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ode on a grayson perry urn tim turnbull
ode on a grayson perry urn tim turnbull
Hello! What's all this here? A kitschy vase some Shirley Temple manqué has knocked out delineating tales of kids in cars on crap estates, the Burberry clad louts who flail their motors through the smoky night from Manchester to Motherwell or Slough, creating bedlam on the Queen's highway. Your gaudy evocation can, somehow, conjure the scene without inducing fright, as would a Daily Express exposé, can bring to mind the throaty turbo roar of hatchbacks tuned almost to breaking point, the joyful throb of UK garage or of house imported from the continent and yet educe a sense of peace, of calm - the screech of tyres and the nervous squeals of girls, too young to quite appreciate the peril they are in, are heard, but these wheels will not lose traction, skid and flip, no harm befall these children. They will stay out late forever, pumped on youth and ecstasy, on alloy, bass and arrogance, and speed the back lanes, the urban gyratory, the wide motorways, never having need to race back home, for work next day, to bed. Each girl is buff, each geezer toned and strong, charged with pulsing juice which, even yet, fills every pair of Calvin’s and each thong, never to be deflated, given head in crude games of chlamydia roulette. Now see who comes to line the sparse grass verge, to toast them in Buckfast and Diamond White: rat-boys and corn-rowed cheerleaders who urge them on to pull more burn-outs or to write their donut Os, as signature, upon the bleached tarmac of dead suburban streets. There dogs set up a row and curtains twitch as pensioners and parents telephone the cops to plead for quiet, sue for peace - tranquility, though, is for the rich. And so, millennia hence, you garish crock, when all context is lost, galleries razed to level dust and we're long in the box, will future poets look on you amazed, speculate how children might have lived when you were fired, lives so free and bountiful and there, beneath a sun a little colder, declare How happy were those creatures then, who knew the truth was all negotiable and beauty in the gift of the beholder.
Hello! What's this? A tacky vase
made by a wannabe Shirley Temple showing stories of kids in cars on bad estates, the Burberry-wearing troublemakers who drive their cars wildly through the smoky night from Manchester to Motherwell or Slough, causing chaos on the main roads. Your flashy depiction can somehow show the scene without causing fear, like a Daily Express report would, can remind us of the loud engine roar of cars almost breaking down, the happy beat of UK garage or house music from Europe and yet create a feeling of peace, of calm - the sound of tires and the nervous screams of girls, too young to understand the danger they are in, are heard, but these cars won't lose control, crash, no harm will come to these kids. They will stay out late forever, energized by youth and excitement, on metal, music, and confidence, and speed the back roads, the city roundabouts, the wide highways, never needing to rush home, for work the next day, to bed. Each girl is attractive, each guy fit and strong, full of energy which, even now, keeps every pair of Calvin’s and each thong full, never to be deflated, playing risky games of chlamydia roulette. Now see who comes to the grass edge, to drink to them with cheap wine: troublemakers and cheerleaders with cornrows who encourage them to do more burnouts or to draw their donut shapes, as a signature, on the faded roads of dead suburban streets. There dogs bark and curtains move as old people and parents call the police to ask for quiet, to ask for peace - peace, though, is for the wealthy. And so, thousands of years later, you flashy pot, when all context is gone, galleries destroyed to dust and we're long dead, will future poets look at you amazed, think about how kids might have lived when you were made, lives so free and full and there, under a slightly colder sun, say How happy were those people then, who knew the truth was flexible and beauty was in the eye of the beholder.