In Tate Modern, Level 3, Room 10, there’s an installation by Cornelia Parker which consists of many pieces of old silverware, cutlery, trays and pots – flattened if necessary and suspended by wires from a high ceiling to hang a matter of centimetres from the floor. The silverware is arranged in clumps which form thin circular discs just under a metre in diameter in a rectangular grid, six by five.
In Tate Modern, Level 3, Room 10, there’s an installation which reeks of betrayal. There are 30 pieces of silver – and, worse, it’s antique silver from the time of British Empire with all its exploitative excesses betrayng common humanity. It’s the family silver, sold or abandoned by families betrayed by circumstances or betraying each other.
In Tate Modern, Level 3, Room 10, there’s an installation which speaks of the comfort and closeness of family. The familiar utensils of family mealtimes form perfect circles in close groups, separate from, but similar to, that of others. Each circle is different, though each is superficially the same. All is in order.
In Tate Modern, Level 3, Room 10, there’s an installation which speaks of the nature of matter. Similarity and predictability at a macro level is revealed as difference when examined. That which looks still and stable is revealed on closer examination to be moving, and worse, it’s diverse and different. But look closer again and there are patterns – forks, trays, and so on – recur. Closer still and the actual matter from which the things are made is revealed to be the same. Focus back a little and you see crisp clear shadows modelling the shapes above, modelling the mathematical essence of the material above.