Random Marmosets

Had an itch for some culture yesterday, so headed off to the Holbein exhibition at Tate Britain. When I got there, I was offered a combined ticket to see the Turner Prize exhibition. Never one to miss an opportunity to sneer at pretentious art, I got the combi ticket deal, and headed into the Turner Prize expo before the Holbein.

The Turner Prize lot were less pretentious than just weak. Most of the works were badly made, and badly thought through. The sort of thing you would expect spoilt children to do. There were some wooden sculptures of strobe lights (yawn), some very sub-Beuys clay sculptures and boxes (lazy), a film of some Greek bird talking about how her soon not to be husband left her at the altar (whatever), an office with real people working in it (conceptual , huh?), and the winner of the Prize Tomma Abts' paintings (like wallpaper, although quite nice wallpaper). The best bit of the show was the last room where the walls were covered with cards and pencils for people to leave comments. The best comment I saw on these cards was one that said "I AM SEX". That Brian Sewell just can't stop himself can he? (Mind you, my mate Styx said his 12 year old son loved the show, which is good enough for me, if not for taking artists as seriously as they seem to be taking themselves the minute they get some critical attention.)

Having left a plug for househusbandnot on one of the comment cards, brought a couple of Opie fridge magnets for mrs househusbandnot, and checked out that new Chris Ofili installation - the blurb for which said it "raises questions about the relationship between civilizations and untamed nature, and between religion and the secular [And you know what? It did too.] - I checked out the Holbein show.

Which was excellent. The show was about Holbein's time as court painter to Henry VIII, but some of the portraits looked like they had been painted last week, rather than 500 odd years ago. Although I really noticed a difference in how Holbein painted men and women. The men all stare out at you, bold and knowing and brave and characterful, while the women all look like Matt Lucas in a wimple. I guess this had something to do with women's portraits being less important than men's, or some sort of idealised form of female beauty. Seems odd that it should be Matt Lucas though, although it would explain why all the men did so much drinking and deer hunting and being at war and hanging around with hawks on their arms. Anything to avoid the missus.

There were a few portraits too of Erasmus (see above), who was some sort of champion for Holbein when he turned up in England. Erasmus was also - as anyone else other than me who had to translate his diaries from Latin into English at school already knows - a desperate name dropped and general self-congratulator. ("Spent today with my good friend Sir Thomas More and his charming family. Later, in the garden, I read to the More family from my Handbook Of A Christian Knight, which everyone so enjoyed. I am now waiting for a barge to take me to my next appointment at the Palace. I wonder what I should read to the Court. How lucky they are that I exist." Tosser.)

And some good comedy animals too, namely in two paintings called A Lady With A Squirrel And A Starling and Boy With Marmoset. Apparently, the squirrel was in the lady's coat of arms, and the starling was a pun on where she lived. I guess the marmoset was just there when the Holbster turned up for the sitting . ("What? Me? No I'm not busy. I was going to chase my own tail after I've eaten these nuts, but other than that I didn't really have any plans. In a painting? Imortalised in oils? Sure. Why not.")

Back in the real world, thanks to the commentator who invited me to their Xmas party on the proviso that I go dressed either as Emma Bunton or a large dog. Very househusbandnot. I'm there dude.