London for Stuckism
Photo by Rose Throop
I don’t know where to start. I spent the week before our trip to attend Edgeworth Johnstone’s art opening getting all my ducks in a row. The loudest, most stubborn quack was my addiction to Twitter news coverage of the massacre of Palestine, which I cancelled because the darkness was taking over, and I didn’t want to ruin our holiday. I will continue to avoid the face of madness at least until after I relate our travel experience which was sublime. One thing for certain. The act of consciously burying my head in the sand, keeping with a one track mind, has opened my eyes even wider to the absolute power of state propaganda. Turning off the empathy switch is easy-peasey. Once you can effectively block other people’s suffering, it’s clear sailing through life just attending to your own diarrhea cramps.
Thankfully there weren’t any cramps in London. Knock on wood, but Rose and I get very lucky with travel. What made the ocean crossing extra special was meeting other artists strutting and struggling with their expression. Now I’m spoiled. I don’t want any more long-distance travel without meeting kindred spirits. It was such an honor to be guests of painters I admire. The Internet world can be real and human-all-to-human, but never the truth. I kept a transcribable voice journal on my phone. I’ll present the shorter version here, along with some photos and video.
On Wednesday March 6, 2024 we drove to Rochester, and Matt O. took us to the airport three hours early. We spent some time at a bar that had a giant-sized Pong game donated by the Strong Museum, and a Miss Pac-Man, which we played over and over to kill time. We got on our commuter flight and taxied on the runway, however because of heavy rain in Washington D.C., we had to wait on the tarmac for about a half hour.Once above the clouds, Rose took stunning video of atmosphere.
We arrived in Washington D. C at a very crowded gate waiting to board for London. It was a painful flight. Rose couldn’t lean her seat back because the woman behind her said she had a baby in her lap. Sometimes I don’t like mothers. Rose had to sit like a stick for seven hours because some selfish parent decided to take a 3 month old across an ocean.Touchdown at Heathrow at 6:30 a.m. It was a mile walk in the giant airport to the Elizabeth line, which we took to Liverpool Street and then another Tube stop to Tower Bridge, as Charles Thomson suggested. It was a mile walk to our hotel where we couldn’t check-in until 4:00 p.m. The receptionist let us check our bags so we could move easily about the city sight-seeing. We were very tired.Rose had a Thai massage in Bermondsey, (another mile walk) while I waited in a nearby park. She said it was a good massage but felt like she was getting molested. The masseuse climbed onto the table several times to put pressure on her spine. From there it was a quick walk to the Bermondsey Tube and one stop to London Bridge Station. We crossed the bridge and had a long walk north, eventually leading to the Sessions Arts Club where we had lunch. It was aloof, definitely over-priced, and presented more like lazy conceptual art in a “high-end” gallery—that is, profound unto the deep-thinking artist, but the actual display quite lame. For an appetizer we ordered green olives and Iberian ham, and was told by the waiter to order bread and butter, otherwise it would be just shaved ham on a plate. We also ordered duck pate, mussles and a truffle risotto. Rose had a Negroni and I drank a low pour of white wine for £15. It was a pretentious “art” restaurant without substance. Still, I gave the kitchen staff a signed Throop book with an invite to Edgeworth’s exhibition. Can’t blame the servants for ostentatiousness.
We walked down to St Paul’s Cathedral, and decided to cancel our dinner reservations because we were exhausted.
Finally, after 10 miles of walking about London, we were able to check in at Bermonds Locke, an aparthotel on Tower Bridge Road. Charles Thomson called me on Facebook video, as did Edgeworth on the WhatsApp video line. The two were organizing a private party at Edgeworth’s studio on Friday after the opening. Rose and I slept hard for a couple hours. We showered and walked up to the Tower Bridge Pub for a couple drinks and some food. A good exhausting day and night. My thoughts on London so far? An incredibly historic place, much more polite, accommodating and cleaner than New York City. Still, the people on the street seem superficial with busyness for the most part. Like people in cities everywhere I guess.We crossed three London bridges (Millennium, London and Tower) on foot without sleep for 30 hours. We stopped in a couple little church parks to rest, each with its own immaculate herb and flower garden. Unlike New York, London actually provides flowers and seats for the pedestrian public. In Covent Garden, I nearly got hit by a bus, getting shocked into a new fear of crossing the street. Along the Millennium Bridge to the Tate modern, we turned to see the iconic view of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
A Blitz bombed-out church replaced by beautiful garden. Note the fresh spring smells of a healthy metropolis. Beats the urine-soaked cement stink of New York.
On Friday we woke after a good sleep and caught the 188 bus to Covent Garden, riding upstairs along the southern bank of the Thames. We crossed Waterloo Bridge and got off the bus on a street dedicated to recording studios and music stores. We really enjoyed riding the bus. You can see so much of London this way. We went into Hanks music store advertising itself as the oldest of its kind on the street. So many guitars. Rose bought an over-priced harmonica, a C harp, so she would have an instrument to play at Edgeworth’s after party.
