It has been awhile hasn't it? And I will have to keep this fairly short as I am reacquainting myself with the Trills of the Modem so things are taking a bit longer than usual (ie I'm on dial-up not broadband).
Arrived in Newcastle 10 days or so ago, and am staying with my Grandma and Uncle, this is my first visit here so it has been very exciting seeing all the places I've heard about. Although the way my Dad describes it meant that it was a pleasant surprise not to have to shovel my way through six feet of snow every morning while being blown off the ground by a gale... that said, the vista currently before me is proof of Turner's accuracy in his work with mist.
Started getting acquainted with the region by a stroll up the sea front, and being intensely amused by the concept of anyone surfing in the North Sea - sure they wear wetsuits, but you would need to hollow out a dead seal to surf any later in the year in these parts. Do enjoy being able to go for a stroll and incorporate the ruins of a priory and castle (conveniently named Tynemouth Priory and Castle) located up the road. The priory was formally inhabited by an order of coalmining monks - and wouldn't you be thrilled as a young monk to find out you were going to the coalmining priory, nevermind the secluded life concocting liquers and illuminating manuscripts, no, you'll be down the mines.
Have been into Newcastle city a few times, checked out the quayside down there, which reminds me of home, as it is complete with lumpy opera house and a coathanger. Other than, you know, being on a river, and having a slightly different climate, you'd barely notice the difference. Enjoyed visiting the Baltic Centre, which is an old flour mill converted into a contemporary art 'space' - weird how central to any plans to rejuvenate an area is building a contemporary art gallery, despite how few people actually go. I was happy as they had some Takashi Murakami stuff up. Then we went to the New Castle - v. modern, built in the 11 century. Also went to Newcastle University and the gallery there, which has Schwitter's Merzbarn - Scwhitters created a series of sculptural collage constructions in the places he lived in, but none of them were destined for total success - the German one was bombed in WWII, the Norwegian one burnt down and the English one he completed one wall (of the projected four) and then had a heart attack... This latter one was going to be a total environment within an old drystone barn, and after he died the whole side of the barn was reinstalled in the art gallery.
Following day was a family road trip - we went up to Alnwick Castle and had a look around. As long as one had appropriate staffing levels, inheriting a castle wouldn't be too bad. Especially one which comes with Canalettos, a Velasquez and a few del Piombos. And where they shot part of Harry Potter. The castle has been in the family for 700 years, and when they owned the rest of Northumbria, they used to have three castles. I wonder when you start thinking 'is it too much? Oh go on, just one more castle then'. Probably around the time you defeat the Scots who are marauding about.
Will write some more soon, am off to Dublin tomorrow, then Paris on Monday. Tres bien!
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Monday, October 02, 2006
Leaving on a jet train...
At least I hope it's a jet train, that would be cool.
So how did I spend my last day in London, I hear you breathlessly choke out? I've hardly given you any detail so far about my time in London, you must be hard pressed to know how I have spent every single other day since I got here...
Firstly, I would like you to note that I just edited the previous post, which had too many typos even for me to bear - but I blame this keyboard - if you were trying to type using xylophone hammers on the keyboard it would approach the irritation of this fool instrument.
Which reminds me of something, the other day, when I was walking along the Thames, under the many bridges, I had the thought, 'Wow, the accordion is possibly the most irritating instrument ever to perform in a tunnel.' Only to walk into the next tunnel and retract that immediately upon the thought 'No, the xylophone being played to a mariachi casio-keyboard backing track, now THAT is the most annoying instrument to be played in a tunnel.'
Oh, and I while I'm shedding some mental detritus, I meant to share, I saw someone famous! And this time I knew who it was! The woman from Black Books was at the Kandinsky exhibition at the same time I was! Not as exciting as seeing Kandinsky, but still exciting. And I managed not to go up to her and blather on about how much I love her work and try and demonstrate it by naming particular episodes or revealing how many times I've seen them. Well done, me!
Yesterday was rather wet. To the point that it rained even when the sun was out, and there were only a few clouds in the sky, still it steadily rained. I went to the National Gallery, to have a look at a few things again, and confirm that my view of Renoir isn't too harsh, and nope, it's not. It's an odd building - even in the main galleries I can't get any sense of where I am, (not that that means anything, I could lose a sense of location in a supermarket) but there are some weird layout choices, particularly if you go downstairs to the subterranean cafe, and then walk through a doorway on the far side of that that looks like it should lead to an education room or something, you find yourself in further galleries that have The Execution of Lady Jane Grey, a Courbet, Gericault, Ingres, Delacoix etc. Odd. I think the vast majority of visitors would completely miss them.
