A Little Snow

I was at Tim Shaw’s exhibition in the Exchange Gallery last Thursday. A vision of oppression and abuse with a huge recreation of the restaurant where he was sitting with his mother when he was 7 years old in Belfast when a bomb exploded beneath them. It is atmospheric as the lights are blue, shadows run in panic all around the walls and the trays are hovering in the air slowly moving as you look at the possessions left behind, chairs upturned, life fractured.

And then I looked at the people who were there to see him. Tim is deeply feeling, I am sure many of those there were too, with their wine glasses full, talking about the show and other things, being seen, doing the ‘art’ bit.

And on Friday every one of them went on with their lives, their daily routine probably unchanged. Their investment in the art, just that, for each evening of the year they go to private views and listen to the artists. The world outside, where the events happen and the nature exists that art reflects, is dying. Routine is everything.

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