mmm, sun

Very happily got to see the Martin Sharp exhibition in Sydney on Wednesday, it closes this weekend, quite fortunate as a week shorter and I would have missed it. Still remains something of a mystery that Sharp's work doesn't have a greater presence in Australian galleries, but I think that is starting to change.

It was great to spend a couple of days in Sydney again, catching the ferry across the harbour on an absolutely perfect Sydney day reminded me of why I like the place so much, even despite that background thought of 'damn, I forgot the sunscreen AGAIN'. I found it oddly pleasant to be back in the sweaty embrace of a humid Sydney summer. Excellent to see friends and distribute fridge magnets and catch up over assorted beverages, and remind myself of why Pitt Street mall is the Devil's Arena in the week leading up to Christmas. It didn't seem quite as frantic as it usually is at this time of year, but maybe New York has just shifted my definitions of that? Having finished MY Christms shopping in VEGAS, DAYS ago - that's right, DAYS ago, in VEGAS - I was - I felt - quite generous in accompanying other people on their ventures into the fray, even though I always seem to end up buying me more presents... I've now finished buying all my christmas presents, and am buying my birthday presents. Including, finally, High Fidelity, and the Late Show best of, which is long overdue, as I've been quoting that since about 1994.

Stone fruits are another reason to be happy to be back, stood in the grocery store sniffing them like a beagle scenting cocaine. Also, leaves, it is nice to see them again, and quite startling after getting used to not having them around. Except in LA, on one of the most fabulous things I have ever seen: a mobile phone transmitter tower disguised as a giant pine tree. Taking the tack of plastic flowers to enormous new levels by creating an entire fake tree.

Collected my brother this morning and have returned to the Southern Highlands, have graciously acceded to taste test the fruits of Dad's labours on his rotisserie bbq.... can I just say 'aarruuurgh... mmm, good'

There's no place like home... ?

After a seriously unamusing 15 hours squished between two people, with the magical seatback entertainment failing to be magical by ceasing to work, I touched down in Sydney. After approximately 48 queues and a slight pause to rearrange my belongings because Qantas baggage handlers are lame, I transferred to the domestic flight to Canberra, inside the rowboat of the aviation world. It is a surprise that aircraft doesn't need a push start. I left Canberra with 22 kg of baggage, I returned with 62 kg.

Walking across the tarmac at Canberra I was greeted with the familiar eucalyptus-summer smell of Australia and as I went through the doors into the terminal, by a very excited toddler leaping upon my person. Fortunately one that I was equally excited to see. Said toddler has now sleeps with an NYC taxi, yellow school bus and a police car. Small toy versions that is. And gave me a similarly excited welcome when I came back from the shops. Very nice to be welcomed home in such a fashion. Canberra, aka The Ghetto, didn't welcome me back quite so nicely, after I spent a night the house of my friends I came out and found a smashed car window. I was fortunate that they were only searching for change and didn't notice that all of Christmas was inside the car, including the duty-free alcohol and perfume on the backseat. At this point I have developed such an aversion to packing - I tend to rock back and forth and ullulate for awhile whenever I have to deal with my suitcase - that I hadn't so much packed the car as moved into it, and there was such a profusion of possessions filling every available crevice that it disguised where the more valuable things were. That and the probability of them being in some state of withdrawal. Having only owned the car for 24 hours at this point I was grumpy and pouty. Fortunately I was still on LA time and so was out early enough that no-one else came along to see what they could obtain. Possibly the only time I will ever arrive at my office before 8am on a Sunday morning.

I'm now enjoying the munificence of the parenal fridge and laundry service before heading up to Sydney, because that's right, there's an exhibition I have to see that's closing this weekend. So the travel isn't quite over, if not on quite the same scale.

It's cold!

In pursuit of all things shiny

Some thirty-two million people use JFK airport each year, and most of them were there last Friday - the aircraft had to wait for planes to land, then for some to take off, and then for more to land, and then for more to take off... all while we had to sit still, understimulated, and underbeveraged. Finally we took off, the beverage trolley came around, the magical seatback entertainment units were switched on, and happiness ensued. I even had three seats to myself! Happiness! I was met in LA by family friends, who helped me collect the vast mountain of baggage I've accumulated, and took me back to their house and fed me quesadillas. mmmmm, quesadillllla.

Saturday I had an interview to do, which was really helpful, another Australian who lived in London in the '60s. Then to LACMA for the Magritte exhibition - carpet with clouds on it. Driving around LA is crazy, the freeways are endless, and nuts, and the smog is unbelievable - similar to Sydney but five times as large. And with palm trees. Beautiful weather after the east coast though.

Sunday morning we head off to Vegas! Yeah Vegas! I joined in the annual family Christmas shopping trip, so now have my Christmas shopping done, and another swathe to add to my baggage. Driving there was great, across the Nevada desert, with endless rocky hills covered in primordial spiky shrubs. Getting to Vegas is such a contrast to the surrounding landscape - as though they decided to funnel all the available resources for the state into just the one spot. What Paris is to historic elegance, Vegas is to Kitsch. Which I don't mean as an insult, it's excellent, one huge site for replicas of Paris, New York, Egypt, and Pirate ships. Also, lots of lights, shiny glass and water features. The volume of gambling, especially of slot machines, is insane. Excellent buffets. And the only time I've seen sushi and french toast share the one plate. One night we went to Cirque du Soleil's Ka which was great, I'd never seen any of their shows, so that was great, especially to see it in a custom built theatre. And the show has people dressed as a turtle, a crab and a starfish - so cute. And then lots of people doing crazy flippy things at great heights. And fireworks. And little speakers in the seatbacks.

The rest of the time we shopped. And shopped. And then, oh, we shopped. Ah, the American outlet mall, a place of happy, shiny things.

We got back from Vegas last night, today we headed off to Watts in South Central LA to check out the Watts Towers which is one of my favourite things. Then we went to Disney Downtown - the mall outside of Disneyland, which I looked at through the gates and declined to spend the eighty dollars it takes to enter.

I fly home tonight, arriving Friday. I don't get no Thursday.

I'm leaving today...

Will be heading off for JFK in half an hour, then waiting for the usual extravagant period of time before my flight. This morning I ate a waffle the size of my face. Then I went and bought a hat, because it was subzero at noon and my ears felt like they were going to snap off like, ... like frozen snappy things.

Went for a walk, despite the subzero temps, around Chinatown and Little Italy... sigh.

Will be home in a week!

Archive Madness!

Yesterday and today have been spent in the archives of the Museum of Modern Art, nicely housed in their new building on 54th Street - the foyer is particularly cool, it has a ferrari mounted on the wall, and one end uses Warhol's cow wallpaper - most excellent. The archives were great, although tinged with the frustration of not having nearly enough time to look through stuff - unbelievable amounts of correspondence with artists about their work and about museum exhibitions and so on.

Yesterday I was so excited that after the Museum shut I went to the NY Public Library to continue looking things up (I resisted the temptation to request Vargas, Paul, 9 Lives for those that share that urge... ). It is the kind of library that if I wasn't already a big nerd, would convert me instantly. Who wouldn't want to sit around reading all day in such surrounds? They have a dedicated Art and Architecture research room that is very good.

Then I went and had pizza, really good pizza, which is always a thing of joy isn't it?

Today saw me ploughing through files at a rate of knots, all to aware that I only had today to do it *ever* - I got through most of what I wanted to, but I would have been happier with at least twice as long to do it in. Afterwards, I thought to myself that I couldn't very well leave New York without eating a pretzel - mmm salty goodness...

Now I am doing my laundry - Hurrah! Coffee-less trousers! Then I will go out in search of snacks. Tomorrow I fly to LA, Sunday I go to Vegas :)


Midtown

MoMA

Brancusi

of art and feet

Sunday started as more Sundays should: with cinnamon pecan brioche french toast covered with fruit. Good fruit, not just three pieces of banana atop a melon mountain. I didn't know whether to eat it or marry it. I ate it. And coffee, lots of coffee. With the Sunday paper. Strange to have the team-of-Egyptians-to-drag-it-home paper on a Sunday rather than a Saturday - and you really need all weekend to get through those things.

