The Photographers’ Gallery in London is concurrently showing three collections of photographs by David Lynch, William Burroughs and Andy Warhol. I’m such a huge fan of David Lynch that I’m even prepared to forgive him his ridiculous adverts for Calvin Klein and for letting Twin Peaks degenerate into an aimless soap opera clusterfuck for most of its second season. Burroughs is probably not the kind of writer anybody in their right mind would be a fan of, but I like his work and he was undeniably a powerful stylist and one of the most influential and subversive authors of 1950s and 1960s. I’m totally indifferent to the majority of Andy Warhol’s screen prints, and to most other Pop Art for that matter. His work being worth millions of dollars is totally absurd.

Bearing all this in mind, it’s surprising that my opinion of these three mini exhibitions in completely inverse…