Trafalgar Square, London
For some weeks now, artists and carpenters have been building an astounding chess set and board here in front of the National Gallery, in perhaps one of the most public spaces in the world. This stunning construction includes ceramic chess pieces designed by Spanish artist Jaime Hayon; 5 feet tall; gilded and over glazed. These are nearly surreal in their perfection and size. A game is in progress, each player up on a grand platform reached by stairs, overlooking a board thirty feet square. A gallery of thousands is watching the life size pieces moved by uniformed attendants. An announcer calls the game, much as one would call a football match.
There are perhaps twenty thousand people here, some flowing swiftly through, others finding a destination here. I found a place on a short wall in front of the gallery’s Sainsbury wing. No longer a passer-by caught in the current, I become an anthropologist, observing the organic vortex that is Trafalgar Square.
Soon hundreds of cyclists in a British road race will storm though here, careening down Whitehall towards Big Ben. For certain, they will know what time it is. Countless resources have been used to close roads in one of the busiest cities in the world, set up barricades, create routes, and hire extra police and ambulance drivers by the hundreds. In the end, only one of these racers will have fifteen minutes of fame in the limelight. The rest will be able to say they “got the T-shirt, been there, done that.” That’s all. The possibility of accolades seems a powerful driver of human behavior.
Ambulances are careening towards the race route. It must be a high stake’s event.
The bully pulpit is occupied as always. Up there one can expound on anything at all. Free speech is still free here. A cherry picker just enabled a shift change. There is no way to and from the summit of the twenty-five foot limestone monolith short of being plucked or plopped by crane or picker. The newly arrived expositor is up there arranging his notes. No one is really paying attention to him. Most of the spectators are finding the chess game a more interesting past time than end time prophecies.
More ambulances are screaming through. A police chopper is hovering overhead. Security seems to be a big deal here. A couple of days ago after I was locked down in a glass elevator, a security man told me, “You just can’t be too careful.” I wonder; perhaps a bit paranoid. This may be understandable, given unsavory events in recent years. The chess game just ended in a stalemate - no winners.
The London Eye is just visible above the nine floors of neo-classical facades that line Charing Cross Road. Tourists in the top of the Eye can see the bully pulpit for about five minutes during their one hour spin through the London sky. Despite paying $25 for the ride, headphones are not included. They will have to come over here to listen to the circadian orations that will answer their existential questions.
It is intriguing, being an observer of all this rambunctious life, and having two people sitting six inches from where I am writing this. They speak in unknown tongues; with no one to translate. I am unseen to them. We could be like two galaxies that pass through each other but never touch. We go on our own ways, unaffected; they caught up in the current again; I clinging to my perch on the wall.
There is such an amazing density to life here, a world so far removed from the bucolic sensibilities in a Victorian world, one under glass. Yet it is good. There must be no place on earth that has this magnitude of diversity and quantity of people flowing by my wall every minute. To be in this concentrated caldron of life, yet unique; is good. Tourists on top of the myriad open-top double deckers have about forty-five seconds at the red light to experience this world occupied by about twenty thousand different kinds of us.
Another ambulance screeches.
Thin afternoon sunlight reminds me of approaching autumn. This is a good thing for the ‘freeze’ dressed in a black suit, wearing bright red braiding. He has not moved in an hour, trusting passers-by will be properly impressed by his immobility, putting their spare change in his dented cookie tin. I’m duly impressed with such stillness in this tsunami of humanity flowing in and out through a dozen hypertensive asphalt veins and arteries. Business looks pretty slow for him. I must remember to carry money for unexpected purchases.
Choppers have appeared again, directly overhead. There seems to be some compelling need to keep all of us in proper order.
A gentle breeze has begun to blow. A cloud of pigeons at my feet are eating fresh bread dropped by tourists passing by my wall. I had a fine lunch myself consisting of a spring onion and cheese sandwich, yogurt, a peach, and a fair-trade banana. The pigeons are politely sharing. Several have jumped up here by my hands as I write. This part of the universe seems pretty well-mannered. Maybe we really don’t need the choppers.
Another chess game has just started.
The concrete wall beneath me refused to soften up and contour itself to my seat of knowledge. I got up to go wander in the National Gallery a bit; figuring on fruit from a Renaissance still life for an afternoon snack. Not thirty feet from my wall, I nearly stumbled onto a stunning piece of beauty. A true fleck of paradise just washed up onto the shores of my life, appearing at my feet. On the sidewalk is a seven by nine foot depiction of Botticelli’s 15th century masterpiece depicting Pallas and the Centaur. Its creator, a demure young woman sits quietly in lotus position at the top of her work. That I was seeing this image on the pavement in Trafalgar Square and not in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence is incredible. More incredible is the effect it has on the organic masses flowing past; instantly bifurcating on either side of the painting and then freezing, not unlike the nearby man in his red braids. They all pay homage with their cameras and coins. I must remember to carry money for unexpected purchases.
The artist has just disappeared, leaving her masterpiece, her money, and her belongings there at the mercy of the hordes. Some people are profoundly trusting. I am seeing this being put profound beauty into the lives of thousands, with her brush and with her trust. I feel like I should go over there and put stanchions around Botticelli. I keep looking for her, hoping she just left to take care of essential needs. Amazingly, no one touches anything. Everyone watches his step. Everyone watches her step. Periodically, huge clots of humanity accrete around the goddess Pallas Athena, but never occluding her beauty. Admirers fill the artisan’s hat with their coins.
Choppers. We really don’t need choppers.
There is much beauty here in the currents of life and we are watching our step. Good. She has come back. I can cease being over responsible for something that is not mine. She trusts us.
The ice cream vendor is doing a brisk business. Children are getting their favorite flavors from attentive parents. Young women are smiling in expectation of their treats. I must remember to carry money for unexpected purchases.
Two guys, not paying attention, just stepped on the Centaur’s head. They instantly backed up, as if they had just walked on hot coals. Botticelli’s protégé didn’t flinch. She seems to hold life with an open hand. Anita never received formal training in art, instead receiving inspiration from a former boyfriend who encouraged her to express her gift to the world. She is out here in one of the most crowded places on earth, subjecting her work to the scrutiny of thousands. So far, she has thumbs up from all.
A very street-worn homeless man has just climbed up next to me on the grass. He passed out within about fifteen seconds. I wonder why he is in frayed threads, appearing to have lost the urge for personal grooming. Survival probably uses up all his resources. Perhaps, the ice cream man will share his good business and give the guy a cone.
I went into the National Gallery and accessed the museum’s digital image data bases for Botticelli. Fifteen of his works showed up. Anita does really good work. She could have apprenticed to Botticelli if she had shown up about five hundred fifty years earlier. Two minutes later I was standing in a gallery full of the real thing, hoping that people outside were plunking down in Anita’s hat. I really must remember to carry money for unexpected purchases.
“And God saw all that He had made, and behold it was very good."
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