What the chuff am I doing in the epicentre of the Mayfair high art world, knocking on a majestic front door, asking to enter a gallery?

Erm…

And so I made my way over to Woodbury House on a recommendation to see the Lee Quiñones exhibition.

You might know Lee from his work and starring role in the Wild Style film back in 1982.

I can recall watching in at the old Odeon back in Nottingham, hanging on to every last detail of the emerging hip hop scene, and seeing how I could transfer this to my own teenage stylings.

I still have no regrets about wearing the ski goggles for a Wear Your Own Clothes day at school.

And that really should have been it for Lee and I. Hip hop burnt out for me when I stopped breakin'. I confess that I haven’t followed his career since.

KNOCK KNOCK.

“Can I help you?”

Erm, I’ve come to view the gallery.

“Are you a collector?”

I hesitated in saying YES! I specialise in cheapo Ebay CD’s and knock off Forest kits.

I somehow managed to blag myself into Woodbury House. Actually, it wasn’t that difficult.

The host was an absolute charmer. She knew her art, and genuinely seemed interested in to what had led me over to Mayfair.

There was little misunderstanding as I tried to explain that it was a Big Issue article sent over to me by Wifey.

The host mentioned that Wifey had been in the gallery only last week. I explained that this most definitely wasn’t the case, unless the gallery was hosting a chepo golf clothes sale.

I was given a brief introduction to the work of Lee, starting with Wild Style. This was, until now, my start and end point.

I was given the freedom of the gallery to explore, with no other viewers - or collectors - around.

This is something of a back to front exhibition. You enter the gallery with Lee’s more contemporary work, and then make your way over to Wild Style at the back of the space.

You can see how his work has progressed over the years, taking in various cultural reference points for each period, and then adding his own interpretation.

The overall message of the exhibition title - Outside is America - runs throughout. The work documents an outsider view of the States, and in particular, one viewed through the prism of race.

Sadly it’s a theme that has given him plenty of scope over the decades.

The only thing missing from the exhibition is some form of soundtrack. But then that might have been a little annoying with the same tracks played over again on loop.

Woodbury House is a most welcoming space. The work of Lee Quiñones was worth making the trip over to Mayfair to view.

I might even start collecting, if I can find the spare £25k or so floating around down the back of the settee.

Sometimes the best recommendations to satisfy your cultural thirst come from right on your own local doorstep.

OH HAI Brixton Buzz.

And so with a spare half hour in Clap’ham, I swerved the brunching Wankerville hordes and headed to the local library to look at the work of Brixton street photographer Christopher iCha.

The X-Factor exhibition is low key, but lovely all the same, It features many recognisable Brixton faces. The enthusiasm for the subject matter comes across clearly.

A mixture of black & white and colour snaps are on display as you make your way down the spiralling - and bloody awful - structure of Clapham Library.

There’s no great fanfare telling you about the exhibition. The photos blend in with what is already quite a busy interior landscape.

Framed behind glass in a very bright building, they’re also impossible to snap yourself, with endless lens glare.

That’s no bad thing. It’s a little cheeky to take photos of photos, often leading to a poor secondhand reproduction.

It’s clear from the first frame on show that iCha has the complete trust of his subject matter. He’s not capturing Brixton scenes - he is PART of the Brixton street life.

If you can manage this then you’re halfway there to capturing some decent portrait photography.

It’s an incredibly positive, and very playful exhibition. It will serve as a wonderamful historical archive of the Brixton scene in ten, twenty years time.

Clapham Library itself is very odd. It was built on the back of a developer, wanting to flog on luxury apartments up above. The library looks and feels like an afterthought.

The spiralling nature of the building means that you make your way down to the basement on basically a giant helter skelter walking ramp. It has aged badly over the past fifteen years or so.

Never trust round buildings - and yep, I’ve worked in one.

I can’t remember where I first got the hat tip for the excellent Brown Collection over in Marylebone. Maybe it was from Londonist?

And so I found myself on a miserable, wet Soho afternoon, kicking about with an hour or so to spare.

The record shop circuit (and budget) had been exhausted. I couldn’t be arsed to hit the BOOZE.

Hey! How about that freebie gallery that I have a vague recollection of a recommendation?

It’s a ten minute cut through from the West End and around the back streets of Marylebone. Look out for the Mews, and then WOH! Won’t you look at that.

