Pop-art and doll hair

It's Friday afternoon, and I already laboured 5 hours in SSEES , and more importantly I already had a beer, so beyond re-registering, I only have mental capacity to exploit the free wi-fi here in the British Library. It is a lovely space; the quiet and presumably highly intellectual whispering of the cafe crowd is rather soothing and I can practically feel my MA thesis writing itself from the ridiculous amount of knowledge detectably lingering in the air. 

On this note, I will dedicate this post to all the (two) cultural outings I've had this past few days. On the beautiful Sunday afternoon I dragged my wretched, hungover body to Marble Arch, which was in itself a huge effort, but I concluded that it would be a waste to turn back now. I admired my new favourite public statue (left) and then I listened to a few people sharing their ideas at the Speakers' Corner. It was actually quite dull, as religion exclusively took over, here a rabbi, there's a priest, there's a tree hugger ... well you get the picture. Nevertheless, I do believe that I was just there at the wrong time, surely there must be also other things occupying people's minds. I strolled to the Serpentine Gallery to check out Richard Hamilton's exhibition (free!) which is the first since 1992 and it is on until April 25th. His representation and commenting on contemporary events, such as riots, terrorism and international conflicts seemed spot on and his strong criticism of the media representation was a fresh air for my starved conscious in this mass-informed society. However, I was never good at understanding the workings and methods of pop-art, and his, conceptually speaking, black and white representation of certain delicate problems (such as the Palestinian-Israeli conflict) were too crude for my taste. He definitely made me think, but once that happened, he left me longing for some shading. 

Alice Anderson's Time Reversal (until April 24th) at the Riflemaker was a whole other matter. Having thought I may have issues with my mother from time to time, I figured it could be interesting to see how an other woman, especially an artist goes on to resolve or understand such relations. Well, let me say, if I have issues I don't know what this woman has. The several meter long doll hair hanging from the first floor to the entrance door was only the beginning. For a quid you get to go down to the beyond-creepy basement, where the 12-minute short film 'The Night I Became a Doll' recounts the story of a little girl, who, to obey her mother's wishes of not speaking, not eating, not blinking, gradually transforms herself into this eerie porcelain doll. Positively chilling, however highly recommended. 

Hopefully I will finally have internet at home from Monday, so you can look forward to more regular cultural banter from this page.