My Turner Prize

It’s December, time for the Turner Prize. For those not in the know, the Prize, named after celebrated British landscape artist J H M Turner, is awarded to the year’s outstanding exhibition by a British visual artist under the age of 50. It’s a major date on the UK cultural calendar and winning is a big deal; it can launch a career, and comes with a hefty cheque.

While all artistic disciplines are welcomed, since the late 90s the Turner Prize tends to favour the unconventional. Not so much paint on canvas or figurative sculpture (irrespective of the degree of abstraction) as shark in formaldehyde in Plexiglas tank, or empty room where lights go on, lights go off, lights go on, lights go off.

This bias towards the conceptual has made the Prize highly controversial, a battle ground between fine art traditionalists who consider recent entrees talentless, self-indulgent junk, and art aficionados that champion them as legitimate artistic expression in an evolving, increasingly complex world.

The debate is endless and for a non-artist hardly compelling. However, as I sometimes have ideas, one
of which is I could use a big, fat cheque, I intend to propose this next year:

Context: In 1999, Martina Hingis, women tennis’ world number one, was a set and a break up in the finals of the French Open against Steffi Graff when she disputed a line call – her shot was called out; she was sure it was in. There ensued lengthy, heated discussions with the umpire and tournament referee that, as far as Martina was concerned, failed to correct the glaring injustice. Play eventually resumed in what became an exhilarating, closely fought set that went to Steffi 7-5.

In the final set, though she kept fighting, and trying to smile, Martina began to unravel, her champion’s steely composure cracking under the strain of Steffi’s attack and the roar of a crowd grown hostile to her petulance and happy to embrace the mature, regal pro against the brash young kid (Steffi was 30. Martina 18). She became increasingly distraught and desperate, even resorting to an underhand serve to save a match point, the equivalent of hoisting the white flag. Moments later Steffi was French Open champ and Martina a mess needing to be put out of her misery.

Unfortunately, the demands of TV insisted that the awards ceremony be broadcast live directly after the match, and that both winner and loser say a word. But as a handsomely paid professional who knew where the money came from, the powers-that-were

expected her to put on a brave face and act gracious for the camera. However, caught in the vortex of meltdown, Hingis couldn’t. What the cameras showed was a teenager fighting back tears and incoherent to the point where it was embarrassing. Yet instead of letting her croak out

a few words and escape to the

dressing room, the TV presenter kept her on the spot,

kept asking her to analyse the match and how it felt to fall short. To lose. The dude kept the torture coming.

Some viewers might have deemed this great TV, but for me the episode was hard to stomach. Sure, there’s pleasure to be had watching a hated opponent run the gauntlet, but I don’t know. Like I said, an 18-year-old is still a kid.

Anyway, the Concept: A large, pristine room. Unblemished white walls. Polished hardwood floors. Not a soft edge in sight. Placed at different heights and angles throughout the room are TV screens of various sizes, all showing Hingis disintegrating before the camera. The video is run so that no two screens show the exact same moment of the post-match interview. And, of course, it’s on continuous loop.

On the floor, spelled out in red bricks (homage to the red brick clay of Roland Garros), is the theme -

"Da Youf of Today is a Winna"

There you have it: My Turner Prize; timelessly poignant and technically up-to-date. I expect great things.