08.30.04.07.2007. On Saturday June 30th as I travelled the underground to Waterloo station torrential rain began to savage the streets of London, creating disappointment among thousands of families and couples making their way to destinations in the open air. My plan had been to travel one more station and walk along the Embankment along to Tate modern and then later along to the rebuilt Royal Festival Hall for a quick look and lunch and then to the Saatchi, before returning to Victoria for a visit to Brighton for an evening meal. Such was the rain on the station roofing that I changed plan and decided to exit the Waterloo closest to the London Eye and make a dash for Saatchi, using my small umbrella, but not the waterproofs packed in the rucksack.
The rucksack was already proving an excellent purchase, back sculptured with built in cushioning, straps to spread the weight and a multitude of compartments and pockets which enabled items to be organised for different uses. It was suitable for a day trip, rather than for prolonged trekking adventures. I could not run too fast because the downpour was such that my trouser bottoms were in danger of being soaked. And then I had a surprise. Saatchi had disappeared. There was nothing for it but to find the first public entrance to the former County Hall building and use the outfit intended for the Sunday concert. I then made my way along the embankment to the Royal Festival Hall where I decided to take a quick look and discovered that at 2.30 there was to be a dance event to celebrate the reopening after the rebuilding. The first impression was that the building appeared to be little different from what I could remember before, a concert hall within a concrete structure shielded from the noise of the passing trains, and where outside the only noticeable difference was the new attractive walking bridge alongside the railway, and which provided one of the great vistas of the city of London, and one of the great city vistas of the modern world.
I had resisted a temptation to find out what films were showing at the National Film Theatre but passing the National Theatre building a notice board of events included the word free and closer inspection revealed the Tango music concert at 1pm. The day was being reshaped. At the Tate I took the lift to the level 5 without any prior knowledge of how the collections were being organised and presented. The focus of Idea and Object was Minimalism but with reference to the antecedent Constructivism and which paved the way for Conceptual and Installation art. There was much to interest the student of the development of contemporary art, but not me, and although previously the work of Joseph Beuys had attracted my attention, this was because of the man and his ideas behind the work, rather than the work itself.
I was still shocked by the disappearance of Saatchi, given the decision to break from a previous decision that I would not revisit until it was to view my work and could give the Tate, the attention the exhibition merited.
The second collection was organised under the title State of Flux and was devoted to the evolvement of Cubism, Futurism and Vorticism. There was nothing which entertained, provoked WOW or made me reassess the direction of my own work. And then, and then, I turned into Room 3 "After Impressionism," and there it was, first seen half a century before as the star attraction at the Tate, Rodin's Le Baiser.
I realised that I only I remembered part of the work. Then, before my first experience of wondrous female flesh wanting to give to you, she, Francesca de Rimini, giving her adulterously sexuality, had set the ideal. Then as now, she, they, in their nakedness could not be described as erotic, contrary to the present day Tate internet site notes, and in fairness to Rodin he is said to have described the pose as a "large sculptured knick knack following the usual formula". (I will leave what I regard as qualifying as eroticism to another day). She was also of fuller figure and more mature than had been my memory.
What I had forgotten was my reaction fifty years ago to the form of Paolo Malatesta. At the age of sixteen or seventeen, continuing until I was approaching thirty, I was slim size zero, although my legs had developed through cycling. He, Paolo was rugged, enveloping his mistress who herself was no virgin bride. As a consequence of his form I had contemplated a body building Charles Atlas programme, but I lacked the resolve and incentive.
Nearby the statue was the Picasso Girl in a Chemise and the Matisse Standing Nude, but the Le Baiser was all that I could cope with, at least in terms of experiencing an actual work and not its image. There were so many other memories to digest as half a century of experiences presented themselves as if standing looking on to banks of video screens.
