I ate my toast, had my tea, tied up my sneakers (which I was becoming increasingly attached to because they had taken me so far… regardless of the fact I’d not seen one other girl in all of my travels wearing white trainers…) and headed out in search of some culture.
My destination was the British Museum. The first thing I saw as I came out of the Goodge Street station was “We Will Rock You” playing at a theatre across the road. There stood a giant man holding a microphone, laden in gold with red and black lights shinning out the name of the production. I had seen the production the year before, and however shameful, loved every moment. The story line had an almost Orwellian spin with a bit of humour added to the mix, along with Queens most well renowned songs. I clapped and sung my way through and as I passed the theatre I started singing Bohemian Rhapsody in my mind.
After all these days you would think I would have come to accept the fact that you can be walking along a street aimlessly, looking to one side of the street, then turn to look at the other and be shocked to see a beautiful, Romanesque building rise up before you… but no. I smiled and rolled my eyes at myself when appeared a grand off-white pillar clad building materialise behind large ornate steel gates. I almost ran into the hot-dog vendor situated out of the front of the building. My mouth watering, I took a deep breath and walked away from the hot-dog vendor, advising myself that if I was very good I MIGHT be fortunate to treat myself later. I would fall on my hands and knees to thank the man who man hot dogs if I ever had the fortune to meet him. Especially one strewn with caramelised onions, French mustard, tomato sauce and soft white bread… ahhh
Moving into the Museum I was surprised to find that entrance was free. For hours, you could meander, spending an entire day in this beauty without spending a penny (apart from a potential hot dog on the way out ofcourse).
I fell in love. The British Museum is yet another marvellous feat of design, the building alone inspires – but what you can see in there, it is what dreams are made of. You are transported into another world with each corner you turn. At one point you are with Tutankhamen, turn the corner and Moa wishes you the worst (or best, depending on your perspective I suppose). I visited China, South America and smoked a friendship pipe with the Aztecs, I was welcomed to Japan by beautiful Concubines and popped past Mongolia (sucking on the flesh of human bones with our dear friend Ghengis Khan). Then I headed back to Europe for a cup of tea with the Tudors, sat with Anne Boylen before her head was impolitely struck from her head, dined with Mary Queen of Scots and saw to tomb of Sir Thomas Moore. Every room I went into I decided was my favourite… but then I discovered the sculpture section. The pharaohs’ looked at me unceremoniously and I was whisked away to Egypt, speaking with Queen Esther about the future of the Jews. Where did they come from? These ancients who had such skill, ability and above all, determination, to create such structures? There was so much that we took for granted, so much in the world to be marvelled at. It gave me shivers, looking at these ancient stones made to look like the overlord kings of a past world. I wanted to know who these people were, what their world was like, how they felt, were they happy or scared? Did they know what the world would be like in thousands of years to come? Who were their gods? I have always been a fan of Egyptology and had I any inclining that one could actually make enough to live on by being an Egyptologist, I would certainly have headed down that route. I considered potentially going back and studying it further when I got to forty or so, in the meantime I would soak up the history that was standing here before me.
The Romans also fascinate me, what they accomplished during their reign? Like the Byzantines, the Mongolians (for a short while), the Spanish later… and finally the English. I learnt during my “History of Globalisation” course at university the concept of “exoticism”, in that, because something is simply unusual or unknown, it is therefore exotic. Exotic does not actually mean a small island somewhere off the coast of America or in the Bahama’s, we all experience exoticism differently because of our different experiences. I am sure that in five generations from now people will look back to the start of the new millennium and think how wonderfully outrageous, or extremely simplistic and innocent it was, just as I was considering the extent of passion that existed in Roman times. Passion for family, home, country, religion, that I felt was lacking in the world today. Something more important than self and possessions.
One of my favourite sculptures was Aphrodite – she’s always been my favourite goddess, and I’m sure we all know the story – a bit naughty I thought in that a penis was thrown into the roaring waves and from this Aphrodite was born and is the goddess of love and fertility. The sculpture depicted her kneeling and looking off into the distance while covering her breast with her arms. Generally one sees her in a huge clam shell with waves flaying at her legs, but this gave her a bit more of a human aspect, she is just a woman… and maybe that’s the point, the female of the species holding the key to love and fertility.
