Tate’s brave new exhibition traces a long history of iconoclasm

The smash of ideologies.

There is an arresting moment towards the end of Tate Britain’s marvellously wide-ranging and witty new exhibition “Art Under Attack: Histories of British Iconoclasm”. It emerges from photographs of the 1966 Duncan Terrace Piano Destruction Concert, a ritual piece of performance- art demolition by Raphael Montañez Ortíz. Ortíz swung the axe; Fran and Jay Landesman supplied the piano. This was the third such concert that Ortíz had staged. The first one had been filmed by the BBC and the fine Tate catalogue tells us deadpan that, on that occasion, Ortíz had destroyed “the wrong piano”. Apparently this victim of mistaken identity was a baby grand newly purchased by the Beeb. So much more imaginative a way of spending licence-fee payers’ money than large severance payments, if equally lacking in strategic thinking.

But it’s the concept of “the wrong piano” which fascinates me here. In what sense was it the wrong piano? Surely any piano was a candidate for destruction, given Ortíz’s statement in his second “destructivism” manifesto of 1966 that “Destruction is built into our species”? And we must spare a thought for the feelings of the right piano, denied its hour of immortality by the unfortunate substitution.

There are times when art as destruction of art is just silly – no more grown-up than a rock star smashing his guitar, or the sound of Oxford undergraduates baying for broken glass. Another, even more idiotically pointless instance was the attack by one Tony Shafrazi on Picasso’s Guernica at MoMA in New York in 1974; he spray-painted “KILL LIES ALL” on to the work, explaining that this baffling phrase was designed to “retrieve the work from art history, and to bring it up to date”. Today, he’d be writing endless semi-literate blogs that nobody read.

It is a relief to turn from such infantile posturing to most of the objects in this exhibition, which covers both iconophobia (hating images) and iconoclasm (doing something about hating images: namely, bashing them with something hard, corrosive, explosive or sharp). It is an engrossing lesson in the ways that the clash of ideologies can produce violence and concentrate it on a work of art, like the sun through a magnifying glass.

One of the most fraught examples, significantly not on display here, is the painting so many of us saw in that notorious 1997 exhibition, “Sensation” – Marcus Harvey’s Myra Hindley(1995), which infamously reproduced the classic police mugshot in pointillist fashion, using dabs of paint from a plaster cast of a child’s hand. It’s surprising that there were only two attacks on it in the course of “Sensation”, using ink and eggs respectively, and nothing more physically destructive. Who was doing the desecration here, the artist, by trampling on some very delicate emotional territory for people whom he didn’t know, or those who were so angered by the painting that they wanted to punish it for Harvey’s transgression?

The Tate is quite brave to stage “Art Under Attack”. Informed sources suggest that there was formidable opposition within Tate and in the museums world to the exhibition going ahead, presumably on the grounds that it would give ideas to the mad and the bad. Undoubtedly museums are reticent about letting the press know about iconoclastic attacks for that reason. In this, they follow in the footsteps of no less iconic a figure than Elizabeth I who, on four separate occasions, found her private chapel the subject of attacks by three different and unrelated individuals. They were enthusiastic Protestants, furious that she had insisted on keeping a silver crucifix on the Communion table in her chapel, when the official line of the Church of England was that such things were popish and should have no place in church interiors. They broke in, and then broke the crucifix. The remarkable thing is that the perpetrators were not treated harshly, as one might expect for anyone who had violated royal private spaces and furnishings. The Elizabethan government blandly said that they must be insane, thus depriving the iconoclasts of being considered as martyrs.

The Tate, too, has suffered from iconoclasm, and it is again a mark of its generous vision of the exhibition theme that it features two salient examples. The first victim was Carl Andre’s Equivalent VIII, bought by the gallery in 1972, a minimalist set of 120 firebricks, arranged in stacks. It took until 1976 for the right-wing press to get cross about the purchase of the work at a time when the country was widely seen as skint, but after a few why-oh-whys in the likes of the Daily Mail, the public had its say, in one case by decorating the work with blue food dye. Thoughtfully, the artist had provided spare bricks in case of just such an eventuality. The second act of vandalism came from the opposite end of the political spectrum: on 8 March 1986, International Women’s Day, two angry activists poured viscous paint stripper on the face and neck of the figure in Allen Jones’s Chair, a caricature-sexy female lying on her back and forming the base of the eponymous chair. The result looked distressingly like the effects of an acid attack on a real person; one thinks of the awful experience of two young British women in Zanzibar at the hands of Muslim extremists only this summer.

