Goldsmith's degree show: you wha?

I went to Dover Street Market a few weeks ago for my first time. By the time I got to the sixth floor all I could think about was running away screaming or getting sick in the nearest loo. It was the size zero male with moustache and gold hotpants that finally did it. Michael had to bundle me into the lift and whisk me off to the nearest Pret for an elderflower cordial reviver. Sometimes I have that reaction to arty things.

Something similar happened at the Goldsmith’s art college degree show last weekend. The thing is, I love art. I love looking at it, absorbing ideas, imagining the artists’ thought processes, discovering new galleries and of course sipping free wine and spotting celebs at openings... It’s just that when I’m around it too long, and it no longer makes sense to my (I must admit, largely logical) brain, my body starts rejecting it, and goes into convulsions.

We’d spent the morning in Blackheath. What a revelation. Lovely cute country village, huge expanses of green space, kind of reminded us of America in a weird way. Found an amazing foodie shop/cafe called Hand Made. Tried to walk past it but the pork pies looked so good we had to go in and eat one. Later, we went back for coffee and a most spectacular and not too almondy pear and almond tart.

 

In our sugary caffeiney haze, we thought we’d walk to Goldsmiths and see the legendary breeding ground of so many bands, artists and other such attention seekers. Well-heeled became down-at-heel as we walked westwards through Lewisham and New Cross and landed at the college. Were delighted to find that the degree show was on and gawped our way through room after room of increasing bizarreness.

So incredibly awkward having to look at the art while the artist slouches beside it. There’s just nothing you can do to make it ok. Without any explanations of (what the bloody hell) this (goldfish swimming in a tank surrounded by four TVs) piece is about, you’re forced to find the right balance of non-flippant facial expression, polite interest and cool dissinterest before walking slowly onto the next one. Do you ignore them? Do you smile at them? Do you pretend you’re a crusty art critic and take notes? Do you ask them what it’s about or do you nod knowingly?

If you’re me, you take pictures when no-one’s looking.

Our favourite was the cassette recorders secretly recording you talking and playing it back to you in bizarre loops. Michael played his latest favourite song, Music to Watch Girls By, through the mic and a few seconds later we had Andy Williams singing the girls watch the boys watch the girls watch the boys back to us over and over again. Fabulous.

We saw a film of various mouths vomiting back up various coloured liquids. We saw a film of a guy with four plates stuck to his arm dancing around topless. We saw giant knitted scarves (quite nice). We saw a dressing up room full of dragged up art students. We saw another topless man in a clown wig blowing bubbles. We saw £20 notes in bottles of formaldehyde. If anything’s going to wake up your sleepy office-numbed brain it’s this show.

Several floors later though and I was getting the shakes and the convulsions were threatening. Thank god for the guy who had bought a Jake and Dinos Chapman picture and stuck it to a bucking bronco type ride. I had a go and felt much better after it. At least I was allowed to laugh and didn’t have keep my face in a permanent state of painful ponderousness and pretend understanding.

The tapes, the bronco ride and the incredible bedroom filled with long red hair by ‘Miss Davinia Robinson’ (“That’s how our house would look if I didn’t hoover it,” said Michael) were the only pieces that made me go ‘wow’. Oh and a kind of odd faux office environment that made me smile. The rest just seemed a bit, yeah whatever. What’s new? I kept wondering. What’s really breaking boundaries? Hair room aside, I just couldn’t find it.

Still, made it out in one piece, without getting sick or running away and really really enjoyed it. I had to slap myself and realise that it’s a privilege to see fresh, cutting-edge art in one of the most arty capitals (if not, the) in the world.

Then back to our very own arty corner of London on our smashing new airy East London Line. (I’m worried they’re going to close it down soon when they realise how empty their shiny new toy is all the time.) Yet another great day out with more great finds. Once again, London displays its unfathomable depths.

Experimental Food Society: Wobblicious!

"It'll be great." "It's good to give new things a go." "Look, it's only £5 a ticket, with a free glass of wine. That means that even if it's rubbish we'll only have lost about £1."

I spent most of the walk to the Intercontinental Hotel persuading Michael that it was a good idea to go to the inaugural event of the Experimental Food Society. I saw on my Urban Junkies email and couldn’t resist such a bizarre sounding thing. Michael's German though. Risk-taking doesn't come easy.

