It's a postcode lottery, isn't it? What your neighbours are called. I'm a little in love with the names of ours opposite, Giles and Louisa. Their house towers above our small cottage. It makes me feel as though, as a retired person, I have a janitorial interest in its security and well-being. In order to be an effective neighbourhood watch I have to observe, discretely of course, and avoiding the tell-tale glint of binoculars in the low autumn sun, their comings and goings. It gives me a little frisson when I see Giles up a seven foot ladder, for example, trimming their beech hedge (which they have done in a most artistic way, I have to say, by revealing the gnarled and twisty branches of the lower part which also gives me better viewing access of their drive, of course.)
Well, just before you mock my little peccadillo, then rest assured, there are Others doing it on a Much Grander Scale than I. I read this morning in The Times about a furore at the Tate Modern. A gallery which is no stranger to weird and wacky over the years. Thrives on controversy and debate. But this one is big, really big. They built an extension to the gallery which was finished some months after the completion of a neighbouring block of ultra modern flats that feature exceptionally panoramic windows. They must enjoy pretty impressive views, if you dis-count the somewhat lumpen Tate addition. The problem is that they in turn afford a wonderful and intriguing view to all those Tate visitors who are getting even more bang for their bucks on the ticket price. Tate visitors are even taking pictures of the flats' interiors from the balconies. And putting those pictures online.. Think of it! Eat your heart out Tracey Emin. Here we can see constantly evolving Unmade Beds. Dear Lord you might even... No, I shudder. Too much to contemplate. So we have a tremendous brouhaha. The head of the Tate, Sir Nicholas Serota suggesting they invest in net curtains. Net curtains, indeed? The residents in return retaliate by displaying an effigy of Sir Nick, sporting his underwear, in their windows. Now this is what I call truly interactive art.
It does, however, make me realise that perhaps in our nets-free residence, I should contemplate putting on my Winceyette nightie as I make a mad dash across the corridor to the bathroom in the mornings.
I'm not so much into interactive art, myself.
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