Oh, London

All of us have been lingering around the city praying for the return of the ridiculous hot-flash that was last weekend. I further suppose that we were rather disappointed by the pissing down rain, the chilliness and the weak rays of sunshine that rarely bobbed out from below the clouds, like my head from under the blanket on a Sunday morning following a decent weekend. London weather seems more like a dirty tease at the moment, some heavy petting and then a total let down. But fear not. I have found a way to make all of us get over our momentary disappointment and fall right back in love with this gorgeous city, and forget all about it not putting out for once. 

The Museum of London houses the Galleries of Modern London from May 28th until 31st of August with free entry. Absolutely awesome. Starting somewhere in the mid-17th century all bits and bobs bring us up to the present day city we all know and love. If features all sorts of cool interactive technology, for example you can tap on the water-fountain complete with sensors to learn what kind of crap is floating about the sewers. Totally gross, but also great fun. If you live relatively central, you can find your neighbourhood down to the house on an 18th century colour-coded map of wealth and crime distribution. Apparently the part of Camden where I live, which is definitely is not the nicest at this point in history, featured as upper middle class with low levels of crime, while my friend living in Marylbone was semi-middle class. Urbanization bites. For my lovely hood anyway. 

It is a very interactive and personal space. There is fashion, industry, royalty and diversity. One of my favourite parts was an interview montage of what I presumed was to represent the changing attitudes and atmosphere of London. The few sentences from each participant were moving, funny, thoughtful and insightful. The one that had me snickering was one not poignantly relevant to London, but had a more universal appeal. A boy in his late teens-early 20s, from the mid-60s, was having the following (approximate) conversation with the invisible interviewer:

'Do you think girls have to be virgins?'

'Well yea, yea I think so.'

'Why?'

'Well, because then you don't know where they've been.'

'Do you think guys have to be virgins?'

Pause. Sensing a trap maybe?

'Erm, no man, no.'

'Why not?'

'Well that's different, innit, I mean you see it's different. Don't you think? ... It's different, innit?'

You are what you eat

Which normally would mean I bounce between an overzealous and occassionally successful cook and a skint student living on Heinz baked beans, but when the parents come to town it is a whole different matter. This is why I have decided to share here the treasures that we have discovered during a 4-day gastronomic orgy.

Due to my mother's excessive need for shopping our first destination can be found spitting distance from Oxford Circus, just off of Carnaby Street, under 14-16 Fouberts Place (map). Carnaby Burger Co. serves massive and delicious yet healthy burgers and its broccoli and courgette soup had me licking my fingers. Don't recommend however their Welness Salad, which is bland and tastes like a handful of grass (despite the avocado). You went to a place that has the word 'Burger' in it. Eat a burger. Or at least the chicken wings.

To get away from the often unbearable hustle and bustle of the Selfridges' area, we wondered up towards Marylbone and found Seabass on 40 James Street (map). Lovely service, friendly environment (you can see into the kitchen and unlike a lot of places it looks clean and orderly) and the food was great. Simple, but delicious, you can literally hear the waves of the sea in this highly recommended little Mediterranean place!

If you are looking for a great gastro pub after a walk through Regent's Park (granted you are at the Great Portland Street corner) look no further than the Queen's Head and the Artichoke at 30-32 Albany Street (map). Quaint atmosphere and the food, organized in tapas style, is to die for. Soups, meat, and an abundance of small vegetarian dishes is waiting for the tired traveller-walker. Weekend nights I suggest to make reservations. If we are talking about tapas, not the English interpretation of it, but the real deal, well we have found a gem, without a doubt. Under 195 Great Portland Street (map) lies Iberica, a place where you will have earth-shattering gastro-orgasms in your mouth, believe you me. The cheese plate comes from cheese that have their own humidor (!) and the legs of ham hang from the ceiling like morning dew on the grass. They even have their own delicatessen, which can be admired while trying not to 'un-Spanishly' devour my food faster than my wine. Naturally, I can recommend the Serrano Ham and the mixed cheese plate, if you are looking for a well-rounded general experience. The padron peppers (nothing like when I attempt it in the kitchen) are succulent and not overly salty, and the thought of the white bean stew with chorizo and morcilla makes my stomach growl. They have a good paella selection as well, although for that I cannot vouch, but will provide an update as soon as my parents return. And finally, if you are looking for a great Japanese, this one is especially recommended if your night is taking you to the Famous London Jazz Cafe, as it is located right next to it (map). Bento Cafe is adorably authentic and has a great selection of food besides sushi. The portions resemble more of a Chinese restaurant than the more moderate Japanese sizing. The only downside is, try not to peep into the kitchen on your way to the loo. It is not sightly and I would strongly urge them to put a door to cover up the mess.
Overall, if I am what I eat, I have become a world-traveller in the space of 4 days, and I haven't even left the wonderful city that gave us all this exciting foodly experiences!

