Art – paralyzedbynotcaring

The British Library, the V&A Museum, and a Goodbye

Yesterday I visited the British Library, which houses not only stories and stories of books, but also an exhibition of rare prints. Some of my favorites were sketchings by Da Vinci, first editions of Shakespeare’s epic poems, another copy of that darned Magna Carta, and really old maps, one of which I recognized as being of Amsterdam before I saw the label (first intellectual benefit of this trip confirmed!). There were plenty of other books as well–religious texts, scientific notebooks, musical notations, you name it. One thing about London that I really like is that exhibits like this are free to the public (donation box by the door).

This sculpture of William Shakespeare greets you upon entering the library. This pose is so contrived–I wonder if he didn’t flop down on his belly, quill all agog, and make furious notes on the floor by the fire.

One rarity I was able to take a picture of was outside the main exhibition room. this is a really old book in an oyster shell.

That’s a binding you don’t see every day.

In the center of the library this column of books spans the height of the building.

I’m not sure how these books are accessed unless it’s automated. Surrounding this center piece you can find individual work stations. The actual reading rooms are in wings on each corner of the library, but you need a reading pass to get in to those rooms. I didn’t investigate getting a reading pass because I didn’t want to talk to anyone and I was afraid there would be a test. Anyway, the library was certainly an interesting place to visit regardless.

There was a PUNK exhibit outside the main exhibit hall dedicated to mostly Sex Pistols paraphernalia. The explanatory sign sports some of my favorite graffiti to date.

Someone was a Slits fan (The Slits were an all-girl punk band, contemporaries of the Sex Pistols).

Today was my last full day in London/England/Europe.

I went to the Victoria and Albert Museum as part of my goodbye London tour. This museum has a little of everything and an especially good sculpture collection.

This guy seemed to be having a great time.

I found St. George, hard at work against the dragon as per usually.

And this sparkling example of mythological insanity.

If you’re like me, you blocked the story of how Apollo SKINNED Marsyas alive as a punishment for losing a musical contest.

Here is a portrait of Henry VIII, who couldn’t/wouldn’t keep a wife.

I need some strong weaponry to protect me from such a ladies man.

Don’t worry, the V&A has you covered.

I also found an alcove of old books that did NOT have a “no photos” sign–amazing.

I even found a weirdo Jesus.

In case you weren’t sure what was going down, that skull and crossbones should clear it up.

After the museum, I got off the metro at the London Bridge station and walked along the Thames. Today was a beautiful, sunny, warm day.

London has seemed the most like home with KB and all the mostly English speak. I feel strange leaving. Tomorrow by this time I will be on American soil once again. No more squinting at foreign coins, no more Googling tipping customs or bus ticket kiosk locations. No more jamming as much culture into my day as possible before curling up on a new bed and waiting to see if sleep will come. No more DEMON.

“Back to reality” people have said, but dealing with navigating new cities, new countries, new challenges has been more real than any normal day in Belmont. I don’t know how this will change my reality, if at all. I will have to wait and see.

Tomorrow I fly to North Carolina.

I am reading 11/22/63 by Stephen King.

Stratford-upon-Avon

I visited the place of William Shakespeare’s birth and his burial site. Stratford-upon-Avon is about two hours from London by train, so I was riding the rails again. The only hiccup was that the bus that was to take me to the metro that was to take me to the train was late. I’ve taken this line several times and never waited more than the posted 8-12 minutes. I waited 20 minutes before I decided that if I ran to the metro station I would make it in time to catch the metro to catch my train. That may be so, but if I ran that far I might not make it in general (as in my body would die from torture/shock). Nonetheless I ran 30 steps and walked 30 steps all the way to the next bus stop, where I met the bus with that volatile mixture of relief and resentment. Relief and Resentment in Europe, that’s another good title.

So after I was drenched with sweat and had long since melted all my makeup off, I was on the train. Upon arriving at Stratford-upon-Avon, I wished I had done more than download the town map on my offline google maps cities list because I seemed to be on the edge of an endless brick housing development. Less than half a mile in, though, I was relieved to see the first of many Shakespeare tributes.

