D = Death and a doo-dad (with sing-along)

Death mask and executioner's mask in Medicine Man gallery
iPhone pic edited with Snapseed

I dithered about what to choose for the letter D, I really did. 
Death seemed too obvious. So I moved on to doo-dads. The Wellcome Collection is chock-full of doo-dads.
Sadly, doo-dads proved to be too unstructured — even for me. 
With the demise of doo-dads, I contemplated dick. Wellcome has more than a few of those on display. But I worried that we don't know each other well enough for me to discuss those. So dick got the metaphorical flick.

Egyptian canopic jars, French guillotine blade &
the death mask of Englishman Benjamin Disraeli.
Displayed in the same case, Medicine Man gallery

Always one to keep my readers' needs in mind, I felt sure nobody could cope with plague and pestilence so soon after the exposed flesh and gore of my letter C entry. Put a red line through disease. That will bring us back to... (sing along now in your best Julie Andrews' Maria Von Trapp-like voice...I'm trying my best to keep this cheery and upbeat) — that will bring us back to death -eth -eth -eth...
Death...

The contents of Henry Wellcome's pockets at his death 

Sir Henry Wellcome died at 12.40am on 25th July 1936. He was 82.
At the time of his death, one of the wealthiest, most curious, and best-travelled monomaniacs on the planet was carrying a pocket-watch, a one-dollar bill, some small change, his spectacles and a fine emerald ring.
Really?
That's it?
Pretty disappointing if you ask me.
I mean, I know the Queen doesn't have to carry about her pay-wave card and coin purse in case she has to use a parking metre, but I thought Sir Henry might've at least kept enough ready-cash on hand to do a sweet deal on any fossilised kidneys or gold-plated stethoscopes he might stumble across in the course of his daily dealings.

The only interesting thing is that emerald ring. 
Unless Sir Henry had exceptionally slender fingers, it doesn't look like it would have fitted him. There has to be a story there. 
So let's speculate.
Let's bring old Sir Henry back from the dead.
Where did he get that emerald ring?
Was he intending to give it to someone or did he carry it for good luck?
What do you think?

During the month of April, I am participating in the Blogging from A–Z Challenge.

My posts will all feature images of and by the Wellcome Collection, Euston, London: the free destination for the incurably curious.

C = Controversial or just plain creepy?

Henry Soloman Wellcome, 1887
Image credit: Wellcome Library

Sir Henry Wellcome was a crazy keen collector. His compulsive need to acquire anything that vaguely illustrated the 'art and science of healing throughout the ages' alienated and exhausted many of his staff. And eventually drove his wife off.

He intended that his cumulation of treasures become the Museum of Man. Of less than trifling concern was the sacrifice to the cause of the occasional woman.

By the time Wellcome died in 1935, he had amassed over 1 million artefacts, plus a small mountain range of books. 
Most had not been catalogued. 
Much seems to have had tenuous (at best) links to his initial aims. Sir Henry seems rather to have fallen in love with the process of seeking out increasingly more bizarre and varied items and images, no matter how controversial they may be.

Anatomical paintings by JF Gautier d'Agoty, c. 1760
Dimensions of each: 53.5cm x 193cm

Image credits: Wellcome Library

The oil paintings pictured above are life-sized, and were highly controversial in their day. To be honest, I reckon they are still conversation-worthy today, almost 300 years later. Attention to detail (no matter how shocking), the use of colour, light, and the postures of the subjects make them more like portraits than anatomical works. People of the day were confounded.

Is it art or science? 

Is it macabre or magnificent?

Me of today wonders if it is a wee bit creepy to use romantic style for clinical subjects.

And does anyone else find the fact that the pregnant female figures have in-tact faces, heads and breasts more than a wee bit worrisome? If you could paint a dissected baby or two, why would you shy away from a boob? 

The Anatomical Angel
Image credit :Wellcome Library

The work pictured at left is Gautier D'Agoty's most famous. 

He called her The Anatomical Angel but she has come to be popularly known as The Flayed Angel, her flesh folded back from her spine like wings.

At the risk of giving away far too much about myself, I find her more stylish than shocking. She strikes me as calm, not contentious. I find this image mesmerising.

But I'd really like to know what you think. 
If you've bothered to read this far, I hope you'll also take the time to leave a word to indicate your opinion of Gautier D'Agoty.


What do you think: 
Controversial? 
Creepy?

During the month of April, I am participating in the Blogging from A–Z Challenge.

My posts will all feature images of and by the Wellcome Collection, Euston, London: the free destination for the incurably curious.

B = Body beautiful

I like to call this photo "Check out my chest"
Image credit: Wellcome Library

Body beautiful — we hear those words as a pair so often that their partnership has become a modern cliche. Yet for many of us (and I'm putting my hand up to be included here) they sit together more as an uncomfortable oxymoron than a cuddly duo. 

