Like I did on Tuesday. I wasn't expecting much, the posters looked dull and none of the descriptions had impacted on me much (they all started by saying how important the artist was and, really, do I care?), but what the heck. In fact it was... well, the artist had taken the inner skin of a skanky hotel or an abandoned cinema foyer and rammed it in right behind the closed gallery door meaning you were pushed straight into a building you knew didn't exist, a dream transition into a history the glass-steel warehouse of MOA had never known. The paint smelt heavy and institutional, mock-patina-ed, mock-aged. All the doors were barred except one and that spun you stumbling out into the backstage: blank lighting, the foyer's film-set backside. We walked around it, pulling at closed doors. On the stairs we ran into Xan and friend, drifting downstairs like ghost visitors from another planet, briefly glimpsed through an open door; sand had drifted up to the ceiling, sand filling the tall room with white light tumbling down the yellow slope, but we ignored that for then and hit the side room, the one where the Chapman Brothers had exhibited Insult to Injury to an audience of tutting bibliophiles. Nelson had put his studio -- another skanky, Victorian space -- into the middle of it, viewing through two removed walls into a diagram of disoganisation, filth, art equipment and plastic toys. A rambling conspiracy theorist mumbled something at the far wall via a projector lash-up. I felt warned of a terrible future. We found it in the next room, down a tight corridoor almost swamped with sand that had filled the room almost to the ceiling, a spectral desertification which had swept through town and only visited one building. At the far end, another barred door, and an attendant who encouraged us to poke the exhibit, but no view of the main attraction, just a barrier, and more sand.
No, to get to that we had to leave the exhibit and take the exit stairs up into the main hall into the last small viewing space afforded by the encroaching sand. We stumbled out into it; a sign told parents to please stop children from touching the sand. Was it dyed to be that saffron yellow? The windows were blacked out with some sort of plastic, shiny and oil-black, but the light was hard and dry and white on bunkers, oil drums and something that was very hard to avoid calling a Terminal Beach.
It was excessive, elaborate, and memorably weird in a way you don't often see outside films or dreams. Oily, but dry. Too big for the space. Strange. And in stark contrast to a lot of things I've seen/gone to recently it really was unmissably good, and if you're in Oxford at all, you should go see. Really, wow.
The exhibition featured in the strip is of course the one that failed to win Jake and Dinos Chapman the Turner Prize. It's always fun seeing something familiar crawling out of the TV set at you, especially on Channel 4. Still, I shouldn't be so starstruck. After all, I've been on The Money Programme.
In other news, Piney Gir did a strip-tease on stage at the Zodiac last night. It was lovely, but didn't make up for the rest of the evening's entertainment.