Show and Tell

When we left The Rock, I claimed I would write about all the amazing things I do and see over here, that I'd review theatre and music experiences, describe museum adventures... that I'd blog often.
I haven't.
Coz really, that's a journal isn't it? 
Who cares what I think and do?
My posts that get the best responses are the funny ones.
Or the heartfelt ones.

And if I did write about all those things, wouldn't I run the risk of boring the pants off the precious few people who do visit my blog? And alienate others with tales of my over-privileged-brat existence? I mean, honestly, why would anyone give a fat rat's rear end about my London life?

Well, this week I had an experience that I so desperately need to share, that my brain is

Clock storage V&A

going to explode if I don't.
So if you don't give a fat rat's rear end, I fully understand. But I'm going to gush anyway. Feel free to bail out when you feel your pants slipping off and your brain going numb...

If you know me at all, you understand that I became emotionally entangled with the National Vietnam Veterans Museum on The Rock. And I decided that while I was living in this history-soaked city, I would absorb/learn/cram into my leaky brain as much as possible that might benefit NVVM when I come home. So, I'm currently four  weeks into twelve mind-expanding Wednesdays of a museum skills course at the magnificent Victoria and Albert Museum in South Kensington. 


This week's topic was Research and Resources. Sounds dry and dull, I hear you say. Fear not! It was anything but...

It all began when the Head Librarian of the National Art Library brought a collection of Charles Dickens' hand-written manuscripts and type-set page proofs into our classroom. 
I was allowed to handle them, to get up close and personal with how Dickens edited his own writing and to see what a headache he must have given the typesetters who had to make all the adjustments he demanded.
Truly. 
 Right there in my hands.
 Dickens.
 Breathing was difficult.

Next came a visit to the Prints and Drawing Study Room. Apparently anyone can request to see anything stored there. The collection belongs to the people.

A selection of archive boxes had been set out for us to explore. We were encouraged to handle the contents and consider how well they reflect the information stored in the catalogue.
In some of those boxes were:

E.H Shephard sketches for Now We Are Six

Medieval illuminated manuscripts

Horst photographs for Vogue in the 1930s

Rembrandt etchings

Blythe House

By then I needed a good strong cup of tea and a little lie down.
But it was only lunchtime.

The V&A has on display only two percent of its collection. Most of it is stored at Blythe House in Olympia, a facility shared with the Science Museum and that also houses the Clothworkers' Centre for the Study and Conservation of Textiles and Fashion. 
The building is every bit as immense and imposing as you might imagine it to be.






In the Clothworkers' Centre, mannequins and variously shaped garment bags accommodate gowns and jackets and breeches and suits and dresses and shirts from the greatest of designers and eras —on bespoke hangers.
I walked amongst them.

Metal drawers protect items too heavy or fragile to hang.

Like these:

Norman Hartnell's Flowers of the Fields of France worn by HM Queen Elizabeth II in Paris, 1957.

It's a Norman Hartnell icon, an early example of a formal gown decorated with plastic beads instead of glass, to make it lighter for the small-framed Queen to wear. 

Amidst the native flowers and grasses of France, bees — the symbol of Napoleon —hover.

The hem is soiled where it has brushed the floor, and the wine stain on the bodice has yet to be removed by a specialist conservator.

Tapestry from wall hanging c.1570

About 15 cm x 7 cm in size, this is one of several pieces of tapestry featuring animals that had been removed from their safe dark bedroom and left on a table for us to scrutinise with a monocle-like magnifying device.

A PhD student investigating art created by women during their incarceration had requested a viewing of these pieces — stitched by Mary Queen of Scots when, having been forced by rampaging Protestants to abdicate, she was imprisoned in Carlisle Castle by Queen Elizabeth 1... 450 years ago.

Seemingly endless hallways of rolling storage vaults house furniture and artwork.
Roomsful of moisture-proof boxes protect manuscripts and theatre programs by the tens of thousand. 
I wanted to hide in there and make it my home.

The NVVM collections volunteer in me was just a little amazed to discover that London's Science Museum favours open-shelf storage — no boxes. 
The accreditation managers at Museums Victoria would fail them for that!

 

Science Museum treasures in open storage

Wonder.
 Disbelief.
 Overwhelm.
 That's what I felt.
 Overwhelm and a deep sense of privilege —   all swirled together with an ever-present   awareness that Australia is a such a young   country.
It's humbling for me to be amidst objects of such rich cultural significance and profound historical interest. I'm pretty sure I've never done anything to deserve such plenty.
But I am learning heaps about museums  best-practice. I really am. 


