Tubewhore (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} tubewhore) wrote,@ 2008-02-06 13:27:00 |
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Day arrives brittle, bright and clear. Threatened bad weather doesn't materialise. Instead, outside is one of those sparkling, brilliant Winter days of dazzling Wedgewood blue skies, diamond bright but bitingly cold. Everything stands out in sharp relief, knife-edged shadows, perfect focus. I head to Dulwich for the Age of Enchantment, an exhibition on the Golden Age of book illustrations from Beardsley into the early 20thC, and indeed today the world does seem to have clean edges sketched in with a sharp nib and sure strokes in Indian ink. Ceramic art on the platform at North Dulwhich - hard to take pictures in the dazzling sunshine.
The Dulwich Picture Gallery is where the idea of art galleries as places for the edification and education of the public started, first opening to the general masses back in the early 19thC. This is at a time when only proven gentlemen of class were allowed to apply for admission by ticket to institutions like the British Museum, As well as becoming the architectural blueprint for galleries for years to come, of long, tall narrow rooms (thank you Sir John Soanes) this is where the fashion for 'picture gallery red' painted walls comes from - I had Dragon's Blood Red walls at my last place in London in fact, loving the nod to high Victorian tastes. This all long before the Modernist idea of the White Cube of course, back when paintings were windows on the world, or moral allegories to improve the soul, rather than opaque concepts to be unravelled. I have time for both traditions, but strolling through galleries of gilt-framed old masters and the gem-like illustrations of fairy lands and grotesques is a perfect start to the weekend, even if I am alone and getting peculiar glances from posh people for being in a bustle.
I was supposed to have been accompanied, but as the morning progressed, one by one, a series of texts brought disheartening cancellations and apologies as people found they couldn't be arsed to get out of bed. Illness I understand, being someone who finds her health lets her down with irritating frequency, but when the fourth 'oh god, I'm too comfy under this here duvet' message arrived I began to feel like Typhoid Mary...not like I haven't travelled three hundred miles to get here... Anyway, feeling over-sensitive; not in the happiest of mental places right now, so seeing slights where they don't exist. Perhaps I was bullying my friends to do something they didn't want to do? I buy postcards and a catalogue from the Gallery shop - I love gallery shops - and raid the kind of old-fashioned deli that flourishes in chi-chi districts like Dulwich for amaretti biscuits and set off for the second cultural experience of the day, The London Sewing Machine Museum just down the road from Tooting Bec tube.
South London doesn't have much in the way of tubes. Historical accident and adverse geography mean there are more overground services and bus lines, but after leaving the dreaming world of Dulac and Rackham it takes several connections to get me back to Balham where I can switch onto the underground. However the connections were impressively swift. On the train from Tulse Hill I sit opposite a woman and her young daughter. Daughter turns to Mum and says decisively: ' Mummy, I'd like pink hair please'. Apparently I'm the second person she's seen with pink hair, so this is a well-watered seed. Mummy says that when she's older she gets to make decisions like this for herself, so if that's still what she wants then she can have whatever colour hair she likes. Congratulate Mummy on a diplomatic answer.
Amusingly of course, the line with the most stations south of the river is the Northern Line - a pleasing bit of British perversity - and from Balham it takes no time at all to get to Tooting Bec. As I alight at the station and head towards the escalator am accosted by a chap, who introduces himself asgmul. I am not to be totally abandoned it seems! Utter relief.
To save time, we take a photo on the platform before going up to the ticket hall to await anyone else who has decided this Saturday afternoon is the perfect time to go look at old sewing machines in deepest Tooting...
The Dulwich Picture Gallery is where the idea of art galleries as places for the edification and education of the public started, first opening to the general masses back in the early 19thC. This is at a time when only proven gentlemen of class were allowed to apply for admission by ticket to institutions like the British Museum, As well as becoming the architectural blueprint for galleries for years to come, of long, tall narrow rooms (thank you Sir John Soanes) this is where the fashion for 'picture gallery red' painted walls comes from - I had Dragon's Blood Red walls at my last place in London in fact, loving the nod to high Victorian tastes. This all long before the Modernist idea of the White Cube of course, back when paintings were windows on the world, or moral allegories to improve the soul, rather than opaque concepts to be unravelled. I have time for both traditions, but strolling through galleries of gilt-framed old masters and the gem-like illustrations of fairy lands and grotesques is a perfect start to the weekend, even if I am alone and getting peculiar glances from posh people for being in a bustle.
I was supposed to have been accompanied, but as the morning progressed, one by one, a series of texts brought disheartening cancellations and apologies as people found they couldn't be arsed to get out of bed. Illness I understand, being someone who finds her health lets her down with irritating frequency, but when the fourth 'oh god, I'm too comfy under this here duvet' message arrived I began to feel like Typhoid Mary...not like I haven't travelled three hundred miles to get here... Anyway, feeling over-sensitive; not in the happiest of mental places right now, so seeing slights where they don't exist. Perhaps I was bullying my friends to do something they didn't want to do? I buy postcards and a catalogue from the Gallery shop - I love gallery shops - and raid the kind of old-fashioned deli that flourishes in chi-chi districts like Dulwich for amaretti biscuits and set off for the second cultural experience of the day, The London Sewing Machine Museum just down the road from Tooting Bec tube.
South London doesn't have much in the way of tubes. Historical accident and adverse geography mean there are more overground services and bus lines, but after leaving the dreaming world of Dulac and Rackham it takes several connections to get me back to Balham where I can switch onto the underground. However the connections were impressively swift. On the train from Tulse Hill I sit opposite a woman and her young daughter. Daughter turns to Mum and says decisively: ' Mummy, I'd like pink hair please'. Apparently I'm the second person she's seen with pink hair, so this is a well-watered seed. Mummy says that when she's older she gets to make decisions like this for herself, so if that's still what she wants then she can have whatever colour hair she likes. Congratulate Mummy on a diplomatic answer.
Amusingly of course, the line with the most stations south of the river is the Northern Line - a pleasing bit of British perversity - and from Balham it takes no time at all to get to Tooting Bec. As I alight at the station and head towards the escalator am accosted by a chap, who introduces himself as
gmul. I am not to be totally abandoned it seems! Utter relief. 
To save time, we take a photo on the platform before going up to the ticket hall to await anyone else who has decided this Saturday afternoon is the perfect time to go look at old sewing machines in deepest Tooting...