Anyway, after that I mooched about for a bit, loitering in shops, London when it is raining is kind of lacking in public spaces you don't have to pay to be in - this is where bookshops come in as the capital's loungerooms - and then tottered off to the Institute of Contemporary Art for a film about Derrida. I know, my last afternoon in London and I thought I would spend it watching a film on Derrida. What the hell was I thinking? Especially as I haven't even read that much Derrida. Anyway, it was entertaining if only for the fact that someone made a biopic about the author of the 'Death of the Author'. The film was a little obvious in a lot of its techniques - the opening sequence cut between footage that demonstrated Derrida's public persona (Here's Derrida lecturing! Here's Derrida on TV! Here's someone on TV gushing about Derrida! Here's American college students gauchely introducing themselves to Derrida and apparently referring to his philosophical works as 'novels'!) and footage of the domestic Derrida (Here's Derrida losing his keys! Here's his wife calling him Jacky! Here's Derrida walking down a street!). They made the film by following Derrida around for weeks and talking to him, and it was very entertaining because he refused to comply and just pretend that they weren't there, he kept saying how their being there changed how things would normally be, and whenever they asked a question, kept telling them that he wouldn't give them the full answer, and referring to the process of editing etc. And giving incredibly long preambles - they ask about deconstruction, he spends ten minutes deconstructing the context in which they are asking about deconstruction. And he was funny, and they were very serious about their process of documenting. So he won. Even if only because he kept one eyebrow raised for about a month.
After that intense level of edumication, I needed to do something that required distinctly less brain time, and got me out of the rain, so I went to the movies, I saw The Devil Wears Prada. Funny, and Meryl Streep imbues a character into what would otherwise be a caricature, and I only wanted to slap Anne Hathaway's character a little. From some angles she looks like Audrey Hepburn, that's cool.
So that was my day, and now I'm about to head off and catch a train to Newcastle!
So how did I spend my last day in London, I hear you breathlessly choke out? I've hardly given you any detail so far about my time in London, you must be hard pressed to know how I have spent every single other day since I got here...
Firstly, I would like you to note that I just edited the previous post, which had too many typos even for me to bear - but I blame this keyboard - if you were trying to type using xylophone hammers on the keyboard it would approach the irritation of this fool instrument.
Which reminds me of something, the other day, when I was walking along the Thames, under the many bridges, I had the thought, 'Wow, the accordion is possibly the most irritating instrument ever to perform in a tunnel.' Only to walk into the next tunnel and retract that immediately upon the thought 'No, the xylophone being played to a mariachi casio-keyboard backing track, now THAT is the most annoying instrument to be played in a tunnel.'
Oh, and I while I'm shedding some mental detritus, I meant to share, I saw someone famous! And this time I knew who it was! The woman from Black Books was at the Kandinsky exhibition at the same time I was! Not as exciting as seeing Kandinsky, but still exciting. And I managed not to go up to her and blather on about how much I love her work and try and demonstrate it by naming particular episodes or revealing how many times I've seen them. Well done, me!
Yesterday was rather wet. To the point that it rained even when the sun was out, and there were only a few clouds in the sky, still it steadily rained. I went to the National Gallery, to have a look at a few things again, and confirm that my view of Renoir isn't too harsh, and nope, it's not. It's an odd building - even in the main galleries I can't get any sense of where I am, (not that that means anything, I could lose a sense of location in a supermarket) but there are some weird layout choices, particularly if you go downstairs to the subterranean cafe, and then walk through a doorway on the far side of that that looks like it should lead to an education room or something, you find yourself in further galleries that have The Execution of Lady Jane Grey, a Courbet, Gericault, Ingres, Delacoix etc. Odd. I think the vast majority of visitors would completely miss them.
Anyway, after that I mooched about for a bit, loitering in shops, London when it is raining is kind of lacking in public spaces you don't have to pay to be in - this is where bookshops come in as the capital's loungerooms - and then tottered off to the Institute of Contemporary Art for a film about Derrida. I know, my last afternoon in London and I thought I would spend it watching a film on Derrida. What the hell was I thinking? Especially as I haven't even read that much Derrida. Anyway, it was entertaining if only for the fact that someone made a biopic about the author of the 'Death of the Author'. The film was a little obvious in a lot of its techniques - the opening sequence cut between footage that demonstrated Derrida's public persona (Here's Derrida lecturing! Here's Derrida on TV! Here's someone on TV gushing about Derrida! Here's American college students gauchely introducing themselves to Derrida and apparently referring to his philosophical works as 'novels'!) and footage of the domestic Derrida (Here's Derrida losing his keys! Here's his wife calling him Jacky! Here's Derrida walking down a street!). They made the film by following Derrida around for weeks and talking to him, and it was very entertaining because he refused to comply and just pretend that they weren't there, he kept saying how their being there changed how things would normally be, and whenever they asked a question, kept telling them that he wouldn't give them the full answer, and referring to the process of editing etc. And giving incredibly long preambles - they ask about deconstruction, he spends ten minutes deconstructing the context in which they are asking about deconstruction. And he was funny, and they were very serious about their process of documenting. So he won. Even if only because he kept one eyebrow raised for about a month.
