Where The Art Is

July 1, 2011

Today, for perhaps the first time in 20 years of marriage, I awoke and actually got up before my early bird husband.  Jet lag has caught up with Sam and the boys but I am surprisingly fresh and ready to go.  Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I know we are headed to the Scottish National Gallery  today.  First, some clothes needed to be bought for Thomas as his suitcase had still not arrived.  He was tired any anyone would be of wearing the same clothes for going on day 3.  We head down Princes Street and after purchasing some fresh clothes we find The National Gallery at the foot of Castle Hill.

What I first noticed and liked about the museum was that it is not so large and admission is free!  I quickly begin hurrying through the galleries for fear that I would not be able to see everything before the kids became bored.  My son Will finally told me to slow down because he wanted to take everything in.  The kids are definitely not 5 years old any more.  A sampling of the highlights were: Barye bronzes, Vermeer's Christ at the home of Mary and Martha, Rembrandt's self-portrait, other Dutch Masters, Diego Velasquez, and many many Scottish and British artists.  These walls also housed some of the largest oil paintings I have ever seen.  The security staff at the museum was plentiful but friendly; watching you but not being overbearing.  I jot down names of some artist I like but am unfamiliar with (now I cannot lay hands on the paper.)

Christ in the house of Martha and Mary
by Johannes Vermeer

Old Woman Cooking Eggs
by Diego Velazquez

My son Thomas sat on a plush sofa in one gallery and inconspicuously fell asleep.  He is the artistic one and while he was impressed with what he was seeing I know it's difficult to take in and put all this art from another time into any kind of meaningful context.  I had no art classes in college but a PhD in sociology is perhaps the perfect springboard for understanding the backdrop under which much of this art was created.  The art that my son Thomas creates is on the other end of the spectrum.  Homegrown skateboard expressionism that is edgy, graffitied, and streetsmart.  Is there any sort of meeting ground between that and portraits of British Nobility who had money to burn?

We ascend to the second floor to see the impressionists.  I round the corner and instantly recognize Monet and Gaugin.  The hair on my arms begins to stand up and I stand there shaking my head.  Wow, there it is, this is it, I've seen these images in books, prints and on the internet but this is the real deal.  I'm in heaven!

View of the Sermon
by Paul Gauguin

Going back downstairs we crisscross the first floor to see the final upstairs gallery which was religious medieval art.  I sense that Thomas is growing a bit weary.  One of the first pieces we view is a DaVinci of the Madonna and Christ Child.  I grab Thomas' elbow and lead him over to the painting and mention the movie "The DaVinci Code" and how this is the same artist who did The Mona Lisa.  I can see a light bulb in his head switch on as suddenly he is now curious about the artist and the painting.  At the next room we view medieval  religious triptychs and I manage to hold his attention long enough to explain how folks back in Medieval Times couldn't read much less own a bible and this is how the church communicated bible stories to the masses.  I quickly explain the similarities to African American folk artist Elijah Pierce a Columbus Ohio artist who carved wooden panels to depict bible stories to help reveal the bible to African Americans that in the early part of the 20th century may not have been able to read.

The Scottish National Gallery is of a manageable size for touring.  We spent maybe 2 1/2 hours there and emerged inspired and refreshed.  With patience, it is even possible to take a reluctant teenager if you keep your eyes wide open and think outside of what could be the stuffy art museum box. As an art dealer it is so important to take a step back and view art in this carefully curated context rather than in the heat of an auction competing with other dealers to (hopefully) gain what I want.  Whereas I cannot afford Valasquez and DaVinci, visiting this museum reminds me to keep the standards for what I buy high.  If you visit The Scottish National Gallery bear in mind that there is also The Scottish National Portrait Gallery, The Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, as well as other exhibition sites that are part of The National Galleries of Scotland.  More information is at www.nationalgalleries.org.

