Lucian Freud's Self-Portrait

Reflection (Self Portrait 1985)
Picture from New Exhibition Catalogue
page 5

I pushed myself to the point of exhaustion at the National Portrait Gallery last night.

I know the rules say it is better to just see a few things and remain rested, than to go to the place of "museum fatigue". But I just couldn't help myself.

One viewing of just a few of these works is not enough.

Take this self-portrait for example.

Just the shadow from Freud's face that rests on his neck is fascinating.  As well, there is no symmetry anywhere.  Do you think that is what gives the eye so much interest?

Along the corridor by the bookstore that is inside of the exhibit are three photographs of Freud taken by David Dawson (his studio assistant and one of his models as well).

One of the photographs only shows Freud's feet behind his easel.  Just beautiful.

Another of Dawson's photographs of Freud has that chiaroscuro lighting that rests not only on half of Freud's body, but as well, on half of the room and showing  how the painting was done -- the cloth hanging from his belt, the brushes in his hand, the look of the studio and even presenting the light that was in the studio and where it was coming from.

How interesting is that?

Freud didn't put the caps back on his tubes of paint when he was finished.  When he went back to that colour, he just broke off the dried pieces and wiped them off onto the wall of the studio.

Soon that wall had a collage of colour, against which he did another portrait.

Eccentricity or genius?

If you have 3 1/2 minutes,  and want a taste of what the show felt like, listen to David Hockney discuss Lucien Freud.

Arta

Lucian Freud: Portraits

Lucian Freud Catalogue Cover

... self portrait in a mirror ...

I readied myself for a long stay in the exhibit after pre-reading the catalogue.

I packed my heavy purse and coat into a locker and just kept a sweater and some double strength Tylenol in my pocket.

When I would wear out, I would found a room with a large bench in the middle of it, and sit there, playing the audio over and over, since it takes a while to see the details of some of the paintings – and it also takes a while to get enough rest to keep going.

"What's On"  front cover image, a detail from:
The Girl in Bed

In Lucian Freud’s early work, there is already the evidence of genius. In the 60’s and 70’s he was already ahead of his times with the representation of nudes.

A larger studio at the end of the 70’s gave him the ability to draw the surroundings around his figures, and the cityscapes in windows beyond.

You probably know that a painting of Freud’s Sue Tilley sold for £17 million at auction in New York City, the largest sum ever paid for the picture of an artist who is still living.

On display in London are the paintings of her called “Benefits Supervisor Resting”, “Benefits Supervisor Sleeping”, and “Sleeping by the Lion Carpet”. Sue Tilly modeled for Lucien Freud on the advice of Leigh Bowery, a performance artist, and the pictures of him are iin another room by themselves.  I came home to do a Google search on his name as well.

“Do you like the pictures of Sue Tilley”, I heard one fashionable young woman ask her svelte friend.

I could hardly wait for the answer.

“She is famous. She is famous.”

Whether she liked the pictures didn’t seem to matter. It was that the modeling had made Sue famous.

Benefits Supervisor Sleeping
Photo Courtesy Lucian Freud Archive

The curator writes that “Sue Tilley (or Big Sue, as she came to be known) lies languidly on the sofa in a bohemian artist’s studio, far removed from her day job as a civil servant working for the Department of Social Security. Freud was initially fascinated by her size, however as time passed her proportions became more ordinary to him. Freud’s portraits of Tilley are a celebration of flesh and as feminine as Manet’s Olympia or the Rokeby Venus by Velazquez, although far less idealized.”

Exhibits like this are more fun to attend with a friend, rather than alone.

Not that I didn’t enjoy the day.

Still, I wish someone of you had been there to go with me and chat along the way – especially when I came to the figure that had two shadows, one shadow going left and one going right. But that would be a post for another day.

Arta

Tiny Shots of London

... the path least taken ...

Tonia reminded me that there is beauty in the smallest detail.

So I looked right outside of our door and began to take pictures on the way to the tube.

I began to see the bricks that make up fences, the green moss on mail boxes,  and the translucent dew on the leaves,

I slowed down to look at the street signs against fences, the trees in blossom, the orange berries hidden in the green leaves, and the white flowers on the tops of hedges.

