The Royal Maritime Museum and the London skyline, from the grounds of the Greenwich Observatory |
Now that I’ve had time to think about it - fifty-four years
in fact – I think I can understand why he took us there. It was a kind of
pilgrimage.
Some of the rigging on the Cutty Sark |
My father, I suspect, wanted us to gain some idea of the
life his grandfather lived – and his great-uncle. Both were ship’s captains,
and both, in the early 1880s, knew that their future lay in steam-powered
vessels. However, both brothers were strongly attached to the sailing ships on
which they had learned their trade. They decided that they would each do one
last voyage under sail before accepting the new order and signing up with a
steamship company. It was my great-grandfather’s fate to go down with all hands
off the coast of New Zealand
in 1882. He never saw his only child – my grandmother – although he did,
allegedly, appear to his wife as she pushed the pram down the road in Norwood ,
south-east London . According to her
account he appeared from behind a hedge, looked at the baby, smiled, and
disappeared. Some weeks later she received the fateful telegram. My father
often spoke of a letter she received
from the mother of the cabin-boy, also drowned, in which she spoke with
gratitude and affection for the kind treatment he had at the hands of her
husband. I don’t think that letter survived my father’s later clear-outs of
memorabilia and souvenirs, and that’s a pity. I would like to be able to see
it.
We also visited – I’m talking about the past weekend now,
not the 1959 trip – the Observatory, where foreign visitors line up to have
their photos taken as they straddle the Greenwich Meridian, the line that
separates the eastern half of the world from the west. We headed for the
exhibit which outlines the story of man’s search for an accurate navigational
system and details the work of John Harrison (1693-1776), in particular his
development of a chronometer which would work, accurately and reliably, at sea.
It’s a marvellous story, told in some detail, with examples of his several
attempts, including the fourth and final version which netted him a £20,000
prize, on display.
If Saturday was a scientific day, Sunday was all about art.
In the morning we visited my daughter’s studio down in Bermondsey happened upon
an exhibit entitled Nigeria Monarchs. It appears that there are over 500 local
princes or kings in Nigeria ,
and photographer George Osodi has been visiting and photographing them. I think
he’s done the lot, but I’m not sure. The exhibit, being a succession of
portraits, wasn’t making much sense until we found a room in which was showing
a short documentary film about his project. Here he explained how Nigeria –
particularly the Niger Delta area - has suffered at the hands of the oil
industry, and how he hopes that projects such as his will portray a positive
side of his country, educate people as to its history and perhaps alter our
attitudes.
From Bermondsey we went to central London
to visit a couple of more mainstream shows at the ICA
(Institute of Contemporary
Arts ) and the National Portrait Gallery. Both
were free to enter, and for that I am very grateful. Most of what I know of art
history I acquired through being able, as a youngster, to pop into the National
and Tate Galleries whenever I was in London – sometimes on my way to and from
football matches, sometimes on my way to meet friends - and absorb a little
more knowledge about the old masters. Let’s hope this government doesn’t decide
– as others have tried – to bring back charges.
The ICA
exhibit – a collection of installations under the title Black Beauty, by the
artist Lutz Bacher, left me quite unmoved. Am I blind to the significance of
her floor buried under three inches of black grit, the broken mirror on the
wall, the half heard sound track of a mumbling voice? Am I missing something,
or is this simply another exhibitor who
has managed to get away with it? I’m afraid that I can’t be bothered to
interrogate these pieces. I am more intrigued at times by the flow of well
heeled cosmopolitans who inspect the shards of glass, work their expensive
heels into the grit and nod thoughtfully. I feel impelled to stick a fork in
their hands, take them to the allotment and show them how to double-dig a
vegetable plot. I think it might do them a lot of good.
As to the twelve framed items at the National Portrait
Gallery… they seemed chunky, clunky, drab, sombre, uninteresting. If they
hadn’t been drawn by Bob Dylan we wouldn’t be looking at them, surely?
We arrived home at midnight
last night. As ever after a stimulating weekend, I am finding it painfully hard
to re-enter the world I inhabited on Friday. I think I left my characters
hiding out in a cabin up the Sandia mountains in New
Mexico , having destroyed the laboratory where the
fiendish scientists had devised a gadget whereby they could hack into people’s
individual digital memory banks and thence into their actual brains. I’d better
go and see how they’re getting on. After a spot of lunch.
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