Art & I & Art

Or, why do I always have this internal struggle?

This year’s ARCO logo. 2014.

AOG, Madrid

This past weekend Madrid held its international art fair: ARCO. This art fair has been an annual event for me ever since I moved to Spain.

I have gone every year since then to every single one, and every year I walk away thinking to myself, ‘Why the Hell don’t I start doing that?’.

By “that” I am referring to art, in whichever way you wish to define it.

And art and I have had a very tormented relationship from the very start. And it goes on today.

There are many reasons why I don’t live and work as an artist.

And I dislike every single one of them, yet, that has always been, to use a well-worn euphemism, the story of my life.

The cruel beginnings…

When I was a young kid I asked my mother to let me take drawing classes.

I remember going to my first-ever drawing lesson.

I remember the anticipation, the nerves I felt then. The joy inside of me as I anticipated what was to happen.

As a kid, nothing made happier than drawing. I loved it.

I remember that I read somewhere that there was an art academy near where we lived. Maybe it was just a poster, or an ad in a magazine. And I remember pestering my mother to let me go to drawing classes.

After my mother tired of hearing me, she allowed for this to happen. And I was over the moon.

It was a complete fiasco.

We went to the academy in question and I saw several tables with children pouring over their work. I was very excited because I’d soon be learning what they were learning, and I’d be working alongside them. It was going to be my first extracurricular activity ever.

Madame Mère (as I like to call her theses days) and I were shown around the academy, the director explaining to her what the children were doing at that particular moment.

And what were the children drawing?

They, all of them, were drawing a picture of a mountain top and the moon.

Circle and triangle. Basic.

And it seems like that is all they had been drawing and all that they were going to draw for a long time.

My mother asked about this, and she was told, again, that until the children learned how to do that well, that was all they were going to do.

“Only that picture?”

“Yes, only that picture.”

My mother thanked the director for her time and said she would think about it.

She didn’t drop me off at the academy that day, as I had been expecting to happen; she didn’t say she’d be picking me up later. 

She didn’t do any of the things I thought were going to happen.

instagram: @tony4sure

Once outside, or in the car, or the elevator, or wherever it was that we were at when we were alone, I asked her about what had just happened. 

Why wasn’t I being dropped off? What was happening?

I don’t remember her exact words but it was something along the lines of ‘I don’t think they have a very good idea about how to teach drawing to a child’.

She really didn’t like the thought of me doing just one painting over and over.

I, on the other hand, would have killed at the chance to do just that. But it was not to be. She had seen a problem with the academy and dismissed it. And for some reason, she never bothered to find another one.

Now it would be unfair to say she didn’t encourage my sister and I to express our creative side.

Although I never went to art class, Madame Mère did spend hundreds of dollars, if not thousands, paying for art supplies throughout our entire childhood.

Instagram: @tony4sure

She paid for ballet school, piano lessons, acting lessons.

Only as an adult, when I went to live in London, did I take a photography lesson.

And ever since then, photography has been with me as a sort of surrogate for drawing.

But I still draw. Badly. Awkwardly. Furtively. But passionately.

With time, my drawings became more about designing things.

When we first came to Europe in 1988, for some strange reason, I decided I would start drawing buildings.

Ever the frustrated architect, I was content to draw skyscrapers, cut out the shapes, as though they were paper dolls, and ‘assemble’ them.

I had already started designing cars a couple of years before. And shoes. And clothes. And furniture. But I never trusted my drawing skills. And I never took it seriously. So I never did anything with it. I just drew. I just draw.

But I take art seriously. I take my photography seriously. And my writing. And my acting. And I recently joined a choir, and I take that seriously too. Just as I took music seriously when I had a magnificent keyboard I never learned how to play well. I am also a frustrated composer.

But I am a great reader. And all of those years I read about art. And then I did a BA in Art History (and History with a philosophy minor). 

And I combined that degree with photography, and my love of all the arts. And you can see the results online. Follow me on instagram for the more immediate images: @tony4sure.

Being an artist.

For years, as one does, I never thought of myself as an artist. I was just doing what everyone else did -so I believed.

I used to think that since I liked art, so did everyone else.

Since I could draw, so could everyone else.

Since I could dance, and sing, and act, and all the rest, so could everyone else.

Realizing that was just not the case took me years.

Not so much a rude awakening as a realization: not everyone is an artist.

But was I an artist? Or was I just artistic?

I was an actor, a singer, a writer, even a half-assed musical composer when sitting at the keyboard, but an artist?

It took a while before the dots connected.

The proper thank you.

I have to thank London for telling me what I was. For opening my eyes. For slapping me in the face with what was there.

You see, London, like any major metropolitan area, attracts its fair share of talented people.

And talented people are excellent at recognizing talent in others, and extremely adept at letting you know when it is not there. Cruel in fact.

