There is an idea that limitations give art life, that greatness comes from constraint. “The essence of every picture is the frame,” said G K Chesterton, penning the most famous line on the matter.
So it is: writers need deadlines, stand-ups a short leash and the best plays are not those improvised. Is cheffing art? It takes creativity and attracts heavy drinkers, which seem to be the two main qualifications. But chefs don’t benefit from boundaries as sculptors do. Take Sally Abé. She trained in the military brigades of the Savoy, Claridge’s and the Ledbury, before leaving the Harwood Arms to consult on a five-star hotel. Piles of cash may have drawn her, but there was also a dangled promise of doing what she liked. Trouble is, hotel groups do not work like that. Budgets are tight and supply lines long established: you must work with what they’ve got, colour strictly between the lines. One day, at a pub wedding, Abé welled up in frustration, despairing of it all.
