Visit to the Garrick Club

A couple weeks ago my masters program were invited to visit the Garrick Club, a gentlemen's club in Covent Garden with an extraordinary collection of theatrical paintings. It was founded in the early nineteenth century as a theatrical and literary society for actors and educated men interested in the theatre (it is named after the Shakespearean actor David Garrick). Almost from the beginning, the club has collected paintings of actors, mostly portraying them in costume for a specific role. Walking through the rooms of the club, you can quite literally see the history and traditions of the English stage: Garrick, Kean, Bernhardt, Olivier and others are all represented, in plays by Shakespeare (which seemed to predominate) but also others.

It's quite an interesting phenomenon that such an industry obviously grew up around painting actors and actresses as a certain character they were famous for playing. Perhaps this was the beginning of the actor as icon culture; but, other than movie posters, I'm not sure that it's still current to collect pictures of actors as a particular role. One interesting thing that we noticed was that the paintings often put the actors into a natural-looking landscape rather than painting a portrayal of stage scenery. It was as if the actors were represented in the painting more as the characters than as themselves.

Since most of the masters program are female, we ranged from amused to indignant when we learned that the Garrick Club is one of the last of the gentlemen's clubs not to admit women into their membership. Apparently (we learned), there is a vote every year on the issue, and every year it is voted down. But I have to say: the women's restroom we were shown as a place to leave our bags made more than one jaw drop. Women are allowed to be guests of members, and it is obvious they are taken care of when they're there.

The UCL Shakespeare masters program with a smattering of our professors. I'm almost exactly in the middle.

What happens in London II

I was surprised that being stuck on the tube made me feel as sick as it did, though since then I have had a couple experiences of too much exposure to the cold English air making me feel flu-ish. One day, coming home from King's Cross (maybe I ought to avoid that station?) I decided it would be much easier to take a bus, and there was one nearby that would take me right to the end of the street I live on. I found the nearest bus stop, but it happened to be closed that weekend, and for some reason, the bus would not stop even when I hailed it from the temporary stop further down the street. I decided to keep walking, thinking the next stop couldn't be too far, but I must have taken a wrong turn--oh, if I had an iPhone!--because I saw no more stops for the correct bus number. Before I knew it, I had walked nearly all the way from King's Cross to the Thames. I eventually gave up and got on a bus--any bus--that would take me nearer to home. But tired, in heels, in the cold, that excusion made me sick for a day. I used to wonder, reading a Brontë or an Austen novel, why such fuss was made about not being outside too much in case the heroine became ill. Now I wonder if there is something in the English air!

The weather isn't all bad here. No one believes that I don't mind the rain and cold, but I was used to rain living in Houston, and the cold is nothing compared to Ohio. It almost never snows in London, it's so mild--but, as it happens, I was lucky enough to experience one of the rare snows a couple weeks ago. Various reports claimed that it was the most snow London had seen for 20 years, or even for 40. It was a once a generation event, certainly. The first night we had a covering, all the twenty-something people in the neighborhood were out in the streets, making snowmen and throwing snowballs. The day following, Monday, saw a city that almost could not operate at all. Since snow is so rare, the city doesn't own many plows or salting equipment. None of the buses ran, few of the trains, and most of the workers couldn't make it in. I didn't even try.

The Dickensian view from my window:

I'll end with a couple fun things I've done recently. A few weeks ago, a friend of mine had a 'fancy dress' birthday party. All we did was go to a bar for drinks, but to liven it up, she asked that we all dress like characters in a film noir movie. It seems like this 'fancy dress party' thing is popular here--although I've heard that it is considered an American thing, I think that must be because Halloween is so much bigger in the States. I seem to have tried harder than anyone else to fit the part--I had new long black gloves that were my grandmother's that I'd been looking for an excuse to wear, and enough spare time that afternoon to wonder whether YouTube had tutorials for 1940s hairstyles (it did).



More recently, Ollie invited me to come to a night of theatrical performances at a bar in Camden (yes, everything here seems to happen in a bar). It was mostly Cambridge graduates now in London and included one act plays, musicians, a dance piece, and, what I particularly wanted to see, the puppet play "Trouble" that Ollie wrote, directed, and acted in. Everything (or mostly everything--but I'm trying not to be critical) was enjoyable, but Ollie's play was the highlight. I was impressed by the amount of talent, but more by the evidence of so many artists putting much, much time into preparation. The little room above the bar was absolutely packed, far above the expected turn-out of about ten. This is the type of thing I love about London. I'm sure a similar scene could have occured almost anywhere in the world, but this city seems to attract artists and creative thinkers. I feel at home.

