Gallery going in the capital of Jordan

The threat level proved acceptable and we traveled from stable Brighton to the Middle East and I can report that Jordan is safe, laid back, accessible, friendly and calm. And I only got told to fuck off the once, crossing a road downtown in the capital Amman.

You cannot blame the locals for this mildest expression of hostility. Britain supports, and arms, their neighbour, Israel. Out of a population of eleven and a half million, 70 percent of Jordanians are Palestinian. With my white face and blue jeans, my profile suggests I’d be blind to the war. In fact, I can hardly look away from the horror, so I can take a fuck off on the chin.

We stayed in Jabal al-Luweibdeh with friends to whom I will always be grateful. They showed us an even better welcome than they show the neighbourhood strays. That’s a lot of welcome, because they feed these cats, name them, bring them inside and stroke them. They want to bring more cute cats home from restaurant car parks, and why not – the cats are very lovely, but that’s another story.

Their neighbourhood is beautiful, and the coffee machine was at our disposal. It was sunny, and we were just a street away from the Jordan National Museum of Fine Arts. So I arrive there on day two and the card reader is broken. It is seven Jordanian Dinar to get in (about £8), I have no cash and the security guard speaks no English. He took me to see his office-bound colleague who listened to me claim to be a journalist and let me in without charge.

The experience of this many-pictured space was to build in enjoyment, floor by floor, as I got used to the refreshing absence of familiar names, schools, isms and the many other clues which might grace a Tate or a Guggenheim. Being so ignorant of so many artists from across the Levant, the Gulf and even South Asia, I was at least at a liberty to form my own impressions.

In this respect it was a morning off from criticking. More tourist than journalist, I had the tourist’s greedy appreciation of having a whole museum almost entirely to myself. I could therefore entertain a liking for likeness, a love of colour, a feel for the drama of brush strokes, which are different from cat strokes but can also make the viewer purr at times.

My time was limited so my hubristic survey of art from the global south was only able to reach a few conclusions: as many geniuses have lived here as have lived in Paris or New York; one finds that painters and sculptors took minimal ideas from the west, a poor trade for the assets the west has stolen; and pictorial appeal is lasting appeal.

As an example of that reactionary dictum, there was a work called The Wooden Cage Maker, in which the very frame itself looked terribly constrictive. Egyptian artist Inji Efflatoun has captured our gaze here with a long-limbed, squatting figure who ably fills the plane: giving me the conundrum of a cage maker within a cage, making cages – any one of which could lock us away We become for him (and her) just chickens or rabbits in the face of a powerful artisan, whose axes are within dangerous reach.

To discover this many newly built cages, wooden and hand crafted as they are, in the midst of a museum, in a national collection, of course brought to mind various cages which we might fashion in order to lock up, or nail down, the reception of works of art. Western styles may be followed to order, but inspiration will always slip through the bars.

It is a liberating realisation. Art takes flight as the cages stack up. Another piece, on another floor, Freedom, offered a counterweight to Efflatoun’s cage maker. Jordanian artist Mai Qaddoura offers an installation from some 45 pairs of gypsum-white hands, hung from the ceiling in an arrangement not unlike Pascal’s triangle. All hands make the time-honoured gesture for fluttering wings and, by some magic of art, their avian shadows escape all bounds.

Later that day we visited the Citadel, a complex of Roman ruins atop Jebel Al-Qal’a. As I looked across the valley at the adjacent sprawl of sand-coloured apartments and offices I saw the scene as an array of wares stacked in a cage maker’s yard. But in the wide air between us was a local flock of doves, murmurating against a blue sky. And the sky was already vibrating with an extended, musical and very loud call to prayer. Religion, depending on your viewpoint, is a prison or a release.

In the ruins of a temple, stray cats roamed here too, utterly free.

On a contemporary experience of a prehistoric mystery

I did not expect a pop quiz at 7.15 in the morning. The quizmaster was behind the wheel of a taxi. The contestant (me) was in the back seat, looking out at the grey dawn-lit Wiltshire countryside. It took me about half an hour, and several educated guesses to get from Salisbury to Stonehenge.

“He was a member of the best selling three-piece rock band in the 1980s.” I don’t know. “He once sent a message in a bottle.’ Sting!

“He was Britain’s most successful filmmaker of the 1990s.” Erm… “He was once married to Madonna.” Guy Ritchie!

“Do you watch Would I Lie To You?” I’ve seen it. “He grew up round here.” David Mitchell!

And so the time passed and I learned that the lead singer of The Police and the director of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels both have mansions visible from the A360. I learned that one half of Mitchell and Webb is Salisbury’s favourite son. I also learned that, for strategic wartime regions, those fetishised fighter planes known as Spitfires were manufactured in this part of the world. Oh so much to take in! And I had only ventured out this way for a visit to a well known stone circle.

