‘The Impressionists: Works on Paper.’ I wasn’t going to bother. Paper. No thank you. Canvas only please. But then a private breakfast opportunity came up, thanks to Royston King – and like a fool I went.

Attendees were characterised by a loathing of Harry and Meghan and residence in the vicinity of Ennismore Gardens. There was news of Rosemary Lomax-Simpson who for many years was i/c the private gardens of Rutland Gate. Ruled with an iron rod. Not invited to the PB apparently. But coming in the following week.

Once in the galleries it was another story. Not so easy to hear the curator’s talk because all the old powers-that-be (or were) talked loudly throughout re: their important affairs.

For a start, forget about paper. You really wouldn’t have known. At first or even second glance, it looked like a full-colour show to me; not dreary drawings. The Impressionists, the curator, explained, were innovators, and seized advances in technology to pursue their ideal – which was working out of doors to capture the moment, the way the light was for a short time, the fleeting scene. Good quality paper at a reasonable price as well as crayons and conte in a range of strong colours came along at just the right moment.

So the Impressionists were underway, at their easels or even just standing or sitting with their sketch books in most weathers. The zinging results you can see at the Royal Academy until March 10th.

As you know I am rarely bowled away. The real blast of this show was the bomb put under K.Clark’s insistence that the Impressionists were light-weight and had no mastery of form. K said Monet made Rheims Cathedral look like melted ice cream and it was just typical that he thought haystacks could make a subject for a painting. I was explaining all this when I re-visited the exhib the following week with Royston King himself (who, as it turned out, was over-diarised and couldn’t come to the private breakfast) – or trying to, for Royston King said he couldn’t care less what K Clark thought. No, no, Royston King, I said. K’s thoughts are an important anchor in the history of critical thinking about the Impressionists and his being so wrong is itself illuminating.

So it was: no, no, no Royston King. And no, no, no K Clark.

Dear Precious K Clark. But form is of the essence for the Impressionists. Even Monet. And pushing all the time, towards abstraction, as the delightful curator pointed out. I mentioned before, many years ago, on that visit to the monumental Monet Exhibition in Paris at the Grand Palais, when we had to go in the middle of the night it was so booked – there’s more to Monet than meets the eye. His figures are disturbingly shadowy, subsumed in the landscape: those women at Deauville pinned into place by the wind, or that girl in the field of poppies almost a ghost.

Now at the Royal Academy we see the same thing: people as ‘characters’ disappearing, only to be glimpsed in passing or seen from behind.

We also took the Marina Abramovic Exhib at the Royal Academy, which closed on 1st January. I’d never heard of her. A performance artist. But the Maharajah met re: a book he’s doing on her and was thrilled.

I was slightly dreaders because modern and performance art. In the 70s Marina stood in a room and let people throw knives and such like at her for 72 minutes. After that she was never the same again.

Well, you wouldn’t be, would you?

Then she had a boyfriend who seemed to slap her. She walked from one end of the Great Wall of China and he walked from the other. When they met in the middle they would get married. But they decided not to. But at least they had the performance. Quite ordinary experiences are transformed.

I thought the exhib reasonably optimistic. Despite the violence. All the items were superbly made and the photography flawless. There were some live nudes lying down in one room with guards to stop any assault. On top of them were skeletons which were removed by attendants in a ritualistic way. You could be a work of art yourself by standing on an exquisite piece of stone sticking out of the wall. You could even be a Crucifixion.

The climax of the show was an installation taking up an entire room – a bland archetypal re-creation of someone’s living quarters – a bedroom, bathroom and kitchen but raised up high. A woman was sitting stock still in the kitchen. She’d been there 10 days apparently. On the wall was a list of rules of what she was allowed to do. No food. Only water.

So it was just someone living really, going to bed, getting up, sitting. Just a completely ordinary life turned into an art work. Quite encouraging. Except if you were the woman stuck there for ten days with nothing to eat.

The only odd thing was a label in one of the rooms which said the boyfriend had ‘passed away after a battle with cancer.’ PASSED AWAY. Surely not? BATTLE WITH CANCER.

Almost the whole impact of the exhib was destroyed by these cliches. But it wasn’t.