The National Gallery, A Taste of Home, Giving Peace a Chance, Tower Bridge, and Midterm Excitement

“Thoughts ran in me that words and writing were nothing and must die, for action is the essence of all and if thou dost not act thou dost nothing.”

--Gerrard Winstanley, circa 1649

I’ve had a postcard with that quote on it sticky-tacked to my bedroom wall since the semester began; some leftover decoration from a past occupant which I decided was pretty apt for the moment. In fact, I’d been saving that particular quote, like foodstuffs tucked away until the dead of winter, for just such a moment as this…I know it’s been quite a while since I’ve written, but I’ve simply found myself too busy doing to sit down and write about doing. A pretty weak excuse, no doubt, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment! Hahaha…

So where have I been? Everywhere, it seems. But we’ll start off with what’s transpired since Bath…it’s as good a place as any to pick up the thread of my story…

The Thursday after our field trip to Stonehenge and Bath, my art appreciation course went to the National Gallery for class, right on Trafalgar Square. I hadn’t been in there before, and I didn’t realize that the place was as massive as it is—it seems a great deal bigger than the Tate Britain (though that may just be because on the day our class went to the Tate, it was half shut-down due to a strike), and there was much to explore. Our class spent its time in the rooms which housed the religious art of the Byzantine and Renaissance periods, and I ended up sketching some paintings for my art journal. I must admit, it’s good to get back to some sort of drawing; I haven’t done it in a while, and though I prefer sketching sculptures, there is something therapeutic about putting pencil to paper, for any reason. Further, I absolutely love iconic art, for reasons that are beyond me! I don’t know what it is, but it draws me in…

Word to the wise, though: don’t even think of trying to take photographs of the paintings in the galleries, flash or no. I wasn’t aware that it was strictly prohibited (I guess I’m so used to the British Museum, where you can take pictures of whatever you damn well please, haha) so when I raised my camera, a ninja-art-museum-guard came over within seconds (those suckers are fast!) to warn me on pain of death that photos were not allowed. Okay, not pain of death, but something along those lines.

Anyways, that evening my theatre class went to the Cambridge Theatre on the Strand to see the musical Chicago. I won’t lie, it was a bit surreal—here I am, thousands of miles away from my home and in the middle of this massive, foreign city, and one of the big hit shows there is based on where I come from. A bit ironic, in a way! The show was absolutely amazing, too. It comes in a very close second to Billy Elliot of all the musicals I’ve seen here—actually, it may even tie. The lead who played Roxy was brilliant, and had such a great voice. Plus it was really fun to hear the characters talk about things that were familiar to me, like Cicero, or some of the downtown streets and intersections all good Chicagoans invariably know.

I had plans to read a bit in one of the London parks on Friday, and would have done it, except that it rained all bloody day. Alas, I had to catch the Underground to Bloomsbury, where I wandered a bit until I made my way to the British Museum. I’d been there before, but there is honestly so much to see, that one visit barely scratches the surface of what the place has to offer. This time I made my way more thoroughly through the Egyptian mummies and the ancient Britain and Celtic sections, as well as a quick breeze through the Roman and Greek stuff. Amazing, all of it. I’ve honestly never seen such a vast and varied collection of artifacts anywhere, and I find it hard to imagine that one greater exists.

I walked home by a very convoluted route, opting to walk through Holborn and make my way all the way over to St. Paul’s and across the river. As it grew dark, I wound my way along the Thames, taking in the bright blue Christmas lights that still cling to the leafless trees near the London Eye, and under Waterloo Bridge, where the book fair had long before packed up and which was now home to some sort of bicycle convention, or maybe the start of some sponsored night ride. People were still out and about everywhere, and though I hadn’t accomplished anything particularly spectacular that day, I was glad to have gotten out for a bit. As I walked past Parliament, Jeanette rang and we decided to meet up and go to the Courtfield, a pub right on Earl’s Court Road, by the station. We headed upstairs, where it was less packed, and made the acquaintance of the Aussie bartender, who either had a twitch in his eye or just couldn’t stop himself from winking at us, haha. We gorged ourselves on sausages and mash, and several pints of cider. The place was humming happily on this Friday night, and as the large party by the billiards played snooker quite rowdily, Jeanette and I chatted and laughed at the entrance of the man called Spider, a 60-something year old guy, all skin and bones and covered from wrist to neck in tattoos, chock-full of piercings, and dressed in skater clothes and other accessories that should never be worn by 60-something year old men. Apparently Jeanette had made his acquaintance there before, but luckily he didn’t recognize her or make his way over to the table, although that might have been interesting to watch, haha.

Saturday I’d decided to do a bit more walking about, and wanted to try the path I’d marked out for my mom and sister to take when they came to visit. And so I took the tube to St. James’ Park, and finally took a turn around it—not as impressive as Regent’s, of course, haha, but pretty nice just the same. There were plenty of swans and ducks about, and the weather was sufficiently decent to warrant the food and drink vendors’ booths to be opened. Still not warm, mind you, but at least there was no rain!

