A Plinth, A Plinth, My Kingdom For A Plinth

A darting train through the rain on a trip into town to see an old friend of mine with the artist. That was how the day began. Once the children were parked with poise by their mother at school, that is, and after tending to other more singular responsibilities. This friend, a rose of a leader in her field, a guardian with tact in fact, once commissioned the artist to do a portrait of her first set of twins - she has six children now and is a wonderful force of nature. Anyway, the three of us were keen to get together again. After sorting out some business to do with the artist's next piece, we arrived early and I watched the rain lash the famous plinth in the nearby square with a pinch of disdain for its notoriety. A plinth famous for its controversial visiting sculptures no less, in this instance a kind of unloved stack of architectural glee. Indeed a debate still rages about what should or should not feature there, and more and more outlandish ideas are generated like self-conscious scarves around the necks of precisely the sorts of people on a bad day you might secretly want to wring. Actually, that wringing bit doesn't sound like me. More seriously, the fear of doing something to match the other sculptures in the square has left grown men and women confuse art with petty squabbling to such a degree that the whole house of contemporary art comes down once again, and I must admit I am reluctant to do the same now, though I fear it may be too late. I know what I would put there. An impressively vast sculpture of Sir Tim Berners-Lee. You may know who he is. He was the man who created the World Wide Web. This for example. Which he did to allow simple folk like me to share information. Also, instead of having it patented, he actually insisted on it being free and therefore available to all. Anyway, over three large bowls of soup, the world was dissected and found to be whole. Haiku-like, families and friendships were discussed. One or two complexities were explained. And a kind of unquestionable warmth ruled the roost, which, given the weather, was practical as well as a pleasure. Outside, meanwhile, one or two hunched and lonely figures, drenched by karate-chop rain, passed by. (I even knew one of them.) But when we were outside again ourselves, the sun had come out, most of the lonely figures seemed to have mysteriously dispersed, most that is, not all, and even the art on the plinth looked ... well, still pretty weak.