I was ready to leave, but my attention was then directed to a large single video screen encompassed in an engaging red three sided and roofed enclosure mounted over the stairs which lead to the balcony overlooking the great Turbine Hall, with cushions to encourage visitor to stop and sit, if one could get down and then get back up. I wish I knew the words to describe the geometric shapes of the enclosure because it engaged me as something more attractive and compelling than most of the work I had seen on display. I know this says more about me than the work, but I hoped someone at the Tate Modern would take pleasure from me mentioning that their construction merited longer term display, especially as the two films were brilliant, succinct and clear explanations of the connections between movements told by the artists themselves and an umbrella commentary.
Afterwards I went in search of the video and later still, wished I had changed my mind about going to the National Theatre for lunch and for the Tango and re-watched the films and made notes. I curse I curse I curse my inability to remember even when I concentrate, am engaged and desperately want to remember.
Before leaving the Tate I had one task to perform which was to remove my soaking shirt, replacing with the sleeveless jacket and the weatherproof, after using paper towels to dry my upper torso. At the Royal Festival Hall I found a seat overlooking the ballroom dance floor against a pillar and hung the shirt over the adjacent seat to dry while I had my after meal siesta, and watched the performers limber up.
At least from the provided programme I thought I knew what to expect. Around 2pm the dancers and musicians had been given little memento gifts and sent off to their designated changing rooms with the reminder that they were on stage from the moment they changed into their costumes until they returned to their everyday wear.
At 2.30 instead of the company returning to perform we, the would be audience, were summoned onto the huge dance floor and told to attach ourselves to one of waiters waving white napkins. Each party was then taken on an exploration of the building from basement level to top, or from top to basement, and those who know the RFH will appreciate that it is a vast warren of rooms and spaces with restaurants and bars, surrounding its primary function, a large concert theatre appropriate for a capital of Europe.
At every space at every level there were over 100 dancers and musicians performing dance and mime, sometimes a solitary man at work over a desk or transporting toxic and dangerous substance, sometimes a couple, or a group, sometimes a group of musicians.
I quickly sussed that it was best to find something which I liked and enjoyed and then move on ignoring the crowd management of the stewards. I was not the only one who worked this out, and therefore there was some chaos. This was a good approach because after half an hour everyone was called to the ballroom for a half hour finale of passionate dance, which banished all the prejudices against classical ballet, not because of Billy Elliot male and cultural stereotyping, but it was too structured and predictable. The combination of individual or small group work experienced in close up and the ensemble performances viewed from the second floor balcony converted me to going to experience some dance at the Northern playhouse next season.
The overall work is entitled "Space Between" and was performed at 5 and 10.30 pm on June 29th and 2.30 June 30th and was three years in the making to mark the reopening of the building, and a collaboration between the South Bank Centre whose administration now covers the three concert buildings and the Hayward, the CandoCo Dance Company, and Newham Sixth form College (the New Vic). Some 200 individuals were involved in creating and performing the work including several in wheel chairs and one remarkable young man with cerebral palsy who proved that it is possible to anything to the highest level of ability if you are singled minded and have talent. He was the uncontested star as the audience response indicated.
The individual performances around the building were exceptional because the artists had to work for half an hour while diverse groups stopped by, looked and moved on much like animals in a zoo. They are unlikely to face a more challenging situation in their professional lives.
The South Bank of the Thames is now a very exciting place, as is London, and if one could be satisfied with a one bedroom tiny flat, anywhere located, the availability of free travel throughout the capital, and free museums, galleries and free shows, it is possible to have a full life of old age experience with sufficient over from my pension to pay for a wide range of other events. But there would be no time for work, especially if one or more companions were found to share some of the experiences.
It was a momentary thought which quickly passed.
The shirt dried but was left to Victoria before changing. However this did have one potentially embarrassing moment as on reaching Embankment station I opened the jacket to reach for the day travel ticket in the non existent shirt top pocket and then forgot to re-zip leaving a large expanse of hairy chest until realising my situation on reaching the platform. Well if anyone noticed it was gay pride day for exposing flesh, although mine is not a pretty sight. I put the shirt back on at Victoria and caught the right train and was struck once more that because of the surrounding geography the approach to Brighton Station gives no hint that one has reached the English Channel.
