Chapitre XVII. From Stone to Flesh: the Deconstruction and Reconstruction of the British Monument
p. 289-301
Texte intégral
1In the aftermath of the Second World War, the British economy launched a reconstruction effort sustained by a belief in the continuing excellence of its industries. However, decolonisation processes together with the time-space compression of the 1970s seemed to rapidly undermine the remnants of British imperial power. Having failed to modernise its traditional industrial sectors, gripped by acerbic strikes opposing the unions to succeeding governments, Great Britain was engulfed by the economic crisis of the 1970s.1 With the election of Margaret Thatcher as Prime Minister in 1979, a dual movement heralded the rise of a new economic and socio-political paradigmatic shift: the re-affirmation of the imperial values that the downfall of Victorian legacies had appeared to wear away, and the radical scrapping of those struggling primary industries that were to be replaced by a more dynamic financial and service economy.2
2It is within this context of political assertion and economic deindustrialisation that formerly pristine projections of the nation were significantly deconstructed by aesthetic imagination. In urban spaces, the iconic functionalities of the monument offered a privileged locus of transgression for alternative visions of the polis. This paper is concerned with a set of artistic strategies emerging at the turn of the 1980s-90s, that used the foundations of the monument rooted in the 19th century to better diffuse unitary claims and reveal the complex stage-set of the British nation. First, we consider with the project Trophies of Empire how the monument’s connotations could become undermined. The focus is on the skin of the monument. Second, we look at the sculptural commissions of the Henry Moore Studio at Dean Clough in Halifax. At a time when British economic structures were radically transformed, the former Yorkshire factory provided an exemplary reflection on the changing monumentalities of the late 20th Century. Finally, stemming from a discussion of Stuart Brisley and Maya Balcioglu’s Cenotaph Project (1987-90), we look at the extension of the monument’s function into discourses, ultimately addressing but also incarnating the nation’s body.
1. The Undermined Monument
Monument: 1 anything by which the memory of persons or things is preserved, esp. a building or permanent structure 2 anything that serves as a memorial of a person, event or of past times 3 a document, a record 4 a tomb 5 a statue, an effigy.3
3Monuments may take different forms. Yet they are as objects or structures intrinsically linked to the past, and in particular to the preservation and representation of the past. Furthermore, they constitute as such a specific channel to the past, which Laurajane Smith sees as embedded within the very emergence of a distinct field of heritage in Europe in the 19th century. This field, whose archetypal symbolical object crystallizes in the monument, developed in parallel to the modern European nation state, industrial modernity, and 19th century European colonial expansionism.
The sense of the new modern Europe was to be expressed in the monuments that were to be protected and managed for the edification of the public, and as physical representations of national identity and European taste and achievement. (Smith:: 18)
4In Britain, the 1882 Ancient Monuments Protection Act is seen as an important emblematic step in the legislation on heritage, leading the way to a categorisation of heritage sites (see West & Ansell). It also took part in a discursive process of naturalisation and universalisation of such sites, capable of discarding the intricacies of socio-political dynamics and power relations that determined the configuration of heritage preservation and valorisation (Smith: 21). However, the 19th century idea of the monument was grounded on a symbolic and historical affirmation tied to a political order that, as far as Europe and in particular Britain were concerned, crumbled to a halt in the aftermath of the Second World War. The 1970s, the decade of stagflation, precipitated its undermining.
