Category Archives: Arts

London 2009 – Day 12 – Off West End Drama

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Pawn had a business meeting today, which entailed remembering just what his business really is, after all, and much other preparation. X took advantage of this to laze about for once before heading off to the National Galleries for the Picasso retrospective there.

Pawn’s meeting went well, and dwelt on longer than expected, eating up the entire afternoon. Back home, then, to rendezvous with X and dinner, which consisted of some yummy broccoli and a chicken and asparagus pie, followed by biscuits and grapes. Then off to the Arcola Theatre production Monsters up at Arcola’s creatively green theatre in Hackney.

This show has generated it’s fair share of controversy in the press, for a variety of reasons. The basic idea of the show, by Swedish playwright Niklas RÃ¥dström (translated by Gabriella Berggren), is to examine the events which lead to the death of 2 year old James Bulger, in 1993, at the hands of a pair of 10 year old boys. How could this happen? How could so many people witness these events and not intervene? How could so many CCTV cameras record this, and nothing was done to stop it?

It is difficult subject matter, to be sure, and while I am not sure that the best approach was used in all instances I can attest that the show is masterful and quite effective in making the audience squirm and find defect in their own behaviour. I, for one, was made to think of how many times I may have been complicit, though my own lack of action, in crimes which while less heinous still crimes. The show opens with the four actors, two men and two women, asking a series of questions, almost as Greek chorus. These questions are academic, rhetorical, but probing:

I don’t know

I don’t know why you came here

I don’t know what you expect from a performance about two children who kill a third

I don’t know what you expect to hear

You probably want to know why

Why did that which soon will happen here already happen?

How could such a thing happen: children killing children, brutally, ruthlessly, planlessly destructively?

That situation must surely be so from anything I know that it would never happen anywhere near me.

Someone must tell me why, so that I need never think about it.

And on in that vein. The actors eventually break out of chorus and into a series of 33 scenes, punctuated by flashes of fluorescent lighting and loud bursts of static. There are video monitors suspended from the ceiling of the performance space, a space which itself is a rectangle deliniated by a thin line, and with seating on all sides. There are video cameras which the cast members periodically re-aim and refocus these cameras on other cast members, the audience, etc.

The action alternates between direct exposition on the sequence of events, reënactment of the police interviews, statements by the parents, and more of these probing questions. The actors take turns playing the roles of the 10 year olds, their parents, the police, the victim’s mother. All the while we see video from CNN, the BBC, films (Lord of the flies is prominent at one point) and other sources on the video screens.

Despite the frequent references in the script to “that which soon will happen here” or “that which has just happened here” there is no effort to actually reënact the crime itself, just the interogations. This leads to an oddity in the script, as throughout the show we are being questioned as to whether we would have gotten involved, should the authorities have done so, etc. At the end we are nearly chastised for not having done so:

CHORUS: How can any of the responsibility be ours?

We weren’t even there.

CHORUS LEADER: We are here.

It has also just happened right here.

CHORUS: This was just an enactment.

When it happened it was for real.

…

CHORUS LEADER: We are all guilty of what we did

or didn’t do.

Where there is evil

it thrives on indifference, contempt,

self complacency, arrogance…

Human beings kill other human beings

Children kill another child

The conclusion or moral to be found in this

cannot undo that it is, was and has been happening

CHORUS: Is, was, has been, happening

Is, was, has been, happening

CHORUS LEADER: And it has happened,

without any of us being able to prevent it

I’m not saying that makes us responsible for this

I’m saying it makes this part of our fate.

Had they in fact enacted the grisly event, no doubt there would have been no end of protest, but then to carry on as though we had just witnessed this even seems duplicitous.

No matter, I guess. The show, as I’ve stated, was powerful and effective. The use of the space and video and sound technologies was wonderful. The cast: Lucy Ellinson, Sandy Grierson, Jeremy Killick and Victoria Pratt were all brilliant.

All in all a good and effective piece of social criticism wrapped up into an impressive play. Oh, and this bears mentioning: The program for Monsters includes the full script (which explains, for those of you wondering, how I’ve been able to quote so extensively). For a play which aims to educate and inspire thoughtful reflection and discussion, this is a wonderful thing.

London 2009 – Day 10 – Cheese Toastie, Pottery and X is Right

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Pawn must adjust his opinions to match reality. Cuisine can conquer. Appearances may deceive. Strangers can be trusted. Sunday is for Sunday roast. And sometimes a pot is just a pot.

On any normal day, starting out with a cheese toastie may well mean that you are starting at the top and things can only go down from there. This, my friends, was no normal day. I awoke at about 6:15 and after giving up on returning to sleep, got up, made some tea, and then a cheese toastie, using up the Buffalo cheddar and a goodly portion of the Edam. It was cheese-toastie-licious! While I worked and wrote, X slept in for a change (not).

