#211

Ah, the Francis Bacon, those are at the other Tate, down the river, and on a nice day like this, if I were you, I’d walk.

I was standing outside the Rothko room at the Tate Modern, the ex-powerplant cum museum, having just spent what felt like two minutes, or an eternity, engulfed in the Seagram Murals, the only real reason I was there, since the last time they were on loan. The room was quiet; it was a Tuesday morning, and there was no one else. Before I asked the attendant about the Bacon paintings, I put my sunglasses on so he couldn’t see that my eyes were teary.

The Seagram Murals might have been deemed too dark by Rothko for a dining room, but that depends on one’s disposition. They can seem either treacherous or redeeming. What I found is that I wanted to jump through the portals to the other side of whatever it was I was in at the moment. For the dark reds and the purples and blacks to fold me into them, like an envelope, safe, secure.

Later, I took his advice and walked along the South Bank towards Millbank, where the Tate Britain is. Life was around me, holiday cheer, lights and mulled wine and trees and kids, and families. The day seemed full at that very moment.

After a Pret sandwich, after the ferris wheel, after the park and the few bridges, after the theater and Big Ben - after all of that, the river curves, and Millbank, on the north side, stands the Tate Britain. Inside, I found my way to the room with the Bacon paintings and sat there with them for a while; cousin paintings to the Rothkos, so similar in tone and feeling, I believe, that they should be in the same building, the same floor, the same wing. The Bacons are always inviting you to something more than yourself, to look at the human form as something that is never settled, never quite itself. The triptych, there, is particularly potent if one allows oneself to be enveloped into them.

After the museums had ran their course for the day, the sun was dipping at around 3:45 PM, and I sat outside on the veranda with a slice of cake and a large french press of coffee and listened to the noise of the city, the neighborhood noises of this part of town are of mundane activities and events, far from the crowds of Oxford Street, or Soho, which teem with throngs of folks. The cafe was busy, though, a popular spot for people to sit and chat and talk. I sat alone, though, apart from a pigeon who bothered me for my crumbs, and wondered if there was life left where I was going. When I got back to my residence, back across the ocean, if I’d find any of what I found on the museum day, in London?