Wheelchair art with Sam. Day two.

The next day we attempted the Saatchi gallery, and the tube. It is debatable which was more trying.

After scaling Holloway road we arrived at the station. I knew there was a lift and so  – foolishly –  assumed it would be ‘wheelchair friendly’. It was not. The lift led to a passage which led to two flights of stairs. Luckily there was a kind man in dark glasses and a smart-ish suit to help us down the steps. There was an incident in the lift with a blind man.

On the tube I forgot my brakes and rolled around for a bit before settling down against the backrest, blocking the aisle.

Sam, from below - on the tube - he always seems a little too tall for public transport.

Me, from above.

 

After wandering around Chelsea for a while we arrived at the Saatchi gallery which is hidden behind gates and upmarket brunch bars serving fat free pizzas and Emma Thompson lookalikes. We were welcomed by a disabled entrance and a smiling guard.

The Art:

Unlike the Tate (and most galleries) the Saatchi gallery does not choose to enlighten its visitors with blurbs explaining each piece of art. In the absence of this pretentious – but amusing – bullshit, I have decided to annotate a few pieces myself.

The first few rooms were immemorable and unphotographable – the best exhibit was some rocks with little crosses on the top which were rather pleasing from my eye -level.  Up the lift and to the right I was confronted with some mud made bango players with pink poleystyrene arms and hats.

At first I was unimpressed.

And then I thought fuck it and started to dance. The muddy foam static existence of the dancers seemed to emphasize the immobility of all players in the game of life. In my disabled state I was particularly moved by the inability of such passionate forms to - well - move.

The view from the dance floor.

This was the highlight of the next room. An exploration of immediate satisfaction combining two children’s kit toys.

magic crystals: £3.49, pop up church: £8.99, modern art: Priceless.

 

Then we went upstairs and found some truly thought provoking stuff.

Fig 1. An arrow of plaster cast babies, wrapped up and slumbering, with knives protruding where their insy winsy toes should have been:

They resembled maggots with fingernails. A comment on abortion perhaps?

Fig 2. Boots and silly hats linked only by guns and stereos which each murmured very bad beats into the room.

This piece resembles society's heartless attitude to violence and connotes the commodification of war, which leaves humanity out of the equation.

Fig 3. Bodiless burka’s made of colourful cigarette cards (or some such thing) displaying male idols.

Revealing the contrast between the colourless, anonymous and generally ghostlike lives of women and those of the men idolised.

Fig 4. A blown up black and white photograph of a boy reading.

Sam looks closely to see if this art is in fact a giant photo, it is. Black and white dots are all we need to show and learn.

Fig 5. Another bodiless burka, this time made of banana skins and what look like plastercine fingers.

Hmm, I can't think of any more bullshit for burka art. Maybe the banana skins signify the way something natural becomes oppressive and the fingers are pointing almost arbitrarily like the confused blame directed towards both women and muslims.

Fig 6. The final piece. Fluorescent lights arranged into the milky way. The stripey strobe effect was produced unintentionally by my camera phone.

I really can't think what the artist meant to give the viewer with this piece except a headache, which succeeded, perhaps that's all contemplating the edge of our comprehension can ever do? Any way, enough was enough, time to leave.

We made our way down to the ground floor where a disabled toilet was advertised. Unfortunately, despite the helpful wheelchair sign stuck upon the door, the wheelchair in question would not fit through said door. I ended up leaving my wheelchair with a very friendly spanish toilet assistant whilst I hopped inside to relieve myself.  It seems the Saatchi gallery has used up all of its space filling rooms which hold one piece of ‘Art’ (often so small I was left looking at the light switch before a helpful assistant led me to the pile of bricks in the corner) with vacuous air and is thus left to economize when it comes to adding a few inches to the disabled toilet. Pity.

After a brief trip to the shop – where I bought a pencil and Sam a Moleskine – we were free and as I rolled down the disabled ramp I have never been so impressed by the beauty of business, of more than one object in my field of vision.

To celebrate, we had lunch, visited a friend and then headed to the Thames to look at Battersea Power station and appreciate real design.

In Battersea Park we had some wine.

One must blow on the wine.

We sat and contemplated the world.

Sam felt rather streetwise sitting on the railings.

We looked at our respective feet.

Sam had been polishing his shoes the night before, so they were really rather shiny.

Broken leg. Bone(shattered), flesh, bandage, fibre glass, tights(wool) and wheelchair.

A wasp tried to join us.

Sam lost his calm and contemplative composure for a second or two.

Then the sun went down and we headed back across the bridge.

And that was the end of our day.

There were other events including policemen and pavements but this is all I have time for tonight.