Part of my exercise this morning was to determine the proper disposition of our recyclables. Once X arose, I loaded up our largest carry-bag, the one with the reinforced shoulder strap and rip-proof nylon, and made my way, clanking like the tin woodsman, tottering up Tottenham Court Road the three blocks to the recycling point. Thankfully the only other people out on the streets at that hour were still out, rather than on their way to church, likely as not.

That properly sorted, we set about planning the day. I purchased a vase for £68 ($100) on Ebay a few weeks back, and as luck would have it the seller is located in Hemel Hempstead, Hertfordshire, just about 25 minutes north-west of London, not far from North Harrow, Pawn’s birthplace.

dressler-victorian

Today we had planned to go fetch it.  We had debated whether or not X would join me on the quest.  There are still some things (like Picasso at the National Galleries) which she wants to see, and it was just an errand.  “Maybe they’ll invite us in for tea,” X offered.  “I wouldn’t count on it,” I replied, “You know the Brits, polite to a fault, but not very friendly.”  On the train I rang up Jayne, the seller, to let her know we were on our way and that we planned to stop for lunch first, as we were quite early. She said not to worry, recommended the Fishery Inn, and said to feel free to pop in either before or after dining.

The Fishery Inn is across the road from the train station, over a moor and a canal. We enjoyed the brief stroll there, and were really looking forward to taking a sit-down overlooking the canal while dining on Sunday Roast, or some other item from their tempting menu. When I approached the bar to order, however, I was informed by the flustered barmaid that the tills (cash registers) were down, and they couldn’t take any orders. “It’ll take 5 minutes to sort, and I’ll come and take your order then,” she said.

Fifteen minutes later, we finally went and got some wine, at least, and continued waiting…

Okay, even we have our limits, and 45 minutes was it. We were expected at Jayne’s at 2:00, and it was already 1:45 when we finally gave up, settled with the staff for our wine, and trudged off still starving and with a little buzz from the wine on an empty stomach.

We strolled along the footpath between the moor and canal and marvelled at the bucolic beauty of it all. There are several permanent residents on the canal, their house boats moored along the banks. Cooking out on barbecues and playing with their dogs.

After a short stroll down the canal we crossed over to the other side of the moor and the rail tracks. We walked through a lovely old tunnel, again on a footpath,

and when back out on the main road proceeded another couple hundred yards down the road, up a short walkway, and then rang up again to tell Jayne we had arrived. Tony, her husband greeted us in the forecourt and lead us into the house, an assortment of dogs (Roy, the Shepherd/Rottweiller mix, Blossom, a little mutt, and Lilly, a chihuahua) all barking and sniffing, tails wagging merrily.

When I had corresponded and spoken with Jayne I had envisioned a right proper British matron. The woman was selling me a Victorian vase, and her voice was all Upstairs/Downstairs proper and all. Well, was I in for a surprise. Jayne stepped out of the back lounge in a flowing black floor length skirt and tight black bodice, bare armed, slender and well muscled. She looked more like an extra in a Tori Amos video than the right proper country lady I had imagined. Next to Tony, himself a svelte man, they made quiet the striking couple.

We settled in the lounge, and I couldn’t help but notice the lovely pottery all around the place, and the stunning Art Nouveau cabinet in the corner. As I complimented her collection, Jayne asked if we would like some wine. We had already explained that we had tried to stop for a meal a the Fishery Inn, as she had suggested, and that we still hadn’t eaten. This did not deter them, and we soon each had a nice glass of white wine, and were chatting like old friends and examining their entire collection of vintage pottery, glass, majolica, etc. as well as some lovely furniture.

Well, before you know it we were getting along famously, the wine flowed, the pottery was shown, and we were invited to join them for their traditional Sunday Roast. “Dinner won’t be for a couple of hours,” said Jayne, at about 2:30, “but I can assure you it will be worth the wait.” She explained that as hectic as their lives get, they always sit down to dinner together; her, Tony and her three adult kids.

Over the next several hours we got to know these people, but it seemed we had always known them. We discussed politics and immigration, art and pottery, Ebay and Internet culture, Libraries and motor cars. Frequently throughout the afternoon and evening Tony or Jayne would pop out to the kitchen to tend to the dinner and retrieve another bottle of wine.

And

Time

Passed

It was 7:30 when we finally sat down for dinner, five bottles of wine later, and good friends to be sure. Oh, and what a dinner! We had:

  • Roast chicken, pulled from the bone
  • Home made gravy
  • Cranberry sauce
  • Yorkshire pudding
  • Onion and rosemary English stuffing
  • Sweet peas
  • Green beans
  • Asparagus
  • Broccoli
  • Roast potatoes
  • Roast Parsnips

Oh, and for desert? Fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate!

It. Was. To. Die. For!

Then came the coffee and some spectacular port wine.

By now it was after 9:00 and we had to beg our leave. The last train would be through at 10:00 or so, and we dare not risk missing it. It was hard to say goodbye to our new friends. We exchanged vows to stay in touch. I will come to visit them again, for certain. One doesn’t easily make friends in England, they are a very private people, but Tony and Jayne had truly welcomed us with open arms. I am sure that had we missed our train, they wouldn’t have batted an eyelash at putting us up for the night, either.

