Pimlico Wilde’s Head of Film Production: “Britain Needs More Home-grown Pictures”

Pimlico Wilde’s Head of Film Production: “Britain Needs More Home-grown Pictures”

Q: Lysander, hello. You’ve been described as “the ringmaster of Britain’s oddest cinematic circus.” How’s the tent looking these days?

A: Oh, the tent’s positively bulging, thank you. Hollywood can keep its endless reboots and beige blockbusters. We’re serving up films with flavour. This year alone, we’ve wrapped The Accordionist’s Revenge, a romantic thriller entirely set on the overnight ferry to Hull; Pigeons of the Raj, a period drama where the extras are mostly pigeons; and Cabbage Noir, a crime caper in which the murderer is unmasked in a Brussels sprout festival.

Q: Those sound niche.

A: Precisely! The mainstream has been sewn up tight by Hollywood. How did we get to a point where every British cinema is showing the exact same American films? Madness! Variety is the very soul of cinema. If audiences can’t choose between sci-fi opera, Latvian horror-romance, or a black-and-white mockumentary about the first fish-and-chip shop in space,what’s the point?

Q: Tell us about your past celluloid hits.

A: People still stop me in the street to talk about The Last Bus to Little Haven,that was a runaway success in Luxembourg. And Shepherds in the Mist, our Welsh-language eco-thriller, actually outsold Fast & Furious 9 in one rural Aberystwyth multiplex.

Q: And the future?

A: We’ve got Tea at the End of the World in pre-production,think cosy apocalypse with scones,and Harpist on the Orient Express, which is exactly what it sounds like.

Q: Anything else to add?

A: Yes. If there are any wealthy souls reading who’ve always secretly wanted to see their name roll up on the silver screen,especially on a project no one else would dare to make,get in touch. We promise eccentricity, creativity, and just enough commercial sense to keep the tea and biscuits flowing.

Editorial Note regarding the recent Mayfair Book Groupette Spat

Editorial Note regarding the recent Mayfair Book Groupette Spat

We cordially thank Ms d’Abernon, Mr Wethercombe, and Lord Northcote for their spirited contributions to what has become, in recent weeks, the most fastidiously mannered quarrel to grace our Letters page since the Great Footnote Dispute of 2024.

While we appreciate the high style (and the canine diplomacy) on display, we must remind correspondents that this is not, and will not become, the official noticeboard of the Mayfair Book Groupette’s admissions process. We sympathise with Mr Wethercombe’s plight, though we note that his novel is enjoying a healthy sales bump as a result of this correspondence,a phenomenon which will, we suspect, be regarded by some as better than entry to the ancient society.

We trust that all parties will now sheathe their pens, pour themselves a suitable fortified wine, and allow our readers to resume their customary diet of medieval discussions, modernist squabbles, and occasional angry notes about the correct plural of octopus.

The matter is, for our purposes, closed.

, The Editor

Into the Blur: The Photographer Pho To and the Ontology of Obscurity

The latest release by Vietnamese photographer Pho To, unveiled yesterday by Pimlico Wilde, continues his audacious interrogation of the photographic act itself. The image, Untitled ,appears at first glance to be almost nothing: a murky field of darkness, bisected by a faintly illuminated form that resists definition. A blurred gesture? A shadow caught mid-breath? A momentary refusal of legibility? In Pho To’s hands, the indistinct becomes revelatory.

The composition,if one may still use that word,feels accidental in the most deliberate sense. Pho To has long been known for his devotion to aleatory practice: setting his camera to random configurations, inviting chance as co-author. Yet here, the uncertainty reaches a new register. The soft, brownish gradient at the image’s left edge seems to emanate from the void, suggesting both emergence and withdrawal. The darkness beyond it,impenetrable, total,acts not as background but as philosophical proposition.

One might recall Roland Barthes’s dictum that photography is the “that-has-been,” the visible trace of what once stood before the lens. Pho To’s image seems to rebel against this very ontology. It is an image that refuses to declare what has been; it withholds testimony. In doing so, it proposes a radical alternative to representation: a non-image that exists not to show, but to remind us that most of what exists cannot be shown at all.