The problem I have with museums is that I feel like a tourist. I feel like I’m staring at an object that does not belong in the space its situated. I want to be there, not only in the place it originated, but also in the time. It made me realise that a part of me, in my desire to come to England, or Europe, I was infact hoping in some way to go back in time, to live like Austen or the Bronte’s – to go to Bath and take the cure, to be in a world more innocent to my minds eye.
The British Museum did not quench any thirst, it was magnificent and I shall go again, but it made me desire so much more to go to these places and walk where ghosts still wandered and be in the presence of history.
I was on a mission, taking out my list I identified my next stop – the day was going so quickly! Half of me was advising to simply slow down and see what I could see in the time I had, another part of me wanted to see everything (including the continent) all at once. Nigel’s voice rang loud in my mind “Calm Down!”, but I’d had five cups of tea, each with two sugars… and I was off like Speedy Gonzalas!
I walked down a street and my mother popped up for a second… “Pancake Café”, I wished she was here, we’d have strawberry pancakes and a very large cup of tea and giggle about all the money we spent shopping. Melbourne was so much better with her there. I took a photo of the Pancake Café with Mum in mind, thinking of our last ‘girly’ excursion where Tiffany, Mum and I had gone to the Carillion City Pancake Parlour for brunch, and carried on my way.
More theatres! Were they stalking me? “Fiona…” they crooned, “watch me”. But there was no time! I would see a play, a very good play, or a musical… many infact, but not today – today was Culture Day and I needed to getto the Photographers Gallery.
When I think back to that day I even shock myself with how much I did. No wonder I’m tired! Its as if I think I only have one day to see it all. Part of me feels that I need to see as much as possible so that I can show my family and friends via facebook – if I don’t go out I almost feel guilty. I think I simply understand the opportunity I have and how fortunate that I can be here, right now, that there are millions of people that would ever have this opportunity, and there are some whom I love that may not get the chance. When I wander with my camera I am taking them all with me, from my Pop to my Mother, showing Dad the history and Tiffany the theatres, making silly faces when I’m excited to Nigel, and consider having a cup of tea at the Ritz with Nana. So many people… and they deserve a good tour. I am simply the tour guide. I do need to stop myself at times, however, and remember this is for me as well. That I need to live, breathe and experience this, that this is me developing into what ever it is I want to be.
In between destination 1 and destination desired 2 I discovered destinations that, had I known of them, I would have headed immediately for them. First… I discovered a theatre where HairSpray was playing – having to take a happy snap for my dear sister. I decided not to purchase a ticket or go… not until I had my sister or Mother there to join me… some things are sacred and need to be experienced with those you love. I look around at times while I wander the London streets, expecting to see someone, wanting to experience a moment with that person… only to find that they aren’t there. I decided I didn’t want to see a musical such as this because the sadness would surpass the happiness of the theatrical delight.
My next happy discovery was the Royal Shakespeare Company Theatre… my first EVER play was Midsommer Nights Dream that my mother arranged for me on, what I think was, my 15th Birthday. It was done by the Bell Shakespeare Company (of which I’ve seen around 4 more productions, one of which was also Midsommer Nights Dream…). We were in the Botanical Gardens in Perth and the performance was set in the light-soaked trees. People dressed as fairies and Kings and Queens ran up and down the aisles of the crowd to everyones delight… except my father ofcourse who was certainly unimpressed that we had to move from one area to another for the second half of the performance (in his defence, his back was very bad at the time, however I remember his grumpiness with great fondness – my mother and I chuckling to ourselves). It was a magnificent performance, my eyes like saucers throughout the play. It was my first true introduction to theatre and, I must say, it was love at first sight.
Now… here I was… not at the Australian version – Bell Shakespeare… but at the actual Royal Shakespeare… and their theatre no less. I could not but walk in. I wanted to see something then and there, I wanted to see Dame Judy Dench performing Twelfth Knight, David Tennent as Hamlet (which was unfortunately sold out… have a soft spot for dear Dave ever since I saw the BBC version of Casanova… and then Dr Who ofcourse). I couldn’t believe that these actors, the people doing the job of my dreams, were here, performing… performing with a company dedicated to The Shakespeare… I asked the man at the Box Office if I could take a quick photo, he saw the excitement in my eyes and advised “It is not generally appropriate madame” (he called me madame!) “however, if you must”… and I must, I must indeed. I took a few photos and again walked out of a building filled with appreciation for existence (and a secret desire that has never waned to become a stage-actress).
