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Monday 1 December 2008

Presentation over content

Blood on Paper: The Art of the Book
V&A, until 29 June

This exhibition has been jointly curated by Rowan Watson from the V&A and Elena Foster, founder and director of Ivory Press, a commercial venture. Collaboration between a museum and commerce inevitably affects the impartiality of any survey, and introduces a conflict of interests. Only 40 per cent of the exhibits come from the V&A’s own marvellous collection (the National Art Library). Out of a total of 60 exhibits by 38 artists, nine works are on loan from Ivory Press, which include a suitcase of replicas from Francis Bacon’s studio. This can hardly be said to be an artist’s book, however far you stretch the definition. Bacon would have laughed himself hoarse. A selection of the detritus from his studio floor has been collected and replicated in a limited edition. Interesting as research material, perhaps, though I don’t think the average researcher would be able to afford it. It’s really a kind of posthumous artistic tuft-hunting, souvenirs for the wealthy. Then there’s a Noguchi book from Ivory Press which is also posthumous — a set of facsimile photographs. Another facsimile production from Ivory Press is a big boxed effort of Chillida’s drawings. The original concept was Chillida’s but it was executed after his death.

To me these productions don’t feel like real artists’ books. For the authentic frisson, I turned to Robert Motherwell’s illustrations for Three Poems by Octavio Paz. ‘Wind/on the dusty corners/turns the papers/Yesterday’s news...’ There were experimental things by Anish Kapoor that looked like slits, and a childish installation of plaster snowballs thrown at the wall by a sculptor who calls himself (rather appropriately) Not Vital. I preferred to look at the real books by Dubuffet and Sam Francis, the Rauschenberg illustrations for Robbe-Grillet, Sol LeWitt’s minimalism and Ed Ruscha’s famous books of Gas Stations and Swimming Pools. Even Richard Long’s mud handprints (1984, Coracle Press) held more interest. The catalogue is a big limited-edition box published by Ivory Press (£45), filled with reproductions on different coloured card. Like the exhibition, it’s a dismal triumph of presentation over content. Surely the V&A can do better than this? A proper selection of artists’ books from its own first-rate collection would be a start.

More articles from: Andrew Lambirth | this section

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