It seemed a good idea to take the train down to Margate this Sunday just passed: a chance to spy out the newly repainted and refurbished Dreamland, if only from the outside, lap up a few rays of sun, take a dip in the sea (well, Sarah would take a dip in the sea) and, of course, get along to Turner Contemporary for some choice art and, usually, a pretty good lunch at their café. Most of which worked out fine – except no one had warned us this was some kind of festival weekend topped off by a parade, thus turning Margate into Bruegel-on-Sea. Look! There goes Icarus, into the ocean! Oh no, sorry, Grayson Perry.
We did take in Provincial Punk, Perry’s retrospective of ceramics, drawings and tapestries, particularly enjoying the latter; though, for me, the special event was Carlos Amorales’ installation, We Will See How Everything Reverberates, especially since it offered, but only at two hour intervals, the opportunity to run gently amok amongst his brilliant display of hanging cymbals.
Like a hopeful schoolboy, I stood in line waiting anxiously for the moment when someone, played out, would offer me their mallet, and off I went. “Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” Most fun I’ve had in a long, long time.