Art and Elegance

Note: The Vermeer painting showing the woman playing a guitar-like instrument is thought to be of his daughter. When Paul McCartney saw it, he said that knew the chord she was playing.

We "ticked another couple of boxes," as the Brits say, during our stay when we visited the Wallace Collection and Kenwood House, two places that had long been on our wish list for viewing.  Both of these elegant houses are free to visit and tour.

My photos of the Wallace Collection did not really turn out well, but aside from a few noteworthy pieces of art, including Frans Hals' "The Laughing Cavalier," a Rembrandt, and a couple of Canalettos the highlight of the museum is its Louis XIV furniture. Our guide remarked, "If you want to see the architecture of Versailles, go to Versailles, but if you want to see the furniture of Versaille, come here." 

The furniture including marquetry pieces, such as the cabinet pictured below, which have faded over time, and were actually much brighter back in the 17th and 18th century. So if we find it a bit garish now, imagine what it would have looked like if the colors were more intense!

The guide explained that in the days of candlelight, the furniture would lose its luster in the darkened rooms, so they need saturated hues, which would warm when viewed by flickering candles.

I was most surprised by the guide's account of Fragonard's "The Swing," a piece that is prized by the museum, in spite of its scandalous subject. The story is that the original owner asked another artist to do the painting, but he demurred when he found out what he patron wanted--he requested that the artwork depict him and his mistress, and he wanted a cleric to be pushing the swing! The commission went to Fragonard instead, but even he refused to paint a clergyman into the picture. As it is, a gentleman pushes the young woman and as she swings, she throws off her shoe as a wanton gesture. The man seated below her is peeking up her skirt. Too bad they didn't have #MeToo back then!

We also made a trip out to Hampstead Heath and walked over the heath to Kenwood House, which was built for the king's printer in 1616, and remodeled by Robert Adam in the 18th century.

The ceiling, designed by Adam, is often called "the most beautiful ceiling in Britain." 

A Birthday Jaunt to Beachy Head

Photo from The Londonist website

We took a couple of days to celebrate Kevin's birthday, but my main surprise for him was an excursion to Eastbourne and Beachy Head. We had last visited Beachy Head in 1982, when our son Aaron was 12. Then, we had marveled at the fact that there were no guardrails on the high cliffs, and found that even today there are only a few places marked by low wire fences with warning signs. 

We took the train to Eastbourne from Victoria Station, about an hour-and-a-half out of London. Eastbourne has that air of so many English seaside towns with its Victorian architecture and a long pier that echoes with the simple pleasures of an earlier era. We had a picnic lunch beside the sea before beginning our excursions. 

We visited the local tourist information office to ask about a path outside of town that Kevin had read about, which leads along the base of the white cliffs that stretch along the coast. 

"We don't recommend that," the neatly dressed information agent said. 

"Well, we just want to walk on the beach there and see if we can find any fossils," we explained.

"We don't recommend that," she said again. But she did help us figure out how to get there nonetheless, telling us how to get to the tea shop at the cliff's base. It was a taxi ride away, but the taxis in Eastbourne are cheap.

We saw why the information office was reluctant to send us to the cliffs when we saw how many chunks had fallen onto the shore. We kept our distance from the cliff face.

We found some flints and a fossilized shell, but it was too heavy to take with us.

After poking about the shore for awhile, we decided it was time to head up top, so with the help of the tea shop (since my mobile phone plan wouldn't work there), we summoned a taxi and headed up to the highest clifftops. Formed of diatoms, eons ago, and lifted from the seabed, the cliffs offer dramatic vistas.

Because of the position of the sun, I was not able to get a photo of the lighthouse below (pictured at the top of this post), but we were able to view it.

Then, as we walked further on, we encountered a scene with police and aid workers. We saw them pull a young man back from the cliff's edge, place him on a gurney, and put him in an ambulance. 
That was the troubled young man that I wrote the poem about in a previous posting. (I did not want to juxtapose that serious thought with this more casual entry.  Sadly, these beautiful high cliffs are sometimes chosen by suicidal people. We were grateful that this time, at least, someone was saved.)

We could also see areas where the cliffs are continuing to erode, worn away into small depressions that collect rain water, expanding and contracting, until they at last break away.

