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CRAFTING INVISIBLE FIRES A NARRATIVE OF LONDON & BRISTOL, DECEMBER 1995 [EXCERPT] 20 January 2006 :: Joseph Robertson 1. December Parenthesis After several months of study in Spain, the opportunity arose to travel to England, to visit a close friend who was British and was studying in Bristol. It was December, and in Barcelona I found myself having the first really fluent, coherent conversations I could manage in Spanish. Barcelona was mild, while London was frigid, due for a rare snowfall. A number of apprehensions had my mind at work, pulling apart the simple, inoffensive details of my proposed trip to the UK. Would I be betraying my work in Spain, my long hours of reading, talking, listening, immersion in a language I was only beginning to get a handle on? What about the fact that I still had seven months of study, and was only beginning to build a life there. I hadn't left the comfort of the group I was with since arriving in late August... maybe getting away would be just the spark I would need to refresh my passion and enthusiasm for the long, uphill struggle of acquiring a second language. I decided to frame the journey as a necessary adventure, a time away from the project at hand, but a lesson in adapting to new situations, to the rigors of travel itself. This convinced me that my time in Spain would be enhanced by a side-trip, and looking back, it was. It's a short plane ride from Barcelona to London, feeling almost as if we simply climbed to a low cruising altitude, then peaked and descended to our destination. At Heathrow, I was able to find information on bookings, and reserve a room at a bed and breakfast inn just off Russell Square, for 30% off their normal rates (that knowledge would come in handy later).
The first voices I heard upon boarding the Underground to central London were speaking in Catalán, and strangely, I realized, it felt like home. I had become accustomed to hearing the language spoken by those around me, and a few lectures had given me a chance to learn how to bridge the gap between Castilian Spanish and Catalán, as one can learn to do between almost any of the so-called Romance languages, if one has the patience and creativity to hear between the words. I took it as an omen which both anointed my journey with good feelings and hinted at a welcome homecoming eight days later. I dropped my things at the inn and went right out into the city. I chose Picadilly Circus as the point of departure for my first solitary jaunt, for a number of reasons. Being London's no less wild rendering of Times Square, Picadilly was easy to find, and easy to escape. It was the center of the city and likely a good place to find money changers (though not at the best rates possible) and tourism offices (even late). I also hoped to locate tickets for the theatre. From Picadilly's wash of noise and neon, I went to Leicester Square: one block away, but much quieter and reserved for pedestrians. There I caved in to the urge to fill up on fast food, to be little distracted by eating and devote myself to describing in writing the happenings, the characters and the bustle around me. Two Spanish tourists entered, and I chose to practice my nascent fluency by listening, eavesdropping really, but to nothing of great interest, just some details about the travels of a friend. The population of London seemed at first glance to include a radical variety of personalities (as it must); it's a truly international city, with natives from every corner of the world intermingling and sharing space. The radical element of the city's population struck me when a thirtyish artist (portfolio in hand) dressed in leather, with maybe a dozen piercings, and a green mohawk hairdo, managed to carry on a polite and charming conversation with an elderly lady, dressed quite conservatively and unfased by the unorthodox look of the man sitting next to her on the Tube. It wasn't that one would expect either of the two to be less than polite, but elsewhere I hadn't seen such a pair strike up a spontaneous conversation, much less enjoy each other's company, however briefly. 2. Leicester Square, Beethoven & the Inn The streets around Leicester Square were laced with street performers of surprising quality. I would later come to know this is not uncommon in the center of London. In particular, I found a string quartet enthralling. They were playing Beethoven and Bach, and within a few minutes had gathered a large crowd around them. They could easily have been playing in any concert hall, but the acoustics of the street and its rushing throng were the site of their sound, and they used it just as well... nothing like live music. An obvious crowd favorite, it was easy to assume they would rake in a significant amount of sterling. They plied the Fifth Symphony is an elegant and austere way, their rendition lilting over the heads of all, moving some to tears, and warming the air. As they entered into the next piece, this one softer, more serene, a policman approached. He gestured to them, and they seemed to indicate they would like to finish the piece. After a few minutes, a displeased but embarrassed officer notified them they would have to pack up their instruments and obtain a permit before returning. The crowd was audibly upset, and jeered the police while cheering for the musicians, calling for more. The policeman went back to his truck, and the crowd dispersed. I wondered if I would have the good fortune to see the same quartet, once they had obtained the legal permission to perform. From there, I returned to my room at the inn, off Russell Square. Planning the next day was something of a quiet luxury, a way of acclimating to the state of solitude in which I would travel for at least two more days until I could meet up with Emma in Bristol. I turned on the radio for the sake of information, and to catch up on current events, know a little more about the city I was passing through. My plan for the following day began to take shape: I would catch the Tube to the National Gallery, call Paddington Station about tickets for the excursion to Bristol, then to the Tate Gallery, via Pimlico Station, changing from the Piccadilly line to the Victoria. I could reverse the order of these plans, but reminded myself to visit Covent Garden and the Imperial War Rooms on the Bakerloo line. I would stay out at Covent Garden through dinner and the show. Somewhere in there, call Emma. I had brought some intense Spanish reading with me, Ramón del Valle-Inclán, specifically, and it lent a welcome texture to the night, along with a sense of being at least partly still immersed in Barcelona, for which I had come to feel a great affection. Valle's Luces de Bohemia was a rich pool of contemplation to draw from, and I would recommend any such reading, in any language, as a welcome supplement for the quiet hours of any journey. The richer the reading, the richer the feeling of adventure and discovery for the traveler, if one's frame of mind is right. 3. Tate, Espresso & the Moving City Morning: the city is now at least partially my own, as I have spent the night among her inhabitants, and I have at least one room to which I can return at will for quiet or shelter. My plan for gallery-going takes effect, and in the crowded morning air of the metropolis, I make my way by Underground to the Tate Gallery.