After that intense level of edumication, I needed to do something that required distinctly less brain time, and got me out of the rain, so I went to the movies, I saw The Devil Wears Prada. Funny, and Meryl Streep imbues a character into what would otherwise be a caricature, and I only wanted to slap Anne Hathaway's character a little. From some angles she looks like Audrey Hepburn, that's cool.
So that was my day, and now I'm about to head off and catch a train to Newcastle!
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Of medieval dance, and my experiences thereof.
When I finished last, I was off to interview someone - everything getting there seemed to take forteen times as long as it should - realising I needed to print a consent form sending me scurrying through files, needing to get a blank cassette for the interview, trying to buy 'fast' food etc created a tedious montage of chore. The interview was a really good one though, someone I hadn't expected to meet, so a bonus to my time in London. She ran a gallery in London in the 1960s on the Kings Road: it would be harder to be cooler than that, without, I don't know, knowing John Lennon, but hang on, she did.
Friday I was tired. Not for any particular reason, just tired, and generally grumpy. There was some pouting, and some stern looks directed in various quarters. I went to the National Gallery, where they have opened what is effectively a 'greatest hits' selection of works from the nineteenth- and early twentieth-centuries collection. They have moved them into the Sainsbury Wing because of the upcoming Velasquez exhibition and renamed them the 'Manet to Picasso Exhibition' (ie the stuff we can't take off the walls without crushing expectations with abandon). So for me it was another chance to get up close and canvassy with things I've known for a long time. And confirm, once again, that I really do not like Renoir. I really don't. The guy paints the most insipid, wuss-bag, bleary gimps known to canvas. (Well okay, it seems unlikely that they were actually gimps, but I think you probably understand I'm venting right now). Take, for instance, The Umbrellas, now, I think that the painting on the main figure's dress, and the umbrellas, but especially the dress, is stunning, the modulation in the colours is beautiful, and if I could that bit out and keep it, I'd be very happy indeed. Sacrilegious, and in prison, but happy. But the faces are so SO irritating. Possibly I've just read a little too much about theories of the flaneur and apparently how to look at this work is to put ourselves in the position of the gentleman of the street, checking out the ladies and about to be found out as the gentlman accompanying the young lady is bound BOUND! to follow the girl's gaze and SPROING! find us out for checkin' out da laydees. The kind of tension and drama that only a pre-filmic generation could appreciate. Even watching, say, Shakespeare, for example, and, in, say, Antony and Cleopatra, if there was to be a say, gunshot sound, and you weren't quite expecting it but, for example, happened to be drinking a glass of red wine, an amount of it could then be slopped down one's front. Just as a hypothetical example of what could happen as a response to true narrative tension. I can't imagine anyone at the original Impressionist Salon reacting, beverages akimbo, Mon dieu! Le vin rougue est sur mon shirt! Le tension! J'ai regarde la laydee, et le monsieur! He is about to look AT ME!' So startling you would naturally forget how to speak french and start speaking fluent English! Anyway, most of Renoir's women seem to have the same head, and him going down on the record as a misogynist was never going to endear the man to me.
Anyway. Finally! Saw Van Gogh's Sunflowers, which I think have so much press that seeing them is I think in the same category as the Mona Lisa (althought I'll get back to on that... ): it is so mediated by previous imagery that it is hard to actually see it. But the background is a lot lighter than I expected, and that creates the radiance of the image, rather than the actual sunflowers, which are mangier than I expected them to be. I prefer Van Gogh's Chair though, as the colours in that aren't captured in reproductions, and are a lot more subtle.
The Degas were mixed, as ever with Degas I think - if I was to see a whole room of these I think the tetchy flag would be flying along the lines of Enough with naked bathing chicks already! Leave the house! But they are incredible drawings, and the colours in them are remarkable. Also this, which I've also loved, probably because I tend to see several different shades of red with a touch of black as enough of a palette for anyone, and I love how it teeters on abstraction but still reconciles the form. I had always thought of it as being quite a relaxing picture, but looking at it the other day noticed how much pain the combed girl seems to be experiencing.
