Tony Again
Bless his soul, he's back. We thought we'd never see him again, but he's back and I have two roomy seats to myself again. Last night was nightmarish--I vaguely remember climbing out of bed at some ungodly hour to ask Liz (who was Skyping very loudly just outside my door) to go to the freaking classroom. We all got up at quarter to six and I wanted to miss the whole trip to stay in that beautiful bed.
The coach was no better. Only the Chatsworth estate in magnificent sunshine could lift my spirits--bright hills dotted with sheep and bordered by bushy groves of trees. We rounded a bend and Tony (who was ragging on someone else's coach) said, "Oh, look. A big house." It was a side view, but still the Pemberly we adored. The profs claimed we were there to see the artwork, but from the girls' squealing, I knew they'd won some unofficial popularity contest.
The lush house had none of the cinematic bright lighting we were so accustomed to, but the natural windows made everything glow--unnecessary bulbs if the drapes are open. The grand staircase was gilt and a little shadowy as we stared up into the ceiling. The hall to the side had several white statues, self-portraits, and a purple geode the size of a laborador. Kaitlyn and I found the Veiled Mary from the film and marvelled at the craftsmanship. The rooms were filled with brocade drapes, giant windows, delicate tables and chairs, gorgeous china sets, tapestries, and of course the famous statue room. Some of the ones used in the film were on loan from the Louvre, but we saw the infamous Aphrodite and Achilles, as well as Mr. Darcy's bust (although you had to go to the gift shop and find it up near the chandeliers). Matthew MacFayden is far too good looking.
The funny thing is, I enjoyed the gardens much better than the house. The sunshine made the geometry of Japanese plants and rocks perfect in every way, complete with ponds and little foot bridges...we made our way out, me again in a dress and Wellies to keep away the rain (they've worked so far!) and we found a real laurel maze. There was an olive tree in the center, but there is only one path to the center. While Amanda waved a stick and made Harry Potter poses for the camera, Bethany and I followed aimlessly after the Seelys, who were just as clueless. The hedges are some eight feet tall and there were tons of pointless dead ends. We were some of the last to find that stupid tree, but we took some solid victory pictures.
Nobody's Read Bronte, but...
Sheffield was several hours away, so the profs' solution was to put on North and South. I did my best, I really did, but I definitely slept through the first episode and paid minimal attention to the second. Several girls were irate that we still had two episodes left--with such eye candy as Mr. Thornton, who could argue?--but we had the residue of the actual Industrial Revolution to see. The Brontes were raised just outside such a city during its peak time, in a parsonage looking over the only cemetery (very Dickinsonian) with a father who struggled with alchohol and opium most of his life. As we drove through the town, every single building from the heart to the grassiest field was black with...soot? Rubble? Smoke? We couldn't be sure, but they were black as chimney-sweeps. The old mills are still there, the smokestacks as large and forbidding as something out of Lord of the Rings. I tried to imagine what it had been like; the windows were opaque with smoke residue, several broken, and the narrow streets were deserted. There wouldn't have been grass at all until you got out to the moor.
It was here that the Bronte sisters bonded together and wrote their prolific novels. Hearing about their lives during the factory age, above a city engulfed in putrid exhaust without their mother, out in depressing countryside, I don't blame them their horrible characters or themes. It was a sunny day, the moor still looked mournfully back at us. After touring the house (the steward was incredibly high-strung), I walked a narrow footpath through the neighbors' sheep fields. The green seemed almost gray, like looking into a forest lake and seeing darker trees sunk there, and there was an overwhelming feeling that this place was incredibly old. I'd never read Bronte, so I instead imagined Dickon riding into the distance on a fat white pony, or a sullen Mary slinking off toward the kissing gate. I made friends with a shaggy draft horse on the way back. Even he looked sad to be there. It was hard to imagine the place in torrential rain.
Our First YHA
I'd never stayed in a hostel before. It was dark by the time we cut through York, barely able to see the Minster's outline against the blue sky. We locked our luggage in the game room and ate solid British food...well, hostel food. Burgers and mostly tasteless other things. This place could be all kinds of improved with BBQ sauce, tartar sauce, ketchup, salsa, and ranch. Just saying.
