In case you happen to be in London with time to kill.

I can't believe it, but I actually saw a Cy Twombly I liked. Normally, I don't think of art and Cy Twombly in the same sentence, mainly because his crap is so juvenile and derivative -- and by derivative I don't even mean it's a good copy...I mean it's watered down shoddy nods toward something that's already been done. However, I was checking out the Guardian's piece on Twombly's show at the Tate, and one of the preview pieces I found very nice:

It makes me think of waves crashing against the shore. There's a mood to it, and energy. "Untitled, Part VII" he calls it. Other than that one, the pictures strike me as the sort of dreck I've always associated with Twombly. No concept, no originality, just a lucky time: he happened to be painting when Rothko, Pollack, Johns, Warhol, and Lichtenstein were popular, and somehow critics mistook his juvenelia for art. Jesus, you can't even compare him to those other five. It's like comparing Coldplay to Radiohead or U2.