We were dreaming, the centuries flew past at a steady pace, and the turtle-necking need for dancing on the graves of dead artists eventually reared its filthy head – a bit of a thank you, and fuck you, I suppose. It was when these guys moshed on the mausoleum of Pierneef that my interested was aroused. Everybody loves a good Pierneef and this is all very Rock & Roll.
This reviewer distinctly recalls a moment when cultural provocateur, Kendell Geers, prompted a stale ideology of ‘killing the father’ in an eminent Cape Town watering hole. The ACG did this by mistake. In ‘AVANT CAR GUARD bury J.H.P. “Kendell” Geers, 1967 – 1998’, an image depicting the burial of the KG, the ACG looks a bit sad and a bit lonely, and applies the Pierneef initials to the grave stone. Mmm.Initially the piece had impact. But I can’t tell you why. I didn’t really understand the show. I asked some other people and they didn’t either. The schizophrenic relation to their own work might be the saving grace. But maybe I am just being generous.For the specific exhibition in question, ACG created a literal division – ‘Us and Them’ (yawn). The parting and pairing of their now exhausted imagery in immaculate print, apposed by the boys hiding behind a little fort in a little space for the duration of the opening of a little show – hiding from themselves. It’s all a bit silly really.The downfall of the exhibition is located in the stack of dated catalogues on display and for sale. I wanted a new one. This is a possible case of overprint and stock sale as nobody came to the book launch at Bell-Roberts earlier this year. Or maybe it was last year. Nobody is that interested. But thanks for the book.As for their attempt at a long dark autumn of modernism – a tree shedding primary coloured leafs – the show does not really hit the nail. But they are not really trying to do this. According to the press release they attempt at ‘a sincere act to invent something insincere’. The astute observer would note that this is a bit of codswallop, and a clever and aesthetic guise in which to perform a minimal content, shallow substance, circular navel gaze of the art-world. As one can only but ponder the shelf life of such a puerile attempt at heavily dated relational art might hold, the work remains miles ahead of the artists’ individual praxis.It’s all getting a bit boring. It’s not quite Dada and it feels fantastic.