artWhen I was at the London Zoo with my mom, we saw a large marsh bird flying free, trying to steal fish from the penguin tank. I thought it was a heron, but my mom thought it might be some sort of crane. Whatever the species, we were astonished to see such an animal flying free. We have herons in Baltimore, (the Great Blue Heron is on the Maryland license plate,) but they are rare, particularly in an urban setting. We eventually asked the zookeeper who was feeding the penguins to identify the bird, and he stared at us as if we had just asked about a pigeon or a starveling.
“It’s a heron,” he informed us.
An elderly woman who had been escorting what I assumed was her granddaughter around the zoo interjected, “It’s actually a young heron, when they’re older they develop more pronounced feathers on their head, isn’t that right?” The zookeeper concurred, and then continued to tend to the penguins.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” asked the grandmother, not unkindly. “No,” my mother said, “we’re from America.” “Ah,” the woman said, as if that explained everything. It’s funny, I’d always assumed that my accent would be a dead give away when it came to nationality, but apparently my ornithological ignorance is also a sure indicator.
After two weeks here, however, I’ve begun to feel more comfortable. There are times when I forget I’m in another country, feeling only as if I’m attending a different school in the States. There is no language barrier, and I don’t notice the accents any more, though I have to remind myself not to slip into a faux British accent when I’m mocking something. I dropped my mother off at Heathrow yesterday and then spent the rest of the day in my dorm room, tidying up and reading the New Yorker that had just arrived via airmail. I emerged only in the evening to buy groceries, crossing the bridge to go to a larger grocery store, hoping things might be cheaper there then at the convenience stores located on my side of the river. It was, but they still didn’t have ground cinnamon.
After a couple of days like that you can forget that you’re in England. Then, every now and again, you stub you’re toe against a particular event, and all of sudden you remember. Last night I got mocked for referring to French fries and cookies, and was informed that the correct terms were “chips” and “biscuits.” Today my flatmates expressed a mixture of curiosity and revulsion as I baked a butternut squash that I found in a farmer’s market.
“Did you buy that here?” one of them asked incredulously, as if such delicacies had to be imported from across the Atlantic. Because most of my interactions with my flatmates occur in the kitchen, cultural differences express themselves in mostly culinary terms. There is also a TV in the kitchen, however, and today I witnessed two rugby-playing jocks sit riveted to the TV screen as they watched the darts world championship. And they mocked me for eating squash.
Today was a little more active than yesterday. Other than preparing squash, I went to the National Portrait Gallery with another exchange student, an American Studies major from Wellesley who was here to study film. It was a gorgeous day, mild with a blue sky, and we decided to walk over. The tube fairs are so high as to be almost punitive, it’s about three dollars (One pound fifty, the exchange rate is murderous) for a single trip one way, and that’s the reduced price! I had just received a pedometer for my birthday and was hoping to measure the number of steps from my door to the National Portrait Gallery, but the conversation was so engaging that I forgot to check.
The National Portrait Gallery is a free museum, but we decided to pay to see the special exhibition: a show about self-portraits through the ages. I was anxious that a show on self-portraiture might get a little dull, but the exhibit was fabulous. The portraits spanned from the Renaissance to the present day. There were fifty-six portraits in all, organized chronologically, but there were blurbs linking portraits from different time periods thematically. Some of my favorite artists were there, including Hogarth, Van Eyck, and Leyster. Self-portraits interest me, because you have to have a certain amount of vanity to paint yourself.
Did these people really look like that? I often wonder. You read the tag of a painting where the subject looks to be in their early twenties and then realize it was painted when the artist was in their fifties. There were several nude self-portraits, and I wondered what it would be like to face your friends and family after displaying such a painting. Artist’s models have the excuse of getting paid to sit naked, but to willingly display your naked self to the world shows a mixture of guts and ego that fascinates me. Then again, I suppose a blog where I do nothing but write about myself isn’t too far off from self-portraiture. Both tacitly assume that other people care about either your likeness or your experiences; that you are in some way interesting or important. I’ll try my best. All I can say is I promise never to display myself nude on this website.
After the self portraits, we decided to check out the 19th century portraits. I was amazed to discover Cassandra Austen’s portrait of her sister Jane was there. I’m used to seeing it blown up to cover the front of novels, but it’s surprisingly small in real life. It’s on a page from Cassandra’s sketchbook, which isn’t as hardy as the other canvases that line the walls, so they have to keep it in a special case. Tomorrow is my first day of class and I’m starting off with a course called “Jane Austen in Context,” so to stumble across her portrait felt like a good omen. In the same room with her is Mary Wollstonecraft Shelly, who is accompanied by her husband, Percy Bysshe Shelly, and her parents William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft, who is another one of my personal heroes. I thought it was sweet that the entire family got to hang together, but it made me realize what a small world the radical intellectual circle must have been back then.
We made a detour downstairs to find the Bronte sisters, who had a group portrait hanging which had been painted by their brother, as well as individual paintings of Charlotte and Emily. They’re on the wall next to Dickens. My lust for nineteenth century British authors satisfied, it was time to head out. My viewing companion had to go to the library in order to get reading done (her classes had started last week, I find the schedule here very confusing), but I stopped off in the gift shop to buy a Jane Austen post card for my friend back home, meaning I ended up walking back to campus by myself.
It was about four thirty and the sun was just setting. I had forgot to check during my visit what one needed to do in order to have a portrait hung in the National Portrait Gallery. I thought originally that one had to be British, but portraits of Stephen Spielberg and Marlene Dietrich contradicted that assumption. On my way back I imagined a future for myself that culminated in my likeness being hung on the wall. I couldn’t actually imagine what I would do to achieve such stature, but I saw the painting clearly. My faults would all be slightly touched up, but you could still tell it was me hanging there. Visitors would come and go. Some would be eager schoolgirls who came solely to pay me homage, others would have to check the label to figure out who I was.
“Who’s that?” a bored man would ask his wife,
“That’s Sarah Berkowitz,” the wife would say, sighing at his ignorance, “you know, the woman who…” Who what? Cured cancer? Wrote the great American novel? Won an Oscar? The fantasy falls apart here. One generally has to be accomplished before one can be famous. If you end up famous before you’re accomplished, the result is usually disastrous, i.e. Paris Hilton. I don’t covet such fame for itself, my fantasy appeals to me because it implies that I’ve done something with my life.
I walk back over Waterloo Bridge. There’s an amazing view to the West of Big Ben and Westminster Abbey across the river from the London Eye. Old and new London come together, each illuminated in the now completely dark night.
Under the welcome to Westminster sign. This is directly across the bridge from us.
The National Gallery
This is in Trafalger Square, outside the National Gallery. I just thought it was cute.
