Pale Reflections

I called at the Tate Modern at Southwark yesterday afternoon. A man of simple taste, I had low expectations which some of the exhibitions still managed not to meet. Still, the old Bankside Power Station in which it is housed was well worth the detour. But let me prove my first claim. Of course you might disagree; one man’s poison is another man’s meat. What I am about to show you might move you to raptures of ecstasy, or tears of anguish as you reflect upon their fractured takes on modern life. Above is Li Yuan-chia’s Monochrome White Painting (1963) (Polyvinyl acetate paint and cards on canvas). Powerful, isn't it?

Below is Achrome (1958), by Piero Manzoni (1933-1963). He really poured his soul into this one. 

Or maybe you are more inclined towards the work of Bram Bogart (1921-2012), Witvlakwit, a White plane White from those giddy days of 1974 (below). 

At risk of sounding like an utter filistine, I have to say that much that passes for art is sheer nonsense, a cultural dungheap, an unclothed emperor. I have seen 3-year-olds’ finger paintings attached with fridge magnets offer the viewer more satisfaction than some of the expensive purchases hanging in internationally acclaimed galleries. Our godless culture, bereft of divinity, becomes an empty parody of itself. We Christians know the greatest Artist of the cosmos, and acknowledge that we are living on one of His greatest works.

Psalm 19: New King James Version:

To the Chief Musician. A Psalm of David.

The heavens declare the glory of God;

And the firmament shows His handiwork.

Day unto day utters speech,

And night unto night reveals knowledge.

There is no speech nor language

Where their voice is not heard.

Their line has gone out through all the earth,

And their words to the end of the world.