There is a whisper of motion in the blur,perhaps a hand, perhaps merely light misinterpreting itself. The effect is profoundly tactile. Viewers report the strange sensation of proximity, as if touching the surface of an idea rather than perceiving it. This phenomenological tension,the oscillation between intimacy and obscurity,is where Pho To’s genius resides. His photographs do not seek to clarify; they estrange, destabilize, and in their refusal, disclose the very limits of sight.

Pimlico Wilde, who has championed Pho To’s work since his early London exhibitions, describes this new piece as “an act of radical humility.” And indeed, it is humility of a rarefied sort: an image that steps back, allowing the ineffable to occupy the foreground. The photograph is not so much about anything as it is a meditation on the conditions of aboutness itself.

In a cultural moment saturated by images that insist on being understood,sharpened, filtered, algorithmically bright,Pho To offers us the gift of opacity. This latest work, hovering between form and void, reminds us that the world’s most meaningful presences may arrive shrouded, trembling, and barely visible.

To look at it is to confront the sublime in its quietest expression: the trembling threshold where light ceases to explain,and begins, instead, to think.

Hedge Fund Diary: Good news! Sort of, for my pure gold rebuild of Brighton Pier

Hedge Fund Diary: Good news! Sort of, for my pure gold rebuild of Brighton Pier

I was offered full funding for the pure gold, life-size, model Brighton Pier project! Excellent. The money was put up by an anonymous ambassador who refused to say the name of his country (which sounded vaguely exotic and suspiciously vague). He claimed his country was “looking to increase tourism and global cultural presence and sponsoring your golden pier is the most obvious way to do that.” Naturally, I was thrilled. He told me to phone the next day to finalise details.

Then, the plot thickened. Overnight, there was a coup in his country. So, when I called his number, I unwittingly reached a revolutionary council. They had terrible news…

Hedge: Hello, this is Hedge Fund. I’m following up about the golden pier sponsorship. If you could just write down my bank details…

Revolutionary Council: Who are you? What are you talking about?

Hedge: Erm, I was hoping to finalise details with the Ambassador, he is kindly sponsoring my golden pier project.

Revolutionary Council: Ha! We are blowing up all piers, they encourage bourgeoise strolling.

Hedge (Thinking he had the wrong number): I’m sorry, could you put me through to the Ambassador?

Revolutionary Council: He is dead.

Hedge: That’s odd. He seemed fine when I spoke to him yesterday.

Revolutionary Council: Yes, it was quick.

Hedge: I’m sorry. Could I speak to his successor?

Revolutionary Council: Speaking.

Hedge: Very good. I’m just calling to finalise details about the golden pier art installation. You know, the one that will attract tourists and boost your economy? I’ve ordered the first eight tonnes of gold, I need your cheque to pay the supplier.

Revolutionary Council: “We are a poor African country. Golden piers are not in our agenda. Go away.”

Hedge: “But it’s a tourist attraction. People will come from all over,”

Revolutionary Council: We are a revolutionary council, we are not interested.

Hedge: Not even a bit? You could come to the opening.

Revolutionary Council: Do you want your head chopped off?

Hedge: No. I think we have crossed-wires…

Click

They hung up!

So, it seems the golden pier will have to wait for a more politically stable country to bear the brunt of the not unnoticeable costs. Unfortunately, as mentioned I have already ordered some gold. This may need some sorting out. I hope it was returnable.

Ever optimistic (and slightly bewildered),

Hedge Fund (digital artist, former finance bro, unintended diplomat)

The Mayfair Book Groupette replies

The Mayfair Book Groupette replies

Sir,

It is with a heavy but disciplined heart that I write to draw a discreet curtain across the recent exchange between Mr Wethercombe and Ms d’Abernon regarding the Mayfair Book Groupette.

As a long-serving member of this most esteemed of societies, I can assure your readers that the Groupette does not, as Mr Wethercombe insinuates, derive any pleasure from excluding applicants. We derive it from selecting them. There is a distinction, though I appreciate it may be invisible to those unaccustomed to life beyond the velvet rope.

The admissions process,so tediously caricatured in these pages,exists for the same reason the Musée du Louvre does not hang every watercolour of a yacht that arrives at its gates. Standards must be upheld, and they are, if anything, more fragile in the realm of ideas than in the realm of oils and gouache.

