Root Ginger

It was quite by chance that Atalanta and I stumbled across the exhibition Root Ginger at The Idea Generation Gallery... firstly, it's on Chance Street, E2. secondly about two streets to its west we were asked where it was, and in a massive saving face/ignoramus cock-up, sent the poor, beautiful Spanish girl asking us in completely the wrong direction. to curtain road in fact, which is very embarrassing and stupid as i spend lots of time mooching round that area and Atalanta lives two streets away from the gallery. still, it did mean that when i spotted Chance Street when we inevitably wandered past 3 seconds later, i inwardly cringed but was inspired to go into the gallery (where i later saw the Spanish girl and apologised for sending her on a wild goose chase). anyway the exhibition showing there, Root Ginger, turned out to be jolly weird - supposedly a celebration of red hair inspired by the of the waves of derision, ridicule, passion, love and jealousy it provokes. Jesus it was disappointing. Atalanta is currently sporting fiery orange hair and when i was a child NEVER did i want blonde hair instead of my chocolate locks, no siree - always always to have the long fiery red tresses and pure white skin of the three ballet dancers in a painting that hung in my grandparent's flat (now in my younger sister's bedroom - arrgh). testimony to my obsession are the henna hair dye stained patches dotted round various bathrooms of my parents house. so, photographer Jenny Wicks was pretty much preaching to the converted and still failed to impress us. instead of images capturing the passionate spirit and vision of these red-headed characters, we were treated to a lot of pallid skinned, mournful looking men, women and children - not that they were like that, but that was how they were captured - on white backgrounds generally looking pathetically contemplative - their skin clammy looking, their hair all too frequently inadequately as vibrant, incendiary, glossy or intense as it most probably was in real life. I think there were maybe a handful of smiles throughout the whole exhibition - instead plenty of broody, tumultuous stares off to the side and freaky looking kids with glassy eyes and deadened spirits. Some images were great - i'd say the four on the upper level opposite the main wall - where some vivacity and passion had been caught on camera. but overall we left feeling a bit creeped out - like we'd been to Madame Tussaud's or something and seen a bunch of soulless waxworks devoid, or even raped, of the defining characteristics for which they are celebrated. retail therapy proved the only recovery option. happily we were but a stone's throw from Brick lane... and two cropped jackets (one leather, one flying) proved just the restorative remedy for our dampened spirits. thank fuck for shopping.