So if you've made it all the way to here, thank you for indulging me.
And I sincerely hope you still have your pants on. 

Of daffodils

It's Wordsworth time of year — daffodil season. 
'Hosts' of the 'jocund' things are 'fluttering and dancing' in parks and public spaces all over London. 

Bucketsful of rigid buds, not-yet-golden, bundled into £1 and £2 bunches wait patiently in Tescos, Sainsbury's and M&S, promising to fill 'my heart with pleasure' and brighten dull corners of our mostly-grey apartment.
The other morning as I set out across the park that borders our block, I was, as usual, running a little late and feeling anxious about whether the damn bus would be, as usual, running a little early. So I wasn't paying much attention to anything. But I did notice that a young woman pushing a stroller was coming the other way, towards me from the roadway. She was looking at her phone. And dragging on a cigarette. 
I moved to other side of the path.

As I did, the little person burst out of the push-chair. Squealing in excitement, the toddler rushed into the rows of daffodils, running her hands along their heads as she went, her laughter floating up through the naked Birch branches. The flowers bobbed and nodded.

I laughed.
"Get back 'ere. Stop! Why've you gotta be so bloody naughty?"
My smile melted. 
My feet moved me on a little faster.

That afternoon at the Old Royal Naval College, Karen and I were leaving at the same time. John is knowledgeable, genial, helpful ... one of very few who have bothered to engage me in conversation. And I know he loves to garden. So as we passed a bank of daffodils, I mentioned how at this time last year they had struggled to keep their heads above the snow, and of the many varieties I had noticed this season — from compact minis to knee-high trumpeters, from orange centred brights to near-translucent flat-faced beauties. 
And of how they make me happy.

 
"Not those wretched doubles," he all but spat. "I can't abide those show-off doubles. Can't stand double roses either. Awful frilly things."

I had no response.

Two scoops of ice-cream in a waffle cone, two shots of gin in a long glass of cold tonic, the top deck of a big red bus — I like doubles. 
Extra rows of petals are just fine by me.
Maybe that's my problem. 
Too much is never enough.
And if I was a toddler, I'm pretty sure I'd run through the daffodils too. 

How can people be grumpy around daffodils?
Carnations maybe.
But not daffodils.
Am I right?

Dental dilemma

Grey skies.
A piece has broken off a molar. 
It's not a devastating break. My brain didn't even realise it had happened. 
My tongue found it. 
I registered a kind of minor ache in my left lower jaw. Nothing dramatic. Not even enough to move the needle on the discomfort metre really, but my damn tongue just wouldn't leave it alone. 
Not like Nabakov's happy seal, though.


His tongue, a fat sleek seal, used to flop and slide so happily among the familiar rocks, checking the contours of a battered but still secure kingdom, plunging from cave to cove, climbing this jag, nuzzling that notch, finding a shred of sweet seaweed in the same old cleft... (Pnin, 1957)

Mine hasn't been frolicking playfully.
Mine's been prodding and rasping in a frightfully accusatory manner. 
Repeatedly.
Annoyingly.
Incessantly.
Ignore this.
I dare you.

I'm not scared of the dentist, though Lord knows I probably should be. I really don't know why I kept going back to Dr Skinner for so many years — decades — especially after those several times he braced one foot against the base of the hydraulic chair for extra leverage to extract a tooth that remained staunchly unwilling to give up its permanent status.
"Better than ... errrgh ... having to...nmnph... wear braces," he assured me as I ... ahem... braced against the g-force. 

No, it's not the fear of the dentist that's brought on the grey skies; it's the having to find a new dentist in this foreign place. I've only regularly attended three different dental practices in my 60 years. 

Finding a new dentist to trust — one who doesn't overcharge, over-service  or over-emote — is almost as difficult as finding a new hairdresser.

 Harley Street waiting room £££

Last year I was recommended a wonderful one in Marylebone. Not just frightfully posh Marylebone. Super-frightfully posh Harley Street, Marylebone.
Harley Street is so posh that the footpaths are even. 
If you've ever walked the streets of London, you'll know  that's a very big deal.

So, yes, she was lovely.
And yes, she was thorough.
But yes, as my dear dad would've said, she charged like a wounded bull.
I won't be going back.
I have to find a dentist on a precariously overcrowded street — one with bins in the front yards, and cracks in the footpath.

Wish me luck.