Roller Disco, Baby!

Friday night I went out with the girls to Roller Disco (at Vauxhall in London). At first, it was hard to believe roller skating ever came naturally to me, but within an hour I had found my groove again. It's worth going for the 80's garb alone....good times.

My First Pub Quiz

Pub quizzes are an English institution - and one - until tonight - that I had yet to experience. But my friend Olly (who seems to get a lot of play in this blog) changed all that when he invited me to join a team of real-life English people at the "Night of Champions" pub quiz at the Hurlingham Pub on Wandsworth Bridge Road.

Now, I am not a pub quiz champion - that would be quite impossible given I have never participated in one before. But clearly they were not checking credentials at the door. I arrived just in time to a flurry of camera crews and exited people drinking beer - and the first question was asked two seconds after arriving at my table (I was running very late coming from work at Canary Wharf - the stupid Jubilee Line had been shut down and the DLR was only running one way). 

I made some impressive contributions within minutes. "What is the current U.S. President's middle name?" OOOH I know that - WALKER! "Who was the infamous woman who made news for cutting off her husband's...." OOOOH I KNOW, LORENA BOBBIT!!!!!!!

And.....that was precisely the END of my pub quiz contributions. Later on, I very passionately insisted on two answers I just KNEW were correct, but they were not. (The movie themeline "It's never too late to turn it all around" is from the film "8 Mile," NOT "Vanilla Sky." And Mr. Selfridge coined the phrase "The Customer is Always Right," NOT Mr. Woolworth). I SWEAR I thought the Americans invented customer service.

We ended round one with 10 answers correct out of 25. And I don't think we even got 5 answers from round two. I spent the entire second half only focusing on an anagram we never solved - why did I not see that the letters that form the word "consumerist" also form the word "misconstrue" ??

But despite finishing at the back of the pack, I now know lots of crap that I did not know before. Like, there are 27 cards in a Tarot deck. And Sophia Loren was the first actress to win an Oscar for a foreign-language film. I SHOULD have remembered that scarebs are also known as "dung beetles" and fruit stewed in sugar is a "compote" - but those facts had temporarily escaped me. Until the answers were read at least.

The quiz ended in a tie-breaker between two teams of impossibly dorky men. And an infuriating man named "Just Ralph" or something like that managed to come in third all on his own. Seriously people, get a life already (not that I'm bitter or anything).

I am grateful to my British teammates for letting me take part in this humble-pie eating contest - even though Olly somehow suckered me into paying for his dinner and beer when it was all over.

Heather's Farewell...and Two Waiters

Heather, one of my oldest and dearest friends in the two years I've been here, is leaving for Dubai tomorrow to seek out a life of fame and fortune with her beau Nick. Ok, well, he got transferred with his bank for two years and she's going because she's in love and got a nice job with Edelman's affliate there. I am positive that she....they....will be amazingly successful and have totally good times.

So we had a little goodbye dinner tonight at a totally sweet place called "Small & Beautiful" in Kilburn...underneath the Brondesbury rail track. it is a very cute little place with great food at amazingly affordable prices.

Anyway, I am sad to see her go, but looking forward to my visit to Dubai, which I predict will be sometime between the months of February and May 2008. They have a sweet pad on the beach that I plan to take full advantage of.

There were about 8 girls in attendance tonight (we talked about all sorts of good stuff....jobs, waxing, spa treatments, guys, parts of guys, you know, the usual) - but this is a picture of Heather, me, and two very attentive waiters (we did not ask them to be in this picture, but there you have it). Notice Heather's swank new haircut with the fringe. And notice how huge I look in my coat...but that's becuase the waiter was unusually small. (It is winter now in England, by the way -- temperature seemed to drop about 40 degrees today). After this picture was taken, the waiter seemed to want to kiss me inappropriately (not that there is usually an appropriate way for a random waiter to kiss you), but I resisted and sort of ran outta there. That was really weird and awkward.

