In London, thinking about Wall Street.

It feels kind of funny, being so far from my home country when stuff really hits the news.

I don't pretend to know if Occupy Wall Street will go down in the books, maybe, maybe not. And I haven't pulled my head out of the sands of London long enough to actually formulate an opinion on the event itself.

Well, I sort of have.

I think that I would much rather people take action on what they see going wrong than sit around in front of TV.

If you disagree, take (peaceful, please) opposing action.
Looking at the list of cities organizing similar protests is.....what? Not frightening, certainly. Not surprising, since economic conditions, and therefore the conditions in which we live, have been unstable, scary, difficult, angering, so on, for awhile now.

Yeah, yeah, I know it could be worse. But that is no reason to let it get worse.
Answering my own previous question, then, about the spread of protests, it is reassuring to me, I think. It....ahh I'm not sure how to say this. Whether or not I entirely agree with the protests, (and I do agree on some levels), it's good to know people have some spark in them, some fire, a lack of passivity.

That's all.
-Lu

I've never seen Zoolander. (yes, i live under a rock.)

Modeling.

There are so many stigmas and stereotypes associated with modeling it is eencredible. And like all stereotypes, they started somewhere.

Anorexic. Big ego. Shallow. Talentless, just capitalizing on their looks. Overpaid. Dumb.

I’m not going to say anything about any of that. I’m just saying the things that have struck me in while looking at innumerable photos of these people and the lovely clothes they wear.

Modeling bears some resemblance to acting. Without speech or movement if we’re talking about a photo.

Also I’m aware that they are coached and prompted, touched up and digitally changed. But I’ve also noticed that there are things that cannot change.

Your bearing, your posture, your attitude, your aura, if you like, is something elusive. A model and the people who work with them have to communicate a whole world, a whole message, in an image. That’s hard. They have to use those elusive things to communicate to you, the consumer.

They are acting out the story of the clothes they are wearing. I’m sure there is diversity in how seriously models take that.

Let’s put it this way: I would not call myself unattractive, in fact, I’ve been told the opposite. But I’d make a terrible model. If I’m just being me in clothes, I’m told I can “pull it off” (it being, odd, unwashed, raggy, weird, thrifted, or otherwise strange apparel). But if I stop and think about it, I absolutely freeze. To this day I hate being taken pictures of. (mother, that's why i make faces.)It’s like way back in the day when I tried to act. It didn’t work.

So props to all you people out there who do your job in spite of people asking you if you’re anorexic.

so I had a whole post written about the National Portrait Gallery, and somehow deleted it. I could probably retrieve it, re-write it, but in all honesty, i just don't want to. So here are some of my scribblings of late instead. Perhaps one day I'll get the urge to re-work that post, but today/tonight ain't it.

here we are.


Thinking about cities. They don’t necessarily make people more civilized, they just magnify your civilization or lack thereof. Proximity is the key. If you’re a jackass, everybody knows it. However, it is also easy to hide in a city, because you’re just a face in the crowd. So your deeper parts go unknown, and the little things are blatant. The tiny ways you interact with people, whether you are kind or inconsiderate. Do you give up your seat or pretend you don’t see? Pick up the dropped parcel or walk on? Snap angrily or give the benefit of the doubt? It could be argued that the little things indicate what your true character is, hint at the deeper things. I know you can fake the little things, but I honestly think it’s pretty hard. What you do when you are a speck in the crowd, and something catches you by surprise, or bypasses your analytical side, gets to you, annoys you, those things are telling.

And believe it or not, people remember. I can recall innumerable kind strangers. The graciousness of people you’re around all the time gets taken for granted, but surprising kindness is remarkable. I could pick the cashier at Tesco today out of a crowd for you because he was kind. I could probably draw him.

All that to say, I love cities. They are a neverending movie. Sometimes it’s terrible, yeah. But that’s the part everyone talks about. Tell the whole tale, people.

In that vein, here’s a couple quotes

There is nothing in which people more betray their character than in what they laugh at." Goethe

You can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him. --James D. Miles.

I know who Goethe was, but I’ve no clue about the other dude.

good night.
-Lu

the gallery with the portraits.

They don't actually let you take pictures in the National Portrait Gallery. But I found several interesting portraits, which I shall now tell ye about.
This was, I think, my favorite museum so far. I love people, and this was a place entirely about people, about their times and their cultures, and their similarities, and their differences, and personalities, and responsibilities, and the makers of the portraits who captured all this. Before we even got to the first gallery (well, besides the one with the Rolling Stones, next to the bathrooms), our tutor pointed out that as you come up the long escalator to the upstairs galleries, there is nothing on the walls. Everywhere else, there is something on the walls. And you turn and look at all the people coming up the escalator, and they are a portrait. They are a living portrait.
I don't know if they intended that, but I thought it was cool.
There was a gallery where the portraits are hung on glass, so that you can see the other person on the other side looking at the portrait on the other side. My favorite thing in that gallery was the work of a man named Ronald Searle. Here are some of his cartoons. They're a stitch.

