Issue 15 / Spring 2009
Content:
- Editors' Note
- Francesco Bonami on the Everyday
- Rochelle Steiner and Alison Gingeras on Glenn Brown
- Jeremy Wood on Anthony van Dyck
- Adam Nicolson on Anthony van Dyck
- Philip Ursprung on Otto Muehl's Manopsychotic Ballet
- Martin Herbert on New Modernism
- Andrew Hunt on the Tate Triennial
- Will Stuart's Artist's Project
- Christina Kiaer on Russian Female Artists
- Elisabeth Lebovici on Roni Horn
- Mark Godfrey on Roni Horn
- Sam Smiles on Late Turner
- Charlotte Klonk on Katja Strunz
- Microtate
- Susie Gauntlett in the Tate Archive
- Steve McQueen Q&A
- Poem of the Month
- Poem of the Month
Cildo Meireles
Red Shift: I. Impregnation, (detail) 1967-84
Collection Inhotim Centro de Arte Contemporânea, Minas Gerais, Brazil © the artist. Photo: Pedro Motta
Each month, TATE ETC. publishes new poetry by leading poets such as John Burnside, Moniza Alvi, Adam Thorpe, Alice Oswald
and David Harsent who respond to works from the Tate Collection. Subscribe to the Poem of the Month RSS feed.
This January Kayo Chingonyi presents his poem, After Cildo Meireles, based on Cildo Meireles, Red Shift I: Impregnation (detail) 1967-1984, on display at Tate Modern until 11 January 2009 as part of the Cildo Meireles exhibition.
The Poetry Society is curating this year's selection in the organisation's centenary year. Founded in 1909, the Society is
now one of Britain’s most high-profile arts organisations, helping poets and poetry thrive in Britain and beyond. Membership
is open to all, though members include many of the UK’s most eminent poets. It publishes the highly-respected journal Poetry
Review; and also works to deliver a programme of poetry in education, supporting and developing creativity among young people
and communities. Visit http://www.poetrysociety.org.uk for further information.
Context:
Works by Cildo Meireles in the Tate Collection Cildo Meireles at Tate Modern, 14 October 2008 - 11 January 2009After Cildo Meireles, Red Shift I: Impregnation (detail) 1967-1984
Take this lamp in pillar box,
for instance, first seen brazen
in a furniture shop’s attempt
at a window display, a chink
in the glitz of crystal encrusted
bureaus, art deco light fixtures,
faux Parisian ambience. The flat
needed things, I was told; lacked
character. So, you see, I had to
have it. The fire engine telephone
came free. The two of them alone
looked off, somehow. I saved for
a persimmon throw for the sofa,
which–alas–was neutral.
The throw too needed balancing
and who buys just one cushion?
It followed like this ‘til my thirtieth,
Luca, from the second floor, gifted me
a terra cotta fruit bowl wrapped in puce
tissue paper. It escalated then. Friends
brought crimson trinkets back from far
flung trips, even mother took to sending
sangria stained postcards from her yearly
sojourns to the Costa Brava. She’d return,
with tales of broad backed flamenco dancers,
to my front room and its new acquisitions.
The day after my thirty seventh I bought
a tin of pink emulsion, took the laden
brush to the whitewashed walls and smiled.