The Coens, Gilbert and George, and let us not forget, the insatiable public presence of Jedward, all have forged successful careers out of double acts based on the supposed shared creativity between siblings (real or imagined). The combined twisted genius of the Chapman brothers, who’ve spent over a decade tinkering with the darker realms of the human mind, has been ruptured for the White Cube’s new show. Jake and Dinos have creatively parted ways for the last year, leaving the art world to question with baited breath… would Hell (the title of the Chapmans’ famous sculpture of Lilliputian Nazi carnage) be unleashed once more, or would the chattier Jake be all talk without the brooding talent of Dinos? It is perhaps something of an anticlimax that there is little to differentiate in quality or content between this show, and previous combined efforts. As it turns out, unlike Gilbert and George whose art, and indeed daily routine, is indivisibly bound up in the duality of their relationship, Jake and Dinos are creatively separable. It just so happens that they are so absorbed with the same concerns, and means of expressing them, that they might as well not be. Whilst it seemed to please visitors to play an (inevitably monotonous) guessing game as to which brother was responsible for which pieces (I’d wager on the illustrations being Dinos’, and the cardboard sculptures belonging to Jake) it bears little relevance to this visually commanding and wittily iconoclastic exhibition. Ghoulishly overseeing the giant dictatorial cardboard sculptures and sizeable collection of illustrations at Mason’s Yard, are an army of life size black Nazi figures, flesh stripped and grins bared. Some might yawn at the continual Nazi presence in the Chap-
mans’ work: aside from the swastika-shaped Hell, their 2008 show, If Hitler Had Been a Hippy How Happy Would We Be, saw 13 of Adolf’s puerile watercolours daubed with smiley faces and psychedelic rainbows. Whilst Mason’s Yards sadistic figures’ swastika badges have been replaced with unsettling acid house smiley faces, their identity is without question. Nazi overkill it might be, but I still found these figures genuinely unsettling. Most particularly, after accidentally apologising to one particularly freakish officer for stepping on his booted toe amongst the crowd. The fact remains that as symbols of the disturbing transgressive potential of man, there really is no other such visually commanding comparative. Over at Hoxton Square the onslaught continues, both in terms of the exhibition and, as the second leg of Thursday’s private views, the revelry. In Jay Jopling’s ivory tower, the mood was suitably uncouth. Upstairs, Natalia Vodianova shamelessly filled the cube’s glass walls with cigarette smoke and the artists basked good naturedly in the boozeenhanced alarm of the attendees coming face to face with a child horribly disfigured by a wolf’s snout. Employing another favourite Chapman theme – the violation of childhood innocence – Hoxton Square’s tracksuit-clad infant mannequins cluster with disconcerting aggression in the main gallery. As with the Nazis, there is nothing particularly new here, the Chapmans have forged a career out of anatomically disfiguring depictions of children by replacing their features with sexual organs. However, it is still triumphantly executed, and the lone sulking child on the gallery stairs provoked a ripple of horrified squeals from unsuspecting observers. Hitler and grotesque kids checked off the ‘few of the Chapmans’ favourite things’ list, religion bashing is surely up next.
Inevitably, prevalent throughout is the absorption with blasphemy. As a largely secular audience, this has arguably lost the power to shock, however the camp Virgins and Jesus icons daubed with an unforgiving Chapman brush – exorcist tongues, popping eyeballs, ostentatious drops of glittery blood – are constructed in a way which may not shock, but definitely affords guilty delight. If they cared enough to do so, the Chapmans will have to answer to those who claim their will to shock, 14 years after the YBA’s stormed the public arena with Sensation, is verging on becoming outdated and gratuitous. At Mason’s Yard an aroused KKK figure contemplates a Brueghel the Younger painting which has been the victim of a subtle Chapman interference; twisted animal features and overt sexual deviances have been added to the Flemish pastoral scene. Whilst this might appear a warrantless attempt at upsetting the conservative faction, Breughel would most likely have approved. His work is often touched with a disturbing habit of appearing on first glance to be a jolly sixteenth century scene of village life and, on closer inspection, revealing babies being horrifically impaled on Spanish bayonets, watched by their restrained mothers. As is so often the case, what appears modern in concept, is really new only in execution. Emotionally, there is nothing complex or subtle here, but the show is a rollicking ode to London’s continuing love affair with, for want of a better label, the YBAs. Both galleries’ private views were rammed, and this wasn’t just the consequence of free beer and the presence of a post-honeymoon Kate and Jamie! People were genuinely excited to see the show and absorbed it to a far greater extent than is often the case at a private view. Dodging the intermittent bird crap of an ominous band of ravens and coming face to face with nightmare-inducing Nazis engaged and entertained in just the way this sort of show should: not taking itself too seriously. Jay Jopling and Tim Marlow’s impeccable installation further reinforces the continued strength and resurgence of the 90s British art scene. Whilst Saatchi has increasingly drifted from his old hunting ground, favouring contemporary China and India for his latest exhibitions, Jopling stands firm (last year alone White Cube showed Damien Hirst, Cerith Wyn Evans and Marc Quinn). White Cube, is not only opening a new box of tricks in Bermondsey St next year, but has just announced a Hong Kong gallery opening in 2012. Coupling this with Emin at the Hayward and Hirst at the Tate in time for the Olympics, there is no denying the continued public appetite for the Chapmans and their peers remains, and if anything, is growing. Ultimately, Jake or Dinos Chapman remain gloriously disturbing even to the desensitised art crowd – combining close, if not subtle, observations with awe-inspiring aesthetic impact, and never failing to produce a nervous laugh.