Then, off to the Met again, their permanent collection of nineteenth century stuff mostly - Cezanne, Van Gogh, most excellent. Courbet and Manet are two painters that did so much to kick modern painting into gear, yet their work doesn't do much for me in the pigment - does anyone else feel that way? More Renoirs to heap scorn on. V. good Monet - surely an artist that has truly suffered at the hands of reproduction, so much of what you see its just 'yep, that's Monet' but then something will come at you and swipe your knees out from under you (the massive waterlilies at MoMA, the lilies at the Met). Endless Degas - kind of similar to Monet in that regard - though I very much like the whole room of small Degas bronze figures. But I feel like that Ballerina, the one that's about a metre tall and has clothes on, is stalking me, she's everywhere I go. And speaking of that - Rodin? Does every gallery in the world need to have the same pieces? 'tis very odd. Though he clearly knew what he was doing (or his estate does) - pick a medium that is both reproducible, too big to put back in the cupboard, and can handle being exhibited all the time.

Monday I awoke feeling rather shabby, due to a cold, but also to email giving me the appointment that I have long been wanting at the MoMA archives - which is the one that I was worried I wouldn't be able to get, for those that heard the fretting earlier in the year, which is most of you I think. So that will be tomorrow and Thursday. I went in search of soup. Most galleries are shut on Mondays so that ruled that out, and was probably a good thing as I didn't really want to go anyway. Was attempting to do some reading of a productive nature but my fuzzy head prohibited that. So I went and read Marilynne Robinson's Gilead at Barnes and Noble, and discovered that it is well worth the Pulitzer it was awarded. Read it! (Sim - she's the author of 'Housekeeping', that we had to read for American Accents)

Then I trundled off uptown to hear a panel of speakers discuss book design, which is something that some of you might consider uninteresting, and you know what? You're wrong! The panel was Dave Eggers , one of my favourite authors, and the reason I'd paid attention to the advertisement, along with Milton Glaser, the guy who among other things, designed the 'I heart NY' logo, which for its simplicity and newfound veracity, I love, and the third was Chip Kidd, who designs for Knopf. So they all chatted about book design, the involvements of authors in the designs for the covers, funny stories and so forth. Very engaging. Kidd was incredibly funny which was great, and I'm sure I'll be recycling his anecdotes whenever I'm in a bookshop with someone and see one of the covers he spoke about, but I really enjoyed Eggers stories of how a small publishing company tries to do things that are a bit different - particularly because they work with a printing firm in Iceland.

Today I woke up with a newfound love of cold medicine (I've never really taken it before, normally I just drink a lot of juice, which never works, but makes me feel like I'm trying). After baptising myself with coffee at Breakfast [and its been so long since I last doused myself with coffee, dammit], I headed off to the Frick Collection, dragging J&T behind me, they weren't very enthusiastic, and I wasn't either, as the collection was largely complete by 1919 it doesn't have anything that I was particularly interested in, so I felt that I was going because it was Good For Me. So I was pleasantly surprised when I loved it. It is housed in the Frick's house, so it is largely as it was when the house was lived in, and tries to keep to his arrangement of his collection, so it doesn't have any particular organisation according to chronology or nationality, and mixes paintings with sculpture and the decorative arts. They give you an audio guide , which is done by a number of different people, so you get all sorts of different accents, and lots of background information, I loved that they included some of Frick's instructions to his architect and interior designer, instructing them that the house, that was to cover most of a block on Fifth Avenue, should be 'simple' - which is so often a feature of eighteenth-century European style mansions... but you can see what he meant in that the house is only a couple of stories and has a lot of natural light thorughout. And excellent carpet, I wanted to take a nap on it. That could have just been the cold. I wanted to take a nap on the subway as well. I don't think Frick and I would have totally agreed on what direction his collection should have taken, he installed some unfortunate rooms of Boucher and Fragonard - if you take a particularly large chocolate box and turn it inside out, and stick your head inside, you will get the general idea, lots of cherubs, and people gaily walking through gardens in puffy outfits. But then some of the best Vermeers and Rembrandts that there is. And an excellent Cezanne. And some nice Whistler. He made his money from coke, and clearly a lot of it. [that's the coal kind of coke, not the dealing kind]

Winter is definitely here, with the kind of wind that laughs at your feeble clothes, goes straight through your bones and then rubs up against your soul. Because it is t-shirt weather up here on the fifth floor I hadn't been quite expecting the change, so didn't take the full complement of accessories with me, and so had acquired new gloves and a scarf before many blocks were out... I can't quite comprehend that I'm going to be in wilting-heat before too long.

Then I went to Chelsea to see the private galleries there - such a strange 'hood - all car repair shops, self-storage units, and then gallery after gallery, pretty much matching with their polished concrete floors and white walls. Some amazing stuff up though, the Gagosian Gallery has an exhibition of late Andy Warhols, which made me experience a wave of angst that he got shot when he did, as he was on a roll when he died. Then I saw another Callum Innes exhbition, excellent, and then a Henry Darger, for something a bit different (they guy spent years holed up in his house drawing illustrations for an elaborate childrens book that he created, and was only discovered after he had died). And then Ray Johnson. And then I needed to go find snacks, and reassure my feet that this won't be happening forever.

Still clucking after all these years...

Taken today, downtown.

Sorry about the upside down factor, but I can't be bothered fixing it. C'est la vie.

G'night.

living in her uptown world, oo-err-ah-err-oo

So on Friday I headed back up town, to visit the Guggenheim Museum. Another fun place to visit because it is fun to say.

Guggenheim, Guggenheim, Guggenheim.
Guggenheim, Minster.

Malkovich, Malkovich.

Unfortunately the exterior is still swathed in scaffolding as they are trying to restore the original surface, so I didn't get to appreciate Frank Lloyd Wright's work in all its splendour, but the inside is way cool. The main show that they have on the moment is Spanish Painting from El Greco to Picasso, which is an excellent topic for an exhibition, encompassing as it does El Greco, Velazquez, Dali, Miro, Gris, Goya, Picasso and so on. The works were arranged thematically rather than chronologically, as they were trying to bring out similarities in Spanish art from across the centuries, which worked well, highlighting particularly the Spanish artists' love of black and of the grotesque. The downside to this exhibition, taking up the spiral and the level six annexe, was that I didn't get to see much of the permanent collection. There was also a Fontana exhibition, and very cool, and part of the museum's collection of Kandinsky. But as a gallery I'm not a huge of fan of the spiral, although it would be excellent if you had both a sense of balance and those shoes with wheels, the constant slant downwards doesn't encourage lingering, or gaping-mouthed staring.

After that I had some cawfee, spent some time in Central Park (lovely! many undulating hills, and the last remnants of the autumn leaves are clinging on bravely) and then had a wander around a few of the commercial galleries - a v. good Jasper exhibition. Very intimidating galleries, around Madison avenue, lots of shiny surfaces. One was mostly made from marble, which my shoes, exhibiting the proletarian streak they sometimes share to protest such decadance, decided to squeak as though I had in fact strapped unhappy ducks to my feet. I didn't hang around too long there.

Evening was drawing in by then, which it does with startling haste in these parts, at this time of year, and at a loss for what to do, wandered. Shopping uptown makes you realise why people marry for money. I wandered until I was in Time Square again, and ended up with a ticket to High Fidelity, the musical. Which is weird, because I'm not a huge fan of the musical, to the extent that I can't remember the last one I saw in Australia (Phantom of the Opera maybe? About ten years ago? That would explain why I haven't been in so long possibly...) but now I've seen three in three months. Also weird, because, that's right, they've made a musical out of High Fidelity. Being a big fan of both the book and the film (it's the dvd I always hire when I'm lost in the shop amidst endless hollywood pap - I should probably have just bought it about three hires ago) it seemed only appropriate that I go see the musical. It has only just opened, a fact which I think shows, if it ever does come to Australia (ie if it survives this season) I hope it gets a damn good edit and a casting agent who has read the book, not just seen the film. The lead at the moment really isn't Rob, or even John Cusack, and the guy playing the Jack Black character that I can't remember the name of, seems to be playing Jack-Black-playing-the-character-I-can't-remember-the-name-of, but not as well. Laura also not quite right. Ian, Liz and Dick v. good. The entire first act seems to be dedicated to setting the scene, and goes on way too long with songs that need to be about 1/3 as long. Certainly no Rogers and Hammerstein. About halfway through the first act I realised what was bothering me about it - the incongruity about turning a story about characters who would heap scorn on broadway musicals into a broadway musical. Were they to be in NYC on a Friday night, it would seem unlikely that they would be sitting where I was, they would be in a club listening to a band that was little known but very cool. The central plot device of the novel and film - of looking up his exes and going a on a personal discovery tour, was covered in one song, a duet with a faux Bruce Springsteen. Nuff said really.

Barry! That's that character's name.

