Comment: We got smashed with Monet

There's something frictionless about Monet: not a painter one can have an argument with

SO I was in the Two Brewers in Clapham, south London on Saturday night, getting falling-over jolly with my mate Alberto. It was about half past two in the morning; getting towards that point when you are going to have to decide whether to go home or go on. Of course, the grown-up thing is to say: "We've had a nice night, haven't we, so let's call it a night and get some sleep." I don't know why, but it never quite works out that way.

"Have you got anything to do tomorrow, darling?" I said. "Or shall we be bad?"

"Let's be bad," Alberto said promptly. "Where shall we go? What about Heaven?"

"Croydon Central," I said. "Not to be snobbish, or anything, but... you know."

"Trade?"

"Too early," I said. Then an absolutely blinding idea came to me. "What about Monet?"

"Monet? What is it?"

"Claude Monet, you know. Great Fr impressionist 1840 to 1926, now showing at the Royal Academy and on every chocolate box from here to Caracas. You know. The Academy is opening all night tonight to let the hordes in. Monet at dawn. It might be fun."

"At least it'll be quiet," Alberto said decisively.

It wasn't. A queue, 200 strong and appallingly bright-eyed was standing patiently on Piccadilly as if they'd never imagined anything more thrilling. In the temporary cafe erected in the courtyard of the Academy, the masses squatted round cups of coffee and their bagged-up catalogues. The scene looked rather like a retreating Turkish army, as painted by Lady Butler; cheerful but bedraggled. They had the air of having done something uncomfortable but exciting.

On the way, we had speculated that it would be full of West End drunks; looking around, it was appallingly apparent that the only truly wrecked people there were the two of us. Everyone else looked as if they had gone to bed at eight to be in a good state to take it all in.

Inside, it was more crowded than could be imagined. Somewhere, over the heads of the small-hours art-lovers, a glow of colour could be dimly discerned. A glow of blue-green must be one of the views of the garden at Giverny; a throbbing grey was probably one of the London paintings. Nothing much could be seen, unless you were prepared to stand and shove. I settled for a nice sit down.

A vague rustling mutter filled the room, people taking care to lower their voices even at this hour. Occasional overheard comments, as people drifted past, were no more obviously peculiar than the sort of thing you usually overhear in galleries; half-confident comments about paint texture, over-confident assertions about Cezanne's influence, conversations about a holiday outing to Giverny. A boy asked his girl, rather self-consciously, if she had a spliff, but apart from that it could have been 3.30 in the afternoon, rather than the morning.

Alberto wandered over. "I can't see a thing," he said. "Why Monet, do you think? There are plenty of great painters," he said. "Would it be as full if it was Titian?"

It was difficult even to think what to say. Maybe it is a sign of an increased interest in the visual arts, an increasingly sophisticated and intelligent population. I wonder.

There's something frictionless about Monet; he is not a painter, like Titian or Velazquez, one can have an argument with. There are few meanings in his paintings, but just an innocent absorption in the world.

Splendid as it is that many people, encouraged by the hype, have crossed an invisible barrier and gone into an art gallery, it would be idle to claim that they will now find it easier to go and look at Bronzino. Monet is great, but he got rid of too much, and it will not do to think that his mass popularity is going to translate readily into a general enthusiasm for painting in general.

Personally, the more I look at Monet the weirder he seems, and not just because I was a bit far gone on Saturday night. I think, in another hundred years, people will discuss our obsession with him in the same way we now talk about the 18th century's mania for Guido Reni. Of course, he is an interesting painter. But we mustn't make the mistake of thinking that Monet is what painting means.

"Well, I'm glad I did that," Alberto said as we headed out on to Piccadilly. "I suppose."

"Something to tell the grandchildren about, anyway," I said.

"Are you planning to have grandchildren?"

"Not really," I said. "Can we go to Trade and have a bit of a dance now?"

"Do you know," he said. "I was really starting to think you'd never ask."