And it was a group of those people who told me what I had never been able to see myself: that I was an Artist. 

That I had always been one.

But it took a while before I accepted this about myself.

Weird, right?

Instagram: @tony4sure

 I was informed that I didn’t take photographs just because I pointed the camera and pressed the shutter. I had compositions. Angles. I was producing images, not just photographs.

I could act, and embody a character. I could express feelings through movement as a dancer. I could write poetry, and prose. I was a producer of art, not just a consumer.

And I should have gone to Art School. RADA, or Central St Martin’s, or the Royal Academy of Art. But I didn’t.

Why?

Because I was not an artist in my head. Art was something everyone did. Hence, I undervalued it greatly.

But I wanted, still want, to learn. And to produce art.

As a designer, I wanted to learn about CAD. Not programming, just using this wonderful program to make my car designs look real. Or professional. Or just better.

But couldn’t. And didn’t.

So these days, I channel my impulses as best I can.

Instagram: @tony4sure

And most of the time I am happy with the exercise (if not necessarily the actual output).

But now and again, I go to an art gallery, or a museum, or some exhibition somewhere, and I kick myself for not being an artist.

For not working as one.

Or, perhaps, what I am kicking myself about is really for not having been clever enough to convince a gallerist to buy my photographs, for not being a writer in print (though I am in print as a journalist).

For not getting that recognition which, as an actor, I do get when I perform with my improv colleagues.

For lacking that confidence and living with that internal struggle.

But, you know what? Perhaps it is the struggle which keeps me writing, and acting, and reading, and taking photographs, and all the rest.

Because being an artist is so many things…

 

Odd Economics

AOG, Madrid

I was last in London over Christmas and I hadn’t gone back until now, late May. 

My how the place has changed!

First of all, there’s the Shard. 

A tall pyramidal structure made of glass and which some are referring to as Mordor.

Although impressive from a distance, close-up it suffers from that thing that so often occurs in the UK: location, location, location. Or rather, a lack thereof.

It is not in a good neighborhood and, for a building intent on promoting finance, it is not in the City.

I got pretty close to it from London Bridge’s station’s platform 6, which takes you straight to Charing Cross.

From there, you get a glimpse of the glass behemoth, and you can't help but be taken aback by the fact that the thing looks a) unfinished, and b) empty.

As is the case with many European cities today, there is an overabundance of empty office space, and London is not the exception.

According to FT,  “In a survey of the industry by CBRE, the world’s largest property fund by assets, three-quarters of banks with a presence in London said that they were planning to cut the amount of office space they used.”

And according to The Telegraph, in 2009: "Approximately 11.9% of City offices are vacant – equivalent to 10 large city towers – up by a tenth already in 2009 and more than double the 5.2pc prior to the onset of the credit crisis in 2007, as increasing numbers of businesses collapse or downsize.”

So it would appear that another glass tower is not really what London needs. 

And yet, there is something amazing about tall buildings. 

The way they defy our human perspective and make us dream of the views we would see from them. Yes, there certainly is a dreamy aspect to tall buildings.

Second of all, my trip to London also informed me of the fact that the city is living trough a construction boom. 

Around the Greenwich area, any empty lot has been turned over to a building company which will gladly erect one of those boring looking, yet ever so trendy, housing plots with pseudo-modern architecture (which, in case you are wondering, just means pricey properties with small rooms and hardly any storage space).

A friend of ours who lives in the area said he was appalled at all the construction and mentioned how these days, most of those properties are being snapped up by wealthy foreign nationals, who will be in the UK for, maybe, a week per year, and city types who commute into and out of Canary Wharf, but never set foot in the area.

And according to Londonist magazine, this boom is only helping to make property even more expensive: “Average asking prices in London have gone past the £500,000 mark for the first time, and Camden has joined Westminster and Kensington and Chelsea as a borough where average prices are over £1m. 

We’ve also noticed a little flurry of articles pointing out the extent of foreign interest in high-end property. 

The New Statesman points out today that only 45% of buyers in central London are UK nationals; Russians and Middle Eastern citizens are those who seem to find the posh bits of the capital most tempting. 

The New York Times recently looked at the effect on local businesses of increasing numbers of owners using their London homes as temporary stop-off points. 

This phenomenon is exemplified in One Hyde Park, where Vanity Fair found that just 17 of the 76 apartments sold are registered as primary residences, and seems to be practically empty.”

I wonder about how healthy this is for a country.

On the other hand…

During my stay, I also met with a couple of friends. They corroborated this idea about London’s average housing prices being too steep, especially for a country where average wages are around £26,000. 

Who in London can afford half a million for a place to live?

Some can, no doubt, but most people, most Londoners, cannot. 

On that subject, we talked about recent studies which mentioned how, it is now becoming very obvious, that all the wealth being created in the City of London is not filtering downwards. 

