A visit to Damien Hirst at Houghton Hall, historic home of the Walpoles and the present Lord Cholmondeley
Seeing a vibrant poppy, literally emerge from its green pod, has signalled to me that it is time to write about going to Houghton Hall and Damien Hirst. I went with two close friends instead of watching ’The wedding’ on television. What a beautiful sunny, pleasantly warm day. Driving towards the car park I spied a colourful cube out of the corner of my eye and thought it was an amusing image of ice creams – how wrong could I be! As we walked towards the stables, I was thrilled to see Richard Long’s group of tree stumps, called White Deer Circle, was still there. It had fascinated me the first time I saw it. I had spent hours exploring each stump, marvelling with childlike curiosity at the minute worlds reverberating with the magic of nature. It was very comforting to know it was permanently there to explore again and again.
We made our way to the Cafe for an early lunch, I now realise how important that was. It would not have been wise for me to embark on this journey on an empty stomach. We were greeted as we entered the empty cafe in such an enthusiastic way, I couldn’t resist saying “Well you certainly look pleased to see us”. Was the whole of Norfolk really glued to the television or was this a reflection on Damien Hirst? Either way our lunch of ‘pretty as a picture’ salads was delicious and very peaceful. As we emerged back into the courtyard at ease with the world, there was a large, really large statue of the familiar iconic girl in a caliper called ‘Charity’, the box broken into with the money scattered on the cobblestones. Cynical, and to be expected from Mr. Hirst. At the back of my mind, now realising that the ice cream cube I had noticed before was in fact skin. Hmm, did I want to have a closer look when we left?
I love the familiar walk through the alley of limes from the stables through to Houghton Hall itself and the formal grounds, otherworldly tinged with excitement of what will be discovered there this time. First we went into the south wing gallery with two colourful Spin Wheels of Paint, not particularly original, but appealing in a random sort of way. A broad grin spread over my face as round the corner I saw the pillarbox red woolly dog with squiffy eyes and a bone. Emm, I was intrigued by what next. Lightweight so far?
As we approached the main house, there were two imposing and initially dramatic mythical sculptures on plinths – one of a unicorn and the other of Pegasus, each one with half its body exposing red muscles and sinews. Heraldic symbols perhaps? As I turned to enter the house, almost discretely hidden under the side portico was a black statue of St Bartholomew holding a whole human skin. I gasped as the reality sunk in. Transfixed as if I had been lulled so far by the lightweight energy. As I entered the house itself I came face to face with the Anatomy of an Angel, again with the half and half exposure made of what appeared to be flimsy white material. What a contrast with the stark realism of St. Bartholomew.
As I ascended the staircase leading to the main rooms, I glanced down the stairwell to see a metallic decapitated pregnant woman, Barbarellaesque, half her internal organs and baby exposed. Basically her guts hanging out. Her right hand lying on the floor together with the fingers of the left hand. The whole image felt trapped in the stairwell and representing an act of rage towards women. This was strangely reminiscent of Horace Walpole’s gothic horror novel called the Castle of Otranto written in 1794. Someone being crushed by a giant helmet. The decapitated head was in a helmet. I shuddered especially when I noticed the blinded faces on the stairs looking down at the sculpture. Were the ancestors’ of Houghton resurfacing as ghoulish spectator ghosts?
I followed the signage, slightly disorientated, into a large reception room with naive paintings of coloured dots displayed nonchalantly amongst the grandeur. One of the guides, equally nonchalantly, said that of course they weren’t actually painted by Damien Hirst. Then his quote came into my head “I couldn’t be f***ing arsed doing it” and that he had only originally painted six. He described his efforts as ‘shite’—”They’re shit compared to … the best person who ever painted spots for me was Rachel. She’s brilliant. Absolutely f***ing brilliant. The best spot painting you can have by me is one painted by Rachel.” It was as if a pin had burst some kind of balloon. When questioning the guide as to whether he had in fact been hands on with anything here. I could feel anger beginning to surface as I knew the answer before it came. Admittedly fuelled by my true outrage at the decapitated pregnant woman. Were these dotty paintings ‘new’ at all? Had they been painted by his minions? Did it matter? Somehow it didn’t have the same energy as other artists who had assistants.
