If I had been French I would have put it on the top of the hill. But I'm Italian, so I'm a bit more modest," jokes Giancarlo Neri, referring to "The Writer", his colossal table and chair installation that is nestling in a verdant corner at the bottom of Parliament Hill. In spite of his modesty, Neri's work has stolen attention from the hill's famous view of the London skyline. On a muggy, hayfeverish June evening, the usual mix of kite-fliers, joggers, dog-walkers and tourists have their backs turned to the city and are facing down hill, staring at Neri's giant furniture.
"It's not as big as I had hoped," says one teenager on a bicycle, "and there is no way anyone could fit their legs under that table, unless they were really skinny. It's out of proportion." The 30ft spectacle seems enormous and rather immodest close up, but the bicyclist is right: from our vantage point it looks eerily to scale, as if it has drawn the landscape into its Alice in Wonderland-ish game. The artist, an Italian fascinated both by public art and the symbolism of chairs, enjoys this illusory aspect, describing how he enjoys "imposing fantasy on reality".
Altering normal human scale is an effective way of creating something ironic and surreal, he acknowledges, but denies that bigger is necessarily better. In the case of "The Writer", Neri determined its exact dimensions according to the dimensions of its intended setting - and the acres of long grass and canopy of trees in their heavy summer glory afforded a generously proportioned work of art. "I do not want to be one of those people who is obsessed by size," Neri assures. "All over the world they do things like 'the world's biggest sausage'. I don't want my work to be like that."
"The Writer", an installation made of steel and wood, is Neri's personal and public homage to an art form he admires, quite different from his wordless craft: "It's my celebration of writers. A monument to the loneliness of the writer."
The idea for the project came to Neri when he was on a train between Rome and Milan, but at that point he hadn't come up with the ideal setting. A friend in London whisked him round Greenwich Park, Primrose Hill and Hampstead Heath. He was inspired by the latter.
It wasn't until negotiations with the Corporation of London were well under way that Neri became aware of the fact that many of London's literati live barely a dog lead away from the Heath. Indeed you can practically smell the writer's block in the park air at certain times of day. This was a stroke of luck - the literary theme of Neri's construction went a long way in persuading the notoriously conservative Heath Committee to allow such a thing.
While many of Hampstead and Highgate's writers leave their work stations to seek inspiration in the 791 acres of heathland, Neri's writer is simultaneously missing from his post. All that is left is the solid furniture, almost Ikea-like in its functionalism. Somehow, the weighty presence of the table and chair is balanced by the equally weighty absence of a "Thinker"-esque giant, who should be hunched over the table, thighs uncomfortably wedged underneath. Neri's intentions were simple: "I thought it would be good to suggest the presence of the writers by the lack of it."
This is all very well, but as there is no plaque or curatorial information by the installation not everyone will be musing on this poignant absence - many will take it for what it is. Neri admits this is a risk: "Some people will see it just as a large table and chair - but there is nothing I can do about that." But he prefers it that way. People should come to their own conclusions.
The installation has spent the past two years in Rome, in the Villa Ada, a more edgy, modern space than Hampstead that attracts sporty types and loafing teenagers. It was christened with graffiti on its first night and had to be repainted
regularly. Neri and his team kept a panel of the graffiti for posterity, which is being exhibited with more of Neri's work at Rollo Contemporary Art, a new gallery that has invested in and facilitated the installation of "The Writer". The graffiti fairies have already visited Parliament Hill and left their marks in the form of benignly obscene drawings and tagged love messages. These have been scratched into the paint with keys and sharp objects rather than sprayed on, so are visible only to a keen eye. Neri is philosophical about it and says he "doesn't consider it vandalism. If they are going to do something on it, I would rather it be graffiti. We did bring some spare paint."
Hampstead Heath is cherished by all those who frequent it; you only have think of the recent battle to saving the bathing ponds to realise how strongly heath-goers feel about protecting the area. Neri is well aware of this but, to his relief, response to the giant furniture has been overwhelmingly positive. (The fact that it is temporary may, of course, make the locals lighten up - it is off to a permanent home near Milan in October.) It isn't just locals though - people have read the hype and have come from far and wide to see "The Writer" and make their own minds up about it.
From Parliament Hill, the flux of curious visitors are Lilliputian as they gather and then scatter around the mammoth work of art. A local walker stops to gather his thoughts. "People have been gathering around public monuments since time begun, I suppose," he muses. "I've been down to check on it every day since it went up. Last week there was a screw loose, so I brought a screwdriver the next day to fix it."
"The Writer" has already attracted picnickers and vandals (and lovers in Rome), it has been used as football goalposts, a shelter from the rain and relief from last weekend's sun - it was even scaled by an adventurous youngster. Whatever the public bring to it, be it a screwdriver, a whimsical remark or a criticism about its proportions, Neri has certainly created a welcome temporary buzz in a usually quiet corner.
