Commentary by Simeon Barclay – closed by the gates of modern Britain | Art

There is an old Marxist (Groucho, not Karl) talking about refusing to join a club that will make you a member. Simeon Barclay takes the idea before his career, because he knows that even if the club has him, he will not be accepted. He calls his show in Southampton “a kind of cry, of discovery and loss”. It comes just a few weeks after being selected Turner prizeand it’s a very good argument why he should win.

This is a whole show about withdrawal, about trying to log in but not managing. It’s a razor-sharp, funny, sociological, black British film, trying to make it and knowing you’re going to fail, because the system wants to fail.

At the entrance to the space are two white PVC doors decorated with stencils of Imperial Guards from Star Wars. They stand there, boldly shutting you out, but those doors don’t go anywhere. It is an illusion of power.

There are barriers in the middle of the main building, locked areas that you cannot enter. Inside, there is an empty bin and taxidermy pigeons, survivors of a small city – and a bad place to smoke in town where you are not allowed to smoke. Old mountain bikes are crammed into the bike rack in the corner of the space, the wheels are messed up, the frames are bent, but they are securely fastened. Bus seats, covered in trash and crushed cans, are pressed against the wall, too high to sit on. This is modern Britain, a country where even things that don’t work are made to stay away.

A half-and-half football with former Manchester United and Everton player Romelu Lukaku on it hangs from the ceiling. Here is this child of immigrants who was taken as a symbol of the future of football, who moved to the Premier League and represented his country at the highest level. But he was not good enough, he was too slow, too big, too cruel, too strange, too dark to be admired as a true sports icon.

And that’s the point. This is a show full of film shows, football and music, and Windrush, for the guys who come here, buy nice suits (like the ones Barclay made from the fabric of the bus seats) and try to fit in, but they always fail.

In the next room is a torn, wet parachute hanging from the ceiling, a male failure. Then in the corner of the last place, Barclay has tied up a giant Donald Duck, leaving only his big legs waddling wildly across the room. Everywhere here, heroes are weakened, hopes are dashed and doors are closed.

The issue with Barclay’s work here and in previous shows – is that his references are so dense and complex, and so disjointed, that they can easily go over your head. You can walk out of the show without knowing why she put herself on the cover of Vogue and nailed it to the wall. It holds you at arm’s length. Most of the time, I find it embarrassing. The views are so good that visitors should be given tools to capture them.

But equally, maybe you need to feel included in this. Maybe the idea of ​​”am I here, am I feeling this, am I part of this story?” it is intentional.

As much as I don’t like the work that won him the Turner prize – a performance poem with a jazz edge, no thanks – it’s a clue about how to approach this show, and Barclay’s work in general. It’s not a sequential story, it’s a visual poem, spreading ideas so you can navigate and manage them. When you do, you will find that he has painted a magical, sad, intelligent picture of a Britain built on migration and grievance, a world of gates and barriers, heroes and fools, a place where, deep down, no one enters.