The matters that passed through my head today whilst tramping to Tesco for Sunday lunch vegetables were not of the usual unfocused variety. The moment that I set off across the grass, listening to a Chopin ballade on my iPod my mind turned to yesterday, a day of rare pleasures not fully spoiled by the returning train journey.
We had arranged weeks ago to go to London, to meet an English lady now domiciled on Karpathos with her husband and an army of cats, both some taken from England and a host of local strays, who was on a trip to the UK. Apart from a similar trip in July 2015, I had not been to London for years. In the past I went often, sometimes in connection with work but also to art galleries, concerts and theatre visits so I intended greeting our friend with Pauline then going to see my favourite Rembrandt paintings at the National Gallery on Trafalgar Square, in front of which we met Kathy. We all adjourned to the National, Pauline and Kathy for coffee and cakes, me to greet old friends on canvas.
I have loved the works of Rembrandt, paintings, etchings and drawings, since my teenage years and have long thought him indubitably the greatest artist of them all. I was lucky enough to see a large exhibition at the National in 1992 and have also been to see his works at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam and the Mauritshaus in the Hague over the years and have therefore seen most of the great works from the tiniest drawing of a sleeping puppy to The Night Watch, a huge canvas portraying a pseudo military patrol group that patrolled the streets of Amsterdam in the 1640s. Every picture, whether depicting worthy men and women who were paying to be depicted or tales from the Bible or family figures, emanates humanity, sympathy, love. There are so many great ones but none greater than the self-portraits and among the canvases owned by the National, two were on display.
One is of the painter aged 34. At this time, he was flying high, the most sought-after portrait painter in Holland, indeed northern Europe. He looks out at you confident, even slightly arrogant, opulently dressed in heavy clothing edged in fur, a wealthy man with a glowing future. The eyes, always the most important focus, are clear and bright.
The other shows him at 63, the year of his death. And it's heartbreaking by comparison. Two wives and a son have died in the interim. The bottom has dropped out of his life. A huge economic collapse in Dutch society has led to his home being repossessed, all his possessions have been auctioned, his health is failing. He is now a frail figure with frizzy grey hair, deeply lined and lived in face. A cheap headgear, shabby clothes. And the eyes! They stare out, tired, resigned. Look closely and a whole commentary on human existence is etched on that face, those eyes. And you realise that in the face of all these soul-destroying events, he still picks up a brush and in the absence of any models, his beloved wives who he has portrayed in so many glorious guises over the years especially, he looks in the mirror and shows us the pain of life. So, the mere fact of the picture is an act of defiance. I may be down. But I'm not out!
I met up with Pauline and Kathy in the gallery cafe, had coffee and a cake. Our next stop was also off Trafalgar Square. The church of St Martin in the Fields, the official parish church of the Royal Family. Which was not the reason we went! Pauline does not appreciate paintings as much as tactile items like pottery. Or sculpture. She had read in a magazine of an exhibition in St Martin's by Chaim Stephenson. Latterly the husband of a well-known children's book author, Chaim was born in Liverpool, of Russian/ Jewish origin. Serving in the mines during the war as a Bevin boy, he went to work on a kibbutz in the fifties where he met and married the lady in question and started experimenting with sculpture. We looked him up on the internet and admired the work which was even more impressive 'in the flesh'. Illustrating predominantly biblical tales, the figures obviously reflect the suffering of the oppressed and refugees wherever and whenever. The church already has a memorial to the victims of violence and injustice in the form of a Soweto parent holding the corpse of a child as in a pieta by Stephenson which was unveiled by Desmond Tutu. A moving few minutes.
And then we all walked off, guided by Kathy. She is a Londoner, spent all her working life in the city and took us off to Covent Garden. My visits in bygone days usually had a specific purpose and as a consequence I failed to go to many well-known 'tourist attractions'. A stroll through the hubbub of shops and stalls selling goods of every type and hue and not a few of eyebrow raising invention, followed by streets long familiar by name, led us to a pub whose menu seemed attractive and whose food proved to be well up to our hopes and expectations.