The pursuit of body beautiful powers the fitness industry, the fashion industry, the diet industry, the cosmetics industry, more than just a few bloody awful reality shows...and hordes of misguided hopefuls who suck in their guts for the camera like this dashing dude. 
Bless him.
Although I reckon he was probably going for the puffed pecs rather than the tummy tuck.

And yes, the pursuit of body beautiful also gives us the occasional media sweetheart, like Gok Wan. I'll truck no criticism of the lovely Aunty Gok — who is close to the top of my list of people I hope to see in full three-glorious-breathing-walking-talking-dimensions while I'm here in London... but I digress.

I Can't Help the Way I Feel 
British artist: John Isaacs, 2003

While body beauty may be deemed to be a matter of perception, surely even Aunty Gok would be challenged by John Isaacs's much larger than life headless, genderless sculpture in Wellcome's Medicine Now gallery. 
No amount of self-confidence, no quantity of glowing reassurance from strangers, no carefully posed photo shoot could make 'I' look good naked. 

The artist here represents what he calls 'the emotional landscape' of someone stigmatised by modern society's obsession with body beautiful and the obesity epidemic. 
And that someone may not be obese. That someone may just feel like the sculpture when they see themselves naked. 

Cleverly, the title applies to the viewer as much as the subject of the piece. Spend time in close proximity to this amorphous wax sculpture and you cannot help but feel. 
Disgust. Shame. Pity. Horror. Sorrow. Confusion. Guilt. Fascination. Revulsion. Any or all may surface.

Portrait of Daniel Lambert,  oil on canvas,
British, 19th Century
iPhone photo of painting displayed

In the 1820s, Englishman Daniel Lambert weighed over 50 stone/320kg, and measured 9 feet 4 inches/2.8m around the waist. 
He made his living by charging 1 shilling to view his bulk.
We don't have human sideshows anymore.
But have perceptions of body beautiful really changed that much?

During the month of April, I am participating in the Blogging from A–Z Challenge.

My posts will all feature images of and by the Wellcome Collection, Euston, London: the free destination for the incurably curious.

A = Apothecary, Alchemist and also...

Wall of glassware, Medicine Man gallery, Wellcome Collection
My iPhone photo edited in Snapseed.

Don't you just love it when a little bit of research throws up information that justifies your very existence?

Well, that could be over-stating it a tad, but I couldn't resist a small snort of delight when I discovered that apothecaries — the forerunners of pharmacists and GPs — originally dealt in wine, herbs and spices. 
Of course they did.
A decent wine and a tasty meal is always good for what ails me.

Image credit : Wellcome Library, London

Mind you, I have my doubts about both the gourmand qualities and the provenance of the Ocul Cancr (crab eyes) and Sang Draco (dragon blood) that these jars once contained.
I reckon I'd need a hearty Merlot to go with either of those.

Cropped iPhone pic of oil painting

The American novelist Anne Tyler makes the ordinary extraordinary. One particular character of hers, Macon Leary's slightly eccentric sister, Rose, has stuck with me for decades — since I first read The Accidental Tourist. To help us understand what sort of person she is, Tyler reveals that Rose alphabetises her pantry. That detail has never left me. So extreme. Almost hyperbole. A perfect trait to give a control freak.

Imagine my shock when I discovered that Rose actually walks among us, looking for all the world like a normal human being. Alphabetical pantries and fridges with perfectly aligned foodstuffs. 
People really have those. 

Image credit: Wellcome Library, London

These last images suggest that perhaps it's a rare genetic condition that began with apothecaries.

Apothecaries
Alchemists
Alphabetising
and
Anal-retentives!

During the month of April, I am participating in the Blogging from A–Z Challenge.

My posts will all feature images of and by the Wellcome Collection, Euston, London: the free destination for the incurably curious.

Wellcome (sic) to my A- Z Theme Reveal

Welcome to the Wellcome Collection

One of my aims and claims for life off The Rock was that I would write more. Spend more time on my blog. 
Well... umm... 
Yeah... nah... 
So, a short-term solution to my long-term tendency to procrastinate = to publicly commit.
And here it is. My commitment to you.

I am stepping up for the 2017 A-Z Challenge. After April Fools Day, I will post something inspired by consecutive letters of the alphabet every week-day in April. 

I promise.






All twenty-six entries will be inspired by my new fave haunt, the Wellcome Collection on Euston Road, close to Euston Square in London. This mind-boggling place advertises itself as: The free destination for the incurably curious. An entirely apt description for this eclectic collection.

I'm gonna try editing some of my pics

Henry Wellcome, an entrepreneurial American pharmacist with an all-consuming interest in medicine, art and the way the two intersect, moved to London in 1880. He and a college friend were responsible for the innovation that compacted medicinal powders into tablet form. Nice one, guys.
Together they founded a pharmaceutical empire. 

A Victorian reminder not to be vain

SIR Henry (something tells he would have preferred me to refer to him by his eventual title) was an obsessive collector with unlimited wealth. Medical artefacts, images about pharmacy, art with a scientific bent, specimens of anything that was once living, instruments used for any vaguely medical function, it's all here. Truly. Twenty-six entries cannot come close to doing it justice. 