Glasnost and the odd Mondays

I know that traditionally we are required to whole-hearedly despise Mondays, but I have to admit this particularly delightful Monday, I would pick from a whole bundle of other weekdays (not weekends, let's not get carried away). Lovely lunch was had in Yo Sushi, where they have introduced a little thing called Blue Mondays. This means that all plates on the belt are colour blue, meaning that you can have your heart's desire that costs so much more usually, for only £2.20 a pop!

Haunch of Venison is currently housing Glasnost until the 26th of June (free entry!), a collection by Soviet non-conformist artists from the 1980s. Inspiring, thoughful and often comical (jokes being a favourite tool of dissent) the exibition spanned two floors and more than a decade of subversive and later nationally and internationally accepted and celebrated art. For me, as a Hungarian, it was particularly fascinating to see the criticism aimed at the system whose last death-throes I lived to witness firsthand, even though, at the time, I was not aware of what was actually really happening, having only the vague impressions of childhood. The Haunch of Venison is also housing exhibitions by Rina Banerjee, Forever Foreign and Spun by Thomas Hetherwick, both until the 15th of May.

To defy the despicable May weather, we had coffee in the Royal Academy of Arts, and we stumbled upon a lovely one-room show of photographs of old and new London. A heart-warmer to all admirers of this great city, hidden and not-so-hidden spots are shown on shots taken in the 1870s and 1880s standing as charming and beautifully dreamy reminders of what should be preserved and cherished about this glorious metropolis.

All in all, I have successfully avoided Monday-gloom and the oh-crap-it's-an-other-week blues. A great receipt for everyone!  

Apologies ...

... for not being in touch much. The thesis is taking up most of my life, and even though I am somewhat in S-n-M love with the British Library, it is still a time and energy consuming bitch. I do regularly culturate myself, however the two exibitions I've recently been to were closing on the day of my visit, so I did not see much point of reporting it here and consequently making you terribly sad that you couldn't go. On the weekend, despite the promised ridiculous amount of sunshine, possibilities of getting a tan and a beer in the park, I will continue to get fucked upwards and sideways by academia. But alas, there is hope! I may get so bored that I will be so much in need of procrastination that you will, yet again, be able to enjoy my miserable ranting! 

Orphans' Easter

There is a delightful tradition in Hungary originating in the countryside that on Easter Monday the boys come to the houses of the single girls and they 'water' them to presumably make them cleaner (?) or more attractive (?) so as to help them find themselves a man, while chanting some little poem to speed up this process. The girls, in exchange, give the boy brightly painted eggs. Of course modernity and city-life has considerably altered this little custom. Now it is more often than not cheap perfume that is sprinkled, leaving you stinking to high heavens at the end of the day if you are not careful. It is possible that instead of eggs the boys are given money(!); how terrible is that? And the poems have gradually transformed from cute, into flirty to outright offending sometimes. But no matter how much modern times have altered the habits of Easter Monday, today I am definitely longing for them. To eat ham, hard-boiled egg and horseradish sauce with the family! To wake up to my father mischievously sneaking into my room and soaking me in my own bed and then cook for the boys, family members or friends, who trickle in during the day for a bite, a painted egg and to see my sister and I standing in front of them, in raincoats, prepared for the screaming and the shower to begin.

