That time we were taken on a trip to The Tate
As a kid in school, my ears would always prick up when my teacher would utter those two little words “school trip”. Hooray, at last, a chance to break away from the little people prison. I’m pretty sure that was my internal thought. When the end-of-day school bell rang out, I’d sprint home, burst through the front door and run straight up to mum waving a piece of A4 paper in her face. Forget the welcome home hugs and kisses, I was there for one thing; her signature. That piece of paper was my ticket to a day release from school. If the name ‘B. Clarke’ wasn’t scrawled on it somewhere, my hopes of breaking free were doomed. She always obliged though, what a gem.
I remember on this particular day she asked me where we were going. I was nine years old. I had no idea. It could have been a day trip to an old sewage treatment plant for all I knew, but I didn’t care. It was a day off from school. That’s all that mattered.
As she read further down the page, the venue was revealed: The Tate Museum. Being a Year 4 student, ‘The Tate’ didn’t ring any bells. ‘Museum,’ however, now that was a word I was familiar with.
A year earlier, mum and dad had taken me to the Natural History Museum in London. I remember walking through the front doors and being greeted by this enormous dinosaur fossil — a Diplodocus cast. That impressive entrance told me one thing: it was going to be a good day, and a good day it was. The jaw dropped a few more times and that one trip to one museum left a lasting impression. I was a fan of them.
So when mum read out the word ‘museum’ from that piece of A4 paper, I was happy. Then we arrived at The Tate; and that’s where the happiness ended.
Room after room was filled with weird paintings of even weirder looking subjects. Odd looking men, sombre looking women; in fact, the women looked quite similar to those odd looking men. What is it with 18th century art? Flattery was not the intention, clearly!
Even the colours were dull. Browns, beiges, the odd bit of green. I was deflated. All I could think was: this isn’t the kind of museum I’m used to. Where’s all the cool stuff? The dinosaur fossils, the moving exhibitions; they were nowhere in sight. Weird paintings and the odd sculpture, that’s all The Tate had to offer. I was bummed out. I was a fan of museums, but definitely not art museums.
I think that’s where I formed my earliest opinion on ‘art,’ and it wasn’t a good one. The visit left me confused about the whole concept. There was this one piece by Henri Matisse called The Snail. If you’re not familiar with the work, let me break it down in laymen’s terms. It’s a bunch of crepe paper cut into shapes and stuck onto a white background.
When I first saw it, I was one unimpressed nineyear-old. Completed in 1953, I remember the spectacle-clad museum curator telling us — a bunch of bored school kids — that particular piece had a major impact on the world. ‘Major impact!’ I thought that statement was a little strong. I couldn’t see it myself. It was bunches of small coloured paper stuck onto another piece of paper. Give me an hour in a craft room and I was sure I could have knocked something similar up for her. I wasn’t taken in by it, yet millions the world over were; they still are.
For the sake of this article, I felt compelled to Google the meaning behind The Snail. What is it that has people hooked? The description read as follows: “This is a representation of the spiralling form in its simplest and purest. It implies movement and geometric harmony.” Now, that didn’t register with me as a nine-year-old. And it still doesn’t register at 31.
For me, art is simple. It’s a visual or emotional appreciation for something. If it has a back story that allows me to connect with it on a deeper level that may intrigue me more. But I don’t feel the need to analyse art. I prefer something a little more obvious. Something that, well, just looks nice or reads well.
If you put me in front of a centuries-old painting, you’ll most likely find me pulling a face, checking my nail polish, or scrawling through my phone messages. Fancy paintings just aren’t my thing. Throw me in front of a tatty wall adorned with scruffy graffiti, however, then you have me. I like colour and quirk, not dull and drab.