Each of the four sides has a quote carved into the stone. Here are two:

“Ten thousand honours and blessings on the bard who has gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illusions.” Washington Irving

“Honest water which ne’er left man in the mire.” Timon of Athens

The other two were a bit cumbersome.

The town itself is adorable. Look, even the mail boxes seem cheerful.

I had fish and chips (for the first time!) in the Garrick Inn, which claims to be the oldest pub or at least the oldest local pub.

I am not sure why the American flag made an appearance, but I am fine with it!

I made my way to the Avon, which is just a bastardization of “river” or “stream” or “water” or something in another language, so there are actually several Avons in England that are separate and unrelated. Don’t get confused. There are also several Stratfords.

This is the Avon. After an excellent boat tour of not drowning I visited Holy Trinity, which is where William Shakespeare was baptized and (much later) buried. The church wasn’t agog to host his mortal remains; he paid to have them housed here.

Past the lady in the yellow is an alcove with several tombs, including Shakespeare’s and his wife, Anne’s.

Here is a close up of that wooden carving on the bottom left.

Just your common, everyday CURSE on a tomb. That’s our guy.

Down the street is the Royal Shakespeare Company Theater. They were playing Lear and Cymbeline.

Throughout the town there are many references to our bard, including short quotes on the sidewalk. I found this one to be particularly relevant.

I think this is from All’s Well that Ends Well.

Here is a bench.

Because you can’t have just a regular bench! Side note, there WERE a lot of benches here which I really, really appreciate in a town. Probably because my fellow tourists were mostly old people (my people).

This house is where WS spent his formative years. I have seen only fancy buildings–palaces and castles–from this era, so I didn’t know what to expect.

Maybe it’s just because I spent MY formative years in a trailer, but this place looks friggin nice. Look, it has TWO stories. I mean really! I guess I had imagined more of a thatched roofed shack!

Near his childhood home is the Jester.

Four quotes–

“O noble fool! A worthy fool!” As You Like It

“The fool doth think he is wise. But the wise man knows himself to be a fool.” As You Like It

“Alas! Poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio: A fellow of infinite jest.” Hamlet

“Foolery, Sir, does walk about the orb like the sun: it shines everywhere.” Twelfth Night

As I waited at the cutest train station in the world (observe)

I found myself feeling almost nostalgic, though what for was unclear until I realized I missed the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, and that the black and white buildings, the brickwork, and the names in Stratford-upon-Avon are imitated in Ashland. I was missing the copy when I was in the original.

I am reading All the Light We Cannot See and The Night Manager (things are finally starting to maybe happen in The Night Manager)

More famous things

I spent some time at the Churchill War Rooms, which are near Westminster. They are all underground, and a Churchill museum is in the center. As you wind your way through the narrow, airless hallways, you see not only what it was like to have to exist in a constant state of anxiety, but also what it must have been like working with Churchill himself, who put up signs like this:

There will BE no WHISTLING. I SAY.

And keep the typing noise down!

That’s right, a noiseless typewriter.

All the clocks are at two to five (16:58), which is two minutes before the daily meeting.

The offices and work rooms and bedrooms looked a bit like jail cells with doilies.

It was hard to stay in one area without getting claustrophobic. Once in the museum part, though, it opened up a lot and I discovered that Churchill was an honorary American.

and the recipient of many, many medals and awards

including this old thing, just the Nobel Prize for literature. NBD.

Churchill was a prolific writer, beginning with war reports to newspapers and ending with nonfiction novels describing everything from WWII to the joy of painting. He was always busy with something.

Here’s his pistola.

Here’s part of his underground map room.

That’s about all I could digest from this guy.

I can’t decide if his expression is bemused or really, really angry.

Time for tea!

Today, after taking care of this tea train, I went to the British Museum. This place is massive and holds far too much art. That’s right. Too much. I think they should consider toning it down. It’s not a competition.

Here are some highlights.

Venus, my ruling goddess and general badass.

