Tate Modern is an immensely successful souvenir shop with a gallery attached. The refreshments come in Tate-monogrammed cups, the books with a special discount for ‘members’. I do enjoy shopping there for things I do not have time to read, then I wander, in step with others – families, lovers, drifters of appreciation – through the large empty rooms, with vibrant pictures on the walls – drained of everything but their colour (curators celebrate the co-option of political histories, we merely acknowledge decorative composition). Andy Warhol got game, Takashi Murakami is the human Maneki-Neko, and Jeff Koons offers the asshole as vortex, but we are not absorbed. Nice one Jeff. Now, let’s grab a coffee.
The pic is of the wine list place-mat from the ground floor museaurant.