Excited to have roommates again, I quickly took the top bunk (not considering the incredible heat that would ensue, silly me). The carpet and cubbies were cardboard colored, but everything seemed clean enough. The girls across the way spread their sheets on the floor for fear of "catching an STD from the carpet". Apart from Sarryn, Andrea and Rachel seemed enthused about the proceedings. We had a good mirror, were right across from the loo, and had come home early enough to catch some solid z's. Sarryn and Andrea wanted to go check out York, but Rachel and I stayed in to write the day's proceedings. I remember thinking that my bed felt like sleeping in some kind of manger before I was dead asleep at 8:30. I woke up at 11 to open the window, and slept another 9 hours. It was awesome. If you need recovery and have the means, I highly recommend it, though maybe not in a hostel.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Day 38: Preparing for the North
After another Sunday of dealing with Tico, all us students sat to listen about the missionary efforts in the North, from 1837 to now. Most of us were exhausted from our callings that day, not to mention the notion of waking up at some unholy hour the next morning. We worked hard to get through Brother Kerr's calming voice, which I did best as I sat right next to his wife. She told me he'd grown up on the same street as John Lennon.
Naturally our security briefing was much more pleasant than our Paris trip, and the profs were mostly concerned about our going out and DOING stuff at each stop. Looks like we have a busy week ahead of us. I only hope that girls don't Skype right outside my door this time.
Naturally our security briefing was much more pleasant than our Paris trip, and the profs were mostly concerned about our going out and DOING stuff at each stop. Looks like we have a busy week ahead of us. I only hope that girls don't Skype right outside my door this time.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Day 37: Camden Market
Jude Law's Favorite Market
Unbeknownst to me was how much I'd enjoy this place. I wisely went alone, so as to avoid shopworkers asking if I needed "help"--the place is some sort of British love child from Spencers', Hot Topic, Guitar Center, FYE, and oddly ModCloth. The Lock is a market made entirely of handmade crafts, leatherwork, ceramics, and self-recorded albums--I didn't even scratch the surface today. Wandering between souvenir shops, glow t-shirts, hipster hats and crepe stands, I found a Beatles bag for £10. Waterproof? It made me feel better for not staying over in Liverpool.
My next brilliance was in going to Primark to find a jacket (this black sweater really doesn't cut it in this wind) and, ignoring the thin pointless chicks' hoodies downstairs, I took the escalator to the men's section (which was empty) and found several for £6. Cheaper and thicker than the chicks' jackets. One nap and a date to Tuk Tuk made this Saturday all kinds of successful.
Unbeknownst to me was how much I'd enjoy this place. I wisely went alone, so as to avoid shopworkers asking if I needed "help"--the place is some sort of British love child from Spencers', Hot Topic, Guitar Center, FYE, and oddly ModCloth. The Lock is a market made entirely of handmade crafts, leatherwork, ceramics, and self-recorded albums--I didn't even scratch the surface today. Wandering between souvenir shops, glow t-shirts, hipster hats and crepe stands, I found a Beatles bag for £10. Waterproof? It made me feel better for not staying over in Liverpool.
My next brilliance was in going to Primark to find a jacket (this black sweater really doesn't cut it in this wind) and, ignoring the thin pointless chicks' hoodies downstairs, I took the escalator to the men's section (which was empty) and found several for £6. Cheaper and thicker than the chicks' jackets. One nap and a date to Tuk Tuk made this Saturday all kinds of successful.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Day 36: FIELD TRIP--Bright Star
Turning to the Romantics
John Keats' house is tucked in a back corner of Hampstead. We took the Tube there. I lost my group and followed the map through the narrow brick backroads, occasionally diving onto the curb to avoid a cab and brushing the ivy spilling over fences. The houses were not so cramped as they are in Kensington, and seemed much older. Keats' house was the same way, though he shared it with the family next door.
Although he only rented half of the house for less than two years, this was where he wrote Ode to a Mockingbird and found a muse in the form of Fanny Brawne. Going in, the guide showed us the furnished parlors and portraits on the walls. Keats lived in tiny quarters, but then, he was a tiny man; the bust on the other side of the house puts him accurately at five foot one. Nikki was enthused--he could still be her boyfriend, at least. We saw an orginal draft of Bright Star in the most beautiful handwriting imaginable, a photo of Fanny when she was fifty and still smoking hot, as well as her engagement ring. It was gold and purple and gorgeous, apparently worn by Fanny her entire life, despite marrying six years after Keats' death. Whether her husband ever knew of the amour, we can only guess. It took some time before Keats was famous, after all.
