Not many boroughs have two historic houses so diametrically opposed within half a mile of each other than Bexleyheath.
William Morris’ Red House (now under the National Trust’s aegis), designed by Phillip Webb under Morris’ supervision, looks very staid to us now.
It is very red, and L-shaped around a pointed well. There is only the colouring of the brick and porches as decoration, along with the curves above the windows. These days it resembles a Victorian vicarage- although that probably wasn’t far away from Morris or Webb’s thoughts when they were designing it. It is a relentlessly human house- small in scale, with a non-formal garden that seems to bleed into the house itself. It seems harmonious from all angles, including the inside, which is charmingly decorated (it has some anachronistic Morris-isms like the wallpaper, but they still fit). It is slightly incongruous that a house so fitted for people to live in has become a museum.
From the Red House, it’s a walk along Bean Street to its opposite- a Classical museum somehow built as a house- Danson House.
This is a Georgian formal country house restored to its former glory by English Heritage. It is also smaller inside than it looks, with formal hall complete with Grand Tour alcoves, dining room with baroque paintings, a magnificent oval staircase, classical features, and an organ, and stuffed full of what Georgian slave money could buy. This is all the Red House is not- paint and large-scale formality outside, and ostentatious shows of wealth and mythological allegory within. It is even built on the ridge just to make sure everyone can see it, and so the house can see the formal gardens and lake over the Ha-Ha. The restoration work on the house has been meticulous thanks to some fortuitous interior watercolours of the time (sadly not on display there yet). It also had a contemporary exhibition based on The Yellow Wallpaper, which was worth a look too.
The only feature these two houses share is a modern one- the Tea Room, which probably would have driven both sets of owners apoplectic. Of the two, I’d take Morris’ small orchard over the former 600 acres of Danson House anyday.
I’ve had Enslaved since it came out (I bought it partly because I thought I had time to play it, partly to support Ninja Theory, and partly because I like the Monkey story) , but only played it properly recently.
Despite it being relatively old in this generational terms, it’s still very much worth a go. Enslaved has many attributes that point to the future of the medium. The characters (there are basically three) have a well-realised dynamic through subtle writing and strong acting, and it touches upon themes like devotion, purpose, revenge and love as part of the adventure. There are many clever touches using the environments (like having a section of a game within a theatre playing Shakespeare, the motorcycle zen, the use of NYC, the parallels between the mountains and Chinese painting) that make it deeper and more allusive than most action-adventure games.The lack of conclusive ending is also a good thing-perhaps designed for a sequel that never happened- but in context wraps things up nicely.
Technically, and from a design and mechanical point of view, it has annoyances. The texture level of detail pop on the PS3 is awful (and bad to see in cutscenes), the enemies are repetitive and the combat functional. The unlock system, involving picking up glowing orange spheres in the environments adds a nuisance level of ludonarrative dissonance. It would be like going to see an exhibition of abstract impressionist paintings and finding that the artist has also snuck in their own copies of old Alma-Tadema works, just to prove they could paint academically if necessary. We already know that Enslaved is a game- it doesn’t need collectibles to prove it- just unlocking the upgrades via level completion would have been fine.
Narratively, it’s very little to do with the Monkey legend, but that’s fine- it does its own thing, so aside from some similar characters and some initial scenario aspects (a headband of control, a flying cloud, a staff) it’s basically unrelated.
Still, it’s a strong core narrative in a decent world, and doesn’t linger too long. It’s no classic, but there are many elements that point to a bright future.
The Museum of London: Docklands (is that a spreading brand?) is a folk museum, set in the least folk setting imaginable- the inhumanity of Canary Wharf. It is in a converted warehouse, with post-and-lintel wooden beams and organic wooden floors.
The content is pure local- it is genuinely about the Docklands and the cultural history of the area. It’s not a big museum, and has very little that could be called ‘art’, with the exception of some Yoruba and Benin casts, some rather nice chintzes, and some great model ships. There are quite a few paintings, but almost all are in the not-very-exciting category.There are plenty of interactive screens, audio-visuals, acted scenes and a whole section including the sights and smells of Sailortown.
The museum is a classic collection of power and property objects- it is about trading, colonialism, wealthy owners, oppression, the importing of resources of other countries, war, and the building of Empires. This isn’t explicitly addressed, but is pretty clear once you see what is on show.
The museum tackles three difficult subjects very tactfully, all things considered. The slavery and sugar goes for it in head-on and doesn’t shy from semiotics, and has genuine community involvement. The section on the canary wharf redevelopment puts both sides of the story too, and makes us remember that there were communities there, once.
The third section- the second world war- is extensive and evocatively covered, showing the genuine destruction and terror.It’s a good thing that it is well done- the museum is closed to house the German olympic admin team over the summer.
The docklands museum won’t set pulses racing over blockbuster exhibitions, but it is educational, well-curated and full of helpful staff as well as being free- all of which make it worth a visit.
Fashion is a slightly overlooked area- although, fortunately, not at the V&A, who have just re-opened their fashion after a refurbishment.
And very pretty it is too- the vertical space slightly dwarfs the displays but makes it a fine space, with some impressive hanging ceiling domes.
The starting temporary exhibition in this space is Ballgowns- British Glamour from the 1950s. The title, frankly, says it all- it is a selection of ballgowns, and some accessories. The usual suspects are represented- Norman Hartnell, Hardy Amies, Vivienne Westwood, John Galliano (only one, as I suppose he isn’t correct at the moment), Alexander McQueen, the house of Worth, as well as many others.