The most famous chess set in the WORLD (Lewis Chessmen)

A docent was giving a talk about them but I couldn’t hear anything she said because other people were talking and laughing and carrying on. Story of my academic life. Anyway, Harry Potter fans should recognize them.

I recognized this cat from an exhibit I saw many years ago at the Legion of Honor in SF. I don’t think it’s the same cat, but maybe related?

I have rarely seen a feline this pissed off, and I have seen some angry friggin cats in my life.

Here are some delightful weapons should you ever come across a cat with such ferocity.

and some VIKING weaponry

And some pretty violent looking what I can only assume are hair pins.

Here is a famous thing you might have heard of

Yep, it’s the Rosetta Stone. What, you can’t read the hieroglyphics?

Here ya go then

It’s been awhile since I have been able to find the Weirdest Jesus in a museum, but the British Museum does not disappoint. Look here.

This is a 4th-century mosaic of Mr. Christ, one of the first known images of Him. But to me he looks pretty modern, like someone I’d meet at an SF party who says Haiiiiiiii Girrrrrrrllll.

Guarding this masterpiece is the sphinx gate from the Neverending Story

Atreyu would’t quit now.

Three more pictures of the inexplicable.

A demon on a horse hanging from the ceiling looking like you owe him five quid.

A fight that cost an arm and a leg

and a head

And finally finding the best thing at a museum–a free bench!

I am reading All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr and The Night Manager by le Carré.

Whiskey and writing

Today I walked over the river Liffey to visit the Old Jameson Distillery.

That’s me there blocking the view of the river. The main whiskey production happens in Cork now, but the Jameson site in Dublin still sells the good stuff. I picked up some samples.

While walking around the northern part of Dublin, I found a mail box. It’s the closest thing to a leprechaun that I’ve seen so far.

The Dublin Writer’s Museum was only a walk away, and if you can believe it, not terribly crowded!

No pictures were allowed inside, but I was able to view many first editions, personal letters (written in old-timey cursive that I honestly cannot decipher), and a few artifacts like playbills and typewriters. The bust of Shaw was my favorite because he was such a hairy bastard.

The expected writers were extolled: Swift, Shaw, Beckett, Stoker, Joyce, Wilde, and Heaney, but I also took down notes on some books for my To Read list. These included Knocknagow by Charles Kickham, Melmoth the Wanderer by Charles Robert Maturin, Some Experience of an Irish RM by Somerville, and At Swim Two Birds by Flann O’Brien.

While walking about I came across two more literary points (pints?) of interest.

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This is a small inlay on the sidewalk on Grafton Street.

This is a life sized sculpture of the larger-than-life Oscar Wilde.

It looks like his head turned towards me in that second picture. Could he be any cooler.

Yesterday I went to the Guinness factory and then on the literary pub crawl so basically today was a repeat of booze then books because this is Ireland and that’s how it goes.

Tomorrow night I fly back to London.

Trafalmagettinouttahere

Today on my way to get on a bus tour I accidentally found Keats’* old house:

Here is what the front door looks like.

London is riddled with these blue circular placards. You just have to keep your eyes open.

Once I was successfully on the bus, I viewed many of the stunning sights you’d expect here.

This is not one of them.

Why is that girl giving me the meat sweats stink eye? The world will never know. Along the bus path, we saw both Big Ben

and Little Ben (who lives at Victoria Station among the chaos of construction)

We passed by this stately lion protecting the London Eye in the background.

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The live commentary tour guide had loads of information about where famous writers drank (hint: at pubs) and how much it costs to see the state rooms at Buckingham Palace (I forgot). He also explained why the fence around the Queen’s garden has an excessive amount of razor wire: in the not to distance past, a man scaled the wall, broke into the palace, and found the Queen sleeping in her bed. She awakened and chatted with the man, eventually asking if he’d like a cigarette. She called for the footman, who brought security rather than cigarettes back to the Queen’s bedroom. It is said that Prince Charles later visited this intruder in jail to ask where the Queen’s bedroom is.

Stuff like that.

We passed St. Paul’s cathedral, where Mary Poppins sang “Feed the Birds.” Dare you not to have that in your head now.

