As you already guessed, during the time this weekend about which I didn't speak yet, I visited The Rest of London. Or at least, I pretty much covered the first zone of the public transport system: Paddington to Aldgate; King's Cross to Southwark. On foot. Buying a 10-ride carnet on friday thus proved to be in vain. But I'll be back!
So what else happened? I spoke quite some Dutch, which was almost awkward in the beginning (so much for my first commitment...). I learned to understand a bit more of both the topography of the City (I now also have a map on my wall) and of its many museums and their collections. On Saturday we visited the Modern Tate, which, confusingly, is the contemporary division of the former Tate Gallery, while Tate Britain houses the Modern (i.e. 19th and beginning 20th c.) division. Both have displays of their own collection for free, and slightly more interesting temporary exhibitions for a lot of money. The Modern for example will shortly open an exhibit on Henri Rousseau, which I will try to visit, while the Britain hosts one about the 19th c. French and British art around Degas, Sickert and Toulouse, which I simply
must see. So, again, I'll be back.
The British museum (stolen objects from far away and long ago; also for free (
they didn't pay either, did they?)) will have to wait as well. As, most importantly, has the British Library, which not only owns important MA MSs (medieval manuscripts) like the Lindisfarne Gospels - very exciting! - but also the Alice Underground manuscript. And of course there are many other projects, like seeing anything of the old docks and wharfs that's left, and like perhaps even visiting the Tower (do you think it's worth the tourist indigestion?)
So what
did I do this weekend? We saw good twentieth century art - the copies of Duchamp objects did not add much to the photos of them, but I was surprised by a cosiderable collection of beautiful Margrittes, a Kandinsky, a Léger, and such more, and a rather large&delicious Le Baiser by Rodin. I especially liked the gallery of Sovjet propaganda posters. In real life/orginal they are even more convincing.
In managing museums, like in laying hedgerows, England shows its true genius. In contrast to the Netherlands, but rather like France, England knows how to educate. That museums are for free is not just nice for me, who would come anyway. It is reflected in the diversity of the public that visits the museum. As my Royal Albert Memorial-supervisor told me: unpaid and uneducated housewifes hop into the museum for a half-hour while they are waiting for they bus. And people take their children.
Next to being free, curators also show more didactic skill than for example (and especially) their Belgian counterparts. Every work of art is documented, and all artists and artistic currents are introduced. Quite nice.
Less nice is British chauvinism. Tell me, which sounds more romantic: Le Baiser or The Kiss? Okay, bad example. But would you like to see Der Rächer translated, or Le Champ de Blé, or Déjeuner à Vasouy, or Il Risveglio, or poetic indulgences like Ohne Titel IV? Neither would I.
Back to events. We admired contemporary let's-stack-boxes-onto-each-other sculpture in the Turbine Hall (you know I'm always serious, but here's some proof: http://www.tate.org.uk/modern/exhibitions/whiteread/default.shtm) and we admired the museum in general; as said, the Turbine Hall; and the rest of the building, which architecture is clearly related to that of the beloved Vossius Gymnasium te Amsterdam (only somewhat different in scale).
We ate a lovely sandwich with fried bacon&lettuce&tomato (only afterwards I realise that this must have been the famous BLT). M had to leave us to attend to his Importance of Being Earnest rehearsal (but he isn't earnest, he's the doctor), which is being performed from today onwards. So I sat down near the modern reconstruction of Shakespeare's Globe theatre (which we'll surely be visiting in summer, when they have open-air performances again) and read M's Footprint Guide to London. And
flanais a bit along wharfs, the ruins of the Bishop of Winchester's Palace, a copy of Drake's ship the Golden Hinde (did you know Sir F. Drake's
stamkroeg is in Exeter?) and some uncanny seventies' architecture. I walked the London Bridge, took more pictures, and ended up at St Paul's (correct?) to attend evensong and my first London sunset, which came pretty close to perfect.
You can visit places with the help of a map or tourist guide. More satisfying, however, is to accidently stumble upon important spots which perhaps you didn't even know existed. It is always good to know that it is still possible to discover something on your own (both for your own ego and your appreciation of the interest of the place you visit). This weekend I made three literary discoveries:
In climbing London Bridge I took the stairwell on which Nancy, the true hero of Dickens' Oliver Twist, dies. A moving moment (and again, I'm serious: the story may be fictitious, the position Nancy was in was a very real one for many, both then and now).
Still in the belief that he had made it up, I walked into the Old Curiosity Shop, by the same author. Clever book. Bit tough (didn't finish it yet).
This touched me most of all: I was so fortunate as to see an original print of both a photograph by and one of Lewis Carroll, in an oiginal album belonging to the author. Of course I had seen the image many times before, but never so distinctly. It was beautiful, and I could hardly bring myself to avert my eyes and move on to the next room. Whatever effort people may make to convince me that when I love the work, that's no reason to love the author: this is still what happens in a few cases. The view of Proust's bedroom in the museum for the history of Paris (le Carnavalet: go and see it) was equally impressive, even though of course I don't knew the man perosnally. Apparently it's a side-effect of when I am truly in love with an author's work (remarkably, I have never observed behaviour so strong when it concerned visual artists or music composers; must have indeed something to do with indentification, then). By the way, this was in the National Portrait Gallery.Now it's time to stop. More about London will doubtlessly follow later, but at least now you have an impression of my impressions (mimesis of mimesis of mimesis... what becomes of the real thing? But let's not get Platonic...)
