tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80394255297071862822024-03-14T00:49:18.534-07:00Musical Pencil?Investigation of nearly everything.Luciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.comBlogger84125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-33555338165885927542012-11-03T18:24:00.001-07:002012-11-03T18:24:58.670-07:00Only Bits Of It<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Creativity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">What is it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Never mind that, how does it work?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I find sometimes, when I make things, that they illustrate some
part of me I thought nonexistent, buried, irrelevant, stupid, or wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It tends to drag up pieces of myself out of me and make them stare
me in the face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Not always pleasant. Don’t go asking what precise project did what
precise thing, but in general, here is the result. Parts of my personality, my
subconscious desires and ideas that I repressed or ignored in childhood, in
adulthood, whose traces are left in my imagination, jump to life the minute the
creative juices begin to flow. Why they were ignored is a story for another
year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">One of the comments frequently made about art/creativity, aside
from the difficulty of defining it, is that it’s illogical, hard to understand,
hard to manufacture. It can be fostered, grown, nurtured, but there is no
formula.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Its illogicality (is that a word?) is its strength. We use logic
to defend ourselves, shore up our personal and societal denials, then inflict
them on others. Let that defense down, that wall of rationality and order, and
the truth may just stand up and slap you. The question isn’t so much, “should
that happen?” as “what do I do with it?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">When there is a theme, visual, philosophical, or otherwise, that I
simply cannot get rid of in my work, I need to pay attention to it, try to
understand it. And I should use logic to do that, to understand it, connect it
to the rest of the things I know. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Here's a related quote:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">What? I take that to mean that art can bring up the things that
are ignored or stuffed down in a particular time or society, the gaps, denials
and lies, and make us face them. Those who are disturbed may be disturbed
because they see the gaps, and their consequences, and those who are comfortable
have forgotten that the lies exists. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">So I guess it helps me see my gaps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">G'night.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Luciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-62954962323415699742012-07-09T05:12:00.002-07:002012-07-09T05:12:32.541-07:00Film and Art. (nice pretentious title, yes?)So I finally finished Girl With a Dragon Tattoo. And though I haven't seen either the American or Swedish film versions, in researching the author a bit I encountered the usual carping that either<br />
<br />
(a.) Neither film was any good compared to the book. (Unlikely, yes? There are favorable reviews and unfavorable reviews for both.)<br />
(b.) One was better.<br />
<br />
<br />
So leaving that specific subject, let's talk about film and art. This is going to be a rant. You've been warned.<br />
<br />
<br />
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I am dead tired of hearing “They ruined the plot. They left
out my favorite character. They casted wrong. They made it too (insert whining
here.) Look, I’m really quite sorry no one called you up personally and asked
your opinion. I’m sorry making a film is a complicated process involving a
million other factors besides making an exact replica of a book. You realize
that doesn’t work? You can’t just spit out a word-for-word visual copy of a
book and expect that to work. The flow is different. The expectations are
different. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Books. And films. They are different forms of art. They
have different strengths, people process them differently. And don’t tell me,
“But I had a picture in my head!” Yeah, so did I. So did we all. Get over it. I
am a vividly visual person when I read. I make movies in my head, that’s part
of the magic of reading.</div>
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<br /></div>
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When you watch a film, do not begin by thinking “What is
wrong with this?” Remember that all art is communication, whether it
communicates epic story or nihilism. What are they trying to tell you? The money and time was limited, the
resources were not perfect, and things just go wrong, but for Pete’s sake, when
you watch a movie, stop expecting it to cater to your personal vision of the
story. I guarantee you will enjoy it more, and who pays ten bucks to sit around
and mope for two hours? If you see a film you know is bad, there's no one to blame but yourself for the loss of your time and money. If you got your butt out of the house to go see a movie, give it a chance.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Perhaps, just perhaps, accepting the filmmaker’s vision may
deepen your own. Both can exist. That’s art. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
p.s.. that said, there are certainly some terrible film
adaptations. But please don’t go in expecting that, or it will most certainly
come true. You find what you’re looking for.</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<br />Luciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-56319555847732406552012-06-21T17:46:00.002-07:002012-06-21T17:52:21.937-07:00How I Stayed Up All Night On A Street In Stockholm.To begin with, I took a bus to Gatwick. That phrase is entirely insufficient. I forgot that the tube had closures on the line I wanted (District, District, District, I have loved thee, I have hated thee…) anyway. Waiting for trains when you are late is a rotten, rotten stinker of a feeling. I popped up to ground level, and ran like a sneaker-clad hare for the bus stop, cheered on by several cheeky bystanders. I round the corner, and see the bus, sitting there. Run run run ruuuuunnnnnnn……on the bus. Through Gatwick, onto a little plane, little but not tiny. Over the dark ocean. It is 11pm when the plane touches down in Skavsta airport.
You know, you would not think snow would be an emotional experience. It’s precipitation, for crying out loud. But London, for all its wonders, does not have good Northlandy snow. Sweden does. Obviously.
It was immediate, the moment I saw snow. Home. This is like home.<br />
<br />
We got off on the right foot, Sweden and I. Even the sparseness of the airport reminded me of northern Minnesota, and I knew in reverse why the Swedish settlers in Minnesota stuck with such a weird place. You don’t love it because it is lovable. You love it because it’s home(y).<br />
<br />
I am starving. I sit down on the Ikea furniture to eat my dinner, thinking to take the bus at 4am, get to Stockholm ever so conveniently at 6am, get picked up, and see the city. Neat little plan. I think well, perhaps I’d better make sure the buses are running when the site said they would.<br />
<br />
Au contraire. The ticket lady informs me that the last bus till 8am is nearly full.
Well shiz. I go out in the soft, snowy cold, and stand with a bunch of other people, staring fatalistically at the full bus, most of them smoking. The driver informs us we can either stand the 2 1/2 hours to Stockholm or stay here. “I’ll stand.” I say.<br />
<br />
No sooner have I got myself situated in the aisle than a mother with a sleepy toddler taps my arm and indicates I can have her child’s spot. He doesn’t care, he stuffs his face in her sari and falls asleep. I thank her and doze pleasantly till the myriad lights of Stockholm appear, along with a large bus station.
<br />
<br />
A dark, closed bus station. It is 1am and I am alone, in the middle of winter, in a city I don’t know.
A plan. I have need of a plan. The plan is to not go off this street, so I can find my way back easily when I get picked up. Start walking.
And behold! The familiar logo of Burger King. It is open. I walk in, buy nothing, and sit down at a small table. The place is full of people, talking animatedly or exhaustedly eating their Whoppers. They are travelers, street people, night-owl natives, and me. In the spirit of Lemony Snicket, ( “Never trust anyone who has not brought a book with them.”), I have Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire in my backpack. I begin to read, hardly looking up till the boy sweeping the floor taps my shoulder and apologetically informs me that they are closing.<br />
<br />
3am. I’m already a ways from the station, and nothing else is open. It’s chilly, probably about 30 degrees Fahrenheit. The wind is nasty, and I head for a three-sided bus shelter. Sit down, make sure as little body is exposed as possible, and keep reading. I owe J.K.R. one for that night, because it would have been awful without her story to keep me company. With something to do, it was interesting, even enjoyable.<br />
<br />
During breaks in reading, I watch the street in front of me.
It is quiet, clean, unthreatening. I hear a distant siren once, and a street sweeper truck passes. Otherwise it is empty. Occasionally, well-dressed hipster-looking kids my own age pass, prancing down the street in the wee hours. They don’t seem intoxicated either, they are simply wandering and talking, pushing each other into the street. Later, I am informed that this is a result of the boredom of deep winter, when the sun is only up for about 6 hours or less. The ol’ internal clock starts to malfunction.<br />
<br />
Three boys stand across the road. Two of them look wealthy, the other has a streety, crustpunk vibe. I can hear them, and though they’re speaking Swedish, I find their body language and tone tell me what they’re saying. They’re saying goodbye in the drawn-out way of people who aren’t sure when they’ll meet again. After several hugs, the scruffy one lopes across the street and past my spot. His friend yells what I take to be the Swedish version of “Take care!” after him, watches him disappear, and walks on. little tiny stories……<br />
<br />
I was supposed to text Christina. A girl comes and stands next to me at the bus stop. I ask her with my bestest manners if I may text my friend on her phone. She hesitates, smiles, and hands me her phone. I begin to text….<br />
<br />
BUT WAIT.
the autocorrect is Swedish, and her bus is coming!
I put spaces between every character, and hope it makes sense. Hurryhurryhurrysendlittlemessagesend!
Is sent.<br />
<br />
I walk to the bus station, which is now open. As I walk through the doors to the parking lot, I see someone vaguely familiar walking towards me. Even though I haven’t seen her in years, somehow I know it’s Christina.<br />
<br />
Back to her house, and I collapse in a big soft bed in a big pretty house in pretty much utter pooped-out contentment....<br />
<br />
To be……continued…….(because Stockholm is nice in daylight too.)
