10December1995

London: 10th December 1995
My dear folks,

Sunday morning....greyish but slowly brightening up. We plan to go for a walk down the canal a little later. I hope the sun comes out. It did yesterday when we set out via the canal & Regents Park for the Hayward Galleries just over the river where there’s an exhibition on art & the “isms” - how Fascism and Communism tried to regulate it for political purposes. Our neighbour, Herman, designed the accompanying book, a snitch at £20 &, he says, selling like hot cakes. I confess, we satisfied ourselves by paging through his copy.

We cheated a little by taking the underground from the far side of the Park to the near side of the Thames. It was packed! Lots of French, presumably getting away from the chaos that is France while Chirac & the unions battle it out over welfare cuts. Then we walked across the bridge, watching the tourist boats chugging up the river in the welcome sunshine, pale faces staring up at us. It was cold - still white reminders in the Park of the week’s snowfalls - but glorious.

The exhibition is well worth the trouble of a visit. It was full, a bit too full for Jones, of a mix of fellow gazers who seemed to include heavies, there I suspect to admire rather than appreciate. Two hours were recommended for the exhibition & we found we needed them. It began with the art that had flowered during the Spanish civil war & carried on through Fascist Italy & Germany to Soviet Russia. Their tastes were remarkably similar, both sides promoting vast buildings & scenes of athletic, inspired youth, sculpted & painted. Nazi Germany ran more to romantic country scenes of busy wheat gatherers while the Soviets preferred the grubby proletariat. There were half a dozen big video monitors on which scenes from the era were recalled, the Paris Exhibition of 37, the Berlin Olympics & the wars of the “isms” that racked Europe for 15 years. I left with a new appreciation of modern art; at least it doesn’t go down with dictators.

We walked back at dusk over Waterloo bridge for an early show & supper with Penny & Richard. It was an occasion when we were reminded of what it is to live in London whose breathtaking sunset skyline was profiled against the heavens. The effect, from the vantage of the river, was stunning. Others, like us, stopped to behold it. The banks were lined on either side with great structures of lights. To the west, Parliament, a fairy palace, was aglitter; to the east, the vast, lit dome of St Paul’s. What a backdrop! The city sparkled & hummed & throbbed with the lives of miniature people out to celebrate Saturday night. A real antidote to too much Maida Vale.

So, I must tell you, was Il Postino, a subtitled Italian film, based - we are told - on a true story. It is set on an island off the Italian coast where an exiled, leftwing Chilean poet & politician strikes up a relationship with the local postman; a man of words meeting a man who struggles to find them. See it if you can. It’s a great film, beautifully shot, sentiment without sentimentality.

Afterwards Richard took us for supper at The Criterion, a new, large & chic restaurant set in marble & mosaic surroundings in the heart of Piccadilly. It’s a long time since we have been attended by so many waiters with genuine French accents. There wasn’t a table free & there were dozens of tables! Lots of young people around. We wondered where they got the money. It was lovely! Not the sort of thing that we are likely to do again for a long time. Then we said good night & walked up along a throbbing Regent Street and Oxford Street, gazing at the Christmas lights. Many shops were still open. Business is business. The streets were jammed with traffic & we easily outpaced the taxis taking people home. I confess we did borrow a bus for a couple of miles, but we walked again from Paddington Station through a crisp, reviving London night.

Tonight I begin another pattern of nightshifts, followed by a few dayshifts & then Christmas is upon us. May it bring us a share of blessings! Talk to you soon.

T