Life has been a heady juxtaposition of difficult, exciting and unexpected as of late. So much is coming out of left field and moving forward everyday. To be on your toes is required, but I'm constantly reminded of how much fun I'm having. This was particularly evident when I was away from Mojo for three weeks and I was allowed much time to myself. At first, I frantically worried what I would do with myself without a 10.30 to 6.00 routine. Alas, I fell into a luscious routine. My time away from Mojo coincided with scorching London heat. I would roll out of bed when I fancied, queue up the stereo and lay a blanket down in the back garden. I'd settle with a good book (then: a captivating tale of Dante Gabriel Rossetti's doomed wife and muse, Lizzie Siddal... now: a far more comprehensive take on all of the Pre-Raphaelites' private lives. So fascinating!), a bit of sparkling wine, some fruit, said fruit in said wine! I'd lounge in the garden until the sun dissolved, sometimes earlier to jet off for a museum wander, cinema experience or a bite to eat. I would write throughout the night and when the stars emerged, I'd debunk to the garden once more. This time equipped with my iPhone and the truly awing app Star Walk (thank you JP), I would admire the constellations that loomed above me. The accuracy of the map, the vastness of the sky and the stillness of the night were all quite inspiring and humbling. The nights were sometimes graced with thunderstorms and summer rain, which I love. I left the door to the house open and I basked in the smell of the rain hitting the garden - a most intoxicating scent. After my starry adventures, I'd typically curl up next to the fire, watching films like Manhattan, Charade or Miles Davis at Isle of Wight.
I visited the Imperial War Museum, intrigued by the Holocaust exhibition. Its eloquently put together, with the incredible Nazi outfits on display. I found this fascinating, because at the very least, they did get military regalia right. What I found most unsettling when the endless tales of Jews who died or went missing, with personal stories featured throughout the exhibition. A dress worn by a girl as she attempted to escape the Nazis, a full scale model of the Auschwitz concentration camp and a glass case full of burnt shoes were all a bit much for me, however. I quickly cascaded through the museum’s chronology of war, from World War II to Iraq, as I felt quite a desire for fresh air. It was quite heavy within those walls, as depressing as it is insightful and illuminating.
I thought my lush daily routine would continue, until I was summoned by Mojo to visit Libertines land. The band were premiering their Roger Sargent directed documentary, There Are No Innocent Bystanders. I went to the Troxy in East London (not my favorite part of London!) for the East End Film Festival’s opening night. To be frank, the film focused around a load of pretentious idiots, mumbling around East London, attempting to convince the audience of how influential and all mighty they are. I wasn’t convinced. The hoard of hobnobbing Londoners wasn’t my scene in the slightest, with everyone strutting about. I loathe the Libertines, I loathe their whole schtick and I loathe the idea of anyone falling for it. I left the flurry of booming music, alcohol and mingling folk almost immediately after the film had concluded.
I thought my lush daily routine would continue, until I was summoned by Mojo to visit Libertines land. The band were premiering their Roger Sargent directed documentary, There Are No Innocent Bystanders. I went to the Troxy in East London (not my favorite part of London!) for the East End Film Festival’s opening night. To be frank, the film focused around a load of pretentious idiots, mumbling around East London, attempting to convince the audience of how influential and all mighty they are. I wasn’t convinced. The hoard of hobnobbing Londoners wasn’t my scene in the slightest, with everyone strutting about. I loathe the Libertines, I loathe their whole schtick and I loathe the idea of anyone falling for it. I left the flurry of booming music, alcohol and mingling folk almost immediately after the film had concluded.
The royal wedding came and went without much fuss on my part. Public transportation was hellish that morning, but other than that, I had free wine in Mayfair then went book shopping at Hatchards in Piccadilly. The sun was shining and it was a grand afternoon.
There was also a lacklustre visit to the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery. Have I gushed about the Cult of Beauty exhibition at the V&A? I must! Though touted as an exhibition of the Aesthetic movement, it highlights the Pre-Raphaelites in a phenomenal way, showing the respective movements’ connection to each other. The entire exhibition truly defines ‘beauty’ and I find myself very much in tune with the era’s definition of beauty. The billowing gowns, the flowing hair, cherub faces, elegance and grace in spades. The inclusion of furniture and other various aesthetically pleasing pieces of the era completely enhanced the experience. It was one of the great exhibitions, inducing a buzz, leaving you in awe and walking out utterly inspired. (It helps that the adjoining bookshop is done up nicely!) I couldn’t recommend it more.
Ice cream at the V&A.
Alas, after I’d spent an afternoon wandering Christies with Halfin and Page, we assembled for lunch and, amidst conversation, I enthused to Jimmy about the Cult of Beauty (as we’ve previously discussed our shared interest in the Pre-Raphaelites). He suggested we skip over to the V&A, as we were five minutes away. Still, we were too late! The exhibition had closed for the evening, so we toured the museum and the bookshop, exchanging anecdotes about art, gossip of the era and what we like. My kind of day.
