Andy Wahol -Tate Modern July 2020

We walked from just outside the congestion zone. A Massive map reading fight on the best placed to be dropped had taken place swiftly followed by ejection. The little black car had bobbed along the crowed London roads two teens in the back – the third had escaped and was in Turkey. Finally, as we walked the back streets of Southwark we watched the Tate getting closer on our phones. We looked up – The Tate was Big, the Que was long, Security with their temperature readers and hand sanitisers were smiley. We filed in dodging the smaller visitors who haven’t learned to Que yet and collected some tickets before piling into the loo.

We had arrived all dusty, summer London Street dusty warm happy feelings, we need rain.

Refreshed, masked, we headed up the escalator and joined the Que for entrance, hopping from one two-meter mark to the next. The girls checked out everyone’s attire and I was amused when the beautifully decked out woman in front of me spoke to her male partner with a wonderfully deep masculine voice and they smooched.

I have definitely been locked up with my little family for too long. I like London and the life in it, it’s diversity and the spirit.

Warhol. His world, His life I had thought about that a lot when he was alive.

How could I not I was at a London art school in the 80’s, clubbing moving around people who for one reason wanted to be like him or knew him, one was even shot with him. New York was grimey and vibrant in this students eyes, it was cool. I wanted to be cool too. Sadly they are all gone and I, now as old as they were then, watch my children, the eldest a year older than I was then. Strangely satisfying watching an era become the past. It was most definitely an era. Clubs, Disco the music, fashion, art, sex then, Aids, death, more art, less sex, safe, austerity, philosophy and technology. Now Covid.

I wondered what my children would make of the Warhols in the flesh so to speak the scale the texture the mediums?

The girls were not even twinkles in anyone eyes when this work was made and here they are now and somehow I’m still here. I look back – Spooky dreamlike, even New York has been ”cleaned up”.

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