The weather until this time had been freakishly good, I'd just been wearing a hoody all week - with trousers and so forth, obviously - and had been perfectly toasty - but with the advent of December someone has flicked a large switch somewhere and we have arrived in Jacket weather overnight.

Yesterday was very cold, but beautifully blue and clear which was nice, although with a wind that could slap you around. I drank a bucket of coffee over the Village Voice to start my day. On coffee: the supply was so erratic in the UK that I'd actually cut way back, could start my day without the coffee-absence-salsa in my frontal lobes until like, 2 in the afternoon, very strange - but as soon as I arrived in the US of A the coffee supply lines have been resumed and I'm back in my usual morning focus on Get-me-to-the-coffee-and-then-we'll-figure-out-what-my-name-is-where-I-am-and-what-I'm-supposed-to-be-doing-today thing. I haven't had espresso though, which is very bizarre, because the filter coffee is actually good here, and excellently, served in buckets, so you can read a whole newspaper or the entire internet in the time it takes to get through the coffee. Which is also why this blog is now up to date. And how I've figured out the origins of Irish dance. [i.e. if you sit for an hour or so over bucket of coffee and then stand up, you have about 2 minutes to find a 'restroom' to have a 'rest', if you also have to shut down a mac in this time, you will have a new experience of how time can actually physically slow down, and find yourself needing to dance from foot to foot while trying not to move.... ]

In other matters pertaining to food: all that super size me stuff convinces you that food in America is perpetually awful, which, for Washington and New York at least, is definitely not true. New York especially, because you can get pretty much anything at pretty much any time of day or night (and that's just in the East Village...). I can see why you could end up the size of a small semi-detached though: they do junk food incredibly well. Not as in trashy crap food, but taking good ingredients and transforming them into something wildly unhealthy, and then giving you a lot of it, for a fairly respectable price. Except for root beer. Which is the only soft drink I've every consumed and thought "I wonder if there was a meeting about this product when they had to decide if they were going to sell it as a beverage or a bathroom cleaner." And frankly, they made the wrong choice. But, my goodness, the bagels: surely they prove that the Jewish people do indeed have a special relationship with the Lord. Mightly refreshing to be in a country that if you order a bagel you get a properly boiled bagel, not just any old leavened item with a whole in the centre. In Canberra recently I went to a cafe called 'Bagels' and got a bread roll with a whole in it: I find that unacceptable in a milk bar in say, Dubbo, but in a cafe CALLED 'Bagels'?! Also, they have little containers of cream cheese, in an array of varieties. V. good.

Then I wondered downtown [when you're feeling low, downtown!], and found that shopping downtown creates that feeling you get when all you've consumed all day is starburst and black coffee {which if you haven't done you should, you won't really enjoy it but everything will be very entertaining and requiring your attention simultaneously]: far too many places to look and interesting things to touch. This is one reason why it would be very dangerous for me to live in NYC: going for a simple walk can involve several shoe shops. On an aside, I seem to be thwarted when it comes to boots this week: not the boots made from ponies, nor the rainboots with the kitten heel, nor even the gold faux-snakeskin, which have all been on sale, have they had in my size. Which some of you will no doubt think is a mighty good thing. But others will know the pain of being shoe-thwarted and will join me now in a sigh: *sigh*. Thanks. Then I found myself in a large department store of brand discounts! happiness! Unfortunately a happiness I had to share with most of New York and a good percentage of the mid-west. On your receipt it tells you how much you spent, but also how much you saved: so sure I spent 50, but I saved 110, so that means I made money! Clever huh?

This was, incongruously, across the road from Ground Zero, which was a deeply surreal place to visit. Having now spent a little time in New York, doing my usual things of gibbering at art and drinking coffee and pawing footwear, and developing a hope that I'll spend a lot more time in the future doing those things here, it seems even less comprehensible that something so reprehensibly horrendous as 9/11 could have happened in what for me is a happy place. Also, that morning the main story in the Village Voice was about the growing number of unusual cancers (for healthy working age men) that have been developing in the workers that cleared the site in the months after 9/11. Thousands already have serious respiratory illnesses, but several hundred now also have cancer. There is already a mass lawsuit about his, because, unbelievably, a week after 9/11 the EPA said that it was categorically okay to drink the water and breathe the air in downtown Manhattan. Despite that the testing hadn't been completed. Later, it came out that the White House had a lot to do with this, taking the red pen to more cautious statements and inserting more positive remarks about the air quality - which subsequent tests showed to be ridiculously high in things that will kill you. Because they were concerned about getting Wall Street up and running. The article drew on several stories of individuals effected by this, one of whom recounted how he was working both at Ground Zero and out at the site where they sifted through all the rubble - mostly the contents and structure of the buildings that had been powdered - with all the protection of a face mask. One day when they were taking a break, in came in the FBI, in full hazchem suits, with any possible opening taped up. There were something like 40000 people involved in the operation, let alone all the people in downtown New York on that day and in the subsequent months.

With this all in my mind it made the experience of visiting the site hard to process - it looks like any other huge construction site that hasn't gotten much past the hole-in-the-ground stage, but with a fenced-off viewing area, and a huge photo display of what the finished buildings are projected to look like, what the WTC looked like, and lots of images taken on 9/11 and subsequently. Including a really poignant one of part of a squashed Calder sculpture - I've seen so many of them recently and they hang with that grace that Calder infused into metal, for me that photo sums up so much of what was lost on that day to see something that was just about beauty squashed and wrecked. There are a lot of people there looking around, and a lot of people visibly moved by the experience of being there. I was glad that I had gone on a weekend, when most of the workers in the Wall Street area are not likely to be there, I can't quite imagine how you would deal with seeing all those people checking it out everyday. And I really don't understand the people who take photos of each other standing in front of the site?

I continued my path south, although actually I veered west, because I had turned a corner and forgotten, and walked on down to the Hudson, thinking to myself, "I wonder where the Statue of Liberty actually i-" as I rounded a corner "... ah, there". So took many photos of the distant statue in the sunset, and kept walking along, and came to the Staten Island ferry and caught it and then caught it back and now I have lots of photos of blurry statue of liberty in the sunset and blurry NYC at night. Taking photos at night from a moving ferry is strangely challenging.

New York, New York, issa wonderful town.

Hey look, the counter is past the 1000 mark! [thanks Mum...]

The Museum of Modern Art: eeeh hee hee hee! Eee! Hee! Hee! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Just to give you an insight into my internal murmurings of excitement as I approached MoMA. Resisting the urge to dance with excitement, as MoMA is home to one of the best collections of Modern art ever – if you put all of the works in Australia by those artists into the one space I think you’d end up with a collection about five percent as good as the fourth floor – lots of works that I would see out of the corner of my eye and turn around and almost say hello! Because I feel like we’re old friends. The constant presence of many security guards fortuitously served as a reminder that I shouldn’t hug any of them. The works I mean, not the guards.

Mondrian, Matisse, Miro, Picasso, Cezanne, Pollock, Rothko.... These are a few of my favourite things. The new building is beautiful [not that I ever saw the old one], the design is a great frame for the works and has a great sense of space, you constantly get glimpses of where you’re about to go or where you’ve just been. Although the central atrium up the centre is a little scary, now that I have my new fear of heights. [Other people get tattoos and shoes when they travel; I get phobias. Excellent.] There’s also a lot of natural light, and views out over the surrounding streets and the sculpture garden. And a really expensive café that serves excellent cookies.

By about halfway through the day I was ready to sit down on the floor, go foetal, and gibber, such was the state of hyper-stimulation of my brain. The only downside to the fabulousness of seeing all this is seeing it in such a short space of time, knowing that I’ll be heading back home and not seeing anything in the same vein for quite some time, and not having much time to mull and muse over things to fully absorb and appreciate them.

Les Demoiselles D’avignon!

My first Saturday night in New York: and I spend it doing my laundry. And running around surrounding streets because I kept needing more quarters. Gorgeously attired in an ensemb from my remaining clean clothes: bright red embroidered skirt, pink and turquoise striped top, lime green flip flops. Excellent. Fortunately it would take more than that for the East Villagers to take a second glance.

Clean socks!

