I woke up, if indeed I’d ever really fallen asleep. I shuffled to the bathroom of the spartan hostel room, strongly reminiscent of student digs from the 90’s. I shuffled on the sides of my feet, treading carefully to avoid trailing blood onto the bathroom floor.
Having collected and refreshed myself together as best I could, I made to leave. A mother and daughter squeezed into the closet-sized lift with me, so that my face was inches from her chemically red hair for the entire journey down. As I attempted to plot a route through the lobby, was blocked by several dozen excitable Spanish teenagers. The last thing I needed was more obstacles.
Stepping outside, all seemed serene. Unlike the day before, the streets were bathed in warm spring sunshine. The area was curiously suburban considering its proximity to Central London. There was no sign of the fox I had seen trotting casually across the road the previous evening. I hoped that it was ok. I walked past the pub where I had stopped the night before to grab a swift half and get my bearings; it was clearly closed, but the uncurtained windows allowed the light to stream inside. An empty public house is a peculiar place.
Arriving at the Tube station, I made my way downstairs to the platforms, where there was a constant trickling of water. Not a minor trickle, but a steadily flowing stream. I remembered watching something once that said if TfL weren’t constantly pumping water out of the Underground stations, many of them would likely flood in days. I tried not to think of the giant, coursing Thames just a hundred meters away. I looked at a map to calm myself, but it just sent my mind reeling further. So many destinations, and even more ways to get there. Where did I even want to go, anyway?
I decided on the Tate Modern, on the grounds that it was cavernous, shady, and quiet- all the things I look for in a hangover den. The clunk-clunking tube ride seemed to take forever, but eventually I arrived at my required stop. I exited and walked slowly under the warm sun, shuffling my bruised feet one reluctant step after another in pursuit of a non-alcoholic liquid. As I neared the rear of the Tate, I marvelled at a corner apartment in a nearby block of flats. Three of its walls were completely transparent glass. It wasn’t a huge room, but there was a grand piano next to the window. Who would live in such a place? Either this was someone who was conspicuously rich and wanted everyone to know it, or someone who lived without the slightest shred of self-consciousness whatsoever.
Just as I made my way to the doors, it all became too much for me and I had to take a moment’s respite on an impractical and unergonomic bench. My heart felt as though it was rushing through my chest at a hundred miles an hour, even though my watch showed that it was ticking along normally. ‘Maybe it’s not the pace, but the rhythm’, I thought. I ate a slightly stale danish as I tried to calm my frazzled nerves.
Having temporarily recomposed myself, I entered the gallery. The monumentally empty hall hummed at its usual frequency, and I stopped for a moment to take in its monochrome splendor. Yes, this would do. I played Modern Art by Art Brut, which seemed lazy but logical in the moment.
As I made my way up the escalator, things began to run away from me again. I walked from room to room, but the art seemed to provide too much mental stimulation; the colours too gaudy, the sculptures too physical. I saw Salvador Dali’s lobster phone, and thought for a moment about how closely high art and kitsch intersected. I again sat on an uncomfortable bench in front of some Rothko paintings, but they seemed to exert the same draw as the subway tracks; I felt myself drawn closer and closer, as though I was falling inside the yawning canvas. It was no longer a painting, but a doorway to the abyss. I had to get out.
I resolved to go for a piss, and wondered how much care and thought went into the design of the toilets at an art gallery. Are they a work, or do they just *work*? I recognised that this as an especially fucking pointless line of reasoning, and left.
Outside the bathroom, I found a seat on an accommodating black leather sofa overlooking the main hall. My mind was plowing forward like a derailing steam train; I needed to be physically still for a while. My heart was now thundering in my chest, and I half-wondered whether I would be forced to seek medical attention. Dismissing the thought, I decided to take the notebook out of my inside jacket pocket and began writing in the hope that it would provide the necessary mental ventilation. I struggled to hold the pen between my limp and plodden fingers, but it seemed to provide some short-term relief.
I checked my phone for messages; it was time to leave. I exited through the Thameside entrance, going against the current. My pace was monumentally slow, although it did provide an excellent opportunity for people watching. There was some mercurial, beautiful noises coming from a guy with a reverberating acoustic guitar, but I couldn’t tell whether he was playing a song or just tuning up. I made my way to the Millenium Bridge, and clacked along its metal surface with my shoes. It was altogether all too much.
