A Week of Two Cities...

…plus my beloved adopted hometown for the spring. It seems strange to say, but even as I embark on my travels around Europe—as I did with my brother and two good friends two weeks ago—I feel the tug of Oxford more and more. Perhaps it’s the realization that there is truly nothing like the peaceful thoughtfulness of The City of Dreaming Spires or simply that I miss Alpha Bar, but I can already say I look forward to returning as much as I did to leaving for Easter Break. Hence, when Ben, Drew, and Greg came ‘crost the pond (and before we trekked off to London and Paris), I knew they had to see the place. It puts the latter two cities in perspective in the same way that your dad’s dusty record collection shows up your shiny new iPod. Of course, I don’t mean to suggest that Oxford isn’t young and hip or that London and Paris are “new”—it’s a college town after all and to vaguely suggest that the other cities have “histories” is a criminal understatement—but rather that a backdrop of wisdom quietly permeates the city so as to render said youth part of something far grander than themselves. This idea really hit me whilst standing on top of Carfax Tower with my three hombres, watching (small) people stroll among Oxford’s streets and looking out to the countryside in the distance (photo below). Talk about a sense of place.

Now, surprisingly (to myself at least), as much as I love Oxford, I’ve come to appreciate London as well. True, it is oddly new—from all the rebuilding after The Blitz—but when you get down to it, London’s history is more robust than a British meat and potatoes pie. To extend the metaphor, once you get past the clean ceramic encasement (a.k.a. Soho, Piccadilly, Trafalgar Square) and under the crust that hints of what’s inside (a.k.a. Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament), the city’s core is quite filling. Take, for instance, Westminster Abbey. Sure, you can whiz by on a tour bus and snap a quick photo, but to get inside (as us four intrepid bros did for an evening service) is to really feel the purpose of such a beautiful church. Indeed, hearing ancient Gregorian chant while scanning the lit arches and statues up high in the Abbey provides a kind of resonance between music and design in which each enhances the other.

Hence, building on this feeling—and for a modern comparison of such resonance—we then took in a performance by Kilford (“the music painter”) later that night at The Social—a small venue north of Soho—which also leads us to an interesting discussion of value. For background: Kilford performs alongside musicians as they play live, painting Jackson Pollack-style art while the band next to him jams (see photo below). Now, some may say that what he does is meaningless, since anyone—even a third-grader—could finger paint while gyrating to rhythms and shaking one’s head. Indeed, if one sees an activity that one feels he can do, this line of thought goes, how is that activity impressive in any sense, and moreover, why is it even worth taking in? Yet I fear this places value in the arena of purpose (focusing on why we do things) that opens one up to a slippery slope of exhaustion. For if we live to be impressed (or impress others), then one loses precisely what makes art and human activity progressive and valuable (namely influencing and affecting others through dialogue beyond language), since one always has this simple rebuttal to any potentially “impressive” act: “I’ve seen that before.” On the other hand, if we live to be curious, to provide balanced assessment of experience or to pause and think, then one can find Kilford’s work unique and special at the very least for its ingenuity in coupling art with music. Although I admit that his work doesn’t strike me—as neither do red squares or most other obscure “modern” art pieces—it is undeniable that watching a band and a painter work at the same time truly sets the contrast between the fleeting and the residual in art. Indeed, music is ephemeral in a way—there and gone, yet always trapping one in the moment of melody—whereas visual arts are cumulative and process-oriented. I’m sure there’s much more to this concept (and I’ll have to do some research), but Kilford really puts it in perspective—there’s that word again.

But enough with philosophy and aesthetics and such (may I suggest Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance if you are so intrigued) and back to Londontown. Above I wrote that the city’s history is quite filling, and although I won’t provide a full meal, let me give you one of my favorite tastes, from the MI-5 file titled “Break-ins to Buckingham Palace”: The Michael Fagan Incident. Back in 1982, Fagan, a drunk, was sleeping in Hyde Park outside the palace and it began to rain. Looking for cover, the 32-year-old picked the Palace of all places for his shelter, and upon breaking in he promptly set off every alarm in the building. However, the security guard on duty mistook the wailing sirens for a false alarm (since how could a single break-in set off every alarm in the building?) and promptly shut off the Palace’s security system. Fagan thus had free rein in the Palace and, as a drunk among royalty would do, made the most of it—sitting on the throne, sampling wine in the cellar, and having a smoke during which he managed to break an ashtray and lacerate his hand. Fagan then stumbled, bleeding, into the Queen’s bedroom, waking Her Majesty who phoned the police twice (twice!) to no response. Unbelievably, it was only when Fagan asked for some cigarettes and a maid came to provide them (at the request of the Queen, who was having a pleasant conversation with the bleeding man at the foot of her bed) that security responded. And since it is a civil wrong rather than criminal offense to break in to the Palace, Fagan was only charged for theft of half a bottle of wine and not trespassing on THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND’S BEDROOM. Pictured below are Her Majesty and Fagan, of whom the latter’s mother said: "He thinks so much of the Queen. I can imagine him just wanting to simply talk and say hello and discuss his problems." That’s all well and good, but the amazing part is that QE2 met his desire. Must be the grace of royalty, even under pressure.

Now if that’s some of London’s more tasty meat—in the historical sense—there’s also plenty of current potatoes if you just let yourself wander. For instance, one afternoon, the four of us stumbled upon Denmark Street. Or rather the four of us stumbled upon musician’s heaven—an entire street devoted to instrument shops (used and new), record stores, jazz and rock clubs, and all accessed through a small alleyway past tattoo parlors and recording studios (photos below). Moreover, after browsing the shops one day, we returned the next to try out a few choice instruments—my favorite was a beautiful cherry red 1960 Gibson ES-355 (photo below). Hey, I can dream, can’t I?

Then it was Chunnel time: off to Paris. Did the usual tourist things (Notre Dame, the Mona Lisa *with surrounding sea of people*, both pictured below), yet the Pont des Arts (Artist’s Bridge) is perhaps one of the city’s best-kept secrets. Just west of Notre Dame, the Bridge is the gathering spot for bubble-blowers, painters and musicians of all sorts. And as breathtaking as Notre Dame and The Louvre are in their static grandeur (and Oxfordian in that sense), the live creative activity of Pont des Arts contains a sense of present reality that the others lack. Still, for a fusion of both, watch Man on Wire. That, or just go here at 35 seconds: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EIawNRm9NWM&feature=PlayList&p=AC84B1BD00506B2D&playnext_from=PL&playnext=1&index=87

Finally, to round out the week—and after doin’ Oxford, London and Paris—brosef and myself then returned to the U.K. and to the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club for a sibling rivalry match that would put the Williams sisters to shame (I wish—Centre Court at Wimbledon is THE venue in all of tennis). Of course, when I say rivalry match I mean a very pleasant guided tour, which also included a glimpse at the men’s singles’ trophy (freshly engraved, see photo below) as well as the finalists’ shoes and—if you’re Roger Federer—full kingly suit (a bit over the top, no?) But I love shoes, not afraid to admit it, and between King RF’s, A-Rodd and Serena’s I must say that Fed’s take the cake—even though Nike seems big on gold texts and logos with both their champion sponsorees. As for A-Rodd, I’ll say simply that the Michelin Man is for tires. Babolat, which makes bomb racquets, could certainly do better.

I’m posting a two-in one today, so make sure to also check out Boas Ondas above.

Salut mes amis!

-Nick