The Tates

Today I visited the two Tate galleries. The first, the Tate Britain, contains a collection spanning 1500-present, while the Tate Modern (shockingly) only exhibits modern art. I went to the Britain first because it was closer to me.

The walk was of middling pleasantness. It began drizzling during it, as it would continue to do for the rest of the day in varying intensity. Incredibly, this is the first time it has precipitated in England while I’ve been awake. It made the walk considerably less pleasant than it could have been. Of course, when it wasn’t raining, clouds covered the sky like heavy drapes, stifling everything.

It was unexpectedly confusing to get to the Tate Britain. Fortunately, due to the friendliest interaction I’ve ever had with a man toting a subautomatic machine gun (he was a cop), I made it there after passing by the Parliament building. Conveniently located near the Museum of Garden History, the International Maritime Commission and a hotel or two, the Tate Britain boasts a great location amongst other strengths.

Actually, the building is quite nice. Another neoclassical done in white granite. Two interesting facts about the interior: first, like the National Gallery, everything is on the first floor; second, there’s a lot of wasted space in the Tate. There are two central soaring interior rooms that evoke an ancient wind tunnel due to their emptiness.

As for the main attraction, the art, its quality is uneven. My distaste for the neoclassical in art has been well-voiced, and in the Tate the early period is particularly boring. The procession of fifth Earl of Bunburys and seventh Duchess of Hampshires appropriates even more space than most galleries. But the modern parts are good. Worth the price of admission (well, if there were one) is the picture collection during the Blitz (indeed, the whole section of art during the Blitz). Two affecting photos: the first, of the dome of St. Paul’s rising above the smoke; the second, of a sign mounted on a barricade that says, “Entry Only To Passes. NB: NO Passes Given Out.”

From there, it was across the river, to the South Bank. The upside to much of the South bank is its stellar view of the river and overhanging trees. That walk is peaceful, looking at the bridges and Big Ben and the Parliament building and the like. But then, about when you hit the Eye, the gigantic Ferris Wheel giving a view of London, and the mysterious building housing a: Star Wars Exhibition, Aquarium, McDonald’s and…Dali Universe (so surreal, Dali couldn’t have come up with it), the whole place becomes overrun with street performers, people watching street performers, and food. Unfortunately, none of this food is good, so I gave in to EAT.

I might as well explain EAT., which I believe I have alluded to before. It was one of my goals, in this five-day interlude, to avoid EAT. Not so much because it’s bad, but because it’s so easy. It is both omnipresent and also somewhat good. It is as classy as fast food as a right to be. For example, I could have had a Peking Duck Wrap. EAT., quite simply, demands you eat and has good reason for its demands. I was hoping to avoid it to sample ‘genuine’ London food, but from the number of people who frequent it at any location, I suppose it is as genuine a feeding option as any. Also, it is delicious. I admit it, I wish we had EAT.

From there, I went to the Tate Modern. The Tate Modern is a converted power plant that looks like a mansion for a Bond villain. It appears to have been constructed out of one gigantic piece of stone, from which the maker fashioned right angles to do a protractor proud, and to which he added a colossal and sinister tower topped by an observation deck. One can imagine said Bond villain prancing about the glass observation deck contemplating his plans to unleash killer orangutans that will steal the world’s cows, thus depriving the world of fertilizer, meaning that the villain will control the world’s food, and hence, THE WORLD! (I admit that I spent entirely too long coming up with that fictional plan for taking over the world.)

Once inside the Tate, you are greeted by the whirring of something that sounds like twenty aircraft on full blast. You quickly learn that this is the “Turbine Room.” You realize that the Tate Modern really is the headquarters of an international playboy villain. Then you see the art and realize that no Bond playboy villain is interested in this particular art (unless it’s a part of his fiendish plan…)

The reason for this is that none of the art is elegant. It’s all an example of aggressive modern/post-modern art. A lot of it seems to be crying, “You don’t get it, nyah nyah nyah.” What this reminds me of is fashion labels. There’s a very popular label (judging by the number of people wearing it) called DRNKNMNKY (i.e. DRUNKEN MONKEY). The purpose of labels like this and fcuk seem to be similar: those who are offended are clearly not in on the joke and really not worth our time, besides laughing at them.

