Some art and that.

When I was in London the other week I went to some art galleries. I love the National and the Portrait galleries, but the Tate makes me angry. Much of art has become insufferably poncey and philosophised for my liking.

I love the Impressionists because they sought out beauty behind the obvious, forced you to look differently at a scene both ordinary and extraordinary – the way the light plays through a scene, or colour changes the way you perceive something.

I always try and seek out the beauty in the ordinary and the mundane – I love it when a huge gout of steam bursts out of the kettle and mushrooms as it hits the kitchen ceiling, the same way Monet watched the Gare St. Lazare fill up with smoke and steam.

I was in the Tate Britain on my most recent visit - the art is much more enjoyable there, but the whole experience unsavoury. Curating has become less about presenting art to the people and more about protecting the art from the people. The staff were entirely rude – a symptom no doubt of the pervasive art gallery arrogance on show.

The whole Tate thing is entirely depressing - the Modern makes me angry because where art used to celebrate the beautiful, this gallery seeks to showcase the ugly and contrary under the guise of thought-provocation. Art has become too smart for its own good.