Archives for the month of: May, 2012

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

I have been reading two books on immortality, both by philosophers: John Gray’s The Immortalization Commission: The Strange Quest to Cheat Death (London: Penguin Books, 2012), and Stephen Cave’s Immortality: The Quest to Live Forever and How it Drives Civilisation (London: Biteback, 2012). Both authors were present tonight to discussion the topical issue of living forever.

The philosopher’s interest in immortality and the ‘post-mortem’ has waxed and waned. From Socrates and Plato onwards, issues of death and mortality were central to the philosopher’s concerns. In more recent times they were pushed aside, surrounded by a ‘philosophical silence’ of sorts. Today, philosophers again thematically embrace immortality, perhaps reflecting the awareness that a life without death on its horizon may not be impossible after all.

Thoughts that struck me during tonight’s discussion…

Immortality as something desirable is not a new idea. What has pushed the concept of living forever further up the agenda is the awareness that it may be possible. We live in an era where medical advances continue to lengthen our expected life span, our physical lives. We are also witnesses, and participants, of the exponential digitilisation of our culture, and the possibility of a digital legacy, with an animated re-creation of our lives as logged via social networks, following our death as physical beings.

Immortality versus mortal longevity…as John Gray pointed out, very few of us, if any, would refuse the offer of an extra few years, but living forever is something entirely different. The relationship between the knowledge of our mortality and the meaning we ascribe to life is complex, but appears to be a dependent one. Or perhaps, and I was intrigued by this observation by Gray, we are overly needy for meaning…

Gray coined the term ‘death-defined animals’ for humans, which serves to differentiate us from other animals – we know and are aware that we are going to die (this caused some controversy in the audience; it is a tricky point to prove, as animals may experience more than we know or understand right now). This awareness of our own mortality creates a curious paradox: we believe that we are going to die (at some point), yet we spend most of our lives (subconsciously) denying the fact, living in fear of death, and therefore avoiding any contemplation of it.

Stephen Cave referred to some interesting psychological studies. When we are reminded of our mortality, our instinct is to adhere even more closely to our core values (for example a religious belief), whatever they might be. This strategy serves to distract and protect from the terror that death engenders.

The absurdities of immortality were discussed, and how much we deflect away from a real acceptance of death, and from a living to  a wasting of the life we have now. I was reminded of David Eagleman’s Sum: Tales from the Afterlives (London: Canongate Books, 2010), where in the end, following 40 tales of potential afterlife scenarios, we are left wondering whether the life we live may not be so bad after all. If we could just embrace that thought, and live it….

The greatest challenge is to enjoy and affirm life when one is faced with the absolute certainty of death. Philip Gould’s memoir (Philip Gould. When I Die: Lessons from the Death Zone. London: Little, Brown, 2012) immediately came to mind. As he realises that death from recurrent cancer is inevitable, Gould states:

‘I am going to die. My death is inevitable….It is real. It is a fact of my life.’ (p.117)

He goes on to say:

‘The awareness of death that I had throughout my life was, I see now, an illusion.’ (p.117)

‘I absolutely feel that the moment I accepted death and looked it in the eye and faced it, then I had…..freed myself from death.’ (p.119)

Our instinctive fear of death was also discussed tonight, which, though natural, is irrational as we have no personal knowledge of death, nor ever will, except through witnessing that of another.

Both philosophers appear to have similar views on the issues that surround immortality, particularly the burden it would potentially place on society.

Odd that we now speak more openly about immortality, which is good, yet mortality, a certain prospect for all of us, remains relatively hushed. Perhaps the hypothetical aspect of immortality makes it a safer bet. It is a topic that is certainly not settled. There are no rights or wrongs here, and the arguments can only be speculative.

Yet thought-provoking nonetheless.


Saturday, May 26, 2012

Currently running at the Linbury Studio Theatre at the Royal Opera House, David Eagleman’s book (Sum: Tales from the Afterlives. London: Canongate, 2009) has been transformed into a chamber opera by the contemporary composer Max Richter and The Royal Ballet Resident Choreographer Wayne McGregor.

I saw it last night (it runs until June 2). And loved it.

But first, the book.

I have read it a number of times, sometimes in snatches as it is one of those texts that benefits from a dipping in and out. The chapters are short, and complete in themselves, as each depicts a different scenario, alternative conceptualisations of an afterlife.

