A cheeky mid-way through review. Charming and observant, Olivia Laing’s ‘Funny Weather’ is a treat that inspires and captivates.

Starting with short biographies of artists’ lives, Laing offers us insights into what it is like to live as Sargy Mann, blind by the time he painted his Little Sitting Room paintings, or Derek Jarman, open about being HIV-positive and subject to AIDS panic (she recalls Alan Bennett being afraid to shake his hand after he’d grazed his own). With insights led by care and compassion, Laing touches on love, inspiration and life. I was moved, inspired, sometimes envious. Some parts of artist life were made harsh and unwelcoming, and I was equally grateful for an acknowledgement of these moments. I was struck by the Georgia O’Keefe quote, “I’ve always been absolutely terrified every single moment of my life, and I’ve never let it stop me from doing a single thing I wanted to do”.

The subsequent section of the book contains a selection of Laing’s columns written for Frieze. I was particularly moved by ‘Red Thoughts’, in which Laing introduces the Edgar Degas painting ‘La Coiffure’ (‘Combing the Hair’) and discusses him being situated as an outsider to the scene and discusses whether art, particularly writing, should be autobiographical. ‘I think writing about other people, making art about other people, is both dangerous and necessary’, Laing writes. I sense an irony here in me writing about Laing, or in me pursuing project Pantoscope at all.

I’m working on what could be the start of a novel about a young French man who moves to a big city. In his experiences I recognise a lot about myself. The young man loves philosophy and he’s an aspiring writer. His story boils down to a person living out their early 20s in a place that is exciting and unfamiliar. His path very much mirrors my own, having moved to London recently. I wonder how much of his story is actually my own, how much of writing (the novel) is inherently egotistical, whether writing from experience is necessary, or more compelling.

To be honest, I am grateful I am writing at all. It’s too easy to be wrapped up in the every day and fail to make time to let words pour out, too easy to push it onto another day. Laing reminds me and others why art, and creating art, has purpose: why art is needed in these politically turbulent times, why art is transformative, essential, beautiful. Laing, through her own eloquent prose, makes me want to emulate her, makes me want to fall into the folds of her novel, write a review about it even though I’m not finished with it yet.

It was my colleague who lent me ‘Funny Weather’. He was surprised when I remarked on it being a signed copy. “I didn’t know that”, he said, confused. He figured the book must be his girlfriend’s copy and asked me to be extra careful (I reminder I didn’t need — none of my books have cracked spines, and I peer into their innermost sides with some, but minimal, difficulty). Barely 12 hours later, I told him I was almost halfway through. He laughed incredulously. This is not a testament to how fast I read, but rather a testament to Laing’s prose and observational skill, which kept me reading the book without restraint. I’m halfway through, and look forward to reading the rest. My work bestie says it only gets better. ∎