Sunday, August 31, 2008
We all woke up late today. I had to pry myself out of bed in order to get breakfast. I don’t really feel like skipping breakfast, seeing as it’s the only free meal I get all day. Lounged about for a while, writing journals and IMing people. Then housekeeping came by, and we figured we should probably leave the room.
Leah and I went out to the East End, to Spitafields Market. We were starving, so our first mission was to find a cheap place for lunch. I figured this would be easy, and got excited for cheap Indian food. After reading Brick Lane and Salaam Brick Lane, I assumed we would come across something. No such luck. After wandering for a good twenty minutes, we finally settled on this little café and bought jacket potatoes. Since they were less expensive for take away, we got them to go. Of course, they didn’t give us any plastic forks, so we ended up sitting on a curb eating them with our hands. I don’t recommend it. We walked around Petticoat Lane Market for a while and I bought two Pashminas for ₤5. Not bad.
The stark contrast between the Spitafields and Petticoat Lane Markets was really interesting. Spitafields Market is in a very nice shopping center, in a covered marketplace like Covent Gardens. Many of the stalls are clothing, but it’s all very artisan and boutique-y. Nothing was under ₤20 that I saw. The people there varied in ethnicity and age, but everyone seemed to be relatively well dressed and posh-looking. Petticoat Lane couldn’t have been more different. Less than a ten minute walk from Spitafields Market is this side road crammed with tables and stalls selling a jumble of second-hand and overstocked clothes, shoes, scarves, electronics, and jewelry. Things were pretty cheap, certainly more so than at Spitafields. More interesting, though, is, as Leah noted, we were the minority there. Most of the people at this market were South Asian or African or…not of European descent. The area of the market was decidedly different from the upscale shopping center of Spitafields, too. A rather dirty, cramped side road in a bit of a run-down neighborhood. This was more of how I imagined the East End, based on the books I had read. I can only assume that this reflects the class differences between immigrants and the more upscale reconstructed part of the East End. Personally, I think I’ll take Petticoat Lane over Spitafields. I can afford it.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
A Night of Misanthropy
Saturday, August 30, 2008
We met Prof. Rudalevige outside Southwark Cathedral on the south bank of the Thames. He lectured a bit about the history of the cathedral and of the area in general. Because it was outside of the boundaries of the City of London, the south bank, or Bankside, area became both a military headquarters (for defense of the London Bridge), and also a headquarters for debauchery, outside the jurisdiction of the laws of London. Consider, for instance, how all the play houses of the 16th and 17th centuries are on the south side of the river. It’s also where all the brothels and bear-bating rings were. These things were all condemned by the church (theaters were considered the “seat of the devil”) and were actually torn down during the Cromwell years following the Civil War. Ironic, since all the prostitutes that worked the theatres were in the employ of the Church.
Southwark was also the convergence of all major roads leading from the south of England. In fact, as we exited the Tube station, we walked along Borough High Street, which was the original Roman road leading from the south. We got to see the only surviving coaching inn left in London, of which there used to be many on the outskirt of the city. Coaches traveling to London from the far counties could stop there, stable their horses, have a meal and find lodging before moving on into the city. This last inn, the George, is now just a restaurant, but it has been preserved by the National Trust and was probably frequented by Dickens. Also in Southwark, although we didn’t get to see it, is the site of the Tabard, the 14th century inn where Chaucer begins The Canterbury Tales.
We walked through the Borough Market, which is an enormous food market. Everything you could possibly imagine. It was fantastic. I bought some Turkish Delight, because it reminded me of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Not bad.
Then we had a tour of the Globe. I know that Wilson said that the Globe I toured is as authentic as Disney World. I’ll admit, I did have a sense of walking through a Renaissance Fair. And then I found out that this Globe, the third Globe to ever have been, isn’t even on the site of the original Globe. It’s about two minutes downriver. A mite depressing. What is on that original sight that’s SO important that they couldn’t move it to rebuild the Globe? Priorities, people!
Chad and I walked back to Borough Market to get some lunch. We got separated, but I met up with Leah, and we bought a loaf of ciabatta bread, a wedge of cheese, and some peaches, and went to sit over by the river. It was a gorgeous day, and we had a lovely little picnic. I can’t accurately describe how beautiful a view there is from that side of the river. The dome of St. Paul’s towers over everything. Today was just a beautiful day. The Thames isn’t exactly sparkling blue, but maybe they’ll clean it up for the Olympics like Sydney cleaned the bay in 2000.
Lauren and Chris found a Samuel Peyps Pub and were very excited.
After lunch we met up at the Tate Modern Gallery and were allowed to wander around on our own. I can’t say it’s my favorite museum. I don’t mind all of it, and I admire the ideas behind some modern pieces. I just prefer to look at paintings for their content, and not consider the inner torment of artist or be made aware of my isolation as a viewer or human being.
I wonder who decides the definition of “art.” Even though I didn’t always like the pieces in the Tate Modern, I will admit that some of them can be considered “art.” They took time and effort to conceive and create. But when a piece of “artwork” consists of two stuffed birds nailed to the wall by arrows and a stick-figure house drawn on the wall around them…that is not art. It’s a taxidermy project in a day-care center.
I was so tired, though, after these last few days that my eyes could barely focus on anything I was looking at. I tried to see as much as I could before I felt like I had to leave, but eventually I did decide that I needed some time to lie down before I had to come back for Timon Of Athens. So I walked across the Millennium Bridge, around St. Paul’s and down to the St. Paul’s Tube station, and took the Tube back to the hotel.
We arrived at the Globe for Timon Of Athens. I’ll admit, I wasn’t too excited at the prospect of having to stand for three hours after having walked all day. I was pleasantly surprised. The standing wasn’t that wonderful, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. It’s as a groundling that you get to have to real Globe experience. The actors would often run through the audience in and out the doors, and when they were onstage, their monologues were often directed at the groundlings, not the people in seats. It was FANTASTIC. Why isn’t it better known?
Of the three plays we’ve seen so far, this was certainly my favorite, for a number of reasons. I loved being a groundling, being involved in and surrounded by the action. The plot, for the most part, actually worked and was engaging (unlike Her Naked Skin), and it was hilarious, even though it is a tragedy. The acting was fantastic! And Flavius the Steward was played by Patrick Godfrey, who plays Leonardo da Vinci in Ever After. That was exciting. I knew he looked familiar. As we were exiting the theatre, we saw fireworks over toward the East End. Although we weren’t too sure why there were fireworks going off, it seemed like a fitting end to a beautiful day. It was too nice a night to just go back to the hotel, so I went to a pub and got drinks with Lauren, Chris, Alana, Katie, and Jen.
The staging of the play was really interesting, although I’m sure it sparked some debate. Unlike authentic Shakespearian productions, this one had a set, though not an extensive one, at least on stage. Above us, covering the entire groundling pit and stage, was a net suspended from the rafters. The net had some holes in it periodically, and the entire stage was rigged with bungee cords and high wires. There were “crows,” or actors dressed in black costumes with cloth wings, which would fly around on the wires and jump around on the net, making eerie bird noises and just generally serving the purpose of a bad omen. Some of characters would enter from the holes on bungee cords. Certainly not authentic Shakespearian, and I’m not quite sure what the Bard would have thought of it, but I really liked being thrown into the atmosphere. It kept my attention. So did the costumes. They were period (although which period, I’m not entirely sure), but the fabrics were very shiny, sometimes glittery, and the colors were surprisingly bright in places. Also, everyone but Timon and his servants had capes cut like the wings of the birds, with jagged edges suggesting feathers. I guess this means to suggest that all of Timon’s “followers” are like crows or, more accurately, vultures. This all culminates in both birds and Athenians’ frenzied devouring of Timon’s body after his death. The whole play ended with Arcibialdes leading the Athenians in a militaristic Mediterranean line dance what was a bit creepier than the “jig” that traditionally ended a Renaissance tragedy was supposed to be.
I know not everyone LOVED Timon of Athens, but I thought it was wonderful, and I can’t wait to go back to the Globe to see Merry Wives of Windsor.
We met Prof. Rudalevige outside Southwark Cathedral on the south bank of the Thames. He lectured a bit about the history of the cathedral and of the area in general. Because it was outside of the boundaries of the City of London, the south bank, or Bankside, area became both a military headquarters (for defense of the London Bridge), and also a headquarters for debauchery, outside the jurisdiction of the laws of London. Consider, for instance, how all the play houses of the 16th and 17th centuries are on the south side of the river. It’s also where all the brothels and bear-bating rings were. These things were all condemned by the church (theaters were considered the “seat of the devil”) and were actually torn down during the Cromwell years following the Civil War. Ironic, since all the prostitutes that worked the theatres were in the employ of the Church.
Southwark was also the convergence of all major roads leading from the south of England. In fact, as we exited the Tube station, we walked along Borough High Street, which was the original Roman road leading from the south. We got to see the only surviving coaching inn left in London, of which there used to be many on the outskirt of the city. Coaches traveling to London from the far counties could stop there, stable their horses, have a meal and find lodging before moving on into the city. This last inn, the George, is now just a restaurant, but it has been preserved by the National Trust and was probably frequented by Dickens. Also in Southwark, although we didn’t get to see it, is the site of the Tabard, the 14th century inn where Chaucer begins The Canterbury Tales.
