The two people above seem an unlikely couple to coexist in any textual space; however they do have something in common besides my apparent interest in them.
I went to Tate Modern again yesterday because it was Friday and on Fridays some museums in London choose to treat their patrons by staying open late, till 10pm in Tate Modern's case (and the sandwiches in the museum cafe in late hours, like an out-of-fashion artist, decide to trade for a reduced price too.) I love museums, a passion not shared by everyone I meet - quite a pity for I think everyone should love museums, regardless of his or her level of interest in Picasso and whatnot, for three reasons.
First, they are free, mostly, in London, unless you really die to view a current exhibition which always charges a handsome fee or your guilty conscience would never allow you to bypass the donation box placed at the museum entrance without reaching for your wallet.
Second, most museums promise a great escape with their aesthetically pleasing and architecturally interesting, large and open spaces to urban dwellers, the majority of whom spilt their lives between dreadful office cubicles and cookie-cutter characterless apartments. Think of the lofty, light-infused great hall of the British Museum, the historic, imposing central hall of the Natural History Museum, the awe-evoking, raw, industrial Turbine Hall of Tate Modern. Think of the many varied spaces, large and small, throughout the museums, usually no short of benches, armchairs and couches eagerly inviting one to stop, sit, linger, loiter, rest, watch, appreciate, anything but to hurry and be hurried, like in shops/cafes by over-zealous and oftentimes intrusive staff.
Last but not the least, museum shops! Commercialized art, or art merchandise, things having a lot or little to do with art, or things priced exorbitantly in the name of art, whatever you describe it. Despicable they might be, I find them very therapeutic and soothing, which has little to do with whether you can or want to afford to buy anything. The selection, the display, the color, the space! Everything seems mesmerizingly reachable, and at the same time also seems a bit too refined to regard them in the context of one's own home.
Okay, I have digressed enough and shall return to my visit to Tate Modern, more specifically, to its store. Among a sea of glossy, beautifully-covered books, I saw this book by
Tim Burton,
The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy & Other Stories, lying there with a modest dark blue cover. I have known the book for a few years - first published in 1997, the book is 12 years old already-, and have been tempted to pick up a pricy hardcover copy in a NYC bookstore a couple of times but was never resolved enough to do it, especially after I found
a full electronic copy online. I got to know the book when I didn't even know who Tim Burton was despite his fame and statue in Hollywood. I was attracted by his style of drawings and storytelling, a style very adeptly described by New York Times as:
"The Melancholy Death of Osyter Boy exquisitely conveys the pain of an adolescent outsider. Like Tim Burton's movies, the work manages to be both childlike and sophisticated, blending the innocent with the Macabre."
Seeing the book quietly snuggled among some colorful children's picture books - I highly question the appropriateness of categorizing it as children's book by Tate Modern - I was suddenly overcome by a feeling one often experiences in childhood for a long-coveted toy or chocolate bar. I brought the book to the cashier without much hesitation though it was not cheaper than the hardcover copy I came across years ago.
Here is a poem with the accompanying cartoon from the book:
The Pin Cushion Queen
Life isn't easy
for the Pin Cushion Queen,
When she sits alone on her throne,
Pins push through her spleen.
This kind of morbid twist on childlike stories is easily reminiscent of the works of
Edward Gorey (Gorey's entry in Wikipedia confirms the influence of Gorey on Burton's directional style), who decades before Burton's little book painted a more gruesome picture of the deaths of the "gashlycrumb tinnies". Here is one of the deaths:
Gorey is one of my favorite illustrators; but I only own two books of his: his books are hard to find, being one excuse. I adore his dexterous and meticulous use of lines, his ability to build up an otherworldly atmosphere in which his odd characters live, his masterly use of meager words alongside his drawings.
So why
Matthew Gray Gubler? And, more important, who is he? He is nobody or a rather obscure actor/former fashion model to most people. He is Agent Spencer Reid/genius to anyone who is a fan like I am of the US TV crime drama series "
Criminal Minds". He is also a quite talented sketch artist, only known to the few who happen to have visited his
personal website which displays many of his works or doodles - he is the designer of the website too. The ghastly nature of his sketches supplies an interesting yet surprisingly complimentary facet to the nerdy Dr. Reid character - somehow I find it hard to separate his TV persona from his real life one; I would like to think he's playing himself though I perfectly know the real Gubler, smart he may be, is not a genius.
So finally here is the connection between Tim Burton and Matthew Gray Gubler, that they are both in the show-biz and they both have a less-known artistic talent in drawing, sketching, illustrating, whatever you call it and an aesthetic taste in and inclination for things that are not so cute-and-cheerful. There is something else I envy in them both: that their fame - not so much yet for MGG- as a result of their career in film or TV helps to bring to light their other artistic endeavors, which otherwise more likely than not will sink to obscurity, for neither of the two, as much as I admire them, stand great chance of prospering based solely on their drawing/sketching skills. But lucky for them, and for me too, they are keeping their day jobs. For MGG, I would buy his book if he ever decides to publish one.
1个小时的山中漫步，又转回了北岛这一边，上环、中环的高楼林立，这是我们家的方向。
I have never been ashamed to admit that I am the kind of person who likes judge a book by its cover - here by "book", I do not mean metaphorically and I really mean "book" in its literal sense; and I don't see any wrongs in doing so. Why would any sensible author or publisher allow his/her book to be covered in something that evoke imaginations that run inconsistent with, contradictory or even contrary to its content? Surely there are cases where the cover, no matter how well-designed and beautifully crafted, falls short of doing justice to the brilliance promised by the content. That is fine, for a cover should only offer a glimpse to what is about to unfold; it is supposed to tantalize the casual reader's interest to uncover, to discover what lies ahead.
This wall belongs to a lovely old building in the neighborhood - in fact, my favorite building even though it is kind of too late to discover it. We saw it while roaming through the Leathermarket Gardens Saturday afternoon and couldn't help but envy whoever is living in it with a view overlooking flowering treetops of the gardens. 
Too much sun light, too much brightness, in London! Can you believe it?! Photo was taken at 9am in the sitting room, equipped with no blinds thanks to our hopelessly procrastinating landlord who never delivers what he promises. 