5In the context of the United Kingdom, the probing and eventual undermining of the traditional idea of the monument through aesthetic practices was somehow paradoxically directly enhanced by the election of Margaret Thatcher as Prime Minister in 1979. As commentators of the conservative policies of the 1980s observed, the neo-liberal economic orientation went hand in hand with a resurgence of national affirmation, symbolised by the 1982 Falkland war (see Edgell & Duke). The ethnic riots in the early 1980s in London, Birmingham and Liverpool, the radicalisation of the Troubles in Northern Ireland and the bitter strikes that opposed the governments to the miners’ unions were all symptomatic of a tension at the heart of Britain’s projected identity. The political reaffirmation of historical values grounded on the country’s 19th century modernisation and territorial expansion, was paralleled by a critical and aesthetic questioning of their validity and foundations. The monument, as a quintessential expression of a certain order and vision of the world, could provide an ideal object in which to coalesce an aesthetic critique of its socio-political signifieds. Trophies of Empire, a series of displays and interventions curated in Bristol, Hull and Liverpool in 1992 by the artist Keith Piper, emblematically crystallised such a deconstructive strategy.4
6The five-month artistic programme of Trophies of Empire, coincided with the celebrations of Columbus’Quincentenary, manifest with events such as the arrival of the Columbus Regatta on the Liverpool waterfront. It aimed to interrogate the historical identities and legacies of three British harbour cities whose growth have been intrinsically linked to the discovery of the Americas, British colonial expansion and the slave trade. As Keith Piper recalled in a text entitled “Shifting landscapes” (9-14), Trophies of Empire aimed to deconstruct and counter laudatory narratives built on imperial history, taking as a starting point Margaret Thatcher’s 1978 swamping speech, where the soon to be Prime Minister noted that:
The British character has done so much for democracy, for law, and done so much throughout the world that if there is any fear that it might be swamped, then people are going to be rather hostile to those coming in. (Thatcher in Piper: 9)
7The comments alluded to the threat of an “inverse colonisation”. The various works commissioned explored counter narratives to this statement, unveiling the complexities of the British national fabric. They played in particular on the convergence between the monument and the trophy, an object “preserved as a memorial of victory or success”. The celebratory characteristics of monuments were displaced to better emphasise the unspoken and hidden narratives behind them.
8In one such inversion of traditional monumental functionalities, Juginder Lamba installed in the courtyard of the Bluecoat Gallery in Liverpool a sculpture entitled The Cry (1992). The piece was composed of a wood and metal prison door, its oak uprights carved in a pleading face. From the cell behind it, wooden arms, and enchained hands emerged in a desperate call for mercy; inside the cell, the shape of a woman’s body lay captive and powerless.
The Cry is conceived as a shrine or a temple to all oppressed people of the world who suffered and continue to suffer through slavery, colonisation and the various legacies of Imperialism. History has recorded the fact—its interpretation, however, has often been subjective resulting in the self-glorification of an imperialist national pride where power is equated with military force and conquest, and where ‘civilisation’ and ‘culture’ are seen as the prerogative of the European world, and the rest of the world is seen as ‘heathen’ or ‘primitive’. In a nutshell, for the Europeans the rest of the world was there to be ‘discovered’, grabbed and violated.5
9The work also evoked the colonial past of a city whose fortune in the 18th century had been built on the triangular trade. As the director of the Bluecoat gallery Bryan Biggs pointed out, the site of the display, formerly a charitable school, was itself immersed in this history as the funds for its creation would have been fuelled by the slave trade, with half of its funding trustees at the time being directly involved in it.6
10Bristol commanded similar types of cultural deconstruction, displayed significantly at the Arnolfini, a former tea warehouse at the heart of the city’s harbour’s successful revitalisation. A piece by Carole Drake in particular, Commemoration Day, addressed the hidden layers behind the public image of the city’s 17th century benefactor, Edward Colston. The work was inspired by the artist’s own experience as a schoolchild at Colston’s Girls Schools, where she participated in annual celebrations of Colston’s memory. Drake took Colston’s statue erected in 1895 in the city-centre as a rallying object of enquiry into Colston’s public imagery: a celebrated local figure, whose involvement with the slave trade through his membership of the Royal African Trading Company cast a sombre shadow on the merchant’s public image:
The installation Commemoration Day seeks to expose the denial of Colston’s trading in the lives of African peoples, a fact never openly discussed, acknowledged but treated as a skeleton to be kept under lock and key in some musty cupboard.7
11The artwork was composed of chrysanthemums, a favourite flower of Colston, which were spread on the floor where they were left to wither; it featured a projected picture of the Colston’s girls covering his statue on Colston avenue in 1973 with flowers, and a ‘souvenir’ replica of Colston’s statue, which hung in mid-air, in the trajectory of the projector, thereby casting a dark shadow on the celebration photograph. Furthermore, a soundtrack based on the school hymn “Rejoice ye pure in heart”, was progressively disrupted by an enumeration of slave deliveries to the West Indies. In this piece, the artist revealed how the historic monument functioned as a screening surface, deflecting critical enquiries from its referent. The artwork proceeded to crack the screen to reveal narratives hidden behind the visual monumentality.