Yeah.Luciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-66157296095803385692011-12-16T04:05:00.001-08:002011-12-16T04:05:50.844-08:00See you later/The cursed animation of inanimate objects.So I really didn’t sleep Wednesday night, unless you count that hour nap in the midst of finishing my paper. But it was fun, for I skyped various and sundry people, and the subject of my essay was mucho interesante. <br />
Since we have not got mod cons, aka a printer, at my house, I went to LCF to print my paper and the few tickets necessary to go Europe-exploring. There was almost no one in the lab, which is UNHEARD OF. It means the printer isn’t freaking out with 5095769097 jobs. And the paper won’t run out. So, blah blah blah, printing, nearly asleep, when I look out the window at the rare London winter sun over the rooftops of Oxford Circus, and realize I won’t be here again, in this exact spot, for a long time. Depressing…….happy sleepy mood gone……<br />
<br />
I do my stuff and leave. I go to the toilet. Finish that business. Go to unlock the stall door. <br />
<br />
FOILED. <br />
it refuses to unlock. <br />
I try again. Again. Again. Again. <br />
No. not happening. I can see the problem: the teeth on the underside of the bolt have become disentangled from the knob that turns it, and it’s just flopping about. I can’t seem to slide it out by other measures either. I’m alone, thankfully.<br />
<br />
No worries, say I, I’ll just slide out under the door. Grimy, yes, but not deadly. And I have assignments to turn in, buses to catch, fickle bathroom locks shall not deter me. <br />
<br />
Or will they. This stall is not a standard one, with the accompanying standard foot-and-a-half between bottom edge and floor. <br />
<br />
OH NO. this is a custom built bugger. There is no more than eight inches between the floor and the bottom of the door. I’m little. <br />
<br />
But not that little, yo. <br />
<br />
I look up. The ceiling is probably nine feet high. The door is about seven-and-a-half. <br />
<br />
Nothing for it. Slide backpack under door, get rid of encumberments like scarf and Ipod. <br />
<br />
“Dear God. If anybody has to go to the bathroom on this floor ,please remind them that they have to buy their witchy step-mother a gift, and entangle them in searching the web for that gift. Just keep them out of here.” <br />
<br />
This is why I climbed all those trees in my childhood. This is where scootching up the hallway walls to the ceiling like a little monkey was a good idea. Because that’s what I look like, feet braced on the stall walls, wishing I’d been doing my pushups. My legs are plenty toned, but my arms are about the consistency of chicken skin. <br />
<br />
<br />
Anyway, I get on top of the door. Deeply, truly, devoutly thankful I’m a lady, because this would hurt like the dickens if I were a dude, astride the narrow end of a slab of wood. <br />
<br />
OOF. <br />
Done. Success. Hooray. <br />
Not fifteen seconds later, someone comes in. <br />
I suppress my mirth and dissolve in giggles as I run down the stairs and out into the sharp air and noise of Oxford Street. <br />
A fitting incident for a last day.Luciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-20185881098328967172011-12-12T10:47:00.000-08:002011-12-12T16:29:59.331-08:00Birthday Bloggings. and ghosties.Me birthday! “so-and-so and 42 other people posted on your wall!” yes, ladeez and gents, today is a busy day on the ol’ Facebook wall. <br />
<br />
Went to Brick Lane, just didn’t find anything, the seller I was looking for, the lady with the sweaters and jackets for 2 and 3 pounds was not there. Got my salmon and cream cheese fix at Brick Lane Beigel Bakery though. So goooooooodddd. <br />
<br />
Then to Camden for the charity shops, didn’t find what I wanted there either. Good day for the pocketbook. Then to Fleet Street, in search of an ancient old pub called Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. Frequented by Dickens, Arthur Conan Doyle, Teddy Roosevelt, and others. Re-built in 1667. Not built, mind you. Re-built. <br />
<br />
Since I was fool enough not to have my camera with me, here’s your verbal description. <br />
<br />
Get off the bus at Charing Cross Station. That area has the sense of being an artery of London: right next to Trafalgar, the buses and the cabs and the cyclists in an endless stream towards Westminster, the Abbey, the houses of Parliament, Whitehall, and the rest. Turn onto the Strand, past the toweringly gothic Royal Courts of Justice, daring you to break the law and get away with it. Past the crescent shape of Aldwych, full of weathered stone. The road narrows. Now you’re on Fleet Street. <br />
<br />
Walk. Walk. Walk. Stay on the left side, this place is easy to miss. Kind of. The sign is a simple white thing with black trim, looking like the top of a lamppost, with the name written on all four sides. There is no entry in the front. <br />
<br />
Step into the tiny dark alleyway on the left side. The onion layers of time fall off, a sensation of timewarp, especially at dusk. The cobbles are old, and the only light is the one above the pub’s door. It is closed, naturally, it’s nighttime on a Sunday. The building’s dark wood walls bow out, leaning over you. Forbidding. Black. Silent. A posting near the windowless door lists the monarchs the pub has survived,the paper yellowed, probably been there since Elizabeth II came in. There’s no one with you. At least, no one you can see. <br />
<br />
You know all those tales about London? Sweeney Todd? Jack the Ripper and the rest? All the gruesome, horror-laced ghosty yarns? They don’t hold much water in broad daylight, in front of the lions guarding Lord Nelson, with a million people flooding around you, safe as can be.<br />
<br />
All you have to do is step into certain alleyways, wander a bit after nightfall and something whispers out the walls and paving stones and makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up with all the ancient stories it could tell. London is a different creature at night. Keeping secrets, warning you lest you become just a secret like all the rest. <br />
<br />
No place like it. <br />
<br />
<br />
P.S. Stella Artois makes excellent cider.Luciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-69428650598173316682011-12-03T10:54:00.000-08:002011-12-03T12:25:54.554-08:00Writing on the WallsSo. I have been doing plenty of things that I've neglected to put on here. Mostly homework,(corsets, journals, other uninteresting things. I'll post about the corset eventually.) But the thing I've recorded best is street art. <br />
<br />
Now,street art......Well, I'll just post what I journaled about it. <br />
<br />
Be warned. This will be an epic long post. I'll put all my photos at the bottom, so if you just want to see that, skip the text. <br />
<br />
<br />
I went to Shoreditch today, with a knowledgeable man who took my Space Place and Culture class on a street art tour. Street art is difficult to catch sometimes because it’s constantly changing, disappearing, wearing off, being painted or arted over. Sometimes not. I'll explain.<br />
<br />
There were several names I’d not heard: Malarky, Swoon, Stix, who used to be homeless, Citizen Kane or CZK, Ben Eine. We saw lots of ROA, he’s one of my personal favorites. The crane off Brick Lane is very beautiful, one of his best bits. There’s also a rat crawling out of a wall that I love. <br />
<br />
On the wall of the club Cargo, which is under a bridge, there is a very famous Banksy piece, which now has plexiglass over it to keep it from being painted over. Not at Banksy's command, I guarantee. How funny. Protect the vandalism. <br />
For technically,it is vandalism,but it is now part of London, and most people love it. <br />
<br />
There was another, rather political bit in the Cargo garden, by someone whose name I cannot recall, had a definite OWS feel/message to it. That whole wall is covered with street art. You can just wander in in the daytime, when there’s no one there. <br />
<br />
There was also an incident, our guide informed us, where people would make art with gum on the walls, and stick flash drives in it, with art files on them. You could take a flash drive and in return, replace it with your own art on a drive. Sort of an anonymous art swap. But then it disappeared, as all such urban phenomenons do, likely someone started putting viruses on the drives or something. <br />
<br />
There is a street near Petticoat Lane Market which has all the letters of the alphabet on the shutters of the shops. They are not in order, and the only time to see them all is at night or Sunday. We went by at about dinnertime, and only one was down. Ben Eine did that street. <br />
<br />
Other well-knows art streets are Rrrrrivingdon? Riverdon? Starts with an r? I think? The street that Cargo is on. Redchurch St. is also a hot spot, and Fashion St. And everywhere else in that neighborhood. It's like someone stuck a knife in London's grimy little urban heart, right about at Shoreditch High St. Station, and spraypaint splattered out for a mile around. It is covered. <br />
<br />
Our guide was pointing out that the popular places for street art are always a little bit run down, a little edgy. One of the best spots for street art is on a shop shutter, which you generally only see in poorer places, as opposed to the burglar alarms that operate in places like Oxford Circus. <br />
<br />
Also observed that London is a palimpsest, a place with a thousand million shadows of what has been there before, like the shadow when you paint over a bit of street art. Brick Lane/Shoreditch area has always been a place for outcasts, weirdos, artists, immigrants, etc. Jack the Ripper, the Huegenots, Bangladeshi immigrants, the pioneers of street art, working at night, cloak and dagger. You can sort of smell all that, walking down there in the dusk, the past leaking out of the ground. Jack the Ripper. Wow, that's surreal. <br />