... rain on the way home ...

I was on my way to the Lucien Freud: Portraits Exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery. (9 Febuary – 27 Ma6 2012).

Rebecca went straight to the point when we were looking at the Lucian Freud etchings on display in the Ondaatje Wing of the Main Hall.

“It is hard to know why a person would want to spend another £16 when there is so much in this gallery that I haven’t seen for free, yet.”

... orange berries on our hedge ...

I agreed with her, but have mulled the question over in my mind long enough to know that this will be the only chance to see 130 of his works, being brought from all over the world, and now all in the same place, some of them never exhibited before.

Freud loved the human face and the human figure.

I, too, love the human face and the human figure – the study of portraits is rewarding for me.

When I arrived at the gallery, the line-up to buy tickets snaked along the ticket counter and then up the stairs to the second gallery and along the banister there.

“No way am I going to spend my time standing in a line-up like that.”

But I thought better of that idea when I heard the line was moving quickly.

... grey moss on a red mailbox ...

I kept running my plan to go to the exhibit.

I got to the gallery at 10:30 am, the tickets for the next entrance were for 11:30 am and when I was buying my ticket the entrance time had changed to noon.

By 1:15 pm the tickets for timed entrance into the show were gone.

I love killing time in an art gallery.

The pamphlet that comes with the exhibition ticket is 42 pages long.

I sat in the audio-pick-up room and read the pamphlet – my hope was to miss some of that museum fatigue that comes with seeing a painting, looking down to read the guide, looking up to see the picture, looking down to read the text again.

I also ordered the audio recording that goes with the pictures for when my entrance began.

I like having the feeling that someone is whispering in my ear, just at the rate that I would like to have the information supplied to me.

... even the bark on the trees is beautiful ...

I noticed that the people giving out the equipment were keeping track of it by asking for a credit card.

But even more, I liked the idea that they were writing down the time that the unit went out and when it came back. I wonder what the stats would be on that.

How long does the average person want to listen to those machines, or maybe those stats would only measure long do they stay in the exhibit.

Arta

Beautiful Souls

I am a list maker, mostly of pleasure I am looking forward to experiencing.

My lists haven’t stopped here in London.

As you can imagine, I can never see or hear more than one out of every ten events that cross my mind.

Right now on that list of shows I want to see next are the Immigration Exhibit at the Tate Britain and the Lucian Feud Portraits at the National Portrait Gallery.

I did make it into the gallery long enough to see “Beautiful Souls”, etchings behind glass that ran along the wall, and under the windows of one of the rooms.

The collection is the portrait studies by Violet Manners of a glamorous set of aristocrats and socialites.

The display highlights the cultural influence of this set of people.

If I had not been studying the “What’s On” brochure that published by the gallery, I would have hurried on past this cabinet to something larger, maybe even more colourful.

Or even stayed longer at the image of Lady Colin Campbell (1897) by Boldini, whose large portrait on the wall of Room 28 overshadows all of the Beautiful Souls in the cabinet on the wall.

Still, I managed to keep my eye off of her (for part of the time) and study, instead, the beautiful souls.

Arta

The Science Museum

At the Woodside Tube Stop

On a rainy day, the zoo was empty.

Today all of London were at the Science Museum, even Duncan and me.

He is fast and quick on the tube and knows how to get from one tube line to another.

We spent most of our time at the museum watching a 360 degree ride – a simulated airplane ride that dives and dips and turns the chamber right around, while two people are inside, trying to fly through the air.

Ceramics Display at the Science Museum

Duncan is saving his money to go on that ride with a friend the next time he goes back to the museum.

We also looked at the Science Museum Bookstore.

It seems that whatever amount Duncan has in his pocket to spend, he needs about double that amount – he may get that from me.

His eye was on a SilverLit Helli-Launcher, but he came away empty handed.

a game about products that make ....
false teeth, new hips joints, heart valves

I hated having to explain to him that you have to earn money before you spend it. I didn't like learning that myself.

I spent my morning looking on the internet at utube productions of Evenings On A Farm Near Dikanka.