12Since the beginning of the 1980s, Keith Piper had been involved in a number of projects associated with the emergence of the Black Arts movement in Britain.8 The project Trophies of Empire organised at the beginning of the 1990s should be seen in the perspective of a decade of works that questioned a certain idea of British civilisation and affirmed the plurality of identities at play within the British nation. With the works of Lamba and Drake, we find two emblematic oppositional aesthetic engagements with the monument, understood as an archetypal and reductive projection of Britishness. Drake takes the solidity of the sculptural monumental portrait, and digs into it to unearth discarded historical layers. The unity of the monument is made plural. Lamba does not work from the traditional monument, but creates a pendant to it. His shrine opposes the fortunes of many to the individual trajectory, the anonymity of the suffering to the celebrated figure. It might be more akin to monuments to the unknown soldier, were it not for its commemoration of those not solely forgotten by the victorious narrative, but also victims of its very unravelling.
2. Changing Landscapes, Changing Monumentalities
Monumental:
1 of or serving as a monument
2 stupendous, colossal
3 lasting (Cassel Dictionary, 1999)
13In 1998 on the outskirts of Gateshead in the North East of England, not far away from the A1 motorway junction, the local council erected a monumental sculpture designed by the artist Antony Gormley: The Angel of the North. The anthropomorphic figure stands 20 meters high and 54 meters wide in the northern landscape thanks to its outstretched wings. It is made of steel and has the rich colour of copper, physically and symbolically connecting it to the regional mining and metallurgic industries. “Pride of place” has been a leitmotiv of official interpretation, for the sculpture commemorates the local industrial past as it greets the upcoming southern traveller.9 The Angel is a monument that signals a changing landscape, in which the mills and the cranes of the industrial revolution are being replaced by metaphorical reminders. The 19th century industrial urban monumentality that so appalled the young Engels finds a second life as a vessel for memory and imagination, rather than machinery production. Throughout the 1990s in Halifax in North Yorkshire, an unusual sculptural project addressed this trans-industrial shift: the Henry Moore Studio.
14The project was an offshoot of the Henry Moore Sculpture Trust, which had been set up in Leeds in the late 1980s.10 It was developed at the initiative of Robert Hopper, who also served as its main curator. The trust functioned as an artistic agency, coordinating interventions in various public spaces in the region. In 1989, it took over vacant spaces in a former textile factory in Halifax, Dean Clough, whose activities had stopped in the early 1980s. There, it would invite artists to produce works that responded to the site:
As an alternative to the white box of the modernist art gallery or the physical limitations of the nineteenth-century museum (Dean Clough) offers large room with access and physical strength designed for mill production. For artists with their roots in post-minimalism and arte povera, the appeal has been powerful and has often resulted in works that are architectural in their ambition, their physical scale, or their conceptual relationship to the particularities of the space. Dean Clough remains a place of work and a place of memory. (Hopper: 38)
15The conversion of former factories and warehouses into exhibition spaces, apartments and offices has been a prevailing trend of the 1990s, favoured on the cultural front by the infrastructural funds made available by the creation of the lottery in 1994. Dean Clough, funded by the Henry Moore Foundation, addressed through aesthetic terms the nature of this epochal change. While the range of works produced at Dean Clough all offer unique contributions to this dialogue, a 1990 sculptural work by John Newling and a 1994 installation by French artist Christian Boltanski crystallised the manner in which the Henry Moore Studio encapsulated the changing monumentalities of the British Isles.
