Behind the scenes at the new exhibition at The Hepworth.

There’s something fascinating about going into an art galley before an exhibition is ready for the public. Things aren’t in the right place, stuff isn’t finished, bits and pieces lie inexplicably all over the shop, and there’s always a guy with a screwdriver between his teeth, paint of several decades on his dungarees and a harassed expression on his face. A noticeable voltage of dread tingles in the atmosphere – maybe they’ll not pull it off this time! And frequently it’s hard to tell which of the bits and pieces will end up as the art. Admit it, these days it’s sometimes hard to tell.

Last night I went to The Hepworth for a “behind the scenes” bloggers event organised by Culture Vultures – apparently we shouldn’t refer to it as “behind the scenes” for some arcane reason that escapes me now, though I just did, twice. I took along my mate Harvinder – my drinking buddy, chef, and partner in comedy, whose normal idea of a cultural evening is quiz night at The Broadway – and my Twitter friend Hazel, who hasn’t lived in Leeds that long (ahem, I’ll let Hazel have right to reply on that one.) Neither had been to The Hepworth before. Both have promised to blog . . .

The scene that we weren’t supposed to be behind was the Spring Exhibition, featuring work by Heather and Ivan Morison, Ben Rivers, and David Thorpe. The best thing about these bloggers events is that you get to meet the artists (occasionally) and, more importantly, the curators who chose the work and help put the show together. The curators talk about the art, and it’s usually a damn sight more revealing, engaging, and understandable the the sort of material most galleries shove in your hand or slap on their website.

The first work we were introduced to was by David Thorpe. I have to admit it wouldn’t be the sort of thing I’d normally spend much time with. I have an absolute intolerance of the Arts and Crafts movement – playing the peasant is all very jolly if you’re a well educated, independently wealthy, backward looking member of the upper classes, but personally I would have put William Morris in the stocks as an enemy of the working classes and made John Ruskin plough a muddy, uphill field for eighteen hours a day with nothing but a whittled stick then see how much he’d whine on about industrial inventiveness. Being against labour saving machinery is all very well as long as you’re not the one doing the labour. So anyway, I’m not naturally disposed to swoon at the rhetoric of authenticity and don’t normally drool over the hand-made. I did find the curator’s passion for the work infectious though and found myself stroking one of the large tile pieces and nodding approvingly, “yes, this must have taken a really, really long time to make . . . a really long time.” The work was attractive, inoffensive to look at, and I enjoyed the narrative; but I found myself wondering where decoration ended and art began (and the fact I almost said “mere decoration” gives me away as an unrepentant modernist.)

We were taken to see Ben Rivers’ film next. The technicalities were a bit beyond me – I was lost after the first mention of sixteen millimetre, though I’ve never seen the mention of tiny measurement cause such a palpable frisson. We were shown the projector, and I swear I heard Ivor Tymchak gasp at the sheer beauty of the ancient equipment. The film, the curator explained, was about post-apocalyptic societies, and something to do with Darwin. There were lots of scantily clad men in odd head gear. I couldn’t make out what they were up to but the thing was strangely compelling. I’d gladly have stayed and watched the whole thing. The artist turned up while we were glued to the screen and started to explain the process of making the film, which seemed to involve a lot of jetting about the globe – I suppose the idea was that the bigger the carbon footprint, the quicker the apocalypse. He said there was a voice over to accompany the film written by an anthropologist I think, who collaborated on the project. The writer was kept in the dark about what the film was really all about or where it was actually shot. This encouraged the writer use his imagination. One more reason writers should be wary of “collaborating” with film makers I’d say. The film does look fabulous though and I’m looking forward to going back to see it properly.

The final piece of work was the largest and most complicated. There was a large, white, illuminated balloon, which pulsed when a particular voice was heard, a massive black canvas – painted with the chimney sweepings from a local factory – a number of largish eggs, a bunch of blackened flowers, some rough, cracked, grey pottery, something that looked like a dinosaur skull, and a dozen planks of wood painted a particular colour (I think they called it Hepworth brown, but I’ll have to check.) All these things were knitted together in a narrative spoken quietly in the background. I didn’t quite get it, but it was genuinely gripping and probably one of those things that takes a while to sink in. I particularly liked that one of the artists who was working on the piece quietly declined to offer an explanation, though said he’d answer questions. Shamefully, all I could think to ask at the time was, “wow, where did you get that cardigan, it’s a gem!” though I’m determined to come up with more art appropriate comments for when I return.

The evening ended back where we had started, with the wine, the amazing cheeses, the crackers, the roasted peppers and olives . . . I did mention the hospitality, didn’t I? Thanks to the Hepworth staff who made the effort to make it a memorable evening, and I hope they get the blogs they deserve (better than this effort I mean.) The exhibition begins on the 11th, this Saturday, and runs till the summer, so there’s no excuse not to get along and see what you make of it.