And when I'm not ranting on the internet. . .
I don't spend literally all of my time holed up in my bedroom furiously typing about Dior T-shirts.
I haven't written a follow-me-round type post in ages, so this weekend I took my trusty Olympus along with me to collect some photographic evidence to support my claims that I don't spend literally all of my time holed up in my bedroom furiously typing about Dior T-shirts. This particular Sunday my mum and I went to see the David Hockney exhibition at the Tate museum, and then ate Honest Burgers. It was perfect, obviously. (They put rosemary on the chips. I would like to suggest rosemary chips as a first and vital step on the road to world peace).
Something a lot of you may not know (because I've never told you) is that I'm a bit artsy. I've drawn and painted all my life and even had an art scholarship to my senior school (yes I am hideously posh, it's not relatable but it's true). I still take life drawing classes now as part of my plan to fill an entire wall of my house with glorious pencil drawings of naked ladies, but I don't go to enough shows or paint as much as I should.
A lot of modern art really bores me, which I maintain is a totally fine thing to say. A lot of it is not beautiful, and it all seems to revolve around either the question of What Art Is, or How We Look At Things. The little explanation cards stuck to the wall tell me time and again that these are the questions contemporary artists are grappling with. I guess I'm supposed to find them thought provoking, but faced with an upended breeze block or a square of gaffa tape affixed to a blank wall (both 100% real examples from the Saatchi gallery), my predominant feeling is often extreme boredom.
If boredom can be extreme.
David Hockney was different though. He has a deceptively simple way of working, using as few marks as possible to express an object, but at the same time applying an endearing attention to tiny details - the steam from a mug of coffee, a flowerpot on a distant sill - which gives a strong sense of a person who derives immense joy from the smaller things in life. His ability to capture with only a few brush-strokes exactly what it is about a sprinkler on a lawn that makes it so hypnotic is, I think, why people love him so much that this weekend's exhibition was the fastest selling in Tate history. It's the visual equivalent of reading a line in a book which expresses a thought you've never until then knownyou had, in words more succinct and elegant than you could ever muster. You look at his paintings and think 'Yes. That is just how the world is, and the world is lovely, I just never knew I knew it until now'.
I should really get back into painting.