We walked South through Chinatown taking photos of the hanging lanterns and ended up at Trafalgar Square with its statues and fountains, Nelson’s Column, the National Gallery, and Saint Martin-in-the-fields which is an 800 year old church where I had tickets to hear a renowned organist and eat at a cafe called the Crypt in the church cellar. We ate first, and had time before the performance to cross the street and get a peek into the National Portrait Gallery. Rose took some photos of people’s heads and bodies. Back at the church the solo organist played lullabies to put us to sleep. After her concert we walked very slowly toward Charing Cross Station. Rose was hurting. Coffee and ibuprofen would keep her moving throughout the week. At the busy station we found our Tube stairs and took the train to Highgate for Edgeworth’s exhibition. There was a 15-minute walk to the gallery. On the phone the previous day, Charles told us to take a left off the escalator to avoid the house where Hitler’s sister lived. We forgot and walked a minute or two before realizing our mistake. What a lovely area though, very quaint. Little Tudor houses and some palm trees lining the street. Turning back, we walked up a hill to Highgate Street which is a very posh neighborhood. They say “posh” a lot in London. Well kempt shops and pubs, probably very expensive. There was a butchery with gorgeous cuts of meat in the window that I wanted to devour. The oxtails especially. I should have bought some.
At Highgate Gallery I asked Rose to have the camera ready to film our first meeting with Edgeworth. I wanted it on record. We had a very nice chat for about a half hour.
It’s a youtube Short. Worth the look. Historic!
https://youtube.com/shorts/OYkZkhZjovg?si=npeYu3n8Ed7ObbbR
Rose and I had reservations at the 360 year-old Flask pub, a five minute walk up the road. Byron, Shelley and Keats were patrons. Coleridge lived in a house opposite the pub for the last 18 years of his life, and William Hogarth the painter was also a regular. People were shorter in previous English centuries. I had to duck for low ceilings.
The service was horrible for such a cozy place. I went for our napkins and cutlery at the server station even though there were two waitresses staffed. We ordered brie, cornbread and a beef pie to share. The melted cheese tasted like ammonia. No recognizable beers, not even Guinness, which was a good thing. Cask beers are big in Britain. I would order these whenever offered. The beer finishes maturing in casks in the pub basement rather than at the brewery, and is served with natural carbonation. Lovely yum.
We walked back to the gallery for the official opening.
I felt like it was my own exhibition. Exhausting to talk with so many new personalities. All were interesting and interested in Edgeworth, and whatever I had to say, which is always nice. Rose covered her end well, and I think we made a good impression among our new friends in England. They certainly made a good impression on us! The gallery and patrons reminded me of our art association back home. The majority of visitors were local, and members of the institution which housed the gallery. I finally met Charles Thomson, face-to-face. He’s a bit cheeky, but kind, intelligent and funny. Worth the practically ceaseless wit and sarcasm. There was the Stuckist painter Eamon Everall who wants to have a legless exhibition someday. That is a joke. I learned that legless in Britain means “drunk”. Actually, Eamon wants to have a “wheelchair” exhibit, which is insensitive phrasing to American ears. The UK isn’t pretending to be woke like we are in the States. We met Emma Pugmire, (another Stuckist painter and band mate in the Edgeworth Band), Shelley, Freya, Wilma, Jane, and some painter who sold a piece to the King and carries around a signed “thank you” to prove it. I secretly bought an Edgeworth catalog getting Jane the “invigilator” to help me in the transaction. Here is a video of the memorable trip from gallery to Edgeworth’s house/studio for an after party.
Hard to believe I was standing in the room I’ve seen so many times on video. His studio is much more compact than I had imagined. After about an hour of pizza and chatting, Rose and I took the 43 bus back to London Bridge. Such great views from the front seats on the top floor of the bus. We arrived at the Shard and walked sketchy roads back to the hotel.On Saturday morning we went to Maltby Street Market with its many food stalls. I ordered moussaka with a Greek salad. Rose got steak and chips. The smells were wonderful. I wanted to live in this neighborhood for the remainder of my life. I guess I might be a London foodie at heart.
In Bermondsey we got on the 188 bus up to Covent Garden. From there we walked to the British Museum which is huge, but not big enough to thin the crowds that attend on Saturdays. It was too much. We got out of there quick, and walked up to Soho. Lots of corner street pubs were making a racket on football day. It was a slow walk, which was nice. Families out on the street. Peaceful, not touristy.
Then we took the Tube to Leicester Square near The Garrick Theater where we would see a play in a couple hours. The station was packed with people, and I realized they were all going home after the enormous march for Palestine. Thousands of people hustling for the tube. We walked around a corner looking for a place to eat. Rose wanted some broth, and I wanted good beer after a long day. Her physical pain trumped my alcohol want, so we went for ramen and drank awful beer.
We had box seats to “For Black Boys Who Have Considered Suicide When the Hue Gets Too Heavy”. A little room all to ourselves. I rubbed Rose’s feet with only a few people in the higher seats able to voyeur. The audience was mostly black. No big deal except we were the white folks in the box seats in a play about racial sterotypes, which made me feel privileged-weird, even as a poor penny-pinching painter. The play was fantastic. A sparse set to put all the focus on acting, singing and dancing. This was our first time attending a professional play together. Well done!
