circle, line
As Henry James said,
It is difficult to speak adequately, or justly, of London. It is not a pleasant place; it is not agreeable, or easy, or exempt from reproach. It is only magnificent.
The magnificence of London is a daily assault on the psyche and the senses. I lived there in my twenties and had a magnificent time, but just as I loved London, I hated it almost as fiercely. The two impulses were rarely reconciled. Eventually, when I was able to sustain such a tempestuous relationship no longer - the torrent of contradictions was too much for me - London and I became estranged.
I worked my way westwards, back towards the sea, *where the air is clean, the people are friendly, and everybody is in love.
But the pull of London is still there, like weak elastic. Sometimes it snaps me back. I went there last week. Here, in no particular order, are some of the things I saw.
Annie Leibovitz exhibition at The National Portrait Gallery:
Some of Leibovitz’s photographs - like the Vanity Fair cover of pregnant Demi Moore with bling, like the shot of Brad Pitt in Vegas - I find gimmicky, but this composition is arresting on several levels.
Leonardo DiCaprio is depicted as - what? - a beautiful Greek God? Zeus? Fledged ugly duckling? Or is he Leda - part of a gender reversed tableau from Leda and the Swan? - raped by fame? The swan is a question mark asking, ‘What will the child/man become?’ Does he love the swan, or has he killed it? Is it drugged? Or dead?
Close up, the texture of Leo’s hair looks like reeds in the wind.
Those shots of Marilyn Monroe on the slab were exploitative; this photograph of Susan Sontag, deceased, is different. It is permissible (in my view) because of the lifelong connection between the subject and the artist. Susan Sontag died as a result of complications following breast cancer treatment. Leibovitz chose this glamorous Fortuny dress and shrouded Sontag in it for the picture. The image is disturbing, startling in its intimacy.
In her book On Photography, Sontag states,
“picture-taking is an event in itself, and one with ever more peremptory rights - to interfere with, to invade, or to ignore whatever is going on”.
In the light of her comment, for her lover, a photographer, the deathbed portrait becomes almost obligatory.
Time for a stiff drink:
Loungelover: Ladykiller: 42 Below Feijoa vodka and Arette Blanco tequila muddled with mint and fresh lime and crowned with a Rosé Champagne float. Served tall and frappé.
On the way, I saw this advert:
‘Someone sneezed nearby.
Their germs will be with you shortly. Boost your immune system with Echinabrand.
Text ‘GERMS’ + ‘YOUR NAME’ to get a free information pack today.’
Fran Lebowitz said London is,
‘a place you go to get bronchitis.’
On the tube, this poem by Robert Graves:
She Tells Her Love While Half Asleep
She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.
Everywhere, headlines about ‘Baby P’:
Beside me, a few seats up, I saw a schoolgirl with a baby on her lap. The cream-coloured baby-gro was really grubby. I looked closer. The baby was a doll. She was a bit old for a doll. I looked again. The doll had no head. There were wires coming out of its chest leading to an I-Pod.
When we stood to leave the carriage, the girl frowned irritably and held the baby by the toe of its garment. It dangled there, headless, upside down.
It was one of those simulation babies given to girls ‘at risk’. They’re supposed to act as a contraceptive/deterrent.
Sarah Lucas: Penetralia:
I’ve blogged about Sarah Lucas before, she’s one of my favourite Brit Artists, so when I read about this current exhibition, a visit was on the cards. The exhibition was billed as:
a series of objects assembled from plaster casts of penises and flint…. to pose a challenge to ideas of gender stereotypes and sexual allegory…. in some of the sculptures bits have snapped off and been stuck back on…. a performance between artist and model.
The exhibits work as artefacts from an archeological dig, as objects from museum cabinets, or evocations of ritual and fetish, as funny bones.
I rather enjoyed the sunny morning walk through Mayfair to the exhibition, as well.
What else?
Bacon at Tate Britain. Rothko at Tate Modern.
Both very good. There was a display at the Rothko using UV light analysis to demonstrate the artist’s layering technique. Illuminating.
Oh, and some woman called me a cunt.
Why?
After seeing her aggressive and badly behaved small child whack a wobbly old man on the hip as he passed in the aisle on the train, I had the temerity, when same child grabbed the edge of my coat with every appearance of hanging on forever, to look him in the eye and - gently, mind you, nicely - ask him to please let go…
Snap!
* Frank Zappa : The Lost Episodes
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