to hearken to the voice of the people on these matters.
Like my dear, dear friend, Manmountain Dense, roadperson with legendary boogiemeisters, Foghat. When I broke the news to Mr Dense that 50 million pounds’ worth of modern art had been burnt beyond recognition, his reply was simple and heartfelt: “But how can they tell?”