More photos here.

Ta!

London 2009 – Day 9 – Scandals and Demons

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Pawn may be disenfranchised but he is neither humbled nor disinterested. Some honesty is displayed, to what end is unknown. Some dishonesty is revealed, outcome unclear. Dirty laundry is aired, outcome most certain. Chains are rattled, hammers have fallen, polls have been rocked. Oh, the turmoil!

Whilst your intrepid travelers have been blithely gallivanting about London, do not for a moment think that they have been ignorant of the goings on in politics. All about us a scandal has been brewing, and that brew has now burst the bottle and sprayed its frothy mush all over the Zeitgeist. That is the MP Expenses scandal; it doesn’t look as though it is getting much coverage across the pond, but it is all the rage on every front page over here. Here is the story in a nutshell:

British Members of Parliament (MPs) are allowed to claim a variety of expenses, such as second homes in or around London (so as to attend Parliament), service workers, meals, etc. Each member is limited to about £25,000/year. The system was first engineered back in the 1980s when the typical MP earned a relative pittance for their service, up against comparable professions, such as bankers, solicitors or barristers. Recompense has since increased, but the expenses system remains.

Gordon Brown, the current Prime Minister, has been trying to change the system for years, but these efforts have been successively rebuffed by the House of Commons (the UK equivalent to the House of Representatives), year after year. When word started to get out about some potential abuses, the government responded by preparing an audit, and announced that it would be releasing the details in July, well after the British county and European Union (EU) elections coming up in late May.

Well, best made plans… The Telegraph, a decidedly Tory rag, performed some exceptional investigative journalism, and dug up all the facts on who claimed what, when and why. [I believe the muckraking consisted of paying someone £300,000 for the expenses reports – an offer the more principled papers here refused. – X] They then put these facts into the partisan journalism blender and released an overly sensationalised account which focused almost entirely on Labour MPs (only mentioned one Tory) and containing many flat out distortions, conflations and errors.

No matter that, the chum was in the water, and in no time at all every paper in the country had picked up and repeated the Telegraph’s claims, right or wrong, and in a matter of days Labour numbers dropped 14 points in some polls (23 in others) and with elections looming the Tories now stand at 48%, Labour 27%, Liberal Dems 18%.

Having done its dirty deed, the Telegraph is now reportedly going to start releasing the results of their investigation vis-a-vis the Tory MPs. You can fully expect that they will do so in such a manner as to selectively pick off some perceived weak members, and reorder the party to their liking.

This is redolent of nothing so much as the House Franking scandal which rocked the US House of Representatives back in 1992. That lead to the downfall of Dan Rostenkowski, then the Democratic chair of the House Ways and Means committee, the most powerful seat in the house, by many measures. If that is any guide, we can fully expect that Chancellor of the Exchequer Darling and PM Brown will be jobless in short order. The Telegraph, of course, will live to slander another day.

Well, enough of scandal, how about some demons. Tonight took us to the Vaudeville Theatre for Duet for One. Here is X for that review:

—

Juliet Stevenson has long been a favourite of mine (since the lovely film “Truly Madly Deeply” with Alan Rickman), so on that basis alone I was interested in this show. I did not know that it was about a brilliant, successful violinist who (pressured by her husband) is seeing a psychiatrist after developing MS and becoming unable to play music. The story was inspired by the story of Jacqueline Du Pre. The play is profoundly moving, well written and brilliantly acted. Stevenson, in a motorized wheelchair for the most part, is riveting as she talks through her rage and suicidal thoughts about having MS in the prime of life. The set, the subtle details of Stephanie’s deteriorating condition, the music and lighting are perfect. It’s physically hard to take your eyes off her to look at her doctor (Henry Goodman), but when you do, his reactions to her words and actions are perfectly in tune. There were several people in the audience who appeared to have MS, and, judging from the audible sobs of the woman next to me, must have friends with the disease. I thought of my dear NR and BB with love.

—

duet-for-one

To expand a bit on X’s able hand, I would add this: During interval we discussed how strong of a performance Goodman turned in. In a two-hander like this, where the lead is so strong it can be hard for the second to really do much more than show up. Goodman does way more than this. He never just shows up, he is present and inhabits the stage every bit as much as Stevenson does. Given few lines in the first act, he has to rely instead upon gesture, body language, movement – all subtle, but all pitch perfect.

As has so often been the case on this trip, however, we were blown away by the tectonic shifts which occurred in the second act. Goodman, as Dr. Alfred Feldman, at one point launches into what must have been a 10 minute soliloquy about life and suicide and psychiatry. It takes one’s breath away, it does. It takes Stevenson’s breath away, as well, and for a short while the tide is turned on stage and in the audience’s hearts. That Stevenson comes back in the very next scene and steals the show back for herself is just one more example of the emotional whiplash to which we are subjected.