After lunch Kathy needed to go elsewhere so we had to decide where else to go before our train, due to leave at 6.15. As I say, I have missed so many of the 'essential' sites, and sights, of London and have never been inside St Paul's. Despite being an atheist, I greatly admire churches, from the glories of Salisbury cathedral and York Minster to the modest chapels found on the summit of almost every hill and mountain in Greece. Pauline had been into St Paul's many years ago with a friend and their assembled children but we agreed to catch a bus (with our OAP's bus passes) for me to finally see inside. I had never been so close before so even the exterior was an awe-inspiing sight. The thought of the genius of Wren to design this massive edifice and the dreadful risks of those who turned it into reality, with wooden scaffolding secured by ropes up to giddying heights, the pure manual labour, the logistics of assembling everyone and everything required. It beggars belief.
As did the fact that, on joining a queue at the door, we discovered it would cost us £16.00 (as pensioners) to enter the house of God. And I thought that Jesus cast the money changers out of the temple! National Gallery, full of priceless works of art where you could spend a week and not see all - free! So I still have to see within!
Having surveyed the building from the outside we noticed a signpost for Tate Modern. The Tate Gallery as it was years ago, is now named Tate Britain. I visited in 2015 specifically to see the series of late Rothko paintings only to be told that they had been removed to Tate Britain and it was too late in a very exhausting day then to seek them out. But I jumped at the unexpected chance to see yet more of my favourite pictures. So, we joined the crowds crossing the Millennium Bridge to the huge, brutal, industrial building that had been the Bankside Power Station and is now one of the biggest museums housing modern and contemporary art in the world. It really is a monster; every dimension takes the breath away. And it's clad in bricks! How many bricks? It's 200 metres long!
A swift check and we discovered the whereabouts of the Rothkos. As I said Pauline is not a fan of art galleries. But having seen the Rothkos on postcards from my collection and one small reproduction that hangs on our front bedroom wall she accompanied me to the section in question.
Where there was an added treat in a huge version of a Monet lily pond. A late version, with lots of canvas showing. But still that impression of floating and light. Later in life Monet's sight began to fail and it was discovered that he had cataracts. It is thought that after these were removed, he may have been able to see ultra violet light and this is why so much delicate purple and blue paint is used by him. He continued to paint despite the fact that he had to hold the tubes of paint up to his eyes to read the colour of the contents.
And colour, of course, is what we first think of at the mention of Rothko. Those floating clouds of colour, melting at the edges, reflecting the hues of sunset or light dappling trees and rocks, dreamy, intangible blocks. Mysterious. But as time passed Rothko's pallet darkened. He was a depressive for much of his turbulent life and whilst he believed his works to be sensuous, he also thought increasingly that they should reflect the fact of death. He was commissioned by a multinational drinks company to paint a series of huge canvases to decorate their restaurant. But what he produced proved not to their liking and this is no surprise. They could almost be calculated to put diners off their dinner. Brooding squares and oblongs, vertical and horizontal in rich, opulent dark red. And black. Some see them as the portals to .... beyond? Hell? I think not. For me they are awe inspiring. Overwhelming. I could gaze at them for hours. But it is no surprise to learn that Rothko perished by his own hand, opening his veins and allowing his life blood to form a pond on his studio floor.
A day beyond any of my anticipation. But. When we returned to Paddington it was to hear an announcement to the effect that no trains were moving to or from Bristol owing to a signal failure. Of a sudden we were told that a train would leave immediately for South Wales and would call, if possible, at a station on the outskirts of Bristol. But as there were already hordes of people waiting, we had to rush onto the train, grab a seat. Any seat. And by the time we left the carriages were jam packed. At Didcot, a station on the line, we were kept for an hour and a half then had another thirty-minute wait to catch a train into Temple Meads, our destination. Thence two buses. So, home by 22.30 having left at 1800. Tired. Very tired. But worth it? You bet.