Sunday and it was off to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Having slept in and generally dithered about it took me quite awhile to get there, and once I did get in the general vicinity I had to then find coffee immediately, as several caffeine receptors in my frontal lobe had taken to dancing a samba on my nerves. So by the time I got in there and got looking it was in the afternoon, so I’m definitely going to have go back. But I went through their modern collection (Georgia O’Keefes, a Pollock that will have you drooling down the front of your shirt and leaving a hazardous puddle in front of it) and saw a temporary exhibition – Vollard and the art that went through his hands as a dealer – Cezanne, Picasso, Van Gogh, Vuillard, Bonnard, Renoir, and so on. The guy had an eye, and some very good connections. Deeply strange experience of sitting on a bench, gazing in a state approaching a coma, at a wall of Cezannes (3 still lives and 4 late landscapes) and sharing the bench with 5 or so New Yawkers who were debating the merits of the various CSIs. Insanely loudly. Such a weird experience to be in front of such works and for them to be having the most incredibly mundane conversation. So that half the gallery could hear them. I’m never a stranger to a deep and passionate analysis of the trivial, but in front of Cezanne? And it’s never a debate is it? Everyone just takes turns in saying that the Vegas one is better than all the others, what were they thinking with that guy in the Miami one and then the conversation moves on to how many Law and Orders there are. Apparently Monday night is a particularly bad one for TV in NYC, just so you know. But then, they just had this conversation and then moved on, I’m the one putting it on the web.

So moving along.

Monday: Getting Fricked. I went to the library of the Frick Art Gallery and Reference Library: which is excellent, if only for the fact that it is an old school nineteenth century style library – dark wooden bookcases and desks, lamps, old stone building – very conducive to work. Even over my internal conga line of “I am in New York, yeah! I am in New York!” [repeat, ad infinitum]. They had some cool stuff, lots of catalogues from exhibitions from the ‘50s and ‘60s in New York and surrounds. Happy times.

Tuesday: Out to Queens to visit the MoMA research library – eee hee hee – art nerd joy! - catalogues, artist files and so on – eeeeheeeeheeeeheeee.

Tuesday night: the train back from Queens went to Time Square so I figured it was time to fulfil Tourist Tick Box #1 and look at all the pretty lights. And my, there really is a lot of them. And then I found a cheap ticket to Spamalot: The Monty Python Musical. So I bought it. It was a standing room ticket, so J & T were thrilled – Thrilled! - by my decision. But looking at how much room you got to sit down in, I think I made the right decision. And much better access to the toilets at interval as you get quite the head start when you are at the back of the room. Strange how I’ve never been invited to write theatre reviews isn’t it? The musical is great, I wasn’t sure how it would translate, or if it would just be for the serioius trekkie-level python fans that can ruin an entire evening once they start quoting at you, and heaven forbid you go on a road trip, but it has been really well written, nice mix of the lines they have to include (ni! And so forth) and new material. So go see it if you get the chance.

Wednesday: Whitney Museum – Picasso and American Artists, exploring, wait for it, the influence of Picasso on American artists, surprise! Great excuse to get a whole bunch of Picassos, Lichtensteins, Pollocks, de Koonigs together for a little party. The Pollock room was particularly great, as it had a nice span of his development as a painter.

After that I wandered about, looking at shiny things and trying not to impulse buy. So many pretty frocks!

Thursday: MoMA research library, Manhattan – more great books and catalogues, and in the pleasing surrounds of the new MoMA library which just opened this week. It is in the building on the other side of the sculpture garden from the main museum, so you get a great view over to the other building, the sculptures and 54th street. More internal conga. Thence, to Soho and Chinatown and a wander about, looking at some seriously cool shops and pondering just how much it would cost to send a shipping container home.

I heart NYC

.... pretty much sums it up really.

My favourite government department ever...

I like to imagine them, attired in regulation cardigans made from recycled string, supervising government employees to make sure they only take the regulation 3.5 turns when sharpening their pencils.

Although it sounds as though their work might be cut out for them if the newspapers are correct when they report that in the wake of 9/11 the Dept of Homeland Security spent money with abandon, not following official guidelines for contracts, or you know, checking that the product works, before employing it in the nation's security system.

Still no calls.

Upon realising that my jeans were in a state that one exuberant leap could render extremely embarrassing, I set off to H&M. Which is shut til noon on Sundays in downtown DC. It being 10.00 I decided to head to the National Gallery for awhile. Which is shut til 11 on Sundays. So I decided to head to the bus terminal. Which is quite a long walk when you go the wrong way. But I managed to secure a bus ticket, and the discovery that you really don't need to buy them in advance for Greyhound. Have then secured new
trousers, I was all set to view some art, and so wandered along to the Gallery of American Art, part of the Smithsonian Galleropolis that threatens to engulf all DC. It has only been open for a little while, sharing a building with the National Portrait Gallery. National Portrait Galleries don't interest me (beyond aforementioned Arkley - Cave pairings): just head after head of supposed magnificence for some reason or other. But the American Art collection is excellent. Very good early 20th C exhibition of American artists who had spent time in Paris, very cool William Berryman show, who in turn had curated a great exhibition of American folk art. Upstairs was one of the coolest installations I've ever seen in a gallery - lots of painting racks behind glass with the collection in 'storage' on display - no real space to view them in and some of them are about a foot off the ground, but at least you get some sense of what the broader collection is like. Labelling is sometimes just the accession number or brief details of artist/title, but there are computers scattered about that you can look up a whole host of other information on. There's two floors of this. Cool.

The part of the gallery described thus far is all up one end, and is all pretty much gallery standard-nineteenth century feel, so there is a total contrast with the other end of the building where the later 20th century and
contemporary art is - where our friends from abstract expressionism and pop art, amongst others, get to dwell. Lots of excited internal giggling and bouncing on my part.

I spent so long in there that I entirely missed the second floor where all the graphic art is, so here's hoping there was nothing crucial there.

After that: Mexican! Australia needs more mexican food, it has to be said. When the man offered me a small or a regular and showed me how long the burritos were, which wasn't especially long, it would have been helpful if he'd mentioned that the burritos are as fat as your arm (assuming you have a large arm). Anyway, I settled down with my log of a burrito and happily watched the passersby. And treated them to the spectacle of me attempting to eat something larger than my face.

The next day was photocopying and then the National Gallery, the latter being much more exciting than the former it has to be said. More excellent Cezannes, Van Goghs, more shocking Renoirs, and lots of Old Stuff That I'm Sure is Good For Me But I Don't Care: There are only so many Dutch still lives and portraits that you can see before you start to toss your head and huff. V. good Rembrandts though.

Then next door for the Modern bit - hurrah! Gorgeous Jackson Pollock, excellent pop! And Dubuffet! And Rothko! (installation not nearly as good for Rothko as at the Tate Modern) Great room of Calders. And Neumann's Stations. (of the Cross that is).

And then I run out of time again. More Mexican. And in another episode of Hostel Avoidance, to the fillums, I saw Stranger than Fiction: has that been released in Oz yet? Go see it. V. good. Quirky plot in the Adaptation sense, but works on brainless amusement level and the 'I can see the undergraduate film/lit theory essays about the narrative voice unfolding before me' level. But in a good way. Emma Thompson. Go, you'll like it.

The next day: photocopying. Mexican. Casino Royale (the opening scenes of which have convinced me that I have developed vertigo. I never used to be particularly bothered by heights, apart from the general concern of preserving self, now I am bothered, strange).

Day after that: Corcoran: smaller than I thought it was going to be. V. good twentieth century collection, awesome painting by someone born in 1976 that I can't remember the name of. Great Morris Louis. V. cool Lichtenstein Apples prints. V. interesting exhibition of how Joan of Arc has been imaged through history.

Left there: rain. Strange rain: looks like a light shower but you take three, maybe four steps, and you're soaked through. Basically solid water, but like floaty mist in texture. Naff-butterfly brolly maintaining a tonsure of dryness atop my skull but the rest of me is damp. I repair to a café and sulk at the rain. A block away from a turkey is being pardoned by el presidente. I head across the street to the Renwick, American craft, beautifully finished pieces, yes Dad I took photos of the woodwork.

The next day: Turkey Day! Thankfully the Smithsonian is open, all of them. I go to the Hirschorn, excellently circular gallery of modern and contemporary art. Contemporary sculpture exhibition, v. good, and then on the top floor is their collection, all our favourites are here, yay! Spend much time gazing and drooling. They are also showing 'The Way things Go' by Fischli and Weiss, the video piece of the chain reaction that I told you about, remember? Quite entertaining to compare the English and American responses to this: English: On Best Gallery Behaviour, dead silent. American: v. entertained, much more interactive, laughing, commenting on what was going on. I think the artists would be a lot happier with the latter. Anyway, I bought the dvd, because I was compelled, and now I have this question: does anyone have a multi-region dvd player?