I have only visited the station a few times in my life because over several decades it has been more convenient to use the car, but I can never visit the station without going back to the day when the family of sisters visited on an excursion at an age when I was at preparatory school, and the aunties left me alone while they went to the toilet. I had been told where they were going and they would not be long but as a child I was still to develop a proper sense of time and quickly lost myself in some imagination and suddenly I was alone and felt lost and burst into tears. I remember that moment still.
The rucksack was already proving an excellent purchase, back sculptured with built in cushioning, straps to spread the weight and a multitude of compartments and pockets which enabled items to be organised for different uses. It was suitable for a day trip, rather than for prolonged trekking adventures. I could not run too fast because the downpour was such that my trouser bottoms were in danger of being soaked. And then I had a surprise. Saatchi had disappeared. There was nothing for it but to find the first public entrance to the former County Hall building and use the outfit intended for the Sunday concert. I then made my way along the embankment to the Royal Festival Hall where I decided to take a quick look and discovered that at 2.30 there was to be a dance event to celebrate the reopening after the rebuilding. The first impression was that the building appeared to be little different from what I could remember before, a concert hall within a concrete structure shielded from the noise of the passing trains, and where outside the only noticeable difference was the new attractive walking bridge alongside the railway, and which provided one of the great vistas of the city of London, and one of the great city vistas of the modern world.
I had resisted a temptation to find out what films were showing at the National Film Theatre but passing the National Theatre building a notice board of events included the word free and closer inspection revealed the Tango music concert at 1pm. The day was being reshaped. At the Tate I took the lift to the level 5 without any prior knowledge of how the collections were being organised and presented. The focus of Idea and Object was Minimalism but with reference to the antecedent Constructivism and which paved the way for Conceptual and Installation art. There was much to interest the student of the development of contemporary art, but not me, and although previously the work of Joseph Beuys had attracted my attention, this was because of the man and his ideas behind the work, rather than the work itself.
I was still shocked by the disappearance of Saatchi, given the decision to break from a previous decision that I would not revisit until it was to view my work and could give the Tate, the attention the exhibition merited.
The second collection was organised under the title State of Flux and was devoted to the evolvement of Cubism, Futurism and Vorticism. There was nothing which entertained, provoked WOW or made me reassess the direction of my own work. And then, and then, I turned into Room 3 "After Impressionism," and there it was, first seen half a century before as the star attraction at the Tate, Rodin's Le Baiser.
I realised that I only I remembered part of the work. Then, before my first experience of wondrous female flesh wanting to give to you, she, Francesca de Rimini, giving her adulterously sexuality, had set the ideal. Then as now, she, they, in their nakedness could not be described as erotic, contrary to the present day Tate internet site notes, and in fairness to Rodin he is said to have described the pose as a "large sculptured knick knack following the usual formula". (I will leave what I regard as qualifying as eroticism to another day). She was also of fuller figure and more mature than had been my memory.
What I had forgotten was my reaction fifty years ago to the form of Paolo Malatesta. At the age of sixteen or seventeen, continuing until I was approaching thirty, I was slim size zero, although my legs had developed through cycling. He, Paolo was rugged, enveloping his mistress who herself was no virgin bride. As a consequence of his form I had contemplated a body building Charles Atlas programme, but I lacked the resolve and incentive.
Nearby the statue was the Picasso Girl in a Chemise and the Matisse Standing Nude, but the Le Baiser was all that I could cope with, at least in terms of experiencing an actual work and not its image. There were so many other memories to digest as half a century of experiences presented themselves as if standing looking on to banks of video screens.
I was ready to leave, but my attention was then directed to a large single video screen encompassed in an engaging red three sided and roofed enclosure mounted over the stairs which lead to the balcony overlooking the great Turbine Hall, with cushions to encourage visitor to stop and sit, if one could get down and then get back up. I wish I knew the words to describe the geometric shapes of the enclosure because it engaged me as something more attractive and compelling than most of the work I had seen on display. I know this says more about me than the work, but I hoped someone at the Tate Modern would take pleasure from me mentioning that their construction merited longer term display, especially as the two films were brilliant, succinct and clear explanations of the connections between movements told by the artists themselves and an umbrella commentary.
