I’ve never really seen
the point of brunch: too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, it just makes
a mess of the day. This view probably reflects how deeply I am steeped in the traditional
work ethic and the timetable for living imposed by industrialisation, but it’s
a hard one to shake off despite the many who don’t share it. I suppose brunch
suits people who don’t need to divide their days into conventional sections
comprising a.m. and p.m. with lunch in between, people whose working day is
flexible or, in some cases, non-existent. And then there are the wannabees,
those for whom the freedom to brunch is an aspiration but, for the time being, must
remain a weekend treat. Still, I harbour the prejudice that brunch is, if not
actually immoral, at best a guilt-ridden indulgence.
Despite this however, I
did meet friends for brunch last Sunday (not at my instigation). The cafe was
funky and full, packed with millennials and their young families competing to
be heard over their own cacophony. A waiter took our order soon enough but I
suppose we should have realised all was not well when three other waiters subsequently
came to take it again: but one doesn’t like to make a fuss. Sure enough,
however, our order had been lost. It was just as well that I had eaten
breakfast at 07.30 as usual, because by the time our food finally arrived it
was actually lunchtime. The fortuitous net result was no change to my dietary
routine (apart from the fact that I would not choose to have Eggs Benedict for
lunch).
The following Tuesday
morning I met a like-minded friend at the Royal Academy where, after a
fortifying cup of coffee, we ventured into the Abstract
Expressionism show. The galleries were not busy (the brunchies having
not yet arrived) and we were able to get up close to the paintings – not that
it was necessary: because so many of the canvasses are very large, there was
more benefit in being able to view them, unobstructed, from a distance.
Moreover, the galleries themselves are on a grand scale which makes the venue well-suited
to the works on display.
The entry fee includes
a personal audio guide which is packed with art-historical information and
curatorial interpretations of key works. But the real bonus is the inclusion of
a few brief passages of 1950s jazz, such as John Coltrane’s Giant
Steps. Their purpose is to illustrate the idea that while visual
artists of the era were pushing the boundaries of technique and meaning,
musicians were doing likewise. The effect of listening while viewing certainly enhanced
my feeling for Abstract Impressionism: in fact the experience was so convincing
that I would like to try it again, this time with iPod in pocket.
Choosing favourites
from this body of work is impossible – no sooner do you decide on a Jackson
Pollock than a Joan Mitchell catches your fancy – but personal preferences
begin to emerge after a while, and some paintings are more “accessible” than
others as far as the layman is concerned. I think, for example, of Rothko’s
works. The curator informs us that the artist insisted his paintings be shown
unframed, unglazed and hung low on the wall. This way he hoped to maximise the
immersive experience for the viewer. It seemed to work well. Perhaps it would
work even better while listening to Blue in Green from
Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue.
The show is a big one
and there is only so much exquisite art one can take in the course of a
morning. As we both began to tire we realised – no coincidence, surely – that it
was lunchtime.
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