Then, Turkey feast! Yay! Food was very good, although was fairly surprised when my salmon gravlax entrée came with guacamole and corn chips. Corn chips and salmon go together better than I ever expected. Service was bordering on Fawlty towers: when your second course turns up and you're only halfway through the first it should be fairly obvious that you don't want it yet, but still the waiter asked me. And then his friend asked me, ten minutes later, when he brought it back again, and still I was eating. I'm all for prompt service, but not if it means I need a blender and a funnel to keep up with them.

After that: moofies! Bobby - Emilio Estevez has made a film about the assassination of Bobby Kennedy. I think I like it, but I'm not sure if I would see it again. But Martin Sheen, Sharon Stone, Lindsay Lohan, Estevez, Demi Moore, Anthony Hopkins, Ashton Kutcher... And so on and so forth are all in it.

Oh before I go: one small detail I forgot: is it just me or do you find the concept of a big 'Welcome To the USA' banner at the airport visa check, from the Dept of Homeland Security, slightly disturbing?

and so to DC

Arrived in DC late afternoon, with a startling lack of information. Normally I tend to over-research where I am going and how to get there, but with the flurry of activity before I left the UK I didn't really get my head into gear for my arrival in the US of A. I made my way into the centre of downtown DC, where they have thoughtfully provided people to give you advice on where you are and how to get to where you are going. Unfortunately, the guy who approached me to offer assistance, on looking at the address of where I was going, offered advice which amounted to 'that's far'. Riiiiight. And proceeded in a way that had me wondering if I would need a visa to commute between DC and Canada. So I left him in the wake of my suitcases, and trundled off to find a cab. I found one, he found where I was going, all was good.

Except that the neighbourhood the Hostel is in did not match the description that I had read on the Lonely Planet webverse - which, summarised, was 'a bit of a distance from the centre of town, a bit crap, but surrounded by a really cool 'hood' - this place was 'quite a distance from the centre of town, really quite crap, and not at all in a cool hood'. Turns out that the place they were describing was the original version of this hostel, which burnt down. The thing is though, their review acknowledges the fact that it had burnt down, and writes about it as thought it has been rebuilt, which, clearly, it hasn't, it has moved. Somewhere crap. Anyway. Most of the week I had the room to myself, which is a kind of hostel-dwellers bliss. Unfortunately the previous inhabitant had obviously only stopped by to conduct her seasonal moulting in private, and, after leaving vast swathes of hair, had continued on her way. I thought that was the worst of it, and then I saw the mouse in the kitchen. Joy! [The obvious question is why I stayed, and the reason for that is, beyond my extreme reluctance to have to trundle anywhere with my suitcases more than I have to, is that I had, of course, left it to the last minute to book accom in DC, and the next price bracket up from 'previoustenantsmoultings&rodents' is upwards of 100, so, la crappeee it had to be.]

Heading downtown the next morning I found that DC on the weekend is oddly like Canberra - all the public servants flee and leave a deserted city behind them. Except this city is a lot bigger and a lot more attractive. And a lot easier to get round, as, wait for it, rather than some pseudo-scenic curved road scenario that can have you trapped in our Nation's Finest for years at a time, the Wastingtonians thoughtfully numbered all the north-south streets and lettered the east-west ones, so within a few minutes you've pretty much figured out where you are, where you need to be, and roughly how far that is. Might not have the undoubted poetic bliss of a William Slim Drive, but damn it's useful.

After pondering that delightful aspect of urban design, I headed down to the Mall to wander along to the Capitol, all the way waiting for calls from CJ, Josh, Sam and co. Surely they would realise I was in town soon.... ? Enjoyed that deeply surreal experience of seeing vistas open before me that are almost too iconic to be experienced:


Still no calls.

Discovering that it is only the early bird that gets the ticket to the tour of Capitol, I proceeded on my way, and took myself on a wander around the Library Of Congress: the library responsible for the classification system it took me most of my undergraduate degree to reliably use, and still, on a occasion, gives me reason to pause and earnestly recite the alphabet to myself, before uttering a curse and backtracking, realising that I'm three aisles from where I'm supposed to be. Anyway. Very elaborate decoration, incredibly so when you compare it to any equivalent establishment en Australie, and some excellent exhibitions, nicely encapsulating the development of America and of the library's collection.

Then I went shopping: the Eastern Market. Should you find yourself there, go in the main doors, turn right, go to the far corner, and order the crab cake sandwich. Just a tip. You won't regret it. I followed the recommendation, despite the fact that I don't particularly like crab. Now I do. Nice markets, my christmas shopping has officially commenced, for those who may have been wondering. And indeed, for those who weren't, because you know now, and there's nothing you can do to change that. C'est la vie.

Onto the metro, back to Federal Square. La Maison Blanche! Very, very peculiar to see it in the stucco. Still, they did not call. Alongside me were many many Americans, as one would expect. They take a lot more interest in their history than Australians do, and as much as American patriotism can have some unfortunate consequences for their foreign policy, in the interest they take in their history and their ability to articulate the nation's values, democracy, freedom and such, I really admire it. And quite entertaining when American Dad turns to entire family and begins lecture on the form of government that is bicameral legislature and is cut off by swooning-bored son with 'not another lecture' to the amusement of many.

Washington Monument, avec Water Fountains

Then, to the Lincoln Memorial, via the Vietnam Memorial - the best War Memorial that I've ever seen, I found the simplicity of it far more moving than the Georgian Wedding Cake style that features on so many others.

Pool and Abe Memorial

Abe

Pool and Monument

Then to the movies, where, for being good feet, I took Judas and Thomas to see 'Happy Feet' in the hope that it would inspire them.


Still they did not call. Can the cast of The West Wing really be fictional?

I did but see her passing by...

A new round of exhibitions called me back to London for a few days before I departed the UK. Monday morning saw me at the Velazquez at the National Gallery, Las Meninas couldn't make it, but many of the other hits were there, and the selection of works built up a great overview of his development and career. Then I went to 'Cezanne in Britain' - an exhibition drawn from collections in, that's right, Britain, of Cezanne's paintings. Excellent! More great still lives, the Bathers, and the Mont Saint Victoire that I had wanted to see when I was in Edinburgh and hadn't been able to. After that I had to go back to my hotel, and sort out what room I was in, because once again, due to my uncanny ability to be drawn to Crap Hotels of the World (aka You Get What You Pay For), that was an issue of some confusion.

I had a nap, which was excellent, thank you, and then back into the West End for some theatre - another Lastminute.com deal - here's a tip, don't go to the restaurant 'Tiger Tiger' unless bad service, capsicum and mayonnaise are the three requirements you have from a meal, if so, then you're in luck, as you'll receive them in abundance. Anyway, was off to see the '39 Steps' stage production. Hadn't actually seen the original film, which would have made it even better, but it was a great production, and the first time I've seen a chase sequence up, down and over a moving train, performed on stage. Very funny, and excellently staged.

Tuesday morning was the morning of the Slides!

Carston Holler, Slides, Tate Modern, London

Now, as some of you are undoubtedly aware, Tate Modern is in an old powerhouse on the bank of the Thames, and they have kept the old turbine hall as The Turbine Hall, a five-story atrium alongside the floors of the gallery in which large temporary installations are installed. Temporarily. The current one, you will have gathered, is Carston Holler's Slides. Which are slides! Actual slides! In the gallery! You get tickets (free!) and then you can slide! Slide! In the gallery! Actually slide! From the fifth floor to the ground! Slide! And then from the fourth floor! And the third! And the Second! And the First! And then the first again! From another angle! First time you've ever experienced grinning so goofily in a gallery. I really wish I could have been at the opening and press viewing to see the Cool People grinning goofily too, heavy-framed glasses askew and black polonecks awry. Berets long gone. No way that you can shoot out the end of a slide at a rate of some knots and look in any way aloof. My favourite was from the fourth floor, as it had a rather terrifying near-vertical drop at the start, so you really built up some speed, and then very tight corners, so you went whirring about before being flung out at the bottom completely disorientated. And giggling. Almost as much fun watching other people coming flying out of them, trying to look cool but the giggling getting the better of them. Also quite excellent is that the rest of the time you are at the gallery, walking along the viewing areas overlooking the Turbine Hall, lost in contemplation over whatever art you had been looking at, or your need for snacks, or a toilet, you would see someone out of the corner of your eye, whizzing down a shute.

