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The Time Out editors have all picked their favourite events and moments of 2011. See if you agree with them.
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In a year of yet more commercial gallery and art fair expansion, the much-feared Arts Council cuts went by without major institutional or cultural casualties – even the newly slashed ICA staged something like a return to form. An air of plucky Blitz spirit gave us a nostalgic Festival of Britain as well as an abundance of smart, focused survey shows, rather than the usual raft of blustery blockbusters.
A number of exhibitions in 2011 attempted to take a fresh look at some old favourites and so it was that Joan Miró, that most poetic of artists, was given a political slant. And it worked. Turns out there was some method behind the squiggly madness and childlike gestures of this famous Catalan gadabout and prolific painter. Miró’s surreal creations contained echoes not just of his rustic upbringing and nascent national pride but also embraced sophisticated artistic, intellectual and spatial concerns as well. A finale of immersive rooms and five bold triptychs ensured that this retrospective out-muscled even Tate’s other superb solo shows of Gerhard Richter and John Martin.
In a year of high-profile painters passing away, including Lucian Freud and Richard Hamilton, the death of Cy Twombly, during the run of this jewel-like show, lent an eerie postscript to an otherwise joyous occasion and made retroactive sense of the decision to include Tacita Dean’s touching little film on the artist. An initially odd-seeming pairing of unfashionable old master with abstract godfather of American graffiti begun to sing in a deftly curated corridor of compare-and-contrast canvases. Despite Dulwich’s lack of wall space this 200th anniversary show lingered longer in the memory than many a bolshy blockbuster of last year.
This touring caravan of contemporary graced some serious cultural backwaters (well, okay just Plymouth) but still stood up when it came to snooty Londinium, given that we are more than used to seeing the likes of cool young things such as Charles Avery, Steven Claydon and Spartacus Chetwynd blowing through town. Still, the inclusion of Nathaniel Mellors, Haroon Mirza, Christian Marclay and Karla Black proved that curators Lisa Le Feuvre and Tom Morton were firmly on trend (as all these artists showed later in the year at the Venice Biennale) without having to resort to too much slavish polishing of reputations. With no British Art Show for another five years and a postponement of the next Tate Triennial, we’re already feeling bereft of the next sprawling, talent-oriented groupathon.
The exercise classes, coffee mornings and silver-surfer web sessions were all for real, so why did this art-meets-life installation feel so fake? Perhaps it was the disturbing details left by Christoph Büchel, the much in-demand Swiss installation artist responsible for this subtly unnerving subterfuge, which included a revolutionary’s bedsit in the attic, a Conservative party membership desk and, I was later told, a secret hidey-hole complete with porn stash, hidden behind a fire exit in the basement bar. The levels of verisimilitude were astonishing – down to the unstaffed money exchange window in the entrance – but the message was anything but clear, leaving only a delicious tang of uncertainty and bewilderment.
After Japan’s horrific year of earthquake- and tsunami-induced nuclear meltdown, there was some expectation that Murakami might unleash more of his powerful paintings on the subject of apocalypse (two skull-filled glossy ones here almost fitted the bill). Alas, the prophet turned into priapic puppetmaster, unveiling an insipid exploration of dubious morality through a parade of pseudo-shocking giant sex toys and pre-pube nudes – nothing more than manga monstrosities.
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