Having collected and refreshed myself together as best I could, I made to leave. A mother and daughter squeezed into the closet-sized lift with me, so that my face was inches from her chemically red hair for the entire journey down. As I attempted to plot a route through the lobby, was blocked by several dozen excitable Spanish teenagers. The last thing I needed was more obstacles.
Stepping outside, all seemed serene. Unlike the day before, the streets were bathed in warm spring sunshine. The area was curiously suburban considering its proximity to Central London. There was no sign of the fox I had seen trotting casually across the road the previous evening. I hoped that it was ok. I walked past the pub where I had stopped the night before to grab a swift half and get my bearings; it was clearly closed, but the uncurtained windows allowed the light to stream inside. An empty public house is a peculiar place.
Arriving at the Tube station, I made my way downstairs to the platforms, where there was a constant trickling of water. Not a minor trickle, but a steadily flowing stream. I remembered watching something once that said if TfL weren’t constantly pumping water out of the Underground stations, many of them would likely flood in days. I tried not to think of the giant, coursing Thames just a hundred meters away. I looked at a map to calm myself, but it just sent my mind reeling further. So many destinations, and even more ways to get there. Where did I even want to go, anyway?
I decided on the Tate Modern, on the grounds that it was cavernous, shady, and quiet- all the things I look for in a hangover den. The clunk-clunking tube ride seemed to take forever, but eventually I arrived at my required stop. I exited and walked slowly under the warm sun, shuffling my bruised feet one reluctant step after another in pursuit of a non-alcoholic liquid. As I neared the rear of the Tate, I marvelled at a corner apartment in a nearby block of flats. Three of its walls were completely transparent glass. It wasn’t a huge room, but there was a grand piano next to the window. Who would live in such a place? Either this was someone who was conspicuously rich and wanted everyone to know it, or someone who lived without the slightest shred of self-consciousness whatsoever.
Just as I made my way to the doors, it all became too much for me and I had to take a moment’s respite on an impractical and unergonomic bench. My heart felt as though it was rushing through my chest at a hundred miles an hour, even though my watch showed that it was ticking along normally. ‘Maybe it’s not the pace, but the rhythm’, I thought. I ate a slightly stale danish as I tried to calm my frazzled nerves.
Having temporarily recomposed myself, I entered the gallery. The monumentally empty hall hummed at its usual frequency, and I stopped for a moment to take in its monochrome splendor. Yes, this would do. I played Modern Art by Art Brut, which seemed lazy but logical in the moment.
As I made my way up the escalator, things began to run away from me again. I walked from room to room, but the art seemed to provide too much mental stimulation; the colours too gaudy, the sculptures too physical. I saw Salvador Dali’s lobster phone, and thought for a moment about how closely high art and kitsch intersected. I again sat on an uncomfortable bench in front of some Rothko paintings, but they seemed to exert the same draw as the subway tracks; I felt myself drawn closer and closer, as though I was falling inside the yawning canvas. It was no longer a painting, but a doorway to the abyss. I had to get out.
I resolved to go for a piss, and wondered how much care and thought went into the design of the toilets at an art gallery. Are they a work, or do they just *work*? I recognised that this as an especially fucking pointless line of reasoning, and left.
Outside the bathroom, I found a seat on an accommodating black leather sofa overlooking the main hall. My mind was plowing forward like a derailing steam train; I needed to be physically still for a while. My heart was now thundering in my chest, and I half-wondered whether I would be forced to seek medical attention. Dismissing the thought, I decided to take the notebook out of my inside jacket pocket and began writing in the hope that it would provide the necessary mental ventilation. I struggled to hold the pen between my limp and plodden fingers, but it seemed to provide some short-term relief.
I checked my phone for messages; it was time to leave. I exited through the Thameside entrance, going against the current. My pace was monumentally slow, although it did provide an excellent opportunity for people watching. There was some mercurial, beautiful noises coming from a guy with a reverberating acoustic guitar, but I couldn’t tell whether he was playing a song or just tuning up. I made my way to the Millenium Bridge, and clacked along its metal surface with my shoes. It was altogether all too much.
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