Ben commented later that the house really seemed to have Keats' spirit in it. The bedroom is calm and neat, overlooking the garden. We imagined Fanny outside playing with her siblings while Keats watched. Tragic story. Half of London succumbed to tuberculosis in those days, and despite Keats sailing to Rome for warmer weather, he too died. We sat out in the sunshine and read Bright Star to one another, imagining his real-life romance and wondering if he would have been famous had he lived to be ripe and old.
Heather on the Heath
Annie, Carolyn and I headed out toward the monstrous natural park outside Hampstead, where Keats did a lot of his writing. Both girls had brought journals, scriptures, and cameras, prepared to meander as much as possible before getting to Kenwood. The weather was truly glorious and still warm. We discussed where we wanted to live, what dream jobs we'd have, other famous authors and books and whether we'd write ourselves. The Heath was full of dogs and masters who seemed much more comfortable about their dogs being half-bred than in Kensington--the mutts chased tennis balls and dove in the ponds. We sat on Parliament Hill and surveyed the country in glorious sunshine, considering the meaning of life, which one is always inclined to do in such a contemplative spot.
It took a bit of time, passing Women Only Swimming ponds, a man in a Speedo who looked rather confused, several locals who wanted directions to "Hampstead, you know, the little village on the other side?" We arrived at Kenwood Estate about an hour before we were expected. The sweeping lawns and picturesque trees must require a fleet of mowers to be dispatched every other day. Carolyn read a bit of Ode to a Nightingale and we soaked in our revelry--until our stomachs declared they'd had enough. The cafe boasted crusty bread and mulligatawny soup, as well as cakes and pies in decadent variety; we sat out on umbrellaed tables and shooed bold pigeons away every so often.
Kenwood was large enough, to be sure. Lucky we caught the Tates, who were coming out--none of us knew why we were there or what we had to see, but apparently it was a collection of incredibly famous paintings. I saw the Laughing Girl, Rembrandt's self-portrait, Vermeer's Guitar Player and a series of Regency picturesques, as well as Belle's library from Beauty and the Beast...we weren't allowed to take pictures, but Annie grabbed me and said "Stand here" so she could. The baroque facades and classical portraits I found intensely dull after wandering the heath--I hurried through the rooms and found the Seelys outside, who helped me catch a bus back to Hampstead and glom onto a group headed to Camden Market.
John Keats' house is tucked in a back corner of Hampstead. We took the Tube there. I lost my group and followed the map through the narrow brick backroads, occasionally diving onto the curb to avoid a cab and brushing the ivy spilling over fences. The houses were not so cramped as they are in Kensington, and seemed much older. Keats' house was the same way, though he shared it with the family next door.
Although he only rented half of the house for less than two years, this was where he wrote Ode to a Mockingbird and found a muse in the form of Fanny Brawne. Going in, the guide showed us the furnished parlors and portraits on the walls. Keats lived in tiny quarters, but then, he was a tiny man; the bust on the other side of the house puts him accurately at five foot one. Nikki was enthused--he could still be her boyfriend, at least. We saw an orginal draft of Bright Star in the most beautiful handwriting imaginable, a photo of Fanny when she was fifty and still smoking hot, as well as her engagement ring. It was gold and purple and gorgeous, apparently worn by Fanny her entire life, despite marrying six years after Keats' death. Whether her husband ever knew of the amour, we can only guess. It took some time before Keats was famous, after all.
Ben commented later that the house really seemed to have Keats' spirit in it. The bedroom is calm and neat, overlooking the garden. We imagined Fanny outside playing with her siblings while Keats watched. Tragic story. Half of London succumbed to tuberculosis in those days, and despite Keats sailing to Rome for warmer weather, he too died. We sat out in the sunshine and read Bright Star to one another, imagining his real-life romance and wondering if he would have been famous had he lived to be ripe and old.
Heather on the Heath
Annie, Carolyn and I headed out toward the monstrous natural park outside Hampstead, where Keats did a lot of his writing. Both girls had brought journals, scriptures, and cameras, prepared to meander as much as possible before getting to Kenwood. The weather was truly glorious and still warm. We discussed where we wanted to live, what dream jobs we'd have, other famous authors and books and whether we'd write ourselves. The Heath was full of dogs and masters who seemed much more comfortable about their dogs being half-bred than in Kensington--the mutts chased tennis balls and dove in the ponds. We sat on Parliament Hill and surveyed the country in glorious sunshine, considering the meaning of life, which one is always inclined to do in such a contemplative spot.
