It's all in the telling...

This amused me:

Sound and Vision

Although it's only the beginning of February, I think I can safely say that I've just been to my favourite exhibition of 2013.

I don't know what other people want from art, but I'm happiest when it brushes away the cobwebs and briefly restores that elusive sense of childlike wonder. That's why I enjoyed the Hayward Gallery's Sound and Light exhibition, which is on until April 28th.

The first exhibit is Cyllinder II, by Leo Villareal, which flickers and dazzles with a continually changing pattern. It reminded me of one of those 1960s or 70s sci-fi series where the producers were clearly either pushed for time or had gone over budget: "I know, why don't we just say that the aliens are so advanced, they've evolved into non-corporeal beings? Then we'll only need a few flashing lights."

Indeed, there was a very alien quality to this work, as if it had just appeared from nowhere, sent by an higher intelligence as a way of testing our response (which would, of course, be to strip it down and see if the technology could be used for military purposes).

Equally spectacular was Chromosaturation, by Carlos Cruz-Diez which, in the artist's own words, is  "an artificial environment composed of three colour chambers that immerse the visitor in a completeley monochrome situation (where) colour acts with all its force on the spectator's skin, objects and surrounding wall surfaces."

The result is very disorienting, particularly in the area where the three colours meet and create an effect that feels like a fog:

Although the exhibition was packed, this installation was curiously empty. Apart from me, there was just one woman - earnestly studying a pamphlet - and two ageing hipsters:

That's what I like about the art world: you can be 49 and still be a 'Young British Artist' - a refreshing contrast to the world of rock and pop, where a pipe and comfy slippers await anyone over 30.

Mr Hipster seemed gently bemused by the artwork, but Mrs Hipster said she'd had enough:

 I was still trying to get over the shock of seeing my skin in green light. Green's obviously not my colour:

As I left Chromosaturation, I saw a long queue and naively assumed that it must be worth joining. 20 minutes of utter tedium followed, only slightly relieved by the unsuccessful attempts of a girl (who looked uncannily like Velma from Scooby Doo) to push in front of me. However, the boredom of queueing was nothing compared to the spectacular dullness of the artwork itself.

I looked at my watch. I was due to go to a concert at the Purcell Room in half an hour and needed to get a move on. If only I hadn't wasted 20 minutes with Velma.

Luckily I had enough time to see a spectacular installation which consisted of a strobe light and miniature fountains of running water. The effect was breathtaking, creating unique, beautiful sculptures of water that only existed for a mere fragment of a second. Some looked like a row of diamonds, others had the appearance of glass. There was something poignant about the way these beautiful objects were gone before we could begin to savour them. A bit like being young.

I rushed through the remaining exhibits, reluctantly missing what looked like a very impressive piece by Iván Navarro, which did something clever with mirrors. I shall have to go back.

Outside it was nearly dark. London is not a beautiful city, but I almost like it at twilight:

Conveniently, the concert was next door. I'd gone to support a friend who was performing in a choir, but would have happily gone anyway, as the programme contained this beautiful folk song arrangement by Vaughan Williams:


I really enjoyed the concert. The music was well-chosen and the standard of singing was exceptional compared to the quivering, geriatric voices of most choral societies. I'd forgotten how beautiful the human voice was.

On the journey home I found an empty seat and got out my history of MI6 - I've become slightly obsessed with the SIS during the last couple of months, particularly its activities during the Cold War era. As I started reading the train halted and I absent-mindedly looked out of the window. Spookily, right in front of me was the SIS Building, with its satellite dishes pointing towards the four corners of the globe.

I had to change trains at Clapham Junction. I was hungry and looked for something to eat, but although there were plenty of outlets, they all seemed to sell the same food. If you don't like croissants with ham and cheese, cholesterol-raising pasties or diabetes-inducing pastries, you're buggered. I went without.

The train to Lewes was blissfully empty, but this didn't stop a young woman sitting next to me and getting out her knitting. I quickly discovered how hard it was to concentrate on reading with a knitting needle popping into your line of vision.

I will add knitting on trains to the very long list of things I intend to ban when I become Prime Minister in 2027.

Waterworld

The snow has melted, but it has been replaced by widespread flooding and my journey to work makes me feel as if I'm driving an amphibious car:



The music just happened to be on, but it fits (although it would have been a lot more fun if I'd put on the James Bond theme).

My cowshed is damper than ever and I seem to spend an increasing amount of time wiping spores off books. It's odd how some books are completely unaffected by the damp, whilst others look as if they're the remaining artefacts of a civilisation that was wiped out centuries ago, warped and covered in mold.

But it's not all bad. Today is the first day that the farm dog hasn't tried to attack me. I feel accepted at last.

Sasek's London

One of my favourite books that I've come across recently is a large, illustrated hardback called 'This is London', by the Czech artist Miroslav Sasek.

Published as part of a series that includes Paris, San Francisco, Rome and New York, Sasek's 1950s-style illustrations have gained a cult following and there is an excellent tribute website here.

I'd been meaning to keep 'This is London' for myself, but forgot to remove it from sale. This morning, my heart sank when I saw that it had been snapped up by a gentleman in Spain. My loss is his gain.

But before 'This is London' goes in the post, I thought I'd share some of the images. Sasek's book was published in 1959, so this is a London of City gents in bowler hats, chirpy Cockneys and, of course, this:

By the time I was born, the infamous smogs were a thing of the past (partly thanks to our old friend Sir Gerald Nabarro), but it took several decades for London to lose its association with thick fog.

I wonder if London will ever lose its association with most of the following images:

Half a century on, the bowler hats have disappeared and the Cockneys have mostly moved out to Essex and Kent, whilst commuters are increasingly likely to be reading the Daily Telegraph on their smartphones. London feels very different to the place I knew as a child - better in some ways, worse in others.

I shall be in London on Sunday afternoon, as I'm going to see a friend in a concert called 'Songs My Mother Taught Me' (a bit of misnomer for a collection of complex 20th century choral pieces; unless it was a very aspirational, middle class mother). But before that, I'm going to see this:

It looks slightly more promising than Martin Creed's Turner prize-winning work: the lights going on and off.