16The work of John Newling was entitled Filters (1990). It consisted of nine rectangular boxes, spread out vertically on about 10 meters of mural space. Each of them contained a material that evoked the history of the building:
The piece is quite a narrative thing. The filters go through from oak, stone, glass and steel, which is really what the mills were made of. Then there is a carpet relating to the Crossley’s period, then a lead gap which is the equivalent to silence. It is the only filter that has a space, all the rests are filled in, and then I jump to modern materials (plaster board and insulation foam) which they are using now, ending with paper. So you go from wood to paper to complete the span.11
17Through a synthetic use of symbolic associations, the filters brought together the entirety of the building’s history, and with it the historical trajectory of similar factories in both Yorkshire and the United Kingdom more generally. Indeed the work resonated with the fortunes of West European industrial economic fabric, facing the challenges of an increasing global competition. It displayed the shift from production to suspension, and from suspension to reconversion, to which it belonged itself. Although the use of materials is economical, it conveys through its sheer reduction and symbolical references the physicality of the past industrial landscape and its present mutations.
18If John Newling’s piece dealt with the building’s changes in function the work of Christian Boltanski focused on the past human experience that still infused the site of the former factory. In a conversation with Chris Sacker from the Henry Moore Sculpture Trust, he commented on his sentiment towards the former industrial bastion:
I am sorry to say this because you are from this town, but it is a very, very, sad place. Also everything is ugly. The town has no elegance, only a heavy physicality. But the more I was there, the more I liked it. Halifax is good because the people are good, because the people are tough and they stay there, and are a community. In this town it is the people who are important, not the landscape or the buildings, but the people who made all that. This was one of the reasons why I decided to do a work about the people of Halifax.12
19The artist initiates a displacement of the focal point from the tangible elevation of the urban architecture to the intangible realm of ‘lived space’.13 Men, their collective lives and memories, were at the centre of an aesthetic reflection that looked at the depth of human histories, rather than at the weight of their architectural dwellings. The work took two distinct forms. First, over a period of five years (1994-1999), the artist created an archive entitled “The lost workers” (Les Travailleurs perdus), which commemorated those who had lost their jobs when the factory definitely closed its doors in 1982. The archive consisted in a series of boxes, one for each former employee, in which objects and photographs were stored which had belonged to them. These had been collected from the local community through an announcement in a local newspaper, the Halifax Evening Courier.14 Second, a very large installation entitled ‘The work people of Halifax 1877-1982’ (Les Travailleurs d’Halifax 1877-1982) was displayed in the studio space at Dean Clough. In one of the rooms, the floor was covered with carpet layers, disused clothing, buttons; in another, tin cans on which were written names of 19th century workers. The display was inspired by a commemorative book, which had been presented to John Crossley, the company’s owner, when he had retired in 1877. On the cover had been inscribed “the work people”. Inside, the book featured 3,376 signatures: signatures from all the factory workers at the time. For the artist, this book ‘said something about being dead’.15
20Yorkshire and the North of England were quintessential industrial territories, where men and landscape were resolutely shaped by the 18th and 19th century revolutions in techniques and machinery. From that age, throughout the land, emerged a corresponding monumentality. The statuary monuments that were inherited from neo-classical aesthetics were supplemented by a sombre grandeur. Victorian art galleries could draw from the vocabulary of the Antique, yet their exact pendant was to be found in the functional and colossal architecture of the mills, the factory, the shipyards and the warehouses of the new industry. These landscapes and this grandeur built over more than a hundred years suddenly became confronted with oblivion as the British economy of the 1980s turned its back on their falling profits (See Nicholas Comfort, Surrender). The works of Gormley, Newling and Boltanski are representative of an aesthetic shift. They address an epochal evolution. Their framework is that of a changing landscape, where service is replacing production in the urban fabric (see Miles & Miles). Secondly, they take the collective as a focal point. Communities rather than singular figures are the object of their memorial stance. To that effect, they bring to the fore the neglected collective histories at the heart of a disappearing industrial monumentality.
