Why on earth would someone paint the face and neck of Samuel Beckett in varying hues of grey on the front wall of their house? I kept staring at it from a cafe on the other side of Blenheim Crescent. It's just like a one dimensional representation of an Easter Island statue; rugged, open to the elements, and effortlessly noble even in the depressing rain of early evening. Being scratched and paint flaked adds a certain timelessness to it in a way. And I'm not going to bother second guessing why it's there, because there's no need. Art ought to make you think; this does the trick perfectly.