We drove past loads of pubs, the first Irish pub in London, the smallest pub in London, the pub with the violent name–

I got off the bus at Trafalgar Square, home to more lion sculptures and all the tourists of all time.

That’s Nelson there at the top of the somewhat elongated pedestal. Not to be confused with Wellington, whose statue is at Waterloo. People here at TS ignored every posted rule and generally ran amok. I tried to take in all the fountains and statues and sculptures (though what is the difference between a statue and a sculpture? 5,000 pounds or so?), but the people were just too annoying. Back on the bus to Tower of London, which isn’t a tower so much as a medieval castle complex where indeed Henry VIII sent some wives he was unable to impregnate with male heirs. I had this vision of people having to climb up narrow spiral staircases to the top of a impossibly high and slender spire. But this is what the Tower of London looks like.

This is just a small frame of the whole complex, which, I can’t stress this enough, is gigantic. It’s on my list of things to explore before I go.

I am going to Ireland on Thursday for a long weekend. KB&Co have some things to do this weekend, but I will be back for more Britain.

*Poet. One of my favorites of his is “A Thing of Beauty”

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkn’d ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
‘Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

I am reading The Night Manager by John le Carré and Cress by Marissa Meyer.

The Scottish play

Today I stood in the standby line outside the Globe to try to get a ticket for Macbeth. I queued up at about 12:15 and got a ticket about 13:25. It was a yard/standing room only ticket.

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So I queued up again to wait to stand. Today was a day of standing.

That’s the queue inside the theater to get inside the theater.

Once inside, I was only two rows back from the stage and two blisters away from enjoying the play as God and Shakespeare intended.

It is an open air stage and even the wyrd sisters were not immune to being interrupted by the occasional aircraft.

Major notes include the wyrd sisters singing all their lines and Mac and Lady Mac having a child (not a speaking role). Duncan and Malcolm were as undynamic as usual, but the final scene

spoiler alert

was Malcolm turning to the throne, crown in hand, to see the tiny Macbeth child climb on to it.

Interesting.

After that was a wine bar and then more wine so that is all for now.

Carry on.

Guess whose bedroom I found myself in today

Hint: It is on Baker Street.

The Sherlock Holmes museum can be found at the expected address. The gift shop was swarmed with people so much so that it was impossible to find the end of the queue to buy anything. Browsing was out of the question, but I wasn’t much interested in knickknacks. The museum is just the house on Baker Street, which in my mind is larger than life but in reality is so tiny this sentence wouldn’t fit there. Also, the ventilation wasn’t stellar, so I was fanning myself the whole time.

Here is SH’s bedroom.

The living area looks like this–total chaos. Every surface was covered.

But the essentials were there.

There was also Watson’s bedroom (slightly more organized) and Mrs. Hudson’s room (immaculate). Also in the house were various stagings of scenes from the stories.

This is apparently Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton & Lady Blackwell. I don’t remember this story but it’s been said that I’ve forgotten more in one day than some people learn in a lifetime.

I never found the WC except for a tiny toilet and sink on the 3rd floor. Where did SH shower?

That’s the real mystery, folks.

Here is photographic evidence of how hot and tiny the stairway is.

Down the street past Pizza Hut and around the corner is the SH statue.

Now I can say I’ve stood in his shadow.

Not bad for a Wednesday.

Walking around and looking around: London

I walked a little farther today and made it to the Tate Modern Museum, which is massive and full of strange and fascinating exhibits. On of the first things to catch my eye was this radio tower.

Many of the units were functioning and broadcasting talk radio. I have watched six episodes of Dr. Who, so I can say that from a distance this sculpture has a Dr Who-ish feel to it.

I also saw this gem which reminds of the quilts HK creates. I think this would be an excellent quilt, don’t you?

Also in the weird lines hall was this mind bender.

If that doesn’t cross your eyes, I don’t know what will. There should be a fainting couch next to it.

This one appealed to the darkness in my soul.

It’s what I imagine my own matrix code looks a little like.

No trip to a European museum would be complete with out a few water lilies, right? This one is so big I couldn’t get it in a single frame.

