Tate Britain & Oxford Street

It was a cold and windy day but I needed to get out of the house and do something exciting. I was still focused on finding a job, but couldn’t sit around waiting every day, life still needed to be led. I decided to go to the Tate Britain, knowing the array of art there would distract me from reality for a while.

Jumping off at Pimlico I wandered down a tree strewn street completely bereft of any form of life, and took a photo of a small sign adorning a tree; “Beware, Leaning Tree Trunk”, I concluded that maybe Health and Safety was going just a little too far.

The sun came out casting maple leave shadows across the silent street and as I wandered along enjoying the peacefulness of the moment, to my right a grand, pristine white building ascended to the clouds, overlooking the Thames. The building was set back from the street with a wide walk-way and flag poles infront. The flags wavered in the slight breeze advertising the Turner Prize and Francis Bacon. My excitement was renewed as I entered and bought tickets to see the Turner and Bacon exhibitions, each in separate areas of this impressive 18th Century Building.

I initially wandered around the general areas of the Gallery, taking in the classical pieces that were held there, before making my way to the Turner Prize area. I’d first heard about the Turner Prize some years ago when there was an up-roar about it being given to an artist who had nailed a piece of cow dung to the cross – this was one of the many representations of modern art. The Turner Prize considers new forms of contemporary art, pieces that challenge the concept of art, object and taboo, so one can expect to see things that one would never expect to see. My first glimpse into the Turner Prize was a room that was set up as a kitchen, but looking closer the objects in that kitchen were being used in unconventional manners, a mannequin stood with a bird cage on her head… I stood for a while looking at the objects and the formation of everything that had been laid before me… I cant say that I was especially impressed or shocked, I understand that a lot of artists like to investigate the relationship between human and object and work to force the audience to consider the object outside of its purpose – for instance, a spoon just hanging from the ceiling, is it a spoon if its purpose has been taken from it? Personally I far prefer expressionism or surrealism, looking into the psyche and considering human interaction – beit with the world, each other or themselves – the sterility of objects doesn’t really fascinate me.

I moved on and took in a blank wall with a dot in the centre, a group of bricks on the floor, a photo of a woman trying to get out of a stone (I didn’t mind that one so much, the idea of someone battling against society maybe, or herself, to find freedom and there being no hope?). The wonderful thing about art is that nothing truly has an outlined meaning, its all up to the interpretation of the audience.

My favourite part of the Turner Prize exhibition was not actually the exhibition itself, but outside the exhibition there was a small café with tressle tables, the tables were strewn with coloured paper and pens, people were writing their thoughts, their experiences, feelings… general comments on the exhibition or on life in general, and then displaying them on the walls around the café. I wandered up and down reading all sorts of little thoughts. I like the idea of different people with their different lives being in the same place as me. I think there is no reality, only the concept of reality, because everyone has whole different worlds, where they live in their mind – you can never be truly connected to an event because everyone experiences and remembers it in such a different way – aren’t we interesting creatures?

I headed back upstairs while still pondering away and enjoying the random thought process. I’d never heard of Francis Bacon before, but had looked up his work on the internet before I headed out to see his exhibition. Francis Bacon is said to be one of the most talented of modern artists, he may be the Picasso of the 21st Century in years to come (although, he dealt more with impressionism than cubism).

I, apparently, was not the only one who was excited to see the exhibition… there were people milling around every corner of the three allocated rooms dedicated to Bacon, and further people moving through the gift shop. Before entering the main exhibition area I sat to watch a documentary of Bacon, discussing his history, his perspectives, interaction with others… I was spellbound by his honest explanations of what motivated him and what his art meant. I remember when I was in high school and reading about Salvador Dali and was absolutely furious when discovering that much of Dali’s work had no intention to it beyond being aesthetically pleasing and making him money… I’d thought originally, Wow – he really is making a statement about this or that… when infact, he was just a part of some commercialist conspiracy and I just thought it wasn’t right at all. We’ve not been great companions since that discovery – I just don’t know whether I can forgive him his arrogance! But Bacon, Bacon was trying to make social statements, about the Cold War and society in general, about the human condition and each of his paintings had a purpose. The most famous of his paintings is a series called “The Screaming Pope” which is quite traumatic, filled with purples and blues and a pope sitting on his chair screaming, it appears, through bars. I didn’t think my father would like it particularly, but Brett would certainly have appreciated it.

I spent two hours wandering around the paintings, staring absently, reading about them, listening to recordings of interviews with Bacon. Generally I get frustrated in galleries when there are too many people, feeling the sound of chattering people stops me from really appreciating and considering what I’m viewing, but this art was powerful enough to take you out of the room and into the painting, silence descended as I shuffled along the wooden halls.

Eventually I left the exhibition and the Tate Britain, at the same time two school groups appeared and ascended the stairs – I was glad to be going… that would have been far too much for me to handle. I decided I would go there again, but for the moment I was ravenous and there didn’t appear to be anywhere in the vicinity especially nice to eat. I figure that if I am out and about in London and want to eat something, I shouldn’t settle for McDonalds or a dingy café – why not have a decent pasta, a warm Indian… seafood? London is apparently known for its cuisine, so I decided that quenching ones appetite was something to be enjoyed and I’d not eat until I found somewhere particularly nice.

