There’s so much to see and do in London at the moment that it feels like a bit of a race to get to everything before it closes. I’ve enjoyed some marvelous exhibitions and some very good theater recently, and am looking forward to even more over the coming weeks. Probably my favorite exhibition I’ve seen in the past month is the Russia, Royalty and the Romanovs exhibition at the Queen’s Gallery, which brings together a magnificent collection of paintings, jewellery, objets d’art, clothing, furniture, letters and photographs to chart the relationship between the Romanov dynasty and the British royal family from the 17th to the 20th century. I have had an obsession with Russian history ever since I learned about the fate of the last Tsar, Nicholas II, when I was in secondary school, and so this exhibition was an absolute treat for me. The objects on display and the stories they tell offer so much more than just the opportunity to marvel at colossally expensive, exquisitely beautiful things; they allow a glimpse into how Russia wished to be perceived by the Western world, and how the Western world perceived Russia. As the families became closely linked through marriage in the nineteenth century, a very personal story emerges. In family photographs, the Russian Royal family, exoticised in official portraits with their elaborate traditional state court dress, become transformed into perfectly ordinary looking Victorians in bustles and tweeds when sat side-by-side with their English and German relatives in front of various country houses. Laughing and joking, arm-in-arm with cousins, aunts, uncles, and in-laws, they are heartbreakingly unaware of the tragedy that was about to fall down upon them, ripping apart these family ties forever. This lack of awareness is also demonstrated, from an entirely different perspective, in the extravagant gifts and jewelry commissioned by the families as gifts for one another; as the Russian Empire crumbled and its people starved, the Emperor was commissioning exquisite diamond encrusted Fabergé Easter eggs as whimsical trinkets for his wife. And just days before his abdication, in his last ever letter to his cousin ‘Georgie’, Nicholas II showed no awareness of his own impossible position, and every confidence that things would soon turn a corner. How unforgiving the evidence of history can be. I’m not sure, however, if I were they, that I would have forgiven Queen Mary, who, despite being devastated by the deaths of the Russian royal family, seemed to feel no guilt whatsoever in hoovering up the possessions of the impoverished survivors for a knock-down price, improving her own jewel collection considerably…
The Dulwich Picture Gallery in South London has a rather dull permanent collection of largely pre 19th century art, but their exhibitions are always a delight, and offer something a little off the beaten path, featuring artists or subjects that larger galleries often seem to think aren’t worth taking a punt on. In the past few years they’ve had brilliant exhibitions of Ravilious, Bawden and other early 20th century artists, and they’ve currently got a fantastic display of paintings by the Norwegian artist Harald Sohlberg. I saw some of his paintings in the National Gallery of Norway in Oslo when I traveled there a few years ago, and found them mesmerising; seeing many more all together, mostly from private collections, to enable the viewer to chart his development as an artist, was an absolute treat. His use of light is extraordinary, and his depiction of the wild beauty of the Norwegian countryside has made me desperate to go back to see more of the landscape. It’s well worth the trip outside of Central London; it’s a short 15 minute train ride from London Bridge, and is situated in the delightfully picturesque Dulwich Village, which is essentially the Hampstead of South London and provides plenty of beautiful architecture, charming local boutiques and pavement cafés to while away a pleasant afternoon. You won’t regret a visit!
Theatre-wise, I very much enjoyed The American Clock at The Old Vic last week. Arthur Miller is my favorite modern playwright, and I try to watch everything of his that gets staged in London. I don’t think anything will beat Ivo Van Hove’s incredible production of A View from the Bridge at the Young Vic a few years ago now, but I have tickets for All My Sons with Bill Pullman and Sally Field next month, also at The Old Vic, so we’ll see! Anyway, The American Clock is one of Miller’s later plays and is not one that has entered the canon of his works – it’s easy to see why when you watch it, as it’s not character-focused and is rather heavy-handed in its message – but while I wasn’t overly impressed by the brilliance of the script, I found the staging to be incredibly inventive. Music is at its heart, and is performed live, and the use of a mixture of theatrical techniques, from the Greek chorus to Brechtian symbolism, made it fascinating to watch even though the story itself wasn’t necessarily the most compelling. If you can get a cheapish ticket, I’d recommend it. It’s certainly given me a taste for Miller – David Suchet is currently starring in The Price, another lesser known Miller – and I’m going to treat myself to a ticket before it closes.
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