We walked through the Borough Market, which is an enormous food market. Everything you could possibly imagine. It was fantastic. I bought some Turkish Delight, because it reminded me of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Not bad.
Then we had a tour of the Globe. I know that Wilson said that the Globe I toured is as authentic as Disney World. I’ll admit, I did have a sense of walking through a Renaissance Fair. And then I found out that this Globe, the third Globe to ever have been, isn’t even on the site of the original Globe. It’s about two minutes downriver. A mite depressing. What is on that original sight that’s SO important that they couldn’t move it to rebuild the Globe? Priorities, people!
Chad and I walked back to Borough Market to get some lunch. We got separated, but I met up with Leah, and we bought a loaf of ciabatta bread, a wedge of cheese, and some peaches, and went to sit over by the river. It was a gorgeous day, and we had a lovely little picnic. I can’t accurately describe how beautiful a view there is from that side of the river. The dome of St. Paul’s towers over everything. Today was just a beautiful day. The Thames isn’t exactly sparkling blue, but maybe they’ll clean it up for the Olympics like Sydney cleaned the bay in 2000.
Lauren and Chris found a Samuel Peyps Pub and were very excited.
After lunch we met up at the Tate Modern Gallery and were allowed to wander around on our own. I can’t say it’s my favorite museum. I don’t mind all of it, and I admire the ideas behind some modern pieces. I just prefer to look at paintings for their content, and not consider the inner torment of artist or be made aware of my isolation as a viewer or human being.
I wonder who decides the definition of “art.” Even though I didn’t always like the pieces in the Tate Modern, I will admit that some of them can be considered “art.” They took time and effort to conceive and create. But when a piece of “artwork” consists of two stuffed birds nailed to the wall by arrows and a stick-figure house drawn on the wall around them…that is not art. It’s a taxidermy project in a day-care center.
I was so tired, though, after these last few days that my eyes could barely focus on anything I was looking at. I tried to see as much as I could before I felt like I had to leave, but eventually I did decide that I needed some time to lie down before I had to come back for Timon Of Athens. So I walked across the Millennium Bridge, around St. Paul’s and down to the St. Paul’s Tube station, and took the Tube back to the hotel.
We arrived at the Globe for Timon Of Athens. I’ll admit, I wasn’t too excited at the prospect of having to stand for three hours after having walked all day. I was pleasantly surprised. The standing wasn’t that wonderful, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. It’s as a groundling that you get to have to real Globe experience. The actors would often run through the audience in and out the doors, and when they were onstage, their monologues were often directed at the groundlings, not the people in seats. It was FANTASTIC. Why isn’t it better known?
Of the three plays we’ve seen so far, this was certainly my favorite, for a number of reasons. I loved being a groundling, being involved in and surrounded by the action. The plot, for the most part, actually worked and was engaging (unlike Her Naked Skin), and it was hilarious, even though it is a tragedy. The acting was fantastic! And Flavius the Steward was played by Patrick Godfrey, who plays Leonardo da Vinci in Ever After. That was exciting. I knew he looked familiar. As we were exiting the theatre, we saw fireworks over toward the East End. Although we weren’t too sure why there were fireworks going off, it seemed like a fitting end to a beautiful day. It was too nice a night to just go back to the hotel, so I went to a pub and got drinks with Lauren, Chris, Alana, Katie, and Jen.
The staging of the play was really interesting, although I’m sure it sparked some debate. Unlike authentic Shakespearian productions, this one had a set, though not an extensive one, at least on stage. Above us, covering the entire groundling pit and stage, was a net suspended from the rafters. The net had some holes in it periodically, and the entire stage was rigged with bungee cords and high wires. There were “crows,” or actors dressed in black costumes with cloth wings, which would fly around on the wires and jump around on the net, making eerie bird noises and just generally serving the purpose of a bad omen. Some of characters would enter from the holes on bungee cords. Certainly not authentic Shakespearian, and I’m not quite sure what the Bard would have thought of it, but I really liked being thrown into the atmosphere. It kept my attention. So did the costumes. They were period (although which period, I’m not entirely sure), but the fabrics were very shiny, sometimes glittery, and the colors were surprisingly bright in places. Also, everyone but Timon and his servants had capes cut like the wings of the birds, with jagged edges suggesting feathers. I guess this means to suggest that all of Timon’s “followers” are like crows or, more accurately, vultures. This all culminates in both birds and Athenians’ frenzied devouring of Timon’s body after his death. The whole play ended with Arcibialdes leading the Athenians in a militaristic Mediterranean line dance what was a bit creepier than the “jig” that traditionally ended a Renaissance tragedy was supposed to be.
I know not everyone LOVED Timon of Athens, but I thought it was wonderful, and I can’t wait to go back to the Globe to see Merry Wives of Windsor.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Lesbianism is Not a Necessary Part of the Suffragette Movement
Friday, August 29, 2008
We started the day off at Trafalgar Square and walked down Whitehall to Westminster Abbey. Walking along Whitehall was more of a tour of military and political monuments than government buildings, which is what I thought Whitehall was mostly famous for. I remember passing the Departments for Scotland and Wales, but we didn’t stop to talk about them. Interesting, though, was Prof. Rudalevige’s little talk about Charles I’s and Oliver Cromwell’s statues, one at each end of Whitehall road, having a starring contest. It’s funny, the hidden significance the positioning of monuments can have. I guess that’s like our discussion of who gets into the National Portrait Gallery. I figure that money decides who has his portrait painted, but who decides which portraits actually make it into the gallery, and who decides where each one will hang? What if you put two people next to each other who hated each other in life? Does this emphasize the relationship for the viewer? Does it disregard it?
Not being one for military history, not many of the monuments interested me. I did appreciate the monument to the women who fought in WWII, the only monument to a female on the whole of Whitehall. Sadly, it was only erected in the last five years. I guess we know one more important condition for having a statue. You have to be male. I also liked the monument to “The Glorious Dead,” and the fact that the UK actually celebrates Veteran’s Day. I’d love to come back for that, but I think it would be a madhouse.
After our walk down Whitehall, we toured Westminster Abbey. Even though I’ve been to London twice before, this was the first time I’ve ever been inside the Abbey. It is spectacular to see something that old and that significant. And what other place do you get to see the tombs of famous monarchs, politicians, scientists, and authors? It was incredible. I can’t even remember how many tombs and memorials I saw. Certainly the memorial to Newton, one to Shakespeare, and a bust of my beloved Milton. I saw the tombs of Edward the Confessor, Henry III, Edward I, Edward III, Richard II, Henry V, Edward V, Henry VII, Edward VI, Bloody Mary and Queen Elizabeth I (who are buried one on top of the other, strangely), James I, Charles II, Mary II, William III, Queen Anne, George II, Anne of Cleves (Henry VIII’s fourth wife), Mary Queen of Scots…and those are just the monarchs! Let’s see…who else? Sir Robert Peel, prime minister who created the police, or Peelers. Apparently, that’s where we get the phrase “keep your eyes peeled” for the police. I saw the tomb of Charles Darwin. Then there’s Poet’s Corner: Robert Browning, Rudyard Kipling, William Congreve, Thomas Hardy, Dr. Samuel Johnson (!),Edmund Spenser, Charles Dickens, Alfred Lord Tennyson, and even Laurence Olivier. I got to spend a heartfelt moment with Geoffrey Chaucer (the first poet to be buried there around 1400).
It was a long tour, and we were asked to stop twice during our tour, on the hour, for a prayer. Someone would get on the PA system, ask us all to take a moment, remind us that Westminster Abbey is still a place of Christian worship, not just a tourist attraction, and read a prayer. I forget the first one, but the second prayer was curiously by St. Ignatius, founder of the Jesuits. Our tour guide expressed how the Church of England sees itself as a very cosmopolitan, inclusive religion. When we were outside the abbey he had us look up at the west façade, a newly added feature. Above the door were ten statues of modern martyrs of different faiths, nationalities, and ethnicities. In the middle was Martin Luther King.
I find it strange that the Anglican Church proclaims to be a universal faith when it used to persecute Catholics. I suppose that’s the beauty of modernization and secular society. Seeing all these churches and cathedrals still in operation makes me wonder how so many of them survived the secularization of British society, seeing as such a small percentage of citizens is actually practicing. I wonder if the percentage is so much higher in the U.S. because we began with Puritanism, instead of the religious instability that England has experienced. And then we have so many immigrants who come to the U.S. seeking religious freedom (the Puritans themselves), that, since they are free to practice their religion, they do so often.
I was starving after we finished the tour of Westminster Abbey, and I think I nearly killed Leah and Chad dragging them around Oxford Street, trying to find The Marlborough Head, the pub Bonnie took me to last time I was in London. Just as we were about to give up, we found it and had lunch. I still really like it. Good atmosphere, nice décor, and it is bigger than other pubs I’ve been to.