I also saw a David Smith retrospective - sculptor of metal, v. good. But better was the Fischli and Weiss retrospecitve, the two have collaborated for decades, a lot of their work is very whimsical, photos, sculpture and some video. My favorite is 'The Way Things Go', an excellent video of a half an hour chain reaction they set up in a disused warehouse - like a giant science project of cause and effect, using reactions between petrol, fire, motion, soap, pendulums etc.

After that I headed off for some aimless wandering, and then was tempted, after a rather bad carbonara, to embrace the student discount offered by the comedy store, and see some stand up, and was rather disappointed - it was a kind of team effort, with comedians responding to members of the audience suggestions of current events for them to be funny about, so a bit like theatre sports, but not in a good way. But some laughs were had, so I shouldn't be too harsh.

So I wandered off to catch my bus, through Leicester Square down to Trafalgar, wondering why there were so many tuxedoed gentlemen, red carpet, and common people hanging over barriers, when I noticed an awful lot of Casino Royale posters and I thought, 'Ah, 'tis the premiere of Casino Royale, and these tuxedoed people have been to the premiere, and these common people are hoping to glimpse Daniel Craig', and I kept walking. Standing in Trafalgar Square, I pondered whether that day's bus strike was effecting the route that I was waiting for, when the police stopped the traffic, and I thought, 'oooh, drama!' 'police! like the bill!' and a black car went past, slightly fancier than a black cab, and inside was the Queen. And her Husband. And then I sms'd a selection of people, and missed seeing who was in the cars following her. The Queen went to the premiere of the latest Bond film. Odd. And then I pondered why she hadn't offered me a lift, as it wouldn't have been that far out of her way.

A very strange experience. She has so many teeth.

Wednesday-Thursday, I did stuff, wnet around more exhibitions in some of the commercial galleries, that sort of thing, saw a cool exhibition of photographs of the Beatles in Japan, went on a massive search for another bag, really should have thought about that earlier than the night before I left, and not when the only shops that I knew would be open were the department stores on Oxford Street. And I should have bought something rather more capacious. But everything was packed, and aeroplaned, and I discovered that the Magical Seat Back Entertainment Units are not as magical on British Airways as they are on Qantas.

Pitchers.

Tate LiverpoolLiverpool - one of The Beatles first venues.

Glasgow

Glasgow School of Art

Gallery of Modern Art, Glasgow

Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, Glasgow

Sculpture of heads, Kelvingrove

Glasgow II

My second day in Glasgow started similarly to my second in Edinburgh, creating an odd parallel: The rainy walk to the gallery outside of town that turns out to be somewhat further than you thought. Breaking with imminent tradition though, I did not get lost on this occasion. Nevermind that that this was undoubtedly because I only had to walk along one road the entire time. Anyway, this walk took me to the Kelvingrove Gallery and Museum. This gallery has just been refurbished, utilising some millions of dollars, and reopened a few months ago. It of course has a mackingtosh display, very nice, and good to see chairs roped off identical to the ones I had sat on to have my tea the previous day. The gallery also has a very good collection of European, English and Scottish art. It also has more explanatory panels than I have ever seen. It has lots of stuff for kids to play with, which is excellent if you have kids in your party, but frankly quite irritating for those of us that are quite happy to see the kids run through the gallery and keep running. Giving them a reason to stop and slam bricks about may well be good for getting them involved in art from a young age but haven't you people heard about fingerpainting? Somewhere else? Also, putting Picasso's four feet of the ground so that they can be viewed at eye level by five year olds? That's what parents are for, to lift. The text panels were very well written and informative, and would be excellent if you were just getting into art, but not that helpful if you just wanted to look uninterruptedly. Anyway, that's just me being fussy. I had some tea, and was completely bewildered when the waitress offered me a millek. Having repeated it two or three time she looked equally bewildered that I didn't understand her. Her bewilderment is understandable when you consider that she was asking if I wanted milk in my tea.

When I left the rain was continuing, now joined by quite the jaunty breeze, so that when I came around the corner of the building my brolly snapped like so many twigs. I caught the bus back into town, took a bit of a stroll, flapping my brolly about like a dead bat, and thought, 'now is the time to get the train home'. I bought a new brolly before I left. It has butterflies on it, and is quite naff.

Glasgow

My final trip in the North was to Glasgow, home of excellent, if inexplicable, accents, and excellent Charles Rennie Mackintosh - one of the reasons that Art Nouveau is known as Glasgow Style, in Glasgow, if not anywhere else. I preferred Glasgow to Edinburgh, for the same reason I prefer Melbourne to Sydney - one has the looks but the other has a feeling that there is lots happening culturally, and that it is accessible.

On the train up to Glasgow I opened up the guide book to discover what it was I should see while I was there, and discovered that it mostly revolved around Charles Rennie Mackingtosh. Somewhere, just to the right of my cerebral cortex, there was a tiny 'ding!' of recognition, but I couldn't have said in relation to what - was it paintings of stags atop crags or something else? The latter fortunately. Dumping my stuff, I discovered that the place I stayed was right next door to the Glasgow School of Art, one of Mackingtosh's most completely realised designs - from the building down to the teaspoons. So I checked that out, bought the postcards, took the photos and so forth, and declared myself a fan. Then, and I do love this, I wandered down the road to the Mackingtosh designed Willow Tea Rooms - I could drink tea and have a snack while appreciating his work! I love being edumacational and still getting to have snacks.

Then I went to the Contemporary art gallery, possibly called GOMA, which I really liked, in a traditional stone & columns gallery but they have done a great job of installing pieces of contemporary art into the structure of the building. Including, oddly, a giant wooden womb, and I tell you what, it is strange to stand inside a giant wooden womb. Anyway, they had a cool exhibition of prints, paintings and some sculptures downstairs, including one called 'Blue Dogs' (or was it 'Black dogs'), a reference to Winston Churchill's description of his depression being the Blue (possibly black) dog - and the dogs looked like Churchill!

Underneath the gallery was the public library which was nice, lots of people sitting around drinking tea (see! they understand snacks!), reading books, and making the most of free internet.

Then, To the Lighthouse! Another Rennie Mackingtosh buidling, now a gallery devoted to Glaswegian art and architecture and featuring windows overlooking all Glasgow. Then I trotted off to get a bad haircut. Amazing how if people ask me things in a scottish accent I will always agree with them. Anyway, it looks ok if I style it, but when I can't be bothered, which is a lot, because I've been a student for too long, it looks as thought I've cut myself using hedgeclippers. Hedgeclippers.

She's a Da-ay Tripper...

Upon my return to the Isles, I realised that I only had five days left up north, and quite a bit of territory to cover, were I to fulfil my inner-list of desired northern locations to visit.

So Tuesday was York trip II. The main purpose of which was to visit the York Castle Museum, most excellent in its reconstruction of everyday life through the centuries. They have recreated a number of rooms from different periods - I particularly enjoyed gazing upon a nineteen fifties living room, which featured a terribly "modern" tv set and then receiving a whole rundown of the different models available at the time and how that one was a particularly expensive one in its day, from the man beside me who had clearly lived through the period. Also fascinating - bizarrely so - was an exhibition about cleaning through the ages - when soap became available, how it was made, access to fresh water, the invention of the toilet etc. Then moved into exhibitions of different styles of wedding and mourning attire, accessories, household furnishing. Along with my winning conversation about Norwegian barns, goes my new knowledge about English kitchens, particularly ovens and hearths. So many inventions you don't think about - the chimney for example. When it was invented it removed the necessity of having the fireplace in the middle of the room, thus lessening the chance of setting yourself on fire when cooking (v. good), and enabled fires in many more rooms, meaning houses could be bigger, more luxurious, and, (and how I love that this was noted), occupants could toast snacks in their bedrooms. A lot to be said for that in any day and age, the ready supply of muffin.

It took numerous hours to get through this museum, but once I eventually tore myself away I went for a wander through the Shambles again (old shopping district - buildings overhang so much you could hold hands with the people across the street out your upstairs windows.)

Wednesday I headed to Liverpool, arrived via train and headed down to the Tate Liverpool. One guess as to the soundtrack I podded along to. Tate Liverpool is another example of How We Use Contemporary Art for Rejuvenation of City Centres. It isn't as large as I thought it was going to be. Which communicates absolutely nothing, as that is as in relation to? Anyway, good exhibiton of small sculptures and drawings by Henry Moore, and of paintings by Patrick Caulfied, whom I only intermittenly love.

The permanent collection exhibition was very good, a nice sweep of twentieth and twenty-first century art - good samples of work by the usual suspects, the one that particularly stood out was by Jake and Dinos Chapman, which a whole display of tiny sculptures, reminiscent of those little figures that a certain type of gent can spend hours, nay months, moving around on replica battlefields, but they were recreations of Goya's liths of the Acts of War.

