That womann talks a load of nonsense.I did put my time in, at college, learning artspeak, I'm happy to say I learned to reject much of it, and that largely due to one of my tutors, George Owen-Jones, who was larger than life and twice as scary.Every week, a small group of us would troop into his study, a treasure cave of interesing thins, sketches, miniatures, and, for a couple of hours we'd discuss art. What we'd seen recently, what we were studying, the exhibitions we visited, and, of course, part of that was to choose one piece, and dissect and critique it mercilessly.And then, the worse ordeal. Each of us had to proffer their sketchbook, and George would leaf through it, harrumphing. Then he'd hold it up, open at a page, any page. "Tell us about this", he'd say.And you had to explain. What you were seeing, explain every mark, every touch on the paper. I had learned, at school, to hide the shortcomings of my draughtsmanship behind shading, shadows... Not here, "Meaningless scribble!" he'd roar, "Don't touch the paper unless you have something to say!" "A weak line's better than a dishonest line!"So. Amy.First, I did not like her at all. Not as a singer, and definitely not as a person. A self-inflicted train-wreck sliding toward an inevitable end. A brief bright glow, when she looked as if she had potential, then a splat into the dumpster of failed life. Well, actually she rather trampolined from dumpster to dumpster, until she plopped into the last one.The painting? Hm. Looks a bit like the mass-produced wall-art of the seventies. I don't see it as giving any deep insight, nor do I see anything special in the technique. Obviously the curator/narrator and I don't agree. And the acquisitions people who funded it.Bleh!
I thought Amy was a genuine talent. Love her music. Too bad about the rest. The painting is godawful, isn't it?
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