The wind whistles and tumbleweed rolls across the scenery because…
I don’t care.
While the death of a human being, even a wealthy one at a ripe old age is a tragedy to his family, frankly I don’t give a shit.
Howard got rich from daubing splodges of colour on canvases, his u.s.p was that he daubed on the frames too.
Like much in the contemporary art scene, his real art was his ability to maintain a straight face whilst picking up various awards, prizes and the cheques of course. As well as the usual knack of reverse engineering some reasoning for whatever splodge painting he happened to be doing that day. It’s all a big con, that’s the art, the art of the con. That con of the great patriarchal artist spurting out a bit more multicoloured jism into the already sodden art world.
It seems to be my lot in life to get in trouble for pointing out the blitheringly obvious to those blindly following the rest of the sheep. I got hauled into the tutors room at university for my review of the big Hodgkins show at the Hayward gallery in the 90’s. After seeing the third room of variations on smears of multicoloured paint I just felt angry that he was getting away with what was essentially a bit of a racket, no progression at all, just a winning formula that he had hit upon and kept phoning in, and I said so…. How dare I??? The great man’s art being questioned? Disgraceful! Shame on me!
Oh hang on a minute, I’m getting de ja vu here. Oh well…
Anyway, Howard Hodgkins, rich dead artist bloke…. Like there hasn’t be one of those before. Meh!
Oh! The picture at the top is one of my old palettes.