One of the
perks of living in Cambridge is the fact that Central London with its endless
entertainment is, with a young person’s railcard, only around 15 or less pounds
away. And while as an undergraduate reaching the railway station for a day or
two in the British capital was impeded by essay deadlines, Saturday lectures
and hangovers (mainly the first two, OBVIOUSLY), I have the strong feeling that
graduate life will indeed include frequent visits. In this post I will share
some of my recent experiences in this city with more inhabitants than my entire
country of origin.
My first
thoughts go to the Tate Modern. I cannot wait for the new one. But meanwhile I
contended myself with “The World Goes Pop”, an exhibition about the movement of
pop art during the 1960s and 70s. I don’t really want to say much about the
exhibition apart that it was colourful and bright. Rather, I need to say
something about modern art. A lot of modern art severely pisses me off. I will
have to be very strong in my choice of words here because indeed my soul is
bleeding at the sight of some of what we are nowadays forced (by the media, by
hipsters, by the people who call themselves experts) to call art. A naked woman
riding a tram is not art. A woman laying eggs is not art. (For the ones too
busy (and probably doing well in being so) to read about annoying pseudo-artists,
I’m talking about Milo Moiré here. Google her. Or don’t. But if you get
irritated, I’ve warned you)
Anyway. I know you are trying to tell me that it is
about the idea, rather than the skill, the production of something intricate
and technically challenging. But for me, that would mean that everything is
art. In fact, drunk people usually have the most incredible ideas. A friend of
mine recently compared a collapsing failed cake to Antarctica. Maybe she should
have sold the cake for millions, marketing it as an abstract representation of
global warming. But in our stupid drunken state we simply ate that precious
piece of art. How silly of us. My point is. I’m upset because if everything is
art, if there is no more skill involved, if you can sell a used tampon as art,
then art is dead. And that is sad. I bought a print of van Gogh’s sunflowers
for my new college room. I just think that is much more appealing than an
egg-laying woman. But maybe I’m just ignorant. I’m very open to being
converted, let’s chat over a pint or two. In fact, maybe we should do it naked,
cover ourselves in eggs and flower, sprinkle a few used nappies on top and ask
people to pay to see us. Yes.
 |
| Yes. This is art, too. |
I’ve just
realised that instead of praising London, I’ve let out steam about eggs and
used hygiene products. I apologise. Let me lose just a few final words on
my recent London experience then. The Olympic pool is simply my favourite place to swim at in the
world. The ones who used to read my old blog have heard this a few too many
times. And I’m afraid it will continue. Such is life. (The MIT pool is amazing
too, made me cry, but that’s a different story). The impressionist section in
the National Gallery is just fantastic. So much love. And today at the Victoria
and Albert Museum we could wear oversized coats made of a rather freaky
material and embellished with an interesting sketch of a face on the back and
wander around the museum with a funky map, chasing after 10 sculptures of
coats. Some people asked us whether we were part of the installation. Of course
we are!
Last but
not least I discovered the most wonderfully mouldy-looking pungent French cheese
at Whole Foods today. Tomme crayeuse. Even the name is mouth-watering. My
connection to cheese could almost be described as erotic. The smell. The taste.
The texture. You know what is just about the best snack on earth? A brioche
bun, butter, Brie and apricot jam (Gosh I wish the word apricot began with a “b”.
Why is life so unfair?). Foodgasm. Maybe I should quit my PhD and become a
cheese artist. Ride the tube naked with a cheesy brioche bun on each breast.
God bless modern art.
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