Fanny, fanny, cock. Sort of cock-fanny.” Wilfrid Wood is standing in the hallway of his home in Hackney, east London, in front of a painting by the artist Rod Harman, his former tutor. Wood, an artist himself, is appraising the work, jabbing a finger at what initially appeared to be simply a collection of abstract shapes, but which on closer inspection, well, he’s right: it’s altogether more anatomical. The flat, which spans the top two floors of a Victorian terraced house, is full to the brim with art – every inch of wall, some of the floor space, too, is taken up with paintings, pen drawings and small sculptures. There’s not actually space for much else. “I hate gadgets,” Wood says. “I don’t have a TV or an air fryer. I wouldn’t have the toaster if somebody hadn’t given it to me. I’m only really interested in art things.”
