Royal Academy Debacle
I was very excited to go this morning to hear the great German artist
Anselm Kiefer at the Royal Academy talk about his work. I had seen this wonderful exhibition four times already, so I was really looking forward to hearing about the ideas and processes behind it. The morning
ended sourly, however, due to the staff’s very poor management of the
event and one other major problem - the sound system.
We all crowded into the foyer of the beautiful building to register at the front desk with our tickets. We then joined the end of a long queue which stretched into the far side of the foyer. People were chatting happily and there was an air of good-natured camaraderie in the group.
We continued to wait in line as more and more people arrived. These new arrivals apparently did not care to join the queue. Instead, they hung around at the foot of the stairs in front of us in an untidy, chattering rabble. There were no helpful ropes set up to cordon people into a manageable line. When the time arrived that we were to ascend into the exhibition space all of us who had waited so reasonable and patiently in line were rather amazed to see a member of the Royal Academy staff usher all of the latecomers up before us. They would all go on to select the prime first rows of seating.
There were around two-hundred seats in the large gallery room. Kiefer’s enormous, crusty paintings of abandoned Nazi-era buildings glowered down at us. The artist and two other men dithered about at the front of the assembly, waiting for everyone to take their seats. The artist then sat between the men – one young and one middle-aged man. Now, another man – someone from the Royal Academy - with no microphone, ineffectively yelled into the audience his welcome, of which only several words were audible. Then it was the turn of the young art-man to introduce Kiefer. He had a microphone attached to his head – one of those small, round, flesh-coloured things that sit by the mouth. But all we could hear was a human buzzing noise. He readjusted the thing and became marginally more audible. He asked Kiefer a question. Kiefer answered. He was totally inaudible: a low, human, German-inflected thrum was all that could be discerned. The young art-man laughed at something that the great artist had said. Now it was the turn of the other man, who turned out to be Sir David Chipperfield, some sort of architecture maven at the Royal Academy. His voice was audible. I began to wish it wasn’t. His vainglorious pontificating about the role of architecture and the difference between architecture and sculpture was truly excruciating. The artist gamely attempted to answer – when he was allowed to get a word in – but of course, no one on the audience could discern a word that he said.
There was a screen set up at the front of the audience, to the left of the trio. Upon this were flashed, in rotation, four images of the artist’s compound in the South of France. Only four images. At one point, the pontificating Chipperfield, puffed up with self-regard, asked a question which Kiefer answered, inaudibly. But this wasn’t good enough for the pompous ass, who clearly believed we had all assembled to hear his views, and now came back with,
“Actually, I question your answer on that point because …….” At this point, I thought - it's all about you, isn't it, David? Then I tuned out of his ramble.
The talk was scheduled to last for an hour. I lasted twenty-three minutes. When it became simply unendurable I stood and made my way down my row of frowning people and walked down the stairs to the entrance. A woman I had seen leaving a few minutes before me was still remonstrating with two staff members. I caught her eye and asked,
“Could you hear anything?”
“Not a thing!” she replied, “I’m making a formal complaint”. The staff member to whom she had been speaking - a young school-leaver in her late teens - simply nodded and said,
“Mmm. Mmm”. I now entered into the conversation,
“I think it is quite outrageous that nobody thought to check the sound system before the event began!”
“Mmm. Mmm.” Nod, nod.
“I mean, this is an internationally acclaimed artist who has important things to say about his work and it is completely disrespectful to him that he cannot be heard!”
“Mmm. Mmm.” Nod, nod.
At this point, the other staff member – a young school-leaver in his late teens – walked over to the desk and unlocked a drawer with a little key. He pulled out a sheaf of complaint forms and asked me to fill one in, which I did. The other complainant stood with her arms crossed, saying,
“I agree. It is simply unacceptable. I will be requesting my money back”. I handed my filled-in form to the young man, who glanced at it and then attempted to hand it back to me.
“You haven’t put your phone number on this form”, he said.
