Style
Despite howls of protest, I drive into town with the kids and Aneta to meet Sonnet at the Royal Academy to see the mostly mediocre exhibition on British sculpture ("The show represents a unique view of the development of British sculpture, exploring what we mean by the terms British and sculpture by bringing the two together in a chronological series of strongly themed galleries, each making its own visual argument. . ."). Eitan, who races through the galleries with an aim to finish in five-minutes, back-tracks to find me and whispers: "There is an inappropriate art work in the next room" which makes me think with worry: It must be pretty bad. Turning the corner gallery, I find a wall display of "Page 3" girls, titties on flash display. The boy and I shuffle through the room while he covers his eyes and looks away - I like the redundancy. My suggestion that he might wake up one day to find a woman's breast the most interesting thing in the world receives horror and I tell him not to be too hard on himself should my prognostication hold true.
