Anyway, the past week and a half have been busybusy. That's not even true. I've just been hanging out. Saturday, I got my hot chocolate to-go and hit the National Galleries of Modern Art. Exhibits featured "Blind Hollywood," which Sara might appreciate for its irony. The artist took very famous promotional material and cut out the film stars' eyes, replacing them -- or not -- with mirrored paper, black paper, or nothing. Both more and less creepy than carrying Sean Biggerstaff's eyes in your pocket, right S? I wandered through "The Islands" by Charles Avery. Wandered, well, that's a stretch. Stopped and read it all, and there was a lot to read. Curiouser and curiouser. (Does that make anyone else think of Mrs. Lewis? And poor Mr. Lewis, for whom death was surely a glad release?) Avery really thought it all out; it's exceptionally detailed. I stood in awe. No grinding up chalk and calling it art for him, nosir. No throwing paint at a canvas and seeing what sticks. I liked it, really, much more than Jackson Pollock. I'm not buying the print of it -- not even if that were possible -- but I liked it. Made more sense to me than a plain white canvas or some of the stuff Punky and I saw back in Dublin in tenth grade. But van Gogh, well, he's just how I roll, son. Him and Cezanne. Post-impressionism is what's good, children. Remember that.
Then I got to Steve McQueen.
I have a rule. It's a simple rule, and one I had, until recently, never had to enforce. Well, Steve McQueen, congratulations! You've won. Here I was thinking, "I didn't know Steve McQueen made art other than movies!" Which was terribly naive of me, I'm aware. But it's where my mind went. There, and to Harrison Ford, but I miss someone's bright baby blues, I guess.
Anyway, my rule: as soon as a museum makes me cry, I'm done.
Drawer upon drawer of faces the size of postage stamps. Name, age, rank. "If you ask them, they'll tell you." The exhibit is called "For Queen and Country." You're smart; do the 'rithmetic yo'self.
And obviously, the only thing that cures a broken heart is chocolate. So I got some. By which I mean three. I think if Vincent had hot chocolate available to him, he might have been happier.
But I forgot about the three men in kilts. And the bead shop. Oh, dear.
The bead shops. I've found... both of them. Which is to say, the two tiny bead shops that, area-wise, are about 75% of Gemstar, Gemstone -- together. Severely disappointed. And their nicer beads look like cast-offs from America's bargain bins. Which is rough, let me tell you. I'm a bit let down, but now I know why no one on Etsy responded to my pleas for the names of good bead shops in Edinburgh. They don't exist.
Kilts? Yes, please.
Walking toward Stockbridge down a turnpike covered in snow -- and the 'burgh seemed dreamlike on account of the frosting -- I encountered three young, fairly attractive men in kilts. Being rather unashamed of who I am, the girl who takes pictures with Freedom Trail guides for kicks, I asked one of them if I could take his picture.
"Guys, guys! A tourist wants to take a picture!"
He must have said it four or five times. And my question is, why should I be ashamed of being a tourist? I mean, have you seen what they consider to be American culture? Navajo Indians and the Blues Brothers. If I was walking down Boylston Street in full Red Sox super-fan regalia and some Scottish guy asked to take my picture, I'd totally understand. And it wasn't even the kilts, so much as it was the people wearing them. Because I had seen loads of old-timers wearing them. (Old-timers, you know, my fan club?) But young guys with styled hair? Now that's exciting!
Anyway, I took the picture as quickly as possible because, despite being kinda judgmental, they were kinda nice, too. And they stopped despite being late for a bus. So I leaned in close as I walked by -- and I swear to God this is the coolest I have ever been and will ever be -- said, "The kilts aren't even in the picture."
And away I walked, the American Tourist.
Kevin-from-New-York and I went to see The Double Life of Veronique, which was a little too deliberately provocative for my tastes. And it took the first idea -- of Veronique's double-life in Poland -- and dropped it completely halfway through in favor of something entirely new. Arbitrary shots of Veronique pining over pine trees and her father pausing as he works on something made of pine. Creepy marionettes. Gratuitous nudity. Eh. Interesting concept, disappointing film.
I went to the Elephant House for the first time. Uh, yeah. That one. Where that book, about the boy, with the scar, was written.
I gave a presentation in my class today on Alexander Montgomerie and James VI. Apparently, James VI was a great poet. That makes one of us. Truthfully, though, he was pretty rad.
Robert and I got dollhouse sushi today, but we paid people-sized prices. Koi -- be aware. They also don't have any koi at all. Afterwards, we ate ice cream. Robert also informed me that it is very weird that I have a crush on certain doctors. By which I mean Lloyd Lewellyn Jones, our Hollywood epic professor. It's not a real crush, like others I might have. It's like the kind of crush unnamed friends have developed on lit professors. It happens.
Apparently, you can ski indoors in Glasgow. This is upsetting on so many levels, I hardly know where to begin. So instead I just.... sputter.
I went for a one-pound pint on Monday with Susannah and her friends. Nice people. I had fun. Really dislike beer. And pretension. Just throwing that out there. I wish she wasn't going to London for a week.
Oh, and Kristin: Reel Big Fish is playing out here.
No comments:
Post a Comment