Anyway, Heather has been like a little sister to me, so it was hard not to cry when I left her. But I didn't. Just a little "bon voyage" for now. As usual, I'll probably talk to her more now that we don't live in the same city than I did when we were together. It's always like that, you take for granted the people closest to you. That kinda sucks, really, don't know why that is.

I took the tube home with my friend Sarah and got off at Westminster station. I sort of felt like crying becuase I was sad to see my friend go, but then when I walked out, Big Ben was, bam, right there, huge and looming overhead, all lit up like a happy smack in the face. And then I didn't feel sad anymore...becuase it is so pretty and I was very happy to be staying/living in London. So I took a picture with my camera phone to capture the moment -- and here it is. That was good karma. Happy trails, Heather!

A Night With the History Boys

My friend Olly and I saw the play “History Boys” (which was recently made into a movie). After debuting a massive stage success, it recently moved from the National Theatre to the West End -- although that was news to Olly, who mistakenly went to the National first, arriving at the correct theatre just minutes before curtain.

Our seats were crap (my fault), but it was a good play, although it tried a bit too hard at times…most notably in the first act when the boys enact an unnecessarily long scene in French, which I found to be a bit gratuitous and pretentious…I suppose if you don’t understand French, Alan Bennett does not deem you intellectual enough to enjoy his play. The idea of the scene was very funny, it just droned on too long.

My criticism overall is that it reeked a bit “Dead Poets Society” wanna-be (I think I just dated myself to all the high-schoolers that were in the audience….”Dead Poet who??”). But for all you TRUE GenXrs out there, let’s face it, nothing can really match that. BUT, in it’s favour, I will say that the acting/casting is really brilliant, there are many funny moments, and the scene changes are filled with a series of punchy black and white film sequences set to catchy music showing the boys going about their days and bringing bits of the storyline to life…that was a nice touch.

While I was not left pondering it (ok, ok, I am a theatre snob, I know), it was an evening well spent and certainly one of the better plays I have seen lately…it’s modern take on the competitive education environment in England was timely and topical, though it probably would have been more compelling to me if it were a system I knew anything about. I mean, the fact that “public” school is a more elite level of education here in the U.K. is still a regular point of confusion for me given that in the U.S. it means everyman education for the masses (I am a proud public school girl).

After the show, Ollie and I had a lovely dinner at Palais du Jardin near the theatre. Very good…my favourite part being the exceptional crème brulee that capped off the night. Oh, and Olly’s consistently captivating conversation, of course (he reads this blog). ☺

A Week in the Life of British Telly

I’m too lazy to make the effort to get satellite TV, so I’m at the mercy of the five basic “terrestrial” channels here in the U.K. (though I do abide by the law and pay the 100+GBP/year TV License fee that I still don’t totally understand the purpose of). That gets me BBC1, BBC2, ITV1, Channel 4 and Five….five glorious channels of complete and utter crap.

British TV is mostly composed of a slew of property-buying shows in the morning and daytime (seems the only way for the middle class to make any real money here or feel they have investments is through real estate or selling the contents of their attics…getting on the “property ladder” as they call it is everything), a few really trashy daytime talk shows (think Jerry Springer back in the 80s but not as entertaining, just depressing), the soaps (East Enders, Coronation Street, Hollyoaks and Emmerdale), a smattering of cooking shows (I do love that Gordon Ramsay, he’s cool), and of course, many fine American exports, including “Everyone Loves Raymond,” “Friends,” “Prison Break,” “ER,” “The Sopranos,” and “Grey’s Anatomy.” Oh, there’s the news too – although I have to say unless it’s international, the domestic stuff bores me to sleep. Late night talk shows include Jonathan Ross and Graham Norton – both of which are pretty good. And then there is the Charlotte Church Show – perhaps the most annoying show and person on the planet. In terms of morning shows, there is BBC Breakfast (puts me right back to sleep after waking up) and GMTV (Good Morning TV), which is my preferred choice -- I like Lorraine Kelly’s lifestyle segment at the very end, which, if I’m watching it, means I’m totally late for work. Oh, and how can I forget “Big Brother” – it’s a national treasure.