<br />
But street art, at least, is more accepted than it once was. People actually ask for their walls to be arted, and one walks past galleries full of the artist's work that you can hang on your wall. <br />
<br />
The hipsters may whine about commercialization. I say shut up, hipsters. This is the course of a movement, the way that art works. Street art began as a very political thing, still is. Then it becomes prolific, and more people see it, more people are exposed to the message it is trying to convey. If you are truly trying to communicate, the more people the better. Also the artists tend towards the middle-aged, and the middle class. So what? They are artists. What they make is beautiful, insightful, whimsical, disturbing. Art. There's enough drabness and despair in cities and the world in general. <br />
<br />
Some of it is political, some of it is just that primordial artistic instinct that leads kids to draw on the walls with crayon. It is a blank space, begging for beauty and interest and humanization. It is a quiet revolution of the concept of space, of the concept of walls. It is also anarchist. The wall may belong to someone. But when you alter it, it belongs to you as well, you've left a mark on it. <br />
<br />
That is what street art shares with graffiti, I think, that territorial aspect: I was here, I exist, this is Mine. For my part, walking around looking at all this, I felt very......very much part of a tribe, if that is the way to put it. It makes you feel less alone. And alone can be a terrifying thing anywhere, but particularly in a city, in all the hurry and fear and worry and inevitable loneliness. You begin to feel invisible, non-existent, constantly scooting over the pavement, no trace left behind, passing no one you know. It's basically people leaving little bits of themselves around, little chunks of their humanness. Also vandalism is fun. Yes, I speak from experience. Sue me, arrest me. :) (i only really did it twice, and once was on the bathroom wall in Hard Times Cafe, which doesn't even count, because they pretty much encourage it.)<br />
<br />
The odd thing is that once there is art, beautiful, well done art on the wall,often people respect it. Occasionally someone will write some little insulting tag on the wall, but many of these pieces are pristine, and have been for some time. <br />
<br />
So now we come to the government reaction. Street art is practically legal. The police probably will not stop you. At least not in Shoreditch. But they may paint over it. And then what? They've simply refreshed the canvas for the next artist. There are cases where the city council will paint over a piece, and the community raises a ruckus, because they liked it. Believe it or not, when someone puts a piece of art on the wall in a rather grungy place like Redchurch St., it's not the people who live there who whine. They are ok with it, sometimes the artist asks them, as was the case with the alphabet street. It adds personality.<br />
<br />
Ben Eine is a great example: David Cameron recently gave Obama one of his pieces, and after that, that same week, Eine painted on a wall in Hackney: “The strangest week”. It was a lovely big bit of street art, just like his other stuff. Come the next week, the Hackney council had painted over it. Whilst his piece is presumably hanging in the White House. <br />
<br />
So, I think street art will always retain a little of the anarchist artist, and be the better for it. All anonymous urban phenomenons have that characteristic: parkour, bike posses, skateboarding, urban exploring, all varieties of slightly communist sharing, like the flash drives in the gum, all the other stuff I can't recall but have encountered while poking around cities. Good. I like that.<br />
<br />
And since talking about art is like dancing about architecture, here's the pictorial proof. LOTS OF IT. <br />
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I'm not even kidding, you're about to look at about 70 photos. I will put any relevant/interesting facts or stories before each batch. Ok? OK. k. <br />
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The fourth one here is a Banksy. CHEEKY MAN. <br />
ha. a pun. <br />
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:)<br />
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vampire carrots! and leetle tiny people with an anteater. I love the mini ones, they are there only for the observant. Also the shadows are painted on, a nice touch. <br />
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3rd one looks like a Banksy but isn't: it's very political though. It's a stencil of a famous football photo, but with politician's faces swapped in. It's David Cameron (Brit Prime Minister) grabbing some other politician, whose name I cannot recall, by the....not his nose. What a notion, politicians manipulating each other.....<br />
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4th is Space Invader. The wall with the blue and red piece is one of the most painted-over walls, bit of a territory war. mine. mine. mine. mine. mine. etc. forever......<br />
and the Not Soup, best tag ever. <br />
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oh look! people actually in the act of arting!<br />
how nice. <br />
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more little tinies!!<br />
<br />
eee.<br />
<br />
Also, the third one is an example of what I mean by a palimpsest: something there before, covered, still visible. Layers. <br />
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<br />
the first two are the Banksy with plexiglass over it, (come to think of it, the man in the loo has plexiglass too) and the others are the stuff on the wall at Cargo. <br />
I like the one of Wile. E. running off with a sheep. <br />
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<br />
3 and 4 are a Ben Eine piece, 5 is by a Bangladeshi woman whose name our guide has not sent us yet...sorry. She also did the little people on the shutters eating. Wonderfully bright and rich, the photo doesn't do justice. <br />
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<br />
Not all street art is paint: 1 is a terrible photo I know, but on the corner there's a little thingie made of those melty beads we all played with as children. And the rock, the rock is so clever.<br />
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1 and 2 are a Ben Eine piece: ANTI ANTI ANTI on one side of the street, PRO PRO PRO on the other.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3E3H2oC04C_MPH2nRnp0LoiW9Tg9kXjKIW6bfxLM5p6oRPod6q8X73CYs14y99AN313uYECr_xtvLvhEhO7xmV-CCMIs4Tyzs-prgJQAb7B2Cfr3_5Fgf-ZbUO90PHnz84DbCrU7ipX8/s1600/IMG_3943.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3E3H2oC04C_MPH2nRnp0LoiW9Tg9kXjKIW6bfxLM5p6oRPod6q8X73CYs14y99AN313uYECr_xtvLvhEhO7xmV-CCMIs4Tyzs-prgJQAb7B2Cfr3_5Fgf-ZbUO90PHnz84DbCrU7ipX8/s400/IMG_3943.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtcXaOTSbHs8OwvkDclkLGscNmIYc_nOEW568DOAK2FDgkou3D-pw8KR_hFeQ6Vk81j33yH2P2gUNMsaylYA3q-y_LZci1thMoDUNb8HmPhn_HWNhtlC3_xDZ7Pv3c3sa084-3ZkQ8ZtY/s1600/IMG_3952.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtcXaOTSbHs8OwvkDclkLGscNmIYc_nOEW568DOAK2FDgkou3D-pw8KR_hFeQ6Vk81j33yH2P2gUNMsaylYA3q-y_LZci1thMoDUNb8HmPhn_HWNhtlC3_xDZ7Pv3c3sa084-3ZkQ8ZtY/s400/IMG_3952.JPG" /></a></div>AHAHHAAAA that first one. Short. Sweet. To the point. <br />
Hilarious.<br />
and the "useful" piece, what humor. <br />
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In order: Malarky, ROA, Stix, Malarky, Malarky.<br />
hark hark malarky. :)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJWiwTP7AsLXLpMX57USC-OrBHkx_HDz1Gka35gxgSq-_WH3NuYwMQAKV0SZQfbCDhijAPzvYbgI82-n5NwpTDyFVCTH10-OjxADHf4Fm7aaK2cKg_mFTdSOc2ChBz5nGgwTuN81cjXT0/s1600/IMG_3966.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="309" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJWiwTP7AsLXLpMX57USC-OrBHkx_HDz1Gka35gxgSq-_WH3NuYwMQAKV0SZQfbCDhijAPzvYbgI82-n5NwpTDyFVCTH10-OjxADHf4Fm7aaK2cKg_mFTdSOc2ChBz5nGgwTuN81cjXT0/s400/IMG_3966.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
"a shortcut to what?"<br />
"MUSHROOMS!"<br />
but i will bet you it was no shortcut to get it on the roof. <br />
nor to cover that bike in crochet. There was a car there too, but I don't know where I put the photo. OH WELL. use your imagination.<br />
4 is another ROA.<br />
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1 is Stix again, 2 is CZK, and the last one is my favorite ROA, possibly my favorite so far. So unexpected. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTfZ0cPvjrmzuPrLf7VKuXfLIbS9mHKCFv3Yo4DTaRQ9uFKDeW4KuDY49IyBjQxtQigCXG5mZAEiVXICKJuiuYQOwnxUMFszMdTx_fTHI8p4lK_zfs7cOzdGMGb4uka_42YLfxvO66f4/s1600/IMG_4006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTfZ0cPvjrmzuPrLf7VKuXfLIbS9mHKCFv3Yo4DTaRQ9uFKDeW4KuDY49IyBjQxtQigCXG5mZAEiVXICKJuiuYQOwnxUMFszMdTx_fTHI8p4lK_zfs7cOzdGMGb4uka_42YLfxvO66f4/s400/IMG_4006.jpg" /></a></div>LAST BATCH. if you read this far......pat yourself on the back. you are PATIENT. <br />
That last ROA....the way he used the wall, made it look like the rat is crawling out, about to lick the drainpipe....I understand it's vandalism, sure. But there is another part of me that says "you paint over that and i'll feed you to the sharks." Or the sewer rats, they get as big as cats in London. <br />
And the last one is one of those that made me feel like I'd caught something, caught London being London. I didn't alter it much either, all i did was make it less eye-searingly orange, if you can believe that. <br />
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Keep your eyes open.<br />
-LuLuciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-8886600915836974142011-11-23T13:58:00.000-08:002011-11-23T13:59:00.331-08:00Museums.There are SO MANY free museums in London, it's dizzying. <br />
