S͟e͟e͟i͟n͟g͟ ͟a͟r͟t͟ ͟l͟i͟k͟e͟ ͟a͟ ͟t͟w͟o͟ ͟y͟e͟a͟r͟-͟o͟l͟d͟

feat. my daughter

If I’m lucky, I go to a gallery alone.

If I’m luckier, I go with my daughter. She’s two.

My little gallery friend.

This isn’t a middle-class affectation; I’m not trying to teach her anything, or play status games with the Joneses (we’re all fucked, we’re all poor). It’s just that I like to go, and she’s often with me.

There aren’t so many other toddlers wandering the white cubes, so we tend to stand out, especially in small indies. People tell me she is irresistibly cute, but I know they’re being polite because she is also disordered and noisy, likes to enjoy the clear running space and the weird quiet in the air, barrelling around trying to see what magic might be around the corner. I mean, she doesn’t try to touch the paintings or climb on the plinths at least, not anymore, but she will decimate any hushed space with giggles.

Yes, motherfuckers, I sigh internally, as I see security, curators and attendants all glance up — the circus is in town.

I’ve written about how I like to see art: a personal, sensorial, aesthetic experience.

My daughter sees it like that always. And she is brutal – easily dismissive of some pieces, utterly absorbed by others. Now I’m getting a sense for what she’ll like, the pieces I ought to lift her up to get a better view of, things I guess might take her fancy.

Strikingly visual work, for one, and anything that stands out in its context. She is particularly tickled (although I guess she doesn’t think of it quite like this) by anything that fucks with her perception — visual impact and distortions and inversions, tricksy mirrors, semi-recognisable objects warped into something new — mechanical dogs, apples as heads, a sculpture that is also a chair… familiar things shown in unfamiliar ways. Work that has personality and presence, just announces itself, or that doesn’t take itself too seriously. Work with layers like a puzzle you fall into.

More for myself than anything, I might help her notice things about a piece; the little details of how something is made, nuances of colour and texture, the sloppiness of paint here versus the smoothness there, or whatever. I’m trying to help her notice better, I think, but really it’s about noticing better myself. We lead with the eye and follow with the gut.

I’ll glance over the introductory text (she can’t read obvs) but won’t dive too deeply into the descriptors or analysis. Hearing an artist talk about their own work often brings it down to earth too much, or makes it sound vacuous. (To paraphrase the late great Sinead O’Connor… if you could simply talk about art and write about art, you wouldn’t need art).

Seeing work – the pressure to be smart, to have opinions, dessicates the fun.

Making work – the compulsion to be taken seriously can make for work that’s hectoring and leaden.

It takes skill to create something that knifes you with its presence, that lingers in the nerves long after it’s gone. It can also take skill to receive it.

Don’t get me wrong: I want to see work that challenges me, that is probing, vindictive, accusatory. I want to see work that offers more than seamless, glib commerce. I want art that’s a punch in the gut, has something to say. Or nothing to say; chill art, vibey art, art that doesn’t give a fuck. So long as the message serves the art, so long as the work stirs the soul.

Seeing like a two year old means remembering there are no rules.

Post-gallery, she and I debrief – her eviscerating a croissant, me with a black coffee – and I’ve come to realise that she doesn’t really distinguish between what she sees inside a gallery and what’s outside. Transcendance can be anywhere, even in something as simple as a paper cup. An ornamental dragon sculpture outside a Chinese restauramt might as well be a Rodin.

Art to her is no more magic than the everyday.

There's pleasure in unfiltered curiosity.

The naïvety of a two year old in a white cube.

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