Thirsty Thursday: “What if we kissed in the Pret X Emalin Gallery smoking area?”

It’s March (thank god), and you know what that means – spring. Rebirth, renewal, regeneration. It’s the promise of new life and a reminder that Jesus died for our sins. Thank you, Jesus. This Thirsty Thursday is what he would’ve wanted. It may be a premature start, but with the recent surge of sun in the capital, it’s been easy to get ahead of ourselves. In the words of the late and great Roy Ayers, “everybody loves the sunshine” (rest in peace, king). But the blue skies abruptly cleared as the clock struck six, the day turned to night and duty called us to the streets of East London. In true Baby Tyrant fashion (more on that later), Billy Parker arranged a strict schedule for the three of us. It’s giving polycule Google calendar…

Billy was running the night like the navy and we expanded our troop to include some special guest soldiers. Magically appearing at various points throughout the night (thank you, Find My Friends), filmmaker Ella Turner-Bridger and painter Erin Alles helped us melt into the groove.

We kicked off the night at Neven gallery for the opening of Fern O’Carolan’s show ‘Guilt & Grace’. We arrived unusually early and could actually see the art for a change. If your Catholic guilt took a trip to a basement bondage shop, this is what it would look like. The walls were clad with skin-tight pleather panels adorned with metal grommets, rhinestones, a mini crucifix, a Catholic blood badge and a delicate mother of pearl pin from the 1920s. We were all obsessed with the soft sculpture of a rabbit resting on an old prayer cushion. ALERT! Bugs Bunny has been corrupted. O’Carolan playfully flirts with traditional Catholic aesthetics, and we could feel the tension snap and crackling in the air, but there was no time to linger as we had four more shows to attend. So off we went to our next hit on the list. Slay, amen.

Down the road, Soft Opening welcomed us with open arms, cold beers and ‘An Ominous Presence’, an amazing show by Ebun Sodipo. A far cry from last Thirsty Thursday’s eye surgery-inducing fluorescent lighting at Herald St, the lights at Soft Opening were switched off. Who can blame them? With the recent announcement of the TFL price increase this Sunday, every little helps. Save those pennies, Ms Marsh. Jokes aside, we were mesmerised by the show. The walls were adorned with illuminated collages featuring various appropriated online images, all laid delicately on a bed of glistening metal, reflecting water-like refractions across the concrete floor. Sodipo entombed the pieces in a thick layer of clear resin, immortalising the atmosphere of unease. The exhibition gave us shivers and reminded us of Arthur Jafa’s Love is the message, the message is Death, in which he weaves together images of an apocalyptic sun – like the doomsday planet hurtling towards earth in Lars von Trier’s Melancholia – between video snippets of Black American history. Both artists mine internet and pop culture – like Sodipo’s use of a Jessica Lange ‘There’s not going to be infinite economic growth you stupid slut’ meme and Jafa’s footage of Beyonce’s 7/11 music video – to remind us that the world keeps spinning against a backdrop of impending armageddon. 

It was hard to pull ourselves away, but time was ticking and Maureen Paley’s opening at her Studio M space was calling. We arrived on the streets of Arnold Circus with no idea how to get in to the building. A burly collector dressed in a flasher-style trench coat eventually emerged from behind a door, who also shared our frustration. “You can’t get in either? Alright, I’m not buying any of the works then,” he bellowed. After a few more hopeful door buzzer-presses, we gave up. Maureen waits for no man. Did she sack off the opening to go to the afterparty already? Fair play, lass.

POV: you wake up in East London in 2025. You’re wearing a fur trapper hat, a long black coat and Tabis. As you cross the road, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a stolen Lime Bike and getting your phone nicked, you turn to see a gaggle of Bottomless Brunchers stumbling out of Boxpark. “I want what they have” you think to yourself. You walk to the other side of Shoreditch High Street and your gaze falls upon a sight to behold: Emalin Gallery, proudly housed above a Pret A Manger. You see a dual vista through both establishments’ vast windows. #humansoflategentrification. What if we kissed in the Pret X Emalin Gallery smoking area? The last exhibition we saw at Emalin was Jasper Marsalis’ ‘\m/’, and this new show by Daiga Grantina felt like a bit of a downgrade. The most interesting work we saw was a man’s head tattoo.

A poem on the front of the exhibition expressed something about “the middle of things”. As we turned the page, we realised that was the whole press release. On Emalin’s website it explains that “Grantina’s sculptures investigate the encounters between materials and their consequent relationships of dissonance and consonance, inducing an exercise in expanded vision.” To us, the works reminded us of the soggy remains of an old plaster fished out of a swimming pool filter. Maybe we should leave the hanging fabric and scraps of metal for art school foundation shows. We trudged downstairs and began our walk over to the final opening of the night. Pointing to the Shoreditch Virgin Hotel (lolz) across the street, Ella proudly declared, “I’ve seen three people shagging through the windows there, there and…. there.”

At this point, we only had one question on our minds: where the fuck do we pee? It’s rare to be allowed to use the loo in a gallery, especially in East London, so Billy jumped for joy when, en route, in an unnamed gallery, he found a slightly ajar door that led to a secret toilet. As he waited nervously with crossed legs, he heard the familiar sound of AmExes clinking on ceramic followed by two consecutive loud snorts. “My ex is here.” Snorrrt. “I watched her make out with someone else at a party the other day. It was soooo hot.” Snorrrrrrt. We’ve heard it said that the flu and heartbreak are inescapable in March.

At Nicoletti, whilst digesting Divine Southgate-Smith’s exhibition ‘Navigator’, Erin turned to us to ask “a very important question”. She thrust a kiss, marry, kill meme in our face. Dora then showed us a chart with Mommy-Baby and Tyrant-Serf axes. After a very tense discussion (this is what Parisian cafe culture of the early 20th century must have been like), we all declared ourselves Baby Tyrants (but we think Billy really takes the crown with that one).

We ended the night with free margaritas at the Emalin X Maureen Paley X Nicoletti after party. In true art world fashion, the drinks tab ran out before most people had even arrived. It was packed and very overwhelming, so Erin laid her head directly against the bar’s speakers to try and “feel something”. We jostled around the skinny bar on Curtain Street and bumped shoulders with Maureen Paley sporting her iconic beehive, artist Corbin Shaw, Plaster star Anne Hardy and Harlesden High Street’s Jonny Tanna. “Shall we ask Maureen if she wants to do a sambuca shot?” At the back of the bar we spotted a woman dressed in a full Tala gym kit who danced like nobody was watching. Curators and gallerists in their thick-framed glasses looked on in delightful disbelief. We hope to one day have as much joie de vivre as her. Alexa, play Robyn’s Dancing On My Own. 

Now exhausted after a long day at the office and an evening galavanting across town, we finally called it quits at a wholesome 9.30 pm. On reflection, this week’s Thirsty Thursday was less of a rebirth and more of a regression. But maybe the real treasure was the friends we made along the way.

Izzy, Dora and Billy signing off. Until next time xoxo