'This is London in all its rain-sodden, beery-eyed, nervy exhilaration'
here's something missing from John Virtue's London skylines: the
London Eye. And that's not just because he dislikes the featherlight airiness of the wheel, so at odds with his bituminous, Dante-like vision of a beaten-up, endlessly remade city of men scarred by the damage of history. Virtue's London is more battlefield than playground; his angle of vision is the angel's hover rather than the child's expectation of ascent.
But his aversion also stems from what the Eye represents: a bubble-glazed, sound-sealed enclosure, an encapsulated rotation to postcard epiphany. Up it inexorably goes, carrying the happy hamsters, far above the grunts and grinds of the town. What Virtue most hates about it - I'm guessing - is its name: the presumption of vision. What his paintings do is take on the hamster wheel: insist that Virtue's vision is the real London eye. Instead of detachment there is smash-mouth contact; instead of mechanically engineered, user-friendly serenity, there is the whipsaw excitement of the city; its rain-sodden, dirt-caked, foul-tempered, beery-eyed, jack-hammered, traffic-jammed, nervy exhilaration. Instead of a tourist fantasy, there is a place.