I hopped back on the tube… realising that I didn’t have any idea where I wanted to go next. I thought – well, maybe I’ll just stay on the train until it stops… see where it takes me… - unfortunately it was nearing mid-afternoon which meant the sun would be descending soon and I best stay somewhere relatively central. I jumped off the tube close to Oxford Street and headed to Marble Arch, I knew there was a cinema close to there and contemplated watching a quick flick.

Marble Arch ended up being a VERY scary experience… Across the road I watched as a man helped his 5 year old daughter feed the pigeons… multitudes of pigeons, they almost completely carpeted the white-slated area that was surrounded by rose bushes infront of the enormous arches. I crossed the road (having recently discovered the best way to cross a road in London is to wait until someone else crosses and run quickly closely next to them – hoping that they have more experience in not being run over by cars coming in every direction). I walked to the far side of the small park-like area to take a photo of the man, child, pigeons and arches, thinking it would look very nice in black and white… when… suddenly… like the rolling of thunder, the birds flittered and fluttered and rose up like a blanket being flicked clean at the end of a picnic. The birds, like a swarm of bees, then turned and headed in my direction, flicking past my ear, over my head, across my shoulder, I yelped and ducked and sat – mushroom like – on the ground. It was a near death experience, they were going to kill me – I was sure of it!!! The sound of their flapping was still ringing in my ears as I stood up and saw that five people were smiling – and somewhat secretly giggling – at me. I smiled back, embarrassed, but glad that I’d taken the precaution to duck, not sure whether maybe one of these birds had eye problems and might not have been able to swerve past me… since that day I have a new fear of a pigeon flying straight into my eyes… Do not trust the pigeons… they are evil creatures to be feared… not fed!

Laughing at myself I tottered back to Oxford Street hoping they might have some lights on display for Christmas. The sun had just recently headed to the Southern Hemisphere to create a new day, and left me to enjoy dusk in the city.

After my near-bird experience I was cheered and overwhelmed by what I was now witnessing… not just lights, not just little Christmas displays… Oxford Street was literally lit up, stars and chandeliers hanging between buildings shone down on the crowds madly shopping in the streets. John Lewis was strewn with lights from top to bottom, the House of Frasier was a picture of snow flakes falling from windows, the Disney Shop was a myriad of bright blue Christmas Trees and cartoon characters shimmering happily. Down alleys purple lights hung from string between buildings, flashing and releasing a warm glow on the cobbled road. The windows of shops were little worlds that you could peek into. In one, Santa sat in a bath filled with cleaning products, in another Reindeer sat waiting for their dinner, banging their knives and forks on the table, Santa was sledding down a snow bank, sitting in a bar drinking cocktails and eating candy canes… Everyone was looking, laughing and snapping away with their little digital cameras. It was a sight to see. My heart was singing and so was I, “It’s beginning to look like Christmas” danced in my throat.

My stomach rumbled, bringing me back to the realisation that I was starving and needed to find a suitable place for sustenance and consumption. It was impossible to continue walking up Oxford Street, the crowd was too thick, only allowing for shuffling and squeezing. I took a quick left and breathed in – oh! Oxygen! I took out my little London booklet to try and ascertain an area that would have a few restaurants and maybe a little more peace. Looking around to establish which street I was on I suddenly realised that I was standing silently at the entrance of a courtyard. More purple lighted strings flittered in the wind above me, taking a few steps I was aghast to discover I’d just found the perfect little place, a secret haven… with food!

St Christophers Place is just behind Selfridges and hidden from the main Oxford Street stretch, what luck that I should choose to go down this street? Such a street that led to tiny restaurants ad bars, quiet with people sitting and drinking and laughing, a touch of music whisking between the buildings. It was clean and had such a lovely atmosphere. I wandered down each corner of the square, identifying which restaurant I should choose to sit at. The little Russian place with great ancient tea pots and bubble tea smoke pipes? Or the Italian with mosaic walls, the Spanish café and its salsa background music, what about the Pizzaria with large flamed heating equipment outside and happy looking staff, tiny metal tables? Yes, that will do. I was in the mood for pasta.

I took a seat and within a moment a foreign lady was asking me what I’d like to eat, and would I like a complimentary wine, is the heating close enough? Is there anything else she could possibly do for me? How lovely… add to list of “my favourite places”. I ate my chicken pasta with great enjoyment, watching couples and groups of friends chitter chatter about Christmas, presents, parties and who did what the other night.

After thoroughly enjoying my meal and my discovery I decided the day would be complete with a film. I headed further into the West End making my way to Trafalga Square. It was Friday and little did I realise that meant everyone was out having a few drinks after work. Trafalga Square was filled with people moving here and there, between bars and café’s, all dressed up and ready to dance. I found my cinema and purchased my ticket to “The Duchess”, thinking that one day I would have a longer term job, meet some people and have the opportunity to come here with a group of friends, all dressed up myself. In the meantime a movie and warm ride home was all that I desired.

I quite enjoy going to the films by myself now, it’s a little retreat… and a treat in itself. The film was one that I thought my mother would enjoy – given a box of tissues would certainly be needed.

What an unexpectedly enjoyable day. The chill in the air followed me home, the smile now frozen on my face. I collapsed into the house by 8pm and looked so forward to tucking myself up in a warm cozy bed while remembering the day.