Mr Brainwash

The Old Sorting Office on New Oxford Street (just along the road from the British Museum) is currently hosting the second London exhibition by film-maker turned street artist Mr Brainwash. You can't miss it; the outside of the building features giant images of the Beatles in bandanas, Kate Moss, and the Queen next to the graffitied slogan "God save the People', pink paintbrush in hand.

Mr Brainwash, aka MBW, aka Thierry Guetta first came to the notice of the general public in Banksy's Oscar-nominated 2010 documentary (mockumentary?) Exit Through the Gift Shop, where he is encouraged by Banksy and Shepard Fairey (of Obama Hope fame) to swap film-making for art.
Opinion has been divided since then as to whether MBW is a Banksy hoax, a late developer or an indictment of hype and gullibility in the art world. Either way, Mr Brainwash has since designed an album cover for Madonna, sold over a million dollars' worth of work in his debut exhibition and had work auctioned at Sotheby's alongside that of Andy Warhol.

So is Mr Brainwash nothing but a huge practical joke, a flipped finger to the world of art? You can get quite Dan Brown about the possible clues if you look for them. The name Brainwash itself . . . labels on the giant paint cans in the exhibition boast 'Improved hiding for better coverage' . . . Banksy's iconic rioter is pictured throwing not flowers but a copy of 'Street Art for Dummies' . . .

The portrait of a brooding Banksy (don't get excited, his face is hidden by a hood) in a Van Gogh-inspired room, ironically an artist whose talent is without question but who sold only one painting during his lifetime . . . hmmm. Also when you leave the exhibition you have to walk either to the left or right side of a rope, one marked 'Exit' and one marked 'Free gift'. Those who wandered down the exit only side and then asked for a free poster were told to go back and walk on the correct side of the rope . . . i.e. to Exit Through the Gift Shop.

Or perhaps Mr Brainwash just is who he is and what may have started as a prank has snowballed itself into reality. Interviewers have commented on how genuine he seems, how the exuberance and optimism of his work appear to be an outpouring of his own irrepressible personality. He describes himself as Banksy's 'biggest work of art' and in an interview published in the Evening Standard said 'Banksy pushed me to what I am today . . . but he didn't know that I was going to run and run!' http://www.standard.co.uk/lifestyle/london-life/meet-mr-brainwash-the-street-artist-taking-over-london-7956384.html

So if he is a Banksy creation - intentionally or otherwise - in going to see a Mr Brainwash exhibition, are you actually going to see Banksy? For his part, Banksy has made him a coat which reads 'Mr Brainwash is a phenomenon. I don't say that in a good way.' and Shepard Fairey has said, 'It was fascinating to observe a lot of suckers buying in to his show'. Confused? I think I need a lie down and a large gin and tonic (not necessarily in that order).

Anyway, back to the exhibition. Mr Brainwash's work has been described as 'happy art' and it is certainly that. Whilst it lacks the scathing social comment that makes much of Banksy's work so compelling, it is undeniably enjoyable; the serious, sober-suited security guard said that the exhibition had had over 2,000 visitors per day and certainly everyone there on my visit was having fun. The atmosphere was very relaxed; once past a cursory bag check (I was allowed to keep my bottle of water, they were more worried about pens, paint or crayons) you just wander around the exhibits, taking photos on your phone, chatting and pointing out new finds.

Pose next to a life-sized London black cab in a giant souvenir toy box, Mickey Mouse fashioned out of antique Coke signs or a 20ft gorilla made of rubber tyres, wielding the ubiquitous pink paintbrush. There are pop icons aplenty from Elvis to Elton; I particularly liked the series of music icons incorporating broken vinyl records (although some photographers of the original images are suing).

Th exhibition is free, runs from 1pm (not 11am as mentioned in Time Out) and has been extended until 7th September.
http://www.mrbrainwash.com/

Is it entertaining? Absolutely. Is it art? I have no idea - ask Banksy.





