Just spent five days in the great sprawling mass of humanity that is London. I left Tokyo at 11 a.m., spent 12 hours in the air, and arrived in London at 2.30 p.m., having watched a couple of films at 35,000 feet - Woody Allen’s latest oversexed film, set in Barcelona (an enjoyable romp), and a comedy with an aged Burt Reynolds (very funny).
From Heathrow I headed into the centre of the city and found a Chinese ‘buffet’ in Soho, where I ate as much as I liked, then met up with two of my offspring and their partners at the Festival Hall, for a poetry reading, of sorts – Ruth Padel had put together some of her great-great-grandfather’s (Darwin) words and presented us with a potted biography in his own words. Halfway through I became aware of some very annoying mobile phone going off. What a prat. After it had gone off repeatedly every couple of minutes for quarter of an hour I noticed that it had the same ringtone as my alarm tone, on my mobile phone, which I had set to go off repeatedly for at least half an hour that morning on the other side of the world 8 hours ahead. I got up, acutely embarrassed, stumbled over three women’s toes on the way to where I had left my bag at the back of the room, switched off the offending phone and stayed hidden in the darkness for the rest of the performance.
The following morning I helped my son build a tree dome with living willow at the reservoir where he helps out with the London Wildlife Group. We were helping a bunch of highly amusing and imaginative 10 to 12 year olds, of various ethnic backgrounds. One particularly delightful kid reckoned she could speak 10 languages.
Had lunch in a Turkish cafe, watching the many orthodox Jews pacing the pavements outside, black coats, black hats, hands deep in pockets, twiddly sideburn thingies, solemn expressions. Beans, eggs, chips, sausage, bacon, liver, black pudding, tomato, all for £4.50. Bargain.
Headed off to the Natural History Museum to see the Wildlife of the Year photography exhibition, but it being half-term the queue was half a mile long so we popped into the V&A and stood in awe in the Cast Room, and was moved by the history of photography exhibition to decide to take up photography, like Scarlet in the Woody Allen film. Camera art, as someone said, especially keen on photographing people; family and friends in particular.
We later popped into the National Portrait Gallery, which reinforced the above intention. Was saddened to see so many faces now gone from us, captured in their prime. Was surprised and delighted to find the iconic chalk portrait of George Eliot, somewhat oddly in the ‘Science and Engineering’ section. Her deep longing grey eyes staring into mine across the many years between us, drawing me towards her, into her mind.
Royal Opera House, Covent Garden in the evening. Very entertaining Big Issue seller outside abusing as many people as possible “You red-haired git! I hope you get over it”, “Big Issue! You fxxxing tight tossers!”. Inside we watched Three Short Pieces, the first of which was kind of porn/musical with a bit of ballet thrown in. Music and lyrics by Kurt Weill and Brecht, sung by Martha Wainwright, lots of legs akimbo and clutching crotches. Wondered why I had spent quite so much on my front stall seat. Next to me was the most over-the-top pretentious berk I have ever heard pontificating on the stars we were about to see perform their miracles – “Of course there’s Tom - he’s our big white hope”. He loved the porn-ballet, applauding madly, and shouting “Bravi!”, although I might add that as the two dancers he addressed were female then he should have said “Brave!”.
The first interval I escaped to the pub over the road for a pint of unpretentious Bombardier.
The second Short Piece was brilliant – one of the best things I have ever seen. Set to Bizet’s Carmen, it was funny, intense, complex, spoke of the depth and range of human inter-relationships, the contradictions, the desires, the forgiveness, the tolerance, the love, the anger, the transcendentality of the human condition. Bloody marvellous. Thoughts of art and artists – the musicians, the conductor, the composer, the dancers, the choreographer, the set designer, the lighting.... a combination of brilliance. My pretentious neighbour was silent, until the applause kicked in, rapturously, and he then seemed to cotton on that he’d just witnessed something sublime. He talked a lot about the technique of the dancers, not to me but to his long-suffering partner, but I could’t help thinking that he couldn’t see the wood for the trees – so focussed on technique he missed the art. Made me think of a lecture by Daniel Barenboim a while back. He said that he practised endlessly so that he could get to the point where he no longer had to think – where it seems like he was improvising, like jazz artists, whom he considered to be the greatest. Can’t disagree.
The third Short Piece was set to music by Michael Nyman – pseudo-classical wallpaper noise, which regrettably sent me off to sleep.
Friday I was in the British Museum and loved the Babylon exhibition. I am so ignorant. “By the river of Babylon, where we sat down, and there we wept and remembered Zion” refers to the Jews kidnapped from Jerusalem and taken to Babylon, 3,000 years ago. Up until recently there was still a Jewish community there or in Baghdad. The opulence, the decadence, Belshazzar’s feast, the writing on the wall, the days are numbered, Babylon is Western white ‘civilization’, that built itself on the oppression of the weak. The Tower of Babel. The Babylonians divided the days and nights into 12 parts, following the 12 constellations the Sun passes through, the signs of the zodiac. They also used 60 as a basic unit (seconds, minutes) as it was so easily divisible. Lowest common denominator, or whatever.
The exhibition ends with a video showing how Saddam Hussein destroyed so much of this mother-civilization, the first urban human life, and how the American military has done so much more damage since.
That evening we are in St. Martin’s in the Fields for Mozart, climaxing with his Requiem, perhaps my favourite piece of music, if such a thing is possible. Unplugged.
Saturday I meet a friend for lunch. We end up early afternoon in a pub in Soho, surrounded by TV football screens, and white close-cropped males, eyes on the ball. The exception being one lone woman whose mate had strategically placed her back to the screen so that he could easily glance from her eyes to the TV with the minimum of effort. We left before the first goal.
Arsenal, Chelsea, multi-ethnic, multi-cultural, but their fans are white, seemingly oblivious of the irony. Later we are walking up Shaftesbury Avenue while a bunch of white male football thugs chant racist xenophobic ignorant nonsense, “Ingerland! Vindaloo! Fxxxing French!”. The urge to feel part of something, by hating others. The day will come when this nonsense ends.
Saturday night, Queen Elizabeth Hall, one of the best concerts I have ever been privileged to have been part of. Trilok Gurtu with the Arke String Quartet. Indian, Italian, improvisors making Chinese, Celtic, Indian, whatever music. He got us all singing along, including tabla, two standing ovations. He talked of love and peace and our common humanity, with a great deal of humour.
Sunday we have a pub lunch in the Chilterns with my mother. We drink a pint of “Credit Crunch” brewed by the Rebellion Brewery of Marlow. And have a great roast lamb and three veg plus pud. I am told I need a nice widow.
http://www.britishmuseum.org/whats_on/all_current_exhibitions/babylon.aspx
