Just read this, by George Orwell. It was written when Orwell was a struggling writer in his twenties, he’s broke sleeping in bug-infested hostels and doss houses and working as a dishwasher in Paris. He is living with tramps and surviving on scraps and cigarette butts. He gives a personal and honest account of poverty in Paris and London from those times.
We were hanging in studio 223 this weekend. It’s an amazing archway in Waterloo that’s filled with Victorian furnishings and gifts from the Tongan embassy. We had a sing song on this beautiful piano :-)