Yes, the City of London creates jobs, that is, it creates employment for the people who serve the people who work -mostly in finance- in the City.

However, all that wealth being amassed there is not percolating down to the rest of the country.

In fact, a large proportion of it is not even taxable, thanks to the UK’s myriad of legal and financial loopholes and tax havens (Gibraltar, Channel Islands, etc etc etc).

London might be one of the planet's financial capitals, but if you are living outside of London, in a council estate, how is that benefitting you and your family?

None of this is illegal, of course (because politicians pass the laws which benefit their friends), but is it ethical?

Desirable?

A really bad precedent...

In Spain, meanwhile, people often like to bring up the example of Mr. Álvarez Cascos, PM's Aznar's Development Minister who, a few years ago, when asked why property in Spain was so expensive, replied "if it is expensive it is because Spaniards can afford it".

What he was trying to say was that he was proud that property was expensive because it meant the Spanish were doing well.

This was before the Conservative party lost the 2004 elections and Spain was hit by an economic crisis from which the country has yet to emerge.

Unfortunately for Mr. Álvarez Cascos, as well as for Mr. Cameron in the UK, most citizens were not so rich that they could afford a property.

In Spain this meant that banks took advantage of people, prices were inflated, and the property boom turned into a bubble which burst.

It meant that property for lower middle class, and middle class families, suddenly went up in price, and many people, as is the case in the UK, were priced out of the property market.

It means that, given Spain's anachronistic mortgage and property laws, you may turn your property's keys to the bank, and it may sell it, but you will still own the bank whatever was left on your mortgage.

It means that many people are being made homeless even today in Spain, while the Government looks on.

It means that many immigrants left the country, the home they bought, and their debt, in Spain and went back to where they came from.

All of this points to Spain's failure, especially since Madrid, unlike London, is not so international a city that many Russian or Middle Eastern investors are willing to pay half a million Pounds (or the equivalent in Euros) on average for the privilege of having a property there (although they will pay this much for property on the Costa del Sol, but that's a different story).

In the UK, where this has happened in the past, what is happening is that people are slowly being forced to move elsewhere. In many instances outside of London.

It is not a crazy idea to suggest that in the not-too-distant-future, London will be a half empty city where a lot of rich people don't live, and a lot of crime takes place.

Is this really what the British Government would like?

And before anyone says 'but what can they do', let me just say, if you are the Government and you don't know what to do, then you shouldn't be the Government.

The moment I felt most American

AOG, Madrid

On election day 1988 my mother, my sister and I were on a Jumbo Jet heading for Europe. 

We arrived in Madrid and within less than an hour we were on a train heading for the region of Extremadura, on the border with Portugal. 

My thoughts on that long journey (it was about an 8 hour train journey then to add to the transatlantic flight) centered around what our new lives would be like in this continent. I remember being told at the time that Spain only had 2 television channels. 

This might seem ridiculous to you, but I had grown up with cable, and two channels seemed insufficient to me. And third-world like. And I wasn't happy about it.

I remember stepping off the train and looking over the tracks to my right. A beautiful hill and forest scene with sheep peacefully standing there, hardly moving. To my left, the future. 

We had gone to Extremadura because one of my mother’s great aunts lived there with her Italian husband, who came to pick us up at the train station. My parents were separated now and would divorce a few years later, and this was the only close family we had at the time. 

The car which picked us up at the station was a white Ford Escort. I remember thinking then “ok, I know this model, everything is going to be ok”. 

View of the city of Caceres

 A couple of days later, my sister and I went into town on our own. I clearly recall my thoughts when I saw this very modern looking parking meter with a digital screen right next to a XVII century Baroque palace with medieval elements attached to it.

I immediately thought back to the meters in Houston where you had to stick a quarter and roll a handle to watch a little flag pop up telling you how much time you had left. 

 At that moment, America didn’t seem modern at all, especially when compared to this country which could allow things like Baroque palaces and modern digital machines to co-exist side by side. It was, I think, my first eye-opener.

A year after landing in Spain, we landed in London. Life was moving on.

I have to say that from the moment I set foot in Europe in 1988 I have felt American on a daily-basis. It is hard to explain, but it must be related to not really knowing what the deal is most of the time. To making a faux pas here and there, that you are not even aware that you are making. 

To looking at things and thinking, “my God what are they on about with this?”. 

To reacting to some situations in a manner different from expected by my friends and colleagues.

To not settling for tripe when tripe is being served (although I think this is more about me than about me being American; many Americans settle for tripe too easily).

I know I am different from most of the people who surround me and my life. I think differently.  I act differently. I react differently. I want different results. Better things in general.

And I'm glad I do. Just as I am glad that they think differently from me.

I have experienced hundreds of examples of this  cultural disparity since election day 1988.

But back to the original question.

In 1995 I went back to the US and stayed with a friend in Alabama. it was my first trip back since 1988.

