Another new day, another day gallivanting about Lahndon. A little late off the mark this time - didn't set foot in the cemetery till 3.30, didn't get there until gone 4.30. I had to move quickly, and so raced across Hungerford bridge, zig-zagging past the blue-shirted kids handing out anti-drugs leaflets (sponsored by the Church of Scientology, so it said on their backs. Hmmm.) On Northumberland Avenue, as Rob has pointed out elsewhere, the volume of free newspapers thrust in your direction by enthusiastic young men and women was of forest-threatening proportions. Trafalgar Square was rammed as usual; I particularly liked how a gaggle of jolly-hockey-sticks public schoolgirls in ridiculous stripy uniforms and straw boaters were being openly and loudly mocked by a couple of blokes perched on top of one of the lion statues. Pigeons, seemingly unaware of Red Ken's edict against their continuing existence, were rooting about in the dust from the nearby building site. I found my way to the top of the steps and ducked into the cool, calm sanctuary of the National Gallery.
What followed was essentially a 30 minute greatest hits set of western art from 1400-1900. (I had meant to give myself a bit more time to do it all justice, but I can go back and do it properly some other time, eh?) Starting off marvelling at Titian's excellent depictions of beards, I then gazed with admiration at Leonardo's angel in the shadows, plus the Virgin Mary, etc. (nice rocks there too, mate) before heading off to find my current favourite, Botticelli's Venus and Mars.
Realising I didn't have much time, I dashed off into the 1600-1700 section, through a whole heap of moody Rembrandts. I was looking for Vermeer; he clearly is a tricky chap to find. Anyway, I eventually tracked the bugger down - in this one I particularly liked the cherub brandishing a card like an overzealous football referee. I also dallied awhile by the Rokeby Venus by Velazquez. Nice curves, I thought.
Onwards and leaping forwards in time, and I ploughed through a bunch of Canalettos, into a room of Gainsboroughs (I liked these dudes) and Constables, depicting some kind of Olde Englande rural timewarp. Last, but by no means least, was the groovy selection of Turners, with their fantastic hazy skies and smoke and moody atmosphere. Altogether, a very satisfactory half hour. I still completely failed to find the Impressionists, some of which are marvellous, so I'll have to go back, I reckon.
After my little spree in the NG, I was then herded onto a tube train for the journey out east. I was due to meet Dr Smitha Nathan at the Ten Bells in Spitalfields, historically notable as the pub where Jack the Ripper selected his victims. An agreeable pub, all told, with massive leather sofas - all the better to accommodate Drs Ben Kilner and Alice Thomas (from Oxford! Thanks for coming all that way!) and Dr Andrew Sorby. Surrounded by such excellent personages, a jolly evening was inevitable, especially when you factor in a Brick Lane curry and a purchase of a dozen bagels (got a bit carried away in my beery enthusiasm). The only downside came when, having made the last train with plenty of time to spare, I fell asleep and missed my stop, and had to take a £20 cab ride home from Farnborough. Whoops.
No comments:
Post a Comment