I am just going to list all the ones I liked enough to recommend to other people. In no order. If/when you find yourself in London, visit a few. They're first-class.<br />
<br />
1. The Victoria and Albert. First place I ever went in London. It is my favorite museum here. Design, art, all things beautiful. HUGE.<br />
2. The Tate Britain. British art through the centuries. <br />
3. The Tate Modern. <br />
4. The National Portrait Gallery. <br />
5. The Natural History Museum<br />
6. The Geffrye Museum. Interiors of houses. <br />
7. The Wallace Collection. This is the most ornate museum I've ever been to. Incredible. They have an impressive armor and weaponry collection.<br />
8. The Museum of London. Rather trippy to look at things from Roman London, Medieval London, Elizabethan London, Victorian London, London Now, and think, "this is all layered under my very feet."<br />
9. The British Museum. Similar to the V&A.<br />
10. The Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood. Cute. creepy in places. Culturally very interesting.<br />
<br />
That's all for now. I gotta do homework. Finals, yo. Later. <br />
-LuLuciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-74908380170810977672011-11-21T04:40:00.000-08:002011-11-21T04:40:52.160-08:00I hath the Sneezles.by dose id thtuffy. <br />
<br />
Yesh, I am still here, still doing my homework. In fact, that's mostly what I did all weekend. Aren't you proud. There's not been a lot to report lately: lingering cold-in-the-head nastiness, lots of sleeping. Being a hermit, getting the finals work donezo. It's sort of nice. <br />
Not a lot of exploring going on tho. I have to remind myself I am not here primarily to explore absolutely everything, because 1. that's impossible. London is Bigger On The Inside. 2. I am here for school. School before exploring. Soon enough, school will be through, and all I intend to do is Christmas shop, make things, explore, and sleep. <br />
<br />
I seem to go in shifts anyway. Be a hermit for a week, be a gypsy for a week. that be how I like it. Variety. Hopefully I'll do some exploring today: I have a self-directed museum visit as one of my last bits of homework for dear old HCFS. <br />
HOW DIFFICULT. actually, choosing a museum is much more difficult than you would think. <br />
<br />
thag you veddy buch. <br />
-LuLuciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-21616690833019098282011-11-12T17:58:00.000-08:002011-11-12T18:03:32.339-08:00Are you hungry? Because you're about to be.Today, I took myself to Borough Market. It is supposed to be one of the best food markets in Europe.<br />
I concur. <br />
I went when I was hungry. DO NOT DO THAT. <br />
it is pleasant torture. I ended up snacking upon a pain au chocolat with almond paste. om. nom. <br />
<br />
There was curry. <br />
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And greenie veggies, and bread, and those BROWNIES. and meat, and mushrooms, and olives, and EVERYTHING. and Turkish Delight. the guy selling it was hilarious "Hey, good looking, come here." *gives me a sample*. Boy was that delicious. <br />
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PUFFY DOGGIE. i petted him. he was friendly and fuzzy. <br />
I am not sure what the occasion was for bearded turbaned man to look so serious, but he held that face for a good minute. hence the good picture. <br />
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And then on the way home, which was more convoluted than we will go into, because half the Tube was out of commission.....there was this epic traffic jam. The bus sat on that street for a solid 45 minutes. See the dude in the white shirt? he hopped out, lit a cigarette, smoked it, talked to his friend, and then they hopped back in the bus. <br />
typical. <br />
Ha, and when his friend threw his litter all the way across the road, white-shirt guy goes and gets it, and presumably threw it away properly. <br />
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<br />
I'm never ever bored here. <br />
<br />
But now I have a sinus infection, BUT i am going to a car-boot sale tomorrow. <br />
good times. good night. <br />
-LuLuciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-64614350907361710912011-11-11T14:45:00.000-08:002011-11-11T14:45:51.566-08:00CASTLES. and shakespeare. Who may not have existed. (read on.)so history. Lots of it. Warwick…hwere to starrrt. At the beginning. <br />
Before I even got to my lodgings, I walked past/photographed the church where J.R.R. Tolkien got married, a lovely little Catholic church. <br />
<br />
No. let’s start with the best thing. <br />
You’re about to learn things. Things they don’t tell you in history class. <br />
<br />
Because it would be too complicated. <br />
<br />
You know, they say Shakespeare was not Shakespeare. He could have been many people, or that could have been a pseudonym. There are many candidates, I will not list them all. Elizabeth I is one of them. But all those possibilities save one don’t hold water. That one is Faulke Greville, former Earl of Warwick and once an inhabitant of Warwick Castle. Here is the case for his possible genius. Make your own call. It sparked my interest. <br />
<br />
Warwick is near Stratford on Avon. There is proof that William Shakespeare met Faulke. Shakespeare left only a bed and a modest amount of money in his will. No writing desk. No inkwell. No documents. None of that. <br />
<br />
Elizabeth I summoned Shakespeare to come to her court three times. He never showed once. <br />
<br />
There is no record of Shakespeare attending his own plays. Faulke Greville attended them all. <br />
<br />
There are numerous verbal clues, hidden in the jargon of that time, hinting that Shakepeare was not what he appeared, and even that he was Faulke. I don’t remember the specifics. Look it up if you like. <br />
<br />
The wealthy and famous in that time had portraits painted to show their importance. The only portrait of Shakespeare was drawn 13 years after his death. <br />
<br />
And here is the thing that made me wonder. In an ancient church in Warwick, Faulke Greville is buried. Or is he? His grave began to crack some time ago. It was X-rayed to find why it was cracking. <br />
<br />
There is no body in the grave. Just boxes lined with lead. What did they store in boxes lined with lead?<br />
<br />
Documents. His grave contains no body, only boxes filled with documents. <br />
<br />
Makes you wonder, hey? Here’s the kicker: The Greville family line is still around. The woman who calls the shots with regard to the grave? <br />
She doesn’t want the grave opened. But she’s ill. <br />
<br />
The next in line? He/she wants to open it. <br />
<br />
Pull it open, man. Let’s get the truth. After all, wouldn’t it be something to find an unsung literary genius after 500 years?<br />
<br />
Well now, there were other things. Like Lord Leycester’s Hospital, which has nothing to do with medicine, rather, it is a place for retired servicemen to live. It is basically a beautiful quaint Tudor building complex. Like a fool, I had no camera. Pride and Prejudice was partly filmed there, if that gives you any idea. Look it up. <br />
<br />
Here's the mean truth about photos. I have them, obviously. Not from that jaunt. They are here, on my compy. But uploading them is a PAIN. I may post them separately, I may put them on Facebook when I get home.(in fact, i think that'll be my London-sick fix) I may even show them to you personally if you wish. But I hate always having a camera. It ruins things sometimes. Tough beans. I will post some. But not all. <br />
<br />
I'm going to flirt with verbal description for awhile. <br />
The oak beams in this Lord Leycester place were older than America. <br />
GET YOUR HEAD AROUND THAT. That oak, man, it's like stone. I petted it. It was tough.<br />
<br />
Oh, Warwick Castle was cool, but too commercialized for my snarky amateur-history-buff soul. The views were incredible. ALL RIGHT FINE HERE'S PICTURES. from the tower, from the hill, from other places. <br />
because they must be resorted to when words fail. The whole time I was thinking to myself "This is where fairytales come from. All those Brit fantasy writers, this is the soul of their worlds. This is where they live. Here." also autumn lasts so much longer here. These were taken on the first weekend of NOVEMBER. does MN look like this in November? NO. <br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNnnV-O-Xax3PTbm_1BgPiX4ztjkLkp7vsIEd1ztokkmyFsbWe_rSEq444lIaGRDkxXUopL-nkUAQX4GiQSLb_eejH04cDYEx4qUPRGqYILqM-CJE_DMerWc9NACNZPvsTAjpA-GNh894/s1600/IMG_3501.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNnnV-O-Xax3PTbm_1BgPiX4ztjkLkp7vsIEd1ztokkmyFsbWe_rSEq444lIaGRDkxXUopL-nkUAQX4GiQSLb_eejH04cDYEx4qUPRGqYILqM-CJE_DMerWc9NACNZPvsTAjpA-GNh894/s400/IMG_3501.JPG" /></a></div>Luciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-2418007637584423902011-11-11T13:45:00.000-08:002011-11-11T13:45:18.266-08:00You'll just have to come here.I pull my earbuds out and buy a turkey and cranberry pasty for 3.75, worth every pence. Pasties are like pies. Little pies full of spices and potatoes and meat and other worthwhile things, all wrapped up and juicy in thick buttery flaky pastry. Oh, careful how you say it, if you ever order one. Say “past” like “it was in the past” NOT “I used paste”. Big fat difference. The former is tasty pies, the latter involves burlesque routines. <br />
The Evening Standard and I chill by the Bishopsgate entrance to Liverpool St. Station. I read the paper and eavesdrop on the three peers next to me. (read in your best British accent.)<br />
“Eww, someone get it off me. I can’t stand it. I get that whenever I touch unprocessed wood.”<br />
“There’s a man by the Starbucks who’s a woman.”<br />
“What! A man who’s a woman!?<br />
“Well shout it why don’t you!"<br />
”I caught myself singing along to Justin Bieber the other day…”<br />
<br />
