Dirty – Jeff on Top (1991) by Jeff Koons, to whose work Tate Modern has devoted an entire room. This centrepiece depicts the artist having sex with his (now, ex-) wife, Italian porn star La Cicciolina.
Photograph: Christian Sinibaldi
Hiropon (1997) by Takashi Murakami, which depicts a fantastical blue-haired woman skipping with a rope curdled from her own breast milk.
Photograph: Daniel Deme/EPA
Pop Life's schlock horrors
Tate Modern's blockbuster Pop Life unites all the giants – and monsters – of pop art. This overcrowded, manic exhibition is full of things to snigger and ogle at, to boggle the mind and to make one wish for saner days, old-style values and a bit of decorum. They're long past, and a lot of the art here is 20 or 30 years old, too. Warhol presides over Pop Life; in fact, there's far too much Warholabilia in an exhibition already stuffed to the gills. We know him too well now, even if he is key to understanding what happened to pop in the 1980s and 90s – long after it had had its historical moment in the late 1950s. The careers of Warhol, Koons and Murakami have all spun out beyond the art world, entering the media mainstream to become figures of popular entertainment in their own right. Lots of artists manage to turn themselves into larger-than-life characters, but it isn't always part and parcel of their art; nor do they always confuse themselves with their personas. This rise of the artist as media celebrity, as art-tart and living artwork, is one of the subplots here. Being a smart operator, a whizz at public relations and having an eye for the main chance are all very well. They might help you become a successful artist, but will they help you make good art? This is the sort of question that makes savvy types snort with derision: there is only success, they say; the rest is subjective. Pop Life also nods to 1980s commodity fetishism, but it's a sideshow to the big, loud and self-trumpeting art.
Adrian Searle
guardian.co.uk