We came back to the Arran House to work on journals. No matter how much time I allot to work on them, I never seem to catch up. I IMed a couple of friends and was bitched at by Chris for not going out. Well, je m’enfiche, Chris. I’m happy.
Leah and I made the rest of the pasta we had and ate dinner.
.
At 7:30, we dressed up and went to the National Theatre to see the play Her Naked Skin, a play about the British suffragette movement written by the first woman to ever premiere at the National Theatre. A historic moment in the history of theatre. Too bad the play was awful. The acting, music, and sets were good. Even the dialogue was good in places, witty and lively. But the plot was fragmented and too ambitious. The story of the suffragette movement was overshadowed by a completely unnecessary lesbian love affair between the two main characters, the relationship between who was never truly established until their affair began half way through the first act. There was a lot of gratuitous lesbian making-out and sex. In fact, far too much sex in general. It really distracted from the history of the suffragette movement and it trivialized the idea of female solidarity. There were also several subplots that really never led anywhere. The main character, Lady Celia, would repeatedly say how she didn’t want to talk about her children, even though one was getting married. That never played out into anything. There was a doctor training under another doctor who gave the forced feedings, and this younger doctor would always express misgivings about the “procedure.” I thought that perhaps he would become part of the suffragette movement, or at least the movement to stop forced feedings, but nothing happened with that, either. Nor with the nervous nurse who seemed so stocked after her first forced feeding. I thought she would join the movement, but no.
I didn’t really learn anything about the specifics of the British suffragette movement versus the American one, either, except perhaps the role it played (or didn’t play, as the case was) in Parliament. Other than that, the scenes of forced feedings, prison life, and picketing were pretty much the same things I’ve seen before in my American History classes. The force feeding was disturbing, though. I would never have imagined seeing that on stage.
We all exited the theatre and, at least among the people I talked to, there was a general sense of disappointment. I’m glad I saw it, but I can’t imagine it going very far. The Russian acrobats performing outside the theatre were far more entertaining.
We started the day off at Trafalgar Square and walked down Whitehall to Westminster Abbey. Walking along Whitehall was more of a tour of military and political monuments than government buildings, which is what I thought Whitehall was mostly famous for. I remember passing the Departments for Scotland and Wales, but we didn’t stop to talk about them. Interesting, though, was Prof. Rudalevige’s little talk about Charles I’s and Oliver Cromwell’s statues, one at each end of Whitehall road, having a starring contest. It’s funny, the hidden significance the positioning of monuments can have. I guess that’s like our discussion of who gets into the National Portrait Gallery. I figure that money decides who has his portrait painted, but who decides which portraits actually make it into the gallery, and who decides where each one will hang? What if you put two people next to each other who hated each other in life? Does this emphasize the relationship for the viewer? Does it disregard it?
Not being one for military history, not many of the monuments interested me. I did appreciate the monument to the women who fought in WWII, the only monument to a female on the whole of Whitehall. Sadly, it was only erected in the last five years. I guess we know one more important condition for having a statue. You have to be male. I also liked the monument to “The Glorious Dead,” and the fact that the UK actually celebrates Veteran’s Day. I’d love to come back for that, but I think it would be a madhouse.
After our walk down Whitehall, we toured Westminster Abbey. Even though I’ve been to London twice before, this was the first time I’ve ever been inside the Abbey. It is spectacular to see something that old and that significant. And what other place do you get to see the tombs of famous monarchs, politicians, scientists, and authors? It was incredible. I can’t even remember how many tombs and memorials I saw. Certainly the memorial to Newton, one to Shakespeare, and a bust of my beloved Milton. I saw the tombs of Edward the Confessor, Henry III, Edward I, Edward III, Richard II, Henry V, Edward V, Henry VII, Edward VI, Bloody Mary and Queen Elizabeth I (who are buried one on top of the other, strangely), James I, Charles II, Mary II, William III, Queen Anne, George II, Anne of Cleves (Henry VIII’s fourth wife), Mary Queen of Scots…and those are just the monarchs! Let’s see…who else? Sir Robert Peel, prime minister who created the police, or Peelers. Apparently, that’s where we get the phrase “keep your eyes peeled” for the police. I saw the tomb of Charles Darwin. Then there’s Poet’s Corner: Robert Browning, Rudyard Kipling, William Congreve, Thomas Hardy, Dr. Samuel Johnson (!),Edmund Spenser, Charles Dickens, Alfred Lord Tennyson, and even Laurence Olivier. I got to spend a heartfelt moment with Geoffrey Chaucer (the first poet to be buried there around 1400).
It was a long tour, and we were asked to stop twice during our tour, on the hour, for a prayer. Someone would get on the PA system, ask us all to take a moment, remind us that Westminster Abbey is still a place of Christian worship, not just a tourist attraction, and read a prayer. I forget the first one, but the second prayer was curiously by St. Ignatius, founder of the Jesuits. Our tour guide expressed how the Church of England sees itself as a very cosmopolitan, inclusive religion. When we were outside the abbey he had us look up at the west façade, a newly added feature. Above the door were ten statues of modern martyrs of different faiths, nationalities, and ethnicities. In the middle was Martin Luther King.
I find it strange that the Anglican Church proclaims to be a universal faith when it used to persecute Catholics. I suppose that’s the beauty of modernization and secular society. Seeing all these churches and cathedrals still in operation makes me wonder how so many of them survived the secularization of British society, seeing as such a small percentage of citizens is actually practicing. I wonder if the percentage is so much higher in the U.S. because we began with Puritanism, instead of the religious instability that England has experienced. And then we have so many immigrants who come to the U.S. seeking religious freedom (the Puritans themselves), that, since they are free to practice their religion, they do so often.
I was starving after we finished the tour of Westminster Abbey, and I think I nearly killed Leah and Chad dragging them around Oxford Street, trying to find The Marlborough Head, the pub Bonnie took me to last time I was in London. Just as we were about to give up, we found it and had lunch. I still really like it. Good atmosphere, nice décor, and it is bigger than other pubs I’ve been to.
We came back to the Arran House to work on journals. No matter how much time I allot to work on them, I never seem to catch up. I IMed a couple of friends and was bitched at by Chris for not going out. Well, je m’enfiche, Chris. I’m happy.
Leah and I made the rest of the pasta we had and ate dinner.
.
At 7:30, we dressed up and went to the National Theatre to see the play Her Naked Skin, a play about the British suffragette movement written by the first woman to ever premiere at the National Theatre. A historic moment in the history of theatre. Too bad the play was awful. The acting, music, and sets were good. Even the dialogue was good in places, witty and lively. But the plot was fragmented and too ambitious. The story of the suffragette movement was overshadowed by a completely unnecessary lesbian love affair between the two main characters, the relationship between who was never truly established until their affair began half way through the first act. There was a lot of gratuitous lesbian making-out and sex. In fact, far too much sex in general. It really distracted from the history of the suffragette movement and it trivialized the idea of female solidarity. There were also several subplots that really never led anywhere. The main character, Lady Celia, would repeatedly say how she didn’t want to talk about her children, even though one was getting married. That never played out into anything. There was a doctor training under another doctor who gave the forced feedings, and this younger doctor would always express misgivings about the “procedure.” I thought that perhaps he would become part of the suffragette movement, or at least the movement to stop forced feedings, but nothing happened with that, either. Nor with the nervous nurse who seemed so stocked after her first forced feeding. I thought she would join the movement, but no.
I didn’t really learn anything about the specifics of the British suffragette movement versus the American one, either, except perhaps the role it played (or didn’t play, as the case was) in Parliament. Other than that, the scenes of forced feedings, prison life, and picketing were pretty much the same things I’ve seen before in my American History classes. The force feeding was disturbing, though. I would never have imagined seeing that on stage.
We all exited the theatre and, at least among the people I talked to, there was a general sense of disappointment. I’m glad I saw it, but I can’t imagine it going very far. The Russian acrobats performing outside the theatre were far more entertaining.
Lots of Old Rocks
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Today was quite a day. We left London at 8a.m. together with the science kids and took a coach out to Stonehenge. I have to say, driving through rural English countryside is a lot like driving up to Carlisle, except on the wrong side of the road. And there were a lot of sheep. Leah and I have plans to kidnap one.
I was sort of taken by surprise when we pulled off the highway and there was this big stone construction on the field, just minding its own business. Not quite the approach I had imagined for my visit to the famous henge. I must say, I was a little underwhelmed. Especially since the stones were roped off and we couldn’t walk amongst them like Tess and Angel. Honestly, is Hardy the only author to write about Stonehenge? I walked around with one of those audio tour things, and the last lecture ended with a quote from Tess of the D’Urbervilles when Hardy describes Tess and Angel’s first impressions of the stones as the sun rises. Such an old monument, such a famous one. You’d think someone would have come up with something more significant to say than what Hardy wrote. They’re at Stonehenge for, what? One chapter, maybe two? Maybe I should write a book about Stonehenge, one that actually deserves to be quoted in the audio guide.
