Yesterday I walked around half of central London in search of my friend H and Tag: a combination of my assumption it was at Sadler's Wells, when it's actually at the Peacock, and my brain insisting the LSE was really over by IALS, which it's just not. But hey – I got to go walking!
TAG - me vs the city – I am toying with the idea of writing an email to the creator, so I may post more in the future, but in brief: wow. Physically stunning, and beautifully choreographed. Amazing – and well used – set and did I mention the sheer virtuoso skill of the dancers? But a nagging feeling throughout that I was missing things – about the piece, about the dance, about the music – I suspect some of the words I didn't get were names? I'm very glad I saw it, but I'm not 100% sure yet what my reaction is, if that makes sense. The post show talk was interesting, and very interactive, but I still don't think I've processed my reaction.
Today - meeting up with a friend, C, who is over from Washington, along with his brother and a friend of the brother's. St Paul's for the best approach to Tate Modern – and it's freezing out there, but such a cold clear night the moon above St Paul's was just breath taking, and you could actually see stars from the middle of the millennium bridge. Wandered around the Tate Modern, before heading down river a little for dinner, thanks to the gallery's positively civilised opening hours – the giant white cube installation is *fun* - it's crying out to be touched and climbed, whatever the signs say, and impressive in person in a way the pictures I've seen totally failed to bring across (a bit like the Big Red Thing which is still my favourite ever use of that space)
The Poetry and Dreams gallery had some beautiful pieces and some that, did nothing for me. Hits for me included a Fini! Unfortunately hung a little high, IMO, as it's such a dark, detailed piece. I'm made even more happy because I stopped and was captured by the picture before I saw who it was by. There's a little tiny Henry Moore that I wanted to pick up and touch, Dadaville, which is incredibly tactile, and I thought for a second, something by Cathy De Monchaux, which was actually this piece by Trevelyan. I'm trying to remember if I've ever heard her cite him as an influence. Tucked away in a corner room is a whole bank of archive boxes, by Susan Hiller, which juxtapose fragments and photocopies, collections and creations, casually slipping in realities and periods under the cloak of the brief evocative prose of a catalogue record. I could spend a lot of time in there plotting narratives to thread the pieces together.