Tate Modern, London He was a drunk desperate to prove himself as an artist. His clumsy papiermache twists, lumpy objects and wearable sculptures testify that he succeededA misshapen snowball or a discarded gobstopper. Four more pink balls kebabbed on a pink stick, reaching for the sky in dumb emulation of Brancusi´s Endless Column - or, just as plausibly, an item from the sex shop anal play section. Don´t point that thing at me. One green and one yellow thing, another white thing on its own, and a deeper pink thing whose writhing musculature is tying itself in a knot. They all stand about outside Tate Modern looking like a cartoon of public sculpture. `No head-scratching necessary,` a sign should say.These friendly, disarming objects provide an introduction to the Franz West retrospective, which takes us from dirty drawings rife with sexual encounters (including urination and cartoonish humiliations and jokes about Viennese Actionism) to room after room of sculptures, posters, installations and collaborative works made with his friends and accomplices. Continue reading...
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