The big event of the weekend was the Frieze Art Fair in Regents Park, where the top galleries from all over the world sell high-ticket artwork for hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of pounds. [It's like London's equivalent of the Armory Show.]
We didn't spring for Frieze tickets, but the buzz around the fair does trickle down to lots of the smaller galleries, too. So we began Saturday with an art exploration walk around the East End.
It began with Pickle and I checking out the Zoo Art Fair, Frieze's hipper, cheaper sibling held in a few abandoned warehouses in Shoreditch. Like all contemporary art fairs, there was a lot of bullshit, but about 20% of it was really worthwhile.
A fringe benefit was getting to learn about lots of different galleries all in one place. Signed up for multiple mailing lists and will hopefully be "in the know" about the latest art openings and events in the coming months.
After which, we met up with Sergio (fresh from getting his trendy haircut) and walked around smaller East End spots and saw some more interesting art, including.
- Modern-day Abstract Expressionism in the attic of an old school...
- Paintings of pop cultural divas...
And much more. And of course, since we were being very hip and chic, we had to dress like French intellectuals (at least I did):
The day concluded with our first trip to the National Theatre, to see a new production of Mother Courage directed by Deborah Warner and starring Fiona Shaw in the title role. [Based on past history, this production may well be coming to BAM sometime in the future.]
She's all states, and all princes I ;
Nothing else is ;
Princes do but play us ; compared to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus ;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere ;
This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.
The show's aesthetic was beautifully realized, a spare post-modern Brechtianism and the story-telling was ten million times clearer than the muddled Meryl Streep/George C. Wolfe production in Central Park a couple of summers ago.
Best of all, though, we'd been introduced by Sarah Sloboda to one of the actors who was in the show and he generously invited us backstage for a drink after it was done. We got to wander through a bit of the backstage passageways at the National and hang out near Fiona during a post-show concert with the cast and crew. There was an Irish rock band playing and at one point Ms. Shaw got up and recited this lovely John Donne poem:
BUSY old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us ?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run ?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices ;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us ?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run ?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices ;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
....
Nothing else is ;
Princes do but play us ; compared to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus ;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere ;
This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.
And, on that note, let me report that after five weeks of flopping on an air mattress in a friend's flat we have finally moved into our own place!! Pictures and further reports on THAT to come soon!
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