In January, I went to London to see a play by my favorite playwright, Annie Baker. As usual, a rather specific combination of art and desire inspired me to travel. I had been to London before but had never really enjoyed the city (somehow, I had missed the things to love about it), so my expectations were minimal. This mindset worked out, as this frigid week in London was one of my best solo trips ever.
While I had no expectations, I did plan many activities I knew I'd enjoy: the play, visits to the Tate Modern, Tate Britain, the Albert and Victoria Museum, the National Portrait Gallery, the British Museum, an experimental visual art gallery, lunch at St. John, dinner with one of my favorite former students, and a day of wet plate collodion photography with a photographer whose work I've admired for years. Indeed, this itinerary seems over-scheduled, but it never felt that way.
The play was the primary reason for the trip. In 2015, after hearing Annie Baker on Marc Maron's podcast, I immediately went to New York to see her play, "The Flick." As a young woman, it felt like the first time I had experienced theater written, seemingly, for me. Baker is approximately my age, and I saw my late-20s/early-30s thoughts and actions reflected in her writing. I've since read all her plays. The questions she's interested in—how to form lasting relationships, the attempt to find deeper meaning amidst the churn of everyday life, and really, what's the point of doing anything—resonate with me.
In London, I saw her latest play, "Infinite Life." The audience was filled with women of all ages to see a play overtly about the body, illness, and desire, but more deeply about the beliefs we have that hold the narrative of our lives together and what it would take to fix whatever might be wrong with us, at the core of our beings. During the final scene, I smiled uncontrollably at what might happen and could not hold back tears by the end. Many forms of art can move me, but live theater is so obviously capable of immediate and unpredictable magic.
Otherwise, I walked to take photos during the very few daylight hours, unable to feel my ice-cold hands clutching an even colder metal camera. I punctuated the walks with museum visits to warm up. The Tate Britain had an educationally and historically useful exhibit on: "Women in Revolt: Art, Activism and the Women's Movement in the UK 1970–1990." And the Tate Modern's exhibit, "Capturing the Moment," on the differences between photography and painting was delightful. I had never been to the Victoria and Albert Museum or the National Portrait Gallery before; one could spend all day at the V&A.
The other highlight of the trip was meeting Dave Shrimpton, a wet plate collodion photographer whose work I found on IG in 2017. I've wanted to see this photographic process in person, and I only want to learn from the best. Further, I look at many photographers' work, and rarely do I see someone whose vision is so singular that I would like to see myself through that vision. Dave's photos have exactly that quality, so I promised myself I'd reach out the next time I went to England. Graciously, he agreed to meet, and I took the train to Cambridge for a whole day of photography talk and wet plate collodion. I am very particular about photos of me, and sensitive to the trust that is required. Self-criticism runs deep and dark. But the wet plate process was enthralling and unexpectedly freeing. The photos showed me a version of myself I hadn't seen before. I'm grateful to Dave for the day and the tintypes, and hopefully, we'll get to shoot again the next time I'm over there.
By the end of the week, I didn't want to leave. The trip was light and carefree in a way that my solo trip in the fall had not been. On that trip, I planned for reflection and pushed myself to consider my choices, a recent achievement, and how I want to live the rest of my life. I didn't put any of those high-minded, existential questions and expectations on this trip. Instead, I explored, photographed, and thoroughly enjoyed my own company. For a whole, easy week.