Train stations are like airports, all hustle and bustle and wait, rife with possibility. I’m beginning to have a real affinity for the Liverpool St. Station. It’s on a busy street, with pubs and coffeeshops and newsstands and patio tables in the entrance, where the human lifeblood of London grabs a pint and a chat, or reads the paper. And in the dark cozy evening, it has some sort of ancient beehive aura that’s comforting. Therapeutic. I think that’s the height of my hybrid introvert/extrovert personality right there: therapy= being alone and chilling in a crowded space, observing. Love it. I feel as though I become part of the architecture, part of London. A Londoner. I get to pretend I’m a Londoner. <br />
I despair of describing London to you. It defies me. It’s too hard. <br />
<br />
Come. Come here. <br />
-LuLuciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-73275558028982398282011-11-02T15:47:00.001-07:002011-11-02T15:47:14.348-07:00Being Rusty (a project. That is not school-related, or money-related, or any crap like that.)Once upon a time, I used to draw people. All the time. I drew classmates whilst they were unawares. I drew imaginary people. I drew characters from books. I drew my friends.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
At some point, I quit doing that.<br />
<br />
I think it was because my drawing skills progressed to the point where I was really starting to delve into depicting the range of emotions people's faces can convey, and I got a little intimidated.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I really don't draw much as an end in itself anymore either, and I miss it. Drawing is always just a means these days, a means to a template or a clothing pattern or a screenprint.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
To remedy this, I am giving myself a project. I made a lot of arbitrary parameters, because otherwise it will have no coherence. Also, I decided to frustrate my inner hipster and do realism, which is something almost all artists do, and everybody gets sick of. Therefore, inner hipster does not like it. So I'm going to do it. Trying to get back to the way I used to do it before I (briefly) cared what other people thought.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Here's what I wrote; we'll see where it goes.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
1. The subject must be a musician. That I listen to, in whatever degree. Photos of musicians are easy to find, and they have some great facial expressions. They do not need to be performing, though that's preferable.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
2. I cannot use any materials other than a 2B pencil, an HB pencil, a Pink Pearl eraser, my fingers, and an 8 1/2 by 11 sheet of white paper. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
3.Photo must depict subject who is either deviant in appearance, and/or “making a face”: some emotion must be expressed. There must be some personal idiosyncrasy to capture: weird hair, distinctive makeup, smile, gesture, features, something. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
4. I cannot use any unnecessary strokes: no photorealism, just realism. There's a difference. All I am trying to do is make the finished sketch recognizable as that particular person, and the expression in the sketch must match that of the reference as truly as possible. Minimal background, minimal shading, minimal lines. (this is deliberately to torment myself, because I am a perfectionist, and overwork/think things.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Anyway. not sure why I'm putting this on FB. I'm only going to post it on my creative blog when it's all done. Feel free to suggest photos or musicians if you like.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
TIME TO DRAW.Luciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-17236498457255070422011-11-01T13:24:00.000-07:002011-11-01T13:24:55.845-07:00My ears hurt.I just went for my first night bike ride in London. <br />
why did i wait that long. <br />
Nobody knows. But you know that funny pain inside your ears when you've been exercising outside in the chill? I've got that. It's not a bad feeling. It goes with a particular sort of warm fuzzy tiredness. A winter tired. <br />
<br />
Also, there is nothing quite like doubledecker breath down your back when you're pedaling along. They have a personality, the buses here. I don't have a name for it yet. <br />
<br />
I think I'll tell you about the Wallace Collection briefly. Oh, and Alfie's. Alfie's is funny. <br />
<br />
The Wallace Collection is an art collection, an enormous one. It is in an 18th century hunting lodge, which is now smack in the middle of the shopping mecca around Bond Street. It's basically next to Selfridges.<br />
<br />
The collection was left to the British public by the collector's (the 4th Marquis of I-don't-know-what)French wife under the condition that it never be added to or subtracted from. <br />
The building itself is extremely opulent. I always get this funny sensation in places like that: simultaneously delighted and out of place. I was early, so I was wandering about, admiring, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had dressed a cut above my normal jeans-sneakers-hoodie equation, and as a result, I didn't look out of place. It was very strange, feeling awkward and realizing that I didn't look it. <br />
<br />
This place was rococo to the max. There were more swirlies around than atoms, practically. Unfortunately, I did not get any wondrous photos, just some mediocre ones. The rate at which my wonderful professor whisks us through these places makes me not exercise on the days we have class. It would be too much. <br />
If you ever get the chance, go to this place. It's free. Great word, free. <br />
<br />
Completely random thing: The only place I can really, truly say I haven't found in London is the equivalent of Hard Times Cafe. I miss that spot. It will be one of the first places I go when I get back to Minneapolis.<br />
<br />
I've realized something about traveling. I have to live in the moment. I can't worry about home, it'll take care of itself. Further yet, I can't try to have it all. When I'm here, though I know for a fact I could live very happily here, I get little twinges of missing Minnesota and/or Wisconsin. But when I'm home, all the souls of the places I'm visiting now are whispering across the miles and the oceans, saying "come find us!". So, obvious though it sounds, you can't have le cake and eat it too. I simply count myself lucky that I ended up in a career guaranteed to let me discover lots of those sneaky whispering voices. Catch 'em. Catch 'em all. :)<br />
<br />
Then there's Alfie's. Alfie's is an antiques emporium. The vintage jewellery made me drool on the cases. Four stories of historical ghosties. Yum. If and when you get to London, it's on Church Street. There's a dece little market on that street too. <br />
<br />
but then it's London, you can't walk a mile without bumbling into a market. <br />
<br />
Here's the Wallace Collection photos. <br />
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The ornate containers are snuffboxes, none of them bigger than 5 in across. The painting, which might be familiar, was actually very sexually suggestive, but the proper Victorian ladies later on thought the girl in pink was so pretty that they cropped all the men out and put her on chocolate boxes. <br />
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yeah. <br />
das all. <br />
-LuLuciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-15600637104096888592011-10-27T12:02:00.000-07:002012-06-21T17:48:23.827-07:00The Clash is the cream. of the proverbial crop.I know I haven't posted any pictures in far too long. <br />
Partly because I'm enjoying pretending I live here, and do not take pictures of things. <br />
<br />
That is actually one of my favorite ways to be a tourist. Act like I'm not. Whatever it is that makes people say to me in the States, "you look European", it makes people ask me for directions. Then I talk, and their faces fall. But the first thing I say is that I have an atlas, so they don't run away, and I get to do my good deed for the day. <br />
<br />
Today, instead of being direct and taking the Tube home, I took a bus to London Bridge, which despite assumptions, is the architecturally boring one. Nothing else around there is boring, but the bridge most certainly is. I then walked over to Southwark, along the Thames, past the HMS Belfast, <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBvYOyj8mQlo35x6TKq3xbLeO7kFoVP7JIMGNXmajZ-AtT5Mv8lHghIIWQP6e-GJ8GQxgOXvsoNndBJDlVZzirMQum9_bwAazpptxdIegBG7WqvlM3sXXg-aWdMZy7o0ZYkFH-PscufwI/s1600/hms-belfast1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="310" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBvYOyj8mQlo35x6TKq3xbLeO7kFoVP7JIMGNXmajZ-AtT5Mv8lHghIIWQP6e-GJ8GQxgOXvsoNndBJDlVZzirMQum9_bwAazpptxdIegBG7WqvlM3sXXg-aWdMZy7o0ZYkFH-PscufwI/s400/hms-belfast1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
and across Tower Bridge, which is the awesome one. Then past the Tower of London. I love walking past it like I don't notice it, but looking at it out of the corners of my eyes, the way one looks at attractive people on public transit. It was pretty attractive. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqCfhauH6ZxgkcjpMYSWm5wEh0CKnWODZ4EBxuAVJ1lfMinrLK4xjQlI8tUhChIceSYHSc-dsoM3-f-60JCmeokyDBHf6XTS1b3c3Ydt22Pn1LDz1j7RH8bpVX03F8CmFvFp1lfrnNhvw/s1600/TOL_Main.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="287" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqCfhauH6ZxgkcjpMYSWm5wEh0CKnWODZ4EBxuAVJ1lfMinrLK4xjQlI8tUhChIceSYHSc-dsoM3-f-60JCmeokyDBHf6XTS1b3c3Ydt22Pn1LDz1j7RH8bpVX03F8CmFvFp1lfrnNhvw/s400/TOL_Main.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Then I sat on the tube and laughed internally at how funny people are. Like the lady sitting across from me who kept twitching unsettlingly and rattling her Evening Standard. <br />