My attitude from then on, was passive-aggressive disguised as a outward pose of boredom. The placing of The Dots in this contrasting setting was at best amusing, at worst pointless – oops. The large cases of floating balls grabbed my attention for a few moments, appealing to the child in me until the overriding irritation resurfaced and I couldn’t wait to get out. I went to the reception desk, bought a small guide to the exhibition and protested saying “I am sure I didn’t pay £18 to see the previous exhibitions”. The man looked at me very sympathically and complicitly confirming that I hadn’t – did the Angel nod too?
With a sigh I found myself outside in the sunshine. Like a homing pigeon headed for the slate full moon circle by Sir Richard Long. I wasn’t angry anymore but soothed by its earthy energy and the stress on Sir went back in its box. I get his work and the man who says
“In the nature of things:
Art is about mobility, lightness and freedom.
Simple creative acts of walking and marking
about place, locality, time, distance and measurement.
Works using raw materials and my human scale
in the reality of landscapes.”
Two giant sculptures of a pregnant woman and a man half exposing their skulls and insides, felt harmless and absorbed by the landscape. They gently made me want to show my friend Long’s slate Wilderness Dreaming. To my delight in another part of the garden I discovered for the first time a stainless steel sculpture of a Scholar Rock by Zhan Wang. Another artist I get. His work challenges me to look deeper into myself and at the same time notice how the environment is mirrored in the sculpture and ever changing, inviting me in. Having watched him being interviewed at his studio in Beijing, I am still pondering on his thoughts that art can be used to convey the thinking of the social and political environment of all issues but should not be used as propaganda. It is about the artist’s attitude towards truth. I can’t wait to come back on a duller day and see how it has changed and what it can teach me. A quick look at Hirsts the Hat Maketh the Man – a) certainly not original and b) in a slightly neglected unusually drab part of the garden but loved the pink chestnut flowers hidden there.
Returning to the Stables for a much needed ‘rest’ and drink, I smiled wryly as I saw in the shop that I could buy a dotty plate or a colouring book so I could learn to paint dots too. Really? However I had a delightful conversation with the lady there and she found me the last copy of the Velveteen Rabbit. We shared our mutual love of the story and I left the shop a happy bunny!
My friends and I sat companionably in the garden enjoying our refreshments having a good old post mortem of Damien Hirst at Houghton Hall. Entertaining, or otherwise, our neighbouring visitors – was I holding forth a little too loudly! My friend, Charles, asked if I had seen James Turrell’s Raemar Magenta and when he took us there I was riveted by his room filled with colour and the different experiences it evoked in me. Another artist I get. “I apprehend light — I make events that shape or contain light.” Raemar Magenta certainly did that for me. I have never seen his Skyspace Seldom Seen. I definitely will when I come back. I have also discovered there is a Skyspace in Ireland – already on my list for my next visit. “You could say I’m a mound builder: I make things that take you up into the sky. But it’s not about the landforms. I’m working to bring celestial objects like the sun and moon into the spaces that we inhabit.” How could I resist.
We finished our visit by spending some time in the walled garden and as I regrounded myself in its timeless and ever changing energy, I had that wonderful feeling that the day had fed my soul completely in the company of two good friends. A huge sense of gratitude to Houghton for providing the multi faceted space that can be revisited as many times as I want and on my doorstep.
Now that I have had time to reflect on Damien Hirst, I realise there is something very sad about an old enfant terrible who has never been that original. He has been a true business entrepreneur and entertainer but somehow now it feels hollow, and yet both the hidden St. Bartholomew and the decapitated woman still have a resonance for me. Weirdly I shed a tear thinking of them. Was it worth £18? Of course, the whole experience was worth way beyond that. I did not revisit the skin as we left but I did wave a grateful goodbye to the White Deer Circle.