But then there’s the handful of oddities and one-offs that really give me a giggle. Following is a sampling of my favourite titles from just the past week. I am NOT making these up:

• Help! My Dog’s as Fat as Me
If you can’t get enough TV about obese people, you can upgrade to obese pets.

• Why is There so Much Rubbish on Telly?
I think the show further supports the premise…vicious circle.

• WAGs Boutique
WAGs are “wives and girlfriends” of football stars (and in many cases, the role models to young British girls everywhere). In this show, two teams of WAGs run boutiques and compete to see which is the most successful. Think “The Apprentice,” but starring bimbos with no brains. Time Out London describes the show in its TV listings as “The bitchy nonsense continues.”

• The Madness of Modern Families
At least this show can never run out of content.

• What’s Under Your House? Checking Foundations
Um…I’d seriously rather chew broken glass than watch this. Tedious gets taken to a whole new level here…

• Loose Women
I don’t need to watch this on TV. I live on Maiden Lane in Covent Garden - I can just sit on my doorstep, open a bottle of wine and watch the real thing.

• Gay to Z
In case you’re looking for an instructional…

• Arrange Me a Marriage
Hmmm…perhaps I should be watching this one.

• How to Dump Your Mates
I like this one. It shows you how to divorce your friends. Uses real people/scenarios too and catches the whole ordeal on camera. I needed this my first year of college.

• My Big Gay Prom
For all those poor people who had to take members of the opposite sex to the prom and are still suffering post-traumatic syndrome from it. Ah, thank heavens for a second chance to make it all right.

• The Conman with 14 Wives
This is the stuff that makes up for not getting “Lifetime for Women” here.

• Bodyshock: Born with Two Heads
And this makes up for not getting “Ripley’s Believe it or Not.”

• What? When? Where? Why?
I think that pretty much says it all….

With all that said, I actually don’t miss American TV that much, except Conan O’Brien (the love of my life), David Letterman, Meet the Press, Good Morning America, Saturday Night Live, and a few Food Network shows. Really, the rest is just background noise when I’m doing laundry -- real life is so much more interesting…

The Petersham Nurseries & Cafe

Today I uncovered a little bit of magic out in Richmond, a suburb of London. I met my friend Cristina who lives in nearby Chiswick, and we drove out to the Petersham Nurseries & Cafe, which I had read about in a recent issue of British Vogue. Vogue food writer and chef Skye Gyngell is the executive chef of the cafe, which is nestled in a nursery bursting with flowers, trees and herbs. The conservatory is filled with garden tables and chairs, mixed among exotic palm trees and plants on a natural red dirt floor. There is a long, wooden building alongside the greenhouses which houses the kitchen and a tea shoppe where you can pick up tea and cakes or shop from a variety of honeys, jams, oils and other assorted goodies.

The menu is developed daily based on what's growing in the nursery, garden or available at the market. Cristina and I started with a plate of lentils, heirloom tomatoes, red and white beets, fresh goat's cheese, olive oil and balsamic vinegar. For our main, we both had BBQ quail with salsa verde and white polenta. For dessert, I had a press pot of rich creamy coffee and we shared a heavenly fresh fig ice cream and raspberry icecream (all homemade). It was raining lightly (the staff need to wear wellies to work as you can imagine), but it certainly didn't spoil what was an enchanted lunch. The staff was welcoming and friendly. It's definitley not cheap, but well worth every bite...I can't wait to go back.

On the way out, I caught a glimpse of a little kitty asleep on top of a printer inside the office of the nursery. I went in and asked a gentleman working on the computer if I could pet her (she looks a lot like my Maggie back home in the U.S.). He said sure and told me her name is Mrs. Williamson -- so cute!!!

