I was at the Haywood Gallery at an avante-garde painting exhibition trying to work out what three large plywood panels, stuck together with just a dribble of paint on the edges, actually meant, when I caught my boyfriends eye. He and the guard were talking about, I found out later, what a load of old bollocks the show was. This one look between us said it all, and we started laughing. In fact we were laughing so hard we were asked to leave, and we were still laughing, tears streaming, when we left the building. Laughter is profound, laughter makes connections perhaps more than any other emotion. Ive laughed in the most dire circumstances, nearly always at myself. Some sculptures and installations have made me laugh, but never paintings, at least not intentionally. Why is that? Why we can be profoundly moved, or filled with joy at paintings, but never laugh. Thought for the day, you lot probably know the answer.
Posted on: Thu, 03 Apr 2014 10:02:28 +0000