PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH THE CHOCOLATE HAND GRENADE! IT IS VERY DELICATE
So reads a hand-printed sign on a display of Christmas gift ideas at Selfridge's department store in London. This "department" specializes in the ironic, the absurd, the whimsical: a desktop placard reading "Diamond Geezer;" a bar of soap containing a map of the state of Nebraska; a Pope bottle opener (the Popener!); various "naughty nuns;" a clock that runs backwards; many unusually-shaped items of indeterminate function; pieces of chocolate cast into unexpected shapes, like artillery shells, and the aforementioned hand grenade; etc. I suppose it's what we would call "kitsch," but its kitschy qualities are quite deliberate. And they don't come cheap. (The biggest irony of all may be the fact that you could feed a small family for a week for the price of a couple of white chocolate hypodermic syringes.)
The display attracts a lot of attention, but people didn't appear to be buying anything. Rather, they walk around picking up this or that object and expressing shock at the outrageous prices. "Can you imagine forty-five quid for that?" "Yes, but look at this thirty-eight pound plastic thing-- what do you suppose it does?"
After overhearing several of these bemused conversations, I realized that I had stumbled into the retail manifestation of the Tate Modern. Just like Selfridge shoppers, spectators at the Tate Modern (those who are not members of the "arty tosser elite") stroll through the galleries, mouths agape in stunned silence, unable to bring themselves to believe that this or that bit of rubbish has been put on Art's publicly-funded pedestal. Occasionally, you'll hear one of them break the sullen silence: "look at that fire extinguisher-- or is that an exhibit?" or "how much do you think he got for that?" (pointing to the Small Pile of Rocks) or "janitorial staff on holiday again?" (in reference to The Room full of Trash.)
On leaving Selfridge's, I found myself at a typically American loss for words.
"What do you call that, um, genre of stuff?" I asked.
And once again, my lovely, brilliant English rose was ready with her customary incisive analysis, suitable for filing under the heading: wisdom, words of.
"I believe," she said, "the word you are searching for, darling, is 'crap.'"
Out of the mouths of babes. English ones, that is. And she can cook, too.
Posted by Dr. Frank at December 22, 2001 04:45 AM | TrackBack