It has been a while since the Turner prize really enraged me. Only yesterday I was praising it. This art prize often used to make my blood boil. Then in 2009, I was on the Turner jury: I didn’t annoy myself at all. I worked hard to make sure that every decision the jury made was one I was happy with – especially the winner, Richard Wright. Then, last year, there was a kind of OK, slightly so-so shortlist, no disgrace to the Turner, yet nothing to arouse my passions either way. But this year I fell in love with the art of George Shaw, and to see him shortlisted for the Turner then cast down as an also-ran infuriates and, to be honest, disgusts me. I had forgotten how stupid the Turner prize can be.
Jonathan Jones being on the jury for the 2009 prize also explains my psychic visions. Peas in a pod him and I.