Tate rubber-neckers, Dom in Dickens and restless nights
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Version 0 of 1. Continuing a new series, our writer goes sightseeing on Tate Modern’s viewing platform Rooms with views Unlike New York, London has never been a voyeur’s city. Georgian shutters and Victorian hedges were designed for privacy and seclusion. Its art has reflected that. You can find plenty of paintings that look out through city windows, but not many that gaze in – there has never been a British Edward Hopper. The recent property developers’ enthusiasm for plate glass and the relaxation of planning for residential high-rise development are changing that. That was one of the curtain-twitching fascinations of the court case brought by the residents of Southwark’s Neo Bankside tower that overlooks – and is overlooked by – the viewing balcony of the Tate Modern gallery. The residents had bought their flats for the view, but had found themselves a part of it. Five leaseholders, living on the 13th, 18th, 19th and 21st floors of the tower took their case to the appeal court complaining of “visual intrusion and photography, people waving and obscene gestures”, as well as “upsetting” coverage on social media. The appeal judge acknowledged that tens of thousands of gallery visitors each year do look into the residents’ flats and take photos – and sometimes even focus in with binoculars – but dismissed the case on the grounds that the residents were free to close their blinds. I was in the gallery on Thursday, the day after the judgment. I don’t think it was only me who skipped the Turbine Hall installation and, just a little guiltily, went straight up to the now permanent display of London life, sanctioned by the courts: Couples in £2m Apartments Who Realise They Might be Extras in Damien Hirst Vitrines. Day of the jackal When I interviewed Gina Miller last month, she mentioned that one of the ways she had stayed sane through the prorogation court case and the online trolling was by reading Dickens. Invariably, he had seen it all before. “Go back to A Tale of Two Cities,” she told me, “and you’ll find Dominic Cummings.” I have done just that in the past week and, sure enough, it is hard now to read the machinations of Sydney Carton, the “jackal” who gets things done on behalf of the vain and foolish Mr Stryver, without thinking of our national henchman. Dissolute, drunken and dishevelled and with a manner “so careless as to be insolent”, Carton is “the fellow of no delicacy” who “cares for nothing and no one” and whose “negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his quickness and skill”. You’ll remember from the novel that Carton eventually finds redemption by voluntarily going to the guillotine to save the neck of his aristocratic doppelganger. There are, however, plenty of heads that have rolled before his. Sleeping sickness My new watch – 35 quid off eBay – not only has a nifty dial that reminds you just how few steps you have done in a day but also connects to an app that monitors sleeping habits. A graph indicates the hours of shut-eye, and also – somehow – the depth and quality of it. I’ve always been a light sleeper – the creak of a radiator or the prospect of an early morning deadline are often enough to have me staring at the ceiling. Over the course of the month I have been wearing my watch though, I’ve noticed a slight – but surely significant – increase in the number of restless minutes. Last night, with the wind rattling the windows, I lay awake wondering, inevitably, whether I was sleeping more shallowly because I was anxious about waking up to check the app. |