And I came across a sweet reminder from the Guerrilla Girls about women in art.

In case you are blind like me:

The Advantages of Being a Woman Artist:

Working without the pressure of success
Not having to be in shows with men
Having an escape from the art world in your 4 free-lance jobs
Knowing your career might pick up after you’re eighty
Being reassured that whatever kind of art you make it will be labeled feminine
Not being stuck in a tenured teaching position
Seeing your ideas live on in the work of others
Having the opportunity to choose between career and motherhood
Not having to choke on those big cigars or paint in Italian suits
Having more time to work after your mate dumps you for someone younger
Being included in revised versions of art history
Not having to undergo the embarrassment of being called a genius
Getting your picture in the art magazines wearing a gorilla suit.

After that wingdinger I came across the Gerhard Richter room. I knew it was his work before I read the sign. He is an artist I check in on occasionally to see if he has any exhibitions nearby. The Tate Modern has SIX of his paintings. They did not have my very favorite one (a pink and brown and black affair), but these were wonderful to see in the flesh. Here they are in order of favorite to most favorite.

These are obviously examples of abstract art. Richter would paint, then paint over the paint, then squeegee over the paint and allow the earlier paint to show through the top paint. In some places the paint is very thick, and in some it is very fine and delicate. I don’t know why I like these so much; usually abstract art is difficult for me. These though speak to and I hope someday to see the pink and brown and black one (pretty sure that’s the official name).

After this lucky find I was ready for some street food. I had some fried chicken and chips with mayo and the tiniest amount of ketchup imaginable.

I walked by the Globe–Shakespeare’s Globe–and had to keep walking. It was too overwhelming.

I went to Starbucks to dust my nuts and talk myself through getting in there.

No tickets available for any immediate showings of Macbeth or Midsummer, but the box office artist advised me to wait in the standby queue prior to the play to buy the no-show tickets. This is now the plan.

The Uber driver who helped me not have to walk back to KB’s asked me about Trump. We both sighed.

I am reading Cleopatra; The Night Manager; and Scarlet, by Marissa Meyer.

The Prince of Denmark

Today in the scorching 17 degree C heat we decided to visit Kronborg Castle, aka Elsinore (Helsigno-with-line-through-it-r in Danske). To do so we had to take the Metro to the train to Helsignor. This proved to be a challenge in that both the metro and the train stop at Norreport, but there is no direct connection–we had to come to the surface and then descend different stairs to switch means of transport. This was irritating and confusing and ROTTEN.

Once we were on the train though I was able to turn the rage down enough to be excited about seeing the setting of Hamlet. In the “summertime,” July and August, there are events at Kronborg, including Hamlet Live, wherein you encounter short scenes from the play as you explore the castle and its grounds.

We knew we had the right place when the train station had this posted.

We stopped at Dad’s favorite restaurant in Denmark, the 7 Eleven, for snacks.

The train station itself was beautiful.

But the real stunner was outside the station.

Bingo!

We crossed two moats to get to the castle.

And the second one…

This is about the time I gave dad a Hamlet refresher (he couldn’t remember if he’d seen it on Wishbone or not), so he was prepared when we saw the scene in the chapel.

That’s Hamlet sneaking up on his uncle, who is kneeling at the altar.

The scenes were brief and spaced out, so we had some time to explore the castle. We arrived as one procession of the scenes was over half way through, so everything was all out of order. Dad said it didn’t matter to him, and it didn’t matter to me either.

The Hamlet-Laertes fencing match was impressive. I can say this sagely because of the five fencing lessons I took from a Groupon Deal (left-handed fencing gloves are hard to find, by the way).

And Polonius’ murder was dramatical enough to scare children (always a pleasant experience for me). I took a professional iphone video of this crime, but free versions of wordpress do not allow video uploads. See instagram for films.

Here is our prince hiding from Polonius, who keeps asking him annoying questions, like What are you reading? and Do you know who I am? Like a madman or something.

The courtyard looks like this, surrounded on all four sides by the castle.

We also ventured down into some sort of tunnel and saw King Hamlet’s Ghost, which was a fairly convincing hologram. I am not saying I’d go kill my uncle, but I’m saying if this ghost told me to, I’d consider it.

