Books and Art!

Today, I visited two key destinations that have been on my to-see list from the beginning: the National Portrait Gallery and Foyles, one of the greatest bookstores in all of the British Isles.

The National Portrait Gallery houses artwork—portraits—of famous people in British history, particularly monarchs. The main reason, however, I wanted to attend was because of the current display, Vivien Leigh: A Centennial Display, which you can read about here. I am a classic movie fan, and Vivien has always been my favorite actress. I consider her performance in A Streetcar Named Desire one of the finest by an actress on screen, to say nothing of her iconic role as Scarlett O’Hara. Upon hearing about this celebration of her life and knowing I would be in London for it, I was thrilled and put this on my list of sights to see.

The gallery boasted of presenting a lifetime’s worth of memorabilia and photography—a real celebration. My new friend Jessica, who is also a Vivien fan, and I reached the gallery—without getting lost, which was remarkable—and immediately sought the Vivien display. Much to our disappointment, the display featured a rather barren array of photographs; I’ve seen more diverse pictures in biographies about Vivien. There were about five or six magazine covers and three walls containing a small number of small photographs. There were only a few 5x7 photos from Gone with the Wind, and there was only one photo from her glorious and exhaustively prolific stage career. There was absolutely nothing about her Shakespearean performances, no reviews, no posters, no stage pictures—a poor and, frankly, lazy display if there ever was one. As a fan, I felt very disappointed and mildly irritated. This is how England chooses to celebrate the centennial of one of its greatest artists? Better make that very irritated. I did purchase the two postcards they had of her, though, but will just keep them rather than mail them:

 

The disrespect to Vivien Leigh aside, I found the National Portrait Gallery a rewarding experience. One can view the portraits of monarchs as far back as the early Tudors. The wall-length paintings of Elizabeth I were breathtaking to see in person, as were the portraits of other key players in British history, including Mary Wollstencraft and her daughter, Mary Shelley; Lord Byron; Charles I; and even a very unsettling portrait of Prince Charles—he is sitting on a bench, turned to the audience, looking shocked that his image is being captured. There were also busts galore, including medieval sculptures of the earliest monarchs, beginning with Edward II. One of the most amusing displays was a section devoted to murder plots against British royals. Among the many items was a deck of cards from the 17^th century devoted to different murder attempts—a different plot for each suit. Each card (from 2 to Ace) featured a different “step” in the plot. When Jessica and I arrived in the gift shop and found cards, we were disappointed and surprised to see the museum did not have replicas of this deck for sale. I think they’re missing out on a goldmine here.

Additionally, there was a portrait of the great poet John Donne. Anyone even vaguely familiar with Donne’s work knows how erotic his poetry was. For the uninitiated, his most famous poem is “The Flea,” in which he wishes he were a flea so that he could feed on his lover’s blood all the time. You can read it here. Rather raunchy stuff for the 16^th century, eh? I mention this because Jessica and I were amused at his portrait. Isn’t it striking John Donne dressed like a hippie? Go ahead, try to deny his resemblance to Jimi Hendrix:

 

 After the trip to the National Portrait Gallery, we went to Foyles—a destination unavoidable for librarians and English majors. I found several books I wanted, including a large collection featuring three of Frank Herbert’s early novels: The Dragon and the Sea, The Dosadi Experiment, and Destination: Void. Somehow, through a heretofore untapped burst of willpower, I managed to put the book back. I did, however, have to buy something, and settled on a deluxe edition of Brave New World, which included Huxley’s later non-fiction rumination, Brave New World Revisited, and an introduction from Christopher Hitchens. 

 

As anyone who has read Hitchens knows, you can feel your IQ increasing just reading one sentence of that man’s writing. His introduction, which I just read, is brilliant and delineates with great economy the differences and similarities between Huxley and Orwell. His discussion is interesting and full of interesting trivia. I feel silly admitting this, but until now I did not know Huxley was Orwell’s instructor at Eton, nor did I know Orwell had a rather chauvinistic and superior attitude toward Brave New World, going so far as to accuse Huxley of plagiarizing Zemyatin’s We. I’ve read both books and can assure you Huxley did not plagiarism him.

One fact that was excluded, however, was that one of Huxley’s key influences in writing Brave New World was not a science fiction writer at all; it was Edith Wharton. One of my favorite writers, Wharton nourished the careers of many now well-respected modernist writers, including Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis, and…Aldous Huxley. She despised the Modernist movement itself, though, and the 1920s particularly, but she did enjoy helping new talent. Huxley visited her often while she lived in France, usually discussing literature with her. When Brave New World was published and Wharton wrote him and called it a “masterpiece,” Huxley responded that she had laid the groundwork for him in her earlier novel Twilight Sleep. Few people seem to be aware of this fact, but it is true. This article goes in to detail about the two books’ similarities, focusing mostly on Wharton’s novel. I mention this because I felt Hitchens’s introduction would have been stronger had he acknowledged this. Sadly, we still reside in a world in which intellectual vigor and innovation are still seen as inherently masculine, and the study of literature still gives higher credence to the men than the women. Indeed, it is this very attitude that has spurred the ambivalently useful term “women writers,” suggesting there is something separate—in need of segregation—pertaining to women who are authors. Hitchens only discusses the male influences on Huxley but ignores this crucial yet overlooked bit of literary history.

In spite of this shortcoming, I am pleased with the purchase and especially with the store. The building is located on Charing Cross Road, which lies amid a smattering of theaters and small bookshops. I cannot think of a more perfect combination than theater and books, and this bookshop was most impressive. At five stories arranged in an open and alternating manner, Foyles has a tremendous amount of books. The fiction—children’s, young adult, and adult—is arranged by reading level, genre, and then alphabet. For instance, to find Brave New World, one must go to the adult fiction floor, find the literature section, and then find the “H” section. I loved this cataloging system and found everything easily. How I managed to buy only one book is incredible to me! 

Additionally, the architecture itself was so elegant, yet so modern. All of the walls were glass, and the bookstore had huge windows, even in the ceiling—a perfect reading environment. The staircases were in slightly different places, which, along with the glass walls, made it extremely easy to see where the books you want are; you can actually just look up and see what is on the fourth floor. I’m not exaggerating!

Overall, visiting these two places was a pleasure, and I am most certainly returning to Foyles before I leave for home.

Most fittingly, as we crossed Waterloo Bridge on the way home, I looked out over the beautiful view of the Thames and saw a rainbow reaching stretching across the entire river. The rain had stopped for a moment and the sun, for what felt to be an instant, shined through the odious clouds. The rainbow only lasted about one minute. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, and I doubt any photography, no matter how sophisticated the technology, could possibly begin to capture it. This moment was rather fortuitous as we had accidentally taken the wrong turn, causing us to get to the bridge later than we wanted to. Had we gone the right way, we would have missed this sight altogether. Sometimes, things just work out.

 

 

On that note, good night!