London

So….Jenny and I were in London for a week. We stayed at the Premier Inn County Hall, just across the river from the Houses of Parliament. A lovely hotel with friendly and welcoming staff – and huge breakfasts.
 
Some random impressions from the week:
 
·         London wasn’t as costly as we thought – except for the tiny flapjack costing £5 at the National Gallery
·         Every café and restaurant we went to asked us whether we had any allergies
·         I saw several men with painted fingernails
·         I revisited Watkins Bookshop, the first bookshop I worked in 53 years ago
·         We came across lots of school outings, some of them having a good look at the art galleries
·         We visited seven art galleries altogether (Tate Modern twice because it’s so huge)
·         We saw the Covid memorial wall opposite the Houses of Parliament with all its thousands of hearts remembering people who died
·         We met up with an old school friend of Jenny’s and her husband
 
Unfortunately I had a bit of back pain, which took the edge off my enjoyment a bit, but I was determined to keep to our art itinerary and not abandon anything. All in all a very worthwhile and stimulating week.

A careless child

The recent slight damage to a £42 million Rothko painting in a Rotterdam museum by a careless child has once again led to debate about whether children should be allowed in art galleries.

Well, of course they should. It's always possible that an impulsive child will touch a painting or sculpture without thinking, and it's always possible that the art work will be immensely valuable and need careful restoration.

But that very remote possibility is insignificant compared to the mental and emotional benefits that children get by experiencing art, especially from an artistic genre they're unfamiliar with - like abstract art or surrealism or cubism.

Galleries themselves usually give children a warm welcome and are happy to let them appreciate famous and valuable art works. They're very forgiving on the odd occasion that a child accidentally damages something.

Like the four-year-old boy who last year smashed a priceless 3,500 year old vase to pieces at a gallery in Israel. Far from being outraged, the Hecht Museum invited the child back to the museum with his family for an organised tour. And there was no question of the family being asked to pay anything towards repairing the vase.

In my experience gallery attendants are very quick to stop anyone (both children and adults) from getting too near the exhibits, so the chance of something getting damaged is pretty remote.

Pic: Gray, Orange on Maroon by Mark Rothko

Gallery habitués

Having visited several London art galleries during the week, I recognise certain types of visitor who can be found at galleries anywhere in the world.

There's the rake-thin, ultra-cool woman or man who studies the art quietly, thoughtfully, unobtrusively, absorbing every little detail, a shrewd connoisseur of artistic techniques.

There's the loud-mouthed man (usually a man) who holds forth to his companion (usually a woman) about whatever they're looking at, explaining what the artist was trying to achieve (according to him) and how hampered they were by brutal depressions, imminent penury and chronic ill-health. They're confident they're the world's authority on Rothko, Hockney or Lowry, but are generally oblivious to women artists, who are clearly only exhibited in the name of gender equality.

There are the artistically challenged tourists who're only in the gallery to satisfy their daily sight-seeing quota, and aren't sure what they're looking at. They scurry through the gallery in great haste, glancing briefly at the odd work of art to show willing.

There's the pretentious poser who's only in the gallery so he can tell his dinner-party guests he's been to this week's most talked-about exhibition. He secretly thinks the artist is an over-hyped second-rater but pretends to be a big fan.

At the entrance to the exhibition, there are always the slightly anxious types who're not sure about trusting their precious bags to the cloakroom staff, convinced their valuables will vanish in seconds the moment their back is turned.

Which type am I, you might ask? Well, obviously the ultra-cool guy who's a shrewd connoisseur of artistic techniques. Jenny laughs at the way I scrutinise the art so thoroughly, peering intensely at every last daub of paint and unusual brush-stroke.

I'm no expert on art and I'd never be foolish enough to pontificate on an artist's credentials. As long as they make me feel something, or think something, or gasp with amazement, that's good enough for me. I don't need to know that Rothko topped himself or Warhol was afraid of hospitals and doctors. So what?

Art nouveau

When is art not art? A tricky question. Edinburgh sculptor Kevin Harman thought that heaving a metal pole through an art gallery window was an artistic tour de force. The director of the gallery didn't agree - she took him to court for breaching the peace.

Kevin's sponsor Richard Demarco was outraged. "There has obviously been a profound level of misunderstanding of the raison d'être of Kevin's work. His whole ethos is about making things which are negative into things that are positive."

Many others, including those with a wide knowledge of art such as myself, might say the misunderstanding is Kevin's. He has failed to grasp that smashing a window is not a work of art, it's merely a safety hazard to passing pedestrians.

Of course a sign saying "Ce n'est pas une fenêtre brisée" might have added an artistic dimension*. But presumably that was too passé for our Kev.

Kate Gray, Director of the Collective Gallery, certainly failed to see her shattered window as a ground-breaking oeuvre d'art. She thought petty crime was a more accurate description.

Admittedly, whether something is a work of art or not is often a matter of opinion rather than a self-evident fact. Kevin has his admirers who would stoutly defend his moment de folie as a pièce de résistance.

Try as I may, I can't see it as anything but une dêbacle monumentale.

* René Magritte, anyone? And we can all throw in a bit of pretentious French....

Pic: not the actual window but a similar "work of art". For the real thing, go to the link.
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Can you believe it? Five Eurostar trains (yes, five) broke down in the Channel Tunnel and 2000 passengers were stranded overnight. The official explanation? The trains couldn't handle the change from cold air outside the tunnel to warm air inside. You couldn't make it up.

Update, Saturday evening: A sixth Eurostar train has broken down in Kent, and the train towing it has also broken down.

Waits and pleasures

You never know what to expect at restaurants. A perfectly-cooked meal from a friendly, attentive waiter or a tasteless mess flung on the table by a harassed, po-faced second-jobber? Be prepared for anything.

Jenny and I had just been at an art gallery private view, sloshing down our free glasses of wine and salivating over dozens of stunning prints. As usual, we wandered up the road to our favourite pizzeria and ordered a couple of pizzas.

We chatted a bit as we waited for our food.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

After 20 minutes, we asked what was happening. "Ah, there's a large group upstairs so there's a half-hour wait. But your pizzas are in the oven. Another two minutes." (A large group upstairs? So what?)

Two minutes came and went. We waited some more.

And waited.

And waited.

After 35 minutes, we asked to see the manager. "Ah, there's always a half-hour wait on Fridays. You should have been told. Another three minutes." Jenny asked if we could have a discount for the long delay. Yes that was possible, she said. (Five per cent? Ten per cent?)

After 40 minutes, the pizzas arrived. Mouth-wateringly delicious as always. Not wanting to ask for the bill, which might take another half-hour, we went straight to the cash desk.

"Oh, there's no charge" we were told "Your meals are free."

We walked out in a state of dazed disbelief. As I said, be prepared for anything.