Anyway, despite the fact that I was probably carrying around a 'Pigpen'-style stink cloud, I thought I'd carry on to Tate Britain. What with my morbid fantasies of being somehow forced back into 'job-seekerdom', if not actual McJob hell,I've resolved to try and make more of my time-freedom, by attending at least one exhibition, lecture, whatever, a week.
I gave the Turner Prize a miss. Even with looncrip concession, these things cost a lot, and what I've seen on TV looked far too dull to actually pay for. I did a general mooch...Cris Ofili's UPPER ROOM is grand, a magnificent chill space. I only missed out on the buzz of the numinous, which I'd rather been expecting. Shame. The newish Outsider Art alcove had, for some reason, been invaded by a gaggle of Yummy Mummies with their precocious squealers, sprawling all over the floor, so you couldn't see half the stuff. When are they going to start putting contraceptives in the water? Where's New Labour when we need 'em?
John Latham's metaphorical roller blinds, etc. are too deep for me, but I liked Roger Fenton's rather dreamlike Victorian photos.
I got my fix of numinosity in the little 'William Blake and John Flaxman'exhibit. I particularly liked the renderings of Dante's procession of hypocrites weighed down by hooded cloaks of lead. Pleasant thoughts of politicians...Back home to a nice bath, and am now anticipating soup. Spicy carrot and coriander...