I was dropped by the security gate outside the visitor centre run by English Heritage. There were already a number of cars parked up for the head of PR, plus an in-house prehistorian, plus the marketing manager, and then three photographic artists, whose show (within the canopied galleries of indoor museum space) was the impetus for my first visit to Stonehenge. A convoy of job titles is soon rolling across the grounds. It’s a much shorter car journey and there are no more nuggets of low cultural trivia. I get out of one of then vehicles and it is there.

It.

It looks, if I may say so, quite dinky from the approach path. Not quite as wide as you might think. Taller than you would imagine. And impossible to take in at a glance. Thanks to a circle within the circle, there is no definitive vista. Sarsen stones and the Blue stones set off differing rhythms and much of the ring has collapsed. The muddy earth has begun to reclaim several of the recumbent pillars. Encircling the visitor, this impossible architecture is as square and block-like as it is round.

Rooks flutter on the heights. Lichen spreads beautifully across stone surface. I seek primordial energy, but reaching for a nearby pillar I am reminded not to touch.

In the absence of wind and rain, it feels like a welcoming place. In the absence of sun, it maintains a sombre grandeur. But any sense data is drowned out by a voice in my head, which tells me I am at the UNESCO World Heritage Site of Stonehenge, Europe’s heaviest stone circle, and subject of many History Channel documentaries, together with a top notch 2022 exhibition at the British Museum that really served as my introduction.

I am in both an outdoor museum and the scene of solstice revels. I am plugged in to the extensive work of archaeologists and simultaneously a know-nothing here. My keen awareness is that this is the most important prehistoric site in the UK.

Meandering round the stones, trying not to bump into others, I find myself in a parodic dance with – who else? – but the monument’s comms team. Who would be able to come to Stonehenge without acute awareness of where they stand, where they walk, how long they gaze? And how, I come to wonder, can the young artists mentioned, and the curators who have been working with them, ever hope to express anything of this mute monolithic presence, of this untranslatable amassing of sandstone and igneous rock, of an incontrovertible enigma that will not go away.

Reflecting on this visit I found that my impressions were of a landmark at once very familiar and also uncanny: for that very reason. I felt like I had been here in a dream. That may be why I wanted so much to touch the stone: for the purposes of a quite unscientific authentification. Given the efforts made to assemble this spectacular creation (stones from Wales etc), my own rapid response (asking AI to confirm the backstory, booting up an online dictionary, googling synonyms for speechless), poured out here for a distracted readership, feels so helplessly glib that I can be sure the mystery is shut off from me forever.

But I did feel a certain degree of dramatic affirmation of my ongoing interest in prehistory, and its representations. I felt that at 8am on a wednesday would be my best chance to see it afresh. The mercurial cloud of restless starlings and the ominous rooks perched atop 7m tall stones gave me somehow much more than any previous reading or viewing. It was a relief to finally get this close to Stonehenge, but it remained mediated.

The experience was framed by the resident birdlife, by surrounding plains, by muddy footprints, a rope cordon and by the accretion of lichen in many shades. It was the home of Guy Ritchie and Sting. Far easier to talk about all of this, than the stubborn enigma brought into focus by a kaleidoscope of contemporary culture.

A brief encounter with Marcel Duchamp’s Large Glass

Like a freestanding, double-glazed patio door demo unit, the twentieth century’s most enigmatic work of art is propped vertically on its functional base, inviting showroom visitors to peer through the vitrine or merely to admire the joins and the casing.

This particular glass sample does have a few imperfections; trapped inside the layers, for no explicable reason, is a wealth of intriguing diagrammatic tracery: a wiry, hard-to-read, set up that defies easy description. But elements you might still call cogwheels, and attenuated rotors, plus dressmaker dummies do seem present.

There is no clear purpose to this incomplete Heath Robinsonesque arrangement, but one perhaps hinted at by the object’s official designation. Because this is, of course, The Bride Stripped Bare by her Bachelors, Even. The title fogs up the view; and this here version of the Large Glass, as it is AKA, is also a replica, further muddying the waters in Room 18, where I’m photographing the work, by Marcel Duchamp, at Tate Britain.