It took a bit of time, passing Women Only Swimming ponds, a man in a Speedo who looked rather confused, several locals who wanted directions to "Hampstead, you know, the little village on the other side?" We arrived at Kenwood Estate about an hour before we were expected. The sweeping lawns and picturesque trees must require a fleet of mowers to be dispatched every other day. Carolyn read a bit of Ode to a Nightingale and we soaked in our revelry--until our stomachs declared they'd had enough. The cafe boasted crusty bread and mulligatawny soup, as well as cakes and pies in decadent variety; we sat out on umbrellaed tables and shooed bold pigeons away every so often.
Kenwood was large enough, to be sure. Lucky we caught the Tates, who were coming out--none of us knew why we were there or what we had to see, but apparently it was a collection of incredibly famous paintings. I saw the Laughing Girl, Rembrandt's self-portrait, Vermeer's Guitar Player and a series of Regency picturesques, as well as Belle's library from Beauty and the Beast...we weren't allowed to take pictures, but Annie grabbed me and said "Stand here" so she could. The baroque facades and classical portraits I found intensely dull after wandering the heath--I hurried through the rooms and found the Seelys outside, who helped me catch a bus back to Hampstead and glom onto a group headed to Camden Market.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Day 35: FIELD TRIP--The Tor and Other Thin Places
Hiking In Wellies
A thin place is called so by the Celts because the veil separating us from God is thin...so thin you can see through it. Such was our destination today--Glastonbury, the place where Christianity came to England, where tradition tells us that young Jesus came with his uncle Joseph of Arimathea to trade tin and establish his kingdom, and where the tomb of King Arthur was discovered. Our cramped little coach had us all sleeping in snatches, waking at the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. We all galumphed out to the abbey ruins, Wellies thumping on the firm ground, necks sore from being so slumped over. After group pictures in the arches and seeing the old well ("THAT's how you get into Narnia," said Amanda), the sun called us uphill in an ambitious hike.
Glastonbury is a charming village (like every one we've been to), but a little more on the World of Warcraft/Dungeons and Dragons/Magic Cards. I looked into the window ledges as we passed, and there was stained glass in most home windows, candles, incense, unicorns, wizards, and dried out flowers. Apparently the people hold a Goddess Conference each year, something that leaves Women's Conference in the dust. I wonder what it's like to live there.
The Tor is a monstrous grassy hill that was once an island, and said to be the landing spot for young Jesus. At the top is a stone tower, but this has no stairs. Huffing and puffing, we made it to the top and could see all the way to Wales. The air was thin, and if there hadn't been girls trying to take pictures of human pyramids, all you can hear is the wind in your ears. The spots of white cloud cast ominous shadows in the countryside below, over old houses and sheepfields, over rolling hills where castles once stood, and glassy lakes that confused the borders. We stood out in the sun, and I found myself utterly disinterested in spending the precious moments up there taking pictures. Like Rachel says, "I was busy being a sponge. Soaking it all in, you know?"
Bishop Shuler told his Tor story as he made friends with someone's basset hound Rupert (how the dog got UP the hill, no one will ever know). He came up on his own one day to find a man in a mummy bag at the top. Since Bishop likes talking to eccentric people (a little like Mr. Bennett that way) he sat down and chatted up the camper. Their conversation turned to things like teleportation, space travel and mind powers, which they both seemed to enjoy. As Bishop got up to leave, he said, "Well, see you later. This is a really cool place." And the guy replied, a little undertone, "Not as cool as the moon."
Liz, Ben and I talked to Dr. Seely as we hiked down. He told us he really liked our group because we weren't very clique-y at all, we were a friendly group overall, and we apparently were the most punctual group in living memory. What was wrong with the other girls? we all wondered. We are legitimately afraid of being left somewhere hours from the Centre.
Stourhead and More Film Sites
The weather could not have been more beautiful. Dr. Bird was delighted--our next stop was a "picturesque" garden, a term she was trying to hit home for our seminar class. On the coach, I didn't know what the big deal was. We wandered down the garden lane to find a blue lake surrounded by red, yellow, and green--and there was the bridge Keira Knightly runs across in the rain, and there was the Apollo temple where Mr. Darcy proposes--! Poor Andrea declared she would cry because it was so beautiful. I sat on the bridge end and Ben took a picture. Going up to the temple was cool, except that it was swarming with girls who seemed intent on taking engagement, bridal, and senior pictures in the same place. What a nightmare.
