February 28th, 2007
Guess where:
another clue:
The trippy tiling in the tunnel has been partially muralled over with scenes from local history, including references to the slave trade and black intergration into London. In one of them the face of the black nanny has been scratched out. We're disturbed at the violence levelled against this image of black domestic work.
?
and apparently, Krakatoa exploding?
the dayglow colours are insane...but I want to make this bit up into fabric for 60's summer shift dress
Inside the tiling is of strange, carnivourous-looking plants
Outside is a church that, like the Faraday Monument, I've wanted to see up close for a while. The building itself looks as though it is being eaten by the neighboring office block, with only the thrust of a gothic spire surviving the brickophagia. The adjoining church hall however, is contrastingly modernist in a very disturbing way. The concrete wall of the building is formed into oddly piereced and stretched trellis work, like pulled and tortured skin. Is this Christian maosochism made manifest in the architecture? Aways creeped me out agreeably as I passed it on taxi route home from work and was curious to see how much of my fleeting impression of warped flesh came from reality or just a sleep deprieved imagination. Judge for yourselves:
We explore the stairs option back down to the platform:
We get back on the Bakerloo Line for home, and squeeze our way towards seats, whereupon one of a gaggle of Russian tourists asks if he can take my picture. Ever the camerawhore I agree, but only if I can take one of him as well. This is highly amusing to his companions.
I want to get some detailed pictures of the flowers to make into embroideries for a jacket for
![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
velvetdahlia. Such a garment will be the perfect wearable art object to represent Kew for this project. So it is with a happy heart I uncurl from the warm nest I've made for myself on artnouveauho's sofa and strap the bustle on. Yes, in a completely self indulgent fit of dressing up, I am celebrating the fact the the Botanical Gardens at Kew were given to the nation by Queen Victoria by wearing full Victorian costume. La Ho herself is never one to shun digging about in the dressing up box and has the most marvellous charity shop score to show off - a bronze metallic matelasse 50's coat, topped with a velvet tricorn...
We sail down the KIngs Road, baffling pedestrians, buy cake for breakfast at the Farmers Market at Sloane Square and in feat of remarkable planning hook up with
psychonomy on the District Line Platform bound for Richmond. The day is glorious sunshine. However, twenty minutes later as our train trundles over the Thames at Gunnersbury, the heavens open. Under an umbrella at Kew we gather up the final member of the party
markrimmell and we walk to Kew rapidly to avoid a drenching from glowering skies. We are so busy trying to make introductions and get out of the rain that we forget to take platform shots. The terrible downpour also means we don't explore the architectural delights of the station itself. After refreshing tea at the Orangery, we return to the station. M gives me a piece of the Underground: a treasure I shall post about later. This time at the station we remember to take pictures...
La Ho has places to go; chocolatiers are taking her out to recitals of cheesey Italian filmscore composers. We try to get keys to her flat cut and receive a frosty reception from the ironmongers, who reads the back of glue packets for a full five minutes before deigning to serve us in some passive-aggressive tactic for getting weirdoes out if his shop. His attitude is in contrast to the screeds of little old ladies and tourists that having been posing for photos with us all afternoon. I know it's vanity, but I love getting petted by little old ladies: one tells me 'you look just like a flower youself'...oriental family get me to hold their baby for a picture. Baby takes one look at pink haired freak with a paisley brocade arse you can balance a teacup on and screams its head off. At least it doesn't puke on the brocade. Parents seems delighted with this unexpected photo-op...
La Ho has places to go; chocolatiers are taking her out to recitals of cheesey Italian filmscore composers. We try to get keys to her flat cut and receive a frosty reception from the ironmongers, who reads the back of glue packets for a full five minutes before deigning to serve us in some passive-aggressive tactic for getting weirdoes out if his shop. His attitude is in contrast to the screeds of little old ladies and tourists that having been posing for photos with us all afternoon. I know it's vanity, but I love getting petted by little old ladies: one tells me 'you look just like a flower youself'...oriental family get me to hold their baby for a picture. Baby takes one look at pink haired freak with a paisley brocade arse you can balance a teacup on and screams its head off. At least it doesn't puke on the brocade. Parents seems delighted with this unexpected photo-op...
M, B and myself continue on to Richmond where M leaves us to collecting stations as he heads home.
Outside, I wait at the bus stop for pictures. Lady on the bus arriving below waves at me and mouths 'I love your dress'. You can tell we're in the suburbs...
More decorative ironwork on the station pillars.
Our journey takes us back up the District Line, and so we close up the next gap in the map at Ravenscourt Park. I have visions in my head of what I'd like to find here based on the poetry of the collective nouns for birds; a 'murder of crows', a 'parliament of rooks' etc - traditionally it's an 'unkindness of ravens, rather than a 'court'. While the weather was certainly being unkind, all we found was a 'rusting of skips'.
While there might not have been corvidea, there certainly was song in the air! Puccini, I believe, possibly Turandot (we felt the lack of La 'Ho to pin in down for us as she's the Opera Queen) being played over the tannoy...I asked the chap in the ticket booth what the music was, and he hadn't a clue - but he did tell us it's a new thing on trial at certain stations and the music is piped in from a central location - the only control they have was to be able to turn it on or off. This explains the music at Latimer Road. Chap is very smiley - he seemed happy to have opera belting out filling the afternoon with opera at fop volume.
And finally for the day, we finishing the whoring at West Kensignton where I find I match the advertising
Our journey takes us back up the District Line, and so we close up the next gap in the map at Ravenscourt Park. I have visions in my head of what I'd like to find here based on the poetry of the collective nouns for birds; a 'murder of crows', a 'parliament of rooks' etc - traditionally it's an 'unkindness of ravens, rather than a 'court'. While the weather was certainly being unkind, all we found was a 'rusting of skips'.
While there might not have been corvidea, there certainly was song in the air! Puccini, I believe, possibly Turandot (we felt the lack of La 'Ho to pin in down for us as she's the Opera Queen) being played over the tannoy...I asked the chap in the ticket booth what the music was, and he hadn't a clue - but he did tell us it's a new thing on trial at certain stations and the music is piped in from a central location - the only control they have was to be able to turn it on or off. This explains the music at Latimer Road. Chap is very smiley - he seemed happy to have opera belting out filling the afternoon with opera at fop volume.
And finally for the day, we finishing the whoring at West Kensignton where I find I match the advertising