continued from Part 1
I am not a museum person, to be honest. Somehow bad childhood memories of dragging my feet woodenly after enraptured adults, being hungry and cold and tired and absolutely unappreciative of whatever was on display, have made their mark.
But the Victoria and Albert Museum was the ultimate museum experience I've ever had (though I am aware I'm self-admittedly not much of a connoisseur,) and even then not just because of the sheer beauty of the place. It was amazing, for me, to see the art which I had read or studied from books. Even plaster replicas couldn't diminish my awe. Raphael--Rodin (though not The Thinker, regrettably)--Trajan's Column--a bas relief of Goujon's water nymphs which I ecstatically recognized from a photo in A Child's History of Art, the lovely art textbook I grew up with. That's the interesting thing. You may not think children understand or even really appreciate reading about things like this, but the fact is they remember. I certainly did. And perhaps one day that memory will make for great meaning when it's connected to something else.
We went on a quest for Michelaneglo's David, full of faith in the guidebook, and had to appeal to a friendly museum staff when our feet were sore and our confidence in the infallibility of the booklet wearing thin. He told us, with a gleeful conspiratorial tone, that yes, we were right! but it was under work, and we could see it if we peeped through a little window he would take us to! As we peered in and oohed and aahhed, he made me feel privileged, as if we had gotten a sneak preview, instead of feeling disappointed that we didn't get to see it properly as expected; and we enthused together like fellow fans. Which just goes to show how important tone and attitude are.
I had no idea David was so big. Apparently I neglected to pay attention to the dimensions in the description of my textbook.
Obviously Michelangelo hadn't considered someone might commission him to make a Goliath.
So much beauty, and skill, and history, preserved in that place, and greatest wonder of all, it was open to the public, free even for tourists and foreigners. What a privilege to be able to just walk in to such an amazing place.
I am not a museum person, to be honest. Somehow bad childhood memories of dragging my feet woodenly after enraptured adults, being hungry and cold and tired and absolutely unappreciative of whatever was on display, have made their mark.
But the Victoria and Albert Museum was the ultimate museum experience I've ever had (though I am aware I'm self-admittedly not much of a connoisseur,) and even then not just because of the sheer beauty of the place. It was amazing, for me, to see the art which I had read or studied from books. Even plaster replicas couldn't diminish my awe. Raphael--Rodin (though not The Thinker, regrettably)--Trajan's Column--a bas relief of Goujon's water nymphs which I ecstatically recognized from a photo in A Child's History of Art, the lovely art textbook I grew up with. That's the interesting thing. You may not think children understand or even really appreciate reading about things like this, but the fact is they remember. I certainly did. And perhaps one day that memory will make for great meaning when it's connected to something else.
We went on a quest for Michelaneglo's David, full of faith in the guidebook, and had to appeal to a friendly museum staff when our feet were sore and our confidence in the infallibility of the booklet wearing thin. He told us, with a gleeful conspiratorial tone, that yes, we were right! but it was under work, and we could see it if we peeped through a little window he would take us to! As we peered in and oohed and aahhed, he made me feel privileged, as if we had gotten a sneak preview, instead of feeling disappointed that we didn't get to see it properly as expected; and we enthused together like fellow fans. Which just goes to show how important tone and attitude are.
I had no idea David was so big. Apparently I neglected to pay attention to the dimensions in the description of my textbook.
Obviously Michelangelo hadn't considered someone might commission him to make a Goliath.
So much beauty, and skill, and history, preserved in that place, and greatest wonder of all, it was open to the public, free even for tourists and foreigners. What a privilege to be able to just walk in to such an amazing place.
...hello, David!
Satisfied, we made our way to the V&A cafe, which was an experience in itself. The food, fittingly, was so attractively displayed that they added to the gorgeousness of the surroundings. I must have spent five minutes just blissfully gazing at the Desserts Counter in particular, with the statement platter of giant meringues almost as big as my head. Just look at them. I have always had a thing for dessert displays. I don't even feel hungry sometimes, just the sight of such beautiful food displayed so prettily feeds my soul. Which will come in handy when I'm old and diabetic.
After plum crumble and carrot-and-fennel soup (the name of which reminded me of the soups and stews Brian Jacques' animals are endlessly feasting on) we slowly wandered out with our small bag of gifts.
No doubt it sounds rather in bad taste, but I was quietly happy soaking in the streets, just as I had been breathlessly happy soaking in the grandeur of the V&A. Window boxes. (in this day and age. Seriously, pinch me.) Black fences that I could almost see Freddie and Eliza from My Fair Lady dancing behind. And absurd little windows just peeping out from the ground, exactly as if the house had sunk, reminding me of cellars and pantries and the other strange places which characterized A Little Princess, E. Nesbit's Five Children and It, and so many other British children's books I'd grown up reading.
We stopped to buy fresh figs and peaches from a Turkish grocery shop, and pizza for dinner, freshly made in a small takeaway shop whose windows were misted over with steam. I don't think I need to describe the feeling or the charm that factual sentence translates into. The fact that we came home and had our unorthodox dinner sitting on the floor (rather clumsily--no matter how fit you are, it's something to be wrapped in layers of coats, it makes you feel like a fluffy omelette being flipped in the pan) in Tarpe's tiny room, and thoroughly scented ourselves and everything in the room with the smell of pizza, was immaterial.
And tomorrow--the Globe!
I could have savoured that day without a single drop more of happiness to gild it; but there it was.
continued in part 3