The Makers of Gods

Grayson Perry and Alan Measles at the British Museum

Entering through the domed Grand Court of the British museum, you ascend the central reading room staircase and round the corner. There is the banner for Grayson Perry, Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman, but before you can think to enter the exhibition itself you find yourself face to face with Alan Measles, Grayson Perry’s teddy bear.

He rides resplendent in a carriage affixed to the back of a custom-built motorbike. And what a bike it is; made with exquisite detail, and of uncommonly polished pristine appearance, especially within the walls of the British Museum. It is decorated with a typical Grayson Perry flare: clockwork keys, hearts, jewels, inscriptions (“patience”, “doubt”, “humility”), a triumphant silver statue of Alan as a war hero at the front, and Alan himself at the back in his box carriage atop his ornate silver throne. The saddle is the most bizarrely striking feature; an immediately phallic, oversized pedal-bike saddle, covered in brown leather, adorned with jewels, and an ornamental leather trim. At first glance, the bike could be taken as ridiculous, for every part of it is oversized, and utterly overblown.

Closer inspection reveals telltale wear on the foot rests, for this bike has had its uses outside of the gallery. It is not just an art-object, this bike was made for a pilgrimage. It allowed Grayson to take his teddy to Germany to make amends for the war games they played in their youth. The very idea of the site of pilgrimage ties closely into the exhibition, as does the object of worship, but here, everything is turned on its head, for Alan is undoubtedly the god of this exhibition, just as he is the “benign dictator” of Perry’s imaginary world. Alan is represented in a multitude of forms throughout the exhibition, from teddy, to triumphant warrior, to tomb guardian, and this bike is his pope-mobile. Whilst on one hand, Alan Measles went on a pilgrimage for himself, there is also a sense in which he was being taken for the people to see. This is indeed a vehicle fit for the pilgrimage of a teddy bear god, and it now makes sense that he should be outside of the exhibition, for he is here to be seen by all. However, a quick glance down at the plaque below reveals a startling truth. This teddy, majestic in Measles’ carriage, is not Alan Measles at all. Perry could not bear, it seems, to part with the original, and this is Pinny a “stunt double”. The god of the exhibition is not present, and we find ourselves to be worshipping a false idol. The absence of our god is, at first, conceptually unsettling. However, within the context of an exhibition of artefacts, the presence of an idol starts to make a great deal of sense.

Entering the exhibition, the first object you see is one of Perry’s own vases, entitled You Are Here. It is a playful way to open an art show, especially one at so unconventional a venue. The vase demonstrates all of the craftwork of the exhibition’s title, appearing perfectly formed, and ornately decorated. The vase depicts a series of figures, each having his or her own reason for visiting the show, and for the most part this reveals a surprisingly pessimistic outlook on the part of Perry. “I loved the poster”, states one eager visitor, whilst a hapless student moans: “It’s on my A level syllabus.” The real blow is dealt in the statement of the inevitable modern art grump: “I need to have my negative prejudice confirmed.” There is a clear awareness from Perry of how modern art could be received in this museum context. Although looking around at the audience, I think for the most part, he is wrong.

From here on in, the exhibition is a constant play on the authentic artefact versus the Perry mock-up. At no point are you certain that what you see is the real thing. Perry juxtaposes the motorcycle helmet from his pilgrimage with two other examples of historical helmets, except on closer inspection, the second helmet is also a Perry original, Early English Motorcycle Helmet (1981). Further into the exhibition you are faced with a red felt mask, complete with geeky glasses, magazine collage hat, and plastic teeth. It must be a Grayson Perry intervention, but it turns out to be a genuine Hungarian parade mask.

The guessing game effect is part of the show, as is the juxtaposition of objects in Perry’s curation. Rosetta Vase is a clear modern day nod to the Rosetta Stone, contrasting belief systems instead of language (‘Post-Diana Society’ is my personal favourite). Equally, Tomb Guardian, an evil Alan Measles, sports an erection so large as to be terrifying rather than impressive, but people aren’t shocked by the Guardian’s unduly large organ. It is modern art after all. It is its accompanying piece, a sheel-na-gig, a mediaeval statue taken from an Irish church with a markedly exaggerated vulva (as is characteristic of the style) that elicits shock, and also a little glee, from the audience. These curatorial devices really begin to take effect halfway through the show and you start to forget to look for the Perry-made object amongst the relics, and take it all in equally.

This is the strength of the exhibition. Perry is bold enough to follow a line of intuition that isn’t usually exhibited in museum culture. There is no attempt to document or compare the specific historic significance of objects, and no concern over what might be seen intellectually as a more or less obvious choice. The objects are chosen because they appear, in Perry’s viewpoint, to be different or special; perhaps because they wouldn’t usually be displayed, or indeed, because even if they were shown, they wouldn’t be seen as they are in this case. Perry admits a fondness for art that involves craft. The best artwork for him usually has an element of ‘I couldn’t have made that’ about it. This isn’t fashionable in modern art culture, but conversely, isn’t such a challenging statement when made in the British Museum. By placing his own art behind glass alongside these carefully crafted museum objects gives it a strange twist of significance, and serves as a challenge for Perry’s works to match up to the standard of craft lineage that he is celebrating.

The focal point of the exhibition comes at the end, this is The Tomb of The Unknown Craftsman itself. An ornate, six-foot across, rusted iron ship bedecked with casts of British Museum artefacts. It is made beautifully and is lit to appear like a sacred object. Despite this, the ship doesn’t hold its own quite so well as Perry’s other objects, its ideas aren’t so inherent; however, it does serve a purpose. This is the point at which everything in the exhibition connects. The whole of the show is a homage to the unknown craftsman, and this ship serves as a single, unifying tomb for all the craftsmen and women displayed in the exhibition. It is as if by being made into one character, they can be better represented.

One question remains to be asked: “Where is Alan Measles in all of this?” The answer is found quoted on Perry’s Rosetta Vase. “Monuments are meant to commemorate kings and religions, heroes, dogmas, but in the end the man they commemorate is the builder”, (Jacob Bronowski). Every god must have a tale to tell, and pieces like The Near Death and Enlightenment of Alan Measles show that he is no different. Alan is seen throughout the exhibition, but as with all gods, his image is both fleeting and shifting, and ultimately when we see it, we don’t think of the depicted, but of the maker.

 Image Captions: 

Grayson Perry (b. 1960), Pilgrimage to the British Museum. Ink and graphite, 2011. Copyright Grayson Perry. Courtesy Victoria Miro Gallery, London.

Grayson Perry, The Rosetta Vase, 2011. Courtesy the Artist and Victoria Miro Gallery, London. Copyright Grayson Perry. Photo: Stephen White

Grayson Perry, Our Mother, 2009. Courtesy the Artist and Victoria Miro Gallery, London. Copyright Grayson Perry. Photo: Stephen White