Popped into Tate Britain because it’s there. I still love Work No. 850 and wish it was permanent. I’m not sure why, or why I could talk elegiacly about it far more than I could of the Bacon or Turner Prize 2008 exhibitions which I breezed through somewhat dutifully. I rather liked Cathy Wilkes’ installation. It made me laugh, but I wasn’t quite sure whether that was the point, and that’s where so much contemporary art of any type loses me.
On the way back, the sun was doing its thing over the western end of the river, a Turneresque moment if ever there was one.