It is astonishing how much great artwork and history is on display in London, free of charge. Except for special exhibits, the Tate is open to the public, gratis. A few pieces struck me more directly or more warmly than others, such as Sir Alfred Gilbert's "Comedy and Tragedy: 'Sic Vita'", in which a young man holds the mask of comedy, is bitten by a bee (symbol of Love) and so, in his naked state wears the face of tragedy. The tragic face is shown through the broad grin of the comic mask. In Harry Bates' "Pandora", the mythic figure is smooth and nude, the first mortal woman, crafted by Vulcan (god of fire), and she is ecstatic with curiosity. She hesitates, poised and troubled, on the hinge of a wish to open the box of all ills and hope, upon which she lies, two wild horses flaring out from beneath. The gallery itself informs the viewer that "Vantongerloo (for 'Interrelation of Volumes') described his motivation as a desire to 'render visible the beauty of space in what has been designated abstract art.'" In a busy city center as one finds along the Thames, this affection for the gift of space itself is refreshing, and comes into focus, even for the viewer not normally given to undecipherable abstract formations in sculpture and painting. As I examine Ginner's "Victoria Embankment Gardens", a swirl of cake and colored glass, a child is viciously scolded for touching the invaluable canvases. He does not carry an innate sense of why one person's imagery should be worth the annual salary of a thousand others, but that fact again forces the eye to focus on the meaning of the value of a place like this, a place which exists for the general enrichment. Elsewhere, a woman asks some children to describe the face in a portrait. She constantly reiterates: "She looks quite serious, doesn't she?" She's either trying to teach them the normal way of seeing or trying to craft minds of observation and swift judgement. But one can break away from such concerns and get lost in Shannon's "Bath of Venus", which seems full of music. In "Plains of Heaven" from John Martin's Final Judgement trilogy, there is a scented mist to be explored, something that seems to reach out and invite the viewer to participate in the artwork. Such things and much more I found at the Tate Gallery. London is flooded with fog and snow. In the Underground, a man dressed as Felix the Cat is playing "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" on a tinny but resonant trumpet, at the bottom of a two-level (perhaps four storeys) escalator. From there, I move on to a small café, where I sit among one Englishman, three American girls and three foreign-born Londoners staffing the bar. On the table: a new wool scarf, Valle's Luces de Bohemia, one cup of espresso. A young woman passes by carrying a guitar... from the other direction, a young man carries an electric keyboard, his companion a bag of newly bought clothes... no one leaves a purse or a bag unattended; a surprising number carry books, and glance at the pages even as they walk... many carry business papers, money, food or something particular... everyone carries something. In the city, lives are mobile, people are taking their occupations, their desires, their fulfillment, with them. After the coffee and the reading, it was the National Gallery, and the discovery of the sheer wealth of Ovid's Metamorphoses and its contributions to great painting. Monet, Rembrandt, Seurat, and Degas rounded out the afternoon of stunning artwork, and I moved on to a bar/restaurant in the theatre district. The smoke was unwelcome seasoning, but the atmosphere was conducive to writing... So, at Brahms and Liszt, I dined and wrote in a soft, scattered candlelight. The theatre followed, and the evening was capped with a quality rendering of a Broadway hit, many of which are perpetual attractions in London. The next morning, I would set out for Bristol, still without clear evidence that Emma had been informed of my arrival in England... [s] Originally published online at CavaTravel.com |
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