Testament to the high state of London theatre arts is the fantastic lighting, scenography, soundscapes, etc. to which we have been treated this past week. Tonight was no exception. The set, by Lez Brotherston, is a near-perfect rendition of a doctor’s office. Comfortable yet not too inviting. Jason Taylor’s lighting and John Leonard’s sound do exactly what they are supposed to do, not get noticed. The subtly of both is the most exquisite expression of theatrical art one can achieve. Taylor’s lighting is a masterpiece of naturalism rarely seen in today’s over-sensationalised shows. Well done!

If there is one bone to pick with the production, well I will pick it. The set decoration, while complete, was perhaps a little too much so. The bookcases were full, edge to edge. The CD shelves were full, edge to edge. The same with cassettes and LPs. I can believe that the good doctor is a collector and aficionado of music, I cannot believe that he has this custom built shelving system and has only got space for maybe 2 CDs out of 12 entire shelves. Good thing that they don’t make cassette tapes any more, ’cause there is no room for any more of those, either.

A small point, I know, but I noticed it, so I am willing to guess that others did as well. Barely a blip of a blemish on what is otherwise as perfect a production as one could hope to see.

One last point. In England one typically must pay for a programme for the West End theatre. £2 or £3 will get you the typical cast listings, bios, etc., as well as general theatre news, and such. Not so tonight. We gladly paid the £3 for the evening’s programme, only to find that is was nearly a book, replete with extensive details on MS, causes and treatments, the music used and referred to in the performance, as well as the usual interviews and such. It is quite the reference.

Ta!

London 2009 – Day 8 – Banksy Holiday

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Pawn discovers that he has become disenfranchised by an act of Parliament and is none too happy about it, with the vote looming quick on the horizon. His heritage slowly leaking away, Pawn is prone to spasms of reflection and reminiscence. Meanwhile, more art by the basket is heaped down upon our intrepid travelers, a tyre palace from a past empire looms large, but does not ultimately lure.

The number 14, our trusty favourite bus, takes us down to South Kensington for an exhibit of Banksy at Andipa Gallery on Walton Street. Banksy doesn’t really lend himself to official shows, as he still maintains his anonymity, so little galleries like Andipa step into the void by gathering enough pieces from private holdings to put on shows and try to elevate the prices of those pieces which are in private hands. It is an art world rat race which is entirely a fiction created by those who stand to gain the most, the brokers, dealers and sellers. Banksy sees not a pound from this, directly, but it still does add to his myth, his mystique and ultimately his wallet, no doubt.

The show was small, like last year’s, about twenty pieces in total. Some good, some redundant, all inimitably Banksy. Picked up the catalogue this time, couldn’t help myself. [in light of the “Riverwest anarchists” breaking windows of Whole Foods, etc., in Milwaukee, his screen print of a hooded figure about to hurl a bouquet of flowers {Love is in the Air} is appropriate.]

Then off to the Michelin Bidendem, a bizarre Art Nouveau temple on Brompton Road, just a short dash from Andipa. We had thought about eating there, but after checking the set price menu we demurred and stumbled on off to the Victoria and Albert to take in the exhibit “Hats; An Anthology by Stephen Jones” Here is X to comment on that:

—

So, as is so often the case of late, Nic is the only straight guy in sight at this special exhibit. A fantastic show of hats and headgear over the years, from Queen Victoria to Leigh Bowery, Audrey Hepburn to Madonna, from plastic rain hats {fancied by my Aunt} to “The Kiss of Death” – a feathered tunnel of a hat, black of course.

From there we toured, with a bored and indifferent group of “docents in training” the Theatre and Performance exhibit. Teeny tiny costumes worn by Mick Jagger, Adam Ant and Brian Eno were astonishing, at least in size. When you don’t care about jewellery or holy relics, you can save a hell of a lot of time at the V&A.

The plodding, exhausted masses yearning to drink tea I’ve encountered at so many museums here reminds me of “Shawn of the Dead”. I’m beginning to think Rick Steves is a cult leader (just sayin’). The necking French teenagers encountered around every corner probably have the right idea. After a costly (for Nic) stop in the gift shop, we went to the Science Museum and the “Listening Post.”

You are drawn into a stream of information and exchanges being made at the moment on the internet. One of the seven sequences is a narrated and projected series of posts beginning with the words “I am”…Bulgarian, horny all the time, leaving for Monterrey, wearing that black dress, eating constantly, holding a gun…hundreds of messages captured and displayed. Jenny Holzer on crack. And, voyeur that I am, I loved it.

Over to Pawn

—

Regular readers may remember my visit to Listening Post last year. X was immediately drawn into its hypnotic spell, as it is the ultimate in textual voyeurism. I had to tear her away after a complete cycle, though, as we had other dates to make. Specifically we had to get back up to the Photographers’ Gallery in time for me to finalise shipping details for the Dryden Goodwin print I’ve purchased (yes, no willpower). That sorted, we shot back east on the tube, and relaxed a bit at home… had a lovely lamb and rosemary pie we bought at the market Sunday last.

