Art and Soul

I not only braved but think I’ve mastered the underground (subway). I bought an all-day pass and used it to get all over town. I did still end up walking quite a bit, including two trips across the Blackfriers Bridge, the second time with my feet and legs crying out for me to jump into the Thames and end their suffering. It doesn’t look like I can use it to get to the airport, though, as it leaves too late on Sunday morning.

Today was a no camera day. They aren’t allowed in the Abbey or the galleries, so I left it in the hotel. The National Gallery is truly a national (and wordwide) treasure. What an incredible collection it is. Though they would like a donation, admission is free. I could have spent all day there. What was delightful was that the gallery was full of groups of school children of all ages. They could often be seen sitting on the floor in front of a painting, deep in discussion with one of the docents. I enjoyed listening to their comments. I made my way to my old friends, the Impressionists and Post-Impressionists. One of Cezanne’s large bathers was there, as well as many smaller works and a couple of self-portraits. I was struck by how flat and thin the paint was on his paintings, as opposed to Van Gogh’s, for example. His apples in Chicago are more thickly-painted (at least in my memory). There were several Van Gogh’s, including his “Yellow Chair” and a very famous wheat field scene and one of his sunflower paintings. There were also beautiful works by Pisarro, Manet, Monet, and some spectacular pieces by Degas. Seurat’s “Bathers at Asnieres,” a world famous painting, was also there. Note to Dean: I kept my distance. Surprisingly, they had no works by Utrillo. When I asked about that at the information desk, they did say there was a Utrillo listed in the national collection, but it’s in the Royal Residence. I’ll bet the Queen has it hanging in her bedroom. She has impeccable taste. I find my tastes have narrowed over the years, and I wasn’t all that impressed with the old masters. I did enjoy the sensuousness of Velazquez and the Spanish disregard for majesty in their portraits. Rembrandt, of course, has no equal. I laughed again at the obvious sense of humor of the Brueghels, especially Pieter the elder. I wonder if the faces in his paintings are of friends of his? Even in his painting of the visitation of the magi, the Christ child has the face of an old man. I did appreciate the rich colors of Titian. Rubens left me cold. However, my breath was literally taken away when I saw one of my most favorite works of art in the world: “The Supper at Emmaus,” by Caravaggio. Every power that he possessed as an artist is represented in this painting. His use of chiaroscuro was never better. If you are not familiar with this painting, look it up. I thought I knew it well, but to see it in person was to reveal it to me in a whole new way. It must feel like the apostles did when they realized that the man that they were eating with was Jesus. After that, I had seen enough. I did decide to go to the Tate Modern since everyone says you should when you are in London.

Thus began another train ride, with switches and then the hike across the bridge. I was greatly disappointed in the Tate. Aside from the fact that it was hard to get to it, its layout isn’t conducive to easy access. It could also have been my encounter with Caravaggio, but nothing there impressed me at all. It may take another 100 years before some art historians can decide what “modern” art was all about. There were some art “installations,” which is to a work of art as a pile of scattered car parts is to a Porsche. They had an exhibit on the history of street photography, which I bypassed. They called it “Street & Studio: an Urban History of Photography.” One of their posters had a street-looking type holding a camera like it was a machine gun. It rather reminds me of the current crop of “spoken word poets,” who seem to think they invented reciting (when they are not spewing) poetry outloud. No knowledge of the past can produce great delusions in the minds of “artists.” Wow. I must be getting old. Blame it all on Picasso. The only thing I did appreciate was that there were several cut-out pieces by Arp. Funny, though: the word Dada never came up. The walk back over the Blackfriers Bridge was especially painful. There was a young woman in a red dress that did brighten up the place more than any of the art did.

Before I did the art scene, I went the spiritual route, trying to grasp what had eluded me at Stonehenge. I spent a couple of hours in Westminster Abbey. I’ll save most of my reflections for another time, but it was an uplifting experience. The history of the place itself would be more than enough. But, as they like to point out, it is an active house of worship. Every coronation of every king and queen of England, dating back to 1066 (William the Conquerer), has happened in Westminster. Kings and queens are buried there. As with all sites of historical interest in London, they provide a free commentary to take along and make it easier to know what you are looking at. Jeremy Irons provided the commentary, though it was often interspersed with discussions by experts, music, and some videos. One of my favorite places was the Poet’s Corner. The first poet buried there was Geoffrey Chaucer, though it was mainly because he held a government office. Others came later. There is a statue and tribute to Shakespeare, but he isn’t buried there though they did talk once of moving him there. Sir Laurence Olivier is also buried there, not far from Chaucer. The prize, of course (not counting kings and queens) is the tomb of Sir Isaac Newton. It is on the altar where they say services every day. Charles Darwin is also near him, but he has only a spare, nondescript slab with his name and dates on it. I wonder if that should surprise me or not? I did spend some time just sitting (yes, and maybe praying) in St. Faith’s Chapel, which is set aside for just that purpose. Another impressive thing is the Grave of the Unknown Warrior. It was in a place of prominence, right near the entrance to the Abbey. It was surrounded in beautiful red poppies (and, yes, they do grow in Flander’s Fields). The British do know how to honor the men and women who protect and serve them. Too bad more Americans don’t feel the same way about their warriors. It’s interesting to note the names and monuments to people most of us have never heard of, but they were important to England. To spend the time to reflect on what is really contained in the Abbey and everything that has happened there for more than a thousand years, is to perhaps begin to understand what it means to be English. No people is perfect, no country is always right or just or altruistic, but I’m proud to have England as part of my heritage.