It all started on Monday, during that dangerous, overcaffeinated window between 7:30 and 8am when I feel briefly invincible and capable of self-improvement. I was feeling sprightly—possibly due to the fact that I’d finally invoiced someone on time—and decided it was time to “get fit.”
So when I saw an Instagram ad for a local “Parkour for Beginners” group, I thought: that sounds healthy. I assumed that Parkour was a variant of the Park Runs that everyone I know is entering. I imagined a bit of jogging, perhaps some light stretching, followed by a croissant and a smug flat white.
Reader, it was not that.
It turns out Parkour is French for attempt to die publicly by jumping off municipal architecture. I arrived in leggings with a hopeful energy. Everyone else was in fingerless gloves and had names like Blade and Phoenix. Within minutes, I was being taught how to vault a bench and scale a vertical wall using only momentum and tiny hand holds. Someone mentioned we’d be free-climbing Big Ben by August. I laughed. Everyone else nodded and said they couldn’t wait.
By Wednesday, my thighs felt like they’d been tenderised by Damien Hirst himself. Fiona, ever helpful, Googled “Parkour injuries” and read them out in ascending order of severity while labelling works on ArtLogic. ‘Tibia fractures are common’, she said cheerfully. I decided not to go back and wished I hadn’t already paid the annual membership fee.
Meanwhile, back in the world of fine art—which, to be honest, felt far less dangerous this week—I had two studio visits, both of which involved emotional breakdowns, but only one in front of me. The first artist (mid-career, excellent cheekbones, recently divorced) showed me a new series of works made entirely from shredded love letters and insulation foam reclaimed from the family home. ‘It’s about boundaries,’ he whispered, while I tried not to sneeze from the fibreglass.
The second artist had decided to only work in complete darkness as a protest against the tyranny of the visible. I accidentally trod on one of the pieces.
Then there was a collector—let’s call her Lucinda—who rang to say she didn’t like how a recent acquisition felt near the dog. I had no idea what she meant, and on asking for elucidation discovered that her Labrador had developed a ‘weird tension’ since the painting arrived. I suggested moving the piece to another room. She refused. I suggested moving the dog to another room. She scoffed and asked for a refund as the picture was spreading bad vibes. I said I’d think about solutions.
By Friday, I had returned to Parkour, just to politely bow out of it. I cited “an ankle awareness issue” and “a desperate need to remain uninjured for Basel.” But I will say this: hanging off a high wall in Camden while someone named Raven shouts “TRUST YOUR KNEES” at me gave me a new appreciation for stable, indoor activities. Like filing shipping forms. Or standing in corners of galleries making eyes at collectors.
Until next week,
Harissa
(who will henceforth stick to Pilates and passive-aggressive walking)