That’s the thing about much iconoclasm: it substitutes for violence on a person who isn’t available for attack. So, in the American Revolution, the equestrian statue of George III that had the ill-luck to have been erected by the loyal folk of New York City was torn down by George Washington’s troops, melted and turned into musket balls. The revolutionaries in their rage might have tried to do the same to His Majesty, had he not been sitting in Windsor Castle at the time. A diagram in the exhibition meticulously shows the original position in the statue of fragments that still survive, now preserved as relics scattered through at least half a dozen collections: and here, indeed, is one of them, courtesy of the New York Historical Society. Their charisma derives from the act of maiming; they have become symbols of one of the world’s most far-reaching political upheavals. Ireland provides a number of similar examples of royal topplings from its 20th-century equivalent revolution and its aftermath.

The fascinating aspect of all that is so generously on offer at the Tate is the span of time it covers. Iconoclasm is not simply a matter of history, but is still with us. The exhibition starts with what we might consider to have been the obvious exhibits, the sad remnants of England’s medieval art, as knocked about a bit by both Thomas and Oliver Cromwell. There are chilling remnants from the greatest collective act of Reformation vandalism, the Dissolution of the Monasteries: fragments of the leading from lost stained-glass windows, or headless stone statues. In the catalogue, Susan Harrison reminds us of the conclusion of archaeologists from monastic sites, that few heads from religious sculptures survive, but secular decorative and animal heads remain in large quantities. That suggests that the religious subjects were deliberately targeted; Cromwell’s agents were not just interested in how much dosh the monasteries could yield for the king and his lackeys, but they saw what they were doing as an ideological act. And sometimes it is difficult to know what to make of survival. There is the heartrendingly realistic, life-size Statue of the Dead Christ (1500-20), which wasn’t rediscovered until 1954, buried under the blitzed ruins of the Mercers’ Hall in Cheapside, London. Its burial during the Reformation has preserved it in superb condition – except that it had already been attacked and badly damaged before it was put in the ground. How paradoxical it is that an image of the humiliated and wounded Saviour should be the subject of further humiliation and wounding, from people angered at the popish dishonour they regarded it as doing to the Saviour. There’s nowt so queer as folk; and that is probably history’s most valuable lesson.

Diarmaid MacCulloch is a fellow of St Cross College, Oxford. His latest book is “Silence: a Christian History” (Allen Lane, £20). His programme on iconoclasm will be broadcast on Radio 3 on 20 October (6.45pm) “Art Under Attack: Histories of British Iconoclasm” is at Tate Britain, London SW1, until 5 January 2014.

Blame the stripper: Allen Jones's Chair (1969). Image: Tate/Allen Jones

This article first appeared in the 11 October 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Iran vs Israel

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Daniel Day-Lewis is a genius, but I'll shed more tears for actors who don't choose to stop

I've always felt respect rather than love for the three-times Oscar winner.

Imagine learning of the closure of an exquisite but prohibitively expensive restaurant that you only got round to visiting once every four or five years. There would be an abstract feeling of sadness, perhaps, that you will no longer be able to sample new, satisfying flavours twice a decade in that establishment’s uniquely adventurous style. A nostalgic twinge, certainly, relating to the incomparable times you had there in the past. But let’s be realistic about this: your visits were so infrequent that the restaurant’s absence now is hardly going to leave an almighty black hole in your future. If you’re completely honest, you may even have thought upon hearing the news: “That place? I hadn’t thought about it for yonks. I didn’t even know it was still open.”

