Das Eurotrip: London Bloody London

Thanks to several books, many many conversations with friends and family, news stories, history and S.O.S.E lessons, countless hours of British T.V., David Attenborough, David Mitchell, David Bowie, David Tennant and, to a huge extent, Stephen Fry I have, for a long time, had a very clear mental image of London. Realising this as I began my descent into Heathrow Airport it became clear that London could very well disappoint me. Its not that I had a particularly idyllic image of the city, I was aware of it's shortcomings as much as I was of the things that earn it its status as one of the worlds great cities. One thing you hear time and time again when traveling is how in love everybody except Londoners is with London, and how readily and exaggeratedly Londoners will whinge and roll their eyes at the mention of the word. Nevertheless I was perfectly happy with my imaginary London and didn't want to face a reality that didn't live up to it. As it turns out I actually had nothing to worry about, coming out of the airport on the tube everything was just as it was supposed to be. The sky was sodden with neutral gray clouds, the suburban back yards generally consisted of only grass and a few green leaved plants with poorly, dully painted houses, and the ticket inspectors were almost invariably black men with cockney accents. Its was... not perfect, but just sort of right.

I had once again not booked a hotel before coming to the city, and so on the train from Heathrow to Cockfosters (lol) I realised that I didn't really know where to get off... as I wasn't sure which station was the most central, or the best place to be in. I was looking at the line map and saw on it names like Piccadilly Circus, Covent Garden, Hyde Park... all these names that were already so ingrained in my mind, it felt like I was spoiled for choice. I think I must have eventually gotten off at Knightsbridge (why I chose that station I'm not entirely sure) because I found myself right in front of Harrods. I'm sure even the most austere anti-commercialst would have to put in a lot of effort to not be impressed by that store and those on its surrounding streets, the window displays and colourful, impeccably designed clothing that was on offer for public viewing. Unfortunately as I had just come off a plane I was pretty shabbily dressed and loaded with cumbersome baggage, and so- feeling rather out of place- I only took a short look around before trying to direct myself to a tourist office, or reasonably priced hotel. One thing I had already known about London was that the street layout is almost specifically designed to not be convenient to navigate oneself around. It seems as though the architects of city had this extraordinary plan for an enormous, extravagant and beautiful city, sparing no expense. Then when it came to putting the plan into action they realised that there was actually not enough space to fit it all into, so they just sort of smushed all the plans together so that this city with all its nicely planned out system of grids and blocks buckled and twisted and turned into this mess of squiggly lines and cul de sacs. Then they chose all the best, most iconic arches, buildings and parks and placed them randomly throughout the place.

Eventually I did find a hotel where I was able to stay for one night near Victoria Station, before having to move into a 4 star hotel for a discounted price (why it was discounted I'm not sure, but I wasn't going to ask questions) in Kensington, a suburb which exemplifies the British lust for cleanliness and civility. Even between these two locations it was surprising to me how much accent really does reflect the speaker's socio-economic status. If you walk into a laundromat or a street stall you can almost guarantee that you be greeted with a cockney 'allo... I was even called 'gov' once... and the accents increased gradually but steadily in their relative poshness, stepping up to pubs, then to cafes, museum attendants, hotel receptionists, news reporters, all the way up to Jeremy Irons, whose voice was used for the audio tour of Westminster Abbey, which was the first piece of real tourist-ing I did.

