Tuesday, August 25, 1981


I listened to music with Robert most of the morning and afternoon. I was really impressed with the superb, psychedelic sounds of Pink Floyd’s A Saucerful of Secrets. I was in a lethargic mood really, lying on the floor, while Carol did her washing in the kitchen. At two-thirty, Robert gave me a lift to town and I was home for half-four. Lee rang; he’s coming on Thursday and Grant’s coming over on Sunday.

In the evening I watched a programme on sculpture, 1914-39, Dadaism, Surrealism, and Constructivism. Dad was really sarcastic about some of the pieces and although I hate his ruthlessly blinkered attitude, I do think abstract art’s point is totally lost if an explanatory note about the artist's intentions isn’t included. How can ‘ordinary’ people comprehend really abstract things? If art is a mode of communication and if abstract art doesn't communicate ideas then hasn't it failed?

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