Thomas Skateboarding
Orkney Islands

Elijah Pierce
Crucifixion
mid 1930s

Pole Dancers and Bagpippers

June 30th (afternoon)

Leaving the Scottish War Memorial we head down The Royal Mile to find lunch.  It is soon found in the form of a pub.  We eat upstairs next to an open window with views of the Geraniums in a box and High Street below.  All is picture perfect.  I sample the smoked Scottish salmon on toast which proved to be a good choice. 
Tab paid we decide to split up.  Sam takes the boys to Clarkes down on Princes Street to look at shoes and I go to find two antique bookseller I had contacted back in the States.  Being an antique print dealer I am determined to bring back some great finds.  By now, my feet hurt from so much walking in the new pair of "walking shoes" specially bought for the trip.  The spaces between the cobblestone on the Royal Mile are so deep and so wide that I've twisted my ankles several times. 


I turn left up Lothian Road from Princes Street making a mental note to use our Hilton points at the Grosvnor Hilton instead of the one near Haymarket next time as there is a direct view of Edinburgh Castle.  I find Bread Street on the left and head to my destination.  Another thing Rick Steves fails to mention is that you might need to pass through a "questionable" area to get where you need to go.  I notice a newstand owner giving me a funny look but I pay him no mind.  Soon I pass what I thought was a discoteque until I see the sillhouettes of well endowed women hanging from poles.  Thinking this was just an anomaly I keep walking.  Across the street I see another place that looks clearly not like a discotheque.  I press on debating with myself that maybe I ought to turn around when low and behold I find Edinburgh Books www.edinburghbooks.net and I slip inside much relieved. 

The bookshop was literally crammed top to bottom  with every kind of book imaginable.  I had no trouble finding the volumes that I wanted and I purchased about 6 books.  If you like antiquarian books, fine leather binding, poetry, fiction etc.  it's worth braving the surrounding to get here.  Don't ask to use the restroom, it's a frightening 1920s watercloset in the basement and I don't think it's been cleaned since the Second World War. 

My next stop was Armchair Books.  I slip out the door turn left and wonder what I would encounter on the way.  I quickly find Armchair Books www.armchairbooks.co.uk (sans the pole dancers) across the street and and head in that direction. 

The store was actually two storefronts with two front doors but no one had bothered to cut a hole between the two to make one complete store.  The fellow James that owned/worked there was very friendly and chatty and helped me find what I wanted.  We talked about the horrors of ebay and the Royal Mail situation.  Funny how they attribute the slow mail between UK/US to our homeland security proceedures while I had attributed it to cut backs and strikes at The Royal Mail.  He gave me a nice discount and had to keep running next door for bags and receipt paper etc. which only added to the disorganized charm of the place. 

Finally, I am ready to make my way back down Bread Street.  Initially, I had thought about finding a different way back to the hotel but given the twisting and turning of Olde Town streets I decide against it.  Besides this is the most direct route.  As I head toward Lothian Road I note that business here has begun to pick up.  A woman in a dark trech coat and I swear 4 inch lucite heels stands talking with a gentleman outside one of the pole dancing places.  I jay walk across the street making a beeline for Lothian Road. Somewhere on Lothian Road I bought the travel journal that most of my notes for my blog were ultimately written in.  My arms are starting to tire from my heavy load of books.

 About the time I reach Princes Street I realize I have left my map on the step ladder at Armchair Books.  There are 4 or 5 streets that come together in a jangled mess at the intersection.  I take a stab at one and head in a direction that seems right.  There is an OxFam store and it seems familiar.  Soon I see Odd Bins and I rejoice.  Wine!  We went to Odd Bins often in London 12 years ago.  But then my heart sinks, I don't remember passing Odd Bins this morning on the way in.  (I assure you I would have noticed.)  Nevertheless,  I stop in and buy a screwtop Shiraz and ask for the directions back to my hotel.  (My corkscrew was confiscated from my backpack at the Columbus airport back in Ohio.)  My feet at this point are screaming and I'm hot from carrying two bags of antique books and now a bottle of wine.  The shop keeper says to keep bearing left and that this will eventually put me out onto Haymarket.  Right?  (Wrong)  He failed to mention that you have to go around and enormous church to get to Haymarket. 

By now it is late in the afternoon or early evening as it stays daylight until 11:00 here in the summer.  I am basically wandering around New Towne ladden with books and a bottle of wine searching for my hotel.  Every now and then I come across random bagpippers on the large front landings that are characteristic of New Towne dwellings, playing their heart out.  (Retrospectively, I have decided that there is no halfway playing the bagpipes here, you either are or you aren't.)   Maybe they all practice on the landing so as not to scare the cat or wake the baby, I don't know, but it was a nice serenade after my afternoon adventure.

