In case all you arty types are wondering what the new big art thing is this winter....it's a darn crack in the floor at the Tate Modern. I, amazingly, found it on my own yesterday after adamantly vowing to get out of the house in time to make it to the Tate Modern for at least an hour before it closed. London is pretty big, and slightly daunting, therefore making going out to be a bit of a...well...bitch. I journeyed on different trains, roamed down different streets and found the glorious Millennium Bridge at the end of which resided said museum. The sun had set, but the sky was still a dark pale blue and London was absolutely gorgeous. With St. Paul's cathedral behind me, I set across the bridge and found myself at the museum with a good hour and a half to spend roaming around. The first ten minutes, I spent walking along the main exhibit which was...a crack in the floor. It began as a tiny crack in the concrete at one end of this giant main hall (if you've been....maybe you know)and grew, as I walked from one end to the other, until it was quite an impressive chasm that one might (and approximately 11 have...at his point) fall into. However, it's only deep enough for a very thin leg to get caught in up to the mid calf. There were loads of onlookers, following the path, taking pictures, laughing, gawking, sitting in silent reflection. I then went to the third floor to take in the regular exhibits. The first room was easy to enjoy with no more than a few pictures per room, but on the left side of the floor, the walls were so crammed with metaphorical nonsense, that I found myself getting a bit annoyed. I did, however, enjoy the regular video installments of a man being tripped by a dog from different vantage points. The highlight of my trip, I think, was a life-size painting of a woman (yes) that was hanging in a room with only seven other pictures. I wish I could remember the artist and the name, but I walked into the room and was hypnotized. She was beautiful: milky skin, beautiful, simple dress, and this expression of stern disregard. It was so real...but so obviously a painting. It was also very cold. Nothing about this painting made me feel warm inside...she was obviously not impressed with the idea of getting her picture painted...but for some reason...it really appealed to me. I might have even fallen in love with her for a brief moment...and isn't that what some artists are trying to do? Make us see what they see...and feel what they feel?
Afterwards, I trekked back home on the over crowded tube (honestly rolled in like sardines), and had a lovely dinner prepared for me by Liam. Then I watched one of those makeover shows....it was a British one called "How to Look Good Naked" in which a clearly homosexual oober fashionable guy takes a sad pasty girl that hates the way she looks and convinces her that she's fabulous and eventually gets her to model underwear in a runway show. It's really quite uplifting...and startling...the most startling moment was when I saw naked boobs on the T.V...before 9....and also...on basic TELEVISION. BOOBS. I wasn't offended...you know me, I love boobs....but I wasn't actually expecting it. These English...showin' their boobs on T.V. what will they think of next?