The first time I went to London was for work and thus my tourist time amounted to a handful of stolen hours. Whirlwind was the only adjective to explain me walking around, trying to take in as much as my eyes would allow. On another trip, I almost fainted in the National Gallery because when it comes to an art museum, I simply don’t stop. Art is life, dear. Art is life. This time, however, was different.

The Eurostar arrived at St. Pancras station from Paris around 10:45 a.m. Nothing says you’re in London like an imposing Gothic train station. And though in my mind it does not have the sweep and stature of Milano Centrale, it allows for an entirely different set of travel fantasies. These have echoes of war, empire, and perhaps a clandestine love affair.  I hop into a cab and give directions to my friend Claire’s home, an elegantly appointed town home evoking Marry Poppins realness in the exactly-where-it-needs-to-be area of London. This time I am only in town for a moment, a sojourn to see what I have heard is an amazing Kerry James Marshall exhibit at the Royal Academy and tea with Claire. My arrival is calm and measured as the agenda for the next day and a half is to merely saunter and enjoy what life brings my way. Quick hellos and hugs before I’m off to the Royal Academy. But first, a stop at Shoryu, my favorite Ramen place near Piccadilly Circus, because I’ve learned, “Nicholas, eat before you go to museums. You are too old to be passing out in foreign countries.”

These are the last days of my trip. But as I enter the exhibition space, Kerry James Marshall’s work brings me back to a question I was asked at the top of this particular journey in Milan:  “You consider yourself to be Black?” The answer to that question can be found in KJM’s paintings. On the walls were manifestations of a connection to something bigger than me. The exhibition is called, “The Histories.” And it is just that - our journey as Black people on the shores of America as seen through the eyes of a visionary painter. Among his bold but divinely simple concepts is to show the extraordinary in the ordinariness of the lives of Black people. As if to say, “what of this humanity will you deny?” And the self-creation act of painting oneself into the canon will forever be linked to one of his defining works, “Untitled, 2009.” There is a wealth of scholarship on his work and I will not attempt to pull out the Art History PhD I do not have for commentary. I do, however, connect with the very clear message reflected in his paintings that one must not wait for society to include you: create your own world, paint yourself, your dreams, and your community into existence. This he does in ways that are best not explained but experienced.

Exiting the exhibit, I sit to review the catalogue because I don’t yet have an extra $20 million to buy one of his paintings. Next to me arrive a couple from the US, hovering around 60. The lady sits down with a look of bewilderment and says, “That was brilliant.” Her partner concurs and looks at her searching for words as if they have just been through a baptism, “Thank you for letting me take so long…” he says. “Well, you have to…and how did we not know about him? …especially since we lived in Chicago all those years when he was working there,” she stated, the look now one of dismay, as if any claim she had to being an art connoisseur was now forfeit having not known the works of Kerry James Marshall. I want to answer the question posed, but as I am officially just a guy on a bench in the Royal Academy, I submit it to the seminar in my head. I am the moderator and the panelists. “Audience, our theme today is REPRESENTATION. Followed by its close friend ACCESS. They go hand in hand and will surely do you right, when you’ve been done wrong. You didn’t know about Mr. Marshall because you probably didn’t look for him. His 2016-17 exhibition, “Mastry,” was a defining moment in contemporary art history and considered a blockbuster by all standards. Kerry James Marshall is, uncontestably, one of the greatest living artists in the world. He is like Jesus with a paint brush…but you ain’t never heard of him? This seminar is over!”

Drunk with an art high, I walk to the National Portrait Gallery to visit a few old friends on the walls. Maybe one day they will appear in one of my stories. But for now, it is more of an honoring of lives lived long ago. “Hello, Ira. So nice to see you again. Have the crowds been kind?” I think to the circa 1826 portrait of Ira Aldridge, one of the most famous Shakespearian actors of the 19^th century, born “a free man in America.” “Mr. Isherwood, I’ve been doing a bit of travel writing myself these days,” to the sublime photograph of Christopher Isherwood and W.H. Auden. I have nothing to say to the Francis Bacon self-portrait. I want to say something lest he thinks I’m rude, but I have a feeling he prefers I leave him be. And then I make my way to The Queen. No, not that queen, but The Queen, as in Queen Charlotte. And I have one thing to ask… “Queen Charlotte, fellow Pomeranian lover and admirer of beauty, the people want to know…?!” But she doesn’t answer. She just looks at me and smiles. The same smile she has given for a few centuries. A smile for any and every one to see. We know girl, we know.

