Mystery Unfolded

I stood in Trafalgar Square for ages yesterday morning, the day sunny and pleasant, tourists just beginning to stir. I was there for the Rembrandt exhibition, but what kept me outside for so long were the performance artists. We've all seen those men, dressed from head to toe in silver or gold, who seem to perch in midair, no visible signs of support. How the heck do they do it? They were just setting up as I arrived, and they were a revelation. Scowling and aggressive looking to a T, they couldn't help but reveal most of their secrets to amused passers by as they made their preparations. Before they got into their final position they swathed themselves in blankets or duvet covers, but you could see that their seats, attached to the pole that goes inside their jacket sleeve, actually slid inside their trousers. Very clever. Once unveiled, they became a magnet for small children. Two little Japanese boys obediently trotted to the side of one of them when he beckoned, his mask smiling as he invited their father to take photos. But behind the mask I knew he was scowling still. And they were so trusting. So that's how it's done. Very disturbing.

After Rembrandt it was the National Portrait Gallery, one of my favourite places. While I was there I checked out Grayson Perry's Who Are You display. Very interesting, very clever, but it is the portraits of Victorian politicians, early 20th-century literary figures, and famous and infamous women that always draw me in. It's extraordinary to witness these insights into their characters, so revealing and so intimate. I saved my absolute favourite to the end - James Joyce by Jacque-Emile Blanche - and what do you know? One of the many, far too many, groups of schoolchildren who swarmed all over the gallery was sitting on the ground in front of the painting. They were sketching something, urged on loudly by one of their teachers. Their age seemed to be around seven. And they paid no attention to the fact that they were inhibiting my pilgrimage. I teetered on the edge of this sprawling group, leaning in dangerously to get a better look at JJ, and they took no notice. I must admit to a spot of mild irritation; wouldn't they have been just as well served sketching back at school, or in their local town hall which must have some paintings of dignitaries? Was visiting the NPG at that age really so vital for their education? Or was it just a jolly for their teachers?