As far as I can see, the history of experimental art in the twentieth century is intimately bound up with the experience of intoxification.
I make no apology for preoccupying myself with architecture, television, conceptual art, restaurants and Jane Asher's cakes.
The high arts of literature and music stand in a curious relationship to one another, at once securely comfortable and deeply uneasy - rather like a long-term marriage.
Modernism has a reputation for being a forbidding phenomenon: its visual arts disconcertingly non-representational, its literary efforts devoid of the consolations of plot and character - even its films, it's argued, fall well short of that true desideratum: entertainment.
