Thursday, May 07, 2009
Lunch hour, forget sandwiches, why do the normal thing?
Try the National Portrait Gallery, off Trafalgar Square.
Nice bit of culture, free entry, whistle-stop tour.
Up the escalator, it's bloody long, anticipatory ascent.
Step back in time, then walk the walls to the present day.
It's a Great British history told in watercolour faces.
Those Tudors look pasty and stern, nice ruff your Majesty.
Stuart gents, prim and beardy, tourists stop to peer.
The only painted ladies are royalty and wives, that'll change.
Regency gentlemen, natural posers, why the silly hats?
Men of arts, men of science, men of curly wigs and whiskers.
Gallery attendant's watching CCTV. Smile, you're a portrait too.
Downstairs: a corridor of statesmen, highly impressive busts.
Queen Vic, Duke of Wellington, some poet, Queen Vic again.
As years pass, fame and talent finally outshine blood and breeding.
She wrote, he painted, he invented, their eyes stare back.
Like Madame Tussauds, but flatter, cheaper and more realistic.
Glass walls for actors and starlets, the New Elizabethans.
Up to date-ier, these folk are still alive, their youth gleams.
I'm not sure Prince Charles likes that one, it's mostly fence.
A roomful of poets, a roomful of astronomers, there's Moore.
Judi darling, Ms Lily Allen, the fabulous boys from Blur.
That rich bloke's only on the wall because he paid for it.
Cultural appetite satisfied, step back to your desk refreshed.
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