Word of the week - dystocia

Dystocia is the name given to the condition experienced when having trouble giving birth. This week I have had trouble coming up with a word of the week. Perhaps it could be said that I have suffered from a touch of etymological dystocia or alternatively that I need to pull my finger out.

Carbon copy

Yesterday I had a couple of meetings in London in the morning and was on my way to Green Park to get the tube back to Vicotira when I had the idea that I could take a look at the Damien Hirst exhibition at the White Cube gallery in St James's. I suspected that there might not be a big queue to see the skull at 11.30 on a Monday morning and fortunatley I was correct. Entry is free but you have to have a ticket for a particular time slot; I was able to get my ticket and go in five minutes later.

The security man takes up seven or eight people at a time and you stand in a line in a corridor that reminded me of being at school. You get a little pep talk about leaving your bags on the floor outside and so on. He made me smile by explaining that the room was dark but that the only thing in there was the exhibit itself and not to worry about bumping into anything despite not being able to see your feet. He then mentioned however, that there was a woman in wheelchair already in there.

You have to give Mr Hirst credit for his ability to create icons, I have to say that I found "for the love of god" quite a stunning thing. The sense of theatre plays a part but the head itself is an object of beauty. I was particularly impressed by the view from the back. From the front, it is obviously an inanimate (if painstakingly prepared) object but from the rear there are no features missing that would necessarily lead you to believe that you might not be looking at the back of the head of young person, albeit shaved and covered with diamonds. I did wonder about its provenance, I understand that it is a cast made of platinum but of whom, where was he from, what colour skin did he have, what thoughts occurred in that space?

If I could fiddle with time, I could ask the artist on the bus on the way to school; he was in the year below me and often sat on his own. They didn't offer PR as a subject at that school but it is all art if you ask me. I remember the anticipation and the smell of paint as I queued outside the art room, I wonder what he remembers about those days. No smells at the White Cube but plenty of the other.