Once I came to that area of the Thames it was like a heavy icon overdose. Depending on which direction you face as you walk out of Westminster station your focus is caught be either Westminster Abbey, the houses of parliament, Big Ben, the London Eye or simply the river itself, its like a sample palate of all things British... the architecture is so geometric and solid but not stern or sombre, as it is covered in joyful, playful ornamentation, you get an immediate sense of sturdiness and the physical and historical weight of the buildings. The abbey was always high on my list of things I absolutely must see in London so I made sure to head there before getting too distracted by anything else. I have to admit to being completely awe-struck as soon as I walked into the building, so much so that I was completely stopped in my tracks, and didn't really re-animate until one of the guides came to offer me a map, he seemed quite amused by my reaction. I was like that the whole way through the building, not only because of the sheer beauty and spectacle of every single aspect of the architecture and the design but also because of the meaning behind it all, and the names engraved into the tombs and walls, it was sort of like a historical Madam Toussauds, a walkway of Britain's all-time most important celebrities. The tombs and chapels built for the royals are very very beautiful, and being in the same room as Mary Queen of Scots, Elizabeth I, among others, in the Lady Chapel... a title which I'm sure could have been taken a lot more seriously before 'Little Britain', did send a few shivers down my spine. But for me, as I'm sure is the case for most visitors to the abbey, the most impressive part of the abbey was the poets corner, walking around this area dedicated to the likes of Keats, Dickens, Eliot (George and T.S.), Alexander Pope, the wall plaques naming the Bronte sisters, Oscar Wilde, Ninette de Valois, Frederick Ashton, Constant Lambert, Margot Fonteyn and the marvellous statues of Shakespeare and Handel... I love it. Its difficult to describe the feeling you get there, I wouldn't describe it as being particularly spiritual or anything wanky like that, but it was rather inspiring in a way, to see such a clear demonstration of the fact that history recognises the extraordinary importance of the artists of this empire, the people responsible for shaping it intellectually and emotionally commemorated alongside those who shaped it politically and religiously.

As it was reasonably close, from Westminster Abbey I headed across the river to the Hayward Gallery, as I had seen at the airport train station an advert for British Art Show 7- In the Days of the Comet, an exhibition which takes place every 5 years, and includes works by a selection of the most influential British artists in that period. As you would expect from such an exhibition of a large range of contemporary artists, there were some works that I thought were really beautiful and exciting, and about as many that I thought were a bit of a waste of time, but there was one artist whose work affected me much more than any others'. Charles Avery has spent the most part of his artistic career developing this imaginary world known only as 'The Island', and has produced several pieces of work exploring its peculiar inhabitants and the qualities of its landscape. Though the idea of it isn't just to construct a world that exists outside of the realms of reality, it was a metaphorical solution to the problems behind the creation of art and search for truth, these creatures like the brownbobs, incredibly beautiful cat-like creatures which are so nimble and elusive that you can never get within a few yards of them before they dart away, and which therefore have never been touched by human hands, or the grass which slithers and dances like an entranced snake and which, when the explorer asks if it is real, prompts the response from Miss Miss (the first local he encounters) that 'everything is real', which throws our normal ideas of the nature of reality and truth into question. Any attempt to bring these objects with such special qualities back to the main land is thwarted by the intense light of the 'real world'- the light of reason- which withers the living grass and renders the delicious cuisine sour and distasteful.

Also on my list of things I must see was the wondrous British Museum. I think I spent about 8 hours just walking around the ground floor of the museum, looking at the Egyptian, Greek and Mesopotamian artefacts... among the many things I learnt there was the fact that I spend far too much time on reading absolutely every caption I pass, though in this case I'm glad I did. I really believe that the British Museum is among the greatest and most important undertakings mankind has ever accomplished, it is a true wonder of the modern world. The fact that even up to 4,000 years ago the architects and artists of the age were able to create works that we still considered profoundly beautiful, among the most beautiful man-made objects in existence, is something that always surprises me, and its true even given a more modern view of beauty. The fact that body parts, arms, hands, noses, toes and fingers, are often broken off sculptures doesn't create an incomplete work, it creates a new one, a work that is edited and interrupted and creates an interesting interplay of textures between the smooth, finished curvatures of the busts and bottoms the many Greek Venus' and the rough granular spaces to which the bodily extremities were originally fixed. It adds to the element of elusiveness and mystery that you encounter anyway, in attempting to comprehend the impossibly great expanse of time that stands between you and the creation of these objects. If you ever feel the urge to go to the museum I recommend you go during the more inconvenient hours of the day, the early morning and late evening (on Fridays it doesn't close until 8.30 pm), in an attempt to avoid the tourist onslaught. The number of visitors isn't really a problem for me at all. It was sort of encouraging, in fact, to realise that this place was a real tourist destination, and something that people really wanted to see. What was unfortunate, somewhat ironically, was the apparent stupidity of the visitors. I can fully understand the appeal of wanting to stand in front of and examine the Rosetta stone... I felt it myself, but why in the name of damnation would you want to take a photo of it? ESPECIALLY a photo with you or your friend standing in front of it with goofy, awkward smiles. It ruins any purpose or aesthetic beauty that the object holds, it cheapens it for yourself or anybody, turns it into some kind of touristic whore. What is the point? Do they think it will serve as some sort of evidence to the idea that they are worldly and educated? Are they that insecure that they think that a photo of an important historical item standing next to an asshole is going to change the disgusted opinions of their friends and families? They lean one-armed on statues of Egyptian deities and lounge around on top of sphynxes... do they think they're funny? Do they believe that they have found some new and witty way of interacting with objects which are clearly marked 'DO NOT touch, the oil from your bastardly hands can irreparably damage these impossibly valuable objects, especially as you probably did not wash your hands after the last time you went to the toilet'. What is the fucking point?? It reminds me of a phrase I heard in a Fry and Laurie sketch; 'HE is a tourist, You are a holiday maker but I am a traveller'. I know it was supposed to demonstrate and deplore the smug, self-righteous way that some people will talk about the people they encounter when travelling, but in this case it really did seem true.