What a BEAUT.

The building itself is a work of art. Beautifully restored as a town house period piece of architecture, yet still effortlessly blending in with burgeoning wine and dine scene around these parts.

I was wet, wearing a pair of stomping red cherry DM’s and looking a little distressed tbh. I wasn’t your typical Art Gallery Circuit Wanker.

I was welcomed in my the most polite of young fellas. I visibly made an effort of stamping my size 8’s on the matting, not wanting to drag half of the wet Soho shit into the space.

Erm, what next?

My host knew exactly what the score was.

“Have you visited before?”

Nope.

“Do you know anything about Glenn Brown?”

I made my apologies.

“How much time do you have?”

I think my answer of half an hour or so wasn’t too cheeky, or too imposing either.

“PERFECT!”

…said my host.

It was explained how Glenn Brown founded the gallery with his husband Edgar Laguinia. The aim is to showcase Brown’s work (and why not?) alongside other artists of a similar style and perspective.

I then heard a little more about how Brown’s own work concentrates on the finer details and brush strokes, often to reveal secondary images within the overall canvas.

This technique has a specific name in the art world. I’ve forgotten it, as I was a little concerned that my wet DM’s were now leaving a slight puddle on the immaculate wooden flooring.

Apologies, Mr B.

Magnifying glasses are available across all four floors of the gallery. Visitors are encourage to focus in on the finer detail - a nice touch.

I was then let loose to do my thing. Immediately I was drawn, so to speak, to the Austin Osman Spare artworks. He has a specific place in contemporary Transpontine architecture.

Elsewhere and the work was as stunning as the surrounds. I think I might have just found my Nu Fave Art Gallery.

The lush, bright colours of Brown contrasted well with the under-stated decors of each gallery. Each floor had sufficient space to maintain my interest without getting bored.

The current Hoi Polloi exhibition displays work of the “great unwashed masses.” It was nowhere near as insulting as the title might suggest.

The cellar containing sculptures was a particular fave. The space itself is remarkable. You can hear and feel the vibrations of the Victoria Line running underneath.

Next time it rains in Soho, I’ll know exactly where to wander.

The new V&A Storehouse East - aka the World’s Largest Jumble Sale.

Harsh.

Sure, it’s not tat. It’s high end value items - apart from the West Ham 1980’s kids kit.

The Moulton F-Frame was to be admired, as was some of the social history from the Robin Hood Gardens estate.

But there was little context or explanation, unless you wanted to have your face stuck in your phone via the QR code.

I get the idea that it’s a lofty space. Build high, etc. It’s tricky to display items without stacking them up.

Voyeurism is quite a fetish, Comrades.

To Newport Street Gallery!

Which is possibly the best free art gallery in London. Quite a claim.

Making the short visit over to Vauxhall never disappoints. NPG is the perfect size for an afternoon of art. Four main spaces, lofty and fun.

Art should always be fun. That’s not something I can say after a visit to The National Gallery.

The current NPG has a collab exhibition between three of my FAVE artists: Shepard Fairey, Invader, and yep, NPG owner Damien Hirst.

What’s the point in owning and investing in a central London gallery space if you can’t show off your own talents?

Triple Trouble (hat tip to the Beasties) is curated by Connor Hirst. Nepotism ahoy? Who gives a shit. This is bloody ACE exhibition that is well thought out and presented.

As you would hope for three anarchic artists, there’s no real order or flow to the galleries. You just wander around, and pick and mix what you will.

The photo of Sid was a favourite of mine; also the giant ashtray that was full of thousands of fag ends. You can still smell the tobacco; I still had the urge, 35 years after quitting.

The real fun at Triple Trouble is the collabs. Invader has 3D models of his signature pixel look suspended in formaldehyde. Hirst’s polka dots takeover some Andre prints produced by Shepard Fairey.

The pixels work really well in this vast space. Up close and it’s difficult to pick out the detail. You need to take a few steps back for them all to make sense.

My only moan was that I seemed to be stalked by an old fella throughout the gallery. Whenever I wanted to retreat to take in the wider picture, he was standing behind me.

Whatever.

Triple Trouble is the best exhibition yet at NPG. I always seem to say that, but I think I genuinely mean it this time. Repeated visits are needed.

To Gasworks Gallery!