Mr Wethercombe’s allusions to Pascal’s supposed “backward curl” are beneath reply, save to note that the hound has been known to take the same position toward visiting dignitaries, senior curators, and on one occasion a former Prime Minister. He is impartial in his disdain.

The Groupette has no wish to prolong this public correspondence, nor to weaponise your Letters page as an adjunct of our selection committee. I will simply observe that those who wait outside our doors may, in time, come to value the waiting more than the entry. For some, this becomes a kind of intellectual home. For others, it appears to become a book.

Yours faithfully,

Lord E. Northcote

Mayfair, London

A Once-in-a-Lifetime Opportunity to Support Britain’s Shimmering Art Future

A Once-in-a-Lifetime Opportunity to Support Britain’s Shimmering Art Future

A call to artistic arms by Hedge Fund

Dear Esteemed Patron of the Arts,

I hope this artistic plea finds you in good health, strong liquidity, and the kind of visionary mood required for what I am about to propose.

You know of, I am sure and probably own one or more of my vibrant pictures. However you may not be aware of my latest and most ambitious undertaking, which I have given the name: The Brighton Pier in Pure Gold. It will be a full-scale recreation of the iconic seaside landmark, forged entirely from 24-carat gold. A testament to Britain’s cultural heritage, our maritime spirit, and our refusal to let common sense stand in the way of beauty.

This will not be “just” an artwork. This will be a beacon, a statement, a shimmering line in the sand (not necessarily literally, it will be built wherever the local council gives us the biggest rebates). It will draw visitors from across the globe, inspire generations, and give you the sort of positive coverage you can only dream of.

However, as you will appreciate, pure gold does not come cheap. Pimlico Wilde Art Dealers Extraordinaire, while effusive in their support of my career, have currently refused to provide 100% funding of the golden pier and have encouraged me to find sponsors to join this historic endeavour.

This is where you, the cultural visionary, come in.

Sponsorship benefits include:

, Prominent engraving of your name (or chosen pseudonym) on a gilded plank.

, VIP access to the next seven Hedge Fund exhibitions, openings, and afterparties

, The eternal knowledge that you helped make Britain’s shiniest pier a reality.

Minimum contribution: £500,000.

Maximum contribution: unlimited , art, like the ocean, knows no bounds.

If you are ready to be immortalised in gold, pier and art history, please contact Hugo at Pimlico Wilde, with the subject line “I’m here, for the Golden Pier ” and his team will make discreet arrangements.

Yours in gold,

Mr Hedgerick Fund

Digital Artist, Former Finance Visionary, Future Pier Emperor

Artist Diary – Hedge Fund

Artist Diary – Hedge Fund

Late August 2025

Weather: humid; feels like breathing soup.

Dear Diary,

The visionaries at Pimlico Wilde have regretfully refused to fund my pure gold Brighton Pier project, citing “liquidity concerns” and “the fact it would weigh several tonnes and immediately sink into the Channel.” Philistines. I am not going to build it by the sea, it will be in Dubai or Saudi, where people understand grand art projects. Pimlico Wilde say they’re looking for “aligned sponsors” who might wish to be involved. I sincerely hope they find one, perhaps a hedge fund with a fondness for golden maritime memorabilia. I’m amazed they will publish this uncensored, but they say they will. Congrats PW on your commitment to free speech.

In the meantime, London’s weather has taken on that oppressive, sticky quality where every handshake feels like a regrettable contract. Yesterday I set a personal record , seventeen iced coffees in one day. By the fifteenth I was trembling at a frequency only dogs could hear.

I’ve been making the exhibition rounds to keep my cultural diet rich. Saw an immersive light show in Bermondsey that promised to “transform your relationship with time.” It mostly transformed my relationship with waiting in queues – I waited for thirty minutes longer than normal, then gave up. Next a conceptual installation in Clerkenwell: a single shoe in a spotlight, accompanied by the sound of rainfall. The artist said it was about “loneliness.” I said it was about “losing your footwear in Shoreditch in the rain illuminated by the light of an active CCTV camera.” We agreed to disagree, but later he whispered that I have guessed his inspiration perfectly.