After skirting Buckingham Palace and walking down the Mall for a bit, I changed direction and headed for the Wellington Arch. While there, I noticed that half of the Piccadilly was closed down and barred off in order to admit a steady stream of incredibly loud people to march down the street… Curious, I climbed to a better perch at the top of a nearby hill, and realized that a peace protest, with thousands of participants, was making its way east along the street. I stood there, listening to the chants and taking snapshots of the colorful banners and hilariously heretical signs, when I realized the silliness of what I was doing. Here I was, standing on the sidelines of some undoubtedly historic march on the English capitol, when I could be down there, amongst everybody, actually participating in it…. Needless to say, I quickly found myself bolting off the hillside and finding a way across the barriers to join in the fray.

I soon found out that the march had actually begun all the way in Hyde Park, and was marching through the center of London, down the Piccadilly to Piccadilly Circus, and up Pall Mall to Trafalgar Square. I was surrounded by all sorts of people: young hippie types; middle aged, middle class folks; military families; business men in three-piece suits; people of all walks and faiths and backgrounds. Some people made their own signs and chanted things like “One-two-three-four, we don’t want your bloody war; five-six-seven-eight, stop the killing, stop the hate” while others borrowed mass-produced signs from their neighbors and just joined in the call. I heard politics discussed all around me, and all sorts of languages, from people of all different faiths: Christians and Muslims and Hindus and everyone else walked side by side against the same thing, and it was truly remarkable.

The colorful fray eventually spilled out into Trafalgar Square, where banners were quickly tied to Nelson’s Column, and a giant TV screen was already waiting. Then the MC took over, and speaker after speaker was introduced, including a famous playwright, the mother of a fallen soldier, a number of MPs, a Christian minister, a Muslim imam, an American woman from the anti-war effort in New York City, and even the mayor of London, Ken Livingstone…among many others. My favorite bit was when several performers came out and played Bob Dylan songs. I was in heaven, haha. And of course I sang along loudly to each song—the renditions of “Masters of War” and “Blowin’ in the Wind” made me ecstatic. Ugly Rumours, Tony Blair’s old band, also made an appearance, leading the crowd in Edwin Starr’s “War”, by splitting the protesters in half and making one group shout “WAR!” while the other group (mine, haha) grunted “UGHH!” before we both asked, in all seriousness, what it was good for? I think we all know the answer to that. Absolutely nothing. Ha!

When the time was up for the protest, it was all ended in an extremely orderly, completely British way. The street cleaners leapt immediately into action as the crowd dissolved—but not before depositing their picketing signs nicely in piles, of course. Only a small crowd gathered in the back of the square, where modern day flower children were dancing barefoot to a guitar song. The area was returned to normal in a shockingly small amount of time, and I couldn’t help but laugh and speculate that they’d all rushed off for a very civilized cream tea after that grueling protest. How lovely.

If you’re curious to see what the papers had to say, here’s a link to an article on the protest: ARTICLE. Over 100,000 people—can you imagine? I can well believe it, though; we were packed in there like sardines!

Afterwards I continued my walk down Half Moon Street through Mayfair to Grosvenor Square. Wow, that neighborhood is loaded! I saw shops full of insanely expensive tapestries and crystal and opulent furnishings. Apparently that’s the neighborhood where Hollywood actors keep their London apartments and Prince Harry likes to hang out…so I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised.

That night Laura and I went to Siam Garden Thai, just down Hogarth Road, for some deliciously spicy noodles. How they burned! But they were delicious, and it was a good time. Thank goodness the waitress incessantly brought us fresh pitchers of water—lord knows I needed them. My mother would have loved it; they left a ‘glow’ in your mouth, as she always says…I considered it more of a ‘smoldering inferno’, but the word ‘glow’ seems so much nicer, haha.

Sunday brought little action—I decided it was a good day to procrastinate on my multitudes of homework due during the week of exams, so instead I opted to do laundry and go to The King’s Head for a couple of pints with Jeanette. I’m glad we went, though, because now I’m friends with my local’s bartender, Charles. He’s a tall, gawky 20-something guy who tends to talk like he’s either completely high or just really fond of surfer-dude talk. Either way, he’s vastly hilarious, and kept us company for much of the night, until I decided it was time to tackle the mountain of papers and tests that awaited me at home.

On Monday, my Tale of Two Cities class went to Tower Bridge on a field trip, which was a lot of fun. The Victorians were strange creatures: they wanted to build completely modern, cutting edge bridges, but heaven forbid they actually look modern. That’s why the actual working parts of the bridge are encased in that decorative stone…thus the structure looks more like a gothic fortress than a late 19^th century development! We got to go on the pedestrian walkway above the drawbridge, which is now enclosed in glass. There were some excellent views from up there, and one could see Traitor’s Gate at the Tower of London and the H.M.S. Belfast upriver a bit. We also toured the boiler rooms, and saw the machinery that made the bridge work… Now I don’t pretend to understand engines, but they looked pretty impressive to my untrained eye. Altogether a pretty nifty excursion.

The rest of the week flew by in a haze of paper writing, memorizing, test taking, and insane stress levels. In art appreciation I had to memorize the title, date, artist, style, and key points to 35 different works of art…so that during class, my professor could randomly pick eight for us to write about. Yikes! I had a 5 page paper and a take home test due on the same day in my Tale of Two Cities class, and 6 journals and a paper due in BLC. I’m glad to say that’s all over now.

Next stop: Spring Break, and ITALY!

Cheers!