The Eyebrow Chronicles

Anish Kapoor's "Tall Tree and the Eye" (and The Brow)

The Brow just went to the Anish Kapoor (sculptor known for his revelatory use of form, colour, and space) retrospective at the Royal Academy in London.

The show starts in the courtyard in front of the RA; the first thing you see on walking in is a giant tower of reflective spheres, seemingly suspended in space, mirroring clouds, cobble stones, the buildings surrounding the courtyard, and the myriad visitors with their cameras. Called “Tall Tree and the Eye,” it’s the perfect preview of coming attractions: a work that awakens the viewer to the infinite number of ways of seeing the world and the self in it.

It’s hard to write about art, wine, or sex without sounding ridiculous. Kapoor’s work defies description. He suggest a reason for this: “I have often said that I have nothing to say as an artist. Having something to say implies that one is struggling with meaning. The role of the artist is in fact that we don’t know what to say, and it is that not knowing that leads to the work.”

As one who is pretty much resigned to struggling with meaning, I will say, go to this show if you can. I will say that it’s worth it to see a cannon splatter the hallowed walls of the Royal Academy with a bucket-sized bullet of red wax. It’s worth it to watch the respectable, elderly punters nearly jump out of their skins when the cannon fires with a loud bang. It’s worth it to wander round a room full of magical mirrors, finding yourself looking for yourself in every one. I will say that it’s worth it to lose yourself in a wall of yellow and to feel like you’re being sucked into an omphalos of color and light. It is worth the twelve quid price of admission. And afterwards, let it all sink in over coffee and a slice of orange-almond cake in the lovely Royal Academy restaurant.

Speaking of food, after my transcendent aesthetic experience I trotted over the road for the slightly more prosaic pleasure of a visit to Fortnum and Mason. This is one of those proper feel-good shops, the kind that lulls you into forking over far too much for something small but delicious. My dad took me to the restaurant here for a highly memorable birthday lunch about twenty years ago. I remember being rather awed by the posh surroundings and wondering whether I could have my choffee milkshake before my burger. Dad assured me that the poshness of the place meant I could have exactly what I wanted, when I wanted, without anyone batting an eyelid. And so I did. Then we went to see “Cats” which was rubbish.

Today, I didn’t stop to eat — just wandered the store leaving a trail of drool, like a large and inedible snail. And bought a few gifts. And saw Ronnie Corbett in the gift-wrapping department. What more could one ask for in a shopping experience?

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Take your guide book and F-off, city slickers.

The Brow’s brain is still virus-addled, hence another animal photo. They must and shall stop. Tomorrow.

Went for a hike today near Biggin Hill in the Kent countryside with F. It’s rural but still semi-suburban, so the fauna we spotted include this cow (plus herd of similar) and a parrot in someone’s back garden who greeted us with a cheery, “Hello, Bill!” I think he must have mistaken us for someone else; maybe he didn’t have his glasses on.

The cows were in a field which we eventually realized we had to cross. At first, we saw the cows but weren’t sure of the way. I wondered whether they would stampede. F scoffed at me and we marched on in the other direction … only to realise quite quickly that it was the wrong one. Back to the cows we went. Again, I expressed mild apprehension about invading their personal space. This time, F wasn’t so sure we were safe. Why not? “They’ll have had time to think about it.”

They did look like some bolshy bovines. I speculated that they had learned to recognise the guide book to walks around London that we were carrying and developed a particularly violent hatred for the people who followed it into their field. But they remained solidly rooted to the spot as we passed. I guess they were still thinking about it.

Peggy and Suzie are Kune Kune pigs

The Brow is sick. The Brow probably does not have swine ‘flu (and, if you’re going to be a passenger on a BA flight from LHR to JFK on Monday, definitely does not). But The Brow wouldn’t mind getting swine ‘flu if she got it from snuggling one of these Kune Kune hoglets. Their name means “fat and round” in Maori. I can’t imagine why. You can see lots more porcine porn here.

I never saw this before in my life — honest, guv’nor! Then again, I never thought I was the first person to put the the words The Eyebrow Chronicles together either. Most combinations of words one can easily think of have probably been said or written at one time or another. It’s the whole infinite monkeys thing.

F-off, I'm writing The Eyebrow Chronicles

I had a variant on this conversational theme with my friend G when we were at university. We wondered what culinary pairings had never been thought of before. You know, if you sent an infinite number of monkeys to Sainsburys and gave them a kitchen, how long would it take them to invent beans on toast? I suggested the Spam and fontina sandwich. We never tried it.

much better with banana

Doesn’t Liz Taylor have an amazing pair, though? And Rachel Alexander! That’s a look that I endure considerable pain trying to avoid. But she’s a supermodel. Different rules apply.

Rachel Alexander with more ruly brows

Here she is looking more groomed. I like the flapper bob and the length of her fringe. The lips are a bit too corpse-y for my taste.

Fashion designers say the darnedest things, bless their cotton socks. Especially when you ask them what the inspiration is for their latest collection. Luella Bartley cited “Blue Peter” as one of hers (yanks, that’s a very long-running kids’ TV show known more for ingenuity with empty toilet rolls than for aesthetic excellence). But so far, the Eyebrow Chronicles Prize for Ponciest Inspiration at London Fashion Week goes to … Marios Schwab, for claiming to have been inspired by the goddesses Athena, Venus (Guardian/Schwab: go straight to Hades for mixing Greek and Roman. Surely you meant Aphrodite?) and Hera, and Plato’s notion of the soul as being divided into three parts. Notice a theme? Of course you do. But why stop there, Marios? Let’s see, what else comes in threes? Graces, little pigs, stooges, musketeers, bad things. Why not throw them into the mix? Or maybe you did.

Marios Schwab: deeply philosophical

I wonder what Plato would have made of this outfit?

Would he have recognised instantly that it was referring to his tripartite description of the soul? Surely the inky black bodice represents thumos, or spirit, while the flesh-coloured middle is epithumia, or desire, and the long skirt stands for logos (reason). Or maybe not! Who knows? Not Socrates — he said as much himself, according to Plato.

But the point is that this dress (is it a dress? A skirt and two tops? A top, a wound dressing, and a curtain?), whatever else it may be, is clearly a metaphor for society and the rifts that divide us as humans. I know that’s what I look for in a garment. What about you?

Socrates: not attending London Fashion Week