15th October 2013
Tucked between the financial and legal bustle of Chancery Lane and Kingsway, sits Lincoln's Inn Fields, the largest public square in Old London Town. Between 11 and 2 it serves as a leafy respite for young, bonny, soon-to-be-rich law students to drink coffee and talk loudly on their telephones. I enjoy the place for its myriad institutions and the people they attract: LSE - students, RCS - doctors, Queen Mary's - lawyers, the soup van - homeless people.
Sat astride this babel of human activity, eyeballing each other across the park, are Sir John Soane's Museum and the Hunterian Museum; hulking curiosos in their respective fields of art and science. But which is the greater discipline? Dare any man pitch these academic leviathans in titanic battle? There is a man who dares, and he stands before you, my liege.
Sir John Soane's Museum, Free (tour £10)
 |
| The builders are in. |
I was welcomed at the gates by a granite-faced Scotsman who divulged a caveat with Wee Wee Free cheer,
"Phones turned off, all bags in see-through plastic bags."
I know space is tight in this museum and, yes, I'm sure items have been damaged in the past but do I have to be told like I'm being sent to the naughty step at Guantanamo Bay? I understand phones being on silent and flash being turned off, that's an issue of damaging the exhibits and disturbing others' experience, but why can't I take a single photograph? I took some anyway. It's the thrill of getting caught that made me do it, guv'nor. God knows what they'll do with the advent of Google Glass.
 |
| No photographs... if you're a coward. |
But at least it's free, eh? Well, not entirely. I entered the first space (the dining room and library) to discover I was just in time for the upcoming tour... which was £10. Entry is free at John Soane's behest, but it's as if the museum's saying, "Free entry but if you want to learn anything then cough up, dickhead!" The tour comes with a colour booklet that, although not worth a tenner, is pretty great and filled in some of the gaps along the way. I say this because, and I never thought I'd hear myself say this, there isn't enough reading material. There. I can't unsay it now. Well, I could delete it, but this is important: there should be concise and articulate text beside exhibits so we know what we're looking at (art galleries have a knack for getting this right, museum's never quite nail it). It's not much to ask. For example:
Imperial Joe Museum, Joseph Deeney, 2013
 |
Despite the naturalistic expression, this is
believed to be a "selfie" taken by the artist
on an aborted trip to the Imperial War
Museum. Why he didn't actually review the
closest museum to his flat remains unclear, though, given the year and the summertime setting, it may be due to IWM being half shut for about six fucking months. |
See? It's really, really easy not to fuck this up. I say this because John Soane's collection was vast, way too big for his pokey little house and that's why it's so special. The labyrinthine corridors are barely lit, and cluttered in their own byzantine idiom that instills a sensual overload that's both inspiring and a little unsettling. The problem is I don't know what anything is. If they want this to be a hoarder's grotto, don't bang on about its architectural value and if they want this to be a linchpin of 19th century architecture, tell me what I'm looking at. The only way to get the requisite information is through the booklet, which costs a fiver or comes with the £10 tour. Here's a syllogism for you: if knowledge is power, and power is money, then knowledge is money. Welcome to modern Britain (that'll be six grand)!
 |
| A room to breakfast in. I just have it on my lap. |
Our guide was a scholar and, for the life of me, I couldn't pin down her accent. American, German, English, Irish? It was like watching Gangs of New York without wanting to throw up one's own ribcage. She knew her stuff and rattled off at breakneck speed about Soane: the man and his work. For those unaware, Sir John Soane was an architect who collected a salmagundi of items from around the world and arranged them in his house in some (alleged) order. He designed the original Bank of England and the tomb he designed for his family has the dome that inspired Scott's iconic K2 red telephone box. This fact becomes quite apparent quite quickly as the shape is everywhere, on clocks, on cabinets, and on ceilings. It felt so much like a phonebox at times that I nearly took a drunken piss in the corner whilst looking at call-girl flyers.
Only the shell of the Bank of England remains of Soane's original design in what was described by a contemporary as "the worst example of bureaucratic vandalism ever in the UK". Our guide asked what else was the blitz but bureaucratic vandalism. It was here that it struck me that this is a museum for adults, and there's no room for passive adults either. She talked to us as students rather than visitors, which is exactly how I want to be talked to. She slipped in words like "dialectic" as if it was the kind of word a child learns after "mum" and before "dad". With it I felt respected as a listener. She was also not afraid to slag off Soane for being a bit of a dullard, a spendthrift, and a brute - take heed Motown Museum! So yeah, I liked her vim.
If there's one thing I find hard to take, it's being part of a group of morons. Now, I'm loathe to cast aspersions on strangers that are not only experiencing the arts, but funding them to boot, but there's something about seeking value for money that brings out the 3% Neanderthal that makes up the European. The counter-intuitive notion that one must ask questions to avoid getting ripped-off during tours such as this really means you eat into the expert's time with questions like:
"Has anyone ever knocked something over?"
"Did they have electricity then?"
