I definitely am, but it’s a good sick if it’s because of Woodsy Bransfield.
Truthfully, I was getting over dusty rose by 2016. Bubblegum and blush started to make me want to hurl somewhere around 2018 - 2019.
The 2020s got much worse. Entrepreneurship, celebrity culture, corporate marketing and grinding hustle all hit a zenith. Pastel pink; Ariana. Beige pink; Skims. Rose gold; Random Internet Influencer. Champagne pink cosmetics, pink diamond lux aesthetics, fuchsia fashion, hot pink products, coral coloured branding. Merchandise, endorsement, partnership. Peony, flamingo, cotton candy. Sophistication, neutrality, glamour. Shell, Taupe, Opal.
It’s a colour trend that will not give up it’s chokehold on mass culture, and opening night of Woodsy Bransfield’s solo show at Neven made me nostalgic for the time when all I wanted was to beat myself (and possibly others around me) with a simple selfie stick.
The splatters would have imparted lovely sweeps of slasher crimson - a juxtapository touch of Pollock to the obvious Warhol references.
Who am I kidding, the selfie stick wouldn’t have withstood the force required to do that level of damage. The types you got from Primark back in 2015 invariably fell apart almost as soon as they came out of the packaging.
You know what I’m getting at right? Where and how they’re made? There’s a reason they don’t cost that much (from your point of view that is) or last that long. Considered a win when they failed before you had your phone in their flimsy grasp. Can’t say it would have mattered though, as the screen would have assuredly already been broken.
Getting back on track, it’s that feeling you get when you’re in some retail space on Oxford St on a Saturday afternoon. Blinded by the fluorescent luminosity of the commercial light fixtures, and uniformly bathed in a multidirectional glow like you’ve erroneously crossed over into the divine. When the ads all blend into one. Everything somehow amplified and washed out at the same time. Too many bodies cluttering and sucking the air out of the space. Bright lights, no respite, eyes watering, stunned silly. The feral animal boxed in itching to be unleashed.
Bransfield somehow manages to morph this feeling and make it fun.
You had to be there basking in the moment. You wanted to be there in the morass of people, the atmosphere of something transient and special happening that night (only that night) in Neven’s space on Cambridge Heath Rd.
Bransfield’s flavour of pop art is a curious thing. This particular installation is quintessentially “now”. The millennial - gen Z consumerist trappings of “being” is neither tediously laboured at, nor are we given a sermon about it. Nobody has the capacity to feel or care about such matters. We all worship a different kind of religion and follow a different doctrine in the alter like space at Neven. The underpinning nihilism of that fact quickly turns into absurd party spectacle. Coveting, the allure of being part of the crowd, wanting what’s hot, thriving on disposability. No one actually gives a fuck about consuming and consuming more if its there for the taking, and that’s actually brutally honest.
Putting your arse on the cushy (baby pink) bench in front of those shelves is revelatory. The cold steel of the vitrines are encrusted with diamanté quotes, We sit not shocked by anything now… My papa says we’re screwed… I don’t know where my truth fits / Into…. Yes. Unapologetically, it is what it is.
Row after row of sunnies glistening are merely reflective of the times; resplendent and replenishable, one size fits all (conveniently), one type for everybody (inclusively). Endlessly hoping our consumption choices can satiate some broken and lost psychological imperatives.
After a while, I really was coveting a pair of Bransfield’s. Unsurprising I admit. Sadly, only 100 were up for grabs; quickly pilfered by the thirsty plebes that invariably comprise a gallery opening throng. Mass produced, free for all, still exclusive none the less. It’s open door, but that door is also revolving.
Judging from the past projects she's been involved in, Neven’s founder Helen Neven has a proven track record of impeccable taste, and if this inaugural show is indicative of what’s coming up on the gallery’s schedule, it’s going to be a must see. Until then, catch this show while you can.
Woodsy Bransfield
Hoping
Sept 29 - Nov 4
Neven
353 Cambridge Heath Rd, E2 9RA
