The View From The Cab.

I passed through Trafalgar Square the other day and on that pillar left vacant by the Victorians, having run out of heroes to venerate, there was a new effigy. Every so many years the Arts Council of Great Britain decide which aspiring artist to showcase on the available plinth opposite the National Gallery and at times, I must say, I wonder what criteria they use in their collective judgement on what is or not art.

The present one, in my opinion, has a certain artistic value and worthy of display although I wish a different material had been used in its construction and a different place found for it. It appears to have been made from wood or perhaps fibre-glass and painted beige.

In my interpretation it is a representation of a dream. Seated on a rocking chair leaning backwards, as if about to fly away, is a dull glided figure of a Cherub of life size proportion staring into the sky. The artist must be proud to have been selected from the entrants to such a prestigious competition, but not the day I passed by.

On the head of the angelic depiction was an indifferent Seagull, unconcerned of blighted dreams and aspirations of wing-less mortals or those of a spiritual nature. His attention seemed firmly fixed on more material gain than that of inspiration

In conclusion to this small missive of every day life in Metropolitan London I feel obliged to add that the Seagull looked more majestic than what was beneath its feet. Perhaps the Arts Council could employ an old seaman with a cross-bow to protect us dreamers.


About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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