As for the actual stones, they weren’t quite as big as I had imagined, and, for some reason, all of the pictures and documentaries of the site had always made the circle look more complete. Oh well. At least I saw that documentary on the Discovery Channel over the summer. It gave the visit slightly more significance. I agree with the druids who were protesting outside the gift shop. Their banners said things like “Set Free The Stones!” I’m not sure if they were arguing for the complete abandonment of the Stonehenge tourist industry, or if they, like many others, want the government to build an underground tunnel for the nearby highway so that the structure can regain some of its original peace and sanctity. In any case, they are trying to give some of the mystery back to Salisbury Plain. Why not move the highway, and any tourist who wants to see Stonehenge will have to trek through the open fields (well, it was wooded 2000 years ago) just like everyone else who wanted to go there throughout the years.
From Stonehenge we drove to Bath, about three hours west of London. The bus dropped us of in front of Bath Abbey and we were free to talk around and get lunch before our tour of the baths. A bunch of us wandered downtown. The city is so beautiful, and surprisingly well preserved. I guess because it used to be a resort destination, they kept it quaint, but it really did add to the tranquil mystery of the place. Not a lot of businessmen in suits running to the office, nor busy tourists running from one tour to the next. There were tourists aplenty, to be sure, but the pace was slower and people were content to simply wander the streets, walk through the Royal Victoria Gardens, and do a little window shopping in all the shops. I don’t know if I can compare it to London, necessarily. It’s smaller, certainly, and not as busy, but there was just a general pleasantness. Maybe this was just because it was a gorgeous day. And prices were generally lower than in London, which always makes me happy.
Leah and I broke off from our group to stop at a small café where we bought our first pasties. Delicious. I guess the best way to describe a pasty is a like an apple turn-over but filled with vegetables, meats, and cheeses. Leah and I both got one filled with onions, potatoes, and cheese, and it was absolutely fabulous. Who says the British have bad food? I haven’t had a bad meal yet.
We ate our pasties, stopped at a pub called the Huntsman for a glass of lemonade, and walked through a few back-streets. After wandering around for a while with Leah, drinking in the beauty of the landscape, we headed back toward Bath Abbey for our tour of the Roman Baths.
I was wonderful to see well-preserved Roman ruins for once. In London, everything’s so built up and even the remains that we saw on our tour of Roman London were scarce and rather time-worn. The Baths were incredible, and just to look at the level of thought and engineering that went into the place…it’s awe-inspiring how advanced the Romans were, and how far civilization fell after they left. The building that housed the baths had an arched ceiling made from hollow tiles. They had plumbing, running water, and heated floors. After the collapse of Rome, Britain didn’t have decent plumbing until, arguably, the 19th century. Even today they’re still replacing old Victorian pipelines in London that aren’t functioning properly, when the lead pipes of Bath have been working for almost two thousand years.
The waters of the springs, perhaps due to their mineral content or perhaps due to mystical powers, are still considered to have healing and cleansing properties. In the Pump Room, a very expensive restaurant and tea room at the baths, you can buy a glass of water from the hot springs (it’s been treated!) for 50p. I did. It tasted funny.
A little history of the hot springs at Bath: They were discovered by a Celtic prince named Bladud somewhere around 860 B.C. Unfortunately, poor Bladud was a leper, and he was banished to become a swineherd (pig farmer). One day he was herding his pigs near the hot springs. The pigs went for a bath in the springs and (to quote Prof. Rudalevige), “when they emerged Bladud swore they were the most beautiful swine he had ever seen.” This is why there were painted statues of pigs all over the city (like Cow Parade). Bladud decided to try the springs for himself, and was magically cured of his leprosy. To celebrate the power of the spring, he built a temple to the goddess Sulis, the sun goddess who kept the springs warm. Bladud returned to his father’s court and, in time, was made king. Later, a Celtic cult to Sulis grew up around the springs. When the Romans arrived in Bath in about 60 AD, they identified Sulis, who was also the goddess of wisdom, with Minerva, and built a temple to the combined goddess Sulis Minerva. In fact, the Romans called Bath “Aquae Sulis,” or “the waters of Sulis.” Thus, they easily won over the Celts and began to build the baths around the hot springs. But Aquae Sulis collapsed with the fall of Rome, and the baths fell into decay until 675, when King Osric set up a monastery there. King Offa rebuilt the monastery about a hundred years later, and, in 973, the Saxon King Edgar was crowned in Bath Abbey. The town began to develop a serious reputation as a spa and resort town during the Georgian era, and now the baths are the major tourist attraction in one of Britain’s most historically significant cities.
One of the other major tourist attractions in Bath is the Jane Austen Centre on Gay Street, near to where Jane Austen lived while in the city from 1800 to 1806. After the tour of the Roman Baths, we had the rest of the day to explore Bath, so I wandered up that way. I was disappointed to learn that, not only was the Center NOT Jane Austen’s actual house, but that they were charging ₤5 for a tour that basically consisted of rooms decorated as if they were from the 19th century and a collection of recreated 19th century clothing. I’ll just watch the BBC, thanks.
I walked up to the Circus, a round-about surrounded by expensive, posh Georgian townhouses built by John Wood. That’s where my favorite pig is. There’s a clown painted on it, and a ribbon that reads “Ceci n’est pas un cochon.” For those of you who don’t speak French, it means “This is not a pig.” Which it isn’t. It’s a statue of a pig. The joke comes from a painting of a pipe by Magritte which reads “Ceci n’est pas une pipe.” “This is not a pipe.” And it’s not. It’s a picture of a pipe.
I then walked to the Royal Crescent, also a line of spiffy Georgian townhouses designed by John Wood. I tried to find Leah and Chad and ended up walking over to Royal Victoria Park before I found them. Meghan met up with us and then, as we were walking back downtown, we ran into Sarah and Abby. We all decided to get some tea, and we sat on some benches and chatted for a bit. Then everyone split up. I went downtown to continue window shopping. Actually, there were some nice sales going on, so I might have bought something, but, even with the sales, and even being outside of London, things were still too much for me. I’m stingy. I did, however, find some gorgeous boots for ₤16, but they didn’t have my size. Pity.
Finally, it was getting late, so I walked back to the abbey to wait for the bus. I met Tristan in the courtyard, and we talked about Eddie Izzard for a while. “Building a henge, are we? That sounds like a fantastic idea!” Anyway, the bus came and we drove back to London. The end.
Today was quite a day. We left London at 8a.m. together with the science kids and took a coach out to Stonehenge. I have to say, driving through rural English countryside is a lot like driving up to Carlisle, except on the wrong side of the road. And there were a lot of sheep. Leah and I have plans to kidnap one.
I was sort of taken by surprise when we pulled off the highway and there was this big stone construction on the field, just minding its own business. Not quite the approach I had imagined for my visit to the famous henge. I must say, I was a little underwhelmed. Especially since the stones were roped off and we couldn’t walk amongst them like Tess and Angel. Honestly, is Hardy the only author to write about Stonehenge? I walked around with one of those audio tour things, and the last lecture ended with a quote from Tess of the D’Urbervilles when Hardy describes Tess and Angel’s first impressions of the stones as the sun rises. Such an old monument, such a famous one. You’d think someone would have come up with something more significant to say than what Hardy wrote. They’re at Stonehenge for, what? One chapter, maybe two? Maybe I should write a book about Stonehenge, one that actually deserves to be quoted in the audio guide.
As for the actual stones, they weren’t quite as big as I had imagined, and, for some reason, all of the pictures and documentaries of the site had always made the circle look more complete. Oh well. At least I saw that documentary on the Discovery Channel over the summer. It gave the visit slightly more significance. I agree with the druids who were protesting outside the gift shop. Their banners said things like “Set Free The Stones!” I’m not sure if they were arguing for the complete abandonment of the Stonehenge tourist industry, or if they, like many others, want the government to build an underground tunnel for the nearby highway so that the structure can regain some of its original peace and sanctity. In any case, they are trying to give some of the mystery back to Salisbury Plain. Why not move the highway, and any tourist who wants to see Stonehenge will have to trek through the open fields (well, it was wooded 2000 years ago) just like everyone else who wanted to go there throughout the years.
From Stonehenge we drove to Bath, about three hours west of London. The bus dropped us of in front of Bath Abbey and we were free to talk around and get lunch before our tour of the baths. A bunch of us wandered downtown. The city is so beautiful, and surprisingly well preserved. I guess because it used to be a resort destination, they kept it quaint, but it really did add to the tranquil mystery of the place. Not a lot of businessmen in suits running to the office, nor busy tourists running from one tour to the next. There were tourists aplenty, to be sure, but the pace was slower and people were content to simply wander the streets, walk through the Royal Victoria Gardens, and do a little window shopping in all the shops. I don’t know if I can compare it to London, necessarily. It’s smaller, certainly, and not as busy, but there was just a general pleasantness. Maybe this was just because it was a gorgeous day. And prices were generally lower than in London, which always makes me happy.
Leah and I broke off from our group to stop at a small café where we bought our first pasties. Delicious. I guess the best way to describe a pasty is a like an apple turn-over but filled with vegetables, meats, and cheeses. Leah and I both got one filled with onions, potatoes, and cheese, and it was absolutely fabulous. Who says the British have bad food? I haven’t had a bad meal yet.