Only the shell of the Bank of England remains of Soane's original design in what was described by a contemporary as "the worst example of bureaucratic vandalism ever in the UK". Our guide asked what else was the blitz but bureaucratic vandalism. It was here that it struck me that this is a museum for adults, and there's no room for passive adults either. She talked to us as students rather than visitors, which is exactly how I want to be talked to. She slipped in words like "dialectic" as if it was the kind of word a child learns after "mum" and before "dad". With it I felt respected as a listener. She was also not afraid to slag off Soane for being a bit of a dullard, a spendthrift, and a brute - take heed Motown Museum! So yeah, I liked her vim.
If there's one thing I find hard to take, it's being part of a group of morons. Now, I'm loathe to cast aspersions on strangers that are not only experiencing the arts, but funding them to boot, but there's something about seeking value for money that brings out the 3% Neanderthal that makes up the European. The counter-intuitive notion that one must ask questions to avoid getting ripped-off during tours such as this really means you eat into the expert's time with questions like:
"Has anyone ever knocked something over?"
"Did they have electricity then?"
"Did he have a doorbell?"
Another problem with the paid tour was that, when we occupied one of the rooms, it was shut off to other visitors. People were asked to stay out of the room while we elite were given the information, as if to say, "We won't abide by stowaway learning".
I'm starting to sound like I didn't enjoy myself. Well, I did. The picture room's a modest space that shows what Hogarth did best: illuminating the absurdity of corruption, frivolity and ostentation in 18th century England. The room punches well above its weight with a nice Canaletto and some cracking unknowns - but that's just the start. Cabinet-style panels that cover the entire wall are opened to reveal even more art on both sides of the room (including Hogarth's Rake's Progress). If that wasn't enough, one of the panels conceals another panel that's opened to reveal an enclave with a statue with carvings all around. It was superlative.
Apparently, the objects in the collection are "arranged to an intellectual ideal". Let me tell you now, they fucking aren't, but I like that. There are moments (especially when there aren't too many people squeezing around) that it feels like you've stumbled into the den of a psychopath and you're scared he'll catch you and club you over the head with a statue of a Belgian toddler having a piss. In a good way. No really, like listening to Tom Waits or watching The Singing Detective, there's a comfort in one's bewilderment. Finding yourself alone, however, is very unlikely as there are more guards per square metre than the Bank of England itself. Every room seems to sport someone in uniform. How they buck the trend is that these people seem to know what they're talking about. Ask one of the guards at the National Gallery to name any painter and they'll look back at you like a cat that's been told a joke. Here, they've done their homework and, most importantly, it seems like they care.
Space is scarce when a collection this size is crammed in, making amenities, like seating, a luxury. After too long standing, my back starts to badly ache, and my pain was exacerbated by seeing every antique seat decorated with a dried teasel, like upper class barbed wire. Imagine this, I had to go to the toilets to sit down and, good lord, the facilities were incredible. An original Thomas Crapper toilet with a chain flush and wooden seat; perfect sink with soap I was smelling all day; and the greatest hygienic development since the toothbrush: an airblade. The perfect blend of past, present and future. Thanks, guys.
The opening page of the Soane's brochure has an interesting quote reading, "a succession of those fanciful effects which constitute the poetry of architecture". I wouldn't call this collection a poem but sporadic passages from Finnegan's Wake: cluttered, arcane, even pretentious but unequivocally beautiful.
Another problem with the paid tour was that, when we occupied one of the rooms, it was shut off to other visitors. People were asked to stay out of the room while we elite were given the information, as if to say, "We won't abide by stowaway learning".
 |
| My boy, Turner |
 |
| They believe this bust was actually made by Francis Bacon. |
Space is scarce when a collection this size is crammed in, making amenities, like seating, a luxury. After too long standing, my back starts to badly ache, and my pain was exacerbated by seeing every antique seat decorated with a dried teasel, like upper class barbed wire. Imagine this, I had to go to the toilets to sit down and, good lord, the facilities were incredible. An original Thomas Crapper toilet with a chain flush and wooden seat; perfect sink with soap I was smelling all day; and the greatest hygienic development since the toothbrush: an airblade. The perfect blend of past, present and future. Thanks, guys.
 |
| Excellent facilities |
 |
| Kiss me |
The Hunterian was set up by John Hunter, a surgeon and prominent 18th scientist. He collected bits of dead people and animals and put them in formaldehyde for everyone to enjoy. The tag line of the museum is "more than just jars" which is soon forgotten when I see just how good the stuff they have in jars is. Though, it also has a no photography policy. What's wrong with everyone? I'd have a bit more sympathy if it was the Shroud of Turin but this is a seat of learning. Let me take pictures of stuff in jars! Don't worry. I did anyway.
The Hunterian is just as cluttered as it's bedfellow across the park, and yet it presents itself with an appropriate sterile modernity. The central hall is a glorious arcade of scientific interest with buffalo horns, hippo skulls, nematode worms and pickled remains. It's important at this juncture to point out that, despite being on the macabre side, the Hunterian displays each exhibit with a professional neutrality that was welcome after my Clink ordeal. The jars are interesting, gross, sad, unsettling and sometimes even a bit dull. Standards, like frogs in jars are cabinet mates with things I never thought I'd see, like a possum's pickled arse and fanny.