Our national claim on this enigmatic piece which was to pre-occupy the French artist for much of his working life, stems from a connection to Pop artist Richard Hamilton. Hamilton was to enthusiastically correspond with Duchamp and so the reconstruction was made with the full approval of the author. It is an enhancement of the open ended suggestiveness of a work which escapes the limits of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

It can be unsettling to dwell for long on the uncanny doubling effect that accompanies a reproduction of an icon. But words must be said about the spread of what remains: a pure, obsessive artistic idea. Duchamp worked on The Large Glass for decades

Duchamp was to accompany his magnum opus with an extensive archive of notes: the so-called Green Box (and the subequent Green Book) was an extensive publication full of riddling captions and confusing blueprints. Conceived as an edition of 200, and yet since Duchamp was quite indifferent to commercial success. One concludes that such propagation, and indeed replication of box-subject, all played happily into his desires for then future existence of the Large Glass.

He signed Hamilton’s work; Tate is calling this, paradoxically, an original replica. Whatever is written about the earlier version, this reproduction (1965-6/1985) is a provocation to begin all over again with the commentary.

The collaboration has given birth to a twin piece; you could not write a critical profile of either identical sibling, without referring to their sister or brother. Replication has therefore expanded the scope of the Large Glass, irrevocably changing the first work, giving it a new and imaginatively productive context. Handwritten letters in another glass case here align the professional output of both artists, as if this puzzle held the key to the accessible charms of British Pop art.

And, by dint of the necessity of any replica, this one bestows a new appearance on the original. Having not been to Philadeplhia I leave it to others to compare and contrast. But I was struck when I recently visited Tate that this piece, which lived in my mind in brown cubist monochrome, does have colours. It also has polish – none of the dust which can often accrue in an archive. It further offers a degree of surprise. What is it doing here in Pimlico along with the Turners? What was I doing?

Duchamp’s major work gives me very little. It is resolutely unaesthetic. For a study of heterosexual relationships it is utterly dry and devoid of romance, but it is not without humour: withering irony in this case. It is the irony of an attachment to the hearts and flowers, and to an act of union which is, physiologically speaking, as mechanical as an engine piston. It is the irony of the grand caprice of many of our lives, that of popping the big question, from within an economic system which otherwise dictates the affairs of men and women.

The bride seen in this window is perpetually denuded by the attention of half a dozen suitors. She is the one for sale. Duchamp’s piece is hardly a sales tool for marriage, but it does appeal to sell the availability of this one woman to allcomers. Hamilton’s piece is a promotional stand for all that. The pages written about both are further collateral to the deal, returning me to this showroom prop.

I was inspired to visit this work by Hamilton/Duchamp by a biography of the latter written by Calvin Tomkins. I recommend it to you, because it outlines a personality every bit as remarkable as this problem work.

A review of Electric Dreams: Art and Technology Before the Internet at Tate Modern

Diving into Frameless, London’s most extensive immersive art experience

It’s the most replica-d time of the year

Christmas is a time for quasi replicas. In most churches, many schools and some homes you will find carefully crafted miniature stables without material referent.

Nativities, based solely on other nativities, attempt an authentic reconstruction of a moment in time which is known of the world over. You have seen the elements: the manger, the baby, his parents, the shepherds, the wise men, the angels, the cattle and the star. They rarely change.

This tableau originated in Bethlehem, now an occupied territory. The city appears to have been largely spared the insane wrath of Israel. Just a logistical siege, a few gas bombs and concussion grenades so far.

There was a story from December 7th in which the 2024 nativity at the Vatican included a keffiyeh as bedding for Jesus. The ten foot tall installation was conceived by a Bethlehem artist, who told the Catholic News Agency that the presence of the keffiyeh did not betoken violence, so much as a recognition of the work and existence of the 30 Bethlehem artisans who collaborated with him. So, Pope Francis prayed before this loaded scene, Then, in accordance with sacred tradition the infant was removed. It remains to be seen whether, on the 24th December when Jesus is set to be restored to the artwork, he will be accompanied by the contentious garment.

To say there has been bombing in Gaza is so inadequate for the scale of the destruction in that part of Palestine. To say that those bombs have been sold to Israel by the US and the UK is to conclude that either Biden and Starmer are biblically evil, or that, when they approve those sales, they experience a degree of cognitive dissonance which allows them to go about state business and yet tolerate their reflections every so often in mirrors.

Meanwhile the Vatican has to work out how to diffuse a bomb of their own making. Do they or do they not reinstate the keffiyeh? Which of the two other religions of the book do they outrage? How many catholics are looking for the Pope to once again call out this massacre of the innocents? And how many catholics would rather maintain indifference to the suffering of Palestine, reverting to the Islamophobia of the bloody Crusades? Or how many are in fact actual, real life anti-semites?