Arabella remains politely baffled by my current creative “season.” She asked whether I might try painting again, since gold prices are apparently “volatile” and storage costs for the safe life-size pier replica “would exceed the GDP of a small nation.” I told her great art is never about feasibility.

Tomorrow I’ll meet with a contact who claims to have “investor leads” for the pier of gold. I’m picturing a Dubai shipping magnate, but knowing my luck it’ll be a man in Croydon who collects commemorative teaspoons and wants to pay in Tesco Clubcard points.

Ever hopeful,

Hedge (digital artist, iced coffee endurance athlete, goldsmith of the artworld)

The Author’s Right to Reply – The Mayfair Book Groupette Issue Continued

The Author’s Right to Reply – The Mayfair Book Groupette Issue Continued

Sir,

I am gratified that my modest literary debut, the novel Waiting for Pascal, has generated such spirited correspondence, even from within the ranks of its ostensible inspiration.

Ms. d’Abernon’s letter, while exquisitely phrased, rather confirms my central thesis: that the Mayfair Book Groupette’s admissions process is a byzantine pageant designed less to identify potential members than to remind them how very far they have to climb.

I take issue, however, with her suggestion that I was “oppressed” by the requirements. On the contrary, I found them invigorating – though I do wonder how my essay “Why Ulysses is a Terrible Book” could be dismissed in under a minute for “inappropriate whimsy.” I believe my description of this tome (consisting of certain observations regarding hedgehogs and teeth-brush) was entirely reasonable.

As to the misplaced paperback in Pimlico Wilde’s reading room, I located it in just under 46 minutes,only to be told that the test was invalid because I had not, in the process, paused to admire the dust-jacket typography.

Regarding the Afghan hound: I have the utmost respect for Pascal’s ceremonial role. Still, one cannot ignore that, after our brief meeting, he yawned twice, refused a proffered morsel of pão de ló, and promptly curled up with his back to me. If this was not a veto, it was, at the very least, an early warning.

Finally, Ms. d’Abernon writes that the waiting list is a “curated experience.” I applaud this. It is rare indeed to encounter curation so stringent that the object never actually enters the collection.

I remain, as ever, outside the Green Room. But I have grown used to the view.

Yours with measured affection,

Lionel Wethercombe

Author, Waiting for Pascal

The Politics of the Umbrella by Alaric Montjoy

The Politics of the Umbrella by Alaric Montjoy

An umbrella is never just an umbrella. It is a prop, a weapon, a symbol, a declaration of intent. To carry one is to signal preparedness; to forget one is to accept the possibility of chaos. Somewhere between the functional and the theatrical, umbrellas tell us far more about ourselves than we like to admit.

Consider, first, the umbrella as social signifier. The neat black brolly, furled with military precision, is the preserve of City bankers and government officials,Edward Heath’s Cabinet looked like an army of dark, dripping bats. Contrast this with the floral collapsible umbrella bought in desperation from a train station kiosk, flimsy and half-broken before the rain has even stopped. One declares permanence, the other resignation.

Umbrellas, too, are political. In Hong Kong, the 2014 Umbrella Movement transformed an everyday object into a symbol of resistance, its canopy shielding protesters not from rain but from tear gas. In Britain, Neville Chamberlain’s ever-present umbrella became shorthand for appeasement,so much so that Hitler reportedly mocked him for it. (One wonders what Chamberlain might have accomplished with a leather jacket and sunglasses.)

Writers have understood this duality. Charles Dickens filled his novels with umbrella-wielding clerks and parsons, as if the object itself were shorthand for middle-class propriety. In Virginia Woolf’s diaries, the umbrella is less prop than nuisance, constantly forgotten or misplaced,another reminder of her restless modernity. And who can forget the surreal image of Magritte’s Hegel’s Holiday, in which an umbrella shelters a glass of water, absurdly logical and logically absurd?

Then there is the choreography of umbrellas. Watch a crowded London pavement on a rainy afternoon and you will see a ballet of avoidance, the subtle tilting and ducking as strangers negotiate canopy-space. The umbrella, like the fan in 18th-century Spain, comes with its own unspoken code of gestures. A sharp flick to shake off raindrops can be an act of aggression; the sharing of an umbrella, meanwhile, remains one of the most intimate acts of urban life.

