Well, happy new year and thanks for all the tinsel. Wasn't it all just gorgeous?
I pretend it's in the spirit of postmodern irony, but the truth is I love the whole lot; plastic robins, glitter, spray snow, the works, all those things that terrify museums and galleries, paralysed between offending some and offending all: the solution is usually put out a few lights and don't mention the C word.
Mind you, they spent Advent hearing the other boot drop, in the aftermath of the comprehensive spending review. Wherever you see that word "ring-fenced" you must immediately look for the attractive set of matching cuts.
In the case of the Museums, Libraries and Archives Council, the flip side of that ring-fenced grant for Renaissance in the Regions is still being spelled out, in black edged letters. All in all, seasonal good cheer was spread as thinly as workhouse margarine.
Even though Santa's little helper, James Purnell, had been round with a stocking full of 50 million pound coins, Tate Modern, as usual, looked as festive as a mortuary slab; not so much as a holly sprig tucked into the "please watch your step in the Turbine Hall" warnings now clustered round The Crack.
Tate Britain has for many years gone in for "now slit your wrists" conceptual trees. This year Fiona Banner's was a real and towering tree, and just before Christmas a very small boy (not mine) stood appraising it carefully.
The tree works in the manner of those pantomimes that supply slapstick for the kiddies, while at the same time overlaying this with a layer of smut for the grownups: the children, poor deluded little saps, see a tree hung with jolly plastic toys, while their knowing parents recognise at a glance (or by sneaking around the back and reading the official explanation) that it's covered in weapons of mass destruction, models of all the world's fighter planes.
The small boy eventually gave judgement: "There are no lights, at all." It's called an allegory, small boy. Yes, small boy, there is a Santa Claus, but don't get too attached to your presents: he'll be round in the new year to take them all back.
I pretend it's in the spirit of postmodern irony, but the truth is I love the whole lot; plastic robins, glitter, spray snow, the works, all those things that terrify museums and galleries, paralysed between offending some and offending all: the solution is usually put out a few lights and don't mention the C word.
Mind you, they spent Advent hearing the other boot drop, in the aftermath of the comprehensive spending review. Wherever you see that word "ring-fenced" you must immediately look for the attractive set of matching cuts.
In the case of the Museums, Libraries and Archives Council, the flip side of that ring-fenced grant for Renaissance in the Regions is still being spelled out, in black edged letters. All in all, seasonal good cheer was spread as thinly as workhouse margarine.
Even though Santa's little helper, James Purnell, had been round with a stocking full of 50 million pound coins, Tate Modern, as usual, looked as festive as a mortuary slab; not so much as a holly sprig tucked into the "please watch your step in the Turbine Hall" warnings now clustered round The Crack.
Tate Britain has for many years gone in for "now slit your wrists" conceptual trees. This year Fiona Banner's was a real and towering tree, and just before Christmas a very small boy (not mine) stood appraising it carefully.
The tree works in the manner of those pantomimes that supply slapstick for the kiddies, while at the same time overlaying this with a layer of smut for the grownups: the children, poor deluded little saps, see a tree hung with jolly plastic toys, while their knowing parents recognise at a glance (or by sneaking around the back and reading the official explanation) that it's covered in weapons of mass destruction, models of all the world's fighter planes.
The small boy eventually gave judgement: "There are no lights, at all." It's called an allegory, small boy. Yes, small boy, there is a Santa Claus, but don't get too attached to your presents: he'll be round in the new year to take them all back.