Although everything was familiar I could see small cultural cracks here and there. I was no longer the same person who’d left the country 7 years before.

And the questions began to flood in. Some positive, some negative.

Why do people drive everywhere? Why don't they make more sidewalks? Why do they all eat so much processed food? Why are things national and not local? Why are there so many people who allow religion to rule their lives? Why all this racism and hate? Why are women's fashion and hair stuck in the 1980s?

I was feeling very much the European throughout. But then something happened.

 Shortly before I left, I went out one night in Birmingham and I met this guy who was very friendly.

I remember talking with him about things, his life and his future, and mine. He was about my age and had achieved quite a lot. He told me about his up and coming projects, dreams, and achievable goals. There it was once again. American positive thinking. Everything was possible.

I remember thinking during that conversation that I needed to get my butt in gear and be like my right-there-in-front-of-me peer.

I needed to complete my education, just like him, and start aiming for a good job, just like him, and aim for a better life, just like him.

He was talking to me in a language I completely understood. The cultural references were identical. The outlook was familiar and well trodden. The goals achievable. The future was bright, and it had an American glow about it.

I felt very American just then. That instant catapulted me back to the person I used to be just before that Pan Am flight touched down at Madrid Barajas Airport in 1988. The feeling stayed with me for a long time afterwards.

I returned to London.

Yes, the minute I got back to my flat in central London the questions started flowing, but in reverse.

Why is everything so expensive? Why is everyone so poor? Is this a police state? Why doesn’t anyone smile? What am I doing here?

It was a few years before I realized what I was doing there and before I could answer my  own questions.

I confess that these days, I am one of those people who feel very American in Europe, and very European whenever I go to the US. I can't help that. In fact, I rather like it. 

Royal Wedding 2011

AOG, London

I just spent the better part of my weekend traipsing all over London. I would like to say that you can't help but notice that there is a Royal Wedding in our midst….but I’d be lying.

Regent Street

London’s West End was, for once, not at all interested in Royalness. 

This may, and probably will, change by Friday. 

But if you walked around Oxford street, you’d be forgiven for thinking the wedding had been and gone. 

Until you turn into Regent Street that is. Once there, you do get a feeling of, not Royalness, but Britishness. Why? 

Only because they have Union Jacks flying from one side of the street to the other all the way from Oxford Circus to Picadilly Circus. But that’s about it. 

Here and there, some stores had either a union jack “motif” on their window, or something alluding to the happy couple. But little else.

Further afield the West End, for example on the train back to the airport, you could see some towns had one street with bunting and union jacks. But not much else.

However, this is not to say that the wedding is not having an impact on sales. Many shops (Ted Baker, Paperchase) have some sort of Union Jack/Royal regalia object or product for sale to commemorate the event.

As do the tourist stands which pepper all of the West End. You know, those places which entice you to purchase a mug with the portrait of the Queen or Prince Philip, or a postcard with some royal plastered on it, or any other "royal" kitsch paraphernalia.

 Or the ubiquitous Union Jack with a portrait of Kate and William. These are bestsellers they told me.

To be fair, most of the people I spoke with are happy they are getting married but not so happy about the financial state of their country. The wedding is reputed to be on the Queen’s bank account. That is to say, the British “people” are not paying for it. 

Except that not many people believe that and, of course, no one will even know the true cost of the affair.

However, officially, her majesty is paying as are Miss Middleton’s family –who, by the way, are millionaires (you didn’t think he was going to marry somebody poor did you?). 

Certainly the Royal family is paying for the dress and the receptions at Buckingham palace (where some food will be served but not as much as you think!*).

But what I think they are not paying for is the cost of policing the event, and the clean up afterwards.

As it is, London Police are inspecting manhole covers, drains, traffic lights, and lamp posts along the parade route. Overall, the security operation is expected to cost £20 million ($32.6 million).

However, it is worth saying that many people can’t help to look back to that other royal wedding, the fairy-tale one, when the heir to the British throne married a certain Lady Diana Spencer, mother of this year’s groom.

If you need your daily Royalty fix, look no further than this blog by the BBC.  

*A few years ago, the Palace uncovered an alarming statistic about guests attending the Queen's annual garden parties. Rather than just nibbling on one or two snacks, they were consuming, on average, 14 sandwiches, cakes, ice creams and scones (I mean, how dare they those plebs!). The palace has come up with an ingenious solution — they  have reduced the size of the treats on offer!

On the way to Japan: First, get out of London!

AOG, Tokyo

Any journey has its ups and downs. I suppose it is better if all goes as planned, but, as they say, getting there is half the fun.

My first trip to Tokyo started in Madrid one week ago. I had a few days off from work and I had the opportunity to spend a few days in London.

I met up with my family and some friends. From Monday to Thursday I ran errands, visited shops, finished reading "Dirty Havana Trilogy" by Pedro Juan Gutierrez, watched some TV, bought the odd trinket here and there, and, finally, packed my bags and headed to the airport on thursday.