In the last entry of his memoir, Philip Gould movingly states that he is approaching ‘the door marked Death’ (When I Die: Lessons from the Death Zone. Philip Gould, edited by Keith Blackmore. London: Little, Brown, 2012.). He believed that what lay beyond would be ‘the best of things’.

The notion of an afterlife has been an inextricable part of our history, evolution and culture, and of course religion, with it’s various doctrines on Heaven and Hell and reincarnations. Yet the literary world has rarely ventured there, which seems odd. Perhaps this is related to the absoluteness of the afterlife as an imaginative, speculative, never-can-be-proven concept. The stuff of science fiction, but the difference being that most people believe in an afterlife, yet rarely consider what it may actually be.

Eagleman has, and offers us 40 possibilities. For example, you may relive all your experiences, but the order is shuffled so that all moments sharing the same quality are grouped together. Thus, you spend six days clipping your nails, seven months having sex, have twenty-seven hours of intense pain, thirty years of continuous sleep… Or, the afterlife may look pretty similar to the life you had, apart from one thing: it only contains people you already knew. No strangers, no unknown crowds, a loss that eventually makes you feel lonely and forlorn.

Or, in the afterlife you may be able to live multiple lives at the same time, like eating and not eating simultaneously…

There are many God possibilities, He is a medical doctor, a female She, a married couple, or many people. Or we are God’s organs, part of His biology…He lives through us, and without us He dies. Or your Creator may be a species of ‘dim-witted creatures’ who pester you with ‘Do you have answer?’ as they search for the meaning of it all.

Of course there is no answer. Eagleman’s book’s is a delightful and richly imaginative speculation that can never be proven right or wrong. The point is not to answer questions but to consider what it is about the afterlife (a concept that I do not personally subscribe to) that man throughout history has assumed to exist, and has needed to hang on desperately to that assumption. Sum is in many ways a tragic book, as it alludes to the basic human failing, that of dissatisfaction, of constant wanting and searching for something better. Sum is thus a parable of sorts, and it leaves the reader thinking of Life, not afterlife: what we have now may not be so bad after all. Make the most of it.

So, to the opera. I was curious to see how this could be staged. Firstly, the setting of the Linbury Studio and how it was arranged was conducive to the atmospheric and intimate performance. The three opera singers sat within the audience, intermittently wandering around, and this interactive format worked, as the relevance of the spoken and sung words ultimately resonated and belonged to us. Not all 40 vignettes were included, but I liked the selection. Interestingly, although the last chapter was included in the performance, it was not the ultimate vignette. Perhaps this was a wise choice, as Eagleman’s final chapter ‘Reversal’ concludes the book on a tragic note. In it, we do not die, but our lives rewind. As they  rewind, they also unravel as we discover that our memories have colluded, and misremembered, so that the myth of who we thought we were could be perpetuated. As we face the journey back towards the womb, we realise that we have never known who we actually were…

The singers, the score and the orchestra were sublime. The music evoked an eeriness, a haunting, and a beauty, that simultaneously uplifted and saddened. The choreography and visual affects complemented the chosen text, a backdrop that did not distract but added meaning to a text that can be both subtle and overwhelming.

The transformation of Eagleman’s text into a chamber opera worked.

Totally loved it, and was transformed.


Wednesday, May 23, 2012

When I Die: Lessons from the Death Zone. Philip Gould, edited by Keith Blackmore. London: Little, Brown, 2012.

I have just read this book, and have been very moved by it.

Philip Gould was polling and strategic advisor to Tony Blair and deputy chairman of Freud Communications. He died from recurrent oesophageal cancer in November 2011.

The book is about a personal journey, and an openness and sharing of that journey, as the inevitability of imminent death becomes apparent.

Gould shares his experience from diagnosis (when he became, in an instant, the ‘cancer patient’, labelled with a diagnosis that transformed him from subject to object), through treatment, recurrence, further treatment, and the reality of death.

When he first received his diagnosis he chose to be open about it, telling family and friends immediately. He was rewarded by affection and support that sustained and uplifted him.

