First Drafts - The Prospect magazine blog

I have a confession to make. No matter how ridiculous the latest modern art ‘offering’ is, no matter how dire, I feel socially bludgeoned into saying something positive about it. Pete Doherty’s blood paintings? How subversive! So like Marc Quin’s ‘self’, but so much more, er, numinous and sublime? There seems to be a sort of subliminal pact between art goers to expound poetic verbosities at the drop of a hat; if you don’t have something extremely cerebral to say about the piece of string in the perspex box, then you are clearly a cultural moron, didn’t understand the subtle nuances of the piece, were looking at it the wrong way up, etc…

Now, I have nothing against modern art. I actually rather like it. But there is a lot of chaff amongst the wheat and when it comes to art commentary, honesty tends to take a back seat to ego. The Tate Modern’s new exhibition, ‘The world as a stage’, attempts to dispel some of the post-modern pontificating and reconnect art with its audience (and inject some fun back into the proceedings). Billed as an “intimation of the increasing theatricalisation of everyday life”, the exhibition explores the relationship between visual art and theatre. Large installations allow the gallery viewer to become both spectator and participator.

All good in theory. And in reality, wandering around Jeppe Hein’s mirrored ‘rotating labyrinth’, is actually quite good fun – a bit like being privy to what it would feel like if you were trapped in an old kinematoscope. Mario Ybarra Jr’s ‘sweeney tate’ also fits the bill well; the lurid, comic-book style colours of the mocked up barber shop work well with the spirit of the exhibit. You feel invited to become part of the spectacle, rather than alienated by the work. Which is what good, interactive art should do.

But sadly, much of the exhibition leaves the visitor wanting. Geoffrey Farmer’s do-it-yourself theatre kit of Victor Hugo’s ‘Hunchback of Notre-Dame’ falls short of its promise; props for an actor to become Quasimodo are littered around the space, but the props are separated from the spectator by wooden boundaries. So, unlike Antony Gormley’s work, you never feel fully authorized to interact with the art.

The Tate Modern is a great space for pioneering artistry and uniting people through art. Doris Salcedo’s crack in the turbine hall is truly awesome, and Louise Bourgeois certainly deserves a floor to herself. But ‘the world as a stage’ doesn’t really move away from cheap stunts, such as Roman Ondák’s ‘I’m just acting in it’ (sketches of himself as a spectator in the Tate, drawn by the exhibitions’ curators), and Cezry Bodzianowski’s performances feel a little bit trite too – the time when watching a man slide around a hamster wheel is considered art and demands a glowing response, is surely long gone?