This all seems like the perfect business in my eyes. So, I have decided what I want to do with my life! One day, I will return home to St. Mary's County and build a nursery and cafe on my family's farm, modeled directly after the Petersham Nurseries here in England. I think it would go over incredibly well!

Isle of Wight, Home of the Stinging Nettle

Last weekend, my friends Margot, Kim, Stefanie and I took a little jaunt to the seaside town of Lymington in Southern England and spent a day hiking on the Isle of Wight (a half-hour ferry ride from Lymington Pier). Lymington is about an hour and a half train ride from London's Waterloo Station, making it a very easy weekend escape.

In Lymington, we stayed at the Angel Inn, a homey little tavern with a lively pub downstairs. Saturday morning, after breakfast at the Inn and a visit to Tesco where we picked up some granola bars, dried fruit and water, we boarded the ferry for the town of Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight. It's a really charming place...lots of coastal walks along the cliffs, quaint towns and pretty scenery. We hiked about 6 miles along the coast, on a trail through the brush that was at times precarious, to say the least (the path would occassionally disappear completely as we were in foliage over our heads and would shout to ensure we were all still together....sort of gave me the creeps like in an episode of "Lost") We occassionally came upon plateaus covered in heather, which was really beautiful, not to mention that these were higher spots where we also got magnificent views of the sea and scattered white sailboats.

We hiked from Yarmouth out to "The Needles" -- a collection of three jagged white rocks that reach out into the sea. About halfway along the hike, we stopped at a quaint seaside restaurant for lunch. That's the thing I love about England...you can hike in wilderness and not see another soul, yet still have places along the way to stop, eat a proper meal, and use a bathroom. That's my kind of hiking.

We also walked through a stretch of flat countryside where there were gorgeous golden fields of hay...one of my favourite things about the country here. It was on this particular stretch that I also discovered for my first (and hopefully last) time, stinging nettles. OUCH! Are they jellyfish, you ask? No. Stinging nettles look like MINT. But they are NOT mint. I thought I smelled mint (think they are from a similar family), looked down and yelled, "HEY GUYS -- LOOK! MINT!" While reaching down for a handful. OH. MY. GOD. Instant fire and pain. I snapped my hand back yelling something like, "OW OW OW OW !!! OWWW!!! OOOOOWWWWW!" I had no idea what had hit me. No one really seemed to care, Margot nonchalantly said, "Oh, stinging nettles." And I'm like, "What the hell is that? Do I die from it? Is it poisonous??? OWWWW!!!!!" Margot explained it would eventually subside, which it did, about 10 minutes later after much more griping (your hands get red with white bumps when you touch it). That was totally not fun. But now I know. I'm just happy the pain came quickly as a warning before I popped some into my mouth, which I was definitely planning to do. Somehow I do not think I'd fare well in wilderness survival. Poor Stef was wearing shorts so she caught a bit of the nettles too in the brush. But she didn't yell or complain. She clearly is more grown up than me and has a higher tolerance for pain.

Toward the end of the hike, we ended up at the famous "coloured sands," a stretch of cliffside that exposes many different shades of sand (if you take the painted dessert in America and put it vertical on a cliffside, this is what you get). The coloured sands overlook the sparkly green Alum Bay (there's also a glass factory nearby). From the rocky beach at the base of the coloured sands, we took a chairlift to the top of the cliff. I saw the chairlift and thought "Cool! Let's take the chairlift!" Then, about a quarter of the way up I began to have an anxiety attack and was pretty much clutching onto Margot and waiting for it to be over. I suddenly remembered one of the many reasons I hate sking -- the chairlifts. Though at least if you fall off a chairlift skiing, the snow below seems like a consolation. Jagged rocky cliffs do not. I was releived to hop off.

After the chairlift, we walked out to an old Battery directly overlooking the Needles. They were about to close, so we took a quick run through (I actually preferred the view of the Needles from the other side of the bay though versus immediately overhead of them.) By this point in the day, we were too tired to walk back, so we waited for a bus to take us back to Yarmouth.

