‘Do you fancy going to see the Van Gogh exhibition at the South Bank? We’re free next Sunday afternoon?’ Which loosely translates as: YOU are taking ME to see the Van Gogh next Sunday regardless of whatever match Sky are showing at 4 and there’s no fucking debate!!!

I’m an art lover. Ok, I’m quite keen on football too. But to see ART, like real ART, is a passion in me on a parallel with my love for origami. Leaf pressing. Bark rubbing. Train spotting. Ok, so I’m not this pan-art devotee as such, but I’m… interested. Within certain parameters. Which are, roughly, non-exhaustively and subject to change on a whim: no bearded geezers in silly hats holding swords, no fat naked birds with cherubs, no Jesus & Marys (so that takes out the entire Renaissance period then, job done). I don’t like landscapes, portraits bore me and I hate ‘still life’. So that saves me from all the great masters in one sentence. If I wanna see trees I’ll go to the park. If I want ‘dark, smouldering skies’ I’ll look out the window, or raise my eyes above the East Stand at White Hart Lane. Don’t like pitchers’a boats, neither.

However, I do like an opportunity to see Oriental people in their natural environment. Which is at any tourist attraction in the world, taking endless photos of each other/themselves.

So we trundled down to Embankment and walked across the lovely Hungerford Bridge, trying to avoid getting blown into the River by the wind, because that way I can really appreciate that I am emphatically in Sarf Lundun. And reached the South Bank Centre. London’s premiere shrine to… to concrete. And because its South London there are no signs as to where you might need to go. So you walk round endless humongous buildings, all white concrete and you can’t really see where the Royal Festival Hall ends and the Hayward Gallery begins, but you just walk and then, Halleluyah. On a tent in a car park, next to the Ballet Rambert, you see a picture of Vincent himself.

Its called an ‘immersive exhibition’. And if I’m honest, it is fucking brilliant. Rather than just hang a few pictures on the walls, this is a walk through of Van Gogh’s short, brilliant and, obviously, rather strange life. Illustrated by massive screens showing his work, but also showing where he lived, what he was doing, and narrated in headphones by his own words, taken from the 800 letters he wrote to his brother. It’s such a wonderfully creative way to honour the man. Those clever Dutch people brought the exhibition over with them. And its fab. I fully expected the last ‘room’ to have a load of straight razors where, to a soundtrack of maybe ‘Stuck in the middle with you’, visitors could have the ‘full experience’ by cutting off their own ears. Which is why they don’t let me design exhibitions.

An added bonus was that in the match I would have watched, Arsenal beat Everton. And no-one wants to see that.

Despite my iron-clad rules and regulation for art, I love Van Gogh’s work, even though they’re all portraits, landscapes and fruit. It’s all about the texture. You really should go.

Happy Monday

A xxxx