On entering the second Turner Prize installation at the Tate Britain gallery, my son focussed first on Anthea Hamilton’s brick suit tailored from brick textile hanging against a brick mural. He turned back on himself to be confronted by a giant mooning butt. I could hear him guffawing as I followed. Like everyone else, we took turns photographing each other in that false doorway framed by giant thighs.
I was struck not by those giant buttocks but at what the sculptor had left out: there is no anus and no swell of genitalia above the doorway. I found myself reflecting with sadness and respect that the neat central line might be the scar left by a skilled surgeon when the choices were hard and stakes high.
Standing to one side and drawing, my thoughts changed to reflect a widespread mood of anger and despair. Perhaps this is a monumental statue of an emperor’s golden arse as he displays his power and contempt. But he is full of shit and has no balls.
It belongs in Trump Tower.