Marie-Claire Messouma Manlanbien: Mémoires des corps is the current exhibition. Quite a mouthful, for such a small gallery space.

Also long in length was the handout given to me by the charming front of house person.

I like to approach exhibitions blind. Understanding the concept and original ideas from the artist often ruins it for me. I prefer to approach with a fresh set of eyes.

The lengthy handout can be my toilet reading homework for later.

Ahh! So THAT was the whole point. And I thought it was all about pretty colours.

The pretty colours on show at Gasworks were aplenty. I was particularly taken aback by the charming peach shade that was painted on the walls for this exhibition.

But what about the art?

It was all a little mystic. The centrepiece is three handwoven fabrics hanging from the ceiling. They are surrounded by shells, also suspended in the space.

And beanbags.

There’s always beanbags at these exhibitions. I’m not the type of extrovert who takes up the position on the floor to add an extra layer of pretension to all the art noodling.

It’s a pleasant exhibition, but one that I haven’t got a clue what it’s all about. Maybe I should have taken a seat at the gallery and read the handout.

And not that type of seat, either.

Gasworks is a great little South London gallery tucked away behind The Oval. There’s always something worth exploring.

To The Design Museum! For The Blitz exhibition!

I explained my weekend plans to a colleague. They questioned why there was an exhibition about the Blitz at The Design Museum, and not the Imperial War Museum.

Destroy Borders, Build Stages, as we use to say in the day.

First things first: £18 is a tad pricey for an exhibition that will occupy you for a good hour.

Yeah yeah - I’m kinda out of touch, and still expect to pay a grubby fiver for a boozer toilet gig.

I rarely pay for exhibitions, such is the availability of fantastic freebie shows across London.

£18 felt about right an hour or so after I left The Blitz. There was so many artefacts and historical cultural items to justify the price.

The journey over to West Ldn itself was interesting. With the Sunday morning rain struggling to lift, I abandoned the bicycle ride idea, and opted for a tube and bus combo.

Sitting opposite me on the Victoria Line was a young female who looked like she had just exited The Blitz back in 1979.

DECENT look, Madam.

It was al there: Curtains for trousers that swirled all the way down to her ankles, and then came to an abrupt halt as they tapered around her army boots.

This must be a sign that the £18 for The Blitz was going to be money well spent.

I missed out on The Blitz experience by a few years.

To cut a long story short, etc, the characters that emerged out of Covent Garden and into the charts, reached me a year or so later in the local village youth club.

The original energy had long since moved on and become part of mainstream culture by the time I was trying to perfect my Studio Line crafted fringe.

Any FOMO back in 1982 was resolved this morning at The Design Museum. The attention to detail is incredible.

The exhibition documents the social history that led to The Blitz being set up by a bunch of outsider misfits. The context is an important part of the story.

Too glam to conform, too fleeting to stay.

Or something.

I was obsessive as I made my way around the gallery spaces, insisting on reading every last detail of text. I surprised myself by being more drawn towards the designers and costumes, rather than the music. I reckon I could still carry that look, if not the hair.

For such a short-lived scene, it’s surprising how much photographic evidence exists. It’s not as if the characters were shy about coming forward…

One corner of The Design Museum has been mocked up to resemble the club itself. An early live performance by Spandau appears on the stage. It’s the acceptable version of the bloody Abba avatars. I allowed myself a little bop whilst alone in the club.

This is a wonderful time capsule of an exhibition that explains a lot about how mid and late 1980’s music and culture developed.

For such a small, tight crowd, it’s astonishing how the Blitz Kids were able to spread their wings far and wide.

Christ, they were bloody young.

I love turning a corner around my S Ldn patch, and then OH MY DAYS, another new mural has appeared.

Create without permission, as we use to say back in the day.

But I suspect that Spanish artist Sebas Velasco did seek permission before he painted his beautiful new piece of work on the side of Broadstone House along Cobbett Street, SW8.

It’s titled ‘Yves’ - a local young fella from Brixton, standing on the Brixton mainline platform.

The art may - or may not - be long for this world. It’s right at the heart of the failed South Lambeth Estate ‘regeneration.’

If Lambeth can be arsed to get its act together after more than a decade of stalling, then we may soon have another soulless, uniform development springing up soon.

Then again.

When regeneration stalls, the streets speak.

Or something.