Inauguration day in London

I have been awful about posting regularly--I suppose I should have thought that would happen at some point, with all the books I need to read for my master's program. I thought I would start again by telling how I spent yesterday, inauguration day, in London.

Oddly enough, Madame Tussaud's offered free admission to all Americans yesterday in honor of President Obama's inauguration--they were unveiling their new Obama wax figure. I went with Jen, a friend of mine from university. Normally, tickets are £25 per person. Does that seem like a fair price for a few rooms of wax figures, a tiny haunted house, and a short animated film about aliens obsessed with celebrities? One would think that with all the money they make from selling over-priced pictures, candy and souvenirs, the admission price at least could be under 10 pounds. I was glad to get in for free!

Some highlights:

Audrey and I have breakfast at Tiffany's.

One of my favorite Shakespearean actors.

Having a chat with Steven Spielberg.

Being spooky with Alfred Hitchcock.

Practicing my regal pose with Henry VIII.

Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Albert.

The Bard himself, back from the dead.

Speaking of back from the dead...

And, finally, the man of the hour himself.

After all this excitement, I went home and sat in bed to watch the inauguration over the internet. But yesterday wasn't just inauguration day, it was also a friend's birthday, so as soon as the ceremonies were over and I had watched George W. officially leave Washington, I left too, to head to Covent Garden. We went to a restaurant called Belgo, a Belgian restaurant and bar. It was down in a basement, and the waiters were all dressed like monks. I tried both Belgian beer (raspberry beer? who knew?) and mussels for the first time (so good) and, of course, had a waffle for dessert. What a night.

A picture of the inside of Belgo. The man in the middle wearing all black is one of the waiters, dressed as a monk.

Trip to Oxford with some fellow Shakespeareans

On Saturday, some girls in my Shakespeare course convinced me to travel to Oxford with them for the day. Even though more than one of us was worried about finishing essays on time for this week, I think we enjoyed ourselves...

We ate lunch at a pie restaurant in a covered market in Oxford. I think it will be my goal for the rest of my time here to learn how to make these: in case you can't tell in the picture, that's mashed potatoes with a meat pie on top (mine was cider pork and apple, yum) and minted smashed peas on top of the pie, all drenched in gravy. True British fare. From left to right: Jen, Ashley, Amanda.

This is the largest room in Blackwell, supposed to be the largest bookstore anywhere. Three miles of bookshelves. Three miles! I bought a Shakespeare magazine.

Somewhere near the Bodleian library, Oxford University's famous and ancient copyright library.


A close-up of one of the heads.

The Divinity School, where our tour of the Bodleian started. We weren't allowed to take pictures in the rest, which was a shame.

The outside of the old part of the Bodleian.

St. Mary's church, just opposite the Bodleian.

Me outside the Eagle and Child pub, where the Inklings (including C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien) used to meet every Tuesday morning for over twenty years (from 1939-62) to drink beer and read and discuss the books each were currently writing. They referred to the pub as the Bird and Baby.

The 'Rabbit Room' inside where the Inklings would sit every week. You can see a picture of Lewis on the far right.

Me and Jen in the Rabbit Room with our mulled cider. Worth going back to Oxford for.

Shakespeare in Bloomsbury

Shakespeare and I are living in Bloomsbury for the next week, between UCL and the British Library. It's probably the most literary area of London (think Virginia Woolf and the Bloomsbury group), and we love it here.

Y-M-C-A

In case anyone is curious about what living at a YMCA is like, I thought I'd post some pictures of the room I'm in.

Lo and behold: right across the street is The Shakespeare pub. I might have to check it out.

While I was unpacking, I found my Shakespeare posable figure in my purse and thought it would be fun to take a picture of Shakespeare at the YMCA.


And of course, I had to have a picture of Shakespeare outside of his namesake. My camera couldn't keep both in focus--I tried several times and attracted quite a few quizzical stares for holding a small plastic toy up in the air.