We ate our pasties, stopped at a pub called the Huntsman for a glass of lemonade, and walked through a few back-streets. After wandering around for a while with Leah, drinking in the beauty of the landscape, we headed back toward Bath Abbey for our tour of the Roman Baths.
I was wonderful to see well-preserved Roman ruins for once. In London, everything’s so built up and even the remains that we saw on our tour of Roman London were scarce and rather time-worn. The Baths were incredible, and just to look at the level of thought and engineering that went into the place…it’s awe-inspiring how advanced the Romans were, and how far civilization fell after they left. The building that housed the baths had an arched ceiling made from hollow tiles. They had plumbing, running water, and heated floors. After the collapse of Rome, Britain didn’t have decent plumbing until, arguably, the 19th century. Even today they’re still replacing old Victorian pipelines in London that aren’t functioning properly, when the lead pipes of Bath have been working for almost two thousand years.
The waters of the springs, perhaps due to their mineral content or perhaps due to mystical powers, are still considered to have healing and cleansing properties. In the Pump Room, a very expensive restaurant and tea room at the baths, you can buy a glass of water from the hot springs (it’s been treated!) for 50p. I did. It tasted funny.
A little history of the hot springs at Bath: They were discovered by a Celtic prince named Bladud somewhere around 860 B.C. Unfortunately, poor Bladud was a leper, and he was banished to become a swineherd (pig farmer). One day he was herding his pigs near the hot springs. The pigs went for a bath in the springs and (to quote Prof. Rudalevige), “when they emerged Bladud swore they were the most beautiful swine he had ever seen.” This is why there were painted statues of pigs all over the city (like Cow Parade). Bladud decided to try the springs for himself, and was magically cured of his leprosy. To celebrate the power of the spring, he built a temple to the goddess Sulis, the sun goddess who kept the springs warm. Bladud returned to his father’s court and, in time, was made king. Later, a Celtic cult to Sulis grew up around the springs. When the Romans arrived in Bath in about 60 AD, they identified Sulis, who was also the goddess of wisdom, with Minerva, and built a temple to the combined goddess Sulis Minerva. In fact, the Romans called Bath “Aquae Sulis,” or “the waters of Sulis.” Thus, they easily won over the Celts and began to build the baths around the hot springs. But Aquae Sulis collapsed with the fall of Rome, and the baths fell into decay until 675, when King Osric set up a monastery there. King Offa rebuilt the monastery about a hundred years later, and, in 973, the Saxon King Edgar was crowned in Bath Abbey. The town began to develop a serious reputation as a spa and resort town during the Georgian era, and now the baths are the major tourist attraction in one of Britain’s most historically significant cities.
One of the other major tourist attractions in Bath is the Jane Austen Centre on Gay Street, near to where Jane Austen lived while in the city from 1800 to 1806. After the tour of the Roman Baths, we had the rest of the day to explore Bath, so I wandered up that way. I was disappointed to learn that, not only was the Center NOT Jane Austen’s actual house, but that they were charging ₤5 for a tour that basically consisted of rooms decorated as if they were from the 19th century and a collection of recreated 19th century clothing. I’ll just watch the BBC, thanks.
I walked up to the Circus, a round-about surrounded by expensive, posh Georgian townhouses built by John Wood. That’s where my favorite pig is. There’s a clown painted on it, and a ribbon that reads “Ceci n’est pas un cochon.” For those of you who don’t speak French, it means “This is not a pig.” Which it isn’t. It’s a statue of a pig. The joke comes from a painting of a pipe by Magritte which reads “Ceci n’est pas une pipe.” “This is not a pipe.” And it’s not. It’s a picture of a pipe.
I then walked to the Royal Crescent, also a line of spiffy Georgian townhouses designed by John Wood. I tried to find Leah and Chad and ended up walking over to Royal Victoria Park before I found them. Meghan met up with us and then, as we were walking back downtown, we ran into Sarah and Abby. We all decided to get some tea, and we sat on some benches and chatted for a bit. Then everyone split up. I went downtown to continue window shopping. Actually, there were some nice sales going on, so I might have bought something, but, even with the sales, and even being outside of London, things were still too much for me. I’m stingy. I did, however, find some gorgeous boots for ₤16, but they didn’t have my size. Pity.
Finally, it was getting late, so I walked back to the abbey to wait for the bus. I met Tristan in the courtyard, and we talked about Eddie Izzard for a while. “Building a henge, are we? That sounds like a fantastic idea!” Anyway, the bus came and we drove back to London. The end.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Peyps
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Professor Rudalevige took some of us out on our walk of Bloomsbury, the neighborhood of our hotel, this morning. To be honest, we saw so much that I can’t remember it all, and the batteries died in my camera, so I don’t have pictures of everything. I couple things of note, though. I really liked the squares and gardens. I didn’t realize that the Arran House was so close to so much. I also didn’t realize that a noble family still owns the land and that everyone in the neighborhood pays a lease on their house or business. The thought of one family owning an entire neighborhood, a prosperous neighborhood, is a bit unthinkable in the U.S. Or, maybe, once again, I’m simply showing my ignorance.
Moving on—It seemed that nearly every building in Bloomsbury had a little round, blue plaque on it that said “So-and-so born here,” or “Thus-and-such lived here,” etc. Many important literary figures lived here, though. Virginia Woolf, E.M. Forster. The Bloomsbury Group, for instance, came from here. Huh, fancy that. We saw the publisher where T.S. Eliot worked as an editor and the building which became the basis for George Orwell’s Ministry of Truth in 1984. Toward the end of the tour, we saw the Great Ormand Street Hospital, to which J.M. Barrie left all the royalties of Peter Pan. I’m sure they’re doing quite well, nowadays.
We stopped for lunch at the Museum Tavern, and Prof. Rudalevige bought us all drinks. I ordered falafel (yum!) and drank a Pimms and Lemonade, a traditional summer drink here in England. I haven’t been to many yet, but I have to say that I love pubs. Not because they sell me alcohol. Stop stereotyping. It’s because the atmosphere is just very laid back. Every pub has its own personality, but all of the ones I’ve been to (the few) have just been very pleasant in a uniquely pub-y way. I don’t think bar culture in America is the same. I’m going to miss pubs when I leave the UK. I suppose that’s even more incentive for me to go to more of them.
A bit later we had tickets to a show in Kilburn, off toward the North-West of London. We all got a bit lost on the way to the Tricycle Theater, but eventually found it. The play was Let There Be Love by Kwame Kwei-Armah, a playwright of Caribbean descent, and it dealt with issues of immigration and prejudice in Britain. Basically, the plot surrounds Alfred Morris, a bitter, elderly immigrant from Granada who has lived in London for many years and who resents the recent influx of Eastern Europeans taking jobs away from “real Britons.” His relatively estranged daughter hires a newly arrived Polish immigrant Maria to take care of him, and, though the relationship is strained at first, they form a bond over the immigrant’s plight and jazz music. Maria becomes the daughter Alfred has always wanted, and eventually she helps reconcile him with his family. She convinces him to visit Granada one last time before he dies of cancer, and, upon arriving back him, he asks Maria to help him commit suicide before his love of life dissipates again. Click here for a review of the play by the Times.
It’s not a play I would ever have thought to see on my own, but I really did love it. And not just because Alfred was played by the guy who played the butler on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air (Joseph Marcell). The dialogue was good and the relationship between characters was heartwarming. Although people disagree, I thought he play was well balanced between the personal issues of the characters and the broader political and social issues that it addressed. Emma mentioned that it would be interesting to do the same thing with African-Americans and Mexican immigrants set in the States. I think it would work.
After the play, I went with Jen to Sainsbury’s and got dinner. The other day, Abby bought this bottle of Elderflower water, which is, as the name suggests, water flavored with elderflower. I haven’t the foggiest idea what an elderflower is, but it does make the water taste pretty good. We got back to the Arran House and ate dinner, entertained by Chris and Lauren going back and forth about Pepys and Pretty Witty Nell. Samuel Pepys is known for the careful diary he wrote during the time of the Great Fire, and you hear his name everywhere. Nell was one of Charles II’s mistresses, and her portrait in the National Gallery shows her slightly…exposed…and, of course, this did not escape the notice of my friends. So, from now on, “Peyps” and “Pretty Witty Nell” are going to be the inside jokes of the program, or at least our little subgroup. I’m sure Christopher Wren will make it in there, too. He always does.
Professor Rudalevige took some of us out on our walk of Bloomsbury, the neighborhood of our hotel, this morning. To be honest, we saw so much that I can’t remember it all, and the batteries died in my camera, so I don’t have pictures of everything. I couple things of note, though. I really liked the squares and gardens. I didn’t realize that the Arran House was so close to so much. I also didn’t realize that a noble family still owns the land and that everyone in the neighborhood pays a lease on their house or business. The thought of one family owning an entire neighborhood, a prosperous neighborhood, is a bit unthinkable in the U.S. Or, maybe, once again, I’m simply showing my ignorance.
