Art should be spontaneous, or at least the impulse for it should be, and I've known I'll be on the plinth for more than a month now.
I've tried not to prepare anything to do, but I'm scared of how long an hour might be with nothing to fill it.
So I've thought of a way to mark the quarter hours at any rate.
Four toasts and a sing-song.
I know what the song will be, at 7.30, and that one of the toasts will be stolen from Neil Gaiman:
"To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due."
Feel free to grab a dram and join me.
I've always though that art requires a relationship between two people to make it work - the creator and the audience. When I realised that I was never going to be the creator, I resolved to be one hell of an audience. I see One&Other as a unique opportunity to become part of the artwork as well as part of the audience.For the first time I'll know what the Mona Lisa feels like (and I'm no oil painting). For the moment I'm planning to spend my time on the plinth watching the watchers, wondering what meaning they're taking from my being there.
I'll be doing some thinking up there, too. Thinking of what London means, and has meant to me - as a Scot, watching many of my friends move there, of the times I've spent there, working and playing, and of the foreign power that shaped so much of my upbringing from that gothic pile down the hill from Trafalgar Square.
We live in a very fast paced world, where there aren't very many chances to sit down and do nothing, even for an hour. In some ways, I'll be the still centre of the widening gyre for my hour, and I think I'll enjoy that.
Far be it from me to exploit the commercial possibilities of such a work of high art, but it's very possible that I'll take a small dram of Islay whisky on to the plinth to toast the capital. Are you listening, Bruichladdich?




