At five foot one, it was difficult to see Gustav Krebs across the crowded Pinkars E Gallery. But I can’t help being short. Everybody was there. The Gnottchis, Val Gropus, The Right Hon Honour L’oded, several members of Girlz Singin’ Shite and almost every Art critic who didn’t fancy what was on telly on Tuesday night. The free champagne and grebe’s throats (served on very generous lumps of tripe) went down very well as I gradually made my way through the throng to where Gustav, the newly anointed Celebrated One in the Art world stood trying to explain why his huge badly composed, badly focused, badly printed photos of very boring things were important to some proles from BBC News.
“Is so simple really. I vos think about all the pipples mit der liddle cameras undt der phones tekking der pictures off tinks nobody iss interested in. So, because I em, how you say, not much copping at der paintinks stuff undt mein skulptur schtinks, I vud heff some prole Mr Gnottchi gave a few quids to to make zees big pictures of mein own bad photographs.”
Here, Gustav, immaculate for the evening in a heliotrope jumpsuit, turns and raises a glass to the distant Agricola Gnottchi who reveals several golden teeth.
“Mr Gnottchi, he say rich pipples mostly stupid about Art. He say they don know difference between Good Art and poke in der eye with Glock 18. Eschpecially here in thatLondon. So I mek for him big rubbish.” Here Gustav smiles, waves languidly,and steps daintily down from the dais, the mass of bodies opening before him. Soon he is surrounded again and flash camera set the heliotrope off against his viridian locks.
I turn and find space enough to look up at Gustav’s work. It IS truly terrible. He has produced as authentic an exhibition of really bad art as I’ve ever seen.
“I Could Do That, My God, I Have Done That” is on until Feb 30th and after that, on tour until somebody susses it out. Prices start at £300,000.