Blinded by the light

On Sunday, Drew (don't bother clicking through, I'm sure he hasn't posted recently) and I are off to the Hayward to see the Dan Flavin retrospective. Well, that's if he doesn't blow me out and go to Horse Meat Disco or something.

Sunday, of course, is the last day of the Dan Flavin retrospective. I have been meaning to go since it opened but never quite managed to. At one point, I nearly went even though there were only 25 minutes left before closing because I'm so terrified I'm going to miss it. I'm pretty certain, even though I've called to check, that when we turn up on Sunday there will be nothing but an empty gallery and blokes in brown coats carting lifeless neon tubes into a waiting lorry.



I went to see a tiny Dan Flavin exhibit at some poncy gallery off the Tottenham Court Road last year. I don't know what possessed me really, I think I saw an article about it on Londonist and forced myself to get out of bed, step away from the O.C. and gaze lovingly at light tubes. I like light, you see. I have been accused of being 'a bit funny about light'. This is grossly unfair, I just don't like sitting under a naked 100 watt glare when I could be bathing in the glow of a soothing 60 watt peach bulb, muted and cosseted by a heavy cream shade, while friendly opaque yellow fairy lights illuminate one corner, a string of mini purple lamps another and the ceiling basks in the twinkling reflection of a chain of fluffy stars while a mini multi-coloured disco ball rotates cheerily under the bed. Oh fine, I'm a bit funny about light. But you should met my sister, man. She can name a bulb at 100 meters. She's MAD.

So, yes. Dan Flavin. Liked it. LOVED it, actually. Got dragged out of the gallery by my hair, crying and clinging onto a complex geometric form. I don't 'do' galleries, but if I miss this, I will have to burn my eyes out with a fluro tube. I wonder if it has anything to do with obsessively rewatching Star Wars as a child?