Crypt galleries and Italian barbers.

The last few days have been full of new experiences.  Monday evening was dominated by the two-hour performance of Madreaus, a Portuguese folk band.  Comprised of a guitarist, two violinists, a cellist, keyboardist, and a vocalist, their songs were haunting and beautiful, and though I couldn't understand the language there was definitely a conveyance of love lost at sea.  Still, the melodies and chord progressions were overwhelming similar from song to song, and although I can acknowledge the talent present in each member of the band, by the intermission I was ready for a nap.  The ethereal, subdued textures of the music make it more of something that I would have playing while I write, as opposed to something I see again in concert.

Nothing was officially on the schedule for Tuesday, at least nothing that we had been told about.  Towards the end of my Writing in The Arts course, Rachel (our resident professor/flatmate) told us she was taking us somewhere.  Following her for a while, we came upon St. Pancras's church, a massive stone building.  Rachel led us around to the side of the building, where deep in the maw of an open mausoleum was a short set of stairs.  She told us that we had arrived at our destination, and began to head down into the dimly-lit chamber.  More than a little confused, the rest of us followed, only to find that we actually were heading into a crypt -- except it was temporarily being used as an art gallery!

(Click here to see some of what I saw)

Although the handful of visitors walking through its arched passages gave the crypt a slightly more "living" energy, the macabre works of art seemed to actually be haunting the place, bringing the creepiness level back to the baseline of "Wow, I'm Surrounded By Dead People." The concept was very effective in its delivery (and just plain cool), but still unsettling enough for me to relish the sunshine and fresh air once we left the exhibition.

As per usual, yesterday was my Wandering Wednesday, so I wandered on down to Greenwich.  Home of the Greenwich Observatory, and the birthplace of measured time as we know it, I was able to stand on the line that "officially" separates the east from the west.

Weird.

Besides that, I was able to visit some neat little markets, AND a genuine meat pie and eel shop.  Seriously, the only thing on the menu were variations of meat pies, eels, and mashed potatoes.  For the value and taste, I'd give it two thumbs up.  Later on I visited the National Maritime Museum (cool ships, poor execution), and Greenwich Park, which would have been much nicer had it not been midway through preparations for the 2012 Summer Olympics Equestrian events.

Today has been a quiet day of class thus far.  We're seeing some modern ballet this evening, and though it's not my forte, I'm doing my best to attend it with an open mind.  One interesting experience from today, however, was my visit to an Italian barber.  The entire event was quick and pleasant.  Never ceasing with "yes sir," and, "of course, sir," the man somehow knew exactly how I wanted my hair, in spite of my awful ability to communicate with barbers.  At the end, he offered my a warm scented towel to clean my face, trimmed the edges of my hair with a straight razor -- I immediately wondered if I was the next victim of a modern Sweeney Todd -- and applied some perfumed oil to my scalp.  He even took my coat and helped me into it!  Such service. . . I don't think I'll be able to get my hair cut in the States again.

Sometimes art is both strange and beautiful.

Friday was our first organized full-group trip after the bus tour.  On the agenda: an animatronic art piece based on the Last Supper, and a theatre performance of A Clockwork Orange.  After meeting in front of Byng Place (our flats), the group headed off to a nearby tube station.  The trip to the Last Supper piece did not go smoothly by any measure.  We managed to go the wrong way on the tube, as well as becoming completely lost in downtown London.  I have no idea how long the journey ultimately took, but as we walked deeper into the city, our environment began to shift from the tall elegant structures of the West End, into the narrow streets and crowded brick heaps of east London.

Hipster-chic art shops and indie bookstores began to spring up on every corner.  Detailed graffiti marred the stonework, and we even ran into a street artist spray-painting his own work in a back alleyway.  As we approached a side street littered with rubbish and shadows, our professors indicated we were nearing our destination.  We wound our way through the street, over the back porch of a fenced-in bar, and into a narrow alley.  A few hiply-dressed art junkies stood around talking or smoking, and decaying furniture was scattered about wherever it would fit.  We were told to wait, although we didn't exactly know for what.  After a few minutes, a black curtain over a hidden doorway was raised, and we were led into the gallery space.

Within was a strange sight to behold indeed.  In the middle of a smallish room, lit only by candles around the perimeter and strategically placed spotlights, was an artistic display that seemed to be many things at once.  Although certainly not the orthodox arrangement of Christ's Last Supper, the resemblance was clear.  Twelve animatronic figures sat around a table -- arranged carefully to appear much like a sailing ship -- with a thirteenth figure standing on the table with its back against a cruciform mast.  Set against an ambient audio track of low drones and harbor-like bells, the figures began to move and speak, their voices seeming to be provided by samples of films.  Everything about the display was eerie and beautiful, from the fog generated by a machine in the corner of the room, to the tiny creatures on the table, sporting the skulls of birds.

After the "show" was over, we were lucky to be able to speak with the artist himself, Giles Walker.  Although he was intentionally unclear about the specific meanings of each individual robotic figure (art is as much interpretation as it is intention), he did tell us that the child-like figure being chastised by the other twelve was supposed to represent Judas, while Jesus himself sat at the "helm" of the table.  I thought the entire piece was incredibly well done, and delivered a very pointed message about the relationship between children and religious indoctrination.  

Later that evening we made our way to a predominately Turkish part of London, where I was able to enjoy some cheap Turkish cuisine before watching the live performance of A Clockwork Orange.  The show was definitely unlike anything I'd ever seen before in theatre.  Those who are familiar with Burgess' famous novel by the same name -- or Kubrick's infamous film adaptation --  will understand why I went into the theatre expecting the unexpected, ready to be shocked for better or worse.  It was definitely for the better.  

The show was absolutely jarring, but it did so with a sense of grace and purpose not often found in small theatre groups.  After an interesting sort of "pre-show", the main performance began with an abrupt cut of the house lights and a blast of industrial music.  Five actors (four males, one female) played several roles, each playing a different aspect of the main character Alex, as well as supporting parts.  The grit and violence of the book and film were captured well, as the stage performance held nothing back.  Certain parts of the play subjected the actors to violent physical acts, and both male (full-frontal) and female (partial) nudity was present.  Of course, the message of the play could not be as effectively delivered without the inclusion of these aspects, and discussion of the performance's impact continued amongst the group long after the final bows were taken.