When I was much younger, I often fantasized about sharing a stage with Eric Clapton, with his Fender Blackie and my replica wailing Leila. When I was a bit older, I dreamed of sharing New York gallery walls with Takashi Murakami, with his Superflat didactics and my paintings screaming post-war Japanese ethos.
Suffice to say, neither happened. The latter was supposed to be my golden ticket to the elusive world of art as the commerce currency. I’m so far content with living vicariously through the writing and heresay of others. So when I learned about Jonas Lund at Steve Turner, I figured there would be a revelatory glimpse of truth nuggets to be had.Strings Attached, was very tongue-in-cheek. Employing fabric wallpapers as the visual backdrop and hiring sign painters to paint contractually binding (or so I hope) statements that may have escaped the original papers, Lund’s pseudo readymade paintings are cheeky than ballsy in their attitude —just smart, perhaps a little sophomoric and trite, and still witty enough to play an inside joke.
That is not to say that I didn’t enjoy Lund’s light hearted work. I imagine those named collectors smirking as they are, shall I say, poked (remember Facebook pokes?) by Lund’s address. An experience for insiders must be that of a nod of acknowledgement, while the outsiders like myself amuse at this ecosystem that is still very foreign and fascinating.
All images by author for editorial purposes only.