David Hockney at the Royal Academy

David Hockney is undoubtedly one of the best British artists of the 20^th century, and has a long established fascination with the depiction of landscapes.  Working most recently on huge canvases filled with bright contrasting colours, his work is vibrant, bold and exciting.

Thinking outside the traditional painter’s box, Hockney has been drawing on an iPhone since 2008, eagerly graduating to the iPad in 2010. Using a simple £6 app called Brushes, his initial infatuation with iPhone drawing was the ability to send finger-drawn images to friends, usually of flowers, or the view from his window. This became an almost daily habit, and led to his recent ‘Fresh Flowers’ exhibit, which involved drawings made on the electronic devices that were projected onto screens.  

His latest exhibition, ‘The Bigger Picture’, is comprised of work from the last few years; a range of vivid large-scale paintings inspired by the East Yorkshire landscape and created especially for the Royal Academy. Using an iPad proved invaluable for creating these works, as they are made up of multiple panels, the size of which allow the viewer to really get lost in the scene portrayed. A series of films have also been produced, using 18 cameras and multiple screens set up in the gallery, which will show an artistic journey through the eyes of Hockney himself. It’s a great example of how technology and artistry can combine to create new ideas – and, at 74, Hockney also proves that you’re never too old to get to grips with an iPad.

‘David Hockney: A Bigger Picture’ opens at the Royal Academy on 21^st Jan and runs until 9^th April. Advance booking is strongly recommended. For more info, visit http://www.royalacademy.org.uk/exhibitions/hockney/

Visiting the Past at Dennis Severs House

“Aut Visum Aut Non: You either see it, or you don’t”

Just around the corner from one of London’s busiest modern day transport hubs sits a quiet house in a stately street.  The old lantern outside the door hints at what lies inside: an historical time capsule that is worlds away from Liverpool Street’s hustle and bustle. Behind its doors, 18 Folgate Street holds an imaginative still life drama without any visible actors – except for the resident black cat.

Dennis Severs, a Californian obsessed with English history, moved into the property in 1979 and set about restoring each of the ten rooms to represent a different historical period, from the 1700s to the early 20^th century. Three generations of the fictitious Jervis family are woven through the portraits and armchairs, bedspreads and knick-knacks that litter the place. But this is not a museum, and its contents aren’t preserved with glass cases or placards. This is a lived in house, whose inhabitants have supposedly just left the room, and their presence can be felt throughout a visit there.

Payment is taken on the doorstep, along with a finger to the lips and a heartfelt request to be as quiet as possible. Once inside, the candlelight reveals steaming teapots, freshly sliced boiled eggs, half eaten bread on the kitchen table and soapy water in the sink. Tiptoeing past rumpled sheets in the bedrooms and ducking under wet washing hung across the stairwell gives the strong impression you’re trespassing in someone else’s home, but frankly its too fascinating to feel guilty. As the family’s wealth rises and falls through the centuries, the quality of their lifestyle changes too; moving further into the house introduces peeling wallpaper, thinner carpets and an accumulation of dust and cobwebs.

The scent of cloves and oranges, the flickering candlelight and an array of background sounds guide your senses in building an image of the unseen inhabitants’ lives, from the clothes they wear to the letters they’ve written. If you’ve ever imagined yourself stepping into a painting, this is the place to experience it for real.

The museum opens every Sunday afternoon & Monday lunchtime and costs £10. For more info, visit www.dennissevershouse.co.uk  

Leftwich at the Lexington

Like many people, I love a good freebie. Whether it’s a prize draw on STA Travel for a backpack full of travelling essentials or a Facebook event promoting a movie release with a free DVD, I’m more than likely to take a few minutes to enter. My policy with these things is that you can’t win if you don’t give it a shot - plus someone surely has to win. Right? 

This does, of course, sound laughably obvious, but you’d be surprised how many people moan about not having any exciting opportunities, only to admit they rarely attempt to actively find anything themselves. I figure that it takes no time or effort to fill in a couple of boxes, and the potential reward is often interesting enough to warrant a cosy little daydream for a moment or two (only recently I’d all but written the dates in my diary for a top prize trip to the Antarctic. I didn’t win). Plus, my luck has started to change somewhat recently – I’ve managed to win tickets to the iTunes Festival at Camden’s Roundhouse two years running – so I have a little more faith in the effort of perseverance than I once held. I have a general list of websites I flock to on a regular basis, where I casually type in email address, name, sometimes my age, sometimes a simple a/b/c answer, then hit send and sit back happily, with the knowledge that my noble little entry could quite possibly be selected at random from the virtual pile of other eager entries, and carry me off to a 5 night stay in the Bahamas.

