Big paintings, little dots – I find neo-impressionism utterly pointless

It took me months to get to Radical Harmony, the National Gallery’s exhibition on neo-impressionists, for one simple reason: I hate neo-impressionists. I think they suck and they’re boring. Oh you made some big paintings solely out of little dots? How fun. Have a sticker.

Still, it’s January and the year is shiny and new and I thought that maybe I should step out of my comfort zone and see if I could change my own mind. Maybe Georges Seurat’s work can only be truly appreciated in person? It was definitely worth a shot. I walked into the gallery and I walked out again after around 17 minutes, having failed to feel a single feeling.

I love art because it can force you out of your own skin, and make you commune with people who lived entirely different lives from your own, but the dots – all those stupid little dots! – left me cold. Sure, the pieces were technically impressive, but it always felt like something was missing.

I need my paintings to feel intense and alive. I want to follow the brushwork as it goes from one colour to the next, then the next. My favourite works are messy and sensual. The neo-impressionists offered the opposite: orderly, frigid alienation. Boo to them!

Another great dislike of mine is the countryside. I come from a long line of city folk and people who escaped from their small towns as quickly as they could. Somehow it feels like a great betrayal for me to leave civilisation and willingly surround myself with “nature”.

Some exceptions must sometimes be made, however, and since acquiring a partner with a childhood home in deepest, greenest Oxfordshire, I’ve been experimenting with country life. I love long walks across London and so he suggested a big walk in the freezing sunshine on the first weekend of the year.

Reluctantly, I must admit I had a good time. I loved petting the horses and watching the sheep trotting away from us like coy maidens. Pushing my new rubber boots into the thick mud was childishly pleasing. Dissolving into the seat of a country pub by the fire at the end of the afternoon was even better. The day was a success.

I do have to be honest, though. The absolute highlight of it all was still to get back into Paddington the next day. I just love London; I can’t help it. I know some people say that they love London in theory but in practice they very rarely make the most of it. I’m not one of them. I spend as little time at home as I can get away with. No one loves being out and about more than me.

If you think I’m exaggerating, then consider the fact that my favourite place to read is the underground. No, I couldn’t explain why either. Somehow moving across the capital and being surrounded by people makes me feel at home. This is why, a few days ago, I practically made up a reason to travel across town, merely so I could finish my novel.

For a while, I sat there, on the Victoria line, devouring the last few pages of Vita Sackville-West’s All Passion Spent, and I felt entirely content. Widening your horizons is nice, but nothing beats leaning into predictable pleasures.

Painting by Georges Seurat, Study for 'A Sunday on La Grande Jatte’ Courtesy The National Gallery, London