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teamLab hail from Japan, they are an interdisciplinary collective of artists, programmers, engineers, CG animators, mathematicians and architects whose practice 'seeks to navigate the confluence of art, science, technology, and the natural world'. With their own digital museum in Tokyo and a growing number of indoors and outdoors solo installations around the world, they also boast a presence in some of Asia Pacific's most prominent museums.


Immersive experience is a buzz word I have come to dread. It's like we are suddenly unable to really engage with art unless aided by technology. VR, AR, welcome to the new reality of the digitally-enhanced art experience. This phenomenon goes hand in hand with the development of the blockbuster painting show, where digital technology has become something of a fixture, e.g. the long queues at Tate Modern to step into a VR rendition of Modigliani's studio.


The teamLab installation was jaw-dropping for visual impact and sharpness of execution. We really did find ourselves immersed in a world of floating petals, towering sunflowers, fluttering butterflies and crashing waterfalls. All supremely instagrammable and selfiable content, they are on to a winner. With no prescribed itinerary and loud 'dreamy' music playing nonstop, you're free to wander aimlessly and explore this dazzling display of mesmerising imagery. Dizzying sensory overload is the best way of summing it up.


After the first 5' of stunned wonderment, more rational thoughts started creeping in. The place was packed, people seemed happy and engaged, so surely this is what the democratisation of art looks like. But this also what Disneyland looks like. Is there a line to be drawn or have the lines blurred forever? Far from sharing the elitist idea that art is for the few, I accept these technologies are here to stay and respect their potential to offer something new, especially with a view to attracting broader and, crucially, younger audiences.


Er, do you see what I mean?

Videos and photos all mine. Except my own of course, which was taken by my friend Sasha Anevsky.

 
 
 

The museums I have visited in Russia (Moscow and Saint Petersburg this far) have made a lasting impression on me. If we exclude the legendary Hermitage, which is for all intents and purposes like the Louvre, I found in their extraordinary collections a (quick and superficial) way to gain some understanding of Russian history through the development of its art. The State Russian Museum houses the world's biggest collection of Russian art, so really there is no better place to start.


As I was going through the pics on my phone, this one stood out and oddly resonated with the current zeitgeist. Queueing is something we do a lot of in England, almost like a sacred daily ritual. These days we still queue, but far apart from one another. It's a new kind of queueing where the usual boredom and impatience have been replaced by fear and anxiety.


But I digress, this is not what Sundukov's painting is about. Made in 1986, 5 years before the dissolution of the Soviet Union during the early perestroika days, this picture casts a scathing look at the reality of everyday life for millions of people. Faceless men and women patiently standing in line, a line that doesn't seem to have an end, perhaps symbolising the normality and perpetuity of this occurrence. As our eyes follow the queue towards the right, people no longer look like people. They could be houses, blocks of wood, their humanity taken away in this collective portrayal of the hardships of Soviet life.


The drabness of the colour palette conveys a sense of haziness and resignation. Everything looks beige and feels hopeless, even the sky. So overall, not the happiest of paintings I will admit. But like I said, I felt it resonated with today's general climate. Like the people in the picture, today we still queue hoping for better days.


Aleksey Sundukov, Queue (1986)

The State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg

 
 
 

Even on a very dark day, there was something strangely uplifting in the light that pervaded these rooms of the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art, 35 km north of Copenhagen. It may have been bucketing down like it only does in the summer, but Giacometti's magic was untarnished and, once again, the silent dialogue with his iconic statues could begin.

His hieratic figures were patiently waiting, standing there like sentinels frozen in time and space. I have always been struck by the contrast between the apparent stillness of the stance and the roughness of the scarred surface. If you look closely, you'll see the figures change as you move around them, they never look the same as they oscillate between being immobile and subtly edging towards movement. Giacometti's stick-thin bronzes are immortal, intense, ethereal, proud and timeless in their refusal to align with any art movement, style or period. So thin and yet so strong, so fragile and yet so resilient - everywhere they go they own the space they inhabit, emanating a mixed aura of presence and solitude and exposing the frailty of the human condition.


Once a successful surrealist painter, after 1935 Swiss-born Giacometti turned to sculpture for his restless explorations of the human body. Using his wife Annette as his favourite female model, he proceeded to completely break away from tradition establishing a new canon of representation that was revolutionary at his time and that remains unique to this day. In 2015 his work Pointing Man (1947) became the world's most expensive sculpture selling at $141M (with fees, mind) when it went under the hammer at Christie's in New York.


 
 
 

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