Curated

So what does it mean to curate an art exhibition? At Claremont in White Lion Street Islington to curate means to negotiate stone steps up to the second floor, to frame lovingly amateur oil paintings and typed-up poems with  unmatching fonts and to position photographs so that the sun doesn’t spear them. The launch of Ephemeral today was well attended and artists and friends were welcomed with wine and pricked sausages. In another room line dancing was in full swing.
In pride of place in the members’ lounge above tatty armchairs hangs “Image in the Dying Sun” my oil painting of a majestic lion, one of a set of three studies of Ra Ra.
I’d travelled on the 38 Routemaster to the Angel on my return journey from another mind-sharpening Soapbox session for seniors at good ole Tate Britain. At last I feel that faraway Tate Britain is part of me: Before it was a grand building done a couple of times after a long boring tube journey. Not so now. The desert that is Pimlico is now on my internalised SatNav and having marched through the galleries and appreciated previously ignored paintings I now see TBritain as friendly.
We seniors examined our worth as perceived by others. We checked out paintings where wrinklies had insisted on looking unlined and contrasted those with portraits of gentlefolk sporting warts and all. One of our group suggested we saw ourselves in a miserable light never mind what the generations downwards reckoned. It was on the verge of boring to discuss how we are the new generation because seniors are so in fashion with regard to engaging the community. There are TV shows and documentaries about the forgotten oldies, the disrespected greys and the invisible ones. All is highlighted everywhere now with stuff upon stuff about World War One. The joy was to look at paintings of the old white tribe before 1933.

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