From Wheeling to Westminster

Yesterday morning, I dreamed that the school where I work decided I need to learn to snow ski. It's a relatively wealthy school and many of the students ski, and they felt I needed to better fit into the culture. So for professional development they decided to send me to Wheeling, West Virginia, to learn to ski. I remember thinking, "Wheeling? Is there even a mountain there?" I mean, why not Switzerland or the French Alps? I was distinctly disappointed in the destination and also a bit worried about trying to get on skis for the first time at almost 60 years old. I planned to use the children's ski runs, because I had no enthusiasm at all for breaking a limb.

And then I woke up and realized with great relief that I didn't have to learn to ski or go to Wheeling (where I have admittedly never been and it may be a perfectly nice place).

I spent the morning in the garden, sitting out with the dog and reading despite the fact that the temperature was something like 50º F. (Not that warm.) It got much more comfortable fairly quickly, though. Our camassia lilies are blooming (above) and every day the garden's growth is more lush and the flowers more abundant.

Olga went with her dog-walker at about 11:30 and I decided to go to the Tate Britain, where I hadn't been in ages. There's an exhibit of British photography from the 1980s that I wanted to see. Also, a few years back the museum re-hung its collection -- an effort that not everyone appreciated -- and I was curious to see what it looks like now.

The photography show was interesting, particularly the earlier rooms devoted to photojournalism about the strikes and economic turmoil of those years. I took a few photos of the photos but I don't feel I can post them, given copyright laws. My favorites included some of Tish Murtha's work from Newcastle in 1981. There was also an emphasis on the use of photography by British black and/or female and/or queer artists in developing and exploring their individual identities and communities.

Then I went to the member's room under the museum's central rotunda and had coffee and carrot cake. That was the view from my table, above.

In the permanent collection I visited "Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose" by John Singer Sargent (on the right above), one of my favorites. It now shares a corner with works by, from left, Herbert Draper, Annie Louisa Swynnerton (top) and Henry Scott Tuke, famous for his paintings of naked teen boys bathing in the waters around Cornwall.

I tried to find Gerald Brockhurst's portrait of Margaret, Duchess of Argyll, also a favorite of mine, but Margaret has apparently been relegated to a storage closet somewhere as she is no longer on display. I suppose being known primarily for sexual scandals and aristocratic incompetence no longer entitles one to a position at the Tate.

Of course John Everett Millais' "Ophelia" is still on display, as well as Henry Wallis' "Death of Chatterton" (top right).

This 1920s painting by Frederick Cayley Robinson jumped out at me for its unusual sunset color scheme, softly glowing lantern and old-fashioned pastoral theme rendered in a contemporary style. (Those white marks at the top of the image are reflections from the painting's protective glass.)

I left the museum in mid-afternoon and walked back to the tube through Millbank and past the Houses of Parliament. I was passing Westminster Abbey when I heard someone yell "Steve!" and turned to find one of my co-workers there with one of her daughters and some friends. I told her, "Now I know I've lived in London a long time, when I run into random people I know at Westminster Abbey!" We sent Dave a selfie so he could appreciate the chance meeting.