Any art exhibition featuring New York always ends with me being in a strange blended mood of wistfulness for all the wonderful times I've had there; a frantic earnestness to go back; envy, and I have to admit this, for anyone who lives there, and yes I know it can be an unforgiving maw, but what a maw to be consumed by is my retort; and the sense that even London, this dear, sweet, mad, packed city state, is still just the little brother.

NYC is still the only place that really matters. Where else can you reach down, touch the paving stones and feel the energy of all the ages, past, present and future surge through your fingertips ?