When we got back into town, we caught the tail end of a local parade and then jumped on the ferry back to Lymington. It had been a really splendid day among the green foliage and sparkly water, and we were tired.

Saturday night we had a lovely dinner at Stanwell House, an Inn across the street from where we were staying. They have a comfy, pretty conservatory where we ate. After dinner, we walked down the street to a small bar and cafe called "Graze" where we had a drink. The cocktails there were impeccable. I had ordered an apple martini, then caught a glance of a girl sitting behind me with a pina colada bigger than my head (how totally retro and cool!!!)....so I quickly changed my order. And boy was it good. Splendid little place with a good vibe.

Sunday it was raining. So after our breakfast at the Inn, we took a brief stroll down the high street, then went back to the Stanwell House where the kind staff parked us in a large comfy corner with sofas and chairs and we relaxed there for a couple hours in the sunlight of the conservatory reading the paper, eating scones and english tea cakes and drinking tea. It was soooo nice and relaxing. Perfect lazy Sunday.

Around 3pm, we caught a train back to London (still raining), had dinner at Wagamama together (great Asian noodle chain in London, and my favorite Sunday evening spot) and then went our seperate ways. Good friends. Good weekend. Except those evil stinging nettles.

My Canterbury Tale

It seems some of my best-remembered and most content moments involve coffee. Cappuccino or espresso, to be exact. One such moment was in Italy a couple years ago, on a ferry from Sorrento to the island of Capri on a chilly but sunny November afternoon. I remember having my coat and scarf on, watching the island's rocky cliffs draw closer across the surface of choppy blue water, when a steward on the boat kindly brought me a demitasse of hot espresso with a small biscotti. The boat was practically empty, except my two friends I was with and a few other off-season travelers. I think that espresso may have been the best I ever had.

The most recent java moment was last Saturday as I found myself in a rowboat (what is it with the boats and coffee?), on a picture-perfect canal in Canterbury, around 6pm on a lovely warm and breezy summer evening. Warm cappuccino in hand, cute blonde guy rowing the boat telling me and one other passenger all sorts of interesting trivia about the town. It had me thinking that sometimes a simple singular day can feel like an entire holiday -- and this was one of those days. But then again, I think “holiday” is really just a state of mind.

I had woken up unusually early that morning and wasn't in the mood for my usual weekend lie-in. So I got myself ready and walked down to Charing Cross Station and jumped on a train to Canterbury, about a 1.5 hour train ride southeast of London. The trip out was really nice. Quiet. Lots of pretty English country and scenery to enjoy as it whizzed by. My favourite parts were the golden fields with perfect rolls of hay positioned throughout -- the sunlight reflecting off the newly shaved ground making it seem almost illuminated. The colours in England are really so vibrant and beautiful. Guess it's all the rain....anyway, very ethereal and otherworldly at times.

I arrived at Canterbury and made a beeline to the great cathedral. The thing that grabs you about Canterbury as you walk through the cobblestone streets is how old it is. There are still remnants of various ancient civilizations built upon each other...from the Roman walls to the medieval gates through which you enter the old city -- it's amazing to see it all still there, mixed among the modern town of double-decker busses and red phone booths.

The cathedral is a wonder of grey stone and stained glass. In AD 597, missionaries from Rome converted the king of Kent (the region where Canterbury is located) to Christianity. Augustine, leader of the mission, was consecrated as Archbishop and his cathedra (official seat) was established there. The Cathedral has been the home of Anglicanism and the seat of the Archbishop ever since. For a born and bred Episcopalian like myself, this is all very cool.