Then I headed off to the Beatles Story, a pretty cool exhibition of, wait for it, The Beatles Story. Recreated the different clubs and studios that were key, lots of stuff about how they met, Epstein, the early concerts etc. That inspired me to wander off and find the Cavern Club.

Liverpool seems to have gone through a considerable pulling-of-self-up-via-bootstraps, whereas a few years ago (I'm told) it was rather drab, it now has a very lively vibe, and an endless paved shopping area in the centre of town, which featured some very cool looking shops.

Oooh, I have to go.

Oslo pt.2

Viking Ship


Oslo, from the Gallery on the peninsular that I can't remember the name of.

Vigelund Sculpture Park


Stave Church, 13th century, Folkmuseet


Norwegian Farm building, Folkmuseet


Viking Ship


As I got to the end of writing what formed the previous post a rather terse message came up and warned me my net time was about to expire, so I had to post without finishing, or, obviously, editing.

My favouritest thing at the Folk Museum was the apartment building from Oslo that was removed from its original site and reconstructed in the museum (brick by numbered brick). They have fitted out each apartment in different period styles with material about the people who lived there - including a very cool 1970s one that was created by the designer and architect who lived there and who recreated it for the museum.

Saturday we went to the National Gallery, so I got to see one of the Skriks - this was the one that was stolen in '94 and they got back a few years ago - there is a real thing for stealing art works in Norway - one of the key Vigeland works was sawn off at the ankle and stolen, and then returned/found. Someone seems to want the key works of Norwegian art very badly. Was great to go around the gallery with someone that had studied Norwegian art, and could also provide a running translation service for me. Then we headed off to a gallery founded by someone's private collection, featuring some excellent contemporary art, including Hirst's Mother and Child Divided - nothing like the experience of going 'awwww cute baby calf... oh and look, there's your innards'. The following day was another gallery day, we headed in suburban Oslo, to find a new commercial gallery that had an exhibition of Damian Hirst, bits of which I really liked, other bits I thought were a bit too slick. Then to another gallery (I would never have found these places if I'd been on my own, v. good to have my personal tour guide!) which I really liked - founded by a couple in the 1970s who have created an absolutely massive gallery for their personal collection (and other temporary exhibitions) on a peninsular overlooking the water (see photo above). Excellently, this is also where my friend's partner is the chef, so we had lunch there - best smoked salmon of anywhere, ever. Apparently we arrived only moments after the Crown Prince left. He and his family had turned up, no security, and had lunch with friends, saying hello to whoever approached them to chat - a bit different from how most Royal families live.

Monday was my final day in Oslo, I spent the morning getting a framing lesson at my friend's place of employment, I now know how mount boards are cut so precisely, a fine thing as that gap in my brain was annoying me. Then I began the trek back to the "Oslo" airport and for some more quality time with Ryanair.

Oslo

SnowSnowSnow!Driving on the Right!Snow!Snow!Snow!Right!Road Sign with a Reindeer on it!Snow!Snow!SnowSnow!Right!Snow!Europey-looking forest!Snow!

Thus ran my thoughts upon arrival in Oslo. Having caught a RyanAir flight to "Oslo" it meant that I had an hour and a half bus trip from "Oslo" into Oslo, so this gave me ample time to appreciate that there was snow on the ground. While I'm thinking about RyanAir - which I have developed a firm belief that one should do as little as possible, lest one absorb too much of their attitude that one is really just an annoying hindrance between an airline reaching its target of perfectly meeting its timetable - the competition between RyanAir and Easy Jet seems particularly fierce on number of fronts, the more obvious being for passengers and securing routes, but oddly seems to be made manifest in the desparate battle to make their staff look completely ridiculous. This could be an extreme-safety measure, on the theory that no terrorist, no matter how committed, would ever pose as one of their staff if it meant wearing a jaunty combination of bright blue and yellow, or flourescent orange. But actually I think it is just an outworking of the contempt in which they hold their staff, and particularly, their passengers. I think they feel that they have to be that obvious because their passengers are too stupid to pick up that six or seven people on a plane wearing matching outfits of any more subtle colour combination are likely to be the crew. That, and that weird approach to sartorial matters that follows the line: 'weeeeeeeeee we're really bright! that means we're hip and fun! yeaaaaah!' in the hope that one doesn't notice the underlying 'if we were dressed in grey it would draw attention to our facial expressions that convey our contempt for you and our fervent wish to be upgraded to carriers which convey packages and live cattle.' Just a theory.

I arrived in Oslo at about 11.30, and my friend kindly came an collected me, very fortunate as I hadn't gotten a guide book and my Norwegian, oddly, is non-existant. She lives in am old part of town, where cobblestone still feature, and beautiful wides streets of apartment buildings. Beautiful wide streets that feature quite a lot of ice at this time of year, as Judas and Thomas demonstrated by skeetering out from under me, sensing their chance for escape, and a truly excellent opportunity to embarrass me. Fortunately no damage was done, to me, or perhaps more significantly, to my camera. It was a good way of learning to pay some attention where I was putting my feet, and proved a constant battle between looking at the ground to make sure I didn't go flailing down a stone staircase, and gaping around touristicly at the scenery. Norway clearly likes me more than Scotland: it had thoughtfully had some freezing weather leading up to my arrival, to provide a nice snowy welcome, but then was unseasonably warm, no worse than Canberra at its worst when you are out in the mddle of the night, inappropriately attired. Thankfully I had a decent jacket (thanks R!) and so was quite cosy. In fact, it was like getting to wear a sleeping bag out and about, which is excellent for naps.

The next day we went to a large sculpture park, featuring works by Vigeland and more snow. The park has an amazing amount of work in it, especially when it is all work by one artist, even if he did have a studio of assistants, he was incredibly productive. Then we headed to the Munch Museet which features both the work of Edvard Munch, and the most incredible museum security. Unsurprising, after someone ran off to a waiting car with two of the Museum's central pieces. Fortunately, and as regular readers will undoubtedly recall, they have since been discovered. Unfortunately they are still in conservation, so I didn't get to see them, but I got to see a lot of others, so I'll have to be happy... the museum had up a lot of stuff beyond the wailing wall of depression that one usually associates with Edvard, who knew that he had so many dogs, or drew them so much?

Then we took a walk around Oslo, got to see the Royal Palace, and the centre of town. I really like Oslo - its small enough that you can cover most of it, at least very briefly in a day, and it has the benefits of being in Europe (old, good bread, and so on) with out the crazy numbers of people. The next day, after extensive directions, I found my way in the 'burbs to check out the Viking Ships Museum - excellent! Vikings were very thoughtful of future archaeologists by burying people in ships, with a sample of everything they owned. Unfortunately most of these burial mounds were raided, so the jewellery and other valuables were taken, but the ships have been preserved very well, and it is incredible to consider how far they sailed in not very large ships. After that I went to the Folk Museum, which is also excellent - they have gathered together a range of buildings from all different periods of Norway's history and reconstructed them in a giant open air museum. The first time I've been able to see my own breath while at an exhibition. And the first time I've enthusiastically examined barns. With my new knowledge of Norwegian farm architecture from the thirteenth century to the present I am going to be a hit on the dinner party circuit when I get back!

Edinburgh

A day or so after Durham, I headed off for a brief sojurn in Edinburgh, which really is almost exaggeratingly picturesque - there's a similar smugness in Edinburghers writing about their town that Sydney-siders share, that undertone of 'doesn't really matter what else is wrong with us because we're the prettiest'). Which is fair enough because it is gorgeous. I began by heading for the large turrety thing, safe in my assumption that this would prove to be Edinburgh castle. Perhaps going to a castle on a school holiday was not the best laid plan, of either mice or men, but the castle was impressive despite being surrounded by small shrieking hoards. [incidentally when it become actually illegal to be a small girl child not dressed in either pink or that sick mauve colour?] It was incredibly windy, so I kept waiting for one to be caught by a sudden gust and be transformed into a small pink/sick mauve missile and go flying off into New Town.

The castle is impressive in the way that it has been built out of the top of the hillside, making the most of all the defences the landscape provides. And ensuring that Edinburghers will always have great thighs, as such a large part of their lives will be spent climbing up and down some steep hillsides. It has been used over the centuries for a succession of state functions, and still hosts state occasions. It is a great location for the Scottish war memorial - which apart from being in that weird early-20th-C-explosion-of-empire style decor that does seem to characterise memorials built initially for WWI, is incredibly moving. It has books listing each regiment and their losses for each major war they have been involved in, flicking through these I found particularly moving because of the numbers of people with my surname that died in WWI.

