Meagre quota of verbals to allow time for the images to drain into their beds, ooliths straining for procrustian tilt ... STONEHENGE! Mindblowing propinquity of the unimaginably ancient on Salisbury Plain. Persistently raided over the centuries for scaled-down modern interests incapable of megalithic spectacle, the epochal haul from South Wales. In 1836, John Constable painted a watercolour of Stonehenge, placing its tight-packed circus beneath a sky of apocalyptic monochrome rainbows in doubletake duplicate. The old stones creaked toothily, a ruined abyss for romantic projection. Today Constable's watercolour is stored in the Victoria & Albert Museum Department of Prints, Drawings & Paintings. It is available in multiple postcard form to alert the public to the national hoard. Stonehenge as a heritage so primal it makes the water colourist quake. Like his greensome landscapes - and like tourist postcards of Trafalgar Square - Constable's Stonehenge is a crackling magnet, attracting the immediate litter of the current mind. Teacup stickers and Metro tickets acquire monumental status, wreck the romantic sublime of Constable's Winsor & Newton washes. Detournment - borrowed without apology from Asger Jorn and Claes Oldenburg - is here used to make average desk flotsam dance across the aeons. As Frank Zappa pointed out, in a universe of rates, everything is a matter of scale. DO you matter? Out To Lunch 13-i-2002
















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