Unfortunately the Cezannes are going to be in an exhibition 'Cezanne in Britain' opening two days after I leave London, so I won't see them this time around (but I'm going to have to make time to see the Velasquez as I traverse Engerland, so all is not lost). I'll spare you any further discussion of everything else I saw there.
I left the gallery, and wandered about, pouting, because I had done my looking for the day. Found myself to Borders, found an armchair, and read a book for some hours. I do love the modern corporate bookstore: they are enormous so they have great stuff and their staff don't care if you sit there for hours. And being a massive global chain you know that you will be buying many more books from them, so don't feel too bad for reading their merchandise. But no-one by me Bill Bryson's latest for Christmas okay? It's a lovely light read, but it only takes three hours, so I'm done. Is a good book, a memoir of his early years in 1950s Iowa and the times as they were, parts of which reprise a little too much of his earlier books, and there is a little bit too much of the nostalgia shiny-happy-fifties-glow, but there is also a tale of how his mother once sent him to school wearing his sister's capri pants, and Iowa may have been a simple place in the 1950s, but they recognised when a small child is wearing his sister's pants.
After that I wandered up Edgeware Rd and had dinner at one of the many Lebanese restaurants, which are delicious, the Kebabs in aus will never be the same again, and then I wandered home, playing Fruit Lotto along the way - which is when you buy a piece of fruit you are not familiar with in the hope that it will be your New Fruit Sensation, and eat it to find out if it is. The one I chose is not my new Fruit Sensation, and has left me with a question mark about whether everyone else on that street was thinking 'wow, I've never seen anyone eat one of those raw and/or unpeeled before' because it was a strange fruit.
This morning was a day of some excitement, as I have been seeing quite a few pamphlets advertising 'Open Rehearsal' - which is a weekend in which many of the major music and theatre groups open up their doors for the public to witness their rehearsal. Being a philistine when it comes to classical music - I'm not that eager to go and see a symphony play, let alone rehearse, unless you can guarantee me that the conducter will take a step back off the podium and sprawl inelegantly onto the stage - I, of course, headed for the Globe, where I thought *thought* that I would witness actors preparing a play. I probably should have considered the fact that they are two thirds of the way through the current season, so unlikely to be rehearsing, what with performing at least once a day. So perhaps should have expected to be participating in a workshop. But the description made it sound like a discussion on the theme of Love in Shakespeare, by describing as 'a discussion on the theme of Love in Shakespeare'. Rather than workshops on voice (good, if lacking any sense of direction) followed by one learning a medieval circle dance. Some of you have seen me attempt to perform Nutbush City Limits and watched me reliably go in the opposite direction Every.Single.Time so you can imagine the aptitude I displayed. But it was fun, and I can now crap on about when I danced at the Globe...
Then I went and saw 'In Extremis' - a contemporary play about Abelard and Heloise, which has completely erased the unfortunate telling of that tale using puppets in 'Being John Malkovich' and replaced it with a much better version - hooray! Although I suspect that when the first Globe was there, there was a lot less distraction caused by the flight path.
Friday I was tired. Not for any particular reason, just tired, and generally grumpy. There was some pouting, and some stern looks directed in various quarters. I went to the National Gallery, where they have opened what is effectively a 'greatest hits' selection of works from the nineteenth- and early twentieth-centuries collection. They have moved them into the Sainsbury Wing because of the upcoming Velasquez exhibition and renamed them the 'Manet to Picasso Exhibition' (ie the stuff we can't take off the walls without crushing expectations with abandon). So for me it was another chance to get up close and canvassy with things I've known for a long time. And confirm, once again, that I really do not like Renoir. I really don't. The guy paints the most insipid, wuss-bag, bleary gimps known to canvas. (Well okay, it seems unlikely that they were actually gimps, but I think you probably understand I'm venting right now). Take, for instance, The Umbrellas, now, I think that the painting on the main figure's dress, and the umbrellas, but especially the dress, is stunning, the modulation in the colours is beautiful, and if I could that bit out and keep it, I'd be very happy indeed. Sacrilegious, and in prison, but happy. But the faces are so SO irritating. Possibly I've just read a little too much about theories of the flaneur and apparently how to look at this work is to put ourselves in the position of the gentleman of the street, checking out the ladies and about to be found out as the gentlman accompanying the young lady is bound BOUND! to follow the girl's gaze and SPROING! find us out for checkin' out da laydees. The kind of tension and drama that only a pre-filmic generation could appreciate. Even watching, say, Shakespeare, for example, and, in, say, Antony and Cleopatra, if there was to be a say, gunshot sound, and you weren't quite expecting it but, for example, happened to be drinking a glass of red wine, an amount of it could then be slopped down one's front. Just as a hypothetical example of what could happen as a response to true narrative tension. I can't imagine anyone at the original Impressionist Salon reacting, beverages akimbo, Mon dieu! Le vin rougue est sur mon shirt! Le tension! J'ai regarde la laydee, et le monsieur! He is about to look AT ME!' So startling you would naturally forget how to speak french and start speaking fluent English! Anyway, most of Renoir's women seem to have the same head, and him going down on the record as a misogynist was never going to endear the man to me.