After leaving the Castle I went for a stroll down the Royal Mile. Which actually means that I went for a shuffle along what I think should be more accurately known as the Tartan Mile, such is the predominance of souvenir shops along this street. I stopped in to visit the Whisky Heritage Experience [I always thought that that was getting drunk?] and learnt lots about malting barley and so forth, and went on a 'barrel ride' to discover the history of whisky. Then I did a malt whisky tasting (more whisky than I've ever drunk before, and at 2 in the afternoon). And thus I became a malt whisky drinker, a few short hours after arriving in Scotland. For years I've shaken my head at this pursuit, based on my previous experience of all malts tasting like salty dirt, but now I understand that these are just the whiskys that come from the Islands, whereas I prefer highland single malts (just pause on that detail for awhile, 'highland single malts', could be handy to remember if you find yourself in a duty free shop in a spirit of generosity some day... that's highland). It turns out my Dad's been buying the wrong ones all this time! I'm sure he won't mind switching though. We can always sprinkle some salt and dirt in his to ease the transition.

After this I gambolled off to find a scarf in the family tartan, and then went to the Fruitmarket Gallery (exhibition of Callum Innes, excellent, and travelling to the Museum of Contemporary Art in Sydney next year, so abstract art fans should keep an eye out for it.) Found the Scottish Parliament Building, which opened last year (I think) something like 4 years late and 200 million over budget. That's a lot. And I didn't really warm to the building either.

The weather was the coldest that I had yet experienced on the trip, unlike everywhere else Scotland doesn't seem to feel the need to give me the unseasonably warm (relatively speaking) weather that I have had everywhere else. I decided that it wasn't 'cold and rather horrible' but rather 'good weather for drinking whisky', and surely it is the climate that drove the scots to find the perfect way of fermenting malted barley. Well that and the desire to get pissed.

After an average night in a hostel, I pondered that 'good weather for drinking whisky' isn't really appropriate for 7.30am, and went off to find the cafe that the Lonely Planet recommends. Which turns out to be where JK Rowling used to go when she was writing Harry Potter - has an excellent view of the Castle, so kind of an appropriate setting. But either JK Rowling has an acceptance of substandard scrambled eggs or doesn't eat them there. After breakfast I set off on a soggy, misguided walk to the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, eventually, damp and circuitously, I found it. Half of it was shut for reinstallation, but they have a very good collection of Eduardo Paolozzi, including a recreation of his studio (looking at people's studios is even more nosily satisfying that going through their pantries... [lucky I didn't miss out that 'r' hey?]). Then I discovered that there is a free shuttle bus into town to the main National Gallery, so I was happy to catch that back and avoid more soggy circuitousness. The older collection is pretty much Euro-Standard, but has some v. nice pieces, incl. a v. good Cezanne.

And then it was home time, and I got the train back to Newcastle.

Durham

Durham is an easy daytrip from Newcastle, and is a pretty old university town, featuring a very old cathedral. So of course I went there. I like travel that features going to really obvious monuments, makes it so much easier to not get lost when you step out of the station, in that bewildered state of being somewhere new, thinking, 'now where is the cathedral' to respond to self 'maybe I should go ask at that large pointy building on the hill, they might know...'

Anyway, Durham Cathedral is like many others of its kind: large, pointy, stone, old. It features a 'cathedra' (bishop's throne, hence Cathedral being a church where the bishop sits) that is a couple of inches higher than the church at Rome ( a detail I particularly enjoyed, do love it when those who are leading the flock by demonstrating the humility of Christ decide to get petty) and the tomb of the Venerable Bede, a monk who wrote the first history of England (6th or 7th century). Also features a tower that goes 325 steps up, and wow that's a lot isn't it? After going interminably round in circles ever upward I burst forth gasping onto the roof, and, once I recovered, enjoyed getting snap happy with the beautiful views all around while watching other people burst forth gasping from the stairs.

I circled back to the ground, and went for a walk along the river, which is very pretty, just beginning to get a bit autumnal and then ate a scone. Tea is very good in England. You do get some shockers, but in general the standard is much higher than in Aus. I think that is because the people would revolt if it wasn't. Possibly why France has had more revolutions than England: the English might be oppressed and downtrodden, but there's nothing like a nice cup of tea is there?

blog by request...

... Just to prove the wonder that is this hip interactive groove-thang of the blogosphere, I'm responding near-instantly to a certain elegantly-worded request for images...



Newgrange, outside of Dublin



What's not to love?



Stop me if you've seen this before...



... the reson cliché is a French word?



My favourite sculpture at the Musee D'Orsay, Paris, I canna remember title nor artist, which gives you a bit of a project on the ole 'net doesn't it?




A detail of the painting that almost made me cry it was so beautiful - Cezanne still life.




Favourite sculpture at the Pompidou: Ingo Maurer's 'Tableaux Chinois' mixed media (including live fish)



Excellent juxtaposition at the Pompidou Centre between works by Hans Arp (left) and a video installation by Erwin Wurm.



Interior view, Picasso Museum



Musee du Quai Branly



View upon arrival at the Louvre.



Interior view, Pyramid, Louvre.



Winged Victory, Louvre



Cycladic Head, Louvre



I climbed 325 thigh-crushing steps for this view, so do pause and reflect. Durham Cathedral.

Postscript: Paris

Dark Chocolate with Pink Peppercorns (Dolphin brand).

Forgot to mention this previously, but it was one of the Big Discoveries of the trip, if not my life.

That's all.

it big, she small

So it seems a bit ridiculous to determinedly blog about things in the order that they happened, when I'm now three countries behind, but I'm going to anyway, because otherwise *I'll* forget everything that I've done, and we can't have that can we?

But this will be the final post about Paris!

And I could hardly not mention the louvre now, could I?

Arrived just after opening, only a short queue outside. Hurried inside, failed to obtain any concession or love despite having prepared for the last 9 years or so to visit this place.

Followed the crowd: figured it would be best to get Mona out of the way first and hopefully while not too many crowds. Soon discovered this is impossible dream. Started pondering theory that Dan Brown only wrote Da Vinci code in order to get some kind of access to museum to see Mona unhindered. But surely that book wouldn't have had that effect on the French? Anyway, no painting can really be fresh after the hype that She receives, but it is still incredibly beautiful, don't know how Da Vinci got the effects that he did in his work, but he certainly was an amazing painter. [should really rename this blog to nerdstatingtheobvious.blogspot] Having followed the herd up a few staircases and around a few corners, I then had no idea where I was and had to regroup a little to find an approach to the Louvre that meant I could cover the key things in an ordered fashion. So I just wandered around in a kind of hyper-overstimulated way, because everytime I tried to stop go back to some kind of starting point, I would go around a corner and find myself startled by some old friend from art history - Gericault's Raft of the Medusa, (fecking enormous), more Da Vincis, Caravaggios, Cimabue! Giotto! ... and so the excitement continued, for ages, and then I stopped, figuring I'd covered a decent percentage... which of course I hadn't ... the percentage of the Louvre I'd covered would be a broom cupboard at the Nat Gal of Aust. So I had to be brutal, looking at the map, 'Today, I do not care about decorative arts, Greece, Rome, Egypt (except for Coptic Egypt), Asia and so forth.' I could have used those shoes with wheels on the soles though, especially for the french paintings circa Fragonard ("I'm going to paint chocolate boxes, lots of chocolate boxes! Weeeeeeeee a woman on a swing!" Get a grip man.) but went into an interesting dribbling and twitching state of joy in the Spanish section. Didn't really make up for not being able to include Madrid this time around, but at least laid a few planks of restitution. [and we're just going to pretend that that's a metaphor that makes any sense]

Sculpture: stuck to the marble. Winged Victory is one of the best placed works of art anywhere, ever. Michelangelo's Dying Slave. Canova. Borghese Gladiator. Happy Happy times.

Anyway, seven.hours.later. Went on a hunt for Coptic Egypt, and came close to having a panic attack (well, more of a temper tantrum, but one does not have tantrums in the louvre) because I got completely confused and lost in a strange corner of ancient Greek sculpture, and was very tired. But did think to myself 'surely the only time I would get grumpy to be seeing this' but there's only so much it is physically possible to see in a day...

Left Paris the following day, completely exhausted by not getting very much sleep but more art than my feet could bear.