another shot

The ongoing gloomy weather has me thinking about my six month stint in London. I spent the majority of the time working as a bar girl for an Irish pub down the street from Kensington Palace. I had a lot of adventures, and I worked my butt off for tips, but one story came to mind recently that I wanted to share. It makes me smile every time I think of it.

I usually worked in the pub six days a week, so on the rare day off I tried to see as much of the city as possible. Sometimes, I went to tourist sites and museums; other times, I went with my boyfriend at the time to sit in cafes of different districts to people watch. One of my very favorite spots was the Tate Gallery, which features modern art. At the time, there were very strict rules banning visitors from taking pictures of the artwork, so I spent a lot of my hard earned money buying postcards in the gift shop.

On my third visit to the museum, however, I simply couldn't resist any longer. I just HAD to have a photo of myself in front of a sculpture called The Kiss by A. Rodin. I even planned it out, and asked a stranger to collude with me: we'd wait until the guard was on the other side of the marble hall, I'd squat down in front of the sculpture, and she'd snap my photo (keep in mind these were the days before digital cameras), thereby forever imprinting my image with that of Rodin's figures making out.

And so it was that the guard headed over to the visiting exhibit, I perched myself along the base of the sculpture, and the young college-aged girl took a picture. Just then, another guard rounded the corner and yelled out, "Hey!" (or maybe "Oi!" or some other more British expression... I don't remember) Regardless, in our panic, she handed me my camera and we took off in opposite directions. Thinking of it now, the guard would have just told us not to take any more pictures, but at the time I think I was convinced I'd be kicked out or have my camera confiscated.

Either way, karma came around. I got my photos back from the local Boots (the Brits' version of Walgreens), eager to see how the forbidden photo had turned out. I had to look through the entire set twice before realizing: she'd focused entirely on me and had cut off the heads of the sculpture! It looked like she had taken it on her knees, looking up toward the sky lights, and the flash illuminated only my face while the figures were in shadow. I laughed and laughed in the aisle of Boots, and decided I'd just buy a nice print from the gift shop (which I did, and have it framed in my room).

And, like many other blogs I write, I have one more story to add. About five years after the Headless Sculpture Incident, I returned to London with my mother, who had not had the chance to see the city when I'd lived there. When we went to visit, however, London was in the midst of renovations for an upcoming event (anyone remember EXPO 2000?), so she didn't get to see the full beauty of places like St. Paul's Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, and whole sections of the British Museum. She knew how much I wanted to return to the Tate (and get another shot of myself with The Kiss), and agreed to go despite a distinct lack of appreciation for "that modern stuff." When we got there, I searched in vain for "my" sculpture. I was sure that the curators would not have removed it, so I asked the nearest guard.

"Oh, you must have walked right past it," he replied, "you can't miss it." I assured him that I knew the piece and could not have passed it unknowingly. He beckoned for me to follow him, then stopped in the middle of a room devoid of any decoration besides what looked like a giant ball of rope. Pointing to said ball, he said, "There."

Arrrgh! Some crazy postmodernist had wrapped my beloved sculpture in rope and deemed it "art."

Dang it.