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.
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