8 May: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made On
Well, not very much longer here in London – today and tomorrow, to be precise. After a couple of errands, I headed off Kensington-wards to the Victoria and Albert.
I don’t even know where to begin. It’s the largest collection of dustcatchers in the civilized world – a tribute to those craftsmen who do not know when enough’s enough. First I went to the tiara exhibition, naturellement. Oh my god, OH MY GOD. People were pressed up against the cases like magpies, mesmerized by the sparkling hoards. But the best part, in my humble opinion, were the celebrity tiaras – Wonder Woman’s parure of headband and bullet-deflecting bracelets, next to Dame Edith Everage’s MEGASTAR (spelled out in glittering paste). In the gift shop, I scored an historical thriller by Tobias Hill called The Love of Stones. It opens thusly: “Years before his murder on the Bridge of Montereau, Duke John the Fearless of Burgundy commissioned a jewel called the Three Brethren.” And that’s all I need to know…
I got very tired and agitated going through the baroque-to-early 19th century sections. They were all such senseless objects – it’s hard to imagine the interior that would be enhanced by a rampant ox with a fossilized osteoma lovingly tureened in its china brainpan… or who would find their heart gladdened at finding the table held up by life-sized egrets filling the breakfast nook? Alas, the Duke who commissioned the sculpture of his Newfoundland Bashaw never lived to see the triumph – the noble hound immortalized in the act of trampling a serpent, on a marble cushion raised on a diadem smothered in mother-of-pearl . Who’s for the world’s largest majolica wine cooler, or who’s been secretly pining for a life-sized portrait of Napoleon in needlepoint? I finally dragged myself out to the comparatively gentler climes of the Morris rooms – that marvelous portrait of Jane as La Belle Iseult. Yum. (Forgot exactly where there was the film footage of Queen Victoria – home movies at Balmoral, and news footage of her funeral.)
Managed to find the Elizabethans after that, which were very cool. The great bed of Ware and the Dacre animals. They also had a little interactive section, where you could try on a ruff and put your hand in a gauntlet. Or you could write a mini-saga about a painting – a guy holding a stag by the hind legs. Here’s Ingrid, age 11, with her razor-sharp grasp of the age of Gloriana: “Back then it was illegal to hold deer by the legs, I don’t know why. But he wanted to do it, and thought he was alone. Someone saw him, and he was executed.”
My dogs were really barking by now – there’s going to be a tart letter going to the Easy Spirit folks when I get home – but I couldn’t find the café, so I trundled off to Leighton House without any break.
Which was well worth every stabbing step – the Arab Hall was everything they said it was, and more. THE most beautiful tiles I have ever seen – blues and greens more vivid than a peacock ever dreamt of, then above the tiles, a gilt mosaic frieze of fabulous sea beasts, then more tile up and up and up… Incredible. The actual paintings by Leighton pretty so-so – gypsy girls in red headkerchiefs, blah blah blah. But some lovely Burne-Jones – one portrait of his wife Georgiana, another scrumptious Morgan le Fay (you know, I’d be so much happier and more confident if people called me Carol le Fay).
In the evening, The Tempest at Roundhouse. Shakespeare’s last solely authored play, The Tempest was written and performed for Elizabeth of Bohemia’s engagement party in 1612. The theatre is much less tarted up than the Barbican – like a good small college’s performing space. As foretold by prophecy, the theatre is round, which allowed for some creative work with catwalks and the aisles. It was, in fact, a marvelous production. Interesting choice, making everybody afraid of Prospero, including Miranda and Ariel. Miranda left something to be desired – an unsubtle, wriggling and giggling performance (though implicitly showing just what an interesting time she’s going to have as Queen of Naples when they all get back to “civilization”). Ariel grew on me – at first I thought the actor was overplaying, but as the action got larger, her performance steadied up. Gonzalo, the talkative, always optimistic old guy, was superb, as were the comic bits with the drunken butler and jester. They did a great job of doing, without overdoing, the power politics and colonialism inherent in the play – they cast black folk as Caliban and Ariel, but didn’t hammer at the point.
The spirits were particularly effective – the “drowned” mariners in green body paint – familiar and weird all at once. They were all acrobats, and did a lot of work on ropes dangled from the ceiling – someone obviously had seen Cirque du Soleil. The tribute-to-marriage masque in the last act was particularly charming – green-faced drag goddesses Juno and Ceres yukking it up, then a lovely trapeze act… not exactly simulating sex, but representing it with a beautiful aerial pas de deux, with the movements of each of the duo providing both the momentum of motion as well as the balance to continue. It so easily could have been tacky and obscene, but it was quite touching and beautiful. Also very effective was Prospero forgiving everyone and putting away his magical arts – his actions made it clear than in renouncing a position both comfortable and powerful, he was beginning a process he was going to have to work at… that it wasn’t going to be a cakewalk, his newly resumed life in Milan. A very effective production.