Julian came around last night, and like a whirlwind, proceeded to unpack the six charity boxes I had assembled, removing stuff for friends, so I now only have five boxes, though I may manage to fill another couple before the man arrives.
Watched a TV programme on BBC4 about a very famous art auctioneer, who apparently revived the fortunes of Phillips, just before the bottom fell out of the modern art market. If you weren't totally cynical about commercial modern art before, you certainly would be after watching this - the last thing shown which sold was a pair of legs holding up some female genitals in garish colours, and sold for about £8,000, a fraction of the millions made by previous items, all equally vile or tired, such as a painstakingly produced cereal packet over six feet high which remained unsold. Dear me.
Romy is helping me choose which piece I may submit for the Silver exhibition if I can be bothered. She favours either the portrait of my ex listening to jazz (above), or my two women having a conversation which was not so well painted, but might be a more striking choice. My next post will show this one.
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