Beard by Brock Elbank @ Somerset House

Free events, Photography

 

beards

Postcards from the exhibition – Frank Moon (left) and Ricki Hall

 

As you may gather from the date of my last post, I’ve been off the blogging boil for quite some time. Excuses include abandoning the life of a nomadic freelancer for that of a sulky one-hour-plus commuter who could no longer work from 7.30am until 12, go to a gallery when there’s no-one but a few trendy pensioners hanging around and be back at your desk for the 3pm until whenever-you’ve-done-enough-work-to-silence-the-voice-in -your-head-that-says-working-from-home-isn’t-a-proper-job shift (if it’s in time for the news at 10, you’re having a good day).

I’ve been to so many great art shows in recent months and not found the time to write them up (highlights: Museum of Water at Somerset House, Post Pop: East Meets West at the Saatchi, and Grayson Perry’s Who Are You? at the National Gallery) but I promised myself that this year I would force myself to stop being boring at the weekends and get back into doing creative things, so here we go. If you can’t post opinions no-one asked for on the internet in 2015, when can you? And frankly, I’ve run out of things to watch on Netflix.

Anyway, I went to an exhibition called Beard at Somerset House. There were a lot of guys walking around it in various levels of hirsutism, each expressing a corresponding degree of woeful inadequacy. Because the beards on display – photographed by Brock Elbank – were, frankly, magnificent. (If you don’t like that adjective, there are a whole host of others on allaboutbeards.org’s gallery of featured beards, which for reasons I won’t go into is something of which I am aware. My personal favourite is “Patrick’s picture-perfect beard”. No, wait. “Andy’s awe-inspiring beard”). I can only assume that the other attendees were dedicated pogonophiles. Full disclosure: my boyfriend has a beard.

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What’s great about the Tate (Modern)

Art, Painting, Public spaces

Don’t be mean to the Tate Modern, or it’ll go and sulk in this puddle again (Rev Stan on Flickr)

Pretty big, pretty new and pretty popular, the Tate Modern is often derided by actual-art-fans as somewhere which is too well-known, too much of a tourist attraction, too full of schoolkids thundering around and raucously lol-ing at all the pieces with bums and boobs. Too accessible to the everyday oik who finds themselves on the South bank with half an hour to spare. If private galleries are an exclusive, prosecco-free soiree in the Kensington Roof Gardens (YES, THIS IS THE POSHEST PLACE I KNOW), then the Tate Modern is a can of K Cider in the overgrown, woodsy bit at the back of Hyde Park.

But guys, this is ok! Sometimes stuff that loads of people like is – believe it or not – GOOD! I went there last weekend, for the first time since I was a country-bumph 19-year-old up in London on a kid’s day travelcard and thinking that this was the height of capital city cool. It wasn’t, and still isn’t (the postcode doesn’t begin with the letters EC, go figure), but here are some reasons why it is a nice place to hang about for a bit. You know, even if it’s NOT raining.