I confess that I myself own far too many umbrellas: a vast golf umbrella emblazoned with a Japanese whisky brand (impossible to carry without looking faintly ridiculous), a tartan one bought in Edinburgh out of sheer cliché, and a slim Italian number whose handle is carved like a greyhound’s head. Each one, I realise, corresponds to a different version of myself,banker, tourist, flâneur.

What fascinates me most is how the umbrella collapses the boundaries between the private and the public. It is a mobile roof, a personal architecture, yet one that constantly intrudes upon others. To open an umbrella in a crowded space is to declare territory. To close it, dripping, is to rejoin the crowd.

Perhaps, then, the umbrella is best understood not as an accessory but as a metaphor: a reminder that culture itself is a kind of shelter, a canopy beneath which we huddle together, trying not to get drenched by the weather of history.

Is Abstract Art Tosh? A Refutation

Is Abstract Art Tosh? A Refutation

To pose the question “Is Abstract Art Tosh?” is already to have surrendered to the most enfeebled species of philistinism. The interrogative itself is unworthy, an ill-bred mongrel of tabloid cynicism and barroom banter. One might as well ask, “Is mathematics mere scribbling?” or “Is music mere noise?”,for such queries betray not so much scepticism as cognitive bankruptcy.

The word tosh, that dismal monosyllable of Cockney provenance, is particularly ill-suited to the gravitas of aesthetic discourse. It functions here as a rhetorical cudgel wielded by those incapable of recognising that abstraction is not the negation of art, but rather its sublimation: the Aufhebung of mere representation into the pure realm of form, colour, rhythm, and metaphysical inquiry.¹ To denounce abstraction as “nonsense” is tantamount to castigating Pythagoras for preferring numbers to potatoes.

Consider the lineage: from Malevich’s Black Square,that silent icon of metaphysical negation²,through Mondrian’s theosophical grids, to Rothko’s numinous fields of trembling colour. Each gesture, far from “tosh,” is a deliberate confrontation with the limits of visibility, a hermeneutics of the void.³ To reduce such ventures to “gibberish” is to reveal one’s own incapacity to see, to think, indeed to feel beyond the merely mimetic.

The question also rests on a false presupposition: that the measure of art lies in its resemblance to nature. But was not Plato’s cave a parable against such slavish imitation? *Ars non est natura servilis, sed natura transfigurata.*⁴ To demand recognisable cows and teapots on every canvas is to regress into aesthetic bovarism, a craving for pretty trifles over ontological revelation.

Furthermore, the sneer “tosh” discloses a profound insecurity: an anxious defence of the everyday against the incursion of the sublime. For abstract art dislocates; it unsettles; it ruptures the soporific continuum of bourgeois existence. To dismiss it with a grunt is not critique, but cowardice,an argumentum ad timorem.

One is reminded of the Athenians who mocked Socrates for his ceaseless questioning, only to find themselves the objects of his irony. Similarly, those who deride abstraction unwittingly display their own unexamined assumptions. The true scandal is not that abstract art exists, but that so many persist in responding to it with clichés scavenged from pub chatter.

Is abstract art “tosh”? Only to the incurious, the intellectually malnourished, the spiritually tone-deaf. To all others, it remains what it was from the beginning: a theatre of the infinite, a cryptogram of Being, a silent liturgy painted upon canvas.

Notes

1. Cf. Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit (1807), on the dialectical supersession of immediacy.

2. See Bowlt, J.E., Russian Art of the Avant-Garde: Theory and Criticism (1976), for the theological implications of Malevich’s icon of non-being.

3. Compare Rothko’s letters in Breslin, Mark Rothko: A Biography (1993), wherein colour fields are described as “dramas.”

4. “Art is not the slavish copy of nature, but the transfigured nature.” A maxim attributed, dubiously, to Alberti.

About the Author

Dr. Severinus Archimandrite, D.Phil. (Leintwardine Polytechnic)

Adjunct Professor of Aesthetico-Metaphysical Hermeneutics,

Institute for Obscure and Rebarbative Studies, Luxembourg.