Now, being the sort of person who will order from all six columns in an Indian restaurant if given the opportunity, I have enjoyed all the history of Dublin and any the other parts of Ireland I've been fortunate enough to visit so far. But with time on the clock running down for this trip (note the sports metaphor, Jo), I've become a bit more selective. And it seems that my passion du jour is the Georgian period. My visit to the Georgian house museum at 29 Fitzwilliam on Wednesday threw a few more logs on that fire. (How many bad metaphors can we get into this paragraph?)
I managed to leave my gloves behind at that address, and since they were very nice lined leather gloves that I'd devoted some effort to breaking in just right, I wanted to retrieve them. The thought of having left gloves somewhere in the Georgian district of Dublin was itself pleasing, and planning an excursion to retrieve them was entertaining as well. (I am easily amused.) I mapped out a route that would take me deeper into Georgian neighborhoods and allow me to visit the National Gallery, Leinster House, St. Stephen's Green and the Shelbourne Hotel, which may or may not have been Georgian but was along the route and a potential stopping place for a posh tea.
But I was not feeling very well in the morning, with pesky respiratory issues exacerbated by the Dublin weather, and so I decided to be like Mrs. Beatty, the lady of the house at 29 Fitzwilliam, and spend the early hours drinking tea, directing the household staff, and attending to correspondence. The actual activity was more along the lines of making cups of tea, doing a load of laundry and blogging. But it worked for me, and by 11 or so I was feeling less punky and more ready to venture out.
When we travel, Jo and I take along little gifts from Wendell August, a company in Grove City that makes forged aluminum decorative items. We're always touched by how kind some strangers can be, and we like to be able to give a little thank-you gift made in our town. Since I was going back to 29 Fitzwilliam to collect my gloves, I wanted to leave something for Laura, the woman who'd given me such a wonderful tour. I put the box in a bag and set off with the idea that I'd pick up a card en route.
It took me three stops to find a simple notecard. Irish taste in greeting cards appears to be divided into two camps: very stiff or very sentimental. Example of the former: Christmas cards to "My Mum and Dad" containing the message: "You are nice people. May you have a happy Christmas." Seems a bit somber for one's parents. But then there is the other extreme, with tri-fold panels full of goopy poetry about the meaning of Christmas and sharing of the Christmas pudding. But both types tend to have illustrations of animals and/or holiday food, decorated with sparkly sand. And the non-Christmas blank cards are about the same. So it took awhile to find a suitable card for Laura. And then I was happily on my way to Merrion Square.
I took the long way around the park, looking at all the colorful front doors and the skyline
chimneys, and when I got to 29 Fitzwilliam, I leaned against a lampost to write a note in the card. Then I went down the steps into the entrance of the museum and met up with the white-haired gentleman from the day before. He seemed genuinely pleased to remember me (but I don't know if it was perhaps just the act of remembering itself that made him smile). He handed me my gloves and I handed him the little bag for Laura, which he agreed to pass along to her. Several of the staff were in the room and wished me good travels as I left. It was all very pleasant. (I like pleasant.)Thus reunited with my gloves, I walked across Merrion Square south and over to the National Gallery, one of those big, columned, imposing buildings taking up most of the corner of the block off Clare St. They had self-guide brochures left in every language but English, so I went to look around the main floor myself. There were a lot of muddy-looking Irish pastoral scenes, the usual oil portraits of no one I knew, and a corridor full of marbles and bronzes. Nothing too interesting. And then I turned a corner and saw a special exhibit that just opened last week, showing some of the work of Hugh Douglas Hamilton, a Georgian portraitist. Yippee!
While I love portraits in general, and I am in awe of portrait painters who work in oil, I much prefer sketches and pastels. Oils take a long time to do, and the technical skill of the painter often competes with the humanity of the sitter. But with sketches and pastels, the portrait happens more quickly, and the skill is seen in catching a mood, a gesture, a little smile. The exhibit of Hugh Douglas Hamilton's pastels was just delightful. He caught not only the details of dress and grooming that make a period come alive, but also the distinctly different personalities of his subjects that connects them to the modern viewer. I love how we are all connected, in the big scheme of things.
More Georgian Fun Facts: That middle- and upper-class Georgians were quite status conscious and vain, and they liked to sit for portraits that they'd use to decorate their more intimate living spaces. That it cost up to 50 guineas to have an oil portrait done, but only about six guineas for a pastel, and so the pastel work was quite popular. That Hamilton himself is known to have done 224 pastel portraits, but that number is likely to be much higher. That artists of the time were trained to do figure drawing and painting, copying the masters, but if they wanted to learn, say, sculpting or some other art speciality, they had to find an apprenticeship. That Georgians were so vain that portrait painters, wigmakers, tailors and dressmakers, and anyone providing an appearance-enhancing service made an excellent living.
One thing I liked about the Hamilton pastels was that he used plain, mostly grey paper, so there was no distracting background that might give indication of social status. Also, he focused on faces, so the wigs and lace were secondary to such details as a the turn of a smile or the arch of an eyebrow. Again, his little portraits show real people. Granted, people vain enough to hire him and rich enough to pay him. But real nonetheless. I loved that.