Having said all that, the next day I felt some responsibility to do some more of the conventional touristy activities in the city. This involved a trip to Buckingham Palace to watch the changing of the guard. It was fantastically uneventful but at the same time quite strange. The guards did absolutely nothing for minutes on end, interspersed with periods of goose-stepping back and forth between the wall next to them and their original posts. Because it was so boring I decided to play a game involving the guards and my camera, it was called catch the guard off guard. I would zoom right up to the faces of the guards, close enough to see their facial expressions, and catch them every time the slipped up, when their focus was directed anywhere other than directly ahead of them or they yawned or wrinkled their noses. They were mostly pretty easy to get but one of them was particularly good at his job... it was almost impossible to find him deviating from his poker face. This meant that for long periods of time I had my camera pointed directly at him. Seeing as I was well within his line of sight I was sure that he started to notice me, and I eventually realised that what I was doing could very well be regarded as being a little creepy, not only by the guard but also by the people surrounding me. I thought this until I put down my camera, looked around me and saw that a number of other people were playing this game too, and intently focussing on this same poor guard. I did get a number of good photos of him though. because he was so composed and focussed the deviations he made from his usual stance were rather subtle and graceful, almost modelesque.

Later that day I did something rather strange and totally out of character, I attended the evening mass at St. Paul's cathedral. The immediate impact of this building's interior was, if anything, more breathtaking than that of Westminster Abbey. The walls and columns were just dripping and oozing with gorgeous, luxurious, decadent luscious loveliness, emanating from the cavernous golden dome in the centre of the building. I know that the catholic church has come under a great deal of criticism for their ostentatious cathedrals and finery, which apparently grossly deviates from the true meaning of Christianity. And I know that, given the many doctrines of this institution concerning the virtues of poverty, self-deprivation and restraint, the fact they are the owners and creators of such incredible and incredibly expensive structures and artefacts is wildly hypocritical, but its something that can only really be criticised given that consideration. As I find a lot more personal meaning in beauty and art than in religion I cant be anything but glad for the fact that this institution, one of the most powerful and influential of all time, has placed so much importance and put so much love and effort into these objects of devotional beauty, whether or not the purpose they were created for is real or not. The other side of being in buildings like this is the fact that you want to believe that they are wholly good, and can only possibly serve to the purpose of goodness and beauty. But the fact is that they have inspired and accommodated so much evil, bigotry and horror. Its a reality that is at times a little difficult to accept, the fact that buildings such as this encompass both the best and worst of humanity in one blow.

After a few days of staying at the hotel in Kensington I moved on to staying with the wonderfully hospitable and generous Kerri and Jonathan Stephens, friends of my cousin Diana, and their bizarre and instantly endearing cat, Molly, who seemed to be locked in a constant power struggle with her owners. It was just what I needed at that point to be staying with two people who, although I had never met or heard about before I began this trip, I had something in common with, and whose warmth and ease to talk to really reminded me of home. I had a couple of interesting conversations with Jonathan about his Buddhist faith which were, though I loathe the pun, very enlightening. On my second last day in London I had the very lovely experience of taking a walk with them through Hyde Park, something I almost definitely would not have done had I not been staying with two locals with such a clear and admirable appreciation for this sort of charming and simple pleasure. One of the things I found a little strange about London is the fact that, while the city appears to be completely overstuffed, they have somehow managed to find the space to fit in these large, idyllic expanses of park. Even the heart of the city is dotted with these relatively small patches of greenery, slotted into the spaces in between roads, ornamented with sculptures, benches and flower beds, and walled off from the sound and fury of the peak hour traffic. One of the features of this particular park was a number of reflective sculptures that had been erected in an otherwise relatively bare area, which provided the effect of making the landscape look almost like a collage, with geometric cutouts placed randomly throughout reflecting and distorting either other areas of the landscape or the sky, it was a beautiful effect and reminded me quite a bit of the John Stezaker exhibition. I felt like I couldn't thank Kerri and Jonathan enough for their hospitality, and this is largely to do with the fact they would quickly and casually brush off my attempts at thanks by saying that it was a pleasure to have me. I hope that in saying this they were being genuine rather than simply polite, as I'm sure that, even though I spent my time there sharing a fold out bed with a very loud and persistent cat, the pleasure was all mine.

