Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Carson Holler @ Tate Modern

For further proof that kids make good art critics, go play on the Carson Holler slides at Tate Modern (that 'o' should have a thingy on it, only I don't know how - sorry)

As minifig and I stood waiting for the doors to the gallery to open on Tuesday morning, a hoard of squealing, grinning children arrived, pressing noses and fingertips up against the glass like shopaholics at the Next Boxing Day sale. One child even did a spontaneous body-pop on seeing the slides (I wonder if he's cool or if he gets bullied for such things?)

If I could do the robot, I would, to show my approval of these wonderful shiny, glossy slides. Juddering, cold and very fast in practice, I would recommend donning the knee-pads and protective head-gear on offer, but whatever you do, just make sure you go. It's like...going on a massive whirly big and scary slide very very fast and screaming bloody murder in a very public, often rather quiet place. They encourage giggly conversations between strangers (once you've both been on the Level 5, you've bonded), have whipped up some serious excitement about hanging out in a gallery (and not because everyone thinks they are vulgar/crap/waste of money) and above all, have made Tate Modern an altogether noisier place.

I wish modern art galleries would pipe drum and bass, free jazz, punk or whatever they fancied so long as it wasn't 'mood music' into each room. When the V&A gave me a pair of headphones for their Sssh! exhibition I had the greatest time in an exhibition ever - and I made friends with the woman dancing with me in the Greco-Roman room (strictly for the duration of the exhibition tho' - I don't dance with strangers in daylight sober). Art galleries are so much better when people aren't tiptoeing around them all the time - how are you supposed to get excited about something when you're not allowed to sing and dance about it?


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