It paid off though. Handsomely. One of those nights when you think to yourself, this city rocks. Well, wobbles. The event was a talk by (self-proclaimed) jellymongers, Bombas & Parr. I watched the Blur documentary, No Distance Left to Run, the other day and they reminded me of Damon and Graham. One the talker, the entertainer, the driving force, the front man; the other one, quiet, thoughtful, modest, clearly the genius behind the operation.

They talked for over an hour about jelly and art and architecture and things that just never would have crossed your mind in a lifetime. Like how to coat jelly with gold, and how to make funeral jelly, Henry VIII's favourite jelly (Hippocras I think) and the difference between jelly as art and jelly as foodstuff. Yes indeed. They also talked about how they set up in business (“we just thought, I know, let’s make jelly”). I love that stuff. Always makes you go away plotting your own business venture that will finally turn your passion into cash and your life into a dream (for about as long as the journey home). They attempted a less than successful demonstration but that was quickly abandoned for more stories about jelly and its place in our society.

Then (after me worrying there would be no food at the experimental food society’s inaugural event) they brought out a jelly each on massive silver trays of wobbliness. I think I had orange and lemon. Was surprisingly nice and made me and Michael think twice about leaving jelly in the realm of the kiddies.

Then, then, we were told that the big spread of food we’d been eyeing up at the back of the room was for us. It was something like a run on a bank, only we were prepared and got there almost first. Several plates (of gorgeous buffet food and a few bowls of sushi and beef and fish and rice) later we were sitting on a bench unable to move and wishing we didn’t eat all that so fast. “Buffets bring out the worst in me,” Michael declared. I had to agree, I’ve never seen him move so fast. Mind you I think most other people there were the same. Manners vanished and the human hunter instinct took over.

What a great surprise though, fantastic night. Some of those things pay off, some don’t, but definitely worth trying. You can’t get much better nights out in London for a fiver. Can't wait for the next one! (And, have booked to see Bombas & Parr's History of Food event with Courvoisier in Belgrave Square in July, v exciting.)

PS On the way there I spotted an elephant spotter. Firstly, what is that about? And secondly, am I the only one who just doesn't like those elephants? And I love elephants. There's just something spooky about those ones. Those bulgy dead eyes. It's a nice idea but I just find them freaky.

Artisan du Chocolat: Chocolate heaven

Mmmm, chocolate. If it be a god, then Kent be Mecca. 

Michael got me a tour of the Artisan du Chocolat factory in Ashford for my birthday, and last Saturday I made my pilgrimage. Oh my chocolate god what a place.

It wasn’t exactly a selfless act on his part. We’re both a bit obsessed with AduC. We have a box of their sea-salted caramels in our cupboard at all times (peppercorn ones at the moment, amazing). We covet them so much that we only allow ourselves one per night. In fact we recently had friends for dinner and are still kicking ourselves for bringing out the little brown tub after dinner. I still remember trying to concentrate on polite conversation as we watched one friend throw one after the other into his mouth like they were smarties. Needless to say that’s the last dinner we’ll be inviting him to. I also buy them for my family in Dublin at almost every birthday and Christmas – even my granny likes them.

Meeting Ann Weyns (who founded AduC with her partner Gerard Coleman) was a bit like meeting the Wizard of Oz. Behind the glossy packaging and magical flavours lies a very humble person and really quite a small factory. I couldn’t believe how modest and open she was. Instead of the slick marketing machine I expected, I found an incredibly honest, passionate person who wasn’t shy about telling us juicy gossip about Gordon Ramsay, Heston Blumenthal and the supplier relationship they now have with MandS. Fascinating stuff. 

The tour itself was amazing. We didn’t get to see the velvety stuff being moulded or shaped or anything. But it didn’t matter, because Anne was so interesting to listen to. You could watch like eight series of the Apprentice and not learn as much as a few hours going round their little factory with Ann. They have an incredible ethos. “People ask us to put up our prices. They say why not, people will pay it. But I think if I wouldn’t pay that much for something, then why should anyone else?” Both her and Gerard still work tirelessly on the factory floor pretty much every day of the week. Even the marketing is done at a surprisingly low level. I asked her who does her packaging and marketing, she said they got a huge quote from an agency and so found a freelance designer online instead. They'd rather spend the money on the product. Someone said the salted caramel boxes look like cosmetic tubs and she said, “They are. It’s amazing what you can find online.” It just goes to show that if you have enough passion and a clear vision, you can easily do these things yourself, and make it look just as professional.