Lets do the time warp again!

In my life, I remember when I was a kid, there were occasions when time slowed down. It is hard to explain. Basically, it would happen sometimes that we would be going somewhere, like a long car journey, and time would either stretch into infinity, or almost disappear. Odd but true.

I remember many a trip when a 5 hour car journey would last 45 minutes. Similarly, a one hour journey would take forever to end. These were the hardest since you became frustrated at how long things took, and your conscience told you that, in fact, this journey is much shorter than what you are actually taking to do it.

And the funny thing is that it happened not only to me, but to my family too. We were always surprised by this time warp of ours. I hadn't happened for a long time.

Until last Thursday.

Leaving London

I woke up around 8 am and left my London flat at around 9AM. I walked up to the bus station only to see the bus drive past me as I turned the first corner and made my way to the bus stop. I waited a few minutes and then another one came.

I then took the underground to Covent Garden and went to buy a Japan visual guide at Stanfords, the best travel store I know of.

After than, I went back home (do not stop around since you are running out of time).

First though, I had to get some euros. My partner had payed for our upcoming trip to Japan and I had to reimburse him. So off I went to my local HSBC branch. I was surprised by what happened next.

1- The person in charge of foreign currency is out to lunch. (And then the thought stroke me: should bank staff take a lunch break when the rest of the city is also taking a lunch break, thus ensuring that those of us who can make it to the bank at lunch create a daily lunch rush hour for which the bank is not equipped?)

2- Could I come back later (like in 45 minutes?)? No I could not. So then the deputy branch manager tried to help me.

Tried but failed since, a) she didn't have a password for the foreign till and, b) she could have a password emailed but that would take 30 minutes.

I really didn't have the time to spare, the energy to get upset further, nor the will to upset the bank staff any further.

3- It is suggested that I go to the Post Office (it's just down the street!) and get the money there.

I go there, only to be asked for some sort of ID. I didn't have any ID with me (as you know, in the UK nobody carries ID with them), so they could not get the money out of my bank card.

4- Could I get the money in cash from the bank (it's just down the street!).

So I traipse back to the bank only to find an even longer line than before.

A while later starts the same "No ID?" ceremony which had taken place at the Post Office.

After a few security questions the bank decides to hand me over the amount of money requested (you'd think it was a gift and not your own money!), and I rush back to the Post Office.

After a few minutes I am on my way home to eat and finish packing.

As I pack I make some lunch. I eat, shower, lock my travel bag, and exit in a rush.

At that point I was running a bit late.

I walk towards the bus stop. A bus drives by just before I get there. I begin to ponder on the wisdom of taking a cab to the train station. At the stop, I wait for about 30 minutes for the next bus (in theory, one should go by every 10-15 minutes).

The funny thing about the bus stop is that it is too far from the High Street to rush to it should a bus drive by, so that if I leave it, I have to be committed to taking a cab since there is no turning back! It was a tough call and I made a mistake. I should have taken a cab.

However at this point, I did not know this. I get to the train station and take the first train to Stansted. I have waited less than 2 minutes at this point.

The train is packed. I get on board and find a seat. The trolley guy comes by and I buy a coffee. I don't know why I did this since I was already quite wired and stressed since, at that point, I was -officially- running late. Very late.

The train, as British trains often do, stops for no apparent reason in the middle of nowhere for a few minutes. I recall that this happened twice or so. I get to Stansted 4 minutes before the gate closes.

I try to rush through security, but I can't. Too many people and none of them care that I'm about to miss my flight. Well, perhaps they did care, but I'm sure that they were mostly thinking (and with good reason) that I should have gotten there earlier. And they were right.

I finally make it through and miss the first train that gets you to the next terminal. When I get to it, I rush out, fly up the escalator, and sprint to the gate, only to find a surprised easyjet woman who, as soon as she sees me, pushes a chair forward to stop me from flying down the stairs and run to the plane.

I was completely out of breath, sweating, panting, trembling and upset with myself. I had no energy to argue. It was not meant to be.

The lady says I should go back with her to the terminal to book another ticket. For tomorrow!!! This was the worst possible outcome, alas, what could I do?

I called my partner who told me there were no other flights to Barcelona that I could catch that day from that airport. From other airports maybe, but I would have to get a bank loan to pay for the ticket. Why is traveling on the day so expensive?

One more day in "Paradise"

After talking to my partner (who was very supportive throughout the whole ordeal) I am escorted back by a different member of staff who was slightly inconvenienced by my situation (why do plane staff always think we miss planes on purpose?) and the fact she had to escort me back through the terminal's secret "staff only" passageways.

After buying a ticket for the next day, I decide to cut my losses and get back to London on a bus. It is cheaper than the train, though less convenient. But since I had no one waiting for me, it seemed like the right thing to do. Wrong again!!

