Liza Campbell and Henry Hudson

Two private views in a week: first there was Liza Campbell, whose Black Boxes have been a feature of my life for a while now; her "Carphology & Cryptograms" were on display at the Julian Hartnoll Gallery in St James'. My favourite was "Neurotics Checklist" (left), which lists - you can guess - all the things that a neurotic might worry about, including Alien Abduction, Putrefaction of the Genitals, Quicksand, a Tsunami and a Piranha Infested Caipirinha. If you are neurotic it's probably worth avoiding it. The works have a great deal of the customary Campbell charm and wit - go and check them out: never have Linnaean taxonomies seemed so much fun.

Read about Liza Campbell's Black Boxes here

Then today, at T J Boulting's near Oxford Circus, was Henry Hudson's "Hominidae", a series of vast portraits of his family and friends in swirling, layered plasticenes that brought to mind Lucian Freud. They're textured, striking and haunting, upright figures in all but bare surroundings, sometimes looming out of their frames (quite literally as the material rises up towards you.) To the right is a portrait of the artist Lucy McMillan-Scott (who painted both me and my mother) and her dog Piper. There's also one of the novelist Cressida Connolly and her husband Charles Hudson, both of whom were present; striking a more colourful note was Janet Street-Porter, whose hair was, I think, purple, though it was hard to tell.

More about Henry Hudson

Boomerang: Oscar Murillo and Marianne Spurr

Spurr: Treasure

After a day of editing, through the almost-rain to Aldgate East, where Hilary Crisp had put on a showing of Oscar Murillo and Marianne Spurr's work. Murillo's paintings stood casually as if they'd just been abandoned by the artist; two works by Spurr seemed to have organically appeared out of the floorboards. Murillo's paintings reminded me a little of Cy Twombley's; two of them leaning against a wall, one against the other, as if fighting against each other (or playing off each other) to get realised into the world. I was particularly struck by one of Spurr's pieces, which consisted of a cylindrical concrete bollard next to a slightly taller glass cylinder full of water, with a layer of oil; in the second cylinder was a black X on a gold background. The perspective made it look like a giant X was floating in the air, as if we were inside a treasure map. Gold in the everyday, indeed.

I also applaud the new practice of serving food at art openings - first there was Henry Hudson's pork roast; here there was arroz con lechona, which we ate out of cardboard boxes; (it's basically pork scratchings stuffed with rice.)


www.hilarycrisp.com

By the River (Henry) Hudson

This photograph does not do the pictures justice

To the depths of East London last night, near the new Olympic stadium at Bow, for a showing of Henry Hudson's Hogarthian plasticene paintings, which depict the artist in a number of poses from the Rake's Progress. Despite claims of remoteness, I managed to take a bus there without mishap, although I did get a lift for the rest of the way from a nice man in a hat (thank you nice man in a hat).

A red carpet led in to the enormous warehouse, where huge tables laden with glasses were laid out. Behind hung the paintings: the effect was magnificent. Velvet coated guests thronged; I was upset because I didn't wear my velvet jacket (so I wore a brown one today). A pink haired Janet Street-Porter smiled affably in a corner. Also present (amongst legions of others) were artists Vanessa Garwood and William Roper-Curzon and curator Aretha Campbell. I talked to Georgia Byng, the author of the Molly Moon series, about children's writing.

The Olympian setting was fitting, the contrasts between the scuzzy location and the glamour of the guests, the sporting prowess and the artist's decadence illuminated. The debris floating in the river could have been put there by Tracey Emin herself. We ate roast hog, served by girls in white dresses with blue flowers in their hair, and tried (unsuccessfully) not to reenact any of the Hogarth scenes. There was a curtain marked 'DO NOT GO BEHIND THIS CURTAIN'. I went behind it. Hoping to find another world (maybe Narnia), I was disappointed in the result (which I will keep to myself).

Henry Underground and the Short Second Life of Stephanie Meyer

It's been quite a while. I have been caught up in the intermittent whirlwind that sometimes attends my existence: I have been riding bareback in Cornwall, dancing all night in Zurich, and attending myriad launch parties. One was for Ferdinand Mount's excellent new book, Full Circle: How the Classical World Came Back to Us , which took place in Daunt's in Marylebone. The book is a warm and wise account of how our supposedly modern mindsets are much closer to those of the ancients than we know.

There was also the private viewing of Henry Hudson's show, Crapula! I wrote a story for him, which was splendidly calligraphed and nailed to the wall (see picture) at the entrance next to a cast of Henry's head (which contains lots of human hair picked up on the underground, hence the title of the story, 'Henry Underground'.)

I have also had the misfortune (although some might disagree) of receiving an embargoed copy of Stephanie Meyer's new novella, The Short Second Life of Bree Tanner: An Eclipse Novella (Twilight Saga) (it's about four pages long, so that's pushing it). I am not a fan. I have always been a fan of vampires (although Lord knows why) and particularly enjoyed the recent film about Max Schreck, Shadow of the Vampire. But I think Meyer is just too inept a writer. Watch this space for a review.

Henry Hudson and William Roper-Curzon

I'm writing a short story for the artist Henry Hudson. He's a proponent of the new grotesque, and makes marvellous Hogarthian pictures out of plasticine. They are alive, haptic, roisterous. Here is the biography which appears in a pamphlet for the show, with a short excerpt from the story, which is titled 'Henry Underground'.

I've also been to a show by William Roper-Curzon, who does intricate drawings. One that particularly hooked me was Diana and Actaeon. Titian and Ovid, two of the layers that slide beneath The Liberators. The Actaeon story, in its violence, its poignancy, is always startling and shocking. The hunter stumbles upon the virgin goddess as she bathes; for his impudence, he is turned into a stag, and torn apart by his own dogs. You don't spy on a goddess.

"He flies through grounds where oftentimes he chased had ere tho;
Even from his own folk is he fain, alas, to flee away.
He strained oftentimes to speak, and was about to say,
'I am Actaeon. Know your lord and master, sirs, I pray.'
But use of words and speech did want to utter forth his mind." (Golding)

The Latin is as follows: "clamare libebat,
'Actaeon ego sum, dominum cognoscite vestrum.'
verba anima desunt; resonat latratibus aether.'

Golding misses the terrible, haunting contrast of the lack of words with the 'latratibus' - barkings - 'resonat' - resounding - in the air.

There are many theories as to why Diana exacts such terrible punishment upon the innocent Actaeon. Perhaps the myth stemmed from Actaeon's arrogance in boasting that he was better than the goddess at hunting (always a bad thing to boast in front of a god, I find); perhaps there is at the story's root a veneration for a female cult, where a goddess' statue was washed, and men were not allowed; it was only in later versions that the myth was eroticised. Whichever way, the suddenness of Actaeon's death is a reminder of our own fragility as we hunt through the forests of the world. I think that Roper-Curzon's drawing captures that wildness and that haunting sense of impermanence beautifully. The lines tremble, as we too tremble at the hunter's fate.