3. The Mobile Monument
Mobile: 1 movable, free to move 2 easily moved 3 easily changing… (Cassel Dictionary, 1999)
21Sir Edward Lutyens’ Whitehall cenotaph had originally been designed as a temporary structure to commemorate the British and Commonwealth soldiers fallen during World War I. Public fervour led to its conversion into a permanent war memorial in 1920 (see Greenberg). Furthermore, the cenotaph’s evocative minimalism—a succession of plinths upon one another—led to its reproduction as an archetypal war memorial model throughout Britain.16 In 1987, Stuart Brisley elaborated an itinerant variation from the 1919 model with Maya Balcioglu while in residence at the Imperial War Museum in London. The Cenotaph Project (1987) replicated Lutyens model houses in the museum, and in accordance with its initial temporary nature, displayed the monument in a number of locations in the United Kingdom. The first installation took place in a council flat in St Cuthbert village in Gateshead, which contributed to the definition of the size of the replica: about 1/5 of the original. In subsequent displays, a specific replica model was made and exhibited along previous ones.17 By multiplying the models, Brisley and Balcioglu aimed to emphasize its readymade nature: “the cenotaph becomes a found object”, and to deconstruct its apparent monolithic aura. The other locations were Kettle’s Yard in Cambridge, Dean Clough in Halifax, the Chisenhale Gallery in London, the Aspex Gallery in Portmouth, the Pearce Institute in Glasgow, The Chapter Arts Centre in Cardiff, and finally the Orchard Gallery in Derry in 1990. If the seriality of the replicas could undermine the original’s readability, their displacement aimed to favour an encounter with ‘critical sites’:
The meaning and relative significance of the cenotaph will fluctuate according to belief in the permanency of the United Kingdom, and to the degree to which other national or international interests are present. Evidently views will differ between e. g. the English home countries, the industrial English north east, English speaking lowland Scotland, the Highlands & Islands, English speaking and Welsh speaking Wales, and not least Unionist and Republican traditions in Northern Ireland.18
22The symbolic presence of the cenotaph is conveyed to bring about a reflection on collective identities. The project does not affirm a solid and unmovable British historical entity, but questions the very components of the nation’s identity. With effects varying according to the piece’s location, the emphasis is put on the triggering of discourses. As Penelope Curtis pointed out:
The Cenotaph project seeks to open an argument concerning the relationship between the state, society and the artist through an investigation into the nature and condition of the public monument.19
23Brisley and Balcioglu’s project solicits the archetypal monument, Lutyens’ cenotaph as the war memorial in its most refined form, and through a reference to its fragile origins (the 1919 wood and plaster structure), undermines its wholeness to better reveal the site-specific voices around it. Formally and ontologically, the monument is made mobile.
24This shift from a stable and static to a moving and changing monumentality becomes pervasive from the 1980s onwards in Britain. From One Piece at a Time (1987) to The Joint is Jumping (1996), and on to Turning the Place Over (2008), the artist Richard Wilson devised exemplary moving structures that addressed the passing of an era. One Piece at a Time, commissioned by Projects UK, was installed in the Southern tower of the Tyne Bridge in Gateshead.20 Over five weeks, a thousand and two hundred car pieces that had been suspended to the roof fell one by one to the floor. The industrial past unravelled. The Joint is Jumping was never finalised and remained in a prototype phase. The idea behind it however echoed Dean Clough’s zeitgeist qualities. In conjunction with the celebrations taking place around the Year of the Visual Arts 1996 hosted that year by the regional art association Northern Arts, Wilson had devised a lighting intervention that would have literally made the former Baltic Mill building on the banks of the Tyne blip: the building’s main architectural axis would have been underlined in neon light, a visual emphasis which would have been replicated at a very slight angle upward, so that the alternating illumination of both geometrical profiles would have made the building seemingly jump in the night.21 The work alluded to the upcoming conversion of the Baltic into a contemporary art centre (opened 2002), reflecting the transition of former industrial regions towards cultural reinvention. Finally, Turning the Place Over was installed in Liverpool in 2008 in conjunction with the city’s biennale. A circle cut in a local building’s façade was spectacularly made to rotate upon itself. As with the Tyne bridge installation and the Baltic model, the artist had devised a mobile monument to the drastic epochal urban changes.
