I never really understood surrealism if I’m honest. Spoilt child art or so it seemed. Of course there were exceptions. The Dali melting clocks and hot lips sofa were intriguing as was some of Magritte’s work with fruit and headgear.
But generally there was a lot of weird sex, fish based cookware, paranoid landscapes and feitishised doodles.
Which proves I’m a philistine, irredeemably bourgeoise and incapable of painting my dreams.
There’s another word for that state of being. As well as dull. It’s normal.
Today the Textiliste and I visited the Tate Modern for their Surrealism: Beyond Borders looking at surrealism from its origins in Europe to the central and South American countries and back via post war America.
Really quite interesting.
Like a display of waterproof footwear would be to a rubber aficionado.
We had a nice lunch after…