From one of the most lauded artists of his generation comes a
purging soliloquy: a profound nowt delivered in some spent
afterwards. Scorched by senility and nostalgia, and wracked by all
kinds of hunger, Ed Atkins' Old Food lurches from allegory to
listicle, from lyric to menu, fetching up a plummeting, idiomatic
and crabbed tableau from the cannibalised remains of each form in
turn. Written in conjunction with Atkins' exhibition of the same
name, Old Food is a hard Brexit, wadded with historicity,
melancholy and a bravura kind of stupidity. Ed Atkins is an artist
who makes all kinds of convolutions of self-portraiture. He writes
uncomfortably intimate, debunked prophesies; paints travesties; and
makes realistic computer generated videos that often feature
figures that resemble the artist in the throes of unaccountable
psychical crises. Atkins' artificial realism, whether written or
animated, pastiches romanticism to get rendered down to a
sentimental blubber - all the better to model those bleak feelings
often so inexpressible in real life.
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