<br />
Anyway. I am listening to the Clash. They sort of ooze London. Something about their socially questioning lyrics,their quirky mix of punk and reggae, the stream-of-consciousness sound of the spoken-word verse over the continous-jam sound that they do so well....sort of sums up the experience of it. <br />
<br />
and their little accents. Just tops it off. <br />
<br />
"Know your rights! All three of 'em."<br />
<br />
well done boys. elegant punks.<br />
Maybe over the weekend I'll post pictures I actually took myself. <br />
Right now I need to decide what to send home with my uncle. <br />
night. <br />
-LuLuciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-48540008908017911712011-10-22T12:18:00.001-07:002011-10-22T12:18:59.970-07:00To A CityIt’s hard to say, London, it’s hard or impossible to predict what’s next. But I think, I feel, I hope. <br />
<br />
We may be better friends.<br />
<br />
I would like to know you better. I would like to know you well. I would like to know you the way I know my favorite songs. I’d like to become part of you. <br />
<br />
I found part of me in you.Luciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-50572576401943531832011-10-19T12:34:00.000-07:002011-10-19T12:34:33.410-07:00Fashion is funny.When I wear heavy music shirts/hoodies, people at (design) school are like "Oh, your shirt looks cool." They have no idea who the band is. <br />
<br />
It tickles me. Not in a mean way: a compliment's a compliment. <br />
<br />
Sorry I've not been taking a lot of pictures: Mum was here, so I let her take all the photos. I'll post some of hers and give a little recap: we basically only stopped walking/sightseeing to eat and sleep. For a week. <br />
Pretty sure I can kick like a horse now. <br />
-LuLuciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-38067253062052382852011-10-12T20:15:00.000-07:002011-10-13T12:35:31.580-07:00AAAANNND duplicate content.Schwell. That was supposed to go on my creative blog. Can't be duplicatin'. Go follow it if you like. <a href="http://quirkandrestraint.blogspot.com/">Here</a> <br />
-LuLuciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-48345314547333422942011-10-12T13:11:00.000-07:002011-10-12T13:54:38.640-07:00A Verbal ImageThe description of this blog is “a repository of images.” Images can also be verbal. I have a deep love for visual images, but I like to try my hand at the verbal ones as well.<br />
<br />
With no further ado, here is an image of a journey, from Angel Station in Islington, London, to Earl’s Court, Chelsea, London.<br />
<br />
Dusk is creeping in London. The clouds smirk of rain. There are brilliant, blue-white flashes coming regularly, no thunder. This is puzzling till I see the window of the photography studio, the flashes making people glance and hurry.<br />
<br />
I stop at the entrance to the tube station. The inside is hot, grimy, and artificially lit.<br />
<br />
No. I don’t want to be in the belly of a little worm train, snaking through the ground. The crisp air and gloom forbid it. It’s doubledecker time.<br />
<br />
The bus is the 19, to Hyde Park Corner. The best seat is open: front row, top deck, left corner.<br />
<br />
A few of the trees have icy Christmas lights on selected branches, wrapped around the wood, giving the trunks a different dimension. The bus pulls so close to its cousin in front of it that were I to kick through the tall window before me, I’d hit its red paint.<br />
<br />
The street looks half mystery, half welcome, the pedestrians Jeykll and Hyde: I’l never know which. A tiny gray-white spider races around the folds in my hoodie, and in trying to remove him nicely, I partially sqush him. Sorry sir.<br />
<br />
Spiders, in my experience, do not fall for the “here, climb onto my finger!” schtick as readily as other bugs. Ants are the same way.<br />
<br />
Two girls sit across the aisle. They talk too much. Well, one does. The other sits, contained, graceful, staring vacantly, listening politely. Something about the way she’s sitting is feline. “And I’m like,no, she’s been dating this guy for awhile, I’d know if they were engaged….That was so, like, stereotypical of him..”<br />
<br />
Fascinating. Really. <br />
<br />
I take a deep breath, and think: “SOMEone hasn’t bathed since the Dark Ages.”<br />
<br />
Two policemen mosey along Cambridge Circus, talking easily to their companion, a man in street clothes. The metal points on their helmets glint sharp in the dark. Shaftesbury pulses with flashing bulbs on theater signs.<br />
<br />
Contentment has snuck up on me. Like when you swallow hot coffee in the morning, and the warmth and vitality shivers through you. Can’t force it, can’t detain it. It simply is. Like art.<br />
<br />
The bus goes past the Ritz Hotel. Once merely a family name, now an adjective and an empire. Its spangly, lightfooted ants scurry in and out of their anthill, trailing wealth like perfume.<br />
<br />
I put a pound into a man’s hard, dirty hand, at the entrance to the Hyde Park Corner Station. He was the most cheerful person I’d met all day. And he is likely homeless, with only his blanket seat and a Styrofoam cup of coffee to his name. He said “Thanks, darling!” as if I were an old friend giving him cookies instead of a stranger with cold coin. That kind of courage deserves my pocket change, while I have it.<br />
<br />
As I stood waiting for the train, I was looking at the boards and nails on the tunnel wall, and realized that they were not a painting. The stark lighting on the white paint made it look like hyper-realist art, and every time I looked at it again, I had to remind myself it was actual nails, actual plywood, not canvas.<br />
<br />
I get off the train and think about putting my hood up to disguise the fact that I have earbuds in, since it’s dark, then remember being carded at Proms while attempting to obtain a Pimm’s and lemonade. I look younger with a hood up: also it hides my slightly-rougher-than-Chelsea half-hawk.<br />
<br />
Pull open the satisfyingly heavy front door, breathe deep, and think happily, “somewhere, someone in this house is making nachos.” There was something comfortingly American about the smell of nachos.<br />
<br />
Good night.Luciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-18270051191714310212011-10-12T07:56:00.000-07:002011-10-12T07:56:01.763-07:00London is not a grid.That title...there is a screenprint hiding in that title. I'll find it. It's evading me yet. <br />
<br />
Cities are forbidding when my attitude is forbidding. If I'm feeling receptive, then they are an enchanted, screwed up adventure. You know why I can navigate London well? It is flat. Chicago is confusing to me. There is no sense of area. It's too tall. too many skyscrapers. Too many corners with the same Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks on the corner underneath the same soot-stained skyscraper. This is not an accident. London has height restrictions on buildings, due to the historical nature of some of their sightlines: St. Paul's, for example. Also, the buildings and the sense or feel of the neighborhoods are distinct. You could also call that diversity, I guess.<br />
<br />
The compounded layers of the history, the differences, the varied influences in each place, each region, make it easier to navigate. It nearly makes up for the lack of grid. <br />
<br />
On that subject. London is intuitive, navigationally. If I've been somewhere only once before, I can almost always find it again by intuition. The curve of the streets, the landmarks, the buildings, the tube stations, imprint themselves on my mind, and when I am trying to find a place a second time, my mind recognizes the pattern and before I have time to truly think about it, I know where I am. And isn't that kind of what intuition is? The recognition of patterns, feelings, vibes, aura, all that stuff and how it interacts with you and the world. <br />
<br />
I think that's what learning is. Both intuitive and logical. It is a scaffolding in your head, linking neuron to neuron, memory to facts to feelings to senses. And you know you've truly learned something when it fits in that neural scaffolding like a puzzle piece. <br />
<br />
I remember the streets, but always in relation to other things. If I were to draw London, the streets would be there, but there would be other things in equal measure: tube lines, landmarks, neighborhoods.<br />
<br />
I rarely get entirely lost. Rather, I lose my way. There is a difference. Losing my way is easy to remedy, usually. For several reasons,I've decided. <br />
<br />
<br />
I like observing. If something is unusual or visually interesting or disturbing, I will remember it, and where it was. <br />
<br />
I'm a designer. Doesn't seem to relate, does it? Well, it does. <br />
An excellent drawing professor I once had told me that drawing was a constant flipping back and forth between your intuitive side and your logical side, between the left and the right brain. Design is the same. It requires you to express an aesthetic, an emotion, a feeling, a look, in an object while retaining its practical use. <br />
<br />
So, I do that every day. I practice it, because I love it. Such that there is a decently strong connection between the left and right halves of my brain. When I'm trying to find my way, the pattern recognition of my intuition combines with the cold hard facts in my reason. <br />
<br />
Also one should never be ashamed to ask directions. Courtesy is key. <br />
<br />
<br />
The last thing: I like to know stuff for myself. I love to explore. I lose my way on purpose if I have the time. <br />
<br />
It pays off. <br />
<br />