All I want is a bucket of water to stick my head in this hangover Monday morning. Friday's housewarming was a success, we managed to not piss off any neighbours and friends from all parts of my life seem to bond with each other and with M. I just let about two hectoliters of beer somehow trickle down my throat, so I just sat in the corner lovingly and sentimentally admiring all this bonding. Saturday, M and I started exploring our territory, marking it not (necessarily) with urine samples, but with the (non-) memories of alcohol fueled nights. First on the list was the two centrally located, non-paying Camden establishments, the World's End and the Camden Eye. Cool-randomer numero uno of the night was the old dude who, out of his numerous fanny-packs, was selling cigarettes for 4 quid and tiny bottles of vodka for 3. Or lighters if that was what you wanted, and I am sure that wasn't the whole extent of the contents he carried around, just to make you the deal of your life. Cool-randomer numero dos was the guy dressed in black with large circles of make up around his eyes, from Glasgow. Surprisingly we did manage to understand him, and he shared with us the reason for his celebration, as around supper-time he managed to bump into Pete Doherty and was extremely excited about that. On this note I gotta say, maybe his story left such an imprint on my mind that I could've sworn I also saw PD from the bus the next day jumping into a cab with two other people. Anyway, the PD fan from Glasgow decided to hug it out with M, he kept saying that we are such good people and extensively wishing M good luck on his start in London. I think M was just simply over excited about his first drunken chat in London. Well, I understand. The dude was fun. 

Hoping for a quiet night in, because I was aiming to go to the library the next day, I laid low, trying not to arouse the attention of anyone who might want to party. This of course shot to hell, when a friend appeared with a bottle of vodka, which I of course topped up with an other one, and we proceeded to have a raging night in Proud, the hip-hop, tip-top club, Camden's belle-de-jour. The two main rooms contain different and ever-changing music styles, but if you want to drink yourself silly before hopping on the dancefloor you can do that in the stable boxes located all the way to the terrace kept up for the crazy smokers. Really great place, will be returning soon. 

And now, for your viewing pleasure the photo of the day

Must do tomorrow

Unfortunately, my habit of leaving everything to the last minute is clearly noticeable on this blog. Just as with Crash, where I arrived breathless on the very last day of exhibition, I got to the British Museum, the day before the last of the Revolution on Paper. Apologies, but it is a must see exhibition, so drop everything on your all-too-hated Monday, and take a walk through the wonderfully funny and socio-politically insightful prints from the early 20th century Mexico. 

Ok, there is a slight possibility that I might be a bit bias about this exhibit. Having lived in Mexico for three months, it is only natural that I may feel a deeper connection with the contents of the prints. I highly doubt, for example, that anybody would feel the sort of piss-myself excitement of looking at a nude sketch of Dolores Olmedo by Diego Rivera, had you not wondered her beautiful gardens with peacocks, house-galleries filled with a unique and magnificent collection of works by Frida Kahlo and Rivera and played with the almost-extinct Xolo dogs (that are bald!) in the shade of the maguey cactuses. Or looking at fragement sketches of Orozco's murals, and feeling the pangs of acutely tear-jerking nostalgia, recalling standing in front of and admiring the full mural of Omniscence, stretching two stories, at the Casa de los Azulejos in the heart of Mexico DF. 

But even if you don't possess this over the top sentimental attachment to the country, it is nevertheless worth inspecting a nation's struggle for independence from the point of view of shrewd visual commentary. It is also the most extensive such exhibition ever put on in the UK, and you can discover such 20th century art-celebrities as 'Emiliano Zapata and his horse' by Diego Rivera, or observe the ever-present relevance of criticism of capitalist media control, or the Churches fight against secularism and its bullying of indigenous cultures into mix-and-matching local and Catholic religion.

Emiliano Zapata and his horse, Diego Rivera, 1932, lithograph © 2009, Banco de Mexico Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, Mexico D.F. / DACSFair enough, you don't really have to 'discover' this one, it is the first thing you see as you walk into Room 90. It's good it doesn't poke your eyes out.

 

José Chávez Morado (1909 - 2002)

The Laughter of the Public - away with your nonsense

1939, Lithograph

A gachupín commonly refers to an immigrant especially a Spaniard in Mexico. The gachupín here is tooting the horn of 'Free Press', which, according to the little limerick on the side is 'Is neither free and is neither press', it is essentially a mouthpiece for pro-fascist propaganda. 

José Chávez Morado (1909 - 2002)

Symbiosis, c1940, Lithograph

A beautifully simple representation of a painfully complicated and sensitive subject. The Christianization of the indigenous population in Mexico was a forceful and sometimes violent process. It is very interesting to see how not only Christian churches were built upon the ruins of destroyed sanctuaries of the natives, but how Christian traditions and the cult of the saints were built on local ceremonies and superstitions. 

