Laden with pastiche, symbols and signifiers, the work of shapeshifting British artist Grayson Perry transports us to the edge of self-awareness while preventing us from plumbing its darkness and depths.

By Neha Kale FEB 2016

There are two Grayson Perrys. The first makes ceramic pots, tapestries and etchings that wrap winking takedowns of gender, class and British identity in a package once reserved for suburban housewives; parlays a traumatic childhood in working-class Essex into a BBC Reith Lecture series delivered in plainspoken, electrifying language; and embraces Claire, a female persona who proves that feminine, domestic traditions count at least as much as balls and bombast when it comes to contemporary art. The second creates formally unimaginative pieces that rely on rote observations, borrows from African textiles and 19th century Japanese pottery while boldly renouncing context and distances himself from art world theatrics, clad in a bright-blue nappy. Your willingness to celebrate provocateurs over populists will determine the Grayson Perry you see.

“I haven’t got a strategy!” the real Grayson Perry tells me, with the type of soul-deep, gravelly guffaw that makes you want to snort with laughter yourself. “I’ve achieved a lot of my ambitions and have been very lucky. My British Museum show was a big ambition; I built a house in Essex, which was another ambition of mine. My TV series have been really fun – but I didn’t plan to do them. A lot of my work is a case of post-rationalisation. I’d already made something and then later asked myself, ‘what was I trying to do when I made this?’ My first exhibition happened close to Christmas, so I wanted to make things that people would buy ... Subscribe to read this article in full