Oh! and this is weirder yet. I hate highways. They confuse the living daylights out of me. Because I'm going too fast to observe, and because the threat of collision requires that I keep my eyes on the road. more so than walking, or even biking. Though biking in London, believe me, is a strange middle ground. You can be hit by a car, but you're not going so fast as you would on a highway.Neither truly pedestrian nor driver. Rider. You're a rider. <br />
<br />
I think, actually, that in only one month and a week of living in London without a car (I've been in a car twice, and it was a cab both times.THE WAY THEY DRIVE....!!!)Anyway, in that time, I have a mental map of London that compares pretty favorably, to my mental map of Minneapolis, as well as Hudson/River Falls. Where, collectively, I've spent 20 years. That is strange. <br />
<br />
MORAL OF RAMBLING, PRETENTIOUS STORY: lose your way. <br />
-LuLuciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-79049794645116896862011-10-09T09:51:00.000-07:002011-10-09T09:54:39.816-07:00Final Answer.I hate, hate, hate, hate, the question "What kind of music do you like?" <br />
<br />
That is an impossible question. Genres don't work, for within each genre are brilliant artists and people who aren't even artists, they just have a record contract. There are people who don't have a record contract. And there seems to be an expectation that one only likes a few kinds of music. <br />
<br />
Well yeah, there are some genres that I don't appreciate the general sound of. Mainstream rap and pop. Country. Opera. <br />
<br />
But aside from that, here's the real answer. I like music that is alive. <br />
<br />
Handel. <br />
Underoath.<br />
Norah Jones. <br />
Skrillex. <br />
Beirut. <br />
The Clash. <br />
Sufjan Stevens. <br />
Tchaikovsky. <br />
Yann Tiersen. <br />
Radiohead. <br />
Skinny Puppy. <br />
Switchfoot. <br />
Balkan Beat Box. <br />
The Sex Pistols. <br />
Daft Punk. <br />
Marilyn Manson. <br />
Jars of Clay. <br />
Trentemøller. <br />
Jon Foreman. <br />
Iggy Pop. <br />
The Glitch Mob.<br />
Hans Zimmer. <br />
Sigur Ros. <br />
Bauhaus.<br />
Pavarotti.<br />
Vitas.<br />
Ella Fitzgerald. <br />
Motionless in White.<br />
Chopin. <br />
Maylene And The Sons Of Disaster. <br />
Gogol Bordello. <br />
Sondre Lerche.<br />
Phil Keaggy.<br />
Showbread. <br />
Flogging Molly. <br />
The Ramones. <br />
Gorillaz. <br />
Jimi Hendrix. <br />
Johnny Cash. <br />
Lady Gaga. <br />
ceo.<br />
Andrew Bird. <br />
Becoming The Archetype.<br />
Nirvana. <br />
The Misfits. <br />
Joy Division. <br />
The Velvet Underground. <br />
Bob Dylan. <br />
Chastity Brown. <br />
Leonard Cohen. <br />
The Chariot. <br />
Arcade Fire. <br />
Louis Armstrong. <br />
J.S. Bach. <br />
Eyedea and Abilities. <br />
Pink Floyd. <br />
Aesop Rock. <br />
Paper Diamond. <br />
Atmosphere.<br />
The Devil Wears Prada. <br />
The Tallest Man on Earth. <br />
The White Stripes. <br />
Audioperm. <br />
Basshunter. <br />
Fever Ray.<br />
The Beatles. <br />
Regina Spektor. <br />
The Rolling Stones.<br />
Bright Eyes. <br />
Bob Marley. <br />
The Cure.<br />
Olafur Arnalds. <br />
U2.<br />
We Butter The Bread With Butter. <br />
Gustav Holst. <br />
<br />
etc....forever. <br />
Asking me which kind of music I like best is like asking what facet of a diamond is most beautiful. <br />
It's a silly question. <br />
<br />
<br />
yeah. <br />
-LuLuciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-72959831383877600502011-10-08T10:01:00.000-07:002011-10-08T10:01:44.490-07:00Liberty in the UKOOOO0000ooooo you thought I was going to say anarchy. they have that too. <br />
But the Liberty I speak of is the most heavenly department store I have ever had the pleasure of entering. Bar none. <br />
<br />
It is basically a haven of all things beautiful. Fabric. Yarn. Haberdashery. Christmasy things. Furniture. Other homey things. Handbags. Shoes. Paper. Things to color the paper with. <br />
<br />
I mean, there is an entire hall (and i say hall in the sense of Vikings-could-have-lunch-here) devoted to scarves. <br />
<br />
Go there. I will say no more, except to give you photos. I took only one photo inside, and felt like I was violating a sacred contract. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrxtmF5u5i3b6kOKDPxWYJwOJ-AuWtWMn_tUMsyuErDR4R6SX81A_4ie43Y8oJqO3WDz6JyiFJ_J906BycXJirUpb1aZGJpVSQGWuNsdRtbv5wrXb62Nh6ZQYlO82bLiGNOgCq2lKkW-8/s1600/IMG_2718.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrxtmF5u5i3b6kOKDPxWYJwOJ-AuWtWMn_tUMsyuErDR4R6SX81A_4ie43Y8oJqO3WDz6JyiFJ_J906BycXJirUpb1aZGJpVSQGWuNsdRtbv5wrXb62Nh6ZQYlO82bLiGNOgCq2lKkW-8/s400/IMG_2718.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And the area outside is incredibly cute, and incredibly expensive. It reeeeeeks of money. And at that point, I had a small revelation. <br />
<br />
I am not the judge of rich people. I know I'm comparatively rich. But there is something in me that dislikes the facade of perfection there, and elsewhere. It just doesn't jive with me. I like conflict. Personality. Idiosyncracy, a little whiff of anarchy. I thrive on that. Liberty I somewhat exempt from this, because it has oodles of personality and a smidge of dark whimsicalness.<br />
<br />
But it's a free market world in London, and if them folks want to buy all that stuff up, I won't stop them. Their life. <br />
<br />
And I also encountered a zombie pub crawl. And a troop of about ten men dressed as superheroes. (too much spandex, not enough muscle.)All in Oxford Circus. An apt name. The couple, when I asked for their photo, I couldn't understand a word and was trying to deceipher whether they'd said yes or no....oh WAIT, you are beyond smashed, you're friendly, and YOU WON'T REMEMBER A THING. *snappity snap*<br />
in retrospect, maybe they weren't a couple....<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
lalalallalaaa<br />
Then to Green Park, and more lessons in capitalism. <br />
In Green Park, there are a bunch of green-and-white striped lawn chairs as you come out of the tube stop. Being tired, I sat down. I was just reflecting on how nice it was of whoever to put those chairs there, when I and two other travellers were informed by a snarky little man in a neon vest that the chairs were not free, they were 50 p. <br />
<br />
FAIL. Not on my part. Oh no. An epic, epic fail on the part of the lawn-chair schemer. For all around me, under the cozy gray sky and the towering autumn-clad trees, through all of Green Park, were benches and lovely green grass. And no smirky people charging 50 p. <br />
<br />
KEEP YO LAWN CHAIR, BUCKO. Schemes like that only work if I have no other option, and praises be, you haven't monopolized the snuggly vegetation and park benches. <br />
<br />
I made some dry, nondescript reply and moved off to freer butt-resting spots. <br />
The other two people did the same. There was no one else sitting. <br />
<br />
(i'm sure he probably makes money when the park is more crowded and the weather's warm, but at that moment, it was ludicrous. Laughable. silly.) <br />
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<br />
<br />
Ennyhow. I'm tired. Sometimes I want to be out in this kind of weather, but sometimes all I want is my screen, a book, a project, and the window.<br />
<br />
OH HA. the window. Last thing. I was wondering lately why I could hear all the street sounds so crystal clear. Then one day I glanced up at the top of the window frame. There is a clean gap, big enough for me to stick my hand in, between the edge of the frame at the top, and the actual structure of the wall. There is a hole in the wall. I never. <br />
<br />
I want soup. <br />
-LuLuciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-68274144349987086002011-10-07T15:22:00.000-07:002011-10-07T15:25:32.808-07:00alert: pretentiousness awaits in this post.There is so much whining in the world, guys. So much. It frustrates me. It is such an utter waste of breath, time, life, opportunity. <br />
SO. at the risk of becoming a whiner about whining (INCEPTION JOKE HERE) (I HAVEN'T SEEN INCEPTION. YES I AM A SORT OF NORMAL HUMAN.) <br />
i give you the photo that absolutely, completely, perfectly sums up my reaction to said whinging and whining. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUuNowwA01GVn30ZwEUL257AEr69FvwSVZAF2eqGtr0wbNMcjwI_7uqC94YuK_nmxFrn9_KZfoSvmNMwoWm_-GEzMhUKUVTc8NFrazUwiliIMJF5HmbiLVyRhiRrJNPrcmK7FbBu94OmU/s1600/441421-rowan-atkinson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUuNowwA01GVn30ZwEUL257AEr69FvwSVZAF2eqGtr0wbNMcjwI_7uqC94YuK_nmxFrn9_KZfoSvmNMwoWm_-GEzMhUKUVTc8NFrazUwiliIMJF5HmbiLVyRhiRrJNPrcmK7FbBu94OmU/s400/441421-rowan-atkinson.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Good night. <br />
-LuLuciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-81647737297032228732011-10-07T12:00:00.000-07:002011-10-07T12:00:51.515-07:00it is a SMALL WORLD. and i like libraries.I am sitting at the moment in the lobby of The British Library, parasitically using the internet. Well, not really. <br />
<br />
Also, maybe this happens to other people all the time, but it had never happened to me before. I posted this photo I took in Camden Town on Saturday on Tumblr. I don't usually put the place and day taken, but I did. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9AWCROzFq6A4kSJZoEmw41gpoYgeUMMxPozeJJhhXz6LR6cz0cj0jNVVpJtKrl1SraBXVLsZEqo7pmwqqqfOXty9UlU6RmBFgY3Z5H8jIsc-50gQaSOOPhBWtLgmdPCU-bVhiybV1cp0/s1600/IMG_2538.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9AWCROzFq6A4kSJZoEmw41gpoYgeUMMxPozeJJhhXz6LR6cz0cj0jNVVpJtKrl1SraBXVLsZEqo7pmwqqqfOXty9UlU6RmBFgY3Z5H8jIsc-50gQaSOOPhBWtLgmdPCU-bVhiybV1cp0/s400/IMG_2538.jpg" /></a></div>And in all the spiderwebbyness of the internets, the girl in the picture found and reblogged it. funny. <br />
<br />
anyway. This place is quietly intelligent, worldly-in-a-good way. The tagline is "The world's knowledge" and I guess that's about the best way to sum it up. However, I don't have any proof of my address, so I don't know if I can be a member here. Oh well. Great place for studying. <br />
<br />