Afterwards I went in search of the video and later still, wished I had changed my mind about going to the National Theatre for lunch and for the Tango and re-watched the films and made notes. I curse I curse I curse my inability to remember even when I concentrate, am engaged and desperately want to remember.
Before leaving the Tate I had one task to perform which was to remove my soaking shirt, replacing with the sleeveless jacket and the weatherproof, after using paper towels to dry my upper torso. At the Royal Festival Hall I found a seat overlooking the ballroom dance floor against a pillar and hung the shirt over the adjacent seat to dry while I had my after meal siesta, and watched the performers limber up.
At least from the provided programme I thought I knew what to expect. Around 2pm the dancers and musicians had been given little memento gifts and sent off to their designated changing rooms with the reminder that they were on stage from the moment they changed into their costumes until they returned to their everyday wear.
At 2.30 instead of the company returning to perform we, the would be audience, were summoned onto the huge dance floor and told to attach ourselves to one of waiters waving white napkins. Each party was then taken on an exploration of the building from basement level to top, or from top to basement, and those who know the RFH will appreciate that it is a vast warren of rooms and spaces with restaurants and bars, surrounding its primary function, a large concert theatre appropriate for a capital of Europe.
At every space at every level there were over 100 dancers and musicians performing dance and mime, sometimes a solitary man at work over a desk or transporting toxic and dangerous substance, sometimes a couple, or a group, sometimes a group of musicians.
I quickly sussed that it was best to find something which I liked and enjoyed and then move on ignoring the crowd management of the stewards. I was not the only one who worked this out, and therefore there was some chaos. This was a good approach because after half an hour everyone was called to the ballroom for a half hour finale of passionate dance, which banished all the prejudices against classical ballet, not because of Billy Elliot male and cultural stereotyping, but it was too structured and predictable. The combination of individual or small group work experienced in close up and the ensemble performances viewed from the second floor balcony converted me to going to experience some dance at the Northern playhouse next season.
The overall work is entitled "Space Between" and was performed at 5 and 10.30 pm on June 29th and 2.30 June 30th and was three years in the making to mark the reopening of the building, and a collaboration between the South Bank Centre whose administration now covers the three concert buildings and the Hayward, the CandoCo Dance Company, and Newham Sixth form College (the New Vic). Some 200 individuals were involved in creating and performing the work including several in wheel chairs and one remarkable young man with cerebral palsy who proved that it is possible to anything to the highest level of ability if you are singled minded and have talent. He was the uncontested star as the audience response indicated.
The individual performances around the building were exceptional because the artists had to work for half an hour while diverse groups stopped by, looked and moved on much like animals in a zoo. They are unlikely to face a more challenging situation in their professional lives.
The South Bank of the Thames is now a very exciting place, as is London, and if one could be satisfied with a one bedroom tiny flat, anywhere located, the availability of free travel throughout the capital, and free museums, galleries and free shows, it is possible to have a full life of old age experience with sufficient over from my pension to pay for a wide range of other events. But there would be no time for work, especially if one or more companions were found to share some of the experiences.
It was a momentary thought which quickly passed.
The shirt dried but was left to Victoria before changing. However this did have one potentially embarrassing moment as on reaching Embankment station I opened the jacket to reach for the day travel ticket in the non existent shirt top pocket and then forgot to re-zip leaving a large expanse of hairy chest until realising my situation on reaching the platform. Well if anyone noticed it was gay pride day for exposing flesh, although mine is not a pretty sight. I put the shirt back on at Victoria and caught the right train and was struck once more that because of the surrounding geography the approach to Brighton Station gives no hint that one has reached the English Channel.
I have only visited the station a few times in my life because over several decades it has been more convenient to use the car, but I can never visit the station without going back to the day when the family of sisters visited on an excursion at an age when I was at preparatory school, and the aunties left me alone while they went to the toilet. I had been told where they were going and they would not be long but as a child I was still to develop a proper sense of time and quickly lost myself in some imagination and suddenly I was alone and felt lost and burst into tears. I remember that moment still.
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