We are all part of some community or other, and I was particularly moved by Gould’s sense of shifting from one community to the next. In hospital following his first operation he speaks of walking the corridors as he rehabilitated, alongside other fellow patients also doing the ‘walk of the dead’. He did not feel alone as ‘No one spoke, no one even smiled. We just walked on, like ghosts.’ (p.32). I was reminded of Philip Larkin’s poem ‘The Building’, a hospital, and ‘in it, conceits/ And self-protecting ignorance congeal/ To carry life, collapsing only when/ Called to these corridors.’ (Philip Larkin – The Complete Poems, Archie Burnett (ed), London: Faber & Faber, p.85.). Larkin goes on:

‘…All know they are going to die.

Not yet, perhaps not here, but in the end,

And somewhere like this.’

Gould’s ‘walk of the dead’ was perhaps prescient of what was to come. Within three years or so, recurrent cancer was beyond cure/containment and he was told that he had, at most, 3 months to live. Again, he shifted communities, as reflected by the changing role of his medical team, who moved from treating his cancer to managing his death.

The fear he felt following the original surgery and subsequent treatment (he saw himself as a very small boat in a very big sea), was replaced by a sense of calm as he faced the absolute reality of his death, and entered the ‘Death Zone’. He realised that his awareness of his own mortality up to then had in fact been an illusion. Accepting his imminent death freed him from death itself, and the knowledge of it somehow reconfigured time so that he was able to use it on his own terms.

The experience of living with cancer, and the reality of death, was transformative, facilitating an intimacy and openness and sharing that he would not otherwise have achieved. It somehow enhanced, hugely, the meaning of his life, to the extent that he did not regret its happening. The experience made him feels stronger and freer. And you believe him.

This is both an uplifting book and a very moving one. Sometimes, and I cannot explain this, the bravery and acceptance of others in the face of huge adversity can be hard to witness and to accept. Perhaps, this is because we cannot see ourselves behaving in the same way in a similar situation. Perhaps, we are overwhelmed by the sheer sadness and loss that we inevitably associate with death. Gould speaks of society’s notion of death, and the consensus that so often surrounds it, which is that it is wrong and belongs to a different time and place. Perhaps too, accepting our mortality is something we cannot actually contemplate.

This relatively short book is rich in much else, including Gould’s views on the NHS and politics. But in the end, it is his unsettling honesty and courage as he speaks openly of his own approaching death, and as he stands next to his grave shortly before he dies, that is the powerful essence of this book. His own imminent death gave meaning to his life. The story he shared has added to mine.


Sunday, May 20, 2012

This has been such a rich weekend in the part of London where I live, Queen’s Park, which hosted its second book festival.

For several hours over the past couple of days, I feasted on discussions that included Alex Bellos and Alexander Masters (‘Mathematics and the everyday’ – truly re-ignited my love of maths, its beauty and vitality), Natalie Haynes (‘A touch of the classics’ – so impressive, how she makes the classics relevant, alive and funny!), Kate Summerscale (‘After Mr Whicher’ – mainly focusing on her new book, Mrs Robinson’s Disgrace – such a generous sharing of how the story came into being, a story the author researched so comprehensively. I so need to read this book), John Lanchester and Justin Cartwright (‘Money talks’ – not a theme I am generally attracted but, but, having heard both authors today, I have now added their books urgently to my ‘to-read’ list), and Andrew Lycett, Nick Rankin and Zachary Leader (‘The art of biography’ – I am hugely attracted to the genre and this session really delivered on enhancing my understanding of its inherent art).

There was much else happening, but unfortunately I could not make all the sessions…next year…

For now, I want to talk about one of yesterday’s sessions. This involved Edwyn Collins, the musician and founder of the 80s band Orange Juice, his wife Grace Maxwell, and Nick Coleman, the arts and music journalist.

All three have been affected by loss. Edwyn Collins suffered two catastrophic brain haemorrhages approximately 7 years ago. His wife has written of their journey since in the memoir Falling and Laughing: The Restoration of Edwyn Collins (Grace Maxwell, Ebury Press, 2010). Nick Coleman’s world changed forever when he experienced sudden neurosensory hearing loss, which left him with complete nerve deafness in his right ear and forever changed his perception of music, his passion and life. Coleman shares his experience in his recent memoir The Train in the night: A Story of Music and Loss (Jonathan Cape, 2012).