I carried on and was astounded by the astounding things with every step that I took, the next theatre was showing PIAF, a play about Edith Piafs life and featuring her sometimes eery, sometimes hilarious, music. I immediately thought of my father, turning Edith up very loud in the pink lounge room. Watching movies when Piaf came on and him looking fondly at me explaining who she was and why he loved her music, he even has her CD. An all Australian farmer… with the CD of a French singer? He’s a man of many contradictions. I took a photo thinking of him and carried on my merry way only to find Josephs Technicolour Coat playing at the next corner which reminded me of my Aunty Julie who had seen the production – I believe in Perth – when I was a child. She had purchased the VHS and I remember being so jealous that she got to go! I looked up to her when I was a child, thinking she had the most magnificent life, having travelled and gone to plays. I thought I’d like to do all that too – now Tiffany, if you could have a child please so that I can make her jealous?! Ofcourse the next corner reminded me of my Mother, the Lion King was showing and the posters rang out at me. For years I had wanted to see the Lion King and one of Mum and my main reasons for going to Melbourne was to hopefully see the production. It was featuring the Maori actor from Water Rats who had the most amazing voice, one of those rare voices that seem to go straight through your veins and make music more than music, but an emotion beyond description. Unfortunately the play stopped playing (a juxtaposition in itself) a few days before our arrival. I wished with all my heart that my Mum was there at that moment, that we could have one of our spontaneous girly evenings and go immediately to watch it. I will go while I am here and will take her with me, she should certainly expect the t-shirt in the mail.
While pondering the wonders I’d experienced since my walk from British Museum, and being slightly concerned about the time and how I was going to accomplish my Bond-like mission within the given hours of a day I realised I popped down a small street without many people on it. I continued, thinking I would somehow pop back out at an appropriate place, only to discover ‘Neals Yard’. Neal’s Yard is apparently a very well known attraction for London locals – I had not read about it in any of my guides or maps. Therefore I struck down the Fiona Flag and claimed it as my own.
Its almost Mediterranean in its presentation, with colours wowing you. A pink wall lead me through a cobbled street to a hair dresser whose caption made use of an image of Betty Boop (one of my favourite cartoon characters). Past the hair dresser I came to a courtyard with a few small shops and a café, all very quiet, but with strong blues, oranges and purples colouring the walls and transporting you into a whole new place. Large hanging plants hung from second storey balcony’s and a light touch of music whisked on the winds. It enabled me to take a moment, take a breath and take stock of my day and my weeks.
I emerged from Neal’s Yard with a new sense of excitement. Wandering. I was back in the mood for wandering. I still wanted to conquer my list, but at the same time wanted to ensure that I appreciated everything as I bounded down the sometimes cobbled streets.
I decided to cross the road and enter an interesting store I spotted. It was a up-town second hand store that had everything I could have dreamed of. Gloves, hats, ponchos, jumpers… all from the 50s, 60s and 70s. Welcome home Fiona.
As the 70s music belted out I took this, that and the other thing from the rack. Things I would never ever even dream of wearing in Perth. I was going to have a closet party right there in the store. I felt quite liberated, I’ve mentioned before how impressed I was that in London, its wear what you feel like – ofcourse there are those Paris-Hilton look alikes, some persons that appear as if they’ve put their make up on with a spatula (males and females) and ofcourse someone wearing a Mohawk and some kind of very large diamond encrusted dagger as a pendant… but the ability to wear what you feel, to express yourself through attire and not be looked at, not to stick out like the proverbial elephant, its exciting.
I put a great white beanie-like hat on and a red plaid poncho (that itched my neck terribly) and danced… I danced like no one was watching and my heart soared. I was having fun… in London… and all by myself. It is a magnificent feeling to enjoy yourself without another person in the room, to be happy and healthy and loving the moment you are in.
Simply because the store brought me such happiness I bought a little jacket that I’ve since worn every night as my beddy-down time jacket. Its comfortable and, yes, I look like a Grandpa from the 40s… but I feel like me in it, and I feel happy.
Post-boogy I realised the time and continued on my drastic journey to find the Photographers Gallery. It was a long treck to get to Trafalga Square, but there was so much to do and see and the hours were getting the better of me. Already the sun was descending and the afternoon chill was in the air. The clouds tormented me with the possibility of rain, so I hop scotched through the streets, navigating my way past camera-carrying map-perusing lost-meandering people.
