Today, in the Guardian, Martin Creed answered the question What’s the worst thing anyone ever said about you thus:
“When I was nominated for the Turner, a lot of people talked about my work in terms of the emperor’s new clothes. I could see their point: my piece was just an empty room. But it was also a room where the lights were going on and off, like a mini theatrical production. No one would say that the lighting in a theatre was an emperor’s new clothes situation, would they?”
Well, no Martin, they wouldn’t. Because that is an entire theatrical production, not just a light going on and off.
Justification of a work in terms of its two, singular merits, neither of which offer anything of value, interest, poignancy or even humour, does not an art work make.
Since attending Creed’s show at the Hauser and Wirth Coppermill, an incredible venue which has not been used since, where I was treated to a 30 foot high video of anal sex, a pianist playing the keys left to right and back again one at a time, and nothing else which sticks in the mind, my certainty about the pointlessness of this man’s endeavours has been resolute.
This is neither the emperor’s new clothes nor the emperor’s rubbish, for both might have historical and/or comical value if nothing else. Creed’s work is the worst kind of work. Meaningless.
ALMF 