Inside the Reading Room

Did I mention that the building itself is fabulous?
Plus it has a book shop.
AND the cafe makes the best coffee in London.
I'm in love with this place. 

My entries won't necessarily be about the object/image I'm featuring; they will be responses. My responses. 
Whatever they may be.

I also promise I'll be delighted and grateful if you join me on this April adventure.

Post No.5

I've been 'gunna' write a post for over a week now. 

Sorta tried. Sorta didn't. 

Despite having a shiny new laptop.

Despite being in a whole new world.

Despite wasting so many empty hours that Level 100 of both Bubble Witch and Panda Pop are both well within sight.

And when I look at my 'reasons', I find myself not just back on The Rock but right back in my youth. Back in my insecurities, back in my need to please, stuck in the back of my own mind. 

Having people read my posts brings me happiness. It keeps me connected, reminds me of what I value and, I guess, helps me feel I have worth. Or perhaps worth is not quite the right word. Maybe a more accurate way to express this is to say that having people read what I write helps me to feel that I have a point. That there is some sort of point to me. 

To my being. 

To my being at all.

Domed roof of the ancient cold store at Kew Gardens

Before we left The Rock, I was full of ideas about what might inspire my blog posts: objects in museums;  shows, exhibitions and plays; restaurants, cafes and shops; architecture, gardens and people-watching.  I even thought I might call the whole blog Wendy OFF the Rock while I am here on the other side of the globe.

But then I got stuck. 

After a mere four posts from London, I became bogged.

And what was the mind-cement?

'Are you going to write a funny one again this week?  They're the best.''I especially enjoyed your post about the lights... it made me laugh.''I always read right to the end of the humorous ones.'

I got stuck in my need to please.

I paralysed myself with the desire for approval.

Nothing funny about that.

So here for your enjoyment...

or not...

are some of the things I haven't written about:

The walk home from Marks & Sparks food hall

Celadon bowls that survived a shipwreck in the year 1100

Inside the Apollo Theatre

Bulgogi tacos at Jin Juu

I think I'm unstuck now. 

I wasn't expecting that...

Last year I told you how I'd started a gratitude jar. 
I also confessed to being rubbish at following or creating daily routines. 
The plan idea vain hope was that this positive activity of routinely recording something for which I was thankful, or perhaps, more likely, the nightly moment of guilt at not yet having completed the task, would turn things around. My gratitude jar would inspire a new positive habit.

Not even close.

By May, it was accumulating little more than dust. 
Round-about July, I tipped out the bits of paper and filled the vase with flowers: the instant gratification of the flowers preferable to the long-term benefits of repetition.

I suck at routine. I suck even harder at change.

But I knew when my life was relocated to the other side of the planet, I was going to have to embrace change. In lots of ways. And in lots of things.
And in me. 
So I decided it would be wise to start with a small change in my behaviour. 
Well, to be honest, it's not that small. Not for me.
But it's not huge...

Anyway, size isn't the issue here. What I decided was that I would make a conscious and quite deliberate effort to make more eye-contact with people. Anyone. 
Everyone. 
And I pledged to myself that I would smile more, even when on a crowded London street, or in a train lined with phone-focussed commuters.

The consequences have, so far, been both gratifying and perplexing in equal measure. 

Certainly, it requires some thoughtful lip and cheek muscle action on my part to generate a perfectly casual, genuine-looking lips-together smile and avoid looking loopy... or creepy. I don't think I've actually frightened anyone. So far.
However, I have found that the smile-to-smile-response ratio doesn't seem to be consistent. Whilst there is, undeniably, a higher rate of return from women, a great many still insist on pretending I am invisible. And on some days, so many people barrel straight into me, or shove in front of me, or remain propped rock-like in my path that I begin to believe I am invisible. 

But that's not what I wasn't expecting. What has really taken me by surprise is how often, now, with my routinely eye-level gaze, I catch sight of someone amidst the hoi-polloi who looks familiar, a face that matches another, a sparkling champagne bead image that pirouettes to the surface of my memory. 

Now, I understand about doppelgängers. Apparently, the chance of having a living one is 1:135. More if you add animals to the mix. No, that's not what I have found befuddling.

The thing I wasn't expecting is that nine times out of ten, after the image has registered and I've done the mental double-take, after I've marvelled at the glistening pearl of memory bobbing at the very top of my mind... it pops in my face.

The bubble bursts as I realise that I have just matched that random-whoever-on-the-street with a specific-someone from my experience... just exactly the way they used to look. Decades ago. When we were at school, or uni or in a hot smoky pub dancing to a live band. In the '80s.
Long ago and far away.

What do you think? Is this a cause for concern...this seeing people as they were? Is it an inevitable product of aging, or a trait uniquely and weirdly my own?
And should I persist with my puckery old-lady lips-together smile and continue trying not to look loopy...or creepy? 
Or would I be better off just working on that invisibility thing?