Our next stop was a little more enjoyable--Bath boasts gardens, shops, pasties and pastries for a pound, and water that definitely tasted like sulfur. We spent as long as we cared to in the Roman Bathhouse, which was cool--without indoor plumbing/heating, it was amazing to see how they harnessed the heat and steam for everyone's comfort. Unfortunately, our tour was punctuated by constant images of naked Romans lounging in every corner. All I can say is the swimsuit was a brilliant idea.
Fast forward several centuries to the Regency period and we see a lot less skin--a visit to the Pump Room and the horrible water, then to the Assembly Rooms for a bit of dancing. I never much daydreamed in Austen terms, like many of my friends do, but I couldn't quite shake the scenes from Persuasion standing there. The Octagon Room was empty and sumptiously lit by one monstrous chandelier, and I could only imagine the crowds of people and the smell before deodorant was invented (bless his soul, whoever figured that out). Maybe the Regency dances should come back with a vengeance--clubs are super lame, since none of us know how to dance these days. (Watching the girls waltz together for pictures was proof enough). Our day ended far too early, and we, full of pasties, fell asleep far too quickly and got home far too late. I love field trip days.
A thin place is called so by the Celts because the veil separating us from God is thin...so thin you can see through it. Such was our destination today--Glastonbury, the place where Christianity came to England, where tradition tells us that young Jesus came with his uncle Joseph of Arimathea to trade tin and establish his kingdom, and where the tomb of King Arthur was discovered. Our cramped little coach had us all sleeping in snatches, waking at the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. We all galumphed out to the abbey ruins, Wellies thumping on the firm ground, necks sore from being so slumped over. After group pictures in the arches and seeing the old well ("THAT's how you get into Narnia," said Amanda), the sun called us uphill in an ambitious hike.
Glastonbury is a charming village (like every one we've been to), but a little more on the World of Warcraft/Dungeons and Dragons/Magic Cards. I looked into the window ledges as we passed, and there was stained glass in most home windows, candles, incense, unicorns, wizards, and dried out flowers. Apparently the people hold a Goddess Conference each year, something that leaves Women's Conference in the dust. I wonder what it's like to live there.
The Tor is a monstrous grassy hill that was once an island, and said to be the landing spot for young Jesus. At the top is a stone tower, but this has no stairs. Huffing and puffing, we made it to the top and could see all the way to Wales. The air was thin, and if there hadn't been girls trying to take pictures of human pyramids, all you can hear is the wind in your ears. The spots of white cloud cast ominous shadows in the countryside below, over old houses and sheepfields, over rolling hills where castles once stood, and glassy lakes that confused the borders. We stood out in the sun, and I found myself utterly disinterested in spending the precious moments up there taking pictures. Like Rachel says, "I was busy being a sponge. Soaking it all in, you know?"
Bishop Shuler told his Tor story as he made friends with someone's basset hound Rupert (how the dog got UP the hill, no one will ever know). He came up on his own one day to find a man in a mummy bag at the top. Since Bishop likes talking to eccentric people (a little like Mr. Bennett that way) he sat down and chatted up the camper. Their conversation turned to things like teleportation, space travel and mind powers, which they both seemed to enjoy. As Bishop got up to leave, he said, "Well, see you later. This is a really cool place." And the guy replied, a little undertone, "Not as cool as the moon."
Liz, Ben and I talked to Dr. Seely as we hiked down. He told us he really liked our group because we weren't very clique-y at all, we were a friendly group overall, and we apparently were the most punctual group in living memory. What was wrong with the other girls? we all wondered. We are legitimately afraid of being left somewhere hours from the Centre.
Stourhead and More Film Sites
The weather could not have been more beautiful. Dr. Bird was delighted--our next stop was a "picturesque" garden, a term she was trying to hit home for our seminar class. On the coach, I didn't know what the big deal was. We wandered down the garden lane to find a blue lake surrounded by red, yellow, and green--and there was the bridge Keira Knightly runs across in the rain, and there was the Apollo temple where Mr. Darcy proposes--! Poor Andrea declared she would cry because it was so beautiful. I sat on the bridge end and Ben took a picture. Going up to the temple was cool, except that it was swarming with girls who seemed intent on taking engagement, bridal, and senior pictures in the same place. What a nightmare.