She let us taste raw cocoa beans and even cocoa pulp (nice, never even knew it was a fruit) and broke open countless bars of chocolate. I couldn’t believe the difference in taste from Vietnam to Java to Bali. They’re all single source beans so they can get really clear flavours. She told us 90% of the world’s chocolate is made from a mix of many different beans and that manufacturers usually import readymade chocolate and all they do is shape it. They are one of only three manufacturers in the UK that make their chocolate from scratch. It shows.

Then onto more chocolate tasting. Oh, alright then. Round a long table with a napkin, a menu, a glass plate and a glass of water, we were served a 25-course chocolate extravaganza. I don’t like mint chocolates much but theirs actually tasted like chomping on a mint leaf. I don’t think my mouth will let me put an After Eight in it ever again after that. She even proudly brought out new sea-salted caramel ‘iScream’ and cocoa pulp sorbet. Still in testing phase. So good, even if I did wonder was I going to turn into a giant blueberry and have to be rolled out of there later.

It’s a shame there are so many roundabouts around Ashford because the combination of them with my cocoa butter filled stomach was not good on the way home. Gluttons. But so worth it.

Electric Hotel: Beautiful and strange

Went to this amazing outdoor dance thing. Electric Hotel. Put on by Sadler's Wells with Fuel. The poor dancers were slightly overshadowed by the amazing 1960s American hotel set they were stuck inside. Me and Michael both agreed that if we were told that building had always been there, in the middle of a King's Cross wasteland a few yards away from an old Victorian gasworks, we would have believed it. Incredibly realistic. Even down to the watermarked concrete, rusty balcony rails and tufts of weeds sticking out at the bottom. 

At a pre-show talk about the development of the dance for the show I was amazed by the dancers' unearthly presence and gazelle-like limbs. They didn't seem to cross their legs so much as wrap them round each other like Tangle Twisters. There was an air about them that just made it impossible to imagine them sat behind a desk (sigh). They told us that, while we hear sounds and music through our Silent Disco headphones, they hear beeps, giving them cues when to drop keys, knock on doors, jump on beds... They also said how weird it was not to be dancing in the same room as each other, so they couldn’t feel each others' presence. It was a shame that when it was opened up for questions, all anyone could ask about was the structure. But unavoidable really, it's hard to ignore. Four stories high and made of six shipping containers.

The show itself is a lovely idea and was spectacular in places. Small moments like a woman in a red dress pressed up against the window, light shining behind her, creating a thin, spiderlike silhouette on the glass. Big moments like all the dancers synchronised in their different rooms. The lighting was striking and well thought out. Loved the blue box lighting bit. Only thing is, I wanted more. More dancing please. More big moments. Less repeating the same scene that I’m never going to understand no matter how many times you redo it. Luckily I didn't expect to understand the story, so managed to let it wash over me. Michael, however, didn’t, and came out frustrated at not being able to logically explain what was going on. Even though he said for the first half an hour he had thought it was the best piece of theatre he'd ever seen. It's interesting wearing those headphones because it forces you not to speak to who you’re with about what’s going on, so we came out with completely different versions of the story. Varying from dream to reality, suicide to murder. 

I'm definitely glad I saw this, but somehow I wanted something more important. I sometimes complain about theatre being too worthy and trying to say too much, but this time I was left craving  some depth. (And actually more mining of the weird stuff people do in their hotel rooms when they think no-one’s watching.) Really I wondered what is driving you to make all these dancers (who don’t even dance that much) and this 52-tonne set trek across the UK if you're not saying something that the world's got to hear. Surely not just for an overblown horror movie. It's not totally a giant gimmick but it was threatening to lean that way. Unless, which is quite possible, my brain wasn't sophisticated enough to get the message. Reading the reviews today made me laugh because even the most experienced reviewers seemed confused by the event. 

Although it added to the drama to be outside with the wind on my face, I was wishing desperately for another jumper or a quick swim in their hot mulled cider. Michael thought it would be good to have a VIP section where a copy of the hotel would be built opposite. You'd get a fancy dinner and be able to sit inside, and the producers could charge loads of money for the experience. Then we had this great idea of hot-tub theatre. Like drive-in movies, only you all sit in hot tubs. Only Michael thought you wouldn't need the theatre then. I mean once you have a hot tub what more do you need.

