The Art Crowd

                                         (Above, Kings Cross station: crap)

I don't hang out with artists every often. Artists unfortunately seem to have to hang out with other artists almost all the time, and whilst I like art quite a lot, the events associated with it can be excruciating. Indeed, looking at the art crowd, the impression is that their identity, far from being anything to do with the production of art itself, is as just a load of gregarious drunks and bores who have learnt at least one cardinal rule: BeAmDo.  First be an artist, then  become an artist, and then finally get to do what an artist actually does.  I never thought ideas so thoroughly honed in Las Vegas would ever catch on so universally. Either that, or they comprise folks inordinately good at filling in grant application forms.
So if you are an artist, you can feel slightly ill at ease in the milieu, liable to either rant (like Scott) or feel plain peculiar (like Julie) and adventures in being an artist, even if you are one, can become incredibly stressful.
Anyway, such painful things would include standing in the new Kings Cross railway station concourse waiting to go to Luton to attend just such an art event, this was an exercise in the hideous. Not only do you find yourself ensconced within this child's blamange of so called architecture, something that looks as if it just wants to mutate in to more goo, and finally become it's inherent state, just crap on the floor, but you have some opera singer yodelling Ave Maria at full volume in the name of Macmillan nurses (which is a good cause but I would pay you to stop) and this periodically annotated by incomprehensible station announcements (no progress there) and to add ladles of agony, Boris Johnson, like some posh Big Brother, telling everybody to buck up every ten minutes in the name of the Olympics.