Duncan and I have tickets to go to the matinee on Sunday, a Russian group doing a presentation at the Shaftsbury.

 Having never read Nikolai Gogol and knowing little about Russian fairy tales, utube was a good chance for me to get a taste of what we will be seeing.

...a chocolate mint oreo biscuit snack at the museum...

Everyone is invited to Trafalgar Square on Feb 26, to celebrate the Russian folk festival of Maslenitsa, which marks the end of winter. I will still be here.

This traditional family event will feature a children's marquee, dance, theatre and music performances, a bustling bazaar selling Russian handicrafts, and stalls where we can sample authentic Russian dishes.

Perhaps we can do that with Rebecca when she gets home.

Duncan and I see the irony in her going to Russia, and at the same time, Russian theatre troop coming to entertain us.

Arta

The Compass and the Book

Qibla compass that points to Mecca

This is a picture of a light and portable instrument for calculating the qibla, the direction of Mecca.

At the top is painted the holy sanctuary of Mecca with buildings on either side.

Around the compass are listed 28 cities, many of which are in the Ottoman Empire.  At the bottom of the compass is a universal prayer with a mosque lamp.

Through my mind darted the question, which came first? The qibla or the liahona?

Illuminated Hajj book

"Illuminated documents with seal impressions of officials at the sanctuary of Medina" -- that was the title given to this document.

And the text said that at the top of this document are three elaborate tughras (signatures)and the seal impressions of officials at the Sanctuary of Medina. I stood for a long time looking at that paper and remembering back to some of the early free lectures I used to go to at the university. Once I read about a  lecture on Illuminated Manuscripts and not knowing what they were I slipped up to Special Collections after work to sit in on the presentation by the Group for Mediterranean Studies.

When it was through, they invited everyone present to go to supper with them at a local Mediterranean Restaurant -- the department would be paying. I was too shy to go and horrified that someone had noticed I was there and had invited me to come along.

I was too shy to do it then.  Am probably to shy to do it now.  Hard to find the courage to eat and chat with academics.

But I can stand for a long time in the museum and enjoy the beauty of the gold decoration in the illuminated texts.

Fun to see the links between my religion and the Muslims: a compass and golden script.

Arta

Hajj: journey to the heart of Islam

Photo: Shadia Alem
British Museum 2010
299,000 people were at the Hajj in 2011

The British Museum has a special exhibit on Hajj: journey to the heart of Islam until April 15th.

I was so excited to get into the exhibition room that I  lost my sense of what to do in special exhibits.

For example, I checked my purse at the cloakroom, and then walked to the exhibit and had no money to pay for the audio tapes ... unless I went back to the cloakroom.

I had already been back to the cloakroom once, getting a sweater, since I had discovered I was too cold, and a second walk back there just seemed like too much time walking to and from the exhibit and not enough time there.

Mahmal, a ceremonial palanquin
... usually carried on the back of a camel ...

I know the concept of museum fatigue, of working so hard that I need a chair to rest on and a chance to close my eyes before going on.

I was three hours in the exhibit, probably most interested in the classes of Muslim children who were going through the exhibit, a list of questions on paper and pencils in their hands, than in anything else I saw.

Their hard work was softened by an instructor who said, you don’t have to answer the questions. They are just for you to think about.

...a textile: a head scarf to be traded or sold at Hajj...

My hard work was going on in my mind, trying first to see the way the curator had organized information around the Hajj.

A continuous movie told about the five tasks to do during the Hajj: change from street clothes to white garments, drink Holy Water, throw 7 stones to ward off the devil, and circling the Abrahmic church seven times.

The film made all of that clear.

the components that build up the Arabic word for God

On the walls were large maps, showing how the journey to the Hajj has been occurring for centuries and at what cost to the people who make this once-in-a-lifetime trip.

I lingered at the textiles that decorate the temple, often black silk, embroidered with silver and gold metallic thread, the textiles often fashioned in Egypt’s best textile factories.

...details of a silver and guilded silver threaded rondel...
and the bottom part of the word for God

I loved the cases of tourist memorabilia that people buy at the Hajj: embroidered or ornate textiled hats, expenseive shrouds, vaccum packed figs, holy water, prayer beads, containers for holy water, etc.

