Philip Salom, ‘At the Very Real Ron Mueck Exhibition’
The rooms are full, even families in fours and fives:
stepping across from a tiny man with a fleshy dick
to a huge man seated above them, his dick a fire-
hydrant, who clutches his chair with both hands
and all the fear and the hairiness of his buttocks.
Hairy all over, because hair is so real, so the artist
really has sewn thousands of separate hairs in his
silicon valley, an arse like a bald man after fraught
operations. A naked woman is carrying a bundle of
sharp sticks against her chest but at least her tuft’s
tucked in. How true to life, how of bend and lean
it makes people watching: hey, his eyes are looking
at me? See how her stockings, says the art lecturer,
her old woman’s stockings have wrinkles in them!
How do you know he’s not alive, the kids ask Dad
at the Dead Dad blob. He just isn’t. He’s not real.
But how do you know he’s not real? He looks real.
Why has he done all this just to make his Dad look
real if his real Dad is dead? maybe this is his Dad?
It’s art, says Dad looking at Dead Dad. No, he’s real.
At the corner and foot-end of the huge dripping baby
(hippo-humanus) as they look up into her foot-long
vulva Dad asks his boys if the baby is a girl or a boy
and one of his boys says it is a boy. Dad says Umm
and walks them into the next room.