Ok, so I haven’t won a draw as exciting as that yet. But a couple of weeks ago, I did receive an email congratulating me on winning two tickets to an exclusive gig in Islington, courtesy of the Guardian and Spotify Live. The musicians featured were Marques Toliver and Benjamin Francis Leftwich; a pleasant resolution for me, as Ben Leftwich was one of the only musicians I really wanted to see at Iceland Airwaves, but who couldn't perform (I'm not going to lie, I was a bit annoyed). Standing in the tiny upstairs venue of The Lexington amongst a crowd of only fifty or so other people was the perfect location to hear him play. With no band behind him and an obvious desire that evening to play some of his songs without even a microphone for amplification, Ben Leftwich delivered a great set, and also managed to rock a very appealing Christmas jumper. I'm not great at the musical analysis (plus I was too enamoured of his very delicious voice) so I'll let Ben do the rest. Hit play, sit back, and relax... 

Taming the Thames from Up on High

Whenever I head into the city and cross Waterloo Bridge, I invariably glance to my left, to check out what's happening on the roof of the Southbank Centre. For a few months, there were lines of washing floating in the chilly breeze; a while ago, a towering fox, crafted from Edward Scissorhands-worthy shrubbery, sat back on its haunches and surveyed the river Thames. I was pretty much in awe of this topiary creature’s unique vantage point, and thought it rather sad that no-one would see the sights of London in quite the same way he could. Until now.

Well, until the beginning of next year, anyway. Come January 2012, the public are invited to spend the night in a boat by the Thames – or, rather, above it. In fact, so far above that you’ll catch a view of the city as spectacular as the one from the London Eye (except you won’t be moving as much. Hopefully. Better check the wind forecast). Visitors to the Southbank Centre’s most recent installation have the unique opportunity of spending a night in a specially designed ship, balanced atop the roof of the Queen Elizabeth Hall.

Living Architecture’s reasoning for their creation is to provide visitors with a place of calm reflection, in amongst the noise and chaos of the city below. They invite their nightly guests to hoist a flag, signalling their occupation, and to sign a logbook detailing what they’ve experienced during their stay. The eventual intention for the boat, after its yearlong residence on the Southbank’s roof, is to continue its journey to other perches around London.

It’s obvious that the boat is going to attract a huge number of visitors – in fact, tickets for January through to July are already sold out. For anyone who's ever wanted to sleep in a tree house, camped out under the stars, or even those who've simply always wanted to be a pirate, this is guaranteed to be one of the strangest hotel rooms you’ve ever slept in. And hopefully the buses that rush past over Waterloo Bridge can’t see in through the windows.

A Misfitting Playboy

Take a group of young offenders. Dress them in orange jumpsuits. Place them on a grimy South London estate, tell them to get on with their community service, and leave them outside during an electrical storm. The result? Five superhero Londoners with a penchant for accidentally killing people and burying them in concrete.

I’ve been watching E4’s Misfits since it first started in 2009. The script is often brash, and certainly inappropriate for those of a sensitive disposition (think a great deal of swearing and allusions to sexual positions, preferences, graphic anatomical details… if its rude, you name it, they’ve got it) but is also hilarious pretty much every step of the way, and is absolutely filled with sharply witty comedy gold. A great deal of this wit and wonder is down to the cast, a group of young British actors who should be reaping the rewards of their hard work with film roles and red carpets before the year is out. Misfits itself has already won a BAFTA for Best Drama Series in 2010, and if the progression of the current third season is anything to go by, they’ll be collecting a few more at next year’s ceremony.

Sadly, for many Misfits lovers out there, in this third season we had to say goodbye to a dearly beloved character with a mouth like a drug fuelled ashtray and a sexual voracity only eclipsed by Hugh Heffner. I am talking, of course, about Nathan. Played superbly by Robert Sheehan, this character often dominated each episode by playing the comedy role against whatever slightly more serious situation there was at the time. While every Misfits character is wonderfully performed, there was something really special about Nathan, and fans duly rallied against his departure from the show. But when the third season opened, he had indeed been replaced by (I have to say) another actor equally capable of playing the necessary comedic role, by the name of Joseph Gilgun – but however funny he may be, he’s still no Nathan.

Sheehan’s decision to leave a show so clearly on the path to greatness could be criticised by some, but according to interviews, Sheehan was set on developing his acting talents in other mediums; first in film, where he starred in ‘Cherrybomb’ alongside Rupert Grint , and then in his first theatrical role, as the titular playboy Christie Mahon in J. M. Synge’s The Playboy of the Western World. Some friends and I decided to check out our favourite misfit in the flesh, and headed down to the bright lights of the Old Vic in the final week of the play's run. 