I have just recently read Nick Coleman’s book (I am looking forward to reading Grace’s book next). Having experienced a similar event myself, I connected with much of what he says and lives. But what I liked most about his memoir was the sense of his illness happening in a life, a new chapter in a story that had already pretty much evolved, and continues to evolve. In the world of medicine, the ‘patient’ is too often seen as the illness, rather than as an individual for whom the illness occurs in a story that already has a beginning, and a middle, and will have a future, with or without illness. Nick Coleman’s book is rich in the details of his life, the music, the backdrop of history and politics, the catastrophic event that happened and affected pretty much everything about him, yet does not define him.

Grace led a fascinating discussion, with both Nick and Edwyn, as well as the audience, joining in. They spoke of how we can take ownership of who we are, and how this is possible through our sense of how we ‘get’ the world, which for Edwyn and Nick was through music. Our minds are mostly silent and unseen – what goes on inside one’s head often only comes to light when something goes wrong. Grace spoke movingly of the fatalism that often surrounds strokes and adult brain injuries, and the language used, such as ‘plateauing’, and ‘no further recovery’ possible. Edwyn is testament to the fallacy inherent in these assumptions, as he continues to improve, and is now back working and performing.

When I suffered something similar to Nick, what struck me most was the language used, its slipperiness and its tendency to apportion blame. I felt that, in ‘losing’ my hearing, I was in some way culpable, at fault, ‘my bad’:

A Quieter World

I lost it in Waitrose, on a Saturday afternoon,

in the frozen food section.


out of the blue,

there one moment, gone the next,

as if the mute button had been pressed,

noise replaced by hushed, indecipherable tones.

No warning,

no explanation.

‘One of those things’, the doctor said

‘You have lost it forever, it will not return’.

Odd to speak of losing it,

as if I had some part to play,

was somehow careless in that supermarket aisle.

No, I did not lose it.

It abandoned me, noiselessly.

The session ended magically, as Edwyn performed two of his songs. This was wonderful and moving, not ‘because of’, or ‘despite’ his illness, but more due to the fact of Edwyn Collins, and Grace, in whose lives catastrophic illness happened, and has been endured and bravely dealt with, but whose lives go on, and more chapters continue to be written. This says so much, not about the illness, but about the man and the artist.


Thursday, May 17, 2012

I was delighted that I got to this tonight, a panel discussion on Alzheimer’s disease, set within the context of William Utermohlen’s art, both literally as we sat amongst his work, and figuratively, as issues that emanated from his diagnosis were discussed ( The audience was truly fortunate that the artist’s wife, Pat Utermohlen, was also there, and so generously contributed her own personal insight to the evening’s discussion.

Firstly, Sebastian Crutch, research psychologist, shared interesting, and sobering, facts and figures on Alzheimer’s disease, including the statistic that we all have a 20% chance of developing the condition in the last 5 years of our lives… The condition is common, increasingly so, and we will all be touched by it, either ourselves personally or those we care about.

He also gave us some insight into the neurological basis of the condition, for example the visual problems that define it. Thus, impairments in visual-spatial skills and difficulties seeing the whole picture that inevitably accompany Alzheimer’s disease, may potentially explain, or at least partly explain, what we see when we look at Utermohlen’s later work.

Following this, Rachael Davenhill, Director of Age Matters, focused on the depression – at least 20 -25% of sufferers – that often accompanies Alzheimer’s disease, and how the artist’s work, particularly Blue Skies and Despairing Figure, may facilitate a sharing of what Utermohlen was experiencing, an experience of suffering that seemed to be beyond words. Andrew Balfour, psychologist and psychotherapist, ended this part of the evening, sharing his clinical and research experience, particularly his work with couples affected by Alzheimer’s disease, and issues of self-awareness.

The open discussion that followed raised many questions and comments, including those on the extent to which we can interpret works of illness, particularly where we already know the background and the context, and inevitably apply that knowledge to what we see. The audience, and panel, was perhaps divided on this, but it may not matter. William Utermohlen’s work, both pre and post Alzheimer’s disease, speaks for itself, and moves us. No explanation needed.


William Utermohlen retrospective, until May 26, 2012.

