“Is there ONE painting, sticker,
stencil, sculpture, or piece of architecture that truly inspires you in your
daily work?”

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“Give ‘Em Props”—London’s National Gallery by PMH

Easy
yo woost’ - Ever since you told me about this giving props idea I’ve been
racking my few working brain cells into answering this puzzler. Problem is, the
answer I’m to give, I thought, would change regularly (like stoner debates on
greatest film shoot out, best marker pen and ink and favourite snack combos -
skips crisps and vanilla milkshake), like the changing of the seasons, or more
regularly like the changing of my sneaks, but in a flash of clarity I realised
my greatest inspiration…no not asterix comics, no not my futura print at the
end of the bed that I see whenever I wake, no not the street market show…it’s
a place, it’s the national gallery in london Apparantly the stoner scribbles I
crank out when im rocking out are called art by some (the fools! Hahaha), so if
I was ever to trace my art inspiration it all stemmed from the national gallery
visits of my childhood. We used to go by coach from my primary school to the
national gallery and I remember how it used to affect me. And affect me it did.
I was in love with art as a child, while other kids were losing themselves in
football and the league tables, I was getting lost in paintings, in my head
wondering the turner-esque landscapes and roaming over roman ruins. I had a
vivid imagination, twinned with a hearty dose of romantisism,  so as I child,
the national gallery was the place that kept my eyes wide open, brain (and
heart) pumping overtime - all the time! It was a visual toy shop that I couldn’t
get enough off, and I even started my own one with my lunch money buying
postcards of my favourite works to put up in my bedroom. It taught me to love
art, and the possiblity art, and life, has. I still wander there occasionally,
retreading my routes, smelling that same old musty oil paint smell that send me
back to my childhood…i recommend it! (runner ups include the british museum or
the tate gallery - which is now the tate britain). So god knows what got fucked
up along the way, to get me from looking and loving perfect slices of beauty
from hundreds of years ago to looking and loving dirty, filthy, dripping ink
running down dark alley doorways, but I know if it wasn’t for that fine
establishment things might have been a little bit different for pmh.