I promised myself I would not have anything so common as Starbucks in London. But then i was ridiculously thirsty, and I had a vision of a venti chai frappucino made with half-and-half and extra chai and espresso, and brain simultaneously recalled that there was a Starbucks down the street and that was the end of that resolution. They also have these little lollies that I used to beg for every time Mom took us into Starbucks, but I've not seen them in American Starbucks anymore. and then I sat on the curb and drank it and watched Oxford Circus rumble on. <br />
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<br />
<br />
On Friday I went to Regent's Park. At dusk, with the leaves just starting to fall and the gardens still in bloom, I thought I'd walked into an enchanted kingdom or something. The photos won't do it justice, but they're better than nothing.<br />
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ah it relaxes me simply to think of it.Luciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-84064236471413720422011-10-05T20:06:00.000-07:002011-10-05T20:06:11.201-07:00I AM GOING TO CATCH UP. i promise.But for now, here is a little thingie i wrote in Journalism class this afternoon. It is probably no good as a news story, but it's not being graded, it's funny, and she was NOT CLEAR on what we were supposed to be writing. And I had half an hour. <br />
<br />
anyway. whining over. <br />
Movie Review into News Story. -<br />
Found in The Daily Flare, a Martian tabloid<br />
<br />
Shortly after a catastrophic Earthling wedding, which ended with the groom<br />
killing himself and the depressed bride estranging her entire family,the<br />
rogue planet Melancholia collided with Earth, resulting in the end of that<br />
planet.<br />
<br />
The bride had had an elaborate wedding planned by her siblings, though<br />
she was deeply depressed and not interested in worldly fanfare. To make<br />
matters worse, her estranged parents fell out further during the event,<br />
resulting in unhappiness all around. Some have even speculated that the<br />
anger and ill-will generated by the wedding attracted the attention of the<br />
sentient Melancholia, who decided to end the wedding and the Earthling<br />
world.<br />
<br />
Though we mourn the end of that unhappy family and the rest of the<br />
human race, a more pressing concern is the abundant space debris<br />
resulting from the collision, which poses a terrible threat to the<br />
inhabitants of Mars. Regardless of the cause,the debris of Earth will<br />
continue to be a problem requiring the most creative Martian solutions. We<br />
suggest contacting your local community leaders with ideas, as the issue is<br />
urgent.<br />
<br />
(I made up the part about the Martians, the sentient planet, and the<br />
debris. The movie apparently involved little more than a terrible wedding<br />
and the end of the world. The movie was Melancholia.)<br />
<br />
yes. I have break from LCF classes for two weeks. I intend to chill, sleep, explore, make things, and BLOG. there is half a post on regent's park waiting for pictures that will make the pretty-loving part of your brains verrrry happy. so. let me go finish my homeworks SINCE IT'S 4:03. (parents, I promise I've only stayed up like this once, no twice, since I left. I'm normally painfully responsible, of course...)<br />
grood night. <br />
-LuLuciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8039425529707186282.post-41905112016254786982011-10-02T14:19:00.000-07:002011-10-02T14:19:56.552-07:00much blogging.There is so much to catch up on i don't even know where to start......since i last blogged....Tate Britain, worldwide squees, Museum of London, Lucie finds the Tardis, Regent's Park, Camden Town, night so late it's early, and as previously stated, sore muscles. <br />
<br />
Well. Eat an elephant one bite at a time. Let us first betake ourselves to the beautiful Tate Britain. <br />
It is on the banks of the Thames, and there are charming benches set on brick pilings so you can see the water as you sit, and not just a brick wall. Being me, I climbed onto the wall instead of the bench. Here's me not falling in the Thames. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIpgq3IUVSQ6ad8JAtS1n6yS__XDHBOD-Ry1oStjVVveWyVbPbFK9z6zCJzG5PqxhwgrYCgZqNoeQ50c-nbuj7n6_JuWH2n5geKufTuHTFFmcvOYfJIMwch8mjfyHNb4bqIBuzkm834I/s1600/IMG_2137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIpgq3IUVSQ6ad8JAtS1n6yS__XDHBOD-Ry1oStjVVveWyVbPbFK9z6zCJzG5PqxhwgrYCgZqNoeQ50c-nbuj7n6_JuWH2n5geKufTuHTFFmcvOYfJIMwch8mjfyHNb4bqIBuzkm834I/s400/IMG_2137.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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yes yes ok. <br />
<br />
now the inside. This is all British artsies. I tell you, the London, it has the stellar museums. stellar I say. <br />
<br />
I believe this was called "Athlete Wrestling with a Serpent"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-ZZu3DEQRXAqStq4TtU85gCgSRwsAbNiVRwgxuq1snKg3PP91iriogLJeECGBXDQIHyqzo7Ii3a43UCq9bq7hK6Rd-lJ9-jazJPDIws4n6jlmrFG1SU8us-pz46gF0DjqlQKvf8SaTY/s1600/IMG_2153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-ZZu3DEQRXAqStq4TtU85gCgSRwsAbNiVRwgxuq1snKg3PP91iriogLJeECGBXDQIHyqzo7Ii3a43UCq9bq7hK6Rd-lJ9-jazJPDIws4n6jlmrFG1SU8us-pz46gF0DjqlQKvf8SaTY/s400/IMG_2153.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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And this piece of art will forever remind me of Anne of Green Gables, and the fateful reenactment of Ophelia's death, wherein people nearly drown. So, I giggled when we got to this one, because it's a hilarious part in the book, and everybody looked at me funny.....smatter, people, didn't you have a childhood.....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL4GsGGbOSjErKF29sXafFPpKuVygeHvzhe525FytlcTsQzSimd3mCldtk7XSobtiqGruCsnsP-y3nnB_ejAeC1QUGr_Xbxwzp_uKM2zI2QD2pEzOalfcIdzgTbbibKcWpyJl5JHJUUX4/s1600/IMG_2146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL4GsGGbOSjErKF29sXafFPpKuVygeHvzhe525FytlcTsQzSimd3mCldtk7XSobtiqGruCsnsP-y3nnB_ejAeC1QUGr_Xbxwzp_uKM2zI2QD2pEzOalfcIdzgTbbibKcWpyJl5JHJUUX4/s400/IMG_2146.JPG" /></a></div><br />
for some reason, when i looked at this one, it seemed the most perfect pictorial representation of the word "pride" i had ever seen. <br />
<br />
And some Bacon. Weird stuff. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKZH1XPcDmYxdeR_aFuAf8OeEZOjKupK4UQNjXBa4hl6A9HWRLwr0jRhGYo7bjc0yGP4TPt65YHAiA6XipiVuqckuVwNWCH7Q3C4QvwnqeXC-j1Bcz9fVMEXGP_cY8Cahlx3GNI8fbr1s/s1600/IMG_2148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKZH1XPcDmYxdeR_aFuAf8OeEZOjKupK4UQNjXBa4hl6A9HWRLwr0jRhGYo7bjc0yGP4TPt65YHAiA6XipiVuqckuVwNWCH7Q3C4QvwnqeXC-j1Bcz9fVMEXGP_cY8Cahlx3GNI8fbr1s/s400/IMG_2148.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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Ah, this one. By John Singer Sargent. It was in a lovely book I had as a kid, no idea where it went. Regardless, I spent hours poring happily over that book, and immediately on seeing this it brought childhood and security and happily amusing myself for hours back. And it's pretty. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkim__dtE1hzfe53_dmdNn3WxP7RYt0XGHk4tqjh2Hkw77_ugmhP8Ft_wuUAW0S2_aF6y-VmWVZgWnhA7vM92RCqqawAEVPc0qdkFEpnuLoUoWCVwCh4rtW_wz70p91L89EFumHK06lc/s1600/IMG_2151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkim__dtE1hzfe53_dmdNn3WxP7RYt0XGHk4tqjh2Hkw77_ugmhP8Ft_wuUAW0S2_aF6y-VmWVZgWnhA7vM92RCqqawAEVPc0qdkFEpnuLoUoWCVwCh4rtW_wz70p91L89EFumHK06lc/s400/IMG_2151.jpg" /></a></div><br />
aha then there was an area where you could make a drawing and hang it up. An unknown stranger contributed the beautiful man-in-hat piece, and I did the little mermaid gem. And yes, I hung them up. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWtCVeD1NV2x4Hof37GGBWoAsJ5-_EOls_qerYN8ZDvcrJMQIbFcUvlS7hmQUAasg5-rxJDanjI1yOoh05l_UxDnE5ebf9QnVj-hwCJIkhI_9sbrw-3xkkhQaLPU8eP3fY-cp6O4lBJIg/s1600/IMG_2160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWtCVeD1NV2x4Hof37GGBWoAsJ5-_EOls_qerYN8ZDvcrJMQIbFcUvlS7hmQUAasg5-rxJDanjI1yOoh05l_UxDnE5ebf9QnVj-hwCJIkhI_9sbrw-3xkkhQaLPU8eP3fY-cp6O4lBJIg/s400/IMG_2160.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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This one really struck me to the point that if I were filthy rich, I would have tried to buy it. It's basically The Thinker, threatened by the bayonets of fascism. Painted around WWII, I believe. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH9REnnrTZLQiui4Ek8Whb4_42glBThKLsngPWXNue7n-hTOlOKop0iHKwFO6Al-QdY_y55spkdHEMiXt-0k1E-uuGVkpSQkbHWoOctIgfLoSeKSTJohU2Z0g4_OYJq1o7dGFfm3rAyS0/s1600/IMG_2175.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH9REnnrTZLQiui4Ek8Whb4_42glBThKLsngPWXNue7n-hTOlOKop0iHKwFO6Al-QdY_y55spkdHEMiXt-0k1E-uuGVkpSQkbHWoOctIgfLoSeKSTJohU2Z0g4_OYJq1o7dGFfm3rAyS0/s400/IMG_2175.jpg" /></a></div><br />
And to end, I think this chandelier was my favorite. Skinny Bunny Rabbit was cool too. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg85YPI4XAlpq0D1ov3_jKEL1eUE4mrVfG1YGoQMnXJ929ykTxiw2QpBaXk-pzErfVUc1Yb5LQrhSMtERvz_Tttjek0cA_vXeQpi_BanihDqsohDDmnLvZnclIUWIlxHQV3Y9m56Z5ajAc/s1600/IMG_2179.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg85YPI4XAlpq0D1ov3_jKEL1eUE4mrVfG1YGoQMnXJ929ykTxiw2QpBaXk-pzErfVUc1Yb5LQrhSMtERvz_Tttjek0cA_vXeQpi_BanihDqsohDDmnLvZnclIUWIlxHQV3Y9m56Z5ajAc/s400/IMG_2179.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw01JiqaGqaNBu0DtZI8WNQzByxyPiLm6IesW6tfVLAGZ27XpeBbrSIYFPiNXeks7mFtmJIgq-itRXxDAM9XbMND7hJJlpEm09YVrytsanhb2qDEbZY5Xan2GL2myEvYgZGAyHKPpzl00/s1600/IMG_2182.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw01JiqaGqaNBu0DtZI8WNQzByxyPiLm6IesW6tfVLAGZ27XpeBbrSIYFPiNXeks7mFtmJIgq-itRXxDAM9XbMND7hJJlpEm09YVrytsanhb2qDEbZY5Xan2GL2myEvYgZGAyHKPpzl00/s400/IMG_2182.jpg" /></a></div>Luciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03009773038719694433noreply@blogger.com0