Our next stop was a little more enjoyable--Bath boasts gardens, shops, pasties and pastries for a pound, and water that definitely tasted like sulfur. We spent as long as we cared to in the Roman Bathhouse, which was cool--without indoor plumbing/heating, it was amazing to see how they harnessed the heat and steam for everyone's comfort. Unfortunately, our tour was punctuated by constant images of naked Romans lounging in every corner. All I can say is the swimsuit was a brilliant idea.
Fast forward several centuries to the Regency period and we see a lot less skin--a visit to the Pump Room and the horrible water, then to the Assembly Rooms for a bit of dancing. I never much daydreamed in Austen terms, like many of my friends do, but I couldn't quite shake the scenes from Persuasion standing there. The Octagon Room was empty and sumptiously lit by one monstrous chandelier, and I could only imagine the crowds of people and the smell before deodorant was invented (bless his soul, whoever figured that out). Maybe the Regency dances should come back with a vengeance--clubs are super lame, since none of us know how to dance these days. (Watching the girls waltz together for pictures was proof enough). Our day ended far too early, and we, full of pasties, fell asleep far too quickly and got home far too late. I love field trip days.
Day 34: Modern Art Rocks in the States
Across the Millennium Bridge
Yeah, the famous one from Harry Potter--right across the Thames is a monstrous industrial edifice known as the Tate Modern. The cabin fever wasn't quite dissipated, so I went out in the middle of the afternoon to check out those WWI art pieces in their natural habitat--a museum.
It was a cool, cloudy day (like most here), and again I enjoyed pretending I was a local by wearing slacks and reading the Evening Standard on the tube. St. Paul's blended into the sky, and the river looked like magnesium. There weren't nearly as many entertainers as in the evenings outside the Globe (which is right next door), but one guy was definitely singing the Beatles. I noticed those same locks I saw on the Seine on the Millennium Bridge declaring tourists' love--much cooler here, since it's not the cliche city of love, but the city of enchantment and grunge and music and morbidity and literature...stronger stuff, I think.
Modernity
After the Pompidou and BYU museum of art, I again felt in my element being among all the sculpture, shredded clothes, and paint-splattered canvas. It's not that the abstract really speaks to me so much as it's impressive what they do. Suspending a pyramid on its point? Re-sculpting Venus with a sardonic face? Those things are just cool. I don't know much about modern art, but what I do know is that most of them were angry, tortured by an apparent absence of God, and trying to express the world as truthfully as they could.
My favorite piece was a series of photographs taken in the 80s. The photographer Bruce Davidson completed a hard-core exercise regimen to enable him to pick up heavy camera equipment and run--his goal was to document people riding the New York Subway. Brilliant? Not necessarily. One picture definitely depicts a man held up at gunpoint by a (fellow?) gang member, and I couldn't help but think of Paul Bettany's line, "John, you watched a mugging. That's weird." (A Beautiful Mind) The pictures were dark and crisscrossed with foggy graffiti on the windows, sometimes obscuring the passengers altogether. No one was smiling. They looked out over the city, a gorgeous skyline, with no enthusiasm. Black, white, old, young, poor, rich, lovers and alone, they all converged on the public transportation and assumed the same expression. It was fascinating to watch.
Sister Seely asked what I thought. She said that the Modern Art Museum in New York is unlike anything we'd ever experience in Europe--while Gaugin and Dali are scattered and shared among all the museums, New York has claim to guys like Pollock and Warhol. Modern art was truly grasped by the Americans, even though modern literature is claimed by England. But post-modernism is ours as well. What will happen next? Maybe it's written in the artist-oracles--or maybe they're only clinging to what's past. Maybe the true art is not considered so by the establishment. What happens then?
Yeah, the famous one from Harry Potter--right across the Thames is a monstrous industrial edifice known as the Tate Modern. The cabin fever wasn't quite dissipated, so I went out in the middle of the afternoon to check out those WWI art pieces in their natural habitat--a museum.
It was a cool, cloudy day (like most here), and again I enjoyed pretending I was a local by wearing slacks and reading the Evening Standard on the tube. St. Paul's blended into the sky, and the river looked like magnesium. There weren't nearly as many entertainers as in the evenings outside the Globe (which is right next door), but one guy was definitely singing the Beatles. I noticed those same locks I saw on the Seine on the Millennium Bridge declaring tourists' love--much cooler here, since it's not the cliche city of love, but the city of enchantment and grunge and music and morbidity and literature...stronger stuff, I think.