Then, off to the theatre, the Young Vic, for Pictures from an Exhibition. This is one of the most difficult to describe shows I have ever seen, so I will toss it over to X:

—

Pictures from an exhibiton

OK, this is a smackdown, since this theatrical/dance piece choreographed to the music of Modest Mussorgsky is a definite one-off. After surviving the scrum at the door for our ill-defined seats, we found a pretty good vantage point for the story of composer Mussorgsky’s life told in dance to his composition, “Pictures from an Exhibition”. A highly physical and accomplished production (but the Brits should lose the freaking fog effects) tracing Mussorgsky’s life from birth (from an egg, according to his father) to his death by vodka and Mother Russia (in bear costume). Beautiful, strenuous dance and a poignant narrative made for a very moving experience. Noting the young, fashionable and enthusiastic Londoners queuing for the show left us both encouraged for the future of ambitious theatre here. So, home on the tube to the Mighty Goodge station and back to American Idol (concerned for our MKE friends in Gokey Gridlock) and adding to our already extensive collection of empty wine/liquor bottles. We have to carry these, in public, to a recycling bin in a square near us, and Pawn is already concerned. Me, hell, I’m used to it… – X

—

Well, X has done it up rightly, then, hasn’t she. Not much to add here, but a few observations:

  • There is a dearth of French in France, as they, apparently, are all here in London.
  • The wealthy are still so, the poor are even more so.
  • True love lingers but does not die.
  • The political parties may change, but the scandals are remarkably similar, nonetheless.
  • A natural born Brit may not vote in his homeland if he has been gone too long, it seems.
  • Steve Martin is still a genius (just watched LA Story).
  • Tiered skirts and dresses are very much in style right now.
  • So are sculpted waistlines, pointy-tipped men’s shoes, bright colours, self confidence, jaunty looks, sensible heels, nonsense heels, hats, scarves (men and women)…

Enough for now. We have nothing booked for tomorrow, yet, but there is much demanding our attention. Will write again,

Ta!

London 2009 – Day 7 – Opportunities Lost And Found

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On which day does Pawn find himself locked in battle over a graven image, only to lose to priority and prosperity, yet discovers a different wealth in humility and a sanctity in perseverance. Further, upon accepting this loss, engages more fully in the game of life and in the possible rewards of that engagement. All whilst discovering the true nature of place, time and home.

Started the day online. This is the new normal, as they say in this post-911 world, where everything has to have a name, even acts and normalities. Online is the new normal for when one is separated from the old normal by thousands of miles and several time zones one seizes on whatever threads still connect to the homeland. London is my home, too. I have made that a part of my life these past two years, this effort to establish myself on two fronts, on two continents and two countries. I feel an intense, personal, intimate attraction to this other home of mine. It matters not that I rent temporary accommodations when here, home is not the house, home is the surrounds.

Online, too, is a home. It is a non-temporal and non-Euclidean, non-geographical location. It obeys different rules of contact and different time lines and systems of decorum. This morning it takes me to work, and while I enjoy my breakfast of quiche, streaky bacon and crumpet I am also trolling through my client’s troves of support requests and stalking their servers and systems for signs of malady. I am able to complete a couple of hours of work before X even arises from slumber. It helps that she is narcoleptic and I am insomniac, but that would be splitting hairs.

“I am off to the galleries to see if I can get my hands on that Dryden Goodwin photo,” I announce when X has finally roused herself and is nodding in and out of consciousness over her crumpet. “I am going to Leicester Square to score some theatre tickets for tonight, then up to Piccadilly Circus and Mayfair to check in at the Stephen Friedman Gallery and try to get that Dryden Goodwin piece. Then over to Hamilton’s Gallery on Carlos Place, and then I’ll be back.”

It was an ambitious plan. I knew that the Goodwin piece was likely beyond my reach. His technique is such that there would likely be no prints, just the original, and I guessed that it would fetch somewhere between $10,000 and $15,000. I hoped for a print which I could afford, but really it was an act of gall to go walking into a St. James gallery and ask to buy work by a listed artist. I was right about the cost, £7,000 ($10,500) but that hardly matters as the piece was already spoken for. No prints, this is a one-off. So, I have to be satisfied with a “Detail” print from the Photographers’ Gallery, and the memory of having been in the hunt of so grand a piece of art as this.

Onward, then to Hamilton’s Gallery, in Mayfair, to see Miles Aldridge’s latest portfolio. This is really High Fashion stuff, lots of make-up and anorexic models. There are a couple of interesting images, but all in all it reads like a work portfolio rather than art. That may sound harsh, but after just immersing myself in Dryden Goodwin’s inspired work, this is just advertising and little else.

