This sculpture stands in the grounds of Charing Cross hospital. I walk past it most weeks and have always been impressed by its seemingly audacious meaninglessness.
My father died in Charing Cross hospital. So did my beloved great aunt. So when I walk through the grounds I’m usually thinking of them and the meaning of our life here on this earth.
That brings me to Shakespeare:
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Many of us do not share this bleak outlook. But perhaps the sculptor did. Perhaps the sculpture too, signifies absolutely nothing.