“I don’t use a phone when I am in London”, I replied, “My email address is on it and I can be contacted via that.” I then followed my fellow-complainant out of the building. As we did so, another dozen or so audience members rolled down the stairs to make their own complaints to the children manning the desk in their dark blue uniforms.
We all crowded into the foyer of the beautiful building to register at the front desk with our tickets. We then joined the end of a long queue which stretched into the far side of the foyer. People were chatting happily and there was an air of good-natured camaraderie in the group.
We continued to wait in line as more and more people arrived. These new arrivals apparently did not care to join the queue. Instead, they hung around at the foot of the stairs in front of us in an untidy, chattering rabble. There were no helpful ropes set up to cordon people into a manageable line. When the time arrived that we were to ascend into the exhibition space all of us who had waited so reasonable and patiently in line were rather amazed to see a member of the Royal Academy staff usher all of the latecomers up before us. They would all go on to select the prime first rows of seating.
There were around two-hundred seats in the large gallery room. Kiefer’s enormous, crusty paintings of abandoned Nazi-era buildings glowered down at us. The artist and two other men dithered about at the front of the assembly, waiting for everyone to take their seats. The artist then sat between the men – one young and one middle-aged man. Now, another man – someone from the Royal Academy - with no microphone, ineffectively yelled into the audience his welcome, of which only several words were audible. Then it was the turn of the young art-man to introduce Kiefer. He had a microphone attached to his head – one of those small, round, flesh-coloured things that sit by the mouth. But all we could hear was a human buzzing noise. He readjusted the thing and became marginally more audible. He asked Kiefer a question. Kiefer answered. He was totally inaudible: a low, human, German-inflected thrum was all that could be discerned. The young art-man laughed at something that the great artist had said. Now it was the turn of the other man, who turned out to be Sir David Chipperfield, some sort of architecture maven at the Royal Academy. His voice was audible. I began to wish it wasn’t. His vainglorious pontificating about the role of architecture and the difference between architecture and sculpture was truly excruciating. The artist gamely attempted to answer – when he was allowed to get a word in – but of course, no one on the audience could discern a word that he said.
There was a screen set up at the front of the audience, to the left of the trio. Upon this were flashed, in rotation, four images of the artist’s compound in the South of France. Only four images. At one point, the pontificating Chipperfield, puffed up with self-regard, asked a question which Kiefer answered, inaudibly. But this wasn’t good enough for the pompous ass, who clearly believed we had all assembled to hear his views, and now came back with,
“Actually, I question your answer on that point because …….” At this point, I thought - it's all about you, isn't it, David? Then I tuned out of his ramble.
The talk was scheduled to last for an hour. I lasted twenty-three minutes. When it became simply unendurable I stood and made my way down my row of frowning people and walked down the stairs to the entrance. A woman I had seen leaving a few minutes before me was still remonstrating with two staff members. I caught her eye and asked,
“Could you hear anything?”
“Not a thing!” she replied, “I’m making a formal complaint”. The staff member to whom she had been speaking - a young school-leaver in her late teens - simply nodded and said,
“Mmm. Mmm”. I now entered into the conversation,
“I think it is quite outrageous that nobody thought to check the sound system before the event began!”
“Mmm. Mmm.” Nod, nod.
“I mean, this is an internationally acclaimed artist who has important things to say about his work and it is completely disrespectful to him that he cannot be heard!”
“Mmm. Mmm.” Nod, nod.
At this point, the other staff member – a young school-leaver in his late teens – walked over to the desk and unlocked a drawer with a little key. He pulled out a sheaf of complaint forms and asked me to fill one in, which I did. The other complainant stood with her arms crossed, saying,
“I agree. It is simply unacceptable. I will be requesting my money back”. I handed my filled-in form to the young man, who glanced at it and then attempted to hand it back to me.
“You haven’t put your phone number on this form”, he said.
“I don’t use a phone when I am in London”, I replied, “My email address is on it and I can be contacted via that.” I then followed my fellow-complainant out of the building. As we did so, another dozen or so audience members rolled down the stairs to make their own complaints to the children manning the desk in their dark blue uniforms.
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