At the Photographers’ Gallery, Katrina is happy to see me, and we quickly settle the deal and the print is mine. It will make a great addition to my collection, and every time I look at it I will see the whole, the greater piece of which it is a detail, and I will remember this day in St. James, Mayfair and Soho – my quest for an image. Back to the flat and a well deserved nap. X is off the the British Museum to lolly-gag with the Elgin Marbles for a spell while I nap. I have had a hard time sleeping for more than a few hours every night, and I am weary of being weary.

Tonight brought us to The Last 5 Years which was five years too long if you ask us. This was a two person concert, American Idol (or X Factor, for you Brits) version. Not so much a musical, 5 Years is the telling of the falling apart of a relationship told in retrospect through a series of songs sung by the two actors, the man and the woman (their names, Kathy and Jamie, are immaterial). They only ever interact once or twice during the 1:40 one act show, and even then the distance between them is palpable. The songs are, by and large, good. And the performances, singing (not enough acting to judge anything by) are good as well. This format is different, the book, such as it is, could fit on a bev-nap; it is probably no longer than ten or twenty lines.

In total, good thing we came on what appears to have been “Friends and Family” night, as they held up our end in the over-the-top ovation. The ovation which masked our hurried retreat. Take a pass on this one.

Ta!

London 2009 – Day 6 – Solo Wanderings

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In which Pawn finds new inspiration, is exposed to much art, and spends some time alone, wandering in Soho.

We are still working on our biting and insightful commentary on “England People Very Nice,” but wanted to get an update up anyway.

Yesterday brought some work for Pawn so whilst he hunkered down to that, X went off to wander London on her own, a shopping list in hand. When she returned, around noon, we were off almost immediately to Leicester Square. We queued at the TKTS booth and got ourselves a pair of cheap seats to “Spring Awakening” evening show, 2nd row seats for ½ price! Not bad. Then a quick bite at a noodle house – £5.50 for more than we could eat – share one box next time!

Notice that Coraline in 3D opens on 8 May, both of us missed it in Milwaukee, so maybe we can see it here.

Now off to “Madame de Sade” over at the Whyndam’s Theatre. Dame Judy Dench is stellar, so graceful, so poised, and surrounded by some of the brightest talent on the British stage today. This play, translated (by Donald Keene) from Yukio Mishima’s original Japanese script is a tour de force for female actors, offering no shortage of powerful soliloquies and heated dialogue. Rosamund Pike is due special attention for her spectacular performance as Rne, Madame de Sade.

Also worthy of mention is Francis Barber’s delicious turn as Contesse de Saint-Ford, a “dissolute woman” who is as fascinated and titillated by the acts of the infamous Marquis as the other, more polite, women are appalled. She delights, however, in making these proper women realise how drawn they, too, are to these appalling acts. In one delightful scene, early in the show, she delivers an extended gazette of the Marquis’ acts to the quite pious Baronesse de Simiane, who is continually flustered by the quandary of whether to cover her ears or cross herself at this bawdy account.

Fiona Button, lastly, provides a more than capable Anna, Rene’s younger sister. Her interplay with both Rene and the Contesse is a delight. Pawn had the pleasure of seeing Ms Button in last year’s “Ring Around the Moon” in which she gave pleasingly light performance.

The staging; lights, set, soundscape, were all well above grade. The soundscape, by Adam Cork, was a driving force at many points, tho suffered from a damaged speaker on house right (shame, that). Neil Austin’s lighting dovetailed expertly with Lorna Heavey’s luscious video projections. All in all one of the finest days at the theatre one could imagine.

X went back to the flat whilst I struck off towards Oxford Circus to search out the Photographers’ Gallery in its new home on Ramillies Street. I enjoyed their old location off Piccadilly Circus during my visit last year, and was looking forward to seeing the new facility. It took quite a while to find them, Ramillies Street is only one block long, darting north off of Great Marlborough Street above the Carnaby Street pedestrian arcade. The side street, Ramillies Place, dead ends into a stairway up to Oxford street. This is subtle stuff.

Finally found the gallery and while I did enjoy The Photographic Object, the current exhibition, I was really eager to check out the print sales galleries. One of the great features of the gallery is that if you see something you like there is a very good chance you can buy a copy here. I was almost immediately struck with a fine image I saw high up on the main display wall. Titled simply “Cradle (detail)” by Dryden Goodwin, it shows a woman’s face with fine lines and curves etched into it:

The entire image is quite large, at 63″ tall by 43″ wide, and shows the woman in a street setting:

I have a chat with Katrina, of the gallery staff, and find that while they have only the detail print for sale (and will ship stateside) Goodwin is represented by the Stephen Friedman gallery by Piccadilly Circus. Put a visit there on the list.

Back out on the street I amble down through Cambridge Circus and on to The Strand. I’m to meet X at the Theatre Novello for the 7:30 show of Spring Awakening and get to Adwych over an hour early. Luckily, Cristopher, an American café and Martini bar is right there, offering real Martinis for £8(!) amazing not only for a reasonable price, but for the dearth of real Martinis in London. This gives me a chance to examine the Dryden Goodwin book I picked up at PG bookshop, and to catch up on my messages.

