Brutalism at the Barbican

After I finished a punchlist relating to the sovereign bonds project (essentially passing a list of tasks on to OG to deal with while I'm gone), Rachael and I cycled to the Barbican to see a very large exhibit of post-war modernist art in Britain. A lot of it was entirely abstract and difficult for me to make sense of. At a high level, I would say the artists--many of them Jewish refugees in Britain--were dealing with the loss of their entire famiilies, the use of atomic bombs in Japan, and widespread destruction in British cities. Rationing was in place--of food and petrol--and the only place to find hope was in the resiliency of the human spirit. Or perhaps the female body. Or perhaps the surge of bright shiny consumerism in America--what to make of that in British eyes?

The one unforgettable piece was by photographer Lee Miller, a protege of Man Ray and war correspondent for Vogue. She was there the morning that Dachau was liberated. Later that day, she was in Hitler's apartment in Munich--the very day he killed himself. Perhaps because she was a student of surrealism, she did what to the sane mind seems absurd. She took a bath in Hitler's bathtub and photographed herself doing so. Her dirty boots, fresh from Dachau, on his bathmat. You'll never forget that image.

Like the most of the art in the exhibit, the brutalist style of the Barbican itself (and most of the Ulster Museum) has always left me cold--but I guess that's the point. It was after a war that dehumanised everything. After the exhibit, we cycled back to the office. I gathered my things and took the brand spanking new Elizabeth Line from Liverpool Street to Paddington, where I waited in the first class lounge for my train.

The good news about having a first class ticket was that I wasn't in the carriages packed with young people going to Glastonbury. The bad news is I watched the news in the lounge--coverage of the 6-3 SCOTUS verdict overturning Roe v. Wade. When democracies fail--it is incremental. One judge at a time, one judgement at a time. That crook Trump took the legs out from what was meant to be a check on our already wobbly system. No longer. It is a joke. Beginning with Thomas. A very bad joke. I'm angry and sad--and I have the luxury of not living there and being surrounded by my very angry and sad friends. This isn't something that would gain a lot of notice over here. People mainly ask me why 18 year olds can buy military weapons. How do you answer that?

Moving on. The 5-hour trip to Penzance was lovely.

The town below is Saltash, with a Brunel Bridge over the River Tamar.

My directions to the Air BnB failed me completely. Partly because they aren't big on street signs in Cornwall. Partly because, when I did find Penare Road, the low numbers (1-6) are at the top of the road (where I was) and again way down the hill at the bottom of the road. Why?? Finally got to my room, laid down my burdens, then walked back into town to watch fireworks over the harbour. Remembered that I didn't like fireworks, and walked back to my room. (The poor birds, the poor dogs--quaking for days.)

While waiting for the fireworks, I met a lovely couple who publish under the name Talking Trees Books. I'm to look this up at some point to learn more about their work on folklore.

24 June