GV Art

49 Chiltern Street London

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

I have been thinking today about how much both the internet and media have facilitated the possibility of a portrayal and a sharing of the experience of death and dying. TV screenings have included the 2011 BBC documentary ‘Inside the Human Body’, where Gerald, who suffered from lung cancer, died as we watched, and two portrayals of dying on the screen following self-assisted suicide with Dignitas in Switzerland, Craig Ewert who suffered from Lou Gehring’s disease in ‘Right to Die’ (2008), and Peter Smedley, who had motor neuron disease, in ‘Choosing to Die’ (2011).

There was much public outrage following these screenings. Viewers were shocked, which pretty much proves the point and the importance of ‘Dying Matters’ ( The reality of our mortality is perhaps too much, and we struggle to bear witness to the fact of it. Deny it and it may not happen… which is of course untrue, but it is a fundamental untruth that society too often appears to collude with.

The internet, and blogging, have served to create a platform where everything, including death and dying, can be chronicled and shared, a sharing that can help the sufferer, and fellow sufferers, feel less alienated and isolated.

Christopher Hitchens, in his regular Vanity Fair column, openly shared his experience of being diagnosed with cancer, the experience of living with it, and the increasing reality of his death. He wanted to ‘to’ death in the ‘active not the passive sense’ ( He debunked the myth “Whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” The reality was there were “progressive weaknesses that in a more “normal” life might have taken decades to catch up with me. But, as with the normal life, one finds that every passing day represents more and more relentlessly subtracted from less and less. In other words, the process both etiolates you and moves you nearer toward death. How could it be otherwise? ”

How could it be otherwise, indeed. But that is exactly what we seem to desire, something ‘other’, where a denial of death may, irrationally and unbelieveably, actually prevent it from happening.

‘Often awesome’ follows the last months, and death, of Timothy LaFollette, who suffered from Lou Gehrig’s disease ( All involved are devastated by his illness and his impending death, but there is a (reluctant) acceptance of its inevitability, and we are generously invited to watch and to share.

These, and so many others, are brave people, and we are lucky that they choose to share their stories, amidst the enormity of their suffering and pain.

The very least we can do is to accept their invitation, to acknowledge their experience, and to bear witness to their living and to their dying.


Tuesday, May 15, 2012

In some ways, my take on the importance of putting dying ‘out there’, contradicts the blog itself. Dying is not an illness, though usually results from it. While rationally we may know that it is inevitable, mostly we deny and resist the very notion of it.

This is ‘Dying Matters’ ( awareness week, where various events across the country aim to raise the awareness of dying, death and bereavement. The week’s theme is ‘small actions, big difference’.

I am hugely supportive of this incentive. My work in Palliative Care consolidated my belief that death and dying remain the ultimate taboos, and as a result we struggle to discuss their reality in any true sense.

A few years ago, in a somewhat idealistic notion of tackling this reticence in my own life, I bought the most magical illustrated book, which I read with my then sub-teenage daughter, Duck, Death and the Tulip, by the German artist and writer Wolf Erlbruch. The book follows Duck, who is accompanied by Death from the outset. Yet, by the end, although we realise and even accept that death does stalk life, the relationship need not be a fearful one.

Check out the calendar on the Dying Matters website. In London, I am particularly looking forward to the photographic exhibition at the Dray Walk Gallery, Old Truman Brewery (May 15 to May 20), featuring the work of Nadia Betteqa that focuses on terminal illness.

I will use the opportunity of the ‘Dying Matters’ awareness week to look at portrayals of death and dying from illness on the screen, including the films Time to Leave, Third Star, My Life Without Me, and The Sea Inside.



Monday May 14, 2012

This event takes place on Thursday, May 17, at the GV Art Gallery (, which is currently hosting an exhibition by the artist, and latterly sufferer of Alzheimer’s disease, William Utermohlen.

The discussion, which includes the panellists Dr Marius Kwint, Senior Lecturer in Visual Culture, Professor Rossor, Director of Dementia Research, Dr Sebastian Crutch, psychologist, Andrew Balfour, psychologist and psychotherapist, and Rachael Davenhill, Director of Age Matters, will focus on dementia-related issues as exemplified by Utermohlen’s work.

It sounds fascinating.

I plan to be there!

For those of you who cannot make it, I will give my take on the event, here…


Sunday, May 13, 2012

The condition of compulsive hoarding has become topical on TV. Not surprising perhaps, as the irrational acquisition of seemingly useless objects appeals to the ‘rational’ and voyeuristic viewer, who cannot understand the point of it all, yet is drawn, as humans are, to the tragedy and the suffering it engenders.