Moving on—It seemed that nearly every building in Bloomsbury had a little round, blue plaque on it that said “So-and-so born here,” or “Thus-and-such lived here,” etc. Many important literary figures lived here, though. Virginia Woolf, E.M. Forster. The Bloomsbury Group, for instance, came from here. Huh, fancy that. We saw the publisher where T.S. Eliot worked as an editor and the building which became the basis for George Orwell’s Ministry of Truth in 1984. Toward the end of the tour, we saw the Great Ormand Street Hospital, to which J.M. Barrie left all the royalties of Peter Pan. I’m sure they’re doing quite well, nowadays.
We stopped for lunch at the Museum Tavern, and Prof. Rudalevige bought us all drinks. I ordered falafel (yum!) and drank a Pimms and Lemonade, a traditional summer drink here in England. I haven’t been to many yet, but I have to say that I love pubs. Not because they sell me alcohol. Stop stereotyping. It’s because the atmosphere is just very laid back. Every pub has its own personality, but all of the ones I’ve been to (the few) have just been very pleasant in a uniquely pub-y way. I don’t think bar culture in America is the same. I’m going to miss pubs when I leave the UK. I suppose that’s even more incentive for me to go to more of them.
A bit later we had tickets to a show in Kilburn, off toward the North-West of London. We all got a bit lost on the way to the Tricycle Theater, but eventually found it. The play was Let There Be Love by Kwame Kwei-Armah, a playwright of Caribbean descent, and it dealt with issues of immigration and prejudice in Britain. Basically, the plot surrounds Alfred Morris, a bitter, elderly immigrant from Granada who has lived in London for many years and who resents the recent influx of Eastern Europeans taking jobs away from “real Britons.” His relatively estranged daughter hires a newly arrived Polish immigrant Maria to take care of him, and, though the relationship is strained at first, they form a bond over the immigrant’s plight and jazz music. Maria becomes the daughter Alfred has always wanted, and eventually she helps reconcile him with his family. She convinces him to visit Granada one last time before he dies of cancer, and, upon arriving back him, he asks Maria to help him commit suicide before his love of life dissipates again. Click here for a review of the play by the Times.
It’s not a play I would ever have thought to see on my own, but I really did love it. And not just because Alfred was played by the guy who played the butler on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air (Joseph Marcell). The dialogue was good and the relationship between characters was heartwarming. Although people disagree, I thought he play was well balanced between the personal issues of the characters and the broader political and social issues that it addressed. Emma mentioned that it would be interesting to do the same thing with African-Americans and Mexican immigrants set in the States. I think it would work.
After the play, I went with Jen to Sainsbury’s and got dinner. The other day, Abby bought this bottle of Elderflower water, which is, as the name suggests, water flavored with elderflower. I haven’t the foggiest idea what an elderflower is, but it does make the water taste pretty good. We got back to the Arran House and ate dinner, entertained by Chris and Lauren going back and forth about Pepys and Pretty Witty Nell. Samuel Pepys is known for the careful diary he wrote during the time of the Great Fire, and you hear his name everywhere. Nell was one of Charles II’s mistresses, and her portrait in the National Gallery shows her slightly…exposed…and, of course, this did not escape the notice of my friends. So, from now on, “Peyps” and “Pretty Witty Nell” are going to be the inside jokes of the program, or at least our little subgroup. I’m sure Christopher Wren will make it in there, too. He always does.
At Least Three Counts of Heresy
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
We met this morning at Trafalgar Square again and were instructed to look around at the various statues that stand in the square. The main monument, of course, is the enormous pillar with a statue of Admiral Nelson on it. The others were also of various Napoleonic War era military types, and one statue of George II. There was also one formerly empty space known as the Fourth Plinth, which was supposed to house a statue of William IV, but it was never built. Instead, it is the site of a rotating exhibition pieces. So, out of place amongst all the military heroes was a brightly colored Plexiglas model for a modern hotel. I’m not sure how this earned a spot on this coveted platform, because I don’t think this hotel will ever be built, and it doesn’t exactly match the aesthetic of the square.
In any case, we met by the fountain and discussed the qualifications for getting a bust or statue in the square, and then in the portrait gallery behind us. I loved the National Portrait Gallery. We began in the 16th century, and I saw many famous Tutor portraits (a beautiful one of Catherine Parr, an impressive Henry VIII, several famous portraits of Elizabeth I). I saw the famous portrait of Shakespeare, which nearly made my heart stop. I had to go back and see it twice before I left. Chad made sure that I saw the portrait of Milton, but I’ll admit that it was not the religious experience that I thought it would be, since the portrait was of him as a teenager and it didn’t have quite the same impact. In the Romantics room I saw the same portraits of Shelley, Mary Shelley, and Byron that I remember from my textbooks. The room dedicated to Charles I certainly did its job. I was truly moved by all the different depictions of the trial, execution, martyrdom of the king. Poor Charles. It reminded me of depictions of Jeanne d’Arc and all of the depictions of her story I’ve seen over the years.
I then moved on to the more modern paintings—a portrait of Queen Elizabeth II done by Andy Warhol, a couple paintings of Prince Charles, and then even some contemporary portraits of pop culture icons and sports heroes.
In trying to answer the question “Who gets to have a portrait?”, I found that the portraits basically follow the money, and show the change in power from monarchy to church to politicians to pop culture. In the Tutor era, the portraits were all of royalty or their favorite noblemen and statesmen. A little later, the circle opened to include the notable artistic and literary minds of the time. The next room had more religious figures than secular statesmen and royalty. During each age, the circle of influence seemed to shift and expand. By the time I reached modern day, there were fewer portraits of royalty and more of actors, singers, and pop icons like Twiggy, Tilda Swinton, David Bowie, and David Beckham. The styles also became more modern, making the pictures more about the artist and technique than the subject (One example was a very minimalist cartoon of the artist, but the picture was on a screen and, if you watched, the picture was breathing). I did, however, like the “portrait” that was made of spots of the “artist’s” DNA. Cheeky.
After walking so long through the museum, we got hungry. I walked around the area with Leah, Chad, and Liza trying to find food and eventually ended up at a pub called The Blue Post. The décor was standard “pub,” but the food was really good. I ordered a Jacket Potato with Vegetable Curry. Think baked potato covered in curry. It was heavenly.
Then we went back to the Arran House, and Leah, Chad, and I decided to get our rail passes and British Library cards. Getting our rail pass was easy, although I did freak out a bit when I couldn’t find my passport photos and thought that I would have to get yet another set taken. But it all worked out, and now I will be able to get on the train to Oxford!
The library cards, however, were not so easy to acquire. The building of the British Library is nothing to stare at, although it is very big. However, when I walked in and saw the King’s Library collection, I nearly passed out. It is a three-storey glass room with the book bindings facing outward. It was beautiful. It gave me such high hopes for the place. Unfortunately, the idiotic bureaucracy of the Reading Registration Office made the process far more complicated than getting a library card ever should have to be. They basically tried to deter us from getting a reading pass. In order to get a pass, you need two forms of identification, one showing proof of address and the other an example of your signature. Then they make you go to a computer and jot down examples of the types of books you would want to look at. This requires you to have at least a vague idea of what you want to research. After you find a few titles, you have to fill out an application on another set of computers. Then you are given a number, and you have to wait until your number is called so you can meet with a representative who asks you questions about why you need to use the library, for what research, how long, etc. Then, after taking your picture and reviewing all of your information, the representative is required to go over all of the rules about how to use the reading rooms, how to request books, etc., even though all of this information is posted on large posters on the walls of the waiting area, and you are pretty much forced to read them because there is nothing else to do for the fifteen or so minutes you are waiting there. Finally, after all of this nonsense, you are given your card, instructed, one more time for good measure, about the importance of keeping it with you.
Ok. I understand that is not your standard community library. It is a research library designed for serious work. But how can Britain consider this the “national” library if they don’t want people using it? Sitting in the waiting room, I saw several people get turned away from the application process because they “didn’t really need to be there.” One woman was an art student who wanted to some research, and the secretary told her that she’d be better off going to some other library. They have stacks of pamphlets and several wall posters advising people to try the “public” libraries. It shouldn’t be that hard to get access to the most extensive collection of books in the country.
Leah, Chad, and I consoled ourselves by seeing the public exhibit. Upset as we were by the bureaucratic nonsense we had just endured, this exhibit definitely made us forget our woes. We saw letters from Elizabeth I; a diary entry by Edward VI; Shakespeare’s First Folio; Jane Austen’s journal; a hand-written copy of Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles; a few pages of Da Vinci’s journal; beautiful medieval illuminated manuscripts; scores by Mozart, Handel, and Chopin written in their own hand. There were gorgeous pieces from all over the world—beautifully illustrated Buddhist texts, guilt Hindu pieces, ancient Korans. I can’t even remember how many amazing pieces I saw. I was, of course, most moved by Milton’s Commonplace Book. I nearly cried, and spent a good five minutes just staring it at it. I’d like to think it stared back at me from behind the glass. I managed to make out some of his 17th century scrawl and found it very funny. He was writing about the way French monarchs seem to be elected, and he kept moving seamlessly from English into French and vice versa. I found this amusing.
