Thursday, January 26th

Thursday, January 26^th

Activities.  After a disastrous morning of oversleeping despite the cell phone alarm, the AV equipment did not work—nothing like a first day of a class off on the wrong foot.  I bought an alarm clock yesterday only to find last night that it needed a watch battery.  So I woke up at 8—right when I should have left for the tube.  No time to heat water.  After a 7 block uphill run, I had a good sweat going magnified by overheating on crowded tube that ended in another 8 block, sweaty run.

Inequality is my favorite class and it started with a whimper instead of a bang.  At least they were engaged and thinking about how the nine dimensions of social class have positioned each of them. We broached the subject of social mobility—which usually interests students, and laid the groundwork for some compelling discussions.

Disappointed that Walter Mosley’s latest novel, released last week, is not available in the UK until March, I consoled myself by picking up and reading his essay entitled, Twelve Steps toward Political Revelation.  After disclosing that he is an alcoholic, he opines about the ways that systems and institutions place heavy loads and hidden addictions on our bodies and minds in the US. He lays out a compelling argument (not really new in its “acceptance of the problem,” but in the metaphors he uses to describe our post-Capitalistic, consumer society and in his “solutions).”  Very provocative—his proposal for education reform made my heart sing.    

I went to the National Gallery this afternoon.  It may be that I am ignorant of the European history as well as art history, but the exhibits prior to 1945 had no life for me at all. In fact, being in those rooms for a few minutes sucked the oxygen from my lungs and all energy from my body. Stodgy representations of white men and a few royal women in classic poses just left me cold.  It occurred to me on the way home that I really don’t know European history—my last exposure being Sr. Benedict in 10^th grade whose enthusiasm for the Hapsburg Empire seemed silly. (She is the same nun who noted about me and my friend, Shannon, that “Oh, yes, everyone else is out of step but Johnny”).  Then I began to wonder how I escaped learning any history in my subsequent education.  It dawned on me that I took four (4) courses in college on Latin American history, including Caribbean history.

When I got to the late 20^th century floor, it was a completely different story.  The exhibit was fascinating and the art very diverse in nature.  I learned a lot about British characters in politics, theater, and war including suffrages, nurses and a variety of performing artists.

Then I hit pay dirt.  There was a special exhibit of the best contemporary portrait photography in the world.  Only 60 large photographs, but completely engrossing.  Some were jarring and disturbing images, some very sweet and some extremely erotic.  Overall, the exhibit touched me deeply and provoked a gamut of emotions. Two heavily tattooed, nude, old men embracing in a very sentimental but un-posed fashion really stuck with me. The photographer caught them in an emotionally intimate but non-sexual embrace early in the morning in their apartment.  It was a really powerful image of human intimacy made even more poignant by being so non-stereotypical.

I took the bus home, although I was yearning to stay at the National Gallery for a free chamber music concert.  I just could not last until 9 pm without breakfast or lunch and knew I had fresh salmon in the fridge that would be less than good tomorrow.

The bus is so different than the tube.  It smells.  At least the one I travelled on had heavy doses of BO, piss and the vague aroma of last night’s vomit.  And the clientele is different than the tube.  More short-distance commuters, poorer folks, more children, and more people of color.  I was rather shocked at the etiquette.  There are reserved seats for “elderly and disabled.”  Those seating in there yielded to old white men and women who boarded the bus, but not to a really old, feeble , Asian woman or to a pregnant Black woman with an infant in arms.  What?  The bus was jammed full and people definitely do not regard space as personal (unlike the tube) with folks staring, pushing and chattering.

Oddities.  One of the AIFS staff here, Sinead, looks so much like my younger sister, Molly, that it is eerie.  Small Irish gene pool?  Here are two  snaps: one of Sinead followed by a photo of my sisters last week with Molly on the far right.  Does anybody else see it?

Reflections. The portrait exhibit really stuck a thorn in my psyche.  It is too fresh to process, but well worth the discomfort.  The Mosley essay also left me pondering.  I love how he refers to the 1% as “the Joes” as in regular Joes who are not special people—just very wealthy, not through any skill on their part, just by being “in the right roulette slot of history.”  I used to think of those heirs as members of the “lucky sperm club” who just happened to be born to incredible wealth.  I like his take and his calling their lawyers and accountants, “their herd dogs.”    I have lots to digest.