Anyway. Finally! Saw Van Gogh's Sunflowers, which I think have so much press that seeing them is I think in the same category as the Mona Lisa (althought I'll get back to on that... ): it is so mediated by previous imagery that it is hard to actually see it. But the background is a lot lighter than I expected, and that creates the radiance of the image, rather than the actual sunflowers, which are mangier than I expected them to be. I prefer Van Gogh's Chair though, as the colours in that aren't captured in reproductions, and are a lot more subtle.
The Degas were mixed, as ever with Degas I think - if I was to see a whole room of these I think the tetchy flag would be flying along the lines of Enough with naked bathing chicks already! Leave the house! But they are incredible drawings, and the colours in them are remarkable. Also this, which I've also loved, probably because I tend to see several different shades of red with a touch of black as enough of a palette for anyone, and I love how it teeters on abstraction but still reconciles the form. I had always thought of it as being quite a relaxing picture, but looking at it the other day noticed how much pain the combed girl seems to be experiencing.
Unfortunately the Cezannes are going to be in an exhibition 'Cezanne in Britain' opening two days after I leave London, so I won't see them this time around (but I'm going to have to make time to see the Velasquez as I traverse Engerland, so all is not lost). I'll spare you any further discussion of everything else I saw there.
I left the gallery, and wandered about, pouting, because I had done my looking for the day. Found myself to Borders, found an armchair, and read a book for some hours. I do love the modern corporate bookstore: they are enormous so they have great stuff and their staff don't care if you sit there for hours. And being a massive global chain you know that you will be buying many more books from them, so don't feel too bad for reading their merchandise. But no-one by me Bill Bryson's latest for Christmas okay? It's a lovely light read, but it only takes three hours, so I'm done. Is a good book, a memoir of his early years in 1950s Iowa and the times as they were, parts of which reprise a little too much of his earlier books, and there is a little bit too much of the nostalgia shiny-happy-fifties-glow, but there is also a tale of how his mother once sent him to school wearing his sister's capri pants, and Iowa may have been a simple place in the 1950s, but they recognised when a small child is wearing his sister's pants.
After that I wandered up Edgeware Rd and had dinner at one of the many Lebanese restaurants, which are delicious, the Kebabs in aus will never be the same again, and then I wandered home, playing Fruit Lotto along the way - which is when you buy a piece of fruit you are not familiar with in the hope that it will be your New Fruit Sensation, and eat it to find out if it is. The one I chose is not my new Fruit Sensation, and has left me with a question mark about whether everyone else on that street was thinking 'wow, I've never seen anyone eat one of those raw and/or unpeeled before' because it was a strange fruit.
This morning was a day of some excitement, as I have been seeing quite a few pamphlets advertising 'Open Rehearsal' - which is a weekend in which many of the major music and theatre groups open up their doors for the public to witness their rehearsal. Being a philistine when it comes to classical music - I'm not that eager to go and see a symphony play, let alone rehearse, unless you can guarantee me that the conducter will take a step back off the podium and sprawl inelegantly onto the stage - I, of course, headed for the Globe, where I thought *thought* that I would witness actors preparing a play. I probably should have considered the fact that they are two thirds of the way through the current season, so unlikely to be rehearsing, what with performing at least once a day. So perhaps should have expected to be participating in a workshop. But the description made it sound like a discussion on the theme of Love in Shakespeare, by describing as 'a discussion on the theme of Love in Shakespeare'. Rather than workshops on voice (good, if lacking any sense of direction) followed by one learning a medieval circle dance. Some of you have seen me attempt to perform Nutbush City Limits and watched me reliably go in the opposite direction Every.Single.Time so you can imagine the aptitude I displayed. But it was fun, and I can now crap on about when I danced at the Globe...
Then I went and saw 'In Extremis' - a contemporary play about Abelard and Heloise, which has completely erased the unfortunate telling of that tale using puppets in 'Being John Malkovich' and replaced it with a much better version - hooray! Although I suspect that when the first Globe was there, there was a lot less distraction caused by the flight path.
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