The highlight of the exhibit for me, though, even more than Milton, was seeing a Gutenberg Bible. Here, Leah and I both wept, and Chad bounced up and down like a kangaroo. I honestly can’t describe what it was like to see the most important book ever made. And it was just stuck in the middle of the “History of Printing” cabinet, between 9th-14th century examples of Eastern block printing and some other early Western works. No reverence, I tell you! Just another old book. Yes, I realize that there were things in that exhibit that were far older than the Gutenberg Bible. Yes, I realize that printing went back hundreds of years earlier in the East before it ever reached Europe. But as someone who intends to make her living off of publishing, and as someone who swoons not at the sight of Brad Pitt but at that of a room full of old books, seeing that book was basically a religious experience. Leah and I even waved goodbye to it before we left.
Oh yeah. We saw the Magna Carta, too. Take that, England. See how it feels when someone belittles documents important to you?
On the way out, we stopped at Marks & Spencer and bought pasta, sauce, and salad. The we returned to the Arran House, made and ate dinner. Which reminds me, I owe Chad money.
Later that night, Lauren, Jen, Katie, Chris, and I went to a swing dancing club in Holborn. It was different in than the Green Door in that people didn’t seem as willing to switch partners, and we were basically the awkward Americans in the corner. Also awkward because I was the only one who really knew how to dance. Some nice old men asked Katie, Jen, and Lauren to dance during the night (this is not as creepy as it sounds). At one point, I did ask some random guy to dance. At home, you strike up idle conversation, so, I told him my name, and he told me his…but that was it. He looked at me like I was weird for trying to talk. So, I basically danced with my friends the whole time, teaching them what Jeremy taught me at camp. Luckily, everyone seemed to have a good time, or at least told me that they did. I think if we go back it might be easier, especially if we bring more guys. There was a lack of males there. If we go again, maybe people will actually talk to us.
I’ve been loving my time here, but what I really want to do is meet Brits. I want to get out of this Dickinson bubble and experience the culture from an insider’s point of view. I feel like I’d feel more…here…once I start talking to Londoners. Maybe I should go out more.
We met this morning at Trafalgar Square again and were instructed to look around at the various statues that stand in the square. The main monument, of course, is the enormous pillar with a statue of Admiral Nelson on it. The others were also of various Napoleonic War era military types, and one statue of George II. There was also one formerly empty space known as the Fourth Plinth, which was supposed to house a statue of William IV, but it was never built. Instead, it is the site of a rotating exhibition pieces. So, out of place amongst all the military heroes was a brightly colored Plexiglas model for a modern hotel. I’m not sure how this earned a spot on this coveted platform, because I don’t think this hotel will ever be built, and it doesn’t exactly match the aesthetic of the square.
In any case, we met by the fountain and discussed the qualifications for getting a bust or statue in the square, and then in the portrait gallery behind us. I loved the National Portrait Gallery. We began in the 16th century, and I saw many famous Tutor portraits (a beautiful one of Catherine Parr, an impressive Henry VIII, several famous portraits of Elizabeth I). I saw the famous portrait of Shakespeare, which nearly made my heart stop. I had to go back and see it twice before I left. Chad made sure that I saw the portrait of Milton, but I’ll admit that it was not the religious experience that I thought it would be, since the portrait was of him as a teenager and it didn’t have quite the same impact. In the Romantics room I saw the same portraits of Shelley, Mary Shelley, and Byron that I remember from my textbooks. The room dedicated to Charles I certainly did its job. I was truly moved by all the different depictions of the trial, execution, martyrdom of the king. Poor Charles. It reminded me of depictions of Jeanne d’Arc and all of the depictions of her story I’ve seen over the years.
I then moved on to the more modern paintings—a portrait of Queen Elizabeth II done by Andy Warhol, a couple paintings of Prince Charles, and then even some contemporary portraits of pop culture icons and sports heroes.
In trying to answer the question “Who gets to have a portrait?”, I found that the portraits basically follow the money, and show the change in power from monarchy to church to politicians to pop culture. In the Tutor era, the portraits were all of royalty or their favorite noblemen and statesmen. A little later, the circle opened to include the notable artistic and literary minds of the time. The next room had more religious figures than secular statesmen and royalty. During each age, the circle of influence seemed to shift and expand. By the time I reached modern day, there were fewer portraits of royalty and more of actors, singers, and pop icons like Twiggy, Tilda Swinton, David Bowie, and David Beckham. The styles also became more modern, making the pictures more about the artist and technique than the subject (One example was a very minimalist cartoon of the artist, but the picture was on a screen and, if you watched, the picture was breathing). I did, however, like the “portrait” that was made of spots of the “artist’s” DNA. Cheeky.
After walking so long through the museum, we got hungry. I walked around the area with Leah, Chad, and Liza trying to find food and eventually ended up at a pub called The Blue Post. The décor was standard “pub,” but the food was really good. I ordered a Jacket Potato with Vegetable Curry. Think baked potato covered in curry. It was heavenly.
Then we went back to the Arran House, and Leah, Chad, and I decided to get our rail passes and British Library cards. Getting our rail pass was easy, although I did freak out a bit when I couldn’t find my passport photos and thought that I would have to get yet another set taken. But it all worked out, and now I will be able to get on the train to Oxford!
The library cards, however, were not so easy to acquire. The building of the British Library is nothing to stare at, although it is very big. However, when I walked in and saw the King’s Library collection, I nearly passed out. It is a three-storey glass room with the book bindings facing outward. It was beautiful. It gave me such high hopes for the place. Unfortunately, the idiotic bureaucracy of the Reading Registration Office made the process far more complicated than getting a library card ever should have to be. They basically tried to deter us from getting a reading pass. In order to get a pass, you need two forms of identification, one showing proof of address and the other an example of your signature. Then they make you go to a computer and jot down examples of the types of books you would want to look at. This requires you to have at least a vague idea of what you want to research. After you find a few titles, you have to fill out an application on another set of computers. Then you are given a number, and you have to wait until your number is called so you can meet with a representative who asks you questions about why you need to use the library, for what research, how long, etc. Then, after taking your picture and reviewing all of your information, the representative is required to go over all of the rules about how to use the reading rooms, how to request books, etc., even though all of this information is posted on large posters on the walls of the waiting area, and you are pretty much forced to read them because there is nothing else to do for the fifteen or so minutes you are waiting there. Finally, after all of this nonsense, you are given your card, instructed, one more time for good measure, about the importance of keeping it with you.
Ok. I understand that is not your standard community library. It is a research library designed for serious work. But how can Britain consider this the “national” library if they don’t want people using it? Sitting in the waiting room, I saw several people get turned away from the application process because they “didn’t really need to be there.” One woman was an art student who wanted to some research, and the secretary told her that she’d be better off going to some other library. They have stacks of pamphlets and several wall posters advising people to try the “public” libraries. It shouldn’t be that hard to get access to the most extensive collection of books in the country.
Leah, Chad, and I consoled ourselves by seeing the public exhibit. Upset as we were by the bureaucratic nonsense we had just endured, this exhibit definitely made us forget our woes. We saw letters from Elizabeth I; a diary entry by Edward VI; Shakespeare’s First Folio; Jane Austen’s journal; a hand-written copy of Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles; a few pages of Da Vinci’s journal; beautiful medieval illuminated manuscripts; scores by Mozart, Handel, and Chopin written in their own hand. There were gorgeous pieces from all over the world—beautifully illustrated Buddhist texts, guilt Hindu pieces, ancient Korans. I can’t even remember how many amazing pieces I saw. I was, of course, most moved by Milton’s Commonplace Book. I nearly cried, and spent a good five minutes just staring it at it. I’d like to think it stared back at me from behind the glass. I managed to make out some of his 17th century scrawl and found it very funny. He was writing about the way French monarchs seem to be elected, and he kept moving seamlessly from English into French and vice versa. I found this amusing.
The highlight of the exhibit for me, though, even more than Milton, was seeing a Gutenberg Bible. Here, Leah and I both wept, and Chad bounced up and down like a kangaroo. I honestly can’t describe what it was like to see the most important book ever made. And it was just stuck in the middle of the “History of Printing” cabinet, between 9th-14th century examples of Eastern block printing and some other early Western works. No reverence, I tell you! Just another old book. Yes, I realize that there were things in that exhibit that were far older than the Gutenberg Bible. Yes, I realize that printing went back hundreds of years earlier in the East before it ever reached Europe. But as someone who intends to make her living off of publishing, and as someone who swoons not at the sight of Brad Pitt but at that of a room full of old books, seeing that book was basically a religious experience. Leah and I even waved goodbye to it before we left.
Oh yeah. We saw the Magna Carta, too. Take that, England. See how it feels when someone belittles documents important to you?
On the way out, we stopped at Marks & Spencer and bought pasta, sauce, and salad. The we returned to the Arran House, made and ate dinner. Which reminds me, I owe Chad money.