Probably my favorite scene was one we stumbled across accidentally as we were leaving. Hamlet, too, came across the grave digger, who spoke some nonsense and then ran away. Hamlet was on the receiving end of crazytalk for once. Look at his expression.

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That’s the grave digger running away on the right.

At times it was a bit campy, but it was necessary to inject more humor than a straight reading would allow. All the actors were great at this. The castle was impressive and the scenes were very well done.

Who could *not* get in the spirit in a place like this?

And it didn’t even start to do that crazy, float up and under your umbrella mist rain in your face until we were on our way back to the hotel, which I thought was decent of the weather to do.

We ate in a little place on Nyhavn, which in case you’ve forgotten looks like this.

Quaint as ever.

Dad is heading back to the USA tomorrow on a scandalously early 6am flight. I am heading to London to see KB at a decent hour (flight is at noon).

Travels with Dad has been different, but I think we’ve been successful. Dad said today that he thinks 2 weeks is his European limit. I am not sure what my limit is, but I’m not quite there yet.

Check back tomorrow.

Black balsaming my way through life

Today the bus tour must have been rerouted because we ended up disembarking precisely where we had begun, and that can’t possibly be due to all the black balsam we’ve imbibed, right? We saw the Nativity Cathedral, an Orthodox Russian church, which is even more impressive in person.

I really do think it might be bigger on the inside.

I didn’t get much farther than this because a large sign advised that all women should be appropriately dressed in skirts and head coverings, neither of which I was wearing or even packed. Dad said a lot of women were in street clothes past this point, but I am trying to put off being escorted out of a church for as long as possible. I waited outside.

We decided then to walk to the KGB house, and along the way we ate burgers and pink soup. The KGB house turned out to be closed on Tuesdays, so we went to the Riga National Museum instead. There is a lot of modern (20th c) art here, and probably my favorite thing was watching dad read the painting’s title, step back and look, and then step in to read the title again, this time with his glasses, then step back and shake his head in a sort of ehhh-is-this-a-first-draft? sort of way.

There were some winning pieces though, notably the Madonna with a Machine Gun:

Vodka:

and this somewhat confounding painting of Moses, Aaron, and Hur:

Admittedly, I don’t know who is who, but I can’t get past the sparkler headband in center stage. What is this supposed to represent? It is not near the traditional aureole that signposts divinity. Maybe this is an after party I was never invited to.

We made our way to the city center to again admire the House of the Blackheads–one of the most beautiful buildings I’ve ever seen.

That’s it on the right. It catches you by the lungs when you see it for the first time as you come around a corner.

I found a bakery and enjoyed some Latvian dessert, but dad said it was too fancy for him as my mint leaves uncurled in my tea.

Guess what I ordered.

Anyway we found a shop where dad was more comfortable.

See that bag? Yes, he BOUGHT things today. Here you have it, the eighth wonder.

After a cafe dinner that included herring that I am too polite to describe (dad loved it) & a black balsam cocktail better than Christmas, we walked back to the hotel by way of the Opera house.

Notice no one is about. The streets are very low key and the crowds haven’t been close to overwhelming (Prague had throngs of people pushing through narrow streets). Riga is the largest city in the Baltics, but it is still small enough to walk comfortably (cobblestones aside). The city buses share the road with trams and city vans, just smaller versions of the bus. There are fewer bicyclists here, much to my relief. And there are a normal amount of cars*. I have been impressed with everyone’s ability to speak English, the quality of the food, and the beauty and accessibility of everything. Riga has more than delivered.

Tomorrow, KGB house or bust.

Miles walked: 7.02

*The car tax in Denmark is 180%; noticeably fewer cars are there. Loads of parking, though.

Category: Art

The British Library, the V&A Museum, and a Goodbye

Stratford-upon-Avon

More famous things

Whiskey and writing

Trafalmagettinouttahere

The Scottish play

Guess whose bedroom I found myself in today

Walking around and looking around: London

The Prince of Denmark

Black balsaming my way through life

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