Along the way I call my friend Miguel and we decide to meet once more in Soho. So now I have to rush home from Liverpool Street station and rush back out to the West End.

And I am on a bus, surrounded by Spanish tourists who think everything they see is cool. London holds a special fascination amongst Europeans. The Spanish are no different.

By the time Miguel and I meet up, I am exhausted, both physically and mentally. We talked about the day's events and I explained about the time-warp day I'd had. All along, I told him, it felt like time was slowing down and speeding up at the same time. I know this makes no sense. He thought it was hilarious. I may do...in the future!

By the time I get home, I am half dead. I have a glass of warm milk and some oatmeal biscuits and dive into bed. I have a flight to catch in the morning.

Somebody help me!!

Homophobia in London

AOG, London

I have been in London for less than 24 hours and already a story has hit the news that makes me loose my faith in humanity.

It appears that last week, right in Trafalgar Square, Ian Bayham, a 62 year old man, was assaulted outside the South African High Comission by three people.

Three teenagers, two of them girls of 17, and a boy of 19, named Joel Alexander, were arrested and will be tried in Court for the assault.

I cannot begin to understand what would make three young kids attack an older man because he was gay. According to the press, the motive of the assault is homophobia.

The Times writes that:

"Ian Baynham, 62, was walking through Trafalgar Square in Central London with a 30-year-old friend when a woman began shouting homophobic abuse at him.

He went to talk to her but she attacked him and a man with her is said to have punched him to the floor and then kicked him. A second young woman was also involved in the incident.

Mr Baynham, from Beckenham, southeast London, was taken to hospital after the attack two weeks ago suffering from severe brain damage."

Mr. Bayham died of a severe brain damage, according to the police, when doctors switched off his life support machine.

A vigil will take place this Friday in Trafalgar Square from 8 to 10 PM.

I have spent the afternoon with a good friend, and we were handed an invitation to the candle vigil.

Although I wish I could go, I won't be in London then, but I will be thinking about the incident.

Why?

Because with any luck, I might be 62 years old one day.

I would hate to be attacked by three teenagers so badly that I too would die from severe brain damage. And all because I was gay, like Ian Bayham.

I am sure that the kid's families are in shock as to the events and about what might happen to them. They have been charged, I think, with manslaughter.

There never is a reason as to why these things happen. How could there be? This is a hate crime, and like all hate crimes, it makes no sense. Ignorance is the motive. Also probably anger, and frustration. Alienation. It saddens me to read that these things still happen. It saddens me even more when I think that they will probably continue to happen when I turn 62.

For all our beauty, what a horrible species we really are.

Homo homini lupus .... indeed

G20 Summit, part 1

AOG, London

The night before the G20 Summit in London, I thought of traipsing over to check out the premises and pick up my press pass, but reading the instructions, it would have been useless: it had to be turned in the minute you left the premises. So no.

I was in the City, just outside of Liverpool Street Station, jabbering away when I overheard a man telling a couple that they would be "better off" walking since no buses were getting through due to the protest down the street.

I glanced over but saw nothing, so I continued to talk and make my mind up as to how best to get back home: bus or train?

When I finished talking, I walked back to the station’s entrance, and there, in the distance, I could see and hear the protest.

Some of the people around me were intrigued by it and decided to get a closer look. I too was tempted, but chose against it. But there is definitely something very vertigo-like about a large group of people trying to get to where you are.

I remember reading once that the definition of vertigo at great heights was not the fear they caused, but rather the desire to jump when we see the void in front of us. Something like this is what I felt when I saw that mob. And, of course, I let it be.

I had a long day ahead of me (just how long it turned out to be I had no idea), and for a minute thought if I should go to the West End.

Once again thinking about next day’s events made me go home and do some reading so as to be prepared for the G20 Summit.

I took the escalator down and popped into WHSmith. I bought a copy of Newsweek and The Economist and took the train replacement bus back home. I remember hearing the crowd outside as I left the newsagents.

In the end, I’m glad I did not witness what happened. RBS, just across the street from the station, was attacked by the protesters.

I have never been one to enjoy violent forms of protest. I never see the point. You don’t like bankers? Fine, do something constructive about it.

Rioting seems hardly the best way to put your point across. I am not saying they don’t have a valid point. It is just that the delivery does away with the content.

I read in the press that many protesters, when demonstrating across the city, were shouting “Jump” at the bankers who were leering at them from their glass towers and, as the press said, “taunting” them waving 10 pound notes at crowd. Childish and unnecessary.

So I went home, and the next day had a very early morning. Made my way down to the Excel, in East London as fast as I could, and I can’t say that I had any problems getting there. Except, of course, that the venue is very far from my place.

And the rest of civilization.