25The Fourth Plinth commissions in Trafalgar Square similarly expanded upon these mobile properties. Since 1999, the vacant plinth has hosted a succession of temporary artistic interventions that constantly transform its nature.22 Significantly, Yinka Shonibare MBE used the plinth to subvert and re-appropriate the traditional symbolical associations of the public square. Nelson’s ship in a bottle (2010) had a small scale of the HMS Victory on display inside a glass bottle on the plinth. The sails of the ship were made of Indonesian Batik, a reference to the Dutch exports of the 18th century to Africa.23 The ship might be seen in relation to the Trophies of Empire aforementioned; yet it adds to a critique of civilisation a contribution to a more inclusive conception of Britishness. Antony Gormley also contributed a revealing work with One & Other (2009). By subletting his occupation to members of the public who were left to express themselves as they saw fit for one hour each over a period of a hundred days, the artist shifted the emphasis of the monument from stone to flesh.24 A logical consequence of that shift was to infuse the monument with live pouring energy. The changing collective body of a participatory public rather than the immobile individual features of a historical figure becomes central to a redefinition and revitalisation of the monument.
26As Brisley and Balcioglu noted, the Cenotaph Project had the ability to initiate discussions into the nature of the Union. The display of the work in Derry in 1990 outlined the complexity of heritage in the context of the Troubles. It offered the possibility of interrogating beliefs associated to monuments as iconic bearers of historical values. This aesthetic interrogation of the hieratic characteristics of monuments has been recurrent in Northern Ireland in the late 20th Century. Kerry Trengrove for instance exhibited his Points of Defence at the Orchard Gallery in 1985. The painted panels hung on the walls featured memorial components: crosses, wreaths, rifles held in salute, as well as inscriptions in Latin such as “regula historiae” and “regula ordinis”. Michael Archer commented upon the work’s probing of the memorial:
Trengrove has no better way of describing these works than to call them monuments. But they are not memorials to dead thing. They can be seen as intimations of possible futures arising out of presence dissonance rather than as statement of shared grief at past events…25
27Christianity, history and military traditions are evoked, but the Points of Defence’s belonging remains elusive: Ireland (Point of Defence XIX), Berlin (Point of Defence IV), disputed entities whose torn identities are the object of representation. Their connotations are similar to their material nature: mobile.
28In 1991, the artist Alastair MacLennan performed a one-hour piece on the Diamond Square in Derry city centre. The action extended the exploration of the monument through the two forms of mobility previously underlined: a displaceable object and a moving body, both capable of conveying qualities of the monument while simultaneously radically altering them. In the centre of Diamond Square stand the two war memorials to the 20th century World Wars. As Slavka Sverakova observed, by virtue of their location, these memorials are ambiguous in nature:
A war memorial in most communities would be an acceptable and near invisible face of heroism. However, in Northern Ireland […], such is not the case. At its most extreme, one community’s heroes may be the other’s terrorists.26
29The artist revolved around the memorial in a timely fashion, shifting positions around the monument four times, every fifteen minutes. He carried the colours of both Republican and Loyalist communities, as well as a large globe. Sverakova reports that when at the end of the rotation he placed the globe beside the statue, it broke.27 The work has many layers and should be seen in the light of two other works MacLennan made as part of the Available Resources project that year; however, one can note here in particular how MacLennan provided with this action, in a parallel mode to Brisley and Balcioglu, the fourth plinth and Trengrove, an extension to the existing monument. The performance both questioned the apparent efficiency of the memorial’s message, as well as completed it (thereby showing some of its shortcomings), adding a layer of potential meanings to its structure. Ultimately, it articulated a conception of the monument made flesh.
30Lutyens’s cenotaph bears an inscription: “The Glorious Dead”. The empty vessel is a rallying tribute to the thousands of soldiers who perished during the Great War. It is also a striking addition to an ancient tradition: the commemoration of the dead. Through its essentialist qualities, it conquered the devotion of a nation just out of the first of the large-scale 20th century European conflicts. Beside its artistic merits, the Whitehall cenotaph belongs to its time, to a terrifying tale of strategic warfare.
31In 1994, the artist Ross Sinclair tattooed the words “real life” on his back (Stepken 2). Since then, he has been photographed with his bare back to the camera in diverse locations, from a run down Glaswegian setting (Real life Glasgow, 1994) to its culturally regenerated pendant (Real Life Glasgow, 2002). Beside the representational act, the artist carries his being-in-the-world at all times. Charles Esche, in an essay on Sinclair’s work, brought forward a comparison with the Man Without Qualities and “Robert Musil—portrayer of a real life without qualities, perhaps.”28 The setting for the novel is the Austro-Hungarian monarchy, or rather, its final moments. Ulrich however, the novel’s main protagonist, has foregone any desire to become individually resplendent. He looks at the world through a non-subliminal inscription within it.