I also loved the modern galleries. A couple really striking ones were the video portrait of a sleeping David Beckham, and a self-portrait by Marc Quinn, made of his own frozen blood in a mold.

And then I went and had lunch with Nelson and the pigeons and a lots of other people in Trafalgar Square.

It's fall. I found this monster of a leaf today.

that is my computer, for scale. Night kids.
-Lu

Me Day. Short.

We went to Primark today: Forever 21 on steroids.
Sitting outside waiting for everyone else to check out, looked down, saw these tiny little oxford sneaker things, abandoned.

As I'm trying to decide whether to abscond with them or not, the street sweeper picks them up with his little grabby thing, and turns towards the trash. I say, "Hey, you gonna throw those away?" He hands them to me without a word.

Sitting in the same spot, see three girls with 7 big Primark bags apiece get into a taxi, the bags nearly spilling out.

Going to get stamps, standing in line. (76 p to mail stuff to the States, folks.) and some old man sticks his head in and yells the following (verbatim) not at me, honestly not sure who he was talking to, but there was venom going on. "Hey, where you from? Arab? Israel? Is that it? Go back to your own country!" I honestly felt like slapping his face and breaking his toes.

Then to Oxfam, wherein I acquired purple suspenders with crowns on them for the grand sum of one pound. They will be worn to Fashion's Night Out London tomorrow. Oh yes.

now. pictures. All two of them. more tomorrers. LOTS MORE. we are going to places like Alexander McQueen and Vivienne Westwood and Burberry and other places with window displays that are art and cost a million pounds. Roughly.

So long.
-Lu

Where I Find Rob?

Children, heed my words. If you ever travel the London Underground on a weekend, CHECK FOR CONSTRUCTION. Yours truly was attempting to get her hands on this lovely little vintage folding bike here

But was foiled. Not really. But for the moment. I got to the station, and the sign says “oh yes. By the way, there is construction on the line you want.” Ok, thought I, this is all interconnected, I can get beyond the construction on some other line. Onto the Piccadilly line we go. Get to alternate line. “oh, this one’s down too.” Phhhhpppp. At this point, since I’m supposed to be there to pick the bike up in 45 min, I call the nice man, who agrees to hold it for me till Monday, when I can just ride District all the way. Hooray. However, I blew 8 pounds in the process. Boo.
The experience which came next, however, was worth every pence of those 8 pounds. I was sitting on a chair outside the Hammersmith station, when a terrifyingly beefy woman in leggings sitting next to me turns and says in a very thick German accent, “Excuse me, I have question.” Disclaimer: What follows is word for word. I do not make this up.
“Yes?” say I. “
“ I am trying to find my boyfriend, Rob. In 2009, we come here. He was back there.” She points behind her. “At Starbucks?” I say, trying to be helpful.
“No, in 2009, he go to Charing Cross Hospital, Fulham Palace Rd. You know how I find him?”
No. (I didn’t say that.)
What I did say was, “Well, I have an atlas, let me find it.” I poke around in my priceless London A-Z atlas. (they are the best) for five minutes.
“You don’t know, you don’t know how to find him? He was Charing Cross Police.”
at this point I think. LOOK LADY, it was two years ago. You are no longer in touch with him. You were at a hospital? And that is all the info you have on him? FURTHERMORE, can you not tell that I am AMERICAN? Not. A. Londoner. I know no more than you do about Rob. I do not live in this hood.
Fortunately, she asks the quiet fellow next to me, whose gray hair is one big perfect dreadlock. He tells her how to get to Charing Cross Hospital. She then says, “Yes, I get there, but how I find him?” At which I rise, say nicely, “If he was there, I’m sure they have record of it. Ask the people at the front desk. I hope you find him.” And walk away with my internal giggles about to become violently external.

Then I explored expensive, interesting thrift stores that play Lady Antebellum (NOT INTERESTING. Came here to escape that thank you. But I will forgive you because your little orange Prada parka is making me drool.), and ended up with a nice little green hooded raincoat. Which had a transit card in the pocket. So we shall see if my jaunt will be monetarily redeemed. There’s prolly nothing on it. Oh well.

P.S. Said charity shops are located on 211 Brompton Rd, and 3 Bute St., run by Octavia Foundation.