One of the texts on the wall said that half the time is spent in religious practise, and half the time is spent in the markets, exchanging goods.

I stopped at the roundel that showed how to write the name of God in Arabic, and tried to write the letters in the air, once I could see what they were.

I hope I find my way back to this exhibit -- the next time with an audio tape (keep some money tucked into a secret pocket, Arta) and with more energy to take my own virtual visit to the Hajj.

Arta

The British Museum

Roof of the British Museum

In London I have been riding the double decker buses.

I have been listening to music in the theatres, studying the faces of brilliant actors on stage, and walking across the Thames on bridges.

I have been eating in the Camden restaurants, so much enjoyment ... and today on entering the British Museum I wondered why it has taken me so much time to get back there.

Highlights from the World of Sutton Hoo

Had I forgotten that this is one of my all time favourite spots in London?

I am never here long enough to see what is offered by way of the 20 minute spotlight tours or the half-hour taster tours, or even the Friday curator’s spotlight.

My timed ticket for the Hajj exhibit gave me 30 minutes to spend elsewhere and a room off the cloakroom offered insights into The World of Sutton Hoo.

Jesus asking Thomas to thrust his hand into his side
4th panel of ivory box ...

That is what I like about the museum. Every room is a whole new world for me.

I lingered at the four sides of an ivory box, and over a hanging bowl, trying to hold myself back from hurrying on, trying to remember that some people believe it is enough to enter a museum or gallery, see one or two things, and then go out and have coffee and think about them for the rest of the day.

Of course, that person isn’t me.

I looked again at Tennyson’s words inscribed in the floor, “let they feet, millenniums hence, be set in the midst of knowledge”.

And I picked up the schedule so that when I get back there this week, I will arrive just in time for a tour.

Arta

Don’t Forget Your Glasses, My Dear

Connor, David and I slipped down to the British Museum for the tour called “Ancient Greece” at 11:30 am. Cancelled. We had come all of the way from Canada and it was cancelled. But we had backups: 11:45 am – Ancient Iraq and 12:45 pm, -- South Asia. I saw David Pilling coming as close as he could to buying something in a gift shop, a copy of the first ancient game, a cross between Snakes and Ladders and Parcheesi. “Why not,” he said, “I am a gamer.” Before he got his wallet out he also remembered he carries student loan debt. But that was still close.

On our way home, I saw the Salvation Army Band at Oxford Square, a 29 piece brass band, uniformed just as though they had stepped out of the musical, Guys and Dolls. But they were for real. After running back from my bus stop, the boys going ahead, I stepped back against an iron wrought fence, one protecting me from the traffic on Oxford Street and I stood beside a uniformed Salvation Army man who was also on the side watching. Tourists would stop and have their pictures taken with the band playing in the background. I listened to the tune of hymns I do not know, and to Bible stories I do know: the wise man built his house upon a rock; in times of trouble which we all have, God will be there to support us. A lovely mix of both. A huge rubbish cart rolled in front of my view and stopped there, the man pulling the cart doing some street sweeping and then leisurely taking the plastic bagged garbage out of a cast iron bin and throwing it on the back of his cart.

The big belly laugh I heard must have come out of my mouth for the navy blue uniformed Christian soldier standing beside me said, `We have been coming here at this same time for years and years, and he stops every Sunday in the same place to collect his garbage.

Soon the call was issued to all – follow us to our chapel on Oxford Street for more free music and stories, and off the band marched. My march was in a different direction, back to New Cavendish Street.

David, Connor and I had spent the morning thinking about religion in a different way. The tour of South Asia, which I thought was going to be about China, was not that at all. At least I knew enough not to correct the woman when she said that we would be looking at South Asia as in India, Pakistan, Cambodia, Lagos, Viet Name.

What was hardest on all three of us, and best for me, at least, is that the museum volunteer leading the tour explained to us that she would be using the images to help us understand the mindset of being a Hindu or a Buddhist or one of the ancient oriental offshoots, all of which lead back, in some way, to Hinduism. And this Buddha is one we saw, though they have given him a different set of feet for the originals have long gone missing.