The theatre was packed when we arrived in Waterloo. Gaggles of school groups thronged the Old Vic's stately staircase, evidently a result of teenage girls badgering their GCSE drama teachers into taking them to see a relatively unknown Irish play. We headed up, and up, to the Upper Circle, where we squashed ourselves into seats directly relative in size to the amount we'd paid. There was also a sudden flurry in the shedding of clothing;  while preparing for a chilly November evening, most seemed to have forgotten that heat, in fact, rises. More so in a packed auditorium. Even more so when over half of said auditorium is comprised of young girls with rising flush levels. The curtain went up and the play began; no sign of E4's favourite rising star until a good ten minutes in. People shuffled. Currents of whispering around our (relatively) cheap seats; the Irish accents appropriate for the Irish play were evidently proving a tough nut to crack for young London ears. And then Sheehan stumbled through the onstage door, to a collective gasp of girlish breath, with an overly audible amount of high pitched squealing mixed in. Luckily, these noises weren't repeated much over the rest of the performance, as I'm a stickler for appropriate behaviour in the theatre (call it a result of being brought up in a very theatrical family). A comedy of heroism and romance in equal parts, the play details the story of a young man who arrives in a sleepy Irish village, claiming he has killed his father. and run away. He is lauded as a hero by the villagers, and captures the attention of the innkeeper's young daughter, Pegeen. They are about to be married when a sudden twist changes the outcome of the plot.

Sheehan's performance was commendable; despite resorting at times to a very similar characterisation as the one that's made him famous, he nonetheless conveyed a seriousness and depth to the role, and kept his comic timing. One personal gripe of mine was his apparent need to clutch his back - after many drama classes, its one of the main things I've always retained: never hold a limb to convey pain! The play overall was enjoyable, but sadly missed the mark it could have made, which I think was owing to the cast's slight unease and discomfort with the language. 

 There's certainly no doubt that a large portion of the tickets for this production were sold purely on the value of Sheehan's name. However, that fame has managed to push a gently amusing play into the forefront, and made theatre as a genre perhaps slightly more accessible to people who would normally choose to watch a TV show instead. Even if it's only some giggling girls ogling a celebrity face right now, that's still a group of people who may discover later on that they really enjoy the theatre. In which case, Robert Sheehan deserves congratulation for stepping outside his familiar acting zone, and trying something new.

The Playboy of the Western World

Soup Kitchens and Super Volcanoes

This Christmas, I'll be going back to school.  Not the one I attended in my teens - in fact, this is a boy's school a short drive away, which makes my visiting it all the more strange. Neither is it a chance to brush up on my times tables or relearn how to use a bunsen burner (although I do regret forgetting basically everything I learnt in those science labs). I'm heading to City of London School for Boys with a plethora of other Londoners, from all walks of life: some of us as volunteers, and some of us as guests. And the guests are the real reason I'm going. For basically the only time in any given year, they are given a different monicker than 'homeless', 'vagrant', or 'rough sleeper'; they are treated with respect and kindness, by an organisation desperate to give them some semblance of a good Christmas.

Crisis at Christmas are a homeless charity that spring into action over the festive period. Many people aren't aware that pretty much all of the homeless shelters, hostels and soup kitchens close their doors between Christmas and New Year, presumably as there simply isn't enough man power to keep them all running. At a time when many of the homeless are already feeling lonely, isolated and cold, it is incredibly detrimental to their spirits to have even less human contact than usual - and no beds, warm food or clean living conditions can push many over the edge. Crisis work with local councils to utilise offices, schools, and local buildings that have closed over Christmas, turning them into makeshift shelters. Over the years - the last forty, in fact - they have refined the way they plan the event each year, resulting in a range of different 'centres', such as the Women's Only Centre, the Dependency Centre and the regular Day Centres. In each of these centres, Crisis also invites as many professionals as want to voluntarily offer their services - and people sign up in droves. A typical guest at a Crisis centre can hope to visit a dentist, hairdresser, optician, doctor, masseur, and IT expert, as well as take part in art, drama, music and writing classes, play sports and board games, and pick up a variety of clothes from the clothes bank. Quite apart from all these services, they also know that, for the time they spend in the centre, they will be spoken to and treated like any normal human being; not ignored, not insulted, not looked down on, but given the undivided attention they deserve.

I've been volunteering with Crisis at Christmas for three years now, and every time I'm truly fascinated by just how meaningful an experience it is. Without sounding pious and preachy (my nearest and dearest will tell you I'm certainly not a religious person) you feel innately good about yourself after spending eight hours relinquishing all your preconceptions about the homeless. Although I was pretty nervous at my first ever shift. I found myself in an abandoned office building, standing with a group of wrapped up people who all looked more comfortable than me, probably because they knew what to expect. As the lists of volunteer positions were read out, I kept my hand firmly down by my side, unsure as to which experience would be the least formidable. Of course, the list ran out eventually, so I found myself with a group of nine others, being walked down to the canteen, where we were told to 'just ask guests if they've finished with their trays and clear up rubbish. Don't be afraid to chat, they'll all appreciate some conversation'. I couldn't say a word. Everywhere I looked, people in dirty, bedraggled clothes sat picking at plates of food, either engrossed in conversation with their friends, or looking gruffly down at the tabletop. Nobody looked like they wanted to talk. I somehow switched into waitress mode, and brightly asked people to pass me their trash, but didn't actually engage with anyone. I couldn't hold their eyes for too long. I was nervous that, if they actually tried to talk to me, I simply wouldn't know what to say.

