Country life
Common concerns
Leanda de Lisle
My days as a cub reporter on an East End newspaper seem far off. However, I had lunch yesterday with the chap I used to share a desk and a few jokes with. What do we now have in common? Chickens, amongst other things. He keeps them in his garden in Mile End, just as I keep them in the back courtyard here. We compared notes on breeds, while quaffing Chablis at the Oxo Tower restaurant, And if that wasn't fashionable enough, we then paid a flying visit to Tate Modern.
Galleries should be lingered in. Howev- er, my friend had to get back to work as a star of the Net as well as a journalist, while I wanted to catch the cheap train home. I had, therefore, only a fleeting impression of the so-called Cathedral of Cool and I fear it didn't seem particularly cool to me. The place was as jam-packed with people as the farmers' market in Hinckley was this morning. That being the case I didn't get a sense of great space, even as I walked into the now famous, double-height nave. The place was further diminished by overexpo- sure on television, since it felt cosy and familiar rather than exciting and new.
Clipping along the mock dusty floor- boards at a good canter, I pulled myself up first in front of some Picassos and Braques. They looked old masters and stood out as such, in a quiet sort of way. But the same could not be said of Rodin's 'Kiss', which I spotted in a corner. This was much less `country house'. It looked like a huge and hideous piece of industrial Victorian kitsch, even though it had been kept far away from more obviously modern, abstract works of art. Of these, all I can say is I was able to appreciate some more than others. Are all those piles of stuff supposed to be sculptures or some other form of artistic expression?
I'll do my best to describe what I mean. There was, for example, one pile of stuff I rather admired. It was about 6-ft square and had lots of household odds and sods squashed into it. I read from a notice that its layers were supposed to put me in mind of a geological excavation, although what this what-have-you actually reminded me of was an attic. It was its very distinctive smell. I liked that about it (although at home I'd rather keep it in an attic) and I also liked the way a man next to us scrib- bled a note and stuck it into the work. I wondered what it said, but didn't wait for the man to go so that I could sneak a look at his artistic contribution.
I was mad keen to get on and see Cor- nelia Parker's exploding garden shed. In the country, more than most places, we take great pleasure in destruction. At home we have been delighting all month in hacking down dead trees, ripping up bits of lawn, pulling out unwanted plants. I'd be fascinat- ed to see a garden shed frozen forever at the moment of its termination. But unfortu- nately the dramatically lit bits of flying junk were in a special paying areaand by the time we discovered this it was time to leave. My friend snatched a handbook on our way out and then proffered it in my direction. `For me?' I cried, delighted with the gift. `Would you be embarrassed?' he asked, slightly nervously. 'Certainly not,' I told him, snatching it away. 'I'm thrilled.' I can't think why I might have been embarrassed. Is there some new relationship rule that Lon- doners have inflicted on themselves? If there is I'm afraid it went way over my head. All I can cope with are nice practical inter- actions concerning chickens and such like. I had plenty of those again this morning at the market. The chickens in question were dead, but I asked the vendor what breed they were. He whispered a name, then swore me to secrecy. It seems people don't care how free-range, dry-plucked and delicious a chicken is, if it happens to be French as well• `Never mind,' I told him, 'I'll take one home, stick in on a telephone and call it Dali.'
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