I became familiar with Kensington Palace after reading Daisy Goodwin's biographical novel Victoria, about Queen Victoria of the Victorian Era. Then I watched the show with Dan. Goodwin produced it herself and based it off of her book, and it soon became one of our favorites to watch at home, curled up on the couch with a glass of wine.
Kensington Palace is the home Queen Victoria grew up in, guarded by her overprotective mother and caretaker, having to walk down the stairs with her hand held so she wouldn't fall - until she was eighteen years old. It is also the place where she met the great love of her life, Prince Albert. After reading so much about the place and its inhabitants, the visit there became more than just a sight-seeing venture for us: it was a place alive with drama, valued for its history, and special for the story it told. Princess Diana lived there too. Gracing the large walkway onto which led the gates is a memorial statue of the Queen (to the right of which - if you could step out of the photo - you would find the magical Sunken Garden):
The gate - no longer attached but still in its original form from the 19th century - was of this massive ornate design. I only captured fragment of it (below). But I love its announcement and proclamation of a place guarded, its precious nature held within. Unlike a lot of government buildings here in the U.S., this, for lack of a better word, represented something feminine but strong, the brutality of governing something as common as a flower, something as easily constructed as ribbon or bow.
The inside, as we expected, was austere with a brooding presence of days lost in thought and the fraught existence of those possible heirs to the throne, or else the uncomfortable entanglement of being born into it without escape (Marx's sentiments too, are true here if anywhere). I sat on a windowsill that I imagined many have sat at, contemplating the existence of one who was not allowed to wander among the common folk, considered too important to mingle with peasantry and instead forced to remain within the gates, with books, with dolls, with paint. As a women this was Victoria's reality. I simultaneously felt the grandeur of what a wondrous life that would be, too, not only stifling, to be able to immerse oneself completely in the understanding of the violence humanity creates and the meaning of hierarchy, the idea of what land is, and why land must be protected from harm, whatever that harm was defined as at that time.
A home, anyone's home, which of course first begins with one's body, is an element to be protected, guarded, held secure if one wants to live a full life, queen or not, princess or not, king or prince... or not.
What was held within these wooden halls and rooms were breathtaking pieces - no - artifacts - of the Victorian life which were all held in a grip of reverence and fear, awe, wonder, and respect.
I found two paintings. One of a bride (I believe one of Queen Victoria's daughters), posed as if reflecting on the journey ahead, on what it meant she was able to do and what she no longer was able to do. She seems to be in a pensive pose of somber gladness, similar to images one sees of the Virgin Mary. I looked up to this image, its refusal to turn life into a jest or a frivolous ride. No, her birth and marriage was nothing short of a miracle. I can only hope that this bride felt those things, but the artist definitely captured this emotion, real or unreal.
The second painting held a young boy as its subject. I have no idea who it is, its just this young boy. Again, there isn't a jeering or playful smile here. The painting reminded me immediately of the boy Colin from The Secret Garden, the one who believed he was born with a hunch on his back like his father. There wasn't a hunch on his back, as Mary Lennox showed him, though he was sickly. This boy, too, seems almost sick with thought. He is thinking about something, reaching out towards... towards what, I don't know. Maybe a clearer understanding of the world, his world, however large or small. I'm sure he was a boy who had experienced deep happiness, for only a boy with this expression surely could know happiness in full... for he retreats back within himself... wondering... for what do I deserve this happiness? Why is it I within these walls? This frame? That I could be a portrait? Could it have been anyone else? It is a special feeling, he seems to say, and not one shareable with everyone. At least that's what I think. I love this painting.
Many rooms reached up into a kaleidoscopic infinity by the genius of art and architecture. Look up and you'll feel as if falling into a netherworld, of mathematics, numbers, and symbolism. Here's one photo of many, giving our Earthly sun its due notice.
Sculpture filled the dark halls as well, reflecting, rubbed, and soaked by the actual sunlight coming in through the high windows and moving about within the interior of this palace. It was overwhelming and beautiful to see bodies represented in this way, not omens nor altars, but something else entirely, a child addressing his friend and companion, the swan:
Fear was induced too, there were images that couldn't be penetrated or looked at too closely. Reminders of the evil that lurks around us always, never to be escaped, only avoided. These seemed to be warnings of devilish natures, allegories to be taken seriously so as not to fall into any traps:
Maps, maps, maps. I'm fascinated by this thing I hardly understand, an external representation of our internal compass, I would even go so far to say something that might have been, a very long time ago, intuition. Maps are drawn and edited, over and over again, always changing the way we literally see the world. This one is particularly fascinating. Is it a clock too? What does the arrow mean?
Lastly we entered the Crown Jewels room. One man, an American tourist (only an American would do this), figured out a way to photograph visitors so it looked like they were wearing one of the crowns. He got it exactly so I fit right into the crown while Dan held the camera... but it is merely reflection. How much in our life is merely a reflection of what we encounter, what we see, what we experience? How much of it is impulse? It was a fun way to end our first of a handful of visits to Kensington Palace, to say the least, and some light-hearted relief after our momentary stay within the inner realms of royalty.
That night we went to a typical English pub close to our hotel, named Prince Alfred, and ate fish and chips. I ordered myself a very large Bloom Gin with fresh strawberries. Dan had a large beer. Everything was delicious and we talked into the night... about everything and anything... things I can't recall now.
Stay tuned for Day 3 of our trip. Cheers to you.
- F
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