London calling - Saturday light
Joe Fountain doesn't want to bore you with serious stuff on Saturdays, so he sticks to the light stuff
There are often times when I wish to write about some of the more serious things that happen in this city, like crime for example, or climate change, or the budget. There's a lot of stuff that qualifies at the moment: Teenagers being shot and killed all over the place (five in as many weeks; not good), snow on the first day of spring, and Gordon Brown's last budget as Chancellor of the Exchequer - all of which I make mental notes about in the days leading up to the deadline, but which I end up never mentioning, or maybe just skimming over in an introductory paragraph - as I'm doing today.
The truth is I'm not very good writing about that kind of stuff. Not that I think I'm good at writing this kind of stuff either, but at least it comes more naturally to me, so I tend to stick to it. As the editor once told me: "You do the light stuff well."
Which is why most of these weekly rants tend to be about my going here and there to see this and that. It's costing me. A relative recently told me: "I'm fed up of reading about what you get up to in the papers, so I don't bother with your column anymore. It's always about you." Thanks. I thought that's what writing a column was all about. (Incidentally, what he said reminds me of a line Julie Burchill wrote back in The Guardian days. I can't remember what it said exactly, but it was something about the letter 'I' on her keyboard being worn out. I miss Ms Burchill's columns, and it was nice to see her back on the newspaper's magazine last Saturday going on about how New Labour have ruined Brighton, where she now lives. Now there's one who can do serious, and still keeping holding your sides with laughter!)
So here I am again with more tales of cultural pursuits to bore you with. I've actually got two this week. The first, an art installation piece down in Brick Lane which was recommended to me by a friend at dinner the week before. "Don't miss it," he urged me. "It closes on Saturday." So off I went.
The piece is by the Swiss artist Christopher Büchel, and took over a massive space that was converted into what seemed to be a bit of a scuzzy guest house - one of those places taken over by prostitutes and junkies which I'm sure many of my generation have come across at some point or another in their lives. Every room was furnished and made to look like someone actually lived in there, which of course immediately brought out the voyeur in me - and in everyone else who was in the space.
We rummaged through drawers full of family photographs and other bits and pieces - including a receipt for objects left with the police when a person (we are never told who) was arrested. A hole in the back of a wardrobe led to a secret room with loud punk rock music playing on a loop. And that's only the beginning.
As we went through the rooms, the whole thing got more and more clever. By the time you opened a door on the top floor of the guest house that opened onto a massive space that looked like a wasteland full of broken computers, fridges and shipping containers made to look like people had been there and left in a hurry, it was clear this was no silly piece of work, but serious stuff. A bit like a David Lynch film. It's a shame that it closed last week because I'd really have liked to go through it again.
My second cultural outing of the week was a bit lighter - though still very intense. Sylvie Guillem, the French ballerina, was in town with choreographer Russell Maliphant, playing at Sadlers Wells. I had actually seen them perform one of the pieces on TV earlier this year and was quite struck at how the combination of the human form, light and sound can create something so powerful. I am happy to say that it worked even better in real life.
The truth is I'm not very good writing about that kind of stuff. Not that I think I'm good at writing this kind of stuff either, but at least it comes more naturally to me, so I tend to stick to it. As the editor once told me: "You do the light stuff well."
Which is why most of these weekly rants tend to be about my going here and there to see this and that. It's costing me. A relative recently told me: "I'm fed up of reading about what you get up to in the papers, so I don't bother with your column anymore. It's always about you." Thanks. I thought that's what writing a column was all about. (Incidentally, what he said reminds me of a line Julie Burchill wrote back in The Guardian days. I can't remember what it said exactly, but it was something about the letter 'I' on her keyboard being worn out. I miss Ms Burchill's columns, and it was nice to see her back on the newspaper's magazine last Saturday going on about how New Labour have ruined Brighton, where she now lives. Now there's one who can do serious, and still keeping holding your sides with laughter!)
So here I am again with more tales of cultural pursuits to bore you with. I've actually got two this week. The first, an art installation piece down in Brick Lane which was recommended to me by a friend at dinner the week before. "Don't miss it," he urged me. "It closes on Saturday." So off I went.
The piece is by the Swiss artist Christopher Büchel, and took over a massive space that was converted into what seemed to be a bit of a scuzzy guest house - one of those places taken over by prostitutes and junkies which I'm sure many of my generation have come across at some point or another in their lives. Every room was furnished and made to look like someone actually lived in there, which of course immediately brought out the voyeur in me - and in everyone else who was in the space.
We rummaged through drawers full of family photographs and other bits and pieces - including a receipt for objects left with the police when a person (we are never told who) was arrested. A hole in the back of a wardrobe led to a secret room with loud punk rock music playing on a loop. And that's only the beginning.
As we went through the rooms, the whole thing got more and more clever. By the time you opened a door on the top floor of the guest house that opened onto a massive space that looked like a wasteland full of broken computers, fridges and shipping containers made to look like people had been there and left in a hurry, it was clear this was no silly piece of work, but serious stuff. A bit like a David Lynch film. It's a shame that it closed last week because I'd really have liked to go through it again.
My second cultural outing of the week was a bit lighter - though still very intense. Sylvie Guillem, the French ballerina, was in town with choreographer Russell Maliphant, playing at Sadlers Wells. I had actually seen them perform one of the pieces on TV earlier this year and was quite struck at how the combination of the human form, light and sound can create something so powerful. I am happy to say that it worked even better in real life.