In the enormous space of the now depopulated Turbine Hall at Tate Modern a huge, three-tier take-off of the Victoria Monument rises towards the ceiling. The even more a colossal Victoria Monument itself dominates the focal point where the Mall meets Buckingham Palace at the centre of London. On its massive presence sits a solid, static Empress Victoria, orb in hand, staring down the Mall towards Westminster. Above her a golden winged victory celebrates her country and her reign. It’s a ghastly, artistically banal monument to imperial supremacy. Behind it, Buckingham Palace rests like a squat toad, devoid of architectural inspiration, thankfully kept behind bars. It is impossible to miss the monument when driving past, or walking in St James or Green Park. The earliest photographs I have of myself and my partner are black and white snaps that we took of each other within sight of it. Yet whenever I get near I avert my eyes; across a lifetime in London I have never stopped to look at it.
When I read that an American artist had mimicked it to create a work that demonstrated her opposition to slavery, it struck me she was projecting a truism onto a platitudinous tombstone of a decrepit order and I quickly turned the page. Later, I read Zadie Smith’s compelling essay on Kara Walker, ‘What do we want history to do to us?’, in the New York Review of Books. It introduced the artistic effort I had thoughtlessly dismissed. So when, two weeks ago, I had an afternoon free and asked myself what exhibition would I most regret missing when the Coronavirus closes down the capital’s museums, I decided I had to see if Smith is right and Walker is indeed one of the defining artists of our time.
It was therefore with a sense of duty – of foreboding rather than anticipation – reinforced by rain endlessly pissing down, that I found myself in February walking onto the vast outside slope of the Turbine Hall. Head lowered, I expected only to find my country justifiably reprimanded.
