Proud Camden Reopens

Proud Camden Reopens

21 July, 2008
by: Sween

The Proud Gallery re-opens in Camden at The Horse Hospital. Its new usage could not be further from the equine cack-reeking infirmary of the past. Perfumed bouffant tinfoil neon alien boys swish around on cobbles reflecting pink and green and quivering with generic electro; silver bubbles on drainpipe spindles with hands that gesture wildly out of place with a deft and vicious statement, and are milled on all sides by cackling paps. I feel like the only human in the room – albeit one sporting four days crusty beard and a pair of ‘shoes' more porous than the Mexican border. Everybody's dolled-up eyes stare. I'm sure nobody can hear, but my feet are squeasking. I press on.

No doubt, from the amount of cameras and security this is a high-profile event. Why, I don't know; as having no reference point for the celebrity of the gallery itself, nothing explains why all these very visible people have congregated here to smile and drink. I wander the spaces which still emit the faint odour of fresh paint, perusing framed photographs of The Libertines, Pete Docherty, Carl Barat, one or two of Bloc Party, more Libertines or Libertine-a-likes, one or two Lennons' and Buckleys', and oh, hooray, there's Pete again, this time smoking moodily in a corridor (what a telling and emotional portrait).

Okay, so I had kind of guessed that this wasn't really going to be a gallery exhibition of high quality. What I hadn't anticipated was that the pieces in here would merely seek to epitomize every student bedroom and generic rock pub up and down the land. Frames don't make it art. I think we all know by now that Jimi Hendrix was something of a cultural legend, for goodness sake. It was ironic that the night before, Radio 1 inducted The Libertines into their Masterpieces series by playing ‘Up the Bracket' from start to finish uninterrupted, and that this had re-ignited my love for them (which had been earthed in cynicism); and yet this evening highlighted the reason for both their triumph and their failure; the populist tendency to destroy with adulation. They were more intimate with their fans than any other band before them, and brought such powerful love from their army of disciples that these very worshippers enshrined them in joy, careened towards myth and martyrdom, and ultimately desiccated and shredded what was, in simplicity, a great band. And one of the most vital ways in which these goals were achieved was through photography. To see these tokens of affection that eventually turned into weapons of idolatry and legendary lies collected en masse made me feel tired.

But I would be a stick-in-the-mud if I attempted to state that I represented the majority feeling tonight – the vibe in the air is very high, everywhere people are laughing, looking pleased, as if something crucial is happening. The exhilaration of such a high-profile event is not entirely lost on me, but it does have a strange effect – at all times, in all crowds, you are really looked at. It is a fleeting look – an automatic evaluation of your aesthetic and therefore hierarchical worth – whether you are a celebrity, whatever that means – that occurs on every single eye contact with the hundreds of strangers passing through each room. To illustrate this unsettling experience, think of the opposite of a rush hour tube journey that also maintains the isolation of that experience, and you're pretty close.

The Enemy leap up on stage and all I can hear was a Libertines impersonation…no real surprises. How appropriate. Considering that this is the celebration of a new era for the gallery, there's something very funereal about this event, as if all these supposed movers and shakers are already looking backwards and marking out what happened only a couple of years ago as the "glory days"; leaving everything new to rot in anonymity. This is exactly what I write as I watch The Enemy:
"Are they too young to know better? Or are they ill, and being lied to by those they trust?"
And I am sorry, but I miss Lethal Bizzle. Quite apart from the fact that grime makes me want to check in to a good long coma, it's my shoe's fault. My apologies to Mr. Bizzle.

Why are we fascinated with those individuals that the papers and the internet, with a lax golden finger, choose to sensationalise? I walk about for an hour looking for people whose image I recognize that I had never met, and would most certainly have nothing to say to. What on earth for? And it seemed to me that this is the truth of the Proud Gallery – it is not where art or music or creativity is displayed. It is where you go to look at this culture we have incidentally built for ourselves, and our place in it (or out of it).

For my part, I feel kinship coupled with disgust. I cannot align myself with a place so obsessed with itself, and yet it was almost certainly vanity that drove me here. At some stage the sole of my shoe falls off, as if feeling so displaced with this over-perfect world that dysfunction is the only response. In fear for the function of my major organs, I depart this grinning theatre, feeling half self-loathing, half revolutionary.

I can't say that the Proud didn't provoke a reaction in me - granted that it was chiefly one of disgust; one that reminded me that publicity disregards merit in art, and that to follow the trail of words more often than not leads you to self-justification in a dark corner. But it was also a reaction of introspection, of intrigue and small wonder. I don't know if a place being accidentally thought-provoking is a good thing or not.

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Sween