There was Lady Arabella Denny, whom Hamilton sketched in the 1770s, when she looked to be in her 50s. She grew up in Tralee (where we spent Thanksgiving), the daughter of the Earl of Kerry. The little history of her said that she was concerned with the plight of the poor in Dublin and had as a special cause the improvement of conditions at the Foundling Hospital at the Dublin Workhouse. It also said that in 1767 she founded a refuge for Protestant girls at risk of becoming prostitutes. I wondered what the assessment tool was for figuring out those risk factors. Also, what of the Catholic girls on the brink of prostitution? Because I'm guessing that the career option wasn't limited to Protestants. But Lady Denny was a lovely study, modestly attired, with a powder grey wig and white lace covering her bodice. She looked quite kind. She lived a long time, from 1701 to 1792. Perhaps acting on one's social conscience contributes to life expectancy?
Another portrait I liked was of Mary Watson-Wentworth, the Marchioness of Rockingham, who was the wife of the British Prime Minister, first in 1765-66 and then again in 1782 (same husband, different terms). She was depicted doing needlework and was described as having been a "well-informed and astute political observer" whose contribution to her husband's service was acknowledged publicly. I do like strong women who, despite social constraints, used their minds and spirits and made themselves useful. I like to think I'd have been that kind of Georgian woman.
So it was a lovely exhibit, and I feel fortunate to have stumbled upon it. I walked around the museum a bit more but was in no mood for the Big Serious Museum Paintings in the other rooms, so I followed the sound of cutlery against china and found--you guessed it--the gift shop and the cafe. The gift shop was quite nice--like the shop at the Met--and I picked up a few things but put them down because I didn't want to be carrying a bag for the rest of the day. I may go back. There was a box of Christmas cards with a painting showing five plump nuns in full habits (with wimples), ice skating on a pond. Problem is, I don't know 20 people who would find such a card as amusing as I did.
I asked a guide in a woolen vest for the time, and when he told me almost 2 I was surprised. I was due to meet Jo at the Kilkenny shop restaurant at 3. So I scooted out the door and down the street to St. Stephen's Green, a Victorian park surrounded by more Georgian houses. The
middle class Georgian houses, like 29 Fitzwilliam, are narrower and of simpler construction than the mansions, which can be three times as wide and quite elaborate. The houses along St. Stephen's Green are quite nice. Larry and Tom would love the park, still well-maintained and busy with pedestrians. The Vics knew how to do a park, didn't they?I managed to miss the Shelbourne Hotel, despite my best efforts to find it, and I think it's
because although I circumnavigated the park, I didn't walk on one small stretch of the side where the Shelbourne is. So I'll have to go back again. Although... I've heard that they're renovating the interior to a more modern design, alas. I was hoping for tea in the old interior. We shall see.So then it was down Grafton and over to Nassau and to the Kilkenny where I got myself tea and a cranberry scone. (The scones just find their way to my tray. I don't know how it happens.) I was glad for a seat, since I'd been walking a long time and didn't really feel too well. Also, the pinky toe on my right foot has been problematic when I wear my black walking shoes. Yes, this is fascinating, I know. But it's just so Not Done in Dublin to wear Reeboks on the street. Cobblestones notwithstanding, women wear real shoes. Even high-heeled real shoes. (It was the same in Mexico City, where I felt completely out of place wearing sneakers among women who were dressed impeccably at any time of day.) So my vanity cost me a very painful pinky toe. (I am considering having it removed.) I was glad to sit and drink tea awhile, looking out at Nassau St and all the people walking past.
When Jo did not appear at the appointed time, I gathered up my stuff and walked over to the loo, where there was a queue. I waited and waited. The two women ahead of me were chatting away, and the line grew behind me. I wondered if the two in front were just loitering until one turned and told me the loo was being cleaned. Her companion turned to me and said, "Aye, and no matter how mournful we looked, she said we'd have t'wait." Made me laugh.
That business taken care of, I searched the Kilkenny restaurant again for Jo, who was not yet there, and got another pot of tea for myself. The restaurant is on the second floor of the Kilkenny shop, which specializes in Irish crafts. Lovely stuff. (http://www.kilkennyshop.com/) They have scrummy items for lunch or tea. What's not to like about berry tarts? How can anything negative be said about ganache? I think all stores should have a place to stop for tea.
Jo came in, shivering, having waited an hour in the cold for a delayed bus. Poor Jo. Her body temperature has been about 70 degrees since she got here. She does not handle the cold and damp very well. Me, I bundle up, but truth be told, my occasional hot flashes serve a positive purpose here. But neither of us will miss the damp chill of Dublin.
Our plan was to go the the Stag's Head for late lunch, that establishment being an old pub frequented by Trinity College folks. But we couldn't find Dame's Court on the map, and the
people we asked weren't much help, and, well, we were both a little cranky, so we walked up Grafton and stopped at Beweley's. Jo had the spaghetti bolognese and I had a ciabatta with goat cheese, roasted peppers and tomato pesto, and we shared a bowl of tomato and white bean soup. That and the pretty room cheered us right up. Then it was a couple of stops for provisions and then home, me limping a little with my silly toe, and Jo bundled up to her eyeballs. Quite the pair, we are.A quiet evening at home--no trips to the theatre or to a friend's for a game of whist, as Mrs. Beatty might have done. We responded to hunger later in the night with an order of cod and chips from Leo Burdock's, downstairs and around the corner. Yes, bad for us, but so good. (It'll all end next week. Sigh.)
This morning I'm playing Mrs. Beatty again, having had a rough night of coughing and generally feeling punky. A little tea and blogging will set me right, and then Jo and I have adventures in store for this afternoon when she returns from her last day of observing students out in the 'burbs. We're meeting the kids this evening for a dinner and music at the Arlington Hotel, on the other side of the Liffey. And then tomorrow Jo and I are taking the bus to Kilkenny.
More later...
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