Back in the days of pantaloons and corsets, a knowledge of art, history and ideally proficiency of a musical instrument was the embodiment of a well-rounded personage. Having no opinion on politics and religion could be excused in most cases, but being able to differentiate the influences of Monet Water Lilies from Rembrandt portraiture was essential.
They would sit in their mid-morning Salon de the’s and debate
the fashionable culture of the day, read heavy tomes of philosophy and
converse about their findings by scratching out lengthy letters.
Or so history would have us believe.
How do we know they didn’t just sit and gossip about fashion, who was dating who and Kim Kardashian’s latest Tweet war? Or should I say the celebrities of the day.
Honestly, I’ve forgotten the reason for the beginning blather of this post, but in this age of immediate online satisfaction, it’s lovely to actually see art in the flesh. Not really purveyors of modern art, Sam and I took a turn recently around the beautiful gallery spaces of the Royal Academy at times in awe, at times in shock at what is considered art these days.
As a special treat, we were serenaded by a glorious choir whose voices soared aloft in the beautiful round, and I sipped a glass of bubbly or two whilst snapchatting our amusement at the £30,000 white canvas imaginatively called ‘untitled’.
Just what would Sir Joshua Reynolds thinks?
It doesn’t matter how long we live in London, I’m fairly sure we’ll never mange to see everything. In fact I am convinced that it is impossible to properly cover every inch of this living breathing, embodiment of architecture chaos theory. Every single night we can attend the opera, an evening at the ballet, a rainy afternoon at any of the free London museums, wander into a comedy club, tear up at the Phantom of the Opera in the West End, watch burlesque… the list goes on, but I’m going to try.
Such is the joy of this city – and at times one of the hardest aspects of living in England’s capital city. FOMO is a serious problem.