After the play we walked down Whitehall toward Westminster station. Rose stood on a divider in the middle of the road and captured a double-decker bus nearly crush her. We walked past Downing Street where there were some metal barriers and a couple security police with machine guns, but that didn’t seem like much to protect a Prime Minister. I could have hit his bullet-proof window with a lemon. There were the houses of Parliament and Big Ben. After taking some pictures we took the Jubilee East back to London Bridge and walked to the hotel. Another hard won travel day. Sleep time!
It was raining hard on Sunday morning. We got pastries and coffee at the hotel and ate at the window in the back room, watching wet dogs and their people pass by. I pre-ordered muffins from a shop in East Finchley where we were going to visit Charles Thomson at his house. The muffins were for Edgeworth’s dinner party and studio concert. I wrote some songs down on scrap paper that me and Rose could do, preferably in “C”, since that was the harp she bought at Hank’s. With umbrellas and a bag full of gifts we walked along Bermondsey Street, and made a left on Crucifix Lane toward London Bridge Station. We took the Northern Tube to East Finchley, and came out right next to the bakery where I pre-ordered the muffins. We bought wine at a bodega next door and ordered an Uber for the first time. We got to Charles’ a bit early, but not early enough for him to remind us, which he did anyway. He opened the door with a chain lock asking if we were sex perves while we stood in the vestibule drip-drying. He led us in over to some folding chairs centered in a room with a thousand paintings from floor to ceiling. So many paintings throughout the house. Barely room to move. We met the artist J. who is living with him. It was a five hour visit. What a gracious host. He gave me my horoscope (he’s been studying astrology for over 40 years), and we talked about Stuckism, fellow Stuckists and ways to promote my “career”. Then he pulled off painting after painting from industrial racks lining the walls. Very difficult to maneuver in such a tight space, which appeared to be quite a work-out for him. He let us pick out 10 of his prints to take back home. Thank you so much Charles!
The three of us took a cab to Edgeworth’s. We rode past Ray Davies’ house and arrived a bit late. Edgeworth made us chicken and rice stew. Charles read a poem he wrote in honor of our visit (see midway in second-to-last video) where he made the last line in each stanza rhyme with “Throop”. We opened the wine, ate our supper and dessert. I passed out presents to Edgeworth and Emma. (We also gave presents to Charles back at his house.) Richard (Edgeworth’s father) and I had a conversation about geneaology. Then we retired into the studio and had a concert. I will never forget this night. Truly a wonderful time. Edgeworth and Charles walked us to the bus stop, and we got on the 43 bus heading to London Bridge station. We walked happily back to the hotel in the pouring rain.On Monday we took the 188 bus to Lancaster Place, and strolled down Strand Street to Trafalgar Square to meet Edgeworth at the National Gallery. We were a bit early. In fact we took a couple side streets and saw some homeless tents overlooking a park along the Thames. It was strange because they were all very neat and yet attached to a posh Hotel. We stood at the fountain next to Nelson’s column, and I spied Edgeworth on the steps of the National Gallery. It didn’t open until 10, but we were first in line. At bag check, Edgeworth had to leave his paintbrushes. Security was on the watch for painting vandals wanting to paint over the paintings. We scooted right up to the 19th century European painters. Van Gogh, Renoir, Cezanne, Pissaro, Rousseau, Monet, Dega, etc. The room was empty at first, and filled up to capacity within minutes. We managed aloneness with Van Gogh and company for a brief time.
Edgeworth Johnstone
Photo by Rose Throop
Edgeworth had to leave to go to his painting session with Billy Childish. We hung around in the museum for about another half hour. I don’t care to see the really old paintings. I like what moderns were thinking, and are thinking. We left the National Gallery and walked down Whitehall toward Big Ben, crossing Westminster Bridge to take photos of Parliament and the river. We got on the C10 bus to Bermondsey Street. Then lunch at Bermondsey Garden, and back to the hotel to pack for our trip to Heathrow. While checking out, Diana at the front desk suggested I put in an exhibition proposal to the hotel. I told her about Edgeworth and Charles Thomson and the great weekend we had, and reminded her to get to Highgate for Edgeworth’s show.
Then we walked the cobblestones of Bermondsey Street, took a left on Crucifix Lane to the Tube hub at London Bridge Station. We had an early flight so I reserved a hotel room near Heathrow. We walked over to the 3 Magpies, another 17th century pub, looking so out of place among the modern airport cement block hotels and office buildings.
The morning flight was not full. We had an extra seat, and actually got some sleep. Our daughter and granddaughters picked us up in Rochester and drove us back to my daughter’s house. We played with the kids in the sun for about a half hour. Then drove home to greet our cat.
Thank you Edgeworth, Charles, Emma, Eamon, Richard, Shelly, Frea, Jasmine, Wilma, Jane, and the many friendly faces of London proper!
Some Edgeworth videos of our amazing trip for Stuckism: