Hang Him On My Wall

I finally went to the Tate Modern today. It’s only taken me three years to get round to it and now I wish I hadn’t bothered – it’s RUBBISH!

I set off all full of enthusiasm, but already sensed I’d had a wasted journey when I walked through the door. It’s all just so UGLY ... and sprawling ... and full of wasted space ... and it took me a few minutes to figure out that if you enter via the river entrance on the second floor (which I did) you have to go downstairs to the first floor in order to get the elevator to the third floor where all the galleries start. As you can probably imagine, after all that, I was already getting in one of my ‘moods’.

THEN I had to navigate my way around the scourge of all art galleries - the middle class parent. In this case BLOCKING THE ENTRANCE of the elevator with her big, fat arse (yeah, I know, look who’s talking!) while she instructed her charges on gallery etiquette in VERY. LOUD. CRISP. AND. CLEAR. TONES, the way they always think they have to speak. And I mean really, do they actually believe that dragging their disinterested pre-schoolers round exhibitions will result in them growing up to be the next Picasso? Take ‘em to the park, you silly cows.

I tried my best to find something to interest me in the first rooms, I really did. I went for the Poetry and Dream section because I like a nice bit of surrealism, but it just wasn’t working. I decided to cut my losses and head of to the fifth floor for the pop art, which is much more me, and I was confident this would save the day.

I enjoyed the smatterings of Lichtenstein and Jeff Koons, but dear God, how poorly exhibited? Most of the rooms reminded me of school classrooms with the desks and chairs taken out to make way for the sixth formers end of term display. There was no atmosphere or sense of respect for the works. Would it really kill them to tart the place up a bit?

Around the corner I grew horribly excited when I spotted Andy Warhol’s pink cow wallpaper in the distance. I know it’s a cliché to love Warhol but I can’t help it, I took a deep breath and headed off towards the cow room, thoroughly expecting to be blown away and guess what? It’s a flippin DISASTER!

Aside from the wallpaper there are a handful of black and white prints that are surely the least interesting Warhols EVER. The highlight is a couple of guns but they don’t work on top of the wallpaper AT ALL and then that’s it - Done. Over. Nothing to see here. I was practically apoplectic with rage.

The only part of the trip I really enjoyed was looking through the enormous print catalogue in the gift shop. I think the experience can be best summed up by a couple I heard talking by the exit...

Lady: Well, at least you can say you’ve been now darling.
Man: Yeah, I won’t be rushing back.

Tate Modern - BOO! Sort your blummin life out.

Up The Beach

What the world needs in these troubled times, I feel, is more of my rather inferior picture galleries.

Lucky, then, that I've been out to Brighton today for a trip to the seaside. Thanks to a tip-off from Toblarina, I bought my ticket for an earth shattering ONE POUND AND FIFTY PEE in the Southern Trains 90% off sale. So not only was it a lovely day out, but a bargain to boot. Hurrah!

From the train station I headed down through the Laines for a stroll along the prom. Did you know that Brighton Pier first opened in 1899? Well here is my artistic impression of what it might have looked like back in the olden days.



There is absolutely no truth in the rumour that I mucked about with the colour of this picture because it was massively over exposed, and I resent any implications otherwise.

So now, WELCOME, and please join me along my picturesque guided tour ...



This is the Turbo, which I absolutely DID NOT go for a ride on. As far as I'm concerned, rollercoasters are for looking at, not boarding. And I have to say this was substantially less impressive than the Cyclone, which you may remember from my Coney Island Image gallery.



Obligatory seagull ...



I went on this Horror Hotel ghost ride last year when we went to Brighton for Posh Paul's birthday. It is unutterably poor.



But we somehow failed to notice that spooky monsters appear from the windows and look down at you while you're standing outside - STOP, YOU'RE SCARING ME!



SCREAM !!!!



I didn't go on this contraption either. Who on earth would, I beseech you?



A much more sedate form of entertainment. Sadly I was refused admission.



So after stopping off at the amusements and winning £2.10 on a friendly slot machine, I headed back up towards town to admire the view.



Across the street I beheld this waterless fountain. "What's the point?" you might wonder, and I'm afraid I can't tell you, but the old giffers will sit and look at this for hours.



Beautiful Pavilion with annoying people spoiling my fabulous picture.



And finally my favourite exhibit from the Brighton Museum, which is in the grounds of the Pavilion.



There is a small section devoted to dirty weekends in Brighton, and this advertiser boasts, "TITS AND TACKLE - ALL IN ONE - TWICE THE FUN." She also claims to be an 'O & A Expert' and I confess I have no idea what this refers to. Oral and Anal?

Answers on a mucky postcard.

Suffer Some

I had always insisted I’d never go to The O2 because I didn’t think I’d like it. Well now I’ve been so I can say with all confidence – I don’t.

It’s not that they’re not trying hard – for a venue of that size it’s as well staffed, well laid out and well organised as it could possibly be. It’s just too blummin big.

I stuck to my guns when Prince played, I didn’t even give in for Smashing Pumpkins and the lovely Billy Corgan, but for some reason the double header of Jane’s Addiction and Nine Inch Nails was the one that made me think I should give it a try.

It’s not like it was a wasted evening, but while I’m reliably informed it was they who were on the stage yesterday evening, for all I could see it could have been a very convincing covers band. I was expecting big screens on either side of the stage, so I could at least get a projected close-up of my heroes, but none were to hand. So now I’ll always picture them as being an inch tall wearing little teeny-tiny costumes.

I didn’t let this stop me enjoying the magnificence of Jane’s Addiction, however. I could feel the chills rising even as the opening bars of Three Days rang out. So instead of watching mini-Perry Farrell, I closed my eyes and relived that splendid moment, back in 2003, when the full-size version strode out onto the stage at the Forum, dressed from top to toe in brilliant white with an enormous feather hat perched on his head. It was possibly the finest rock entrance in history, in my esteemed opinion.

The set list was the thing of dreams, all those old favourites I love - Pigs in Zen, Mountain Song, Whores. We even got a beautiful acoustic version of Jane Says for the encore. I was moved to say the least.

I’m not such a huge fan of Nine Inch Nails, so in the vast auditorium they started to lose my attention. The other big problem is the sound. It’s like seeing a band at a festival where it’s great if you can get close enough to the speakers, but beyond that half of the sound disappears before it gets to you.

I do remember a stunning version of Terrible Lie but then it all started to merge into one a bit. What I really wanted to hear was Head Like A Hole and Hurt, but a quick peek at the set list on their website during the afternoon had revealed they were saving the best till last. I’m ashamed to say wanted to do the middle-aged thing and leave before the end to avoid the traffic, so I watched them for an hour and then scarpered. When did I suddenly become so very old? I used to SO look down on people who did that!

It was a good night, but in a better venue it could have been amazing.

Paris - Une Histoire Photographique

Yeah, like I'm really gonna write this is French. In fact, during the 27 hours I spent in Paris I managed to speak French just twice, and on both occasions it was when I was ordering wine!

I kind of enjoyed the international stubborness. I'd ask somebody a question in English, they'd reply in French. I'd say something else in English, they'd respond again in French, and then we'd nod and go our separate ways.

I wasn't sure I was going to like the place at first. I had booked a hotel near the Eurostar station because it was cheap and it seemed like it would be a convenient location, but it's a bit like being dropped smack in the middle of Kings Cross or somewhere - busy, dirty and kind of ugly. So I dropped my bags off and headed for "Le Metro" and soon tipped up here, which is a much more suitable location: (Click sur les images pour les grande versions)



This is a pleasing fountain just outside The Louvre. The Louvre is a bit big and a tiny little bit impressive. Regardez the next image:



I walked through that doorway you can see in the middle and around the grounds of the building. I peeked through some of the windows but didn't go inside.

Here is a statue of a man on horse that I took a bit of a shine to.



So now I had got into the swing of the touristy, sight-seeing lark, I headed across the park to witness this - Place de la Concorde. This photograph looked AMAZING on my camera, but hasn't quite turned out as well as expected. Don't you HATE when that happens?



Anyway, I liked the Place de la Concorde, even though there was lots of scaffolding and building work going on in the immediate area which kind of compromised the magnificence. It you look closely you will see it is basically a load of women with their titties out getting splashed with water. And I can see no problem with that.

I was a bit knackered by this point so I got back on Le Metro and went a couple of stops to Le Champs-Elysees. I think my expectations were a little too high as I wasn't exactly bowled over by it's retail offerings, I also forgot to take any pictures which is a little pointless when one is constructing une histoire photographique. I had a quick look round Virgin (remember them?), Sephora and Louis Vuitton, but I felt a historical monument was calling so headed off to Arc de Triomphe, where thankfully I remembered I was in possession of a camera.



I don't know what it is but I'm rather fond of arches. I love the Washington Square arch in Manhattan and I have to say this Parisian offering matched up rather well. There was some big do going on while I was there, lots of soldiers and other people in uniform but don't expect me to tell you what it was all about because I couldn't be bothered asking. I was impressed that some of them had guns though, and great big truncheons.

After this I went to see Antony and the Johnsons at Salle Playel and photography was STRICTLY PROHIBITED. It's a shame because Antony was wearing a beautiful dress specially created for the event which, he told us, was to honour the spirit of his dead cat. He also said the cat's spirit would be entering his body that evening and living inside him from then on. Yes, he is a little bonkers.

There were two highlights of the show - one was Epilepsy is Dancing and the second was a FAN-RUDDY-TASTIC version of Fistful of Love (my favourite) which had me choking back big sobs. Just as we thought he had finished (and the applause was DEAFENING) he started up again with a stripped-down riff of "give me that poisonous love" with just vocal, piano and drums, but then it built and lifted as the string section joined in and I thought he was actually trying to subject as to death by beauty as every single nerve ending and sinue of emotion was stretched and strained to breaking point and we COULD NOT TAKE ANYMORE!

Needless to say, I was exhausted after all that excitement so went back off to the very-nice-despite-the-nasty-location hotel for a beer and a nice sit down.



Next morning I marched off to the Pompidou Centre to see some art. Isn't the Pomidou Centre FAB? You go in and buy your ticket and then you travel on a big conveyor belt up that big tubey bit on the side until you get to the top.



Here is the view from the sixth floor:



And this is the passageway on the fourth floor.



Quite frankly, that was enough excitement in itself but there was tons of other stuff to be gazed in awe at inside. I wasn't too fussed with the massive Kandinsky exhibition in Gallery 1, he doesn't really do much for me. But I LOVED the Calder stuff in Gallery 2 - there were lots of wire sculptures and a whole scene of a cirus with little wire figurines making up lion tamers, a sword swallower, exotic dancers etc. I didn't take any pictures in there as I think that people who keep clicking and flashing away with their damn cameras in art galleries should be subjected to death by the guillotine.

Elsewhere, in the modern art section of the building, I impressed myself by immediately recognising some work by Annette Messenger. "Look at me being all knowledgable," I thought. But as I saw her show at Hayward Gallery just a couple of months ago, I think it would have been a little embarrassing if I hadn't remembered it.

I had to limit my trip there to just two and half hours, but you could honestly go there for the whole day. Goodbye Pompidou Centre ... I'll be back!



And hopefully when I come back you'll have fixed up the Stravinsky Fountain around the corner, which I was very much looking forward to seeing but, to my dismay, looked like this upon my arrival - no water a total lack of joie de vivre. What a disgrace!



After lunch I went for a stroll along the Seine and I have no idea what this building is but I'm sure some smart alec will tell me.



I was on my way to Conciergerie to look at the prison cells and dungeons. The picture below is the church down the road and the queue to get in here was much longer than the queue for Conciergerie.



Why people are more interested in seeing old religious buildings instead of places of torture I really have no idea, but in the end I couldn't be bothered standing in line for either. I looked through the windows at Conciergerie and it looked really beautiful, but despite the number of people waiting to get in, I couldn't see a single soul inside, which led me to think they don't let you get too near the good stuff. So I carried on along the Seine, past this lovely boat, until I got to Notre Dame.



Notre Dame must surely hold the world record for longest queue of people EVER (even longer than the Empire State Building in my limited experience) so I didn't get to do a Quasimodo impression. But it was a very nice way to end my whistle-stop trip of Paris landmarks.



Here is my attempt to be "serious" by presenting a detail image - it's of the whirly bit in the middle, just in case that's not glaringly obvious.



Au revoir!