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Each month, we invite élite art critic Braithwaite Merriweather to appraise the box art of the latest game releases. In between his time spent wandering the corridors of culture, Merriweather writes on a freelance basis for various publications, including Snitters and Nuneaton à la Carte. If you are unaware of his prowess, rest assured; he’s on a crusade to educate the unwashed. Put simply, he’s a man that needs no introduction.
Having made it successfully back to London, I find myself greeted by a wave of heat rivalling the one I seemed to fly from. I’ve made it back to my flat, but, to my eternal dismay, the fan that was lurking in the loft is a paltry thing. I am reclining on my armchair, which is sadly made of leather. I can feel myself fused to it, drooping and malformed, like one of Dalí’s clocks. My brain feels as if it’s evaporating, leaving my head through my ears as curlicues of steamy, fevered thought. I do hope this venerable website sends me something surreal this month. It’s all I’ll be able to cope with.
Control
The triangle on the front cover of this first work is upside down, but don’t let that deceive you for a moment. What the people behind this work have slyly done – in a fashion not dissimilar to a swan that sees fit to pluck a sandwich from your hamper, smug in the knowledge of its Queenly protection – is pay homage to Giorgio De Chirico’s ‘Metaphysical Triangle,’ a work of sublime surrealism. De Chirico made a world within his triangle, planting a pink hand in the foreground as if to claim ownership of this domain. ‘It’s mine,’ De Chirico seems to suggest – rather like my local council when it sent me a rather domineering letter of complaint regarding the pavement outside my property, upon which I orchestrated a miniature gallery of my recent works.
Anyway, there is also a hand on the box art for ‘Control.’ It belongs to a woman, who is clad in dark leather. She seems to be holding up her hand in a similar effort to bid us to stay away. But why? Lurking within the bounds of the triangle behind her is a vortex, a billowing, blood-coloured cloud wafting upwards as if from a burst pipe in Hell. (Come to think of it, it makes sense that there would be plumbers in Hell.) All in all, I find myself amused but not swept away by this work. It seems less surreal and more calculating, and cold – rather like a certain woman and a certain solicitor, both of whom tried to exert control over me, and both of whom I have long left behind, turning my back on a blazing wreck, just like this leatherbound lady. Good for her.
Astral Chain
Going back to my street-mounted gallery, it wasn’t long before the council sent their minions – like sentries of the Stasi – to dissolve the entire enterprise. The pair of dimwits that showed up were clad in fluorescent urine vests and pathetic hats; they weren’t actual police but some sort of council-vested sub-species of street botherer. Not dissimilar to the duo that adorns the box art for this work. ‘Astral Chain,’ it’s called, though in truth it seems less of a kind with stars than it does to a black hole: one that has sucked in any sign of ambition and joy. These two morons look like children, encrusted with plastic police toys and the joylessly dull, painfully earnest expressions of those for whom there is nothing more important than pretending to be a policeman.
I can find nothing, in Astral Chain, of any redeeming note. It could almost be interpreted as a rebuke to De Chirico – and, therefore, to the artists behind ‘Control.’ Consider the background: in place of the triangle, which before was a window, we have what looks like a scowling, white-eyed child’s toy. We can only pray that it’s one of those that can transform into a car and that it does so, and drives off, as quickly as possible, over a cliff. I suppose I can take some comfort in its many shades of blue, on a hot afternoon such as this, and this work is certainly surreal. I’ve been thinking about it on and off for the last few hours, picturing that beast with the glowing eyes and shuddering at the thought of such childish nonsense finding its way onto a front cover. Mind you, there’s plenty of that in the Tate Modern.
Man of Medan
It’s fitting to end this month’s crop with a more sombre work – something to bring me back down to Earth, even something to cool me with thoughts of my inevitable demise. (Allowing, of course, for some measure of immortality stemming from my artistic and critical achievements.) I must admit that, at first glance, this work – with its enormous foreboding skull – took me by surprise. The last time I was confronted with such an abrupt reminder of my own mortality was when I was almost hit by a car. Granted, there was a lollipop man in play, but he didn’t see the eyes of the driver that day, and they’ve remained with me ever since – a constant reminder of my own resilience and valour in the face of death.
This ‘Man of Medan’ takes its cues from a rich and deathly heritage, from the 17th Century. It draws from Vanitas Still Life, by Pieter Claesz. The skull skewed to one side, the missing jaw, and the junk – a flower, a compass, and a candle – scattered around, reminding us (just as that driver reminded me) that death lurks in the midst of the everyday jumble. This ‘Man of Medan’ – which perhaps refers to the rather gormless-looking fellow encased within the cranium – also features a compass; in fact, half the skull is a compass. It must be a comment on the directionlessness of thought; the ship, which is visible just next to the lost-looking gentleman, reminds me of me: adrift, graceful, perhaps haunted (in my case by an alienating intelligence), and beating on against the tide of mediocrity.