One other thing I have to thank them for was their recommendation that I take a lot at the Albert and Victoria Museum, right next to the Natural History Museum in Kensington and only a few streets from the hotel I had been staying at. I didn't have a lot of time there as I went at the end of the day of our park outing, but the time I did spend there was well worth it. While there were a lot of really exquisitely designed and produced artifacts from various design eras from all around Europe which I could have spent much more time looking at I spent most of my time looking at the sculpture collection, which included probably my favorite collections of Rodin sculputres. It seems as though the unofficial mark of a large gallery anywhere in the world is that they have at least one piece by Rodin.

A great deal of my time in London was spent at smaller modern art galleries, through either talking to locals or exploring the city and seeing adverts I've discovered that this is a city in which the spirit of artistic interest and exploration are very much alive, which is something I hadn't really expected to find. I had always assumed that the British tendency towards cynicism and self deprecation had a lot to do with the fact that their command over most of the the world has been overtaken by the U.S, who for so long now have also been the world leaders in artistic exploration and innovation. It may well have been simply because I was easily able to read signs and converse with people who spoke the same language as me, but I saw and heard about more current and exciting art galleries in this city than I have in any other. As well as the Hayward Gallery I also went to the Whitechapel Gallery which was exhibiting a retrospective of John Stezaker's, whose minimally edited photographs and movie stills were very beautiful and which have caused a surprising amount of controversy for such simple works, and the very small Alison Jacques Gallery where the Scissor Sisters were curating an exhibition of works by Robert Mapplethorpe. Because I spent so much time looking around these smaller, less well known galleries I found that I had left myself very little time to Look around the Tate Modern, Tate Britain and Saatchi Galleries (I've promised myself to spend a proper amount of time there once I am back there in early April). I did however get to see one temporary exhibition at the Tate Modern by Gabriel Orozco, which could well have be my favorite thing I've ever seen of any currently working artist. The work was so sensitive and personal... not always obviously beautiful in the aesthetic sense, but so clearly the result of a boundless love and appreciation for the beauty of life as we experience it every day, what Kandinsky so poetically called the secret soul which exists in everything, and that is silent more often than it is heard. His work is like a response to the institutional, manufactured world that has overtaken our lives more and more, decade after decade, but instead of rejecting it as cold artificiality he exposes all of the spirit, comfort and poetry that exists in it. I loved his photography series entitled 'Until You Find Another Yellow Schwalbe', which he created after buying a yellow scooter in Berlin, then driving it around the city, stopping every time he saw a scooter of the same model and taking a photo every time they 'met', and his 'La D.S', a Citroën which he sliced lengthways into three parts and then reassembled without the middle part so that it became a perfectly streamlined single seated car with no engine- thereby creating a stationary object that is perfectly suited to aerodynamic activity. The exhibition guide I was given included a quote by him saying that what people saw in the actual exhibition wasn't important to him so much as what they see afterwards, how their view of the world is changed, and this is the effect it had on me. It was almost like fate that as I walked from the gallery over the millenium bridge I saw the most absurdly spectacular sunset I have ever witnessed, the sky literally looked like it was burning up. The horizon was ablaze with a dazzling golden trim while the rest of the sky shone a brilliant fucia which was reflected in the water of the Thames... the sky interrupted by billowing streaks of the soft yellow undersides of clouds and the river interrupted by deep, deep blue ripples of water. It was one of these completely unplanned and unexpected moments that you almost cant believe you could have been so lucky to have actually experienced.