So this is, at heart, an unabashed study of the aesthetic. There is some context shown as to why these items got made and for whom, and how this has changed- but only little cultural consideration. If I was to criticise, it would be this aspect which is underplayed- how do these items and ideas trickle down to other fashion? Has an awareness of glamorous gowns to sexualise women changed their use? Not much of this is discussed, neither is the technical craft- we know who designed them, and often who for, but not often how.
I found the most telling comment on this (and one of the finest items) is Cindy Beadman’s fairly tale dress- I read this as a savage satire, a ballgown promising a saccharine happy ending.
The other shame is that these items are living textiles- so seeing them on mannequins and not moving on the human body is an inevitable pity- it is partly like reading the score rather than listening to Beethoven (thanks for that one, Mr Barthes).
However, reading these garments as purely aesthetic makes for a focussed exhibition. It is also organised by colour, which neatly sidesteps the chronological/typographical issues- with historical periods mixed on the inside, and contemporary up top on the massive balcony space, displayed somewhat less conventionally.
The other massive regret on this one is Alexander McQueen- he has two items here, and both are awesome. It’s a sad loss, framed by the stone angels of his 2010 collection dress.
This is a classic of doing too much or too little- an exhibition that promises but doesn’t deliver. The Body Adorned is about the dressing of Londoners (and others)- but if you didn’t know the theme, you’d be hard pressed to guess.
It has several parts- a selection of the Horniman’s anthropological objects, a multimedia show, and a collection of modern photographs and clothing. Neither of these are uninteresting-they just aren’t joined up, and the display so light on challenge that nothing comes from it.
Victorian and colonial anthropology has a bad rap- and rightly so- and this does little to address it. The figures greeting you whilst you come in are examples of this- preserved by Empire from people around the world- but how do they link with the modern slideshow of Londoners and teens? Why are they below the slides? Are they less important? More importantly, why are they here, and how are we meant to read them?
This remains throughout the exhibition- are these anthropological artifacts? If so, then why so little context? This makes them little better than the Victorian displays- a cabinet of curios for your delectation.
And if they have aesthetic values- why not display them as such? Can we not appreciate them as voyeurs- must they be studied?
The modern slideshows and photos are voyeurism of the highest kind- and interesting as such- although they have a self-selection problem, the films choosing those deemed film-worthy and edited. The photographs and ‘modern’ wardrobes are also representative of those willing to take part in such a survey. Why these people?
The answers, unfortunately, are political- they represent the London modern capitalism wants to see- and the Olympics want to represent. A London not of communities, but of individuals making their own way and doing their own thing, entitled and buying. Everyone together and bought in to the status quo. Even the homeless man is edited and portrayed like it is a lifestyle choice. No communities were named, harmed or even challenged in this exhibition.
The Horniman is better than this exhibition- if you want to see modern Londoners and what influences them, you’d be better off in the cafe.
For anyone who thinks that setting is unimportant, Hirst's gap-toothed skull has the last laugh. In its dark strongroom on the Tate Turbine floor, the ritual is as much part as the artifact. There is a queue, timed entry, security guards and the room is pitch black- reminiscent of the crown jewels.
These precursors set the mood nicely- in a glowing box in the middle of the strongroom, the diamond-encrusted skull sits like a holy relic. Even here, the presentation is crucial- the polished glass of the box reflect the image, so the sparkle seems to go on infinitely in mirrors.
And the piece itself? An awesome memento mori. The skull itself is surprisingly small, and beautifully asymmetric. The diamonds sparkle wonderfully, especially the third-eyes pieces on the forehead- it looks like the skull of a god, meditating, looking back at itself.
The combination of exquisite wealth and vanitas make this hugely richer in many senses in death.
The last two visits we’ve paid to the Courtauld have coincided with London Fashion Week, which has its pavilion in Somerset House courtyard. There seemed to be little interest from the fashionistas outside in the paintings upstairs (although Mondrian’s line and form seem very relevant) but the basement cafe was like a packed sauna.
The Courtauld is a pretty small gallery punching above its weight, and this special exhibition only takes up two large rooms at the top. It’s good to see focussed smaller exhibitions though, and this is no exception.
The thesis is pretty self-evident and provable- Mondrian and Nicholson corresponded, so their abstract styles were well-known to each other and developed alongside. The exhibition basically has two aspects- a large amount of biographical items (letters, photos) and the pictures themselves.
I’d never seen a Mondrian abstract before, and I found them pretty shocking. The balance is key in Mondrian’s work- some of the canvases are so stark that the remaining elements hit the line between a strangely-harmonious balance, and feeling so close to toppling over I almost felt they could jump off the wall. I think having one around the house could give me vertigo.
Nicholson, on the other hand, has a much softer approach. There’s no lack of geometry, but I found them soft in their curves and tonal approach. I’ve never seen a Nicholson I didn’t like, even the hand-cut early circles are rather charming. Nicholson seems to be more intuitive in his shapes and the 3d forms than the almost oppressive empirical purity of Mondrian. I’ve no idea how either of them worked in a conceptual capacity, but they’s the feeling I got standing in front of them.
This exhibition had two of the key characteristics of both works- a rather humble purity and discipline.
