On Sunday morning, Mrs Bishop and I wended our merry way to the Tate Modern, really just to go to the fantastic book shop they have there in order to beat everyone else into a cocked hat, in terms of the fantasticness of the Christmas presents we are purchasing this year, but also to go wander around between some plastic boxes.
I've been to see the current exhibition in the Tate Modern Turbine Hall three times now, and I don't know what it is that I find so absolutely fascinating about it. I think it has a lot to do with people's reactions to it - as you're walking around, shielded from all sides by this enormous structures, you forget that people are able to hear you passing comment, and so a lot of the viewers are totally unabashed in expressing their true opinion of the piece.
Most people seem to think that pointing out that it looks like a warehouse is a criticism. Yes, yes, it does. Piles of boxes have that effect. But I love the stillness of it all, all of the lines, the difference in stacking style and method, the sheer scale of it that threatens to topple at any moment. I love that children are running around playing chasing and hide and seek in the middle of the gallery, I love that half the people walking around are exasperated because they just don't see what's so darned interesting about piles of boxes, while the other half of us spend most of our time trying desperately to take a photograph of the exhibition from an original perspective.