School

In case anyone was wondering, I take classes at the Institute of Contemporary Arts, which is sort of fantastic when you acknowledge the fact that this place launched Jackson Pollack, Pop Art, Optical Art, and several influential contemporary artists in the BritArt scene, i.e. Damien Hirst. While you can debate the quality and significance of those artist-movements, it's hard to deny their popularity. Some of their claims strike me as lofty. I'm skeptical of the claim the ICA posseses the heartbeat of artistic trends, but I do admit the people here have a good sense of what to put their label on.

ICA is housed in Nash House, which, like everything else in England, has a fantastic history. It was originally going to be a palace for a up-and-coming prince, but he was made King before he ever had the chance to inhabit it. I've forgotten which one. It's situated on the Mall (which is the ceremonial road leading up to Buckingham palace), right next to the Duke of York steps, and the neighborhood is rich with sights. St. James Park, right across the way, is a wonderful spot to take lunch, but they charge you two pounds to sit in a chair. (The British are perfectly comfortable with being charged for anything and everything above the bare essentials).

I have three classes, Theatre in London, Art and History of London, and Advanced Playwriting. The third class is the primary reason I'm here -- the first two are just a nice to chance to visit all (some) of the galleries and shows in London. London's West End and Fringe are vibrant. I would say moreso than Broadway and off-Broadway in New York, but that is only because, culturally, the British are more accepting of traditional theatre (not to say there isn't a fair number of musicals going on in mainstream theatres -- all the usual offenders, Les Mis, Avenue Q, Spamalot, et cetera).

My playwriting class has been really phenomenol so far. It's a great return to foundations -- with a lot more practice then I ever had before. The single defining feature of school this semester is an increased workload, which is exciting, what with visible improvement each class period.

Also, before I forget, they have something called 'tutorials' in the British education system. Essentially, every student is expected to meet with the instructor every week or so for about a half an hour for one-on-one guidance and instruction. I'm told that is just the way it's done here, and not just a feature of our course. I haven't had my first meeting yet, but I'm looking forward to it, despite a little apprehension (our instructor, while brilliant, is a little blunt).

The other exciting part about this program is that Tisch (my college back in New York) only sends a total of 32 students (16 actors, 8 playwrights, and 8 BBC students). Although actor's can be obnoxious at times (the general consensus is that for every bit of confidence stripped away in class, their confidence outside of class doubles) it's enjoyable to finally interact with that side of the program. Back at Tisch, for example, actors and film students cross paths much less frequently then you'd think.

When we finish our plays, we'll cast actors from their program to do staged readings of them. Should be all right.

The Bard

I always feel terrible for Ben Johnson and Christopher Marlowe -- both fantastic poets and dramatists in their own right -- who had the unfortunate luck of being alive in the same century as Shakespeare.

I've already had two occasions to visit the Globe, the recreation of Shakespeare's second, but most popular, outdoor theater. The first occasion was, on a warm, dry evening, to see A Midsummer's Night Dream, and the second occasion was to see Timon of Athens, on a blustery, damp afternoon. The first was to see one of the most popular, most oft preformed Shakespearean comedy, and the second a chance to see what many scholars consider to be a first draft (it was never performed in Shakespeare's lifetime, presumably abandoned prior to completion). Both experiences were phenomenal in their own right.

To simulate the original experience, one can either purchase a balcony ticket (months in advance for an outrageous price) or purchase a standing, ground level ticket for five pounds. Needless to say, I chose the role of a peasant -- although after three hours on my feet I can see the benefits afforded to the noble or wealthy merchant. For many of my peers, most of which are actors taking a Shakespeare intensive at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, the experience was life altering. My experience was nearly life altering as well -- Timon ran so long I still have the sniffles.

Joking aside, in a city increasingly dominated by musical theatre, it's nice to see a successful company performing challenging work even if the surroundings remind one of a theme park.

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,

For no man well of such a salve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.

Funny Farm

The course of a London afternoon runs smoother than the New York equivalent primarily because of the sense of humor of its inhabitants. That is to say, events which generally raise alarm in the United States seem to roll of the backs of British no holds barred.

Early on we took a guided bus tour of the City of London (as opposed to the City of Westminster). There were a few snags over the course: for one, the air conditioners stopped working, the driver took us, perilously, down several one-way streets, and the guide encouraged us to take pictures of Saint Paul's Cathedral from the middle of a busy avenue (her advice: "Just hurry!"). The rising heat and thinning oxygen was met with, "It's no worse than menopause!", and when our coach clogged up that side street, face to face with a dozen honking black cabs, she rebuffed: "My, my -- they're getting horny!"

In short, at times it can be difficult to take this culture seriously. With names like Piccadilly and Paddington, a history of leaders especially concerned with the size of their cod pieces (Henry VIII), a high ratio of ceremonial declarations to every piece of practical legislation, and very few written laws -- well, it's safe to say, despite once being the largest empire on the planet, this little island nation does have a fair number of things to laugh at.

Meanwhile, everything smacks of ceremony. On one hand, everything in this ancient civilization sits upon a mountain of history and insists a connection to eternity, but, on the the other, there social order retains a sense of temporariness as well. The monarchy, for example, though entirely ceremonial, retains the ability to disband the real government at a moment's notice. And the government, from time to time, circulates a poll questioning just how attached Britain's average citizen is to Her Majesty the Queen. There's no written constitution -- everyone would rather muck through thousands of years of historical precedent. And there's just enough mishaps to keep things interesting: the Millennium Bridge (circa 2001) was constructed without a thorough test of its stability, and instead of rigging up its support the community renamed it The Wobbly Bridge. I'm getting used to a country where a good joke ends a discussion without addressing the problem.

In all honesty, the method seems to be working fine.

London Impromtu

The occasion to start this travelogue is rooted in two purposes: first and foremost, I should desire greatly to share my experiences with a living audience, and secondly, and with a heightened degree of self-interest, I intend, by composing the experience of the senses, thoroughly and in written prose, to solidify memory and cast light into the otherwise murky depths of the unreflected journey. Such sentiments are ripe here in the bright gray murk of the London where I reside, not yet come forth from a haze of jet lag and new orientations. The damp, chilly mornings are the perfect panacea to the sweaty Brooklyn summer; the black and orange of New York submits to the black and pale of London.