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Hello everyone!
I am sat writing this latest entry from a calm, collected library in the middle of the main campus at Stanford University. The computer is very limited and will not even allow me to write an inverted exclamation mark; thus have I been coerced into greeting you all in English for the first time on this blog... that is America I suppose. Let us not dwell: although I have safely journeyed north from los Angeles to San Francisco, it is time to return to the former city and revisit some of my time and experiences there.
My previous entry spoke of my rude awakening at the international airport in LA (again, let us not dwell here...). I am very fortunate, very happy to write that this experience became my sole negative impression while residing in the city of angels, so far as personal experiences are concerned. I arrived with Ben at the apartment that he shares with Courtney and their housemate Troy a little before 3 o'clock in the morning local time and proceeded to sleep until just before lunch. I awoke rejuvenated, refreshed and ready to tackle this bustling city in a new light, the sparkle back in my eyes. I had chosen a good week to visit: Ben is currently enjoying an extended break from work (his own choosing) and so he became a brilliant guide, filling our afternoons with cultural trips - the time before lunch was largely unbeknownst to my friend, who prefers the later hours of the evening to those corresponding early measurements of the morning.
The first two afternoons that I spent in LA, Ben and I journeyed out of Venice Beach to visit the Getty museums. The first day's trip took us to the Getty Museum (its official title), standing grandly upon the summit of one of the many hills of Santa Monica. The drive out to the museum took us past famous names including Beverley Hills, the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA) and crossed Sunset Boulevard: from the breath-taking viewing platforms offering wonderful panoramas of the surrounding area it was possible to descry the majestic, palatial edifices of Bel Air. The museum itself was equally impressive: the architecture was of a sweeping quality, with few harsh, straight lines and this theme of fluidity was mirrored in the many water-features dotted throughout the grounds, their tinkling music conjuring an air of relaxation and replenishment, a feeling reinforced by the displays that we viewed that day; nourishment for a museum-minded craving that had grown steadily since leaving such pastimes of an extended time-frame largely behind in Peru. While I enjoyed the gardens and the views, the personal highlight of our trip was the temporary exhibition boasting three centuries of French landscape art, including examples from artists involved in my favourite movement, that of Impressionism. It is difficult to describe my emotions upon viewing such consummate works of beauty, of realistic escapism (difficult indeed...). When viewing such striking objects, I often find my mind wandering in and out of the picture, the scene, the story. I imagine what the conditions might have been like for the artist during the composition of his or her masterpiece; what emotions that artist might have been feeling and how this could have influenced the piece in front of me. I look for themes within the work that might provide a clue, to agitation, to peace, to resolve, deliberation, love. I find myself marvelling at the dedication often inherent in the work and at its skilful execution and presentation: here is a skill that I have never known. Among the images that jumped out at me was a piece from an old favourite, Pissarro, as well as some offerings from unfamiliar painters. I enjoyed a happy few hours meandering through the cool interior of the museum, before we headed home in the early evening.
The following day we visited a place that I have wanted to see for many years: we called at the famous Getty Villa. Nestled among the foothills of Malibu, this villa is a deliberate, imagined projection of possibly the most famous private residence to emerge - albeit partially - from the ashen destruction littering the Italian Amalfi coastline. This residence is known by the grandiose label of the Villa of the Papyri, which it derives from the impressive collection of papyrus-based manuscripts that have been recovered from its shattered ruins. The villa is the largest private dwelling to have emerged thus-far from the excavation efforts centred upon Pompeii and nearby Herculaneum; actually the villa is located in the latter town and remains - perhaps largely, perhaps slightly; certainly significantly - buried. This situation is due to the presence of a modern town - Ercolano - sitting upon the volcanic soil that leaves so much of Herculaneum interred beneath the earth. Until the modern town is itself levelled by some unpreventable force - be it nature or the Italian authorities or... - much of Herculaneum and the rest of the Villa of the Papyri with it, is destined to remain entombed, obscured from view, from exploration; prevented from yielding any remaining secrets. As such, the fully-recreated modern villa, constructed from the Getty family's considerable wealth, is merely a suggested portrayal, an edifice of the imagination - though one based upon firm evidence gathered from that part of the villa that is open to the elements, that has been examined thoroughly and painstakingly.
