I came to art slowly, independently, indirectly and, as a result, in a rather unfocused manner.
Or rather, I should say almost independently because my mother, a biochemist, who is deeply interested in the natural sciences and social history, is a museum-goer. We were fortunate to live in day-trip distance of London and she would take me to the Natural History Museum as a small child, where I remember tightly gripping the handrails in an earthquake simulation room, spending hours learning the names of the precious stones gleaming in dark cavernous rooms, and travelling through the glowing centre of a papier-mâché-like model earth on an escalator that, to my youthful imagination, seemed to never end despite, in reality, the ride lasting only a matter of seconds.
The Earth Hall at The Natural History Museum, London. Image: Irid Escent.
She tried, on occasion, to tempt me into the neighbouring V&A, but I found the displays of period furniture, ironwork and ceramics dead and dusty. After the first visit, I remember declaring with great authority that it was absurd that anybody could possibly find such a place full of such boring things interesting. The irony was, of course, that these early experiences unlocked the world of museums to me. As soon as I was able to travel into London independently, I was there every weekend and soon became so knowledgeable of the V&A’s galleries that I was able to recognise when a specific object had been removed from a display or the contents of a vitrine rearranged.
Then, when I turned 16, something life-changing happened. I applied to become a member of the costume department of the National Youth Theatre of Great Britain, travelling into London with a portfolio of poorly realised drawings and haphazardly sewn garments tucked under my arm. My application was successful, and I soon began spending my summers living in London, helping to costume the productions put on by the National Youth Theatre actors, all supported by a grant and then, ultimately, paid employment with the charity.
Suddenly I had eight weeks each year when I had unlimited access to what London had to offer. I realised there were museums and galleries beyond the V&A and spent my evenings and weekends wandering through the corridors of the National Gallery, National Portrait Gallery, Tate Modern and Tate Britain. I encountered centuries of art: the religious paintings of the Italian Renaissance, the fiery beauties of the Pre-Raphaelites and mysterious works of art that seemed to depict nothing at all and were simply displayed under the mystifying terms of ‘American Abstract Expressionism’, ‘Minimalism’ and ‘Conceptualism’. I didn’t know what it all meant, who had made these extraordinary things, or what their historical context was, but I was hooked and have been ever since.
The Turbine Hall at Tate Modern. Image: Robin Webster.
At this stage of my life, I didn’t know what art history was or that it was a subject you could study at university (or even school if you were lucky). It wasn’t until I was well into an English degree that I discovered the department and felt a deep, unwavering pang of envy for those people who were lucky enough to have dedicated their time to studying something that I was only able to pursue as a hobby. Feeling I had missed the boat, I continued my studies, persistently directing my essays and projects towards the visual arts until, one day, I graduated and decided to make art my career. Piecing together what I had taught myself in the years of intensive self-study in galleries, trawling through books and looking at artworks online with internships I had undertaken while studying and my academic credentials, I carved out a place for myself as a writer and assistant curator. It was only then, in my late twenties, that I learnt there was a whole art ecosystem outside of the public galleries, how auction houses worked, and that anybody can go into the commercial galleries peppered across London if you are brave enough to make it past the buzzer doors and intimidating facades of Mayfair townhouses.
Image: Amy Vaughters; Smithsonian American Art Museum.
For me, when growing up, galleries were a space of reflection, a place in which I could learn through engagement with objects, not just textbooks. They opened up new worlds and experiences for me, highlighting social, political and cultural issues I hadn’t encountered before, broadening my horizons and understanding of the dynamics of the world around (and far beyond) me. Art continues to do this for me today.
The value I place in art is its ability to help me respond empathetically to experiences and contexts beyond my own. It does so in a manner that appeals to my intellectual and sensory natures as I respond physically to the lines, colours, forms and textures before me, as much as to the critical and curatorial frameworks that contextualise them. The experience is bodily and cerebral and, for me, this is what makes art one of the most powerful modes of expression. In both my most desperate and most joyful moments, it is art that I turn to and, particularly, the shared space of the art gallery, where I can be both alone and in silent commune with the other individuals engaging with the same objects, in the same place at the same moment in time.
Screenshot of my Instagram account page @artistic.identities
This is why I choose to write about art and believe it should be accessible to all those who are interested in it. It is why I strive to write in a clear and straightforward manner, and why I believe that the experience of engaging with art should not be gate-kept or exclusive to those with a certain kind of knowledge or socio-economic background. This conviction led me to set up the Instagram account @artistic.identities in November 2023, where I share bitesize snippets about artists, artworks and exhibitions in the hope of building an online community who similarly believe in the transformative power of art (and have a penchant for the bizarre!). This blog extends this project in long-form writing, and I look forward to sharing artist profiles, exhibition reviews and spotlight articles on artworks that have had a particular impact on me. I am excited to embark on the next chapter of my art journey and hope you will follow along with me as I navigate the art to come in 2024 and beyond.
Kitty Gurnos-Davies
29 December 2023
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