The show, Spring Awakening is an American import, having wowed on Broadway in 2006 and transitioned to the West End via a short stop in Hammersmith. Our reaction at interval was, “High School Musical meets Caligula” but it became much more serious in the second act. All in all quite impressive. The sets and lighting were spectacular, the choreography inspired, the actors energetic and engaging. The story, based on a 19th century book by Frank Wedekind, is about teenage angst and sexual discovery. It delivers both in ample shares. I would certainly recommend this for a rollicking night out at the theatre.

Another stop in at Christopher’s and then back home. Plenty of correspondence to catch up on.

Ta!

London 2009 – Day 5 – Accidental Tourists

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Upon which day Pawn, having slept properly for once, finds things sorted in his life, and embarks upon a day full of promise. Has contact with a voice from London past. Makes plans, and learns what happens when plans go awry.

Oh my, what can go right when something goes wrong! “No hay mal que bien no venga!” as X would have me put it. But, as usual, let’s start at the beginning…

I slept well last night, and upon awakening undertook to sort out the issues developed with my computer when I decided to upgrade it yesterday. [A brief note to you Ubuntu users out there. If you are using an ATI Radeon chipset, you will want to disable the proprietary drivers before upgrading. The new driver is fubar, and you will end up booting to a blank screen with no recourse.] After getting little Flatso working properly again it was time to make some breakfast and set about the day. X came around about 9:30, wiping the sleep out of her eyes and complaining about something which I can no longer remember.

Today we had planned that X would go out in pursuit of some theatre tickets and other errands, occupy herself, whilst I tended to Flatso and some client issues (i.e. do some work). Well, due to the miracle of sleeping in, by the time X awoke I was done with all of my chores, and was ready to go. So, we stumbled out the door and took a bus down to Picadilly Circus to find the box office of the National Haymarket Theatre to see if we could score some seats for Waiting for Godot, starring Sir Ian McClellan and Patrick Stewart. Oops! No go, nothing left but restricted view seats on the fringes of Dress Circle.

Next, then, was a saunter up to Soho to do some shopping at Fresh & Wild, the UK tradename for Whole Foods. Guess what; melatonin is not legal for sale in the UK! Okay, another strike on the day. We bought a bag lunch of Malaysian chicken, a risotto dish and a spinach and ricotta croissant. I also got a banana to polish it all off, while X thought an 85% cocoa chocolate bar was a better dessert option. Who am I to argue. We dined in Golden Square, and enjoyed watching the council worker tending to the flowers and other plantings, and watching and eavesdropping on the other diners in the area.

After lunch it was down to the National Portrait Gallery, one of my personal faves here. The big show right now is Gerhard Richter. I say; Ooh La La! Richter’s technique consists of starting with a photograph, and then painting from that. But, the big thing with Richter is that for many years he wouldn’t simply recreate the photo, he would drag the image left to right, create a constant horizontal element in every image, so that you grew to expect to find a certain side-to-side displasia in his work.

gerhard-richter-portraits-ella

Pawn is particularly taken with Ema, “Nude on a staircase”:

gerhard-richter-ema

But, he could also produce works so perfect that you would be hard pressed not to simply see them as photos, such as Lesende [the reader]:

gerhard-richter-lesende

Or his iconic portrait of Gilbert and George:

Richter’s work is otherworldly in that what he sees, and by dint of that, what we are asked to see, is not something which exists. No, his portraits are a very personal experience, and very iconagraphic. In the entry to the wing of the portrait gallery housing this exhibit we walk past a stairway, above which, in the wedge shaped space defined as that space above the stairs and up to the ceiling, we see 48 photographic portraits by Richter of various statesmen. This installation is in direct contradiction to what we find in the exhibit, in that these are straight photography, whereas the exhibit focuses on his oil on canvas interpretations of his photographs. It is as though the National Portrait Gallery is trying to remind us that no matter what the media, it all begins with portraiture. In this, they are right, and right, again, to remind us thus.

After a jaunt thru the gift store we launch ourselves towards the theatre for this afternoon’s performance of Madame de Sade, staring Lady Judie Dench. Oops! That is tomorrow afternoon, not today! Suddenly we have our entire afternoon open. Suddenly we are accidental tourists. We walk down to the London Eye and book ourselves a River Cruise (see photos: http://www.fortunespawn.com/gallery/main.php?g2_itemId=4906) and a “flight” on the London Eye. Well, we are just tourists for the next two hours, a very different experience for me, but a thoroughly enjoyable one. Please look at the photos before you condemn me for this indulgence.

After the Eye we descend into Southwark to find some din-din. X spots a Spanish Tapas restaurant, Meson don Felipe, and we go for it. OMG! What a great dinner! We order a bottle of Reserva Riojas and settle in for prawns in oil and garlic (two orders), artichoke hearts salad, pork meatballs in tomato sauce, bread with tomato and garlic puree, mushroom caps stuffed with chorizo… Ooh la la! We have struck gold here! To top it all off, the waitress, with whom X tried to negotiate some raw eyes (a linguistic disaster), had the most beautifully sculpted arms. To watch her serve was to watch a classical sculpture dance!

