Defiant art at the city’s heart
Art changes things. Whether it is a single hand-swept daub of ochre on a cave wall in Lascaux or the statuesque enormity of Mount Rushmore, it changes the location where it is found. Yesterday I went to visit Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red by Paul Cummins and Tom Piper at the Tower of London. Much though I love it, the Tower of London has always looked a bit like a Disney set to me. Surrounded by palaces of finance, rocked by trucks passing by and tube trains underneath, staffed by extras from Gilbert and Sullivan and looking like a remnant from Shrek’s Duloc. However, one of the things which struck me about the poppies’ installation is how they change that. All the surrounding buildings – from today’s steel and glass to yesterday’s wrought iron grandeur, now seem to be dwarfed by the spreading sea of poppies. Note how the spectacular Shard is no more than a bit part in the image below:
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It is as if all the thrusting arrogance of these later buildings must step aside for a little while, like a busy labourer stopping to bow his head as a cortege passes by. I was struck, too, by the way the installation interacts with the created world. The poppies seem to tumble forward like an unstoppable tide, but still the autumn leaves tuck in amongst them on an irrepressible quest for shelter:
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For me, the most poignant image was the one below. Every day the installation is growing by the efforts of an army of willing volunteers. To participate in the construction of this spectacular artwork is a privilege for which many have been keen to volunteer. Of the 888,246 war dead whom they commemorate, though, few were volunteers…
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