A prolific online dater friend of mine sends me message:
‘I’m thinking about coming off Tinder and joining Guardian Soulmates. What do you think?’
I think she must be tired of casual sex and after a marriage proposal.
‘Why don’t you just shift your focus for a bit and wait until you meet someone in real life?’ I respond.
An hour later we’re on her sofa, picking at a giant plate of nachos and checking out the human merchandise on her laptop.
To my surprise, I find lavish Tate advertising all over the Soulmates website. This upsets me for two reasons:
One. I’m hugely uncomfortable with Tate’s BP corporate sponsorship and now I feel like my newspaper of choice is indirectly condoning it by business affiliation. I realise my hypocrisy in still being a regular Tate gallery visitor and remind myself of Jeremy Deller’s point – “This is not a novelty, art has always had connections to power, business and politics’. It’s not okay, but that’s the way it is.
Two. Not so long ago, Tate Modern was one of my favourite first date haunts. If everyone’s doing it, does that mean I have a serious lack of romantic imagination?
Or does it just mean I’m in extensive company for thinking that the gallery space is perfect for heightening sensations between two nervous bodies and minds, eager to explore beyond the doorways of immediate reality. Here, the tensions build between the need for propriety in a public place, the opportunity to view one another from a pleasing distance, and the emotions stirred by artworks. But the visual stimulation of all that industrial architecture and colourful expression can lead two would-be-lovers into dangerous territory…
It is hard to sustain sensible conversation and eye-contact with your companion when suddenly awestruck by Anselm Kiefer’s magical work ‘Lilith’ (1987-89); a vast mixed-media collage depicting Sao Paulo torn apart by the Goddess of destruction. It’s difficult not to have an argument about the influence and importance of Joseph Beuys if your date doesn’t appreciate minimalist visuals and abstract concepts. Above all, in charged company, it’s near impossible not to see phallic and vulvic[?] symbols in every painting, sculpture and installation, where they are far less directly described than in Meret Oppenheim’s infamous furry teacup; Object (1936), and to react with purile jokes and cringey sexual innuendo’s that make you sound like an idiot. (Okay, maybe not everyone behaves like that; I’ll work on my self-control.)
On an even less serious note, let’s imagine what might happen if Vic Reeves and Morgana Robinson (as Julie in House of Fools) went on a date to Tate:
An electrical sensation prickles down Morgana’s spine, causing her to turn. Quickly, Vic shifts his gaze from her shapely bottom to a giant Francis Bacon. Her stomach flutters in response to his proximity: slightly too close to be polite considering there are only three other people in this rather large room. In a stilted mating ritual reminiscent of two peacocks chasing tail, Vic follows Morgana around a corner, her giving him time to keep-up, whilst pretending to be occupied with the curators narrative. They find a cinema space with a bench lining the back wall. Sitting down, separated by strangers, they gaze at the swirling hues flickering across the screen.
Attempting to concentrate on the significance of non-linear, nonsensical film with crotch moistening from the titillation of Vic’s company, Morgana stares straight ahead, a soundtrack of African chanting and confused drum-beats vibrating through her flesh. The irrelevant viewers scatter, two by two. Morgana bites her lip, over-wrought with the frustration of having found sexual symbolism in every brass curve and brushstroke, in every provocative masterpiece. She fantasises that she and Vic will conspire to destroy great art and make love amongst the wreckage.
An announcement rattles the airwaves; ‘The gallery will be closing in twenty minutes. Please make your way to the exits.’ The couple are rooted to the spot, Morgana afraid to stand in case overtaken by giddiness. It’s now or never. Vic slides himself awkwardly along the smooth bench until their tingling thighs rest inches apart. She squeezes her eyes shut and holds her breath in anticipation. Adjusting his thick-rimmed spectacles, he says, ‘Come on then love, let’s get out of here. I’m gasping for a pint of bitter.’
Words and Image by Rachel James