It’s such a shame that the incels have rather ruined The Matrix’s red pill/blue pill as a metaphor. Tate Britain’s new exhibition, a retrospective of Hurvin Anderson’s work, offers the viewer a deceptively simple yet seismic choice on arrival in the upper galleries.
Go through the main door, and you can bask, untroubled, in his expansive canvases, with glowing colours and architectural lines that have all the genius of early David Hockney (before he got bogged down in fingerpainting on an iPad). Instead of sunny California, there are scenes of municipal England with its busy swimming pools and wintry skies, which eventually give way to the tropical lushness of Jamaica.
