23 March — Thursday
We finally saw the Giorgio Morandi exhibition in Estorick Collection, a small museum on Canonbury Road, in Highbury and Islington, for modern Italian art. It’s incredible how niche things can be in London.
Instead of a large white rectangular ticket, they gave us a small yellow square sticker and told us to stick it on ourselves. I first put it on my bag, then on my coat, but then had to put it on my bag again as there was a little storage cabinet where I left my coat.
Estorick is a peaceful sanctuary with a garden and a beautiful café. There is something magical about museum, airport and hospital cafés. The function of these places, although serving a very similar selection of beverages, food and cutlery, fundamentally differs from a regular café on the street. In contrast to your friendly neighbourhood café where you only meet, argue, break up, propose, read and socialize, a _______ café, exists only as an extension of the _______. Although invisible to an outsider, its physical space is formed with thoughts and reflections carried from the _______. Based on what “_______” is, all the espressos in the room are filled with unusual energy, anxiety, fear or inspiration. Regardless of your background, there is always an unspoken connection in the room.
A museum café, compared to a hospital and a airport café is not only a lot calmer overall but also gathers a more specific sample: people who are interested in art. As art is considered one of our most delicate creations, one would assume people who are interested in art would also bear some of this delicacy.
But if you listen carefully to other people, especially to those with meticulous social/table manners, sophisticated observations, and beautifully ironed trousers, you might easily hear overtly arrogant, covertly racist, judgemental, and prejudiced comments about various people and situations. I remember very clearly when a waitress asked an old couple if they were done with their cups, the exquisitely dressed 60-year-old gentleman who was complaining about how horrible Dalston is, immediately closed his both ears and yelled:
- “Oh Gosh! Can you please not scream in my ear? You are so loud.”
The waitress, probably embarrassed and a bit scared, could only say:
- “I’m sorry, that’s just my voice”
- “Well, that’s just my ear.”
I’m not even sure what that means but it’s good to remind yourself loving, studying, buying or making art doesn’t necessarily give you a kind heart - or brains.
***
Poor Morandi got lost in my thoughts on the way. I had never heard of him before and felt very lucky to see his work. I bought a postcard* of a still life he painted in 1953.
On our way back home we saw a traffic light post with a lot of stickers from Estorick. It made us smile. But instead of being a modest part of a simple joke, I decided to keep my sticker in my diary. I kind of regret it though.
*Still Life, 1953