But, I was impressed, and very moved, by Jasmine Harman’s recent TV documentary on hoarding, and how it has impacted on her life as her mother suffers from the condition, as well as the sensitive portrayal of the lives of other sufferers, in Britain’s Biggest Hoarders (

Hoarding is a hidden, and as a result under-recognised and under-treated, condition, which isolates both the sufferer and those close to them. Whether or not it is a variant of OCD remains controversial. Recent research suggests that compulsive hoarding is a separate syndrome, although it can coexist with OCD (Pertusa et al. Compulsive Hoarding: OCD Symptoms, Distinct Clinical Syndrome, or Both? Am J Psychiatry 2008;165:1289-1298).

The critical issue is that hoarding needs to recognised as a condition that requires treatment. And the good news is that therapy can help, as we saw in the case of Jasmine Harman’s mother.

What struck me most about the documentary was, firstly, how much sufferers struggle alone, often for a very long time, and secondly, the extent to which those close to them also suffer. Many compulsive hoarders live alone, but not all. The loyalty and sheer endurance of those who live and care for sufferers is extraordinary. In effect they are also sufferers, silent sufferers, and compulsive hoarding tests love and caring to a degree that many of us have never had to experience.

This is particularly challenging as hoarders, and this is the major difference between compulsive hoarding and OCD, are often in denial. In the BBC programme sufferers blamed lack of sufficient storage space, house design…. and other ‘irrational’ explanations for the accumulation of objects such as VHS tapes in a house where the VHS machine could not be accessed anyway due to the sheer volume of obstacles in the way…

But rational thinking, and our perception of how things should be, cannot explain hoarding away. Living with a mother who was a compulsive hoarder, Harman, as she grew up, questioned whether her mother loved her possessions more than she loved her own daughter. In the end, it is not as simple, as ‘x’ or ‘y’, but more about looking beyond the ‘pointless’ acquisition of objects, and understanding the thinking behind the process. Why hoard? Why accumulate ‘worthless’ stuff that is never used, and that creates health, economic and social destruction? There is no simple answer, but, as we follow Harman’s mothers journey through therapy, we hear about the association between hoarding and loss, and the perhaps subconscious role that possessions play in filling that void.

I was left thinking about the silent suffering that happens behind closed doors, about the challenge of compulsive hoarding, not just for the sufferers, but also for those who live with them and care about them and love them, notwithstanding.

I was also reminded of the power of television as a medium that has the capacity, in the right hands, to go beyond voyeurism, thereby facilitating a sharing of something that is authentic and human and humbling.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Steph Bates’s first solo exhibition, Thursday’s Child has Far to Go, opened at The Bethlem Gallery on May 2.

I made the short train journey from Charing Cross on Saturday afternoon. I have been to the gallery and the museum in the grounds of the hospital before. A very long and very straight tree lined road leads to the hospital entrance. Auspicious.


When you arrive at the hospital gates,

you take a right turn, past the museum (which I visited on my way out, more another time), to the gallery, which, though relatively small, feels bright, and intimate, and reassuring somehow.

Steph Bates’s connection with BRH dates from the time she spent there for treatment of her OCD. In an article on display at the exhibition, we learn that Bates’s stay appears to have been hugely beneficial, particularly in terms of the positive effects of CBT, companionship, and art. Bates shares her belief that in BRH, you could be ‘human and vulnerable’, rather than ‘mad and bad’, and speaks of the positive effects of the hospital’s ethos ‘dare to be’.

Bates was an artist long before her involvement with BRH, having studied at both the University of the Arts, Chelsea, and Bristol Polytechnic. Although art appears to have rescued her, and to have given her a much-needed respite from the symptoms of OCD, at one point she felt that the condition negatively controlled her creativity. Now, this relationship, between OCD and art, appears to be a much more liberating one.

I loved this exhibition. Bates’ imaginative, playful and vibrant art does not underestimate or undermine the seriousness of the challenge of living with OCD. Rather, her paintings appear to position OCD where it is openly acknowledged, and reframed into something that is, perhaps, manageable.

Works such as Throw it Away and Take a Risk, reveal a self-belief, and an optimism. A visual enactment of ‘Dare to be’.

Go see.

The exhibition runs until June 2.