london's burning

Wow, what an eventful day. And what a beautiful day it was. The sun was shining, there wasn't a cloud in the sky and it was almost warm enough to forgo the jacket. Lovely.

Yesterday, a friend of mine arrived from the US. Picking him up at a tube stop halfway between the airport and my apartment made me miss a Thai dinner that I was promised would be spectacular. In all likelihood, the little gem of a restaurant will continue to exist, giving me the opportunity to go some other time. In any case, my friend came loaded with goodies that more than made up for any missed dinner.

I finally got my digital SLR. After reading Ansel Adams, studying his pictures and learning about pre-visualization and light in all its incarnations, I now feel ready to do some real photography. I'm not going to compete with anyone or aspire to anything, but I now have the theoretical background to do good things and a tool that won't stand in my way. If the results are disappointing I can console myself with a glass of the finest tequila, as my friend also brought a bottle of Herradura Añejo.

The reason for his visit, besides scouting labs for post-doctoral employment opportunities and getting a little feel for London life, is musical. Over the span of two-and-a-half short weeks and in eight concerts, Daniel Barenboim is performing all 32 of Beethoven's piano sonatas. My friend got tickets for four nights, and got me two as well. He's a classical music junkie.

Tonight was the first concert he went to, by himself. Knowing that they're open till ten on Saturdays, I headed for Tate Modern, just ten minutes down the river, to see the recently opened Juan Muñoz exhibition. I had first heard about this guy's funny and funky sculptures of little men when I was in Grenoble, where he was also honored by an exhibit. I didn't go then, but this time nothing held me back.

The highlight of the show, a true gem, was a room full of 100 little man, Chinese-looking and all colored in the same hue of grey, wearing the same Mao-inspired suit, and having the same ridiculously happy facial expression. They're feet weren't visible. They seemed to stand on their ankle bones, happily so, in groups of various sizes, seemingly engaged in conversations, following imaginary street performances, or looking at friends that weren't there.

The visitor was invited to wander around, mingle and become, momentarily, part of a happily arguing group, a long lost friend, the topic of great interest of a bunch of laughing men, or an outsider trying to figure out what was going on inside a large circle of people. Nothing did go on, of course. There were all just statues, standing still and silent, but in the most animated of ways. I could have wandered in marveled much longer. Having done enough walking for the day and with time running out, I headed back to meet my friend at Queen Elizabeth Hall.

Back home we learned that our destination for tomorrow afternoon, after the matinée at Wigmore Hall, Camden Market, was burning. As there have been heated discussions about the future of the market for a while, with big developers craving the area and plans for big-name retail being drawn, I'm wondering if there wasn't malice at the root of the fire that apparently started in a little t-shirt shop. With a bit of The Clash in the stereo (see the title of this post, in case I'm being obscure), I'm wallowing in conspiracy theory, at least until tomorrow, when our schedule, slightly tuned to fit reality, will keep us busy until late at night again.