Leopoldo Méndez (1902 -1969)

Poltical piñata, 1936, Woodcut

The piñata represents President Plutarco Elias Calles and his Constituional Revolutionary Party, which is represented as a disguise for Capitalism. The worker using the baton marked 'Feliz Año 1936' is cheered on by a group of spectators, showing that the print could have possibly been designed as a holiday card, hoping for the defeat of Calles and Capitalism in the coming year. 

José Guadalupe Posada (1852-1913)

A Skeleton from Guadalajara, 1910

Photo-relief and letterpress

'The word Tapatia in the title is used colloquially in Mexico to describe people from the city of Guadalajara, which is regarded as the city that most fully embodies Mexican identity. The verses, written in the first person, recount the way in which the skeleton has defeated people from other states in fights. The scene is set in a Mexican cantina, a bar traditionally reserved for men, and a likely home for such a macho figure, even if a female skeleton is peering over his shoulder.' (quote: the little tablet next to the print)

Of course I couldn't resist the temptation of purchasing the book (it was half off!!) which contains all the prints and others not included in the exhibit, and extensive history of the era and background on its artists! A treasure for all lovers of Mexico! 

So go ahead and don't do what you are suppose to tomorrow, and enjoy the savvy puns made at the expense of political climate, capitalism, religion and everyday Mexican life, which are not without actuality for today's casual museum-goer and occasional thinker. 

A new-born Londoner and car-porn

Having lived in London on and off for over three years, I have come to realize that I take many things for granted and some essential actions of my day-to-day life have become instinctive rather than conscious decisions. Examples could include the way you hold on the stairs of the double-decker in order to avoid diving headfirst downstairs when the crazy driver is abusing the brakes, or that you refer to things half-hour commuting away as 'in the neighbourhood' and you have long stopped being (or you never really were) amazed by the efficiency and ease of the Oyster card system. So when M arrived on Monday I knew I am in for one of the biggest challenges of becoming a 'Londoner', that is guiding a new-comer in the maze and chaos of this metropolis. 

'I can see the modern dick building. I am outside where are you?' Liverpool Street station was possibly the most harrowing first impression that my incredibly calm and chilled out man could have gotten. 'Why is everybody running?' and why is everybody dressed for a funeral? - could also have been an appropriate question in the heart of the City. Having a newbie around is like watching Bambi learn how to walk. The neighbourhood still consists of the area within walking distance, but it is growing corner by corner, day after day. Maybe next week I can trust him to get on a bus and find his way back? Oh, the worries. 

On an other note, I went on another book-binge, and got the following treasures:

Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami , because I just loved loved Kafka on the Shore, and now my friend has lent me What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, his memoir. Ay, I can't wait for the Murakami overdose! But it will have to wait, because I also have the following works jumping up and down and yelling on my shelves 'read me! read me!': The Piano Teacher by Elfriede Jelinek, The Essential Tales of Chekhov edited by Richard Ford and my current reading material Crash by JG Ballard. 

Being as awesome and horrendous as it is, I had the luck of not only visualizing the disturbingly pornographic images of scrap metal in my head, but see it interpreted by numerous artists at the Gagosian Gallery. The homage to JGB revolved mainly around the many folded visualization of the components of the equation

 

LORIS GRÉAUD

The Future, 2009

Oil on canvas

57 x 41 inches framed (145 x 104 cm)

Oddly enough I did find some of the installations, that at first glance had nothing to do with sex, erotically charged. One of the rooms consisted of 3-4 meter screens showing various massive mechanical constructions operating, and as the metallic sounds filled the space, they slowly and somewhat gracefully made you feel tiny, helpless and fragile. And a little horny. I know this sounds weird and I still don't know if I felt this way, because of my preconceived idea that I should feel this way; because let's face it I was at an exhibition about a man's work whose characters get off on car crashes. Or there is truly something sexually arousing about technology, our helplessness without it and the dangers within it.

DAN HOLDSWORTH
Untitled (Autopia), 1998
Chromogenic print
Diptych: 41 7/8 x 52 3/16 inches each (106.5 x 132.6 cm)
Ed. of 5