Ultimately, I never found Haymarket but I did find Grovener Crescent and I knew our hotel was on the street at the top of the crescent.  So with the bagpippers pipping me home, I found The Hilton no worse for the wear.  The screwtop Shiraz turned out to be pretty good and Sam and the boys had had their own adventure locating Murray Stadium and a skate park.  We were all so tired we had dinner at the hotel.  Fish and chips all around while I sampled more salmon.

Changed Priorities ahead

June 30th 2011

It is June 30th....right?  Last night we finally made it in to Edinburgh.  This last flight required that Thomas's skateboard be stowed in the belly of the plane.  It also required another trip through security and another test of our patience since most of our luggage (not mine) is still in Amsterdam or en route to Scotland.  (Did I mention that they had 9 hours to figure out which plane it needed to go on while we waited for this flight:(  As of today we have two pieces of luggage  but the boys suitcases have not arrived yet.

The Hilton is comfortable enough while we adjust to odd customs I have not revisited in 10 years.  Beans on the breakfast bar, light switches outside the bathroom door, switching electrical outlets to the "on" position before using them,and bathtubs that are built up on a pedestal.  This last nuance isn't important if you are tall but if you are short stepping out of the shower in the morning can be quite jolt if you are jet lagged.  We slept like babes the night before and had a hearty Scottish breakfast before setting out down Haymarket Street to explore the city.  Soon we see Edinburgh Castle up on the hill from the street and head towards it.

Edinburgh Castle

The boys quickly become fascinated by the church and cemetery below the castle and near Princes Street Garden and out comes the camera.  It seems so medieval to them even though most of the graves are from the 1800s.  We ramble through Princes Street Gardens, the day is a tad cool but sunny.  We head up to  Castle Hill and pass The Scottish National Gallery (we will visit there tomorrow).  Up near High Street we encounter St. Giles Cathedral and stop in for a visit.  It was as beautiful a church as I've ever seen.  Every nook and cranny cramed with carved marble, commemorative plaques, art work, stained glass, wrought iron, flags, and tapestries each bearing a story or a bit of history.

Window St. Giles Cathedral, Edinburgh

We are approached by a man (a tour guide) who shows us around and helps us make some sense of what are seeing.  The man seems so familiar, like someone from the church I grew up in back home in Kentucky.  His surname is Bryson and he loves to talk.  I note how much my Dad's family loves to talk and I wonder if this "joy in communicating" is a Scottish trait.  The people here are so approachable and unafraid of strangers, familiar in a way I can't quite put my finger on.  I tell Mr. Bryson what my maiden name is and he exclaims:  "Why you're straight from the heather!" while I beam with pride....

Mr. Bryson, tour guide, St. Giles Cathedral, Edinburgh

Named for a seventh century hermit St. Giles has had colorful past, weathering the Reformation and much of Scotland's turbulant history with England.  Among other things the building itself has housed a police station, a fire station, a school and a coal store, not to mention the Scottish guillotine and a prison for "harlots and whores."  I can't say my local church has hosted such a broad range of "functions" although we do make meeting  space available for various community groups.  Overeaters Anonymous and The Sweet Adelines is about as racy as it gets.   More information about St. Giles can be had at http://www.stgilescathedral.org.uk/

Soon I see a man sit down at the massive pipe organ in an upper chamber of the church and my eyes fill with tears even before he begins.  Even though he "was just practising" the sound of that organ in  the stunning surroundings was all I needed to lift the fatigue and frustration of the last 24 hours.

Pipe Organ, St. Giles Cathedral, Edinburgh

We leave the cathedral, knowing we could have spent all day there and still not learned all there was to know about it's intriguing and varied past.  Heading down (and I do mean down) High Street we duck in to Kilt shops and check out their wares.  My son Will wants a kilt more than any thing else.  We find that they can be made to order (a good one) and shipped ranging in price from 275 to 424 BP.  Finally, we head up towards Edinburgh Castle where they are building what appears to be a small stadium at the entrance to The Castle.  I instantly assume that the installation of this structure caused quite an uproar when the plan was put before the city council, it seems so out of place here among the medieval buildings of Olde Towne and The Royal Mile.  The castle itself is a fortress in every sense of the word and the views over Edinburgh and Princes Street Gardens are beautiful.

