I had to go up to town on Tuesday for a business meeting that concluded at lunchtime. I knew I had to write stuff up but the sun was shining, it was bitterly cold but London was shimmering like a necklace of precious jewels. Ah ha methinks, next meeting at the RSA off the Strand but at 1830 so I’ll head over the river to the Hayward Gallery, that place of my Garden of Eden moment many years ago when I realised I had to reappraise the use of the term “I am a photographer” after seeing Mapplethorpe’s work. Gursky is on doing a one man show so what better way to while away a few hours as writing up stuff can be done more or less anywhere, anytime.

Like a siren beacon drawing me closer and intoxicating me the daubed yellow paint on the grim and grubby South Bank imprinted large on my retinas. The clutter around the South Bank these days seems to detract from the brutalism of the original concept and I’m not sure the leftover yellow paint from line painting has done much for the place but I mounted the steps, yellow, with a sprinkling of white salt, two at a time with a sense of excitement. More yellow paint greeted me near the gallery entrance but so did other people pushing and pulling on doors that remained firmly closed.

For fuck’s sake the gallery was and is closed on every Tuesday! I have been caught out before but on a Monday. I lost out on a Bailey exhibition in the docks by doing an exhibition tour on a Monday and Monday is a common, certainly across Europe, day for galleries to be closed especially if they are open at the weekend. I wonder what effect leaving Europe will have on gallery opening?

There was nothing else for it but head back to the Strand and ensconce myself in the Davidson Building of the British Computer Society and write up my notes.

Maybe another day but not a Tuesday FFS!