Jackson Pollock @ Tate Liverpool
it is a material kissy treat to see IRL the paintings of someone who you think zzZ, you already know them because of the internet and tha. I don’t know if it was the dock rooms or pollock’s bollocks ego, but his paintings were smaller than I expected. matte then shiny. a feather stuck down in an inky nebula. without the backlit grid of search results it was a calm select history. These were his black drip paintings and I wanted to see them on the floor, imagined a little perspex bridge erected over them. that would have been cool (if you know someone who knows someone, pass on that idea). Not exactly worth the Tate entrance, it was simply an alright show until ->>>>
so, Tate Liverpool are doing this cop-out trick where they fill half their primetime exhibition space with the artist advertised and the rest with some other picks from their collection. this tactic is bullshit, and consistently underwhelming. ur bulking vodka with water and I’d like you to stop.
and! our visit was soured by one of the gallery assistants. my cousin answered a phone call and the lady, who had been posted by the entrance tearing centimetres into tickets all morning, totally pounced. fiery and up in his face, she demanded he end the call. we later asked what the difference was in discussing the work between the two of us and speaking to somebody absent, lil telematic monologuing ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ she just pursed her lips like old people tend to do in writing.