Edinburgh Castle

While at The Castle we make arrangements to stay in Edinburgh another night because of our travel delay.  We have no way of knowing when the rest of our bags will arrive.  Exploring The Castle, we see the crown jewels of Scotland, The Great Hall dating to Medieval times and The Scottish War Memorial.  Will has his photo taken with one of the tour guides in The Great Hall who has an authentic kilt and we have a discussion on the best places to buy a kilt.  We take a picture and it pleases me that Will is fulfilling a dream by taking this trip to this place.


The Great Hall

The Scottish War Memorial was a very sacred place as we were not allowed to take pictures.  Dedicated to those who lost their lives in each branch of service during the 1st and 2nd World Wars, the walls were lined with platforms bearing heavy leather bound books bearing the names of the men who gave their lives for their country.  Will and I peruse some of the volumes, The Marines, The Navy, The Black Watch etc. Each volume contained the surname Buchanan, some volumes profusely listing the name.  "John Buchanan --Falkirk."  I note that one volume listed a Buchanan who died in France during World War II in 1944 the same time my father was there.  I had never considered that my own father might have fought next to a distant cousin that never had the chance to return home......The world suddenly seemed smaller and more connected.  Someday when I have more time I will explore these interconnections more closely.  We leave the Memorial quiet and pondering how we are connected to this country and it's people.

Keep Calm and Carry On

June 29^th, 2011

I am sure everyone plans a trip overseas thinking it will go off with Rick Steves precision.  We have traveled before and know that things can go wrong.  Twenty years ago Sam was due to meet my plane in Munich, it was delayed for 4 hours and he ended up sleeping in a train station.  I am hesitant to write about this because I don't want those following my blog to think this is going to be one long whine.  Bear with me here, I promise much more insightful and optimistic blog posts in the future.  Besides, to sugarcoat things would be misleading and I want this blog to be about the good, bad and the ugly.  Our delay in Detroit was just long enough to ensure that we would not make our 10:00 a.m. flight to Edinburgh.  Despite grabbing our carry on bags and sprinting to our gate down 1 and ½ concourses, we were told we could not board the plane even though the plane was still at the gate.  We are told to go to yet another concourse to rebook our flight.  So, after having not slept all night we go to rebook our flight. 

I don’t claim to be any kind of organizational genius but the system they had set up for folks like us to rebook missed flights was extraordinarily bureaucratic and like something straight out of the former Soviet Union.  Take a number and wait and wait and wait…..and then wait some more.  Smartly dressed KLM employees appear to be helpful by showing people where they can pull a tab and get a number for this interminable wait.  Meanwhile, computer kiosks surrounding the re-ticketing area go unused because they do not work.  You can scan your passport but the computer says you are not in the system. 

Finally, our number is called we are hopeful to get on the 4:00 flight, but the best that could be done was the last flight at 9:00 that evening.  So after staying up all night we are faced with the prospect of trying to make our tired selves comfortable for 8 hours while we wait to catch our flight.  The KLM employee who rebooked our flight gives us “free” food vouchers and directs us to one of several lounge areas where we could finally relax.  Luckily it was in the same concourse.

I have never had to avail myself of one of these lounge areas but we found the lounge area near the Interdenominational Meditation Room, a large glass partitioned room with little privacy and a lobby filled with various brochures.  The lounge was eerily quiet and strewn with what looked like faux leather beach loungers and a carpeted platform all littered with the bodies of other sleeping passengers in the same predicament we found ourselves.  Airline pillows and blankets were tossed about on the loungers and folks were laid out just like at the beach except this was no beach and no one was getting a tan.  Some folks had covered themselves from head to toe with the blankets including their faces to block out any light which had the effect of making the place seem more like a morgue than a lounge.


Grabbing a lounger, I throw on my neck pillow, take off my shoes and begin to decompress.  While the lounge area was very quiet, being shielded from the constant flow of airport announcements, it was not completely quiet.  The odd traveler or airport employee would pass through the area wheeling a cart or loudly clicking their heels on the tile while it echoed off the walls which had the effect of delaying sleep.  Finally, sleep comes. 

