Me and a thirteen year old at the Dominque Gonzalez Foerster TH.2058 exhibition at the Tate.
October 2058 - Tate Modern - London
It rains incessantly in London – not a day, not an hour without rain, a deluge that has now lasted for years and changed the way people travel, their clothes, leisure activities, imagination and desires. They dream about infinitely dry deserts.
This continual watering has had a strange effect on urban sculptures. As well as erosion and rust, they have started to grow like giant, thirsty tropical plants, to become even more monumental. In order to hold this organic growth in check, it has been decided to store them in the Turbine Hall, surrounded by hundreds of bunks that shelter – day and night – refugees from the rain.
- They let homeless people sleep on the bunkbeds?
- No. It's art and it's set in the future. 2058.
- But it says there about 'refugees from the rain'. That's homeless people isn't it? Why say it if you don't let people sleep here?"
- It's art. It's an idea.
- I don't understand it. Do you?
On the beds are books saved from the damp and treated to prevent the pages going mouldy and disintegrating. On every bunk there is at least one book, such as JG Ballard's The Drowned World, Jeff Noon's Vurt, Philip K Dick's The Man in the High Castle, but also Jorge Luis Borges's Ficciones and Roberto Bolaño's 2666.
- Emma, did it say upstairs the books were rescued from the damp?
- That's not true. These are new but someone's crunched up the corners to make them not look new.
- Is that a real man on that bunkbed?
- Yes. He's obviously taken them up on their offer of refuge.
- Are you sure he's real? Haven't you been trying to tell me this is art; an idea in the future...