Saturday, it’s around 2pm, this is where on average I often find myself with sore feet. Normally around the heel area and the ball of the foot, this appears to happen whenever I visit museums. I have a strange relationship with these historical vaults of beauty, insight and knowledge. One part of me adores everything about them, with the affair starting outside, as almost all of these grand buildings could very easily in fact, be mistaken as a royal residency. Such fantastical buildings with equally fantastic contents, and the smell, which is only comparable to that of a dusty bookshelf or a cute little church in a village like Plymstock. However do not be fooled, for this love affair is a highly turbulent one, and very much a favorite subject of mine when at dinner parties with Guardian and Daily Mail readers (I like to mix it up). Although I love to grace the fantastic halls and have my mind, soak up the endless knowledge that is so freely available, I almost always leave with sore toes, a hungry stomach and a slight pain in my heart. The ache is not one of disappointment or regretting that I had skipped my Weatabix, but a pain that is born out of anger, I leave with hate, for there is an internal battle taking place inside me. A conflict that will never be resolved.
The museums and parks are graveyards above the ground- congealed memories of the past that act as a pretext for reality.
I used to believe that the museum, along with its gallery counterpart, was the perfect 3rd date arena. Providing you ignore me on a Sunday or Monday morning before 11am
, I’m a fairly smart chap. This becomes more apparent when I’m escorting a female round said halls that I am far too well reheresed in. Thanks to my spouts of singleness and lack of football watching enjoyment, you would almost always find me in the V&A on a Saturday morning
sporting a pair of those timelessly fashionable headsets, that cost £5. Which I might add, if you are prone to individual outings to galleries and the such, are certainly worth it, they tell you lots of Interesting date fodder. I might also add that the daytime date, if you’ve not managed to woo said target, is a clear winner, providing of course that you’re actually an interesting person, otherwise a nighttime drinking session is a fare choice, as drunkenness can often result in a “he’ll do”
situation. I have however noticed a trend with all of my museum dates, to date. When we leave, I have the exact same conversation with them, whereby I express this love hate relationship that I feel so passionately about. After which, depending on the character of the date, will determine if a 4th is around the corner, it almost always, isn’t.
I went to the museum where they had all the heads and arms from the statues that are in all the other museums.
One of the best and greatest bits of factual information, that I have ever read, is that somewhere, buried deep in the catacombs of the Vatican secret chambers, is a sealed box. War, natural disaster, nuking a painting because it’s haunted by Vigo the Carpathian
; there are all sorts of regrettable, but perfectly legitimate reasons why valuable art has been lost to the world. But sometimes, there is no good reason, and what makes this even worse is that sometimes (yes sometimes)
, the very vandals are in fact the sworn protectors of the innocent and precious. In ancient Greece, Rome and essentially all of Europe, way up till the 1500s, public nudity was a fact of life. A dirty, sexy fact of life, mmmm! So if nudity was so great to these chaps, walking around with their wangs out, why are so many of these statues missing their most valuable/comical parts? Why are there fig leaves on their crotches, a fashion choice that defies both logic and physics? In the 19th century Pope Pius IX whacked off (figuratively speaking)
a whole array of stone cocks, put them all in a box, and locked them away, so that they would not corrupt the minds of the citizens. Personally, up until ever being graced with this superb knowledge, I have had no intention of ever going to the Vatican, however how wonderful would it be, to say; “somewhere beneath this magnificently beautiful holy palace, there’s a giant sealed box, rammed with clay cocks!?
I love the escapism and the fact that by living in one of the worlds greatest cites, London. I have access to such a wealth of knowledge. Yet I cant help but feel sad, regretful and angry, as during our imperialistic age, we raped of all the most interesting things from nations all over the world. I have never had the pleasure of walking through the tombs of Egypt, but whenever I think of it, I imagine a lot of empty space where exotic objects once stood, and belonged. That upsets me greatly, nevertheless I love that the common man can visit these priceless artifacts because they’re in his local museum. It most certainly is a theft of a beautiful convenience, and I will never decide how I truly feel about museums, but perhaps by simply visiting the places where the artifacts came from, this would help to restore my faith.