I had warned Ben that we were likely to be at the villa for a long time: indeed, I was asked - very politely - to leave by the unassuming museum staff at the end of the day; the museum was about to be closed and clearly I was not deemed suitable to be retained as an exhibit. My experience walking through the museum was exhilarating yet, rather odd. I gazed in wonder at clean, complete columns and architraves, elegantly decorated with whole carvings, full frescoes and sumptuous adornment. I strolled down shaded peristyles, my footsteps reverberating into an otherwise almost sacred hush - I stop short of silence; birdsong filled the balmy air, zephyrs breezed in from the ocean to rustle the trees and the occasional human voice could be heard, generally remarking with awe upon the beauty and dominance of the museum complex. I wanted to relax, to lapse into a different place, a different time - one in which a form of Latin was still spoken outside Catholic churches, or where such classical structures are an integral feature of a crucial local landscape, one of social as well as physical making. Instead, there was always a catch, something to prevent my mind from wandering too far: the artwork appeared too fresh; the language was not Latin but, that domineering Americanized speech; the very complex itself was perfectly preserved! I realize, of course, that such preferences are not the intended brief of the Getty Villa, merely evocative emotions recalled to mind whence the complex unfolds into sight, becomes captured by the senses: nonetheless, the seeming paradoxes inherent of a modern reconstruction on the west coast of the US of a famous classical edifice from the west coast of ancient Italy wrought a strange confusion in my mind. For all of these apparent complaints, I enjoyed my time at the Getty Villa immensely and I am grateful to have been offered the opportunity to at least experience those confusions highlighted above, in among a more simple appreciation of the complex for what it is; a faithful, if somewhat misleading, replication of not just a famous and wonderful building but, also of the heady times and marvellous culture in which the building originally stood.
My two experiences at the Getty museums were brilliant and the second of these, at the Villa, was particularly emotive and, therefore, dear to me. This second visit even offered the opportunity for a dash of quintessential LA star-spotting: visiting the Getty Villa while Ben and I were present was none other than Liv Tyler. She is gorgeous indeed: I recognized her as a beautiful woman when I met her in one of the Villa's exhibition rooms but, typically, it took my more informed companion to point out to me her star quality. As we came to leave the Villa, Liv and some friends were in the monstrous 4x4 that followed us out of the parking lot and so we proceeded to shadow them down the freeway back towards Venice, riding in the parallel lane, alongside their fashionable tank, for some minutes, Liv making eye-contact on more than one occasion. The moment (I should write, moments) was spoiled though when Ben recounted that upon viewing a fabulous treasure, a wrist-bracelet of gold dug up from the Vani burial site located on the eastern shores of the Black Sea in Georgia, Liv was heard to exclaim "oh, Angelina has one just like that!" Oh, Hollywood stars.
Sandwiched between the thrilling trips to the Getty museums was a memorable evening of fireworks and celebration at Santa Monica pier, during which time I was introduced to some of Ben and Courtney's estimable, welcoming friends. Enjoying a firm continuation of the good timing that seems to have followed me throughout these travels, I arrived in Venice Beach the day that the neighbouring area of Santa Monica celebrated the 100th birthday of its historic pier. Santa Monica had foregone fireworks when commemorating the past few Fourth of July independence days, in order to accumulate a stockpile worthy of seeing in the pier's special night in style. The display of lights was fantastic: lasting well over twenty minutes and set to various musical tracks pumped out over loud-speakers, the spectacle was awesome to witness and a fitting introductory night for me in the US, though I am sure that they did not have to go to quite so much trouble to make up for the appalling reception of (much) earlier that same morning.
Best wishes to all!
David xxx
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