Modernity
After the Pompidou and BYU museum of art, I again felt in my element being among all the sculpture, shredded clothes, and paint-splattered canvas. It's not that the abstract really speaks to me so much as it's impressive what they do. Suspending a pyramid on its point? Re-sculpting Venus with a sardonic face? Those things are just cool. I don't know much about modern art, but what I do know is that most of them were angry, tortured by an apparent absence of God, and trying to express the world as truthfully as they could.
My favorite piece was a series of photographs taken in the 80s. The photographer Bruce Davidson completed a hard-core exercise regimen to enable him to pick up heavy camera equipment and run--his goal was to document people riding the New York Subway. Brilliant? Not necessarily. One picture definitely depicts a man held up at gunpoint by a (fellow?) gang member, and I couldn't help but think of Paul Bettany's line, "John, you watched a mugging. That's weird." (A Beautiful Mind) The pictures were dark and crisscrossed with foggy graffiti on the windows, sometimes obscuring the passengers altogether. No one was smiling. They looked out over the city, a gorgeous skyline, with no enthusiasm. Black, white, old, young, poor, rich, lovers and alone, they all converged on the public transportation and assumed the same expression. It was fascinating to watch.
Sister Seely asked what I thought. She said that the Modern Art Museum in New York is unlike anything we'd ever experience in Europe--while Gaugin and Dali are scattered and shared among all the museums, New York has claim to guys like Pollock and Warhol. Modern art was truly grasped by the Americans, even though modern literature is claimed by England. But post-modernism is ours as well. What will happen next? Maybe it's written in the artist-oracles--or maybe they're only clinging to what's past. Maybe the true art is not considered so by the establishment. What happens then?
Day 33: A Walk in the Park
Cabin Fever
Stuck in the house all day with nothing but homework for company, I tried not to explode until after dinner. I grabbed a purse and marched off toward Hyde Park for some evening air.
There's a lot to be said for the solitude of an outing--something clearly stolen in the form of bikes, dogs, runners and lovers scattered across my path. The pond sparkled in the purple dusk, cloistered from church spires and impeding woods, home to white swans and awkward ducks. It seemed another dimension altogether--another London, upside down, people with confused expressions, suffering much darker weather. I was glad to be in the brighter side.
I followed two women holding hands back down the trail--they noticed I was there and quickly dropped their affection. Not wanting to be a nuisance, I stopped and watched a squirrel digging in the grass until they lost me. He didn't seem to care I was watching. He took a chestnut and thunked it on the ground, looking for a place to bury it. Who knew Dreamworks got this animal so accurately?
So much walking...I had thought to walk the length of the park, or until the next tube station; but I definitely passed Queensway, Bayswater, Lancaster Gate and had nearly made it to Marble Arch station before dark really set in, and I STILL hadn't walked one side of the park. Giving it up, I caught a bus back to Notting Hill. My professors would probably be scandalized at how often I venture out alone at night--but when I have to fight through crowds on Bayswater at ten 0'clock, I struggle to feel remorse. Besides--I like the company.
Stuck in the house all day with nothing but homework for company, I tried not to explode until after dinner. I grabbed a purse and marched off toward Hyde Park for some evening air.
There's a lot to be said for the solitude of an outing--something clearly stolen in the form of bikes, dogs, runners and lovers scattered across my path. The pond sparkled in the purple dusk, cloistered from church spires and impeding woods, home to white swans and awkward ducks. It seemed another dimension altogether--another London, upside down, people with confused expressions, suffering much darker weather. I was glad to be in the brighter side.
I followed two women holding hands back down the trail--they noticed I was there and quickly dropped their affection. Not wanting to be a nuisance, I stopped and watched a squirrel digging in the grass until they lost me. He didn't seem to care I was watching. He took a chestnut and thunked it on the ground, looking for a place to bury it. Who knew Dreamworks got this animal so accurately?
So much walking...I had thought to walk the length of the park, or until the next tube station; but I definitely passed Queensway, Bayswater, Lancaster Gate and had nearly made it to Marble Arch station before dark really set in, and I STILL hadn't walked one side of the park. Giving it up, I caught a bus back to Notting Hill. My professors would probably be scandalized at how often I venture out alone at night--but when I have to fight through crowds on Bayswater at ten 0'clock, I struggle to feel remorse. Besides--I like the company.
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