I took my son to the art exhibition. I got emails from John Bird's secretary and the PR's saying there might be sexual content and therefore I might not think it's appropriate for my son.
I told them I'd take my chances and I told my son there might be pictures of nudes.
"We learnt in art that nude pictures are the hardest to draw," he said, surprising me, as I don't actually know what they study in Art.
Anyway, I cycle us down to Clerkenwell and go into the private viewing.
At this point I take in what the exhibition is about. It's the Panic Exhibition, in reference to the god 'Pan', the Greek god of "terror and laughter".
I didn't really get to gaze at the art as I was taking care to avert my son's eyes from what might disturb him. Sexual content? Nah!
He was drawn, hypnotised even by the life sized sculpture of a man impaled on a tree. Only my son didn't know the man was impaled, he thought it was a man with amazing strength balancing on his back, on a stick. "Look at his muscles mummy!" "Look you can see all the veins in his feet!" I tried to pull him away, but he wouldn't budge until the realisation dawned on him and then it was "there's a hole in his tummy mummy, how come he isn't dead?" "Mummy, why is his skin hooked to a chain?"
Twenty minutes later, walking past heads coming out of walls, torsos with pigs heads, bleeding brides hanging from a washing line he quietly says: "Mummy, can we leave, I'm feeling freaked out."
Oh my little bubba. He takes everything in, he's such a supersonic superstar but yes, perhaps tonight's exhibition was a little 'inappropriate' for a seven year old but not for its sexual content....
Me, I loved what I saw but I like being shocked. But now I need a bath... the cycling was surprisingly easy but my legs are seizing, I've over done it, I have trouble even sitting down. Sinja called saying warm bath then stretch them gently. A good plan methinks.
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