The Portrait Gallery is yet another impressive building that is molded into the perfection of historic architecture in London. There was an exhibition on, but at 15 pound a pop (around $35) I thought I could suffice with the region known as “free”… aka “for poor people and me”. I was actually disappointed by the Portrait Gallery but intend on going again, and actually seeing an exhibition… I was hoping for more photography of the 40s through to 70s (which I find quite fascinating), but it was more focused on characters from the Tudor, Victorian and Edwardian eras… similar of which I’d seen in other galleries throughout my London tour. The paintings were beautiful, but ofcourse there is little emotion in most. The Lords and Ladies were required to sit before a painting, a sculpture, in a garden and look as bored as possible while the artist painted an exact depiction of the said Lord or Lady laboriously. There is little sense of personality in many, which is fascinating in itself, but once you have seen twenty, thirty… fifty… you start ignoring the substance of the piece. I find contemporary art and photography somewhat more enticing because if drives me to analyse and wonder… there was little to wonder with a picture of Queen Victoria post-husband-death as she stared at me… all I felt was that she had every intention of getting me out of her presence…. Not the most amicable of historic characters – even if she is quite modern in historic tense.
One painting that I did find… disturbing, I suppose, was that of Churchill. He is sitting in the House of Parliament with his Parliamentarians and staring out… staring at you. Wherever you go, he is looking at you with utter consternation, as are some of his compatriots. I was meandering through, taking in the images that surrounded me, when I felt eyes upon me, at which time I turned to discover that there were eyes on me… the entire Parliament, infact… it is amazing to feel such a thing through a painting, to have felt it before seeing the painting, as if there is more than simply watercolour and canvas… some essence of self that has been taken into the material and echoed over the years to those who disturb its presence.
I still have a desire to visit more photo-oriented galleries, I love photographs and thoroughly enjoy the thrill of taking that snap at the right time, the right place, something filled with energy and peace, all at the same time. There is a sense of pride when you get it just right. I’ve always wanted to learn how to develop film myself and… well to become a photographer in a way. Travelling around London and taking happy snaps is not the same as taking a photo… and although with technological advances, everyone can take a good photo, there is an art to taking something really moving. There was a documentary I once saw about an Australian who would go surfing for the pure purpose of capturing a wave just as it split open to engulf those riding it… my unicorns dancing on the great blue. He was amazing and took pride in his art… and indeed, it was art. I look forward to having enough peace in my personal situation that I can meander and concentrate on the form of a photo, rather than capturing everything that I see.
I headed out and crossed the road to discover that I was standing before St Martins in the Fields. So many people had told me about this Church and I had great expectations. From the exterior it looked similar in age to the Portrait Gallery, with pillars rising up with determination to keep modernity from its steps. It was pristine… from this you could sense the love that London had for it, people cared enough to take time to ensure that time did not taint its beauty.
I headed down to the ‘Crypt’ first… simply because it was called the ‘Crypt’ and therefore enticing in its potential gothicness… however it was simply a gift store with every tragic bit of commercialist degradation lining its walls ready for the budding tourist to spend their pounds on, and also a café whose exorbitant prices were beyond my stomaching.
I headed back up the stairs and into the Church that… while beautiful, was not as impressive as Westminster Cathedral that I had stumbled across earlier in the week. It was clean and pristine and… well seemed to lack emotion. People say that it is magnificent, but I wonder if they have wandered off the beaten track to some of the even more beautiful Churches and Cathedrals in their city, places that aren’t in the ‘must see’ guides… I lit a candle for those I was thinking of, took note of the Churches structure and tried to appreciate it for what it was, but the sterility took away from its presence for me and I decided I was much happier in my personal discovery…
I understand the reason that St Martins in the Fields is so well known is because of its location… Location Location Location as they say… because as I stepped out I suddenly realised where I was and why people had tld me to go… infront of me was a large expanse of car-traffic-less pavement and scores of people. There was a pond filled with black-steel statues and marble fountains, lions adorning post-war structures and buskers in every corner. Never have I seen so many cameras snapping away, lighting up the area like a miniature summer storm. Here was Trafalga Square.
To Be Continued….
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