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.

The Strand, London

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...

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