I love art. I love museums. And I very much enjoyed visiting the National Gallery.
I saw the blue chicken outside at Trafalgar Square.
The blue chicken is actually called Hahn/Cock, and is a sculpture of a cockerel by the German artist Katharina Fritsch. It was installed in 2013.
I immediately felt at home with Hahn/Cock. I’ve seen countless bright modern sculptures at various sculpture gardens, and I enjoy their humor and incongruousness.
What could be more traditional than Trafalgar Square? I love the lions. I sat on a fountain for a while in a daze. I shouldn’t have been tired, but I’m still on American time.
Inside the National Gallery, I didn’t take notes on the art for once. It was so crowded that I didn’t feel up to whipping my notebook out.
My only note? At first I thought the Drunken Silenus Supported by Satyrs was wearing glasses.
The painting is attributed to Anthony van Dyck, and was probably executed in Rubens’ studio.
Silenus is just so fat and drunk, and the light was such that my weak eyes saw little wire-rimmed glasses. I do have new bifocals, and they help, but I need brighter light than this. My friend Ellen Moody, the blogger with whom I went to the National Art Gallery in Washington, D.C., can vouch that I have to look close up.
And this was when it struck me. Fat women don’t look at art. Only thin women look at art (with, ahem, one exception). And yet there are many fat women painted in art. Even Juno, Venus, and Minerva are overweight in Rubens’ Judgment of Paris, 1632-65. Are fat women self-conscious in museums?
So who looks at art? So many different languages!
I got the impression that most of us were tourists from elsewhere. Thin Europeans looked at art. Many thin Asians seemed very knowledgable about art as they looked at art.
Do some of us feel more comfortable looking at art than others?
Fat or thin, I’ve looked at art.
I wish I’d picked up a brochure (didn’t see any!) or bought an art book, so I could talk knowledgably about what I saw, but you’ll have to take it from me that a pop culture writer like me adores The National Gallery.
You are probably wondering what I did about coffee today.
I had a cup at a patisserie. It was good. I was in a hurry, so I gulped it down. I still haven’t made it to an indie coffeehouse.
And then I got lost on the way to Foyles.
I love Foyles. What a wonderful bookstore! It’s very big, and as good as the LRB Bookshop in a different way. Yes, I am afraid I bought some books. I was even tempted to buy some nice editions of books I already have. Isn’t that crazy?
I almost bought Sebastian Barry’s The Last Gentleman, but I have a rule that I can’t buy hardbacks. It will be out shortly in the U.S.
Am I going to the Oxford Literary Festival, where, by the way, Barry is reading tomorrow? Oh, you guys, I’d love to go, but I’m just so tired. I very much admire the transit system, however, and know I could get there if I tried.
It was snowing at home, last I heard, and it’s just so wonderful to spend my “spring break” here. A very beautiful city.