Not far away is a lighthouse on the top of the cliff that has been moved, because it was in danger of toppling itself.

We counted ourselves fortunate to have visited on a day of sun and celebrated Kevin's birthday dinner at the clifftop pub.

It was another grand day out!

Note: We have now returned home, but I still have a few more posts to make to complete this online journal. We will cherish the memories that we made during these two months.

Under the Hammer

Although attendance at Christie's evenings sales is limited mostly to serious buyers, the day sales are open to anyone. Kevin and I were pleasantly surprised with how gracious and welcoming Christie's was to us. We first checked with their reception desk about a half-hour before the sale, and the women there told us that the morning auction had not yet concluded, but we were free to wait and peruse the catalog or have a cup of coffee in the lobby. We browsed through the catalog and picked pieces that we would bid on, had we the funds.
A tall gentleman presided over the entry to the stairs on the next level, which led to the auction room. He was dressed in a nicely tailored suit and had an air of John Gielgud about him, or perhaps of that of a well-trained English butler--but he was quite polite and warm. Even though we felt a little like riff-raff who had wandered in from the street, he made us feel welcome. 
"Should we sit anywhere in particular," we asked. "We're not buyers; we just want to observe."
"You may sit wherever you like," he replied.
"But we may leave before the auction is over."
"That's fine," he said. "People come and go all the time."
So it was first-come, first-served, and we made our way up the staircase, which had a projection of Monet's "Water Lilies" on the steps. (I should have taken more photos, but I felt slightly intimidated in that space, or you would see more pictures. I didn't want to act like a rube tourist!)
We were glad we came early, because we got to watch them set up,
testing the microphones, phones, and Internet connections.

Some of the artwork that was for sale was displayed on the walls, including one Chagall.

When the auction got underway, the room began to fill up, and eventually there was only standing room. From our viewpoint near the back, we could watch it all. Christie's employees, sitting at long desks, lined the front and side of the room. They were in phone contact with remote bidders. In the front of the room was a screen that displayed the lot number and photo of the art on offer with the current bid listed in several currencies, led by British pounds and American dollars. At the back of the room was a screen to display online bids. And, presiding over it all from a lectern in front, was the auctioneer. 

He was a handsome, patrician-looking, well-dressed professional who carefully observed the bidders in the room (identified by their red paddles with white numbers), as well as the telephone bank, and the online screen. With each bid, he called out, "It's in the room for 60,000 pounds," or "It's online at the Czech Republic for 65,000," announcing which potential buyer had placed the last offer. The drama began to build. When the bidding got intense, it went back and forth from the room to the back screen that emitted a bright pink flashing light with the latest online contender. Occasionally, a hush fell in as we waited to see if an online or telephone bidder was still in the game. It was great theater! Then BANG! It was down with the "hammer"! (However, the hammer wasn't a large gavel; it was quite small. The auctioneer held it in his hand.)

There were works by Renoir, Degas, Picasso, Rodin, Léger, and more, and soon my head was spinning. We were surprised how caught up we got in the moment, even though we were not bidding, and we couldn't possibly afford to! Christie's reported the day sale took in 16,723,000 British pounds (about $21,900,206 U.S.), including the premium paid to Christie's by the buyer. 

But proving once again that he is much better at writing humor than I am, Kevin wrote the following email to a friend: 

Hi, Ernie,

Rachel and I spent yesterday afternoon helping Christie's sell some art. Scribblings, really. Dabs of color that you have to stand back from to put any sense to. I think that those pluety-nosed people doing the bidding call the work "Impressionism." Like it was a religion or something.

Here I am offering my opinion on a Chagall and helping to get the hanging and lighting "just right." It sold for more than our net worth. Even with my help, they didn't get the thing level.

Yeah, right, Kevin.

I hope Christie's doesn't mind that joke, because it was an experience I would not want to have missed!

Addendum: It's interesting that at the day sale, the best dressed people were Christie's employees. (Photos of artwork are from Christie's catalog.)  I also want to say thank you to my sister-in-law Carol, who attended a Christie's auction years ago. Since then, I've always wanted to go to one. At last I did. So thank you, Carol.)