I spent three hours inside, it was mesmerising. The tomb of St. Thomas is in the church...Thomas Becket, the real-life man, was actually murdered in that very cathedral, and on the spot where he was killed, there is a Martyrdom to which people have made pilgrimages for hundreds of years to pray. The windows go up and on forever and ever, I tried to see as many as I could and read their stories. My particular favourites were the Tree of Jesse window in the Jesus Chapel; a modern window made from old glass depicting St. Thomas; four windows by Hungarian refugee and artist Ervin Bossanyi themed around peace and salvation; The Christopher Whall windows depicting the Nativity, the Agony in the Garden, and the Resurrection; a jewel-like window depicting medieval pilgrims on the road to Canterbury placed immediately overhead an old Roman sarcophagus which is the tomb of Archbishop Hubert Walter; and a small window showing Mary fleeing Egypt with the baby Jesus on a donkey. There were about 50 other windows that had me captivated as well, but I have a feeling to go on about them may cause this entry to get boring fast ("too late" you say?).

There is a wonderfully atmospheric and expansive crypt below the cathedral, with one particular chapel that I loved, called St. Gabriel's Chapel, with a smattering of the remnants of 12th-century wall paintings as well as a Romanesque column. Also a main attraction is the elaborately ornate "Black Prince's Tomb," the burial spot for Edward, Prince of Wales (d. 1376). The tomb depicts him resting in all his splendid armour. There is also a glass case holding his funeral achievements.

The Cathedral boasts peacefully lovely Cloisters surrounding a grassy green. Around the Cloisters there is the large Chapter House (c.1300) with a gorgeous intricate vaulted oak ceiling. This is where Margaret Thatcher and French President Francois Mitterand signed the Channel Tunnel treaty in 1984. During the old days of the monastery, the Chapter House is where the Prior would read out the rules of St. Benedict (there is also an impressive Chapter House off the Cloisters of Westminster Abbey).

The cathedral grounds include the ruins of the old monestary -- its gothic arches, windows and gateways still hauntingly beautiful. There is a well-kept garden in the back perfect for quiet respite. The whole place is a tranquil and layered jumble of stone, glass, colour, art, ruins and a spirit of magnificent beauty.

I left the Cathedral and headed to the very dated Canterbury Tales exhibition (Canterbury is, of course, the subject of Geoffrey Chaucer’s many stories as told by pilgrims and travelers as they made their journeys to Canterbury). This was just downright creepy. Anyone who has read my post about my visit to the Polish salt mine knows I DO NOT like scary fake mannequin people. And the Canterbury Tales exhibit is FULL of them. And it's dark. And to make matters worse, I was alone on the tour -- it was like a haunted house! When you enter, they give you an audio headset and you walk your way through a very dark, musty building -- entering room after room after room where you stand or sit among scary fake mannequins that have not been dusted since 1952. At some points, the audio tour was warped, making it a garbled freak show. It took every bit of nerve and guts I had not to run screaming from the building. After 40 minutes in fright land, I was safely out the back door and into the light of day. I can't tell you much of anything about the Tales I heard, I was too busy focusing my breathing and trying not having a panic attack.

After the scary Canterbury Tales, I wandered around and did a little browsing in the shops. Then I stopped in a Vietnamese Bistro and had a light bite and wrote some postcards. I did some more shopping (stumbled across a neat little health food market where I bought tea) and then thought I might make my way to the train station around 6pm to go home. But while crossing a small bridge, I came across the rowboat tours and the (cute) guy trying to get people on them, so I signed right up. There was a 15-minute wait, so that's when I went into the coffee shop next door and got the cappuccino which I took on the boat with me. The boat ride lasted about 40 minutes down small, lush green waterways surrounded by old stone buildings and gardens. We went under old stone bridges so low that we had to duck with our heads practically in our laps so as not to knock ourselves out.