One thing is certain, peace on earth and goodwill to all people is unachievable right now. The photo above was taken in 2022 by a roadside in Goa, India. It was one of many such models, replicas in various sizes, and still faithful to exact stage directions. As we headed out to dinner in the vicinity of Benaulim beach, we found nativities everywhere, glowing sweetly in the 21 degree evening warmth. That was a very relaxed christmas, which seems as distant in time as it was in geography.

The replica conveys what gets called the true spirit of christmas: a miracle of humility and divinity. By some weird Christian juju each one resonates with aftershock from a real gathering two millennia ago. Every nativity refers to every other nativity and this network stablilizes (and indeed stable-izes) the meaning of this time of year for those who, despite everything, still believe. Enjoy the festive season, dear reader, despite the festive season.

Infection proliferates in a Bucharest park

I have been bitten by the replica bug and I seem to have written about many: copies of Leonardo’s Last Supper in Switzerland; the part reconstruction of the Devil’s Quoits in Oxfordshire; the plaster bones of a diplodocus skeleton in London; the Nashville Parthenon; the monumental scale 1:1 rendering of the Emperor Constantine in Rome. I find these reproductions compelling. They display an impetus of their own making. And the transcendental energy (and funds) which the various originals suck up from their localities and custodians goes far beyond use value. Its pure regeneration.

Lascaux, for example, has such infernal power it has spawned three official copies: Lascaux II, Lascaux III, and Lascaux IV. These issues from the depths of a French hillside are the only visible, or viable, and tangible evidence of the wonders within. But they have duly drawn the life out of the original grotto.

Does not touring a replica cave with your family and other excited tourists led by an entertaining guide sound a more lively experience than that enjoyed by a grey-haired expert? If the expert is permitted to visit at all, it must be for a gloomy solo visit of no more than 30 minutes per day. Lascaux is afraid of the light.

Which brings me to the central caprice of this particular ramble, namely, vampirism. What I here propose is that each case of replication, reproduction, reconstruction or recreation results from an unknowable moment of unconscious infection: a vampiric bite to the archaeological imaginary. Include the virtual fly-throughs, on which I am currently working, and one might say that six new versions of Lascaux stalk the earth.

I got thinking this way during a recent trip to Bucharest. I was there for a conference of art critics, who it is often said can feed off the blood of artists for an entire career. Anyway, I went rogue one afternoon and strolled through the autumn sunshine to Carol Park. Entering this French-style public garden, a grand vista stretched away to the south of the city. Paved walkways led to a vertiginous metallic sculpture that was beseeching the blue sky. On a terrace were stone inscriptions, floral wreaths, a fire in an amphora. But I note that given one or two ideological changes, the authorities have had to exhume numerous corpses here as Romania transitioned to and from a state of Communist rule.

Upon climbing to the terrace, I was able to reflect solemnly on the dancing flame of the eternal torch and to double take at the sight of a guard who, being so utterly still and lifeless, I took for a while to be himself an uncanny replica. I was set straight by a local curator later on. More due diligence revealed the full name of Carol Park to be Carol I Park, as if somewhere, this very landscape has its own reiteration. Is there a Carol II Park dedicated to King Carol II? I almost expect so.

So there I was, thinking about commemoration and looking for a further structure I had come to see: the HQ of the National Office for the Cult of Heroes. This curious building, with a mysterious function, was retired behind hoardings together with a frustrating wealth of municipal foliage. It was found in guidebooks and on touristy websites with an even more appealing moniker, Dracula’s Castle. And while it has never seen active service as a fortification for the undead, it does comprise ancient stones, ornamental battlements, that crenellated tower, steep roofs and a distinctly Byzantine mien.

But it is a smaller model of another castle. Indeed it bears the fang marks of a clifftop castle above the Valley of the Arge; Poenari Citadel, to the North of Bucharest, was the lair of Transylvania’s original bad man, Vlad the Impaler. We’ll have to make do. Historic evidence for the life of Dracula is thin on the ground, sadly for the Romanian tourist board.*

I came away from Carol Park with several mental images: policemen picnicking on a bench; mothers with pushchairs who looked only too pleased to be out and about; a middle-aged man launching a remote control speedboat. But thanks to the sunshine, perhaps, I did not see a single vampire. Count Dracula is too busy these days, working as a tribute act. Nor did I see Nosferatu in any filmic guise, or any of the cast of Hotel Transylvania, or Count Duckula, or the Count from Sesame Street. But the unique art object here, the abstract monument which might have lent itself to art criticism, was centred atop a mausoleum. I took in the scene, merely shivered, and decided it best to rejoin my colleagues.

* In Bran, Transylvania, my brother and I visited a third castle, which is said to best fit Bram Stoker’s description of Dracula’s crib. All three castles are well infected with the logic of spontaneous imitation, which I believe we always post-rationalise.