Yours,
Girl About Town xx

The Lady Ottoline

The Lady Ottoline is a refurbished gastropub in Bloomsbury, owned by Scott Hunter and Maria Larsen (so a sister pub to the award-winning Princess in Shoreditch) and presumably named after Lady Ottoline Morrell, Bloomsbury society hostess and avid patron of the arts. The bar area has been thoughtfully restored and has a relaxed bistro feel (more formal dining is available upstairs), whilst the barstools, dark wood bar and ales on tap ensure one foot is kept firmly in the pub world.
http://www.theladyottoline.com/

I'd read some good reviews about the food here so had eaten a deliberately miserly breakfast in preparation for a full-on, blow-out Sunday lunch. Greedily perusing the menu I decided to start with the fish cake, poached egg, hollandaise sauce and fennel salad, followed by a mixed roast: beef, pork and chicken. All roasts are served with duck fat roast potatoes, green beans, broccoli, roasted carrots, Yorkshire pud and gravy, so all I had to do was choose a glass of Sauvignon Blanc from the wine list and we were away. The staff, may I say, were excellent; friendly and chatty, attentive without being pushy and genuinely helpful. Sunday papers and supplements are spread across the bar for your perusal, which is a nice touch.

Fish cakes for me are borderline comfort food. I adore the contrast of the crisp golden coating and soft, yielding centre; add some buttery garden peas to that and I'm happy, but a poached egg and hollandaise sounded blissful and suitably Sunday brunch-esque. Sadly this didn't quite hit the spot. The poached egg was perfect and the hollandaise was rich and buttery but the fish cake itself - whilst generously packed with fish - lacked texture and had a slightly bitter aftertaste. I was expecting the fennel salad to be a small side of shaved fennel, probably dressed with olive oil and lemon; in fact it was a vinaigrettey rocket salad with some bits of fennel in it - not terrible, but I think a simpler salad might have gone with the dish better.

The roast arrived, with a large slice of beef, a smaller one of pork and a chicken leg, along with the accompaniments (I would normally have gone for just the beef but I felt I owed it to you, dear readers, to sample the lot). It was, I'm afraid, disappointing. It was also a little confusing, as some of it seemed to have been rushed whilst other bits seemed to have been hanging around in the kitchen keeping warm. Here are the winners, losers and also-rans of my roast.

The beef: moist and tender but with some unpleasant gristly bits and cooked without a trace of pinkness. Personal choice I know, but roast beef to me is at its most glorious when rare.
The chicken: tending to dry but okay.
The pork belly: very fatty still, as if it had perhaps been roasted too quickly.
The Yorkshire pud: dry and overcooked, a shadow away from burned.
The broccoli and peas: undercooked to the point of being hard. And this from someone who loathes mushy veg and steams everything to the firm side of al dente. (Well, except cauliflower for a cauliflower cheese, naturally, as that is the only example I can think of where resistance is futile. Anyway, I digress; back to the roast.)
The roast carrots and beans: perfect - flavoursome and with just the right amount of bite.
The roast potatoes: awful, frankly. One was okay, the others were solid to the point that I felt if I tried to apply any more pressure with my knife, the whole thing would shoot sideways off my plate at great speed and probably kill a bystander.
The apple sauce: good, chunky and clove-scented.

Perhaps it's not a good idea to be the first customer at 12.30 (and indeed the only customer for the next half an hour) in a place that opens at noon. Perhaps their regular chef doesn't work on Sundays. Perhaps the standard is actually dropping, as one recent reviewer felt (I reread the reviews when I got home, perplexed). I want to give them the benefit of the doubt, as the lovely waitress looked genuinely alarmed when I asked for the bill (over £30 including service) with my food barely touched and asked if everything was all right. Now I'm absolutely not someone who enjoys complaining for the sake of it (in fact I really dislike those people) but I can politely send back an overdone steak or a cold soup without too much embarrassment; after all, if it was my restaurant I would want to know. But faced with her obvious concern, I just didn't know where to start.

Disappointed, I perked up when I realised the Charles Dickens museum is only a hop and a skip from the pub. Guess what? It's closed for refurbishment until December. Sometimes it's just not your day.



Yours, under my own personal raincloud,
Girl About Town xx