And then I found a elderly man sitting towards the back of the room. He looked a bit like a deflated Father Christmas; bright white beard, craggy eyes with smile lines creasing at the edges. He was in an old tweed suit jacket and black trousers, quite thin, and evidently not very hungry from the food still left on his plate. I asked him if he was finished. He looked up.
"Oh, no.....

We talked about how he'd ended up at Crisis. He'd been a porter at a hospital, he said: then became a nurse, but who'd suffered from benign mental health issues over a period of years, which eventually led to complete alcoholism. He found himself living in a broom cupboard at a hospital in Bedford Square, and told me how he'd normally spent Christmas 'fading quietly away in front of the tv with a couple bottles of vodka' - until he'd discovered Crisis. The offer of a warm bed for seven nights meant the world to him, and he said he really felt like he was going to be ok - that 'everything's on track now'.

Over the next three shifts of eight hours each, I met a man whose dog was so good at talking that he'd flirted with the queen, a woman who was convinced of the existence of tectonic plates underneath the Thames that were eventually going to erupt, a young guy who kept drawing pentagrams with me in the air, and a lovely man who kept smiling at me whenever I walked past, culminating in a bone crushing hug on my final shift. Over the last three years I've grown more confident with every person I've talked to, discovering their family histories, life stories, secret passions and hidden talents. I have taken charge of arguments over clothing allocations, played some frenzied games of jenga, comforted guests when they've been emotional, and helped a young man put his poetry into a decorated pamphlet. This last one really hit me; even without being a poet myself, I was struck by how much this act meant to him. He'd spent the last few days typing and printing out his writing, and to put it all together into something presentable, something to be proud of, made me realise how ridiculous all the prejudices are. People are people, regardless of owning a set of housekeys or not.

This Christmas, the issue of homelessness is particularly poignant in the light of the Occupy Wall Street movement, which has seen copycat demonstrations spring up all over the globe. As winter draws in, the streets outside St Paul's Cathedral are still covered with Londoners voluntarily giving up their beds in protest of an issue they feel is more important. It's going to be even more interesting to see what the guests have to say about Occupy London; whether they approve or not, whether they've spent any nights there, how long they reckon it will last, whether it's a step forward in the fight to eliminate homelessness in London's streets. If anyone has a free eight hours between December 23rd and 30th, sign up to volunteer. It'll honestly be one of the most fulfilling things you do this Christmas.

Iceland Airwaves Music Festival: A Brief Review

It began in an airplane hangar, with an audience of only a couple of hundred people. Now in its 12th year, Airwaves draws thousands from around the globe every October to a city-come-village by the north Atlantic Sea, in order to present the feverish best in emerging Icelandic and international music.

The ticketed festival spans 5 days and kicks off in the early evenings, but the days are also filled with 'off-venue' gigs, and this is where Airwaves differs from your typical overtly structured, queue-monopolised, wristband-flashing music festival. These artists will play anywhere and everywhere; in coffee shops, libraries, cinemas, hostels, swimming pools, and sometimes even on the street. A casual walk through the city will often be derailed as you hear new music through an open door, and suddenly find yourself hugging a brick wall alongside strangers as you watch a guitarist fingerpicking happily beneath a coat rack.

This intimacy and a total love of music is what makes Airwaves so exciting. Many people, myself included, arrive with no prior knowledge of the artists or their music - but we know we'll leave with a plethora of new obsessions under our belts. The buzz in any given crowd throughout the festival - the nodding heads, closed eyes and tapping feet - certifies the feeling that you're among like-minded people with a thirst for new, unexpected, wonderful music.

Reykjavik is a small city, which makes it easy to move from club to bar as the night goes on, and you'll find yourself spotting the same familiar faces in different crowds. If you're lucky, you'll even end up jumping around next to the very attractive lead singer of the band who just played - a vast majority of the musicians really support each other's music and choose to attend the festival themselves, rather than sitting back in their dressing rooms.

This proves the festival's stalwart defence of homegrown talent, as international bands are only permitted to perform at one Airwaves. Ever. It means the focus stays strongly on Icelandic bands and their emergence into mainstream music channels. And there sure are a lot of them. If you think Icelandic talent only stretches to Bjork and Sigur Ros, you'd better think again. As the festival grows, there are more and more Europeans and Americans in attendance, all of whom are rapidly discovering the joys of Icelandic music. Mark it in your diary for October 2012, and get ready for a musical experience like no other.