Of the many cultural diferences betwee London and Melbourne (such as the postcards for the servivces of various prostitutes which are wedged in most piss-scented telephone boxes) one is the fact that drinking in public seems totally accepted, while at the same time there's hardly any junkies to be seen on the streets - not that I've noticed, anyway.
One of coolest things about London is the way that major landmarks that you've seen a thousand times on TV shows or in movies suddenly appear beguilingly down a sidestreet or over a rooftop.
Anyway, here's what I did on Sunday:
Today was an action-packed day that began with a long walk along the south bank of the Thames...
I got off the train at London Bridge, and walked down to the river, then eastwards to Tower Bridge itself. I couldn't resist walking over it, gazing around me at London in all its shabby glory as I went. I stared up at the marvellous Victorian facade of the bridge's towers, then across at the Tower of London, although I didn't go to the Tower itself. The bridge was raised at one point, while I was sitting on the north bank eating a very expensive icecream, so a large ship could travel underneath: cue the happy snapping of 1000 tourists.
Digression: Once again I forgot to carry the camera that Hugh & Chiara loaned me - I think it's because I haven't owned one for so long, so I never remember to take it with me. Oh well, I have this blog to remind me of all the cool things I've seen so far - and maybe I'll be a bit more snap-happy in the coming weeks...
I re-crossed the bridge and headed west, discovering a life-size reconstruction of Sir Francis Drake's ship The Golden Hinde; walking past The Clink Prison Museum, which stands on the sight of one of London's oldest prisons (it held prisoners from the early Tudor years until 1780. Shakespeare visited an old schoolfriend here.); and marvelling at the fact that so many Brits seem to relish the chance offered by a bit of sunshine to whip off their shirts and expose their pale flab to all and sundry.
My destination was the Tate Modern Gallery, a marvellous gallery focussing on international art post 1900. Rohini Sharma, the new Artistic Director at Express Media gave me a list of places to visit in London, and this was one of them. I'm so glad I went. Thanks Rohini!
Situated in a converted power station in the heart of London, the Tate Modern is a remarkable building indeed: industrial, cavernous, a bold piece of architectural adaption. As well as two special exhibition galleries, there are four main suites of several galleries. Each suite is devoted to four of the great traditional subject areas of art: history, the nude, landscape, and still life. Each of the suites explores the ways in which these themes, while continuing through the modern era, have been often radically transformed.
There was a remarkable installation by Michael Landry called Scrapheap Services, a commentary on the way in which consumerism and capitalism chew up and discard people. In the Degenerate Art exhibition (a collection of art and artists displayed in an exhibition of so-called 'degenerate art' by the Nazis in 1937) there was a startling evocation of grief and helplessness in Hans Feibusch's 1939; Munch's The Sick Child, in the same room, was equally potent. There were amazing works on display by Picasso, Braque, Dali, Pollock, Warhol, all the big names of 20th Century art, although strangely I don't recall seeing any works by Australian artists...
Rick and I spent several hours wandering through the collection; sadly we didn't have the time to look at the Frida Kahlo exhibition that is currently showing, and we both bauked a little at the £10 entry fee as well, although now I'm starting to wish that I'd just splurged. On the other hand I did only have £20 on me, which had to cover lunch and dinner. I'll just have to go back on my next trip to London, when hopefully I'll have more than three or four days to explore this vibrant city.
At about 4pm Rick went home, and I crossed the no-longer wobbling Millenium Bridge towards St Paul's Cathedral. I stuck my head in St Paul's, but decided I wasn't really all that interested in exploring the place; maybe on my next trip to London, when I have more time...
After an abortive hunt for a couple of DVD's I was trying to track down (Derek Jarman's beautiful Caravaggio and his adaptation of Christopher Marlowe's Edward II, and John Maybury's blistering, bleak Love Is The Devil: Study for a Portrait of Francis Bacon) I wandered back to Old Compton Street, where I had a pint at the Admiral Duncan (scene of an infamous and horrific nail-bombing in 1999), where a naive Englishman casually asked me, when I mentioned that I presented a 3-hour arts program, if I had any problem finding enough new arts projects to fill the show each week. Once I politely explained that Melbourne is a city of 3.5 million people, and that I receive between 40-80 media releases and interview requests each week, he was suitably abashed; covering for his gaffe, he thanked Melbourne for producing the tv comedy series Kath & Kim (which incidentally I'm not a fan of, although my host Rick most definitely is!).
More pints followed, as I went on a mini pub-crawl. I soon found myself talking to Sara, an Australian lesbian who had fond memories of Q + A and who was returning home the very next day, and her actor-teacher-chef girlfriend Kate.
Then I turned down a sidestreet and found myself in seedy, sleazy Soho. There were sex shops, rent boys standing in doorways and down alleyways, people doing crack, backpackers everywhere, and guys offering me girls and drugs (not simultaneously).
Down another sidestreet and behold, Chinatown! Another turn and it's Picadilly Circus! Look, a drunk, shirtless English boy dripping wet and demanding that tourists take his photo and pay him 50p as he clambers out of a fountain, the Horses of Helios! Colour, light, movement, madness!
More pints!
I find the best pub in London yet, the Intrepid Fox in Wardour Street, whose crowd is tattooed, pierced, dreadlocked, shaven-headed, fascinating. As I order a pint one guy asks me if I'm from Estonia - when I tell him Australia he looks disappointed; when I try and engage him in a drunken conversation he tries to explain that he speaks no English.
I sit in a corner and scribble down notes about the decor: posters for bands such as Ministry, The Sisters of Mercy, Metallica, Rancid, The Offspring, Pantera. Chains, ghouls, cobwebs, skulls and a small statue of a chainsaw-wielding Ash from Evil Dead II: Dead By Dawn sit behind the bar.
A shaven-headed guy smiles at me a few times, and eventually asks me what I'm writing. His name is Gonzalo; he describes himself as 'a mutt from Slough, a 1/4 Spanish, 1/4 Italian, and half Chilean. His friend is named Anita and she's from Hungary. We talk about bands and travelling and London and Melbourne. I give then the details for RRR's website so that they can listen to the station on-line. Eventually I tell Gonzalo that he's cute and he looks a bit abashed but happy at the same time. Last orders are called. I give him my e-mail address and stagger out into the night, very drunk and very happy. I have a train to catch. I almost miss it.
I love this city.
No comments:
Post a Comment