Back home and no sign of culture. Went to the Modigliani at Tate Britain and loathed it. All those wonderful pix I've known closely since I was a young artist, hermetically sealed under that thick non-reflective bullet proof and person excluding glass, ugh and thrice ugh. One of the pix I'd had next to my bed at boarding school pinned to the wall - couple of portraits, the nuns wouldn't have stood for a nude - was slightly smaller than Id expected. That's about all I gleaned from the show except in future to avoid these things and just buy the catalogue. It was the same with the Cezanne. A minor fortune to get in to see some curators idea of an artists work without the ability to actually experience it.
Better go and do some work now instead of spleen-venting. Wasps all dead.
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