It was heavenly out, and our guide was interesting and witty. He gave us great little tidbits about the town....like how the French Huguenots settled in Canterbury after fleeing persecution in the Channel Islands, setting themselves up as master weavers (the Cathedral still offers Huguenot services in French at 3pm on the weekends); how many buildings in England feature bricked-up windows from a time when Prime Minister William Pitt (the youngest Prime Minister in England’s history I beleive) implemented the "window tax" that charged citizens for each window they had in their home (so you could tell people’s economic status by looking at a house and seeing who could afford windows); and how there was an old flour mill at the end of the canal that burned to the ground. What's interesting about this is that there is an old pub next door (The Miller's Arms) that also caught on fire, and apparently the firemen had to choose between saving the mill or the pub. The pub is still standing -- although I'm not sure how people could afford a beer at the pub after losing their job at the mill…

After the boat ride, I walked around some back streets of the town, following the old Roman wall and eventually ending up at the Catholic Church of St. Thomas of Canterbury, where I sat in the small garden full of flowers and read my book for awhile as a Saturday evening service took place inside. Then, walking back toward the train station, right outside the medieval gate, I stopped for dinner in a nice little Mexican restaurant.

The train ride back was nice. I was tired and happy as I watched an elaborate pink and periwinkle sunset morph over the fields until darkness fell and we pulled into the city.

Some days here in England are really, really good. Most days, life is good. Especially if there’s a cappuccino involved.

Modigliani and His Models

A couple Fridays ago, I spent the evening at the Royal Academy of Arts (my new favourite hangout) to see the "Modigliani and His Models" exhibition. It is so beautiful. I love (Amedeo) Modigliani (1884-1920), and this collection of some of his most famous portraits is really something to behold. The attached picture is my favourite of his. That's Jeanne Hebuterne, his last lover, who he often painted. She jumped out a window, 9 months pregnant, to her death at the age of 21 a few days after he died (they already had a daughter together). Ok, NOT a happy story, but his paintings are so lovely. Soft colours....cornflower blues, warms reds, rich golds. The people he particularly liked were painted with a warmth and tenderness about them. The people he wasn't so fond of always seem to have empty, hollow and vacant eyes, but are nonetheless pretty.

Modigliani was a maniac though...your basic drug abusing, alcoholic, crazy, schitzophrenic, angry, jealous, insecure, woman-beating guy. Unfortunately, most great artists seemed to be tormented and tainted. Why is that? Where are all the HAPPY, well-adjusted artists?

Random Modigliani story: When I moved into my London flat, I was immediately taken by the print of Jeanne hanging over my sofa (the one above). I did not realise at the time it was a Modigliani and I would often tell guests that I loved the picture because it "looked like a Modigliani." Many made the same comment or agreed. It never occured to me, for about the first 7 months looking at this painting hanging in my living room, to take a closer look at the clearly scribed signature in the top corner, becuase it WAS a Modigliani. After a few cocktails one evening with friends, I climbed up on the sofa and (loudly) made the discovery (there were laughs). I was excited to see the original at the exhibition -- it's even prettier than the print on my wall...much warmer colours.

Anyway, the pictures themselves are a treat to take in, but the stories behind his subjects (friends, prostitutes, art dealers, lovers, strangers), told on the audio tour are equally interesting and some, sadly amusing. For example, one painting is of ex-lover and art critic, Beatrice Hastings (pictured below right). She was wealthy and many years his senior. She also had a violent temper and was jealous. Apparently, she would ocassionally find him out with another woman and throw bottles and such.

The collection is nice becuase it is not too big and is all quality so you can really enjoy and savour it. You get a very intimate feel for the subjects and their stories. With the exception of one or two portraits, I honestly loved almost EVERYTHING on the walls....even the nudes which some critics at the time considered to be soft porn (which I don't agree with, by the way).

Anyway, I joined the RAA as a "friend" and expect I'll spend many other lunches and late evenings there (it is right around the corner from my office on Picadilly so I can get there quick when an art fix is needed). I plan to go back for one more visit to Modigliani before the exhibition departs.

Oh, there's also a new book by Jeffery Myers that just came out called Modigliani: A Life. If you're interested, click here.