The South East Asia tour began with 3 of us – the Pillings, me and one other about the age of the Pillings. By time the tour ended there might have been 30 of us on the tour. This has been the way on all of the tours. At every stop, people who are there on their own, looking at statues or paintings join up with us, for it is hard not to be interest in the questions that are being asked and answered.

My favourite line from the tour guide came half way through the tour from the volunteer who looked everyone in the eye and said, those of us who are Hindus know that we are coming back to live agan when we die.` I looked around and half of the group were nodding their heads in agreement with her.

I was reminded about how religion permeates our lives again at noon today. Someone thrust a card in my hand which read, Mr. Madrib, from birth a gifted African spiritual healer and advisor. And the promised continued, No matter how difficult your problem is, there is a solution to it. Problem (sic) concerning black magic, love, voodoo, sexual impotency, business transactions, exams, court court & immigration cases. I can help you reunite with your loved ones, split unwanted relationships & gambling. For all our problems, Mr. Madiba is the answer, no disappointments. Quick results Guaranteed.

Now it will be hard to know which route to go – come back for another chance at life, or work it all out with our African friend, Mr. Madiba and have no need for a second chance on earth.

A took the introductory tour of the Victoria and Albert Museum today, and hung out in the silver museum and the wrought iron display. I took the 74 bus home for I had a paper in my purse that promised I would see Brompton Oratory, Harrods, the Marble Arch, pass the exclusive addresses of Park Lane and drive by No 99, Gloucester Place, Elizabeth Browning`s first London Home.

I should have had a perfect day, and I was close to having that perfect day – it would have been better if I I had been one of the people who had a key to get into the apartment. I was reminded of Adam Wood`s first adventure here where he couldn`t access the flat, either. I got through the first door by slipping in when someone else came out, and I got up to the fifth floor, but when I rang the door bell, no answer.

I knew I was tired. I had been falling asleep on the bus. I sat on the carpet steps and relaxed into a deep sleep when no one answered the door bell. Charise and Alicia woke me up when they got out of the elevator one-half hour later, and we all walked through the apartment door. That is when I discovered Wyona was home, asleep in her bed, too tired to hear the buzzer from downstairs or the chimes from the button on her flat door.

You will have to decide who which of us needed the sleep more – she who couldn`t lift herself from her bed on the ring of a doorbell, or me who can sleep on a bus or the inner apartment flight of stairs.

Wyona had tickets for Les Mis tonight: 3 tickets, Alicia, Charise and herself. I got a call at 7:10 pm. Wyona had forgot her glasses and she was in the Royal Circle. I dropped the fork into my scrambled eggs and ran for the bus. I got there at 7:29 pm, remembering that I had no key to get back into the apartment. But I had a back-up plan. I was going to ride the double-decker buses all night until I was sure Greg would be home or the Pillings would be back from Dover.

But Wyona was ahead of me. I gave her glasses to the woman at the concession counter and the woman traded me them for a set of keys to the flat. But I have learned a person can change their mind multiple times in one hour. So, on the way home, I decided I would stop in and get me a ticket at Thriller. Four Royal Theatres are in a row on Shaftsbury Avenue: Thriller, Hair, Les Mis and a play called All My Sons. Breathless from my run to get Wyona`s glasses to her on time, I slipped into the queue at another of the theatres, bought a concession ticket and then noticed my ticket was for Hair and not Thriller. Damn, I thought, even though i am trying not to swear. I am not up to being four rows from the front for Hair – that puts me almost on stage and for sure in the area where the performers walk along the arms of the chairs.

Though the money was out of my hands and into her cash box, the tickets had not yet reached my hand. I said to the girl, `Sheesh, I thought I was at Thriller not Hair. Is there a chance I have my money back`` She refunded me my £25. I never did listen to Michael Jackson, and in retrospect, I have to ask myself why I was even thinking about going. On the other hand, there isn`t much left for me to see in London in the way of first-time musicals: Thriller and We Will Rock You. So I will probably slip in there again, given I can make my way through the right theatre door.

At any rate, I did my good deed for Wyona for the day – these musicals aren`t much fun without a good set of glasses.

Arta