That sums up how I feel about the announcement this week that Daniel Day-Lewis is retiring. What an actor: three Oscars, a method genius, all of the above. But prolific is the last thing he is. It would be disingenuous to say that any of us had imagined seeing too many more Day-Lewis performances before we finish strutting and fretting our own hour upon the stage. I’m 45; Day-Lewis’s first, brief screen appearance was in Sunday Bloody Sunday, which came out the year I was born. So even allowing for another 30 years on this planet, I still wasn’t reckoning on seeing new screen work from him more than five times in my life. It’s a loss but, given the proper support and counselling, it’s one I can live with.

Looking at Day-Lewis’s recent work-rate helps bring some perspective to the situation. He is currently shooting the 1950s-set fashion drama, Phantom Thread, for Paul Thomas Anderson, who solicited from him a towering, elemental performance in There Will Be Blood, which won him his second Oscar. But before that, the last time we saw him on screen was four-and-a-half years ago in Lincoln (Oscar Number Three). Prior to that, a full three years earlier, was Nine, a woeful musical spin on Fellini’s that is one of the few blots on an otherwise impeccable CV. In 2007, it was There Will Be Blood; in 2005, The Ballad of Jack and Rose, directed by his wife, Rebecca Miller; and in 2002, Scorsese’s Gangs of New York—the film that enticed Day-Lewis out of his first retirement.

Oh yes, there was an earlier one. The retirement which didn’t take. After making The Boxer in 1997 with Jim Sheridan, who directed him in My Left Foot (where he got Oscar Number One for playing the writer Christy Brown) and In the Name of the Father, the actor went off to become a shoemaker’s apprentice in Florence. A Daniel Day-Lewis spoof biopic surely couldn’t have come up with a more characteristic career swerve than that. This, after all, is the man who lived in the wild for weeks before making The Last of the Mohicans, and who endured physical deprivations to prepare himself for In the Name of the Father, in which he played Gerry Conlon, one of the Guildford Four. He also famously stays in character, or at least refuses to drop his assumed accent, posture and demeanour, between takes on set—an easily-ridiculed trait which actually makes a poetic kind of sense. Here’s how he explained to the Guardian in 2009:

“If you go to inordinate length to explore and discover and bring a world to life, it makes better sense to stay in that world rather than jump in and out of it, which I find exhausting and difficult. That way there isn’t the sense of rupture every time the camera stops; every time you become aware of the cables and the anoraks and hear the sound of the walkie-talkies. Maybe it’s complete self-delusion. But it works for me.”

So the method immersion and the physical consequences (he broke two ribs during My Left Foot and contracted pneumonia while shooting Gangs of New York) make him a target for mockery. There have been accusations, too, that his workings-out as an actor are often clearly visible in the margins. “All that screaming and hyperventilating,” remarked the filmmaker and Warhol acolyte Paul Morrissey. “You may as well have a ‘Men at Work’ sign when he’s on screen.”

But no workman operating a pneumatic drill ever announced his retirement through the world media. (And with such petulant phrasing from his official spokesperson: “This is a private decision and neither he nor his representatives will make any further comment on this subject.”) Making plain this retirement, rather than simply getting on with it quietly and without fanfare, serves a number of functions. It’s going to be very beneficial indeed to Phantom Thread when it opens at the end of this year: the distributors can go right ahead and advertise it as Day-Lewis’s final performance without fear of contradiction. That’s the sort of promotional boon that only usually happens in the case of posthumous releases. And coming right out and saying “It’s over” also helps remind the world that Day-Lewis is still there, even if he won’t be for very much longer. It puts him right back in the headlines. It’s a wise career move—to use the words with which Gore Vidal responded to news of Truman Capote’s death—for a career that is now at its flickering end. 

But I’ll save my tears for the next actor whose life ends prematurely—another Philip Seymour Hoffman or Heath Ledger—rather than one who has the luxury of being able to call “Cut!” on his career at a time of his choosing. Perhaps I’m taking this news better than some of my colleagues because Day-Lewis, though a master of his craft, has always been an actor who engendered respect rather than love. One component of his mastery in recent years has been a studious coldness. No one has yet put it better than the comedian Adam Riches, who described Day-Lewis as “the greatest actor never to have appeared in anyone’s favourite film.” 

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

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