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Penzance to St.Ives by Rail

From:     Ben Zanoe
Category: Art
Date:     06 January 2009
Time:     07:59 PM

Review:

St.Ives, even the po-faced Tate seems affable as the sun shines into every icy fissure, after being
mortally deranged by some really odd reproductions in Penzance Railway Station, beckoned by the
herald angels to Hilton Youngs moment, alas diminished, now like a field of exotic blossoming
tulips, unattended, a receiving house sorrounded by the corporate soliloquy of Cold fish    -   I
settled the subsequent bile with a satisfactory coffee and view at Pednolver Hotel Bar, striking
just the right note as you emerge from St Ives BR .
Through the narrow lanes of St Ives everything looks prim and slightly less cloying than the
Penzance Railway Station interior, The Wills Lane Gallery re emerges now retaining it's quiet power
just off Market Square where Bryan Pearce painted his remarkable observations as he scoured each
line of mortar or the edge of anything real / imaginary, now Wills Lane Gallery allows itself a
multi media approach, theres a bit more gallery space and a cluster of unknown  names in with Maggi
Hambling and Sheila Oliner, predictable but well suited to this type of wall hung work, theres
something lost but something gained beneath this jungle of global economic slowdowns, not quite the
vibrancy of the Belgravia Gallery but certainly not stifled either. There is a pale imitation abroad
as painful as it may be to suck venom from the wound, there is little to commend the ahnodonia as
the perpetual golden era is celebrated, the sun climbs it's low winter meridian, Once upon a time
the student Hockney tried to cash a cheque with Barbara Hepworth, both Yorkshire artists gave
neither a reception for long shrift, consequently Hockney's view of St Ives is based on his own
golden era, Hockney has retained his dignity and illogically renewed himself, St.Ives took to the
red light district when others were doing evening classes in cultural identity, Penzance on the
other hand is a brazen slut, both loom through the afternoon shadows shunned by leisure hatted
families. 


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