32Sinclair’s tattoo inscription belongs to the monumental tradition. Yet, as in the works surveyed of Keith Piper’s curatorial project Trophies of Empire, in the sculptural programme devised by Robert Hopper at Dean Clough in Halifax, and in Brisley and Balcioglu’s variation on Lutyens’s 1919-20 Whitehall monument, it draws from this tradition as much as it displaces it. The values inherited from the shaping of the modern nation states are deconstructed: to reveal that which had been discarded in the selection process of meaningful icons. And reconstructed: by reinserting in the monument the very essence of what had been previously neglected: the plural versus the singular, the roots versus the crown, the body, alive, versus the dead stone.
Notes de bas de page
1 See Nicholas Comfort, Surrender. How British Industry gave up the Ghost, 1952-2012.
2 See Stephen Edgell & Vic Duke, A Measure of Thatcherism: a Sociology of Britain.
3 The Cassell Dictionary and Thesaurus, London, Cassell 1999.
4 Trophies of Empire, Liverpool, Bluecoat Gallery, John Moores University, Arnolfini, Hull Time Based Arts, 1994.
5 Juginder Lamba, “The Cry”, in Trophies of Empire, p. 54.
6 Bryan Biggs, “Introduction”, in Trophies of Empire, p. 5-7.
7 Carole Drake, “Commemoration Day”, in Trophies of Empire, p. 42.
8 See Sophie Orlando, “Le Black Art dans les années 1980, une relation interethnique?”.
9 . Making an Angel, London, Booth-Clibborn, 1998.
10 Henry Moore Foundation Review, n. 1 Henry Moore Foundation, Much Hadham, 1995. The Centre for the study of sculpture had been inaugurated in 1982, and was based on a partnership between Leeds Art Gallery and the Henry Moore Foundation. The Henry Moore Institute was subsequently created in 1993.
11 John Newling, quoted in T. Phillips, “Sculpting our Age”, The Yokshire Post, 5th of March 1990.
12 Henry Moore Review, 1995, p. 8.
13 See Henry Lefebvre, La Production de l’espace.
14 Press release, Christian Boltanski 1995.
15 Henry Moore Review, 1995, p. 8.
16 Stuart Brisley and Maya Balcioglu, The Cenotaph Project, Derry, Orchard Gallery, 1990.
17 <http://www.stuartbrisley.com/pages/28/80s/Works/The_Cenotaph_Project/page:37>;
18 Brisley and Balcioglu, The Cenotaph Project, 1991.
19 Penelope Curtis, in Brisley & Balcioglu, 1991.
20 This will not happen without you. From the collective archive of the Basement Group, Projects UK, and Locus + (1977-2007), Newcastle, Locus +, 2007.
21 For a further discussion of the year of the visual arts see Gabriel Gee, “The Year of the Visual Arts 1996, Local Initiatives, National and Global Trends”, in Inferno, University of St Andrews, vol. XI, 2006-07.
22 <http://www.london.gov.uk/priorities/arts-culture/fourth-plinth/commissions>
23 <http://www.yinkashonibarembe.com/articles/past/>
24 <http://www.antonygormley.com>
25 Michael Archer, “Over Riding Imperatives”, in Kerry Trengrove, Points of Defence, Derry, Orchard Gallery, 1985.
26 Slavka Sverakova, Alastair MacLennan, in Available Resources, Derry, Orchard Gallery, 1991, p. 33.
27 Ibid.
28 Charles Esche, “On the High Road with Ross Sinclair and Some Fellow Travellers”, in Ross Sinclair: if North was South and East was West, p. 150.
Auteur
-
Gabriel Gee
Franklin University Switzerland
Le texte seul est utilisable sous licence Licence OpenEdition Books. Les autres éléments (illustrations, fichiers annexes importés) sont « Tous droits réservés », sauf mention contraire.
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