London 3

November 26, 2009

Thanksgiving.

Went last night to War Horse, a play with huge puppets representing horses and farm animals and, sometimes, men. It was your standard boy-and-his-horse fairy tale, but beautifully done and as sweetly and predictably moving as those things are. I tried to get a ticket at an agency, but was told that the play was sold out. I decided that the play was NOT sold out, and went to the theater, where there was exactly one ticket left. I sat next to the man who had turned that ticket in, his companion having decided not to attend. Stopped at several pubs, including the White Hind, which claims to be the oldest licensed pub in the city. The barmaid said it dates from 1260, though of course the building itself burned down one or twice. It was a thrill to drink where men were drinking in the reign of Henry III. Also drank at the Sun, which bragged on the wall that it had been patronized by Oscar Wilde and Oliver Reed.

Today the undergrounds were jammed, so I walked everywhere. Hoofed it to St. Paul’s, but was blocked, as Jack and I had been six years ago, by a Thanksgiving church service for Americans not including myself. Crossed the Millennium Bridge in blazing light, the city cut sharp and clear all around. I felt like Wordsworth, but unfortunately only his words came to mind, so there was no poem of my own. Gulls sailed white against the winter blue sky. On to the Tate Modern, in whose dining room I had my Thanksgiving repast of salmon and watercress. All the galleries are full of children, which is right. Some day they must take possession. I had sparkling water in the café overlooking the Thames and gazing up at Saint Paul’s. Beside me was a beautiful red haired boy, whose alabaster skin was marred by long scrapes at the elbow, I guessed from a skateboard mishap. As I watched, he took out a sketchpad and began to draw Valentine hearts.

I visited my old favorites, but none of the art there is very impressive, when it comes down to it. The big show in the turbine room was in immense and probably staggeringly expensive steel box, like a component of a bridge or a skyscraper. Its purpose seemed to be to create darkness, for one walked in the dark back into it, eventually bumping into the back wall, whereupon one turned and exited toward the light. As one entered, it was interesting seeing the people leaving dimly lit, like ghosts. But it wasn’t THAT interesting. Much of the art there is ephemeral and shoddy–“junk,” one might say. The only convincing defense of these pieces is the question, why shouldn’t an artist make these things if he wants to? The answer is that there is no reason at all why he shouldn’t. Same as there’s no reason why a cook shouldn’t prepare bad food if he wants to, or a contractor build a bad house if he wants to. But in every case there should be some warning, some signal that self-indulgence is being exercised rather than imagination. One should be warned when things that purport to be are not nourishing or safe or genuine.

Walked down Ludgate to Fleet to Aldwych and Kingsway, and so back to the hotel, pacing out parts of London that were new to me. Entered but didn’t have the stomach to drink at the long-famed Cheshire Cheese. Will save the company of those lordly ghosts for another time. Bought a delicious apple and a T-shirt with a rude message.

Almost midnight. Walked to the National Theater to see Alan Bennett’s The Habit of Art, the first disappointment of the week. It is a bad play whose badness was somehow intensified by a fine cast and an opening night prepared for by hopefully positive press. It purported to be the story of the relationship between W H Auden and Benjamin Britten, but instead it was about the rehearsal of a play (and a bad play, the playwright was careful to demonstrate) about a fictionalized (and libeled) Humphrey Carpenter gaining information for future biographies of these two giants. All three deserved better. The playwright shied away from his duty and his craft and took refuge instead in witty repartee three times removed from the heart of the matter, There was no drama. There was talk of drama, which was put into instant perspective by the playing of Britten’s music at the end, a genuine article which blew two hours of dust away. It made me angry that so much effort went into what was a shirking and a sham from the first, and which must have been known to be by those responsible. I know what happened. The playwright chose a topic, or had it chosen for him, and could not come up to it. It was too hard. It would require too much daring, be open too much to ridicule. So he settled for irony and archness out of which could come no blame, but no passion and no meaning either.

Nevertheless, the evening was joyful. There was food and music in the lounge beforehand, and I talked with a woman who was there to see Mother Courage in another theater, and who had directed it at a school in Dover.. She loved theater, and that was lovely to see. Plus, crossing Waterloo Bridge with the city around me ablaze with moving lights is one of the great memories of my life.