Waking up after a little while, I decide I simply must lay down.  I go over to the carpeted platform with my pillow and blanket in hand, cover myself head to toe and become another body in the morgue.  Neither the loungers or the floor are particularly comfortable and I begin to wonder if I would benefit more from a yoga session than sleep.

When 4:00 rolls around we were all rested and somewhat refreshed and decide to explore the Amsterdam Airport and find something to eat.  I fold up my blanket and stack the pillow on top.  Across the way I notice a man on a rug in the Interdenominational Meditation Room kneeling and praying.  As we pass by I noticed the pamphlets in the lobby. Many of the pamphlets pamphlet are about how to get help for psychological problems in several languages.   

The Amsterdam Airport is like any other large International Airport in many ways.  Lots of bustling activities happening in every language imaginable.  Smartly dressed airline workers hurry to their worksites.  Turkish grandmas (all in the same buttoned up long raincoat I swear) look after grandchildren.  A woman with a British accent makes very precise announcements in English and then proceeds to repeat the message in flawless Dutch, German, etc.  She often warns passengers by name that they are late and delaying their flight….if they don’t come soon “we will be forced to offload your luggage.”  We find the inevitable gift shops with wooden shoes and Thomas tries on a pair for effect.  

Thomas relaxing in the "Mini Rijkes Museum in the Amsterdam Airport

Our search for food turns up some pleasant surprises.  Maybe I was just hungry but even the boys pizza tasted fresher and more interesting than the typical oversalted, greasy American variety.  Sam managed to find a whole grain bagette with prosciutto while I found a locally grown Dutch apple of a variety I wish I could remember and some sort of delicious ham pastry and a freshly made smoothie type drink. 

Having satisfied our appetites we walk around and find of all things an Art Museum in an airport.  The Rijk’s Museum in Amsterdam has set up a small museum of sorts complete with 17^th century still lifes by Dutch Masters and for a little while I was in heaven.  What a great idea!  Next to the museum was a quirky children's play area with odd comfortable seating.  We relax again.  I find a huge chair shaped like a giant egg; well padded inside like a womb and I climb inside.  The play area has a baby grand piano and a Chinese woman  (yet another delayed passenger) sits down and begins to play her heart out.  She is really good and I fall asleep for the second time. 

A Journey Begins

June 28^th 2011

     Today we begin our journey to Scotland for a ten day tour of the country.  We have told each child that they may have an international trip as a graduation present.  Our oldest son Will has chosen Scotland in part because he is mighty proud of his Scottish heritage (his mama is a Buchanan), he enjoys Scottish history and he is mad about Rugby, in particular, Scottish Rugby teams He has played this "unusual" sport for 3 years. 
     Our flight was not until 3:00 so we decided to treat ourselves to a nice breakfast before our neighbor took us to Port Columbus.  We happily polish off a gourmet breakfast at North Star Café.  That afternoon we board our flight to Detroit and then the massive 747 for the long night flight to Amsterdam.  Soon after boarding we learn that there are some mechanical issues that keep our plane grounded.  Then when all the problems are solved, a maintenance worker on the ground does something that makes the entire plane shut down.  Crews have to be called back again to reset the planes systems.
     All the while my youngest son is growing more and more impatient with the delay.  I have a flashback to 14 years ago of a still nursing rambunctious toddler making a very similar journey to London England.  Today he is a squirmy 16 year old.  Not until the in-flight movie has begun and the dinner served does he settle.   When the novelty had worn off and it was time to sleep he returned to his usual squirmy self.  Nothing made him comfortable, not even the ugly fuzzy inflatable neck pillow I had bought at Target the day before.  He fought with his seat, his pillow and his blanket trying to get comfortable.

     Halfway through the ordeal Sam and I trade seats because his moving around meant that I could not sleep.  Although I had moved, try as I might I could not get to sleep.  Between the noise of the other passengers (my earplugs were packed away in my suitcase),  crying babies and other noises I never slept.  The light outside the windows to my left displayed a perpetual sunset of sorts as it never got completely dark.  Between the squirming of my teenage son and the constant light, it felt like time was standing still.