It was like planning a military campaign. I feel sure Winston Churchill had an easier time of it sorting Dunkirk than we did trying to book tickets for the Cult Of Beauty exhibition at the V&A. There's something rotten in the state of the V&A's online booking system. I had the same palaver last month when Red came to stay. Undaunted, LouLou rang up and booked tickets by phone. Spoke to a real, live person. What a novel idea.
We booked the earliest time slot available and rolled up around 10am. The Cult Of Beauty: The Aesthetic Movement 1860 - 1900 shows how a group of artists and artisans aimed to bring beauty into all forms of everyday life. From the splendour of the Edward Burne-Jones memorial tablet at the opening of the exhibition to the Whistler etchings, the William Morris designs, the dark and wonderful illustrations of Aubrey Beardsley - it was a delight from start to finish. I particularly love the way the Aesthetic Movement artists depict their women - languorous, bohemian, dishevelled - the very opposite of the strait-laced norm for Victorian times. No swooning and overtight corsetry for those ladies:
Bet she didn't even wear knickers, let alone a corset
Quick wander through the sculptures on the way to the café (has to be said, there's something about the male form in classical sculpture that gets us girls...erm...a bit swoonsome). Had a lovely lunch - in the most gorgeous of surroundings:
Beats the shit out of McDonalds
Then scones and jam for me, coffee and walnut cake for LouLou. On to the V&A shop, and the purchase of something William Morris would approve of. "Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or beautiful." So, I bought a Morris pattern cotton hanky, which will be pretty to look at and also gather any snot I might have hanging around. Beautiful and useful. I'm a budding aesthete.
Had a wander up Knightsbridge, then a quick tube hop to the Southbank. Time to redeem my payment-in-kind for seamstress favours rendered. My new membership for The Southbank Centre gave me free entry to the Tracey Emin "Love Is What You Want" at the Hayward gallery. She's much maligned, Miss Emin. I didn't know so much about her work, but now I've seen a load of it, I like it and I like her. She lays herself bare through her art, which I think a pretty brave thing to do. No stones lay unturned here, and it definitely wouldn't be everyone's cup of tea. As I was looking at a piece about menstruation, which included small perspex cases with a used tampon in each, a bloke and his wife came round the corner. He took one look at the cases and said "oh, for God's sake" and stalked off. Have a sneaky feeling Wifey dragged him kicking and screaming to see Tracey's jamrags, and he'd much rather have been in his slippers watching the cricket on telly.
She's not wrong, our Tracey
Thirsty work, this culture lark. Once we'd had our fill of Miss Emin's musings, we took in the view from the members bar at the top of the Royal Festival Hall, aided by some delicious prosecco. At this point, we discussed the modern world, and the lack of written correspondence. Previously mentioned, I'm a huge fan of receiving post, and a pact was formed that we'd aim to send each other handwritten mail every month, probably consisting of any old tripe on our mind at the time of writing. The thought of us, years down the line, as a couple of old dears with shoeboxes full of cards and letters and musings on art/music/Life/bollocks, fills me with joy. I can only imagine what a hoot it'll be to re-read what us youngsters got up to when I'm propped up by my zimmer frame.
Time stands still for no woman and we have to leg it sharpish. Shakespeare's Globe is our last port of call. This was a good idea on the part of LouLou. Dr Faustus by Christopher Marlowe is on the bill - what a great setting and superb production. Witty, dark and thought-provoking, it's the tale of a man who'd sell his soul for power and knowledge, and is brought to life in a traditional-looking yet still very modern way. And despite over 400 years having elapsed since Marlowe wrote the play, the language, humour and issues feel as current and relevant as ever. The costumes were top stuff too, particularly any of the devilish characters. I found myself spellbound and neither of us could believe it when the play finished and three hours had passed. Three whole hours. And I still didn't want it to end. Apart from the fact my arse was actually a bit numb:
Ye Good Olde-Fashioned Fun
As we waited for our bus back to Disgracelands, I remember thinking that William Morris et al would have approved of our perfect day out. Aesthetically pleasing for every single moment, it will always remain in my mind as a thing of beauty and a joy forever.