London's Russian vogue

AOG, London

I have been here for a couple of days only. In these few days I have noticed that Russia is very much at the forefront of the British imagination. Not quite the fever pitch all things Russian acquired in Paris in the aftermath of WWI, but certainly something worth noticing.

The Royal Academy of Arts has just closed its "From Russia" exhibition. Itself caught in the middle of the on-going diplomatic row between the UK and Russia regarding the death of an ex KGB agent in the UK by the, supposedly, Russian secret service, something Moscow strongly denies and which the exhibition has gone a long way in defusing- at least according to some. However, the hangover still is being felt. Here and there I saw posters of the exhibition still in place.

Perhaps it didn't last too long?

However, the vogue for Russia, in my experience, has gone a bit beyond that in London town. It is common knowledge that, for a few years now, Russia's nouveau riche have set up shop in London.

Something about the city's ambiance marries quite well with the Russian spirit. Perhaps it is that in Russia, as in Spain, it is commonly believed that, if it is the most expensive you can have, it is also the best one you can have. It does not matter if we are talking about books, homes, cars, clothes, horses or what have you.

Expense equals quality. And nowhere in Europe is as needlessly expensive as London. Perhaps that is the interest of the Russia's newfound Anglophilia.

And the Brits return the favor by favoring a certain a la russe state of affairs. My most tangible example was walking into Waterstones and finding a whole section dedicated to Russian literature.

Leo Tolstoy and his "Resurrection"

Dostoyevsky's "The brothers Karamazov"

Olga Grushin's "The dreamlife of Sukhanov"

Yevgeny Zamyatin's "We"

Andreï Makine's "A life's music"

Viktor Pelevin's "The life of insects"

Nabokov's 'Collected Stories'

Andrei Kurkov's "Death and the penguin" (a copy of which I purchased one day later at a second-hand book shop in Victoria)

Nikolai Leskov's "Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk"

A collection of "Russian short stories from Pushkin to Buida" and a couple of Gogol titles.

In short, Russia is almost everywhere in London these days.

For some reason, we decided to celebrate my sister's birthday in BALTIC, London's top notch Russian and Eastern European restaurant.

I didn't choose it because of the Russophilia. Instead, I think a slight zeitgeist was at play here.

I for one am quite happy London is so Russia-friendly. I hope it lasts, for everyone's sakes.

Settling in

AOG, Madrid

Yesterday I was at Gran Via station in Madrid. Up until yesterday I always had to look which way to go and I was forever trying to find the exit sign.

But yesterday, I got out of the carriage and headed without giving it a second thought towards the outside.

Just before I got to the turnstiles, I realised I had not once looked up to find the exit sign. After 2 years and 4 months, I think I might be settling in Madrid.

I rememeber when I first moved to London. It took me almost 6 months to understand the Underground. All those lines passing through the same station; trains from the same line stopping here and there; trains and Underground stations all in one place.

Looking back, it all makes sense now. So much so that I wish Madrid's Metro had this station-sharing idea. But at the time, I used to get lost and frustrated a lot. Wrong train; wrong direction; wrong line.

I don't remember when it was that I finally settled in London. Maybe I never did. Perhaps that is why I left.

Young at heart (old at flesh)

AOG, London

It would appear that every time I go to London I have an ok time.  Just.

Unfortunately, given the pressures of modern life, I have not long ago realised, that a weekend in London, though very glamorous sounding, is actually 2 evenings, and one and a half (or a third), days in the British capital.

I normally fly out on Friday night after work, arrive in Gatwick at some ungodly hour, then rush to Victoria Station on the next-to-last Gatwick Express (almost ₤15.00 these days!).

 

Once there, I normally enjoy all day Saturday, which I spend visiting galleries, museums, and try to catch a show on the evening. 

Not always, but normally I achieve some sort of cultural hiatus during the visit.

 

Amongst all of this cultural froth, I have to pencil in meeting with Madame Mère at some point, as well as the odd friend here and there for coffee in Soho somewhere (somewhere means Costa Café on Compton street).

 

This last time I was there, something I had not seen in ages reared its ugly head. 

As I waited for a couple of friends, next to me I noticed a very handsome guy in his 40s who was dressed -at first sight- youthfully. As I waited for my tardy friends, some of his friends showed up.

 

It was the usual “hey”, “kiss”, and recap on the weekend’s events. I began to notice, slowly, that this man, in his 40s, was verbally cavorting with guys in their 20s. 

Nothing wrong there, half of my improv class in Madrid is in their 20s and I feel like their father sometimes. 

But it was not as innocent as all that.

 

It soon occurred to me that, upon closer inspection, this man was not dressed “youthfully”, he was dressed like a male Britney Spears. I noticed this when he got up to air kiss one of his friends. There it was, a mid 40s bare navel. 

He also acted very like la Spears: Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch; non stop.

 

Nothing wrong there, except that not only was he trying to look like a teenager, he was trying to talk like one too. But I was ok with that too (I from the “let and let live” school of life).