Wilton's Music Hall: Amazingly atmospheric, admirably restored

The most beautiful music venue in London is born. Let’s rephrase that. The most beautiful music venue in London is reborn. 

We went to see Broadcast 2000 and friends a few weeks ago and were once again blown away with the gems that lie hidden in London’s side streets. What a revelation Wilton’s Music Hall is. Just stunning. Unbelievably atmospheric, comfortingly woody, acoustically perfect, there just aren’t enough adverb-adjective combinations. Apparently it’s the oldest grand music hall in the world. They’ve cleverly and respectfully managed to restore it for use while keeping much of its old paint-peeling charm. But it’s mostly still falling down and needs a lot of money to keep it going. Patrons include the Bonham Carter family, who (based on Helena-lore) seem to fit the character of the place perfectly. Old-worldly yet contemporary, slightly scary but effortlessly cool.

They don’t do food in the evenings but you can order a takeaway that will be brought to you from the Lebanese around the corner. Lamb chunks presented to you like a desert island in a houmous ocean, greek salad with (the much nicer) halloumi where the feta should be, soft round bready discs, yumlish.

We felt like king and queen of Wilton’s as we sat on our pew at the front of the balcony opposite the stage. Sitting there surrounded by twinkly fairy lights, creaking wooden floorboards and warm floaty folky music, I wanted to empty my wallet into their coffers there and then. Thank god our pew was wedged up against the balcony rail and I couldn’t get out. 

Broadcast 2000 were good. They frenetically bashed away at their respective toys like kids at a creche, and were brilliant at it, but a bit too high-pitched somehow to pluck at my personal heart-strings. I fell more in love with a Spanish loop-pedal genius, Hyperpotamus (please change your name, pleeease), and Australian singer songwriter, Matt Corby. Sorry Michael, it's only temporary. 

My love for Wilton's though is permanent. We'll be back.

National Portrait Gallery: Things to do in London when your boyfriend’s dislocated his shoulder

Two days at home and cabin fever sets in. Michael managed to dislocate his shoulder (playing frisbee, truly) and we spent most of the bank holiday Sunday in Homerton Hospital A&E. Watching him suck in a quarter of a tank of laughing gas was amusing though. "Look around you, everything’s hilarious," he says, handing me the mouthpiece so I can have a go. It was at the point he said, "Bill Murray in Broken Flowers. I see him everywhere," that I grabbed the thing away from him. 

Anyway that was the bank holiday weekend gone. Which is ok because sometimes I need to be forced by circumstances beyond my control to do nothing. We had a lovely brekkie with the first watermelon of the year. But by Monday afternoon I was going crazy, so took myself off into London. I realised I never do that. Walked from Holborn through Covent Garden, found an amazing shop Happie Loves It. Countless versions of one of my favourite species of top - bright flowery pattern with sash around the middle that ties at the back. Gorgeous. Much to the shop girls' extreme joy, I took about 16 tops and several skirts into the only changing room they have. I bought three of them though. Partly out of guilt. 

Then sauntered off to the National Portrait Gallery, marvelling at the wondrousness of people who can draw stuff. And people who can drain themselves of blood and mould it into the shape of their head (a la Marc Quinn). I felt so awful watching a mother and her young daughter right up close to his big red head saying things like, "What is it?" "Look, feel the cabinet, it’s cold!" I left the room quickly before I had to watch the mother read the little explanation card. In my euphoria of being set free of two-bed flat, no outdoor space, I fell in love with Alex Katz's portrait of Anna Wintour and his pop-up book style portrait series, One Flight Up. I even begged the guy at the shop to let me in after it closed so I could buy the book...

...which, after popping in to see David Cameron in his new home, I sat and read by the river. The peaceful side opposite the Southbank. Heaven. 

I resisted all foodie temptations put before me in preparation for Michael's promised one-armed beef stroganoff (with bonus artfully arranged tomato and mozarella starter). Which was indeed lovely. Much as he tried to tell me reasons it wasn't. God bless Jamie Oliver's iPhone app for giving men a reason to cook. God bless days off too.