ILL EQUIPPED. (pictures not required)

 

It had come highly recommended by Polly. “There’s a Constable exhibition at the Royal Academy you must see”. Entitled “Late Constable” it covered a time line from 1825 to his death in 1837. It was a short stroll to the nearest tube station and ten stops on another short walk along Piccadilly from Green Park Station, and a perfect distraction from thoughts of my own exhibition starting that evening.

The pavements were bustling with eager shoppers and the well-dressed seem to carry an air of entitlement and ownership, while the homeless sat cross legged on cardboard, backed up to what would now seem useless telephone boxes, muffled and blanketed against the first real nip of winter. As I approached Dover Street a black woman stood doubled over in obvious distress, tears streaming down her face as she pleaded blindly for help to the passing pedestrians. I drew closer watching people skirting around her, turning their gaze elsewhere and walking on. After all that people have been through over the past two years there must now be a greater awareness of people less fortunate, and surely someone would take notice of such distress.

In the Outer Hebrides I expect to say hello to everyone I come across during my walk, but obviously on the streets of London that is impossible. There is a level of self-imposed isolation that comes with the use of smartphones, a reduction in observation and a cutting off from reality. Headphones in place, they walk and talk, but exist elsewhere. I looked ahead and passed, disgusted with myself for joining the throng.

I paid my £17 entry and spent the following hour transported to another world, enthralled by the magic of Constable. Being able to get so close and study the confident confusion of paint application, no longer aware of my mask. To see his full size preparatory sketches alongside the finished studio work was a delight, flitting to and fro, seeing decisions taken almost two centuries ago.

Pleasantly exhausted I left by the Burlington back doors, my back beginning to feel the strain of concentration. Unmasked I walked on down Old Bond Street and slowed as a woman standing in front of a handbag shop posed, while her husband took a photo. A purchase had been made and she proudly clutched the smart paper carrier bag sporting the shop’s name. I stopped and stared, the tears welling up, a brutal transportation to the reality of today, the contrast too great. I could not survive long on these streets.