 

The thing that most ruffled my feathers was that the content of his whole conversation was drugs; and partying; and going to this club or that club and being off his face. 

I thought to myself that this is the kind of conversation best reserved to real guys in their 20s, not 40 year olds attempting to hold on to their youth, ça n’importe quoie! (no matter what).

 

He was handsome enough to pull off looking like a teenager, albeit only just and then only because Halloween is nigh, but he was not young enough to pull off teenage speak. 

That is where he blew it. He sounded ridiculous. And this made him, in turn, look ridiculous.

 

And, invariably, I began to think about myself and my friends (all in our mid to late 30s). 

About how we speak, what we say, how we dress, how we sound and look.

 

When my friends arrived, I inspected their clothes. 

Youthful, but more like trendy (Yes, A&F but subdued). I listened to their (our) speech, (no talk about drugs, but the occasional fashion rebuff and odd bit of trivia). 

And I figured that we were about average within our age group and generation.

 

So, of course, I wasted no time in pointing out our "young" neighbour but before I could explain what was his ‘biscuit’, one of my friends looked at me and said in a low tone “Does he think he’s 15?”

I was vindicated. 

I was not alone in being slightly, and gayly, outraged.

Given that the trip was so short, I had no time to introspectively discover, or excuse, why that guy was so out of touch with himself.

London in September

AOG, London

After being away from the island since the 22nd of July, I finally made it over to spend my birthday in the company of friends and family.

Seeing as how these days I'm "Homeless in London", my partner and I were lucky enough to stay with friends in Brixton, as well as being lucky enough to have friends to stay with in the first place.

The Complaints section

We rented a car, and for the first time ever, I drove from Gatwick into central London. One and a half hours later (more or less), we made it into town. It has always amazed me how long it take to get out of London.

Yes, London is gigantic, but what makes the process so slow is not its size, it is the fact that you get out of it through small winding streets masquerading as roads and highways. In this respect, Madrid has an advantage over London. Even in central Madrid, getting out of town takes no more than 25 minutes.

Yes, I know, Madrid is smaller (though not all that much these days), and many would argue that it has had the space to build motorways out of town. Yes and no. Madrid, like many other capitals, is surrounded by small villages which eventually have been absorbed into the city's fabric. However, I think that the only difference is will power. In Madrid, local politicians decided at some point that it should have ring roads and highways and ways out. Many of these are tunnels. Expensive tunnels which must avoid underground (Subway/Metro) tunnels, and entire city blocks with buildings on top. Not easy. And, considering how London is built mostly on flat land (unlike Madrid which is very hilly), I think political will power wins over weird excuses.

The Get Him! section

I remember once having the nephew of the Duke of Northumberland telling me (how's that for name dropping!!), that after WWII, when there was a plan to build a motorway right through South London, a little boy wrote to the Department of Transport informing them that he was very concerned about the plans to have a highway running right through his home. His father was some aristocrat, and the home in question was a palace somewhere down there (I forget where). So no highway was built.

Although a cute story, and probably a true one, it is amazing that even in 2007 things in London are as bad as they are.

The Culture and Recap section


We spent most of Saturday on the East End. It was a sunny day, and it helped make that part of town look less depressing than usual. We went to see an the Hiraki Sawa HAKO exhibition at the Chisenhale Gallery and spent the afternoon in the East End, mostly around Whitechapel and Aldgate- mostly Brick Lane. The smells of the area are amazing. It is an odd fusion of Asia, second hand clothing stores and avant- garde art galleries. All a stone's throw away from the City of London, the financial heart. I suppose this is one of the things which people like about London, this mixture.

It soon got late, and we rushed back to Brixton to get ready to go to dinner at the Texas Embassy in Trafalgar Square. It was great seeing old friends again. It was a lovely and familiar feeling.

Afterwards, three of us went to Bar Code in Vauxhall. I have to say, I was very pleasantly surprised. The decoration was modern, almost cutting edge, and, more importantly, smoke-free. I think one of London's most unique offers, insofar as interesting spaces are concerned, are the space underneath the railways arches which sprout all over London and the UK. Normally, they are very dingy, and certainly humid. I can almost smell the spores when I go into one. But, Bar Code, no spores. Well done. I was pleased we went.

Then home to Brixton to sleep. Sunday we didn't really have much time to do anything. I mostly got to chat with Oliver, our host, about many things. He mentioned he found it interesting that in Spain, in everyday language, there is a concept of "the modern" in a way which does not happen in Germany. Oliver is German. We discussed Spain, the UK, Germany, the US, life, philosophy, human Psychology, Zeitgeist, in short, nothing and everything. He eventually wants to return to Spain. It is just a case of convincing his partner Albert.

In the afternoon we packed and left for Gatwick. Another 2 hour drive out of London.