3 hours ago
5
For a while there, Robbie Williams was pretty damn insistent that he would just rock all night, DJ. But artistic geniuses cannot live on rock alone, and the former boyband superstar has been looking for other ways to satisfy his pangs of creative hunger. And judging by the awkward, anxious paintings and sculptures here at Moco – London’s newest “museum” – it’s art that he’s decided to stuff his face with.
The big printed canvases of computerised line drawings on the walls are filled with therapy speak, greeting card banter and patronising, meaningless affirmations. An aeroplane flying across a blue sky pulls a banner that reads: “Yes you are self centred, but what a marvellous self to be centred on.” And my stomach starts turning. The words “roses are red, violets are blue, everyone’s a dickhead except you” are written across a cassette tape, while bubble font spells out: “I’m sorry about being incredibly charasmatic [sic] I tried to not be but there was nothing I could do about it.”
Fortunately, he’s provided an “introvert chair” where you can “take a moment to ground yourself and breathe” if all of this powerful, insightful personal philosophy gets too much for you. Exactly what every introvert wants, a single armchair in the middle of an art gallery. And somehow, somehow, that’s still not the worst thing in Radical Honesty, as the show is called. No, the worst thing is an image of a signpost with “you and your limiting self beliefs” to the left and “the life you still could have” to the right. A fork in the road – with every direction leading to a hell where the guy from Take That is giving you life advice.
And there’s more – from an ambient soundtrack of new age chillout music to a big vinyl on the wall that reads: “You are comfortable feeling uncomfortable. Change that.” A paragraph on another wall ends: “Consider this your reminder: the voice in your head matters. Make sure it’s speaking to you with kindness.”
Look, Williams is clearly dealing with some heavy stuff but the work does not seem to fully convey this. A giant hoodie is covered in pockets embroidered with the names of mental health medications; an image of a grinning old lady seems to be the embodiment of his anxiety. A series of canvases show him being awkward at parties, wanting to leave, or staring at himself in the mirror saying: “I forgive you for being a dickhead.” But how much do you care that a mega-millionaire and ultra-successful singer has social anxiety? Do you get a sense of kinship from knowing that a celebrity doesn’t feel comfortable at parties? I think it feels tone deaf and self-important. He’s not well – and being vulnerable and open in public is to be commended. But to present it as art, in a gallery, is to say you think this has aesthetic merit, cultural value.
On a basic, artistic level, the work looks bad and expresses incredibly superficial ideas very poorly. It’s a “live, laugh, love” sign slowly strangling you with its self-importance. It’s an Instagram self-help quote attacking your brain and eyes. It is incredibly bad art: so earnest, so superficial, it’s barely even funny. Poor Williams should never have been put in a position to have the ticket-buying art public come face to face with them.
And yes, it does feels a bit silly to be taking the art of Robbie Williams this seriously. He’s a pop star, not an artist, and maybe it’s unfair to view his work in the wider context of modern and contemporary art. Ronnie Wood and Chrissie Hynde are also rockers who double as awful painters and I’m not going after them. But Williams’s work is being presented in a gallery that is keen to position itself as a legitimate art museum, that thinks its collection of second-rate Warhols and Basquiats that they charge you £20 to see puts it on a level with all of London’s incredible and free art institutions. And now they’re asking you to see Robbie Williams on a par with Jeff Koons and Tracey Emin.
Maybe this is what we deserve. Maybe this is what happens when the arts are decimated, when funding is stripped from vital, high-quality spaces. It leaves a vacuum that invariably gets filled with rubbish, with cynical “immersive” installations, with Van Gogh and Klimt “experiences” and David Hockney light shows, with people trying to fleece you and call it art in the process.
Williams once famously asked: “Does an angel contemplate my fate?” No idea, mate. But this art critic does – and he really hopes it doesn’t involve any more exhibitions.
