ISLE OF

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COMPETITION

Turner in his grave

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1913 you were invited to imagine that Turner rose from the grave, viewed the work of art which won this year's prize named after him, and wrote a poem in protest.

Hirst's half-calf must be the most famous example of that animal in art since Poussin painted the Israelites worshipping a golden one. Having revelled in the Turner rooms at the Tate, I thought it my duty as Jaspistos to go and see the Hirst, but by the time I had screwed up the will-power the show was over. I believe it was well attend- ed, but did a single spectator, I wonder, after due contemplation draw in a breath and exhale the word 'Superb'? What I regret having missed was not so much the `artefact' as the comments of both adults and children being 'aesthetically educated'. Meanwhile, let Turner, who died in a cheap Chelsea lodging house under the assumed name of Booth, have his splenetic say. The prizewinners, printed below, get 120 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Basil Ransome-Davies.

A cow and calf are cut in half And placed in separate cases. To call it art, however smart, Casts doubt on art's whole basis.

Conceptual? Yes. The thought, I guess, Is `changing definitions'.

Hirst asks, `Who needs to use David's, Or Fragonard's, or Titian's?'

Once art was done with skill — hard-won, Direct and individual.

These days the aim is instant fame (And maybe just to kid you all).

And therefore now the calf and cow Compose a telling riddle: What's dead, expensive, void of sense, And split right down the middle?

(Basil Ransome-Davies) Dear Sir — Unpainted in these days, The cows at Petworth safely graze; Lord Egremont has not a calf That fears it might be sliced in half; No sheep on Scottish mountainside Is pickled in formaldehyde; Yon Sussex ploughman slakes his thirst Quite unaware of Damien Hirst.

But now he's won this famous prize He may need cutting down to size; I'm really not against the chap (One likes the crapper, hates the crap) And don't begrudge his nice new earner: It's all publicity for — TURNER.

(David Heaton) Though I can sympathise with artists who, On joining forces with the avant-garde, Are pilloried for trying something new (Who better knows an artist's life is hard?), I think, my friend, you've overstepped the mark.

Yes, even I contend you've gone too far, Forsaking paint and palette for a lark And swapping the garret for an abattoir.

I've heard no ships, no countryside, no sea Flow from your brush, not even troubled sky, So you can hardly class yourself with me, A much-respected, if romantic, guy. But I will say no more to stir up strife In case you, in a fit of pique, decide When next you fancy doing a still-life

Unasked, you'll do me in formaldehyde.

(David Barton) Of these the foremost Applicant was Hirst, Who while entitled Best was surely Worst; For base Designs and cruel Concepts fit, Cleavage of Cows appeared to him as Wit. Alas, such Principles are now in place That Bricks assume a Beauty, Grunge a Grace. The fiery Seascape and the shadowed Bay, The pearly Textures of an English Day, Are doomed to Desolation and Decay ... Great Hits are those with Madness on their side; What Fools applaud let Thinking Men deride; Such Mountebanks with Wealth and Honour blest May have their Day, but Time will be the Test. A while such Butchers take their worthless Ease, Who, as the Fashion shifts, will cease to please.

(Annie Brooks) I am, I think, a liberal kind of shade.

I don't object to folk, because they've made Films of their tripes, declared their racehorse Art, Or taken farmyard animals apart; Painting, not Art, is what I recognise.

But why must it be called the Turner prize?

And titles, now: 'Mother and Child Divided' Is fine, but lacks the sweep of some that I did; I'd call it: `Friesan Heifer and its Calf Each Longitudinally Cut in Half Kept in a Bath of Clear Formaldehyde, Encased in a Glass Exposing their Inside, Storm Coming On'. That's what I call a title. Of course, the public, reading the recital, Might feel they could dispense with the delight Of viewing it. But then, they might be right.

(Noel Petty) Strange are the ways of critics; in my days `Half-blind', they called me, 'half demanding praise, And half deserving to be blamed and pitied'. To be consistent with our new recruit Will they not tell him he is half a brute, In consequence half-human and half-witted?

(Paul Griffin)

No. 1916: Tra-la-la In James Lees-Milne's delightful memoirs he reports that he walked home from an unsuccessful evening singing, 'I cares for nobody, no, not I,/ And nobody cares for me.' You are invited to continue the song for a maximum of another 14 lines. Entries to 'Competition No. 1916' by 18 January.