London

June 22, 2011

Last night we went as a group to Drury Lane to see Warhorse, which is affecting and decent without being the future of theater. I hoped to get through it without sobbing out loud, yet no one could accuse it of sentimentality, for the horrors of the war it depicts are not exaggerated by one shade. We would never stop weeping if we could see every human life rendered as a script. The odd thing is, though I had seen the show before, I forgot that it had a happy ending.

I gave them money for tickets at the half price stands, and we all scatter to the winds tonight to enjoy our separate choices. I left Leicester Square to go directly to the theater to get the last ticket they had–some weird box somewhere, for Much Ado about Nothing. Late drinks with Teddy last night, who said he lives on the Masculinity Floor at Western. I supposed you go about. . . being masculine. . . Mortification seemed to steal his tongue when he tried to explain it. He’s the stranger, and yet his sweetness and attentiveness is making him friends fast. Halcy is this year’s Graelin, the fast-walking independent girl whose leadership qualities are at one wearying and gratifying. When someone is astray I ask, “Is she with Halcy?” and if the answer is yes, I stop worrying.

We spent the late morning and early afternoon at the National Gallery. I told myself I’d be back twice more in a month, and so have no anxiety about seeing everything. The kids’ enthusiasm fed mine, and I remembered what a treasure house it is. Norwegian paintings with fine detail of the natural world. The Nordic and Germanic in art answers the specificity of my soul. Discovered the way I want to look in a painting by Veneto, a Renaissance prince all beauty and attitude, with clothing of almost too much splendor even for him to pull off.

Bought an umbrella and the rains stopped. Magic is alive