There is some very worthwhile and interesting art at the Tate Modern, and the museum is very well laid out, incorporating some of the art that requires unusual space very well, but I thought that was worth saying about more modern (I mean this chronologically) art.

From the Tate Modern, I walked across the Millennium Bridge, a pedestrian bridge made of flowing steel. I can’t really describe it…google it. It’s pretty nice. The perfect thing about the bridge is that it connects the Tate Modern and St. Paul’s Cathedral, which are right across from one another. St. Paul’s, of course, is a wonder of construction, so it was quite nice to see it again.

I wandered somewhat aimlessly until I hit Charing Cross Road, which is a street that, Walt Whitman-contradiction style, contains multitudes: musicals, several bookstores, sex shops, two Starbucks directly across from one another, several restaurants, and a bar called “Salsa!”

The bookstores, in particular, were outstanding. Shout-out to Henry Porde’s booksellers (or something like that) for being well-organized in layout. Unfortunately, its prices are hieroglyphics (“Is that a seven or a picture of a snake?” asked one customer. He was not joking. I could see the case for both.). Interestingly, many of the used bookstores also featured, discreetly and yet plainly, sex shops downstairs.

Speaking of the out-and-proud sex shops, they too, were interesting. They proclaimed they were licensed, like everything else in London. God save us from the unlicensed sex shop!

Because I spent so much time wandering about London, I thought I’d close with more counts and vignettes:

As I walked down Victoria Road in Central London, near Westminster Abbey, I heard alarms blazing in four consecutive shops. Showing the stiff upper lips the British are renowned for, the shoppers kept on shopping.

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Patrolling various parts of London, but especially near Parliament building, were pairs of cops on the beat. One always carried a large machine gun. I believe I mentioned I had an interaction with one cop that rates as my friendliest with a man holding a large machine gun.

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In England, the seats in a theatre are called stalls, and the cashier’s registers tills. One gets the image of the English as bovine, being herded to and fro for their pleasure.

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Walking down Charing Cross Road, a woman in a full-length hijab was walking. A fourteen-year old boy, part of a group, bellowed at her, “How can you see?” Paying him no mind, the blind woman made it down the street with ease. His friend (or perhaps sister or girlfriend) started screaming at him about how insensitive that was. His response: “Oh whatever.”

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In general, the English are thin, especially their men. I’m at a loss for why. Certainly not their diet. At any rate, there are a sizable number of obese people, and interestingly, the vast majority is older middle-aged to outright old.

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London’s streets proceed sensibly until, periodically, you are confronted with an outrage. Often it is something like a street gaining a new name and casting off the old one like a snake shedding its skin. Today’s outrage goes like this: there is an three-way intersection at Bayswater Road. All well and good, you might say. Except some genius urban planner made the decision to have both sides of traffic merge into the turn, rather than having cars make the turn. What this means is that both sides of the street cannot drive at once, for no discernible reason.

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COUNTS:

WOMEN IN HIJAB: 9 (including one dropping her children off at Regent St from a van…but I thought Muslim women were forbidden from vans and expensive shopping? Aren’t they supposed to be at home, submissive to their terrorist, oil-drilling, Jewish-hating, hummus-loving husband? But this is what I’m told every day in the media…To hear the media tell it, Muslims of Europe aren’t assimilating, but the normalness of this scene—no one paid it a second thought, so far as I could tell—seems to belie that to some extent.)

COLLEGES:
CAL: 3
UCLA: 2
NOTRE DAME: 2
WHATEVER THOSE DII CHAMPS WERE: 1
EVERYONE ELSE: 0

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I have seen Drury Lane, and if the Muffin Man lived there, he does so no longer.