A long walk back to the southern embankment left us plenty of time to prepare for the show.  Along the way we stopped in at the Young Vic and booked a couple of seats for Pictures at an Exhibition on Friday night, this is not straight classics but a cutting edge dance performance.  I can’t wait.  Meanwhile, I noticed a package of Party Ring biscuits (cookies) behind the counter.  I don’t even know from whence it came, but a tribal, an essentail spirit rose in me and made me say, “I haven’t had a party ring in many years.  We used to eat those when I was a kid.”  “Would you like one?” asked the oh too helpful clerk.  “Oh yes I would” I replied.  Oh, it was exactly as I remembered it, though I don’t actually remember where or when that memory was born.tt

All I can say is that I was caught in the vise of a childhood memory virging on an adult memory.

Tonight’s show?  I don’t even   I won’t go into that now, however. X and I have discussed it, and we wish you to indulge us by letting us enough time to properly report our feelings about this complex show during a virtual online conversation tomorrow morning (our time).

Ta!

London 2009 – Day 3 – The Neighbours

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We already made reference to the fact that we are squatting right across the street from the headquarters of Saatchi & Saatchi, a worldwide advertising concern.  Next door to us, to the east, is an architectural firm, whose various models fill their windows (see photos).  Last night, on the way home from St. Martin’s, we noticed the name of the firm for the first time, it is none other than ARUP, one of the top design/build architectural engineering firms in the world.  There was a fantastic profile of on of ARUP head engineers in the New Yorker a year or so back.  They have been responsible for such projects as the Bird’s Nest stadium for the Beijing Olympics.

I Dream In Poems

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poeticdreams

poetic-smile

Tell me about yourself

I said.

She said

I dream in poems.

When I asked

what she meant

she asked

Do you dream in color

Or black and white?

I dream in color

I said.

I dream in poems

she replied.

And

that

was

that.

I asked

Do you have any pets.

A dog;

a dog

and

a cat.

What are their names?

I name all my pets the same

she said.

Oh yes?

I name them after myself.

There are fewer to keep track of then.

Fewer names

less confusion.

What does one of your dreams

look like

she asked.

What does one of yours

sound like

I asked

in reply.

Patronizing Behavior

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I have been called many things in my life, but this latest is different, “Patron.”

Last evening I attended the final hours of a silent auction for the benefit of the Riverwest Artist Association.  As the auctioneer read off the list of winners, my name came up a few times.  After the second, “Looks like we have a patron here,” was the comment.  I consulted, via text, my friend J, “True. You most certainly are.”

“I just never was called that until U so dubbed me just 2 weeks ago.  Still getting used 2 the title,” I replied.  “Enjoy it.  It’s a good one.  And ur efforts are very appreciated.  Particularly these days.”

I suppose some background is in order.  My firm has recently moved into new offices.  Large offices.  Offices with lots of empty walls, high ceilings, and the sort of vibe which just calls out for art.  I have an extensive art collection, but have not purchased much in the past few years because I have run out of places to put it.  Walking through the new office space I commented, “We’ll need more artwork.” “That’s your job,” my boss fired back.  Okay then, I took him at his word and begun an acquisition binge which has only now, with last night’s auction, reached its end.

I am not a wealthy man, but I am well off enough to invest some money in art.  In these troubled times I consider it to be my own personal economic stimulus plan.  Art is a good investment, it appreciates in almost all market conditions and has more intrinsic value to its owner than any paper investment does.  Stocks may offer more upside potential (and risk) and bonds may offer more reliable earnings, but they’re not much to look at.  Art; art is a joy to be around, it betters our lives, improves our surroundings, adds to the human experience, and it appreciates.  You can’t beat that.

So, I am now a patron.  “Everyone’s happy when the collector shows up,” I quipped at a recent benefit art sale.  Oh, those were the innocent days, when I was merely a collector, before I undertook this patronizing behavior.  Well, if I have to be something, I guess being a patron of the arts isn’t so bad.

So I encourage everyone to go out there and buy some art.  You cannot find a better way to inject money directly into the economy than spending it on something created by people with no economic sense of their own (artists) who will immediately take that money and spend it on the essentials of their life.  Go find a student art show, of which there are always plenty this time of year, and buy buy buy!  In Milwaukee, go to MIAD, whose senior thesis show is on display until May 9th, or check out any one of the UWM School of Art thesis shows, such as “expose(d)” at the Kunnzelmann Esser lofts, or the Union Art Gallery, or Innova gallery.

Or, check out one of the numerous benefit auctions.  I have attended two of these in the past week, and gotten wonderful pieces of art at ridiculously low prices, all while benefiting good causes.  You see, not only do artists, as a breed, have no economic sense, but they also tend to be outragiously generous, and give away their work to worthy causes much like a drunken lout dispenses his opinion.