I was at the opening night of the José María Velasco exhibition at the National Gallery this week. I love these events. Seeing an exhibition before it officially opens is akin to that childhood dream of being in the sweetshop, after hours, with moonlight kissing the multiple peaks of a white-chocolate Toblerone as you flit around, stuffing yourself with loveliness. And the art is just part of it. There is much talk, nowadays, of the phenomenon known as “guilty pleasures”. It’s a common question in interviews, and the answer often centres around things like Abba, tiramisu or low-level shoplifting. For me, that forbidden fruit is the near-orgasmic rush of intimidation I feel in the presence of proper old-school posh people. They, too, are carefully displayed at these events. I study them almost as much as I study the art. There I stand, a left-field mocktail in one hand, my forelock in the other.
I struggled with Velasco. The problem is, he’s a landscape guy. I almost never like an entire landscape painting. There’s always quite a lot of filler between the brilliant bits. I like people in paintings. I miss them when they’re not there. That’s probably why I don’t like instrumentals.
The last opening I attended at the National Gallery was “Siena: The Rise of Painting, 1300-1350”. That was a special experience. When religious art comes from an actual church or abbey, it seems to have somehow soaked up the passionate attentions of the faithful. All those who knelt before it leave a sort of emotional varnish, an imprint of faith.
The Dark Sphere underworld
Speaking of passionate attentions, my 12-year-old son, Buzz, persuaded me to join him on a pilgrimage to Dark Sphere, a subterranean gaming centre secreted beneath a contrastingly bright and busy shopping mall. We descended, Orpheus-like, into this netherworld. A large room was crammed with people hunched over long tables. It had a sort of Anglo-Saxon mead-hall vibe. The tables were covered with the paraphernalia of game-play. I’m not talking screens and handsets. This was much more tactile. People laid beautifully ornate cards on equally ornate playmats, and yes, there were dragons. On another table, a game involved the communal building of some sort of gothic citadel.
I describe these things as a Victorian explorer might have described the rituals of a tribal culture that was previously unknown to him. Inhabitants of the Dark Sphere might well mock my misunderstanding. The truth is, I had initiate-envy. I, too, wanted to know the flame-range of a Hellkite Punisher. Buzz bought a Magic: The Gathering Beginner Box and thus I now stand on the shore, securing my nose clip, preparing to dive deep.
The canonisation of vegetarianism
I heard a middle-aged woman on the bus this week explaining to friends that her daughter “has a black belt in vegan”. I felt it was a line she had used before but it was worthy of repetition and she delivered it with vigour. Then her tone switched to confessional. “I used to be a vegetarian. Of course, that was a very long time ago.” By now, I was taking notes. “In those days, bacon was allowed. And chicken salad.”
I was astonished. It had never occurred to me that vegetarianism had a formative period when the canon had not quite been finalised. Was there a point where bacon almost qualified for inclusion – like the epistle of Polycarp to the Philippians almost making the Bible – before a quarrelsome late-night sitting of the selection committee finally excluded it forever? As for chicken salad being vegetarian, I’m guessing that was all about percentages. If there was more greenery than meat, the whole thing was defined as good. It’s the exact opposite of how I assess paintings.
Losing comes last
I went to the BBC Audio Drama Awards ceremony. I’d been nominated in the Best Comedy Performance category for my role in the Radio 4 sitcom Do Gooders. My decision to switch from television to radio was not dissimilar to Robinson Crusoe’s decision to switch from ship to desert island. Nevertheless, I’ve come
to love radio. I’ve built a small encampment and have taught myself to survive on the available fruit.
My category was one of the last to be announced. That’s not ideal. An awards ceremony can be a bit like when the Chilean miners came out. You start euphoric but pretty soon you’re asking: “How many more?”
Anyway, don’t worry, If I’d won I would have mentioned it by now.
[See also: What is school for?]
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This article appears in the 02 Apr 2025 issue of the New Statesman, What is school for?