Later that night, Lauren, Jen, Katie, Chris, and I went to a swing dancing club in Holborn. It was different in than the Green Door in that people didn’t seem as willing to switch partners, and we were basically the awkward Americans in the corner. Also awkward because I was the only one who really knew how to dance. Some nice old men asked Katie, Jen, and Lauren to dance during the night (this is not as creepy as it sounds). At one point, I did ask some random guy to dance. At home, you strike up idle conversation, so, I told him my name, and he told me his…but that was it. He looked at me like I was weird for trying to talk. So, I basically danced with my friends the whole time, teaching them what Jeremy taught me at camp. Luckily, everyone seemed to have a good time, or at least told me that they did. I think if we go back it might be easier, especially if we bring more guys. There was a lack of males there. If we go again, maybe people will actually talk to us.
I’ve been loving my time here, but what I really want to do is meet Brits. I want to get out of this Dickinson bubble and experience the culture from an insider’s point of view. I feel like I’d feel more…here…once I start talking to Londoners. Maybe I should go out more.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
London High and Low
Monday, August 25, 2008
The morning began with a class session where we discussed our impressions of the previous few days, and looked at several poetic depictions of London: Blake’s “London” and “Pillars of Gold,” Wordsworth’s “Composed upon Westminster Bridge,” and a more modern poem by Peter Reading titled “Lost Ones.” Wordsworth, we noted, has a selective view of London, looking out over the Thames, remarking its peace and beauty, but leaving curiously absent the noise and hustle of city life, the stench of a sewer-ridden Thames, and the corruption of the elite. In “Pillars of Gold,” Blake similarly idealizes the city, describing it as a new Jerusalem through which Jesus walks. And, like Wordsworth and most Romantics, he describes the scene almost exclusively in terms of nature and pastoral setting. Then, as Prof. Rudalevige so aptly put, Blake has a bit of a bi-polar shift and completely tears apart the city in “London,” a poem which presents the poverty, despair, and hypocrisy that runs rampant throughout London. Reading’s poem, though written almost two hundred years later, makes the same point about hypocrisy, describing a performance of Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony in the Festival Hall, and the sounds of a dying homeless man in the concrete pit underneath it. The idea of having varying depictions of the city returned later, when we went to the Guildhall Gallery to see various paintings of London produced over the years.
Before our trip through the gallery, we were supposed to meet at St. Paul’s Cathedral for a walking tour of the City (City of London proper, not to be confused with Greater London. Confused? Get a map.). I got to the Tube station on my own, but I must have walked the wrong way around St. Paul’s because I couldn’t find our group and had to call Leah for directions. When we finally did all assemble outside of St. Paul’s, we began our tour of the City, which was basically a tour of Wren churches and a few other sites of note. (Christopher Wren designed and built 53 churches following the destruction caused by the Great Fire in 1666. We saw so many that I pretty much figured that any church I see in the City from now on was built by Wren.) Some highlights of the walk were the site of William Wallace’s execution, the only statue of Henry VIII in London, and Fleet Street. Sites with slightly more significance for the curriculum were the Old Bailey Courthouse, St. Bartholomew the Great, St. Bride’s of Fleet Street (the steeple of which inspired the tiered wedding cake), and St. Mary-le-Bow. It is said that if you could hear the bells of “The Bows,” you could consider yourself a Londoner (as in, resident of the City of London), and, specifically, a Cockney.
We then made our way over to the Guildhall Gallery, which stands adjacent to the gothic medieval structure which once housed the meetings of the guilds, representative merchants and tradesmen who went there to ensure their interests in the local government. Some individual guilds still stand in that area—for instance, we passed the Chandler’s Guild at some point.
Inside the gallery, there were many paintings of London, notable for their artistic and historical merit. Like the poems we read earlier in the day, the tone of the pictures varied, depicting both blue skies over the Thames and grey haze surrounding the East End docks. My favorite painting wasn’t actually of a real place in London at all. It was a painting from the 1970s of a proposed replacement for the feeble 19th century London Bridge. The painting showed two parallel bridges flanked by semi-circular terraces at either end. Obviously this design was never built, perhaps because of expense, or maybe it just took too much space. Whatever the reason, it really is a shame, because the current London Bridge is sadly disappointing and underwhelming.
I eventually made my way back to the Arran House and wasn’t feeling very social, so I sulked around my room for a while, talked online to a few people, and did nothing productive. I made dinner and ate alone in my room. Eventually I figured that I should get out and talk to people, so Jen and I went exploring. We intended to go up to Holborn to find a swing that someone had set up inside a bus stop, but, when we tried to get on the bus to take us to that bus stop, it started going the opposite direction and we ended up in Waterloo, on the other side of the Thames. So we didn’t get to see the swing, but we weren’t too crushed. The banks of the Thames were lit up and everything was so beautiful. After walking around for a while we decided to head back to Tottenham Court Rd. and find The Court, the pub Chris told me about. It was a bit empty, as far as I imagined pubs to go. But the music was good and it was nice to just talk for a while. After a drink, we decided to head back to the hotel.
I guess as far as varying impressions of London go, mine is still positive. Everyday I’m here I just can’t believe how much I love this place. I only wish I could afford to live here.
The morning began with a class session where we discussed our impressions of the previous few days, and looked at several poetic depictions of London: Blake’s “London” and “Pillars of Gold,” Wordsworth’s “Composed upon Westminster Bridge,” and a more modern poem by Peter Reading titled “Lost Ones.” Wordsworth, we noted, has a selective view of London, looking out over the Thames, remarking its peace and beauty, but leaving curiously absent the noise and hustle of city life, the stench of a sewer-ridden Thames, and the corruption of the elite. In “Pillars of Gold,” Blake similarly idealizes the city, describing it as a new Jerusalem through which Jesus walks. And, like Wordsworth and most Romantics, he describes the scene almost exclusively in terms of nature and pastoral setting. Then, as Prof. Rudalevige so aptly put, Blake has a bit of a bi-polar shift and completely tears apart the city in “London,” a poem which presents the poverty, despair, and hypocrisy that runs rampant throughout London. Reading’s poem, though written almost two hundred years later, makes the same point about hypocrisy, describing a performance of Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony in the Festival Hall, and the sounds of a dying homeless man in the concrete pit underneath it. The idea of having varying depictions of the city returned later, when we went to the Guildhall Gallery to see various paintings of London produced over the years.
Before our trip through the gallery, we were supposed to meet at St. Paul’s Cathedral for a walking tour of the City (City of London proper, not to be confused with Greater London. Confused? Get a map.). I got to the Tube station on my own, but I must have walked the wrong way around St. Paul’s because I couldn’t find our group and had to call Leah for directions. When we finally did all assemble outside of St. Paul’s, we began our tour of the City, which was basically a tour of Wren churches and a few other sites of note. (Christopher Wren designed and built 53 churches following the destruction caused by the Great Fire in 1666. We saw so many that I pretty much figured that any church I see in the City from now on was built by Wren.) Some highlights of the walk were the site of William Wallace’s execution, the only statue of Henry VIII in London, and Fleet Street. Sites with slightly more significance for the curriculum were the Old Bailey Courthouse, St. Bartholomew the Great, St. Bride’s of Fleet Street (the steeple of which inspired the tiered wedding cake), and St. Mary-le-Bow. It is said that if you could hear the bells of “The Bows,” you could consider yourself a Londoner (as in, resident of the City of London), and, specifically, a Cockney.
We then made our way over to the Guildhall Gallery, which stands adjacent to the gothic medieval structure which once housed the meetings of the guilds, representative merchants and tradesmen who went there to ensure their interests in the local government. Some individual guilds still stand in that area—for instance, we passed the Chandler’s Guild at some point.
Inside the gallery, there were many paintings of London, notable for their artistic and historical merit. Like the poems we read earlier in the day, the tone of the pictures varied, depicting both blue skies over the Thames and grey haze surrounding the East End docks. My favorite painting wasn’t actually of a real place in London at all. It was a painting from the 1970s of a proposed replacement for the feeble 19th century London Bridge. The painting showed two parallel bridges flanked by semi-circular terraces at either end. Obviously this design was never built, perhaps because of expense, or maybe it just took too much space. Whatever the reason, it really is a shame, because the current London Bridge is sadly disappointing and underwhelming.
I eventually made my way back to the Arran House and wasn’t feeling very social, so I sulked around my room for a while, talked online to a few people, and did nothing productive. I made dinner and ate alone in my room. Eventually I figured that I should get out and talk to people, so Jen and I went exploring. We intended to go up to Holborn to find a swing that someone had set up inside a bus stop, but, when we tried to get on the bus to take us to that bus stop, it started going the opposite direction and we ended up in Waterloo, on the other side of the Thames. So we didn’t get to see the swing, but we weren’t too crushed. The banks of the Thames were lit up and everything was so beautiful. After walking around for a while we decided to head back to Tottenham Court Rd. and find The Court, the pub Chris told me about. It was a bit empty, as far as I imagined pubs to go. But the music was good and it was nice to just talk for a while. After a drink, we decided to head back to the hotel.
I guess as far as varying impressions of London go, mine is still positive. Everyday I’m here I just can’t believe how much I love this place. I only wish I could afford to live here.
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