I couldn’t summon the enthusiasm to paint the bedroom ceiling this afternoon, so slacked off to the Tate Modern, where I was blown away by the works (recently purchased) of the Australian Fred Williams, which I’ve written about over on My London Your London.
I was less thrilled by the people with whom I was sharing the gallery; how is it that the Tate has apparently become the “date movie” destination of London? I can’t see Cindy Sherman or Sarah Lucas as “date movie” material, and listening to couples trying to impress each other with statements notable by their obviousness “it’s lots of trees”, or stupidity “he’s used lots of paint” is trying.
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