The night had fallen as I left St. Martin’s Place, walked to Piccadilly, passed the Ritz, wondered who is living in these homes throughout Mayfair, and eased down Park Lane to meet Claire for our traditional high tea. This time we meet at The Dorchester, an art deco grand dame chock full of high-society history. The Promenade dining area is quite lovely. The security guard engages me in polite conversation about photography and compliments me on my red camera. After seating, I retreat to the bathroom where he approaches again and politely tells me there is no photography in the restaurant. It was a bit odd, I thought, at first. But when I sat back down and looked at the clientele, it made sense. This didn’t feel like a room full of tourists. This felt decidedly not 1% but .05%. And might I say a diverse .05%, as clearly the “haves” from various cultures were enjoying their sweets and savories.  I thank the guard in my head for thinking I was in this mix, which technically I was, because it’s all about the moment. And in that moment, Claire and I caught up on all that should not be happening in the world. Also, we mused on families, kids, dogs, dreams, real estate, antiques, more dreams, that musical I’m writing, and the fact that coffee doesn’t keep me awake at night. We are both old enough to appreciate moments, and sometimes having tea with a friend, in decadence, is all you need on a dreary Sunday afternoon in London town.

Monday brought that “one more day” feeling when one is out of town. Should I try and do everything today or just chill and take it easy? Instead of hightailing it through the National Gallery, The Tate Modern, and The Tate Britain (oh, you don’t know me…I could definitely do it), I decide to chill with abandon and spend the morning at my own London mansion, Hertford House in Manchester Square. You may know it as The Wallace Collection, a museum known for its decorative arts and in particular its renowned collection of French 18^th century gilt-bronze works. I highly recommend this museum (especially for anyone who may need a relaxed experience) because it is set in an actual mansion and feels like you are simply strolling through your grand parlors, as one does. After all, where else can I have a Baron fantasy amid silk-walled opulence all for free? And unlike the Bisazza tiles or de Gournay wallpaper that patiently wait in the manifestation folder, I can respectfully say, as a collector of distinction and refined taste, I have my own museum quality French gilt-bronze pieces. They are only 19^th century, but what is a hundred years between beauty?

Entering the Large Drawing Room, I am reminded of a line we quote often from the late Dame Maggie Smith in her role as the Countess of Trentham in the movie Gosford Park: “Difficult color, green…very tricky.” Unless, darling, your green is the kind found in the Wallace Collections’ Large Drawing Room with walls of green silk that would make any Marquess proud. This is decadence on a completely different level. One does not need to daydream about how they might have lived here. The fantasy is real. You can feel the silk and crinoline gowns graze past and the intrigue hiding behind corners under art reserved for society’s finest. I knew there was a reason I loved this place.

One last stop for the day and I’m at the Victoria & Albert Museum. I don’t know how many times I’ve walked these halls. I’m sure I visit this museum every time I’m in London because of the breadth of their exhibitions and collections. This time, however, was just to sit in the café and admire the tile work – seriously, the tile work in the café is crazy beautiful. I’ve got an hour before the museum closes, and the spirit tells me to “see this place anew.” I smile to myself knowing exactly what that means. It means, “Nicholas, you were literally sick on the couch a week ago complaining about the world and utterly depressed. Go and create the world you want. It doesn’t have to be big or even special. Just shepherd your light and have faith.” Camera in hand I take a different corridor and get lost in a section that holds its own delights.

The evening brings a pleasant dinner with Claire, her husband, and their most happy dog. In the morning, I’ll hop back across the pond, but tonight I reflect on where I am, both physically and mentally.  I think of that little boy who loved to travel.  I think of loved ones, living and gone, with whom I would love to share these new stories. I think of places yet to see. But most of all, I’m thankful for people who are thankful for me.

Do Consider

Liberty London

I was not on the hunt for antiques in London as my time was short. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have a look or two. I went through Selfridges and the experience seemed to be a giant ploy to take people’s money. Then I remembered I have never been to Liberty London. It was on my mind because it was featured in the movie Cruella which I loved. It did not disappoint. It has a yesteryear charm and is filled with both new retail and vintage pieces. I was thankful the store was affordable if one wanted to spend money on things they don’t actually need. Like this beautiful costume necklace that I did not buy…but I could have! When in town, definitely consider a stop through Liberty London.

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