The only thing worse than being stopped and asked to do a survey is not being stopped and asked to do a survey. I have feelings, you know? One of the many people the chap at the desk was talking to was a lady who explained that she lived in Kazakhstan and helped people settle in the far east.
"Really?!" He replied, as if to say, "Who on earth would want to do that?"
Steady on mate, this century's theirs, remember.
In the same foyer, I dallied in wait of the free tour. There are four wooden panels (above) with 17th century dissections of the human body laid upon them. No one knows how this was achieved and they're quite unearthly. Beside these was a small print by Hogarth. Seems like he won't just leave me alone today. The Soane's Hogarths were really good, but here's where satire eats itself (like when Private Eye supported Andrew Wakefield and the MMR scandal). It depicts 'heartless' surgeons poking and prodding at a hanged criminal on the operating table. "Don't commit crime or you'll be thrown to these monsters". Hogarth, they've done more for us than you have.
Our tour guide was the fella who couldn't quite believe someone would move to the far east and he turned out to be a gifted storyteller. His name was Brian Fox, which made him sound like an unlockable character in Tekken, though he looked like a maths teacher with the demeanour of Johnny Ball. He started with showing us half of Charles Babbage's brain. I mean, talk about showing your hand too soon. I didn't really know what I was looking at but it was fascinating: half the brain of the godfather of computing. We saw a chicken with a tooth rammed in its head; this was the result of a hare-brained scheme by Hunter who tried to forge a biological union and, you know what, he only pulled it off. In a way, this was the first transplant.
Not so much my favourite exhibit, but my favourite experience, was the rather sad skeleton of Charles Byrne "The Irish Giant". The tumour in his pituitary gland had led to gigantism and, seeing the writing on the wall as far as his premature mortality went, he asked to be buried at sea, knowing Hunter wanted to exhibit his bones post mortem. He would've got his wish if it weren't for subterfuge on behalf of the dockers that led to his remains being shipped back to London and Hunter earning a fortune on the strength of them. What Brian Fox asked us was, given that we have everything we need from him scientifically speaking (DNA samples et al), should his skeleton be buried at sea as he wished?
"There are no right or wrong answers here, but it's an important point. So... what do you think?"
Boom! I've never been so challenged on a tin-pot tour such as this before and I relished the opportunity to debate.
There was a reference computer that was delightful for such a small place - more information was available to visitors who wanted it. The software they used had more 90s creak than RuPaul listening to Goosebumps on cassette, but it did the job. Just because it looks like an Encarta '89 beta doesn't mean it's bad, I love Seinfeld and that looks ghastly.
The Hunterian Museum's a special place and I really enjoyed my time there. That's not to say it's perfect. There's an emphasis on the Royal College of Surgeons as a seat of learning that's a bit stuffy and dry, especially after seeing the litany of pickled stuff. What shines through, however, is the institution's dedication to education, physiology and the oddities of nature. They never sneer, judge or sensationalise, they simply observe and try to instil the same scientific wonder in us that they clearly feel.
The Hunterian is just as cluttered as it's bedfellow across the park, and yet it presents itself with an appropriate sterile modernity. The central hall is a glorious arcade of scientific interest with buffalo horns, hippo skulls, nematode worms and pickled remains. It's important at this juncture to point out that, despite being on the macabre side, the Hunterian displays each exhibit with a professional neutrality that was welcome after my Clink ordeal. The jars are interesting, gross, sad, unsettling and sometimes even a bit dull. Standards, like frogs in jars are cabinet mates with things I never thought I'd see, like a possum's pickled arse and fanny.
The only thing worse than being stopped and asked to do a survey is not being stopped and asked to do a survey. I have feelings, you know? One of the many people the chap at the desk was talking to was a lady who explained that she lived in Kazakhstan and helped people settle in the far east.
"Really?!" He replied, as if to say, "Who on earth would want to do that?"
Steady on mate, this century's theirs, remember.
 |
| Planks with guts on |
In the same foyer, I dallied in wait of the free tour. There are four wooden panels (above) with 17th century dissections of the human body laid upon them. No one knows how this was achieved and they're quite unearthly. Beside these was a small print by Hogarth. Seems like he won't just leave me alone today. The Soane's Hogarths were really good, but here's where satire eats itself (like when Private Eye supported Andrew Wakefield and the MMR scandal). It depicts 'heartless' surgeons poking and prodding at a hanged criminal on the operating table. "Don't commit crime or you'll be thrown to these monsters". Hogarth, they've done more for us than you have.
 |
| Jar Hall |
 |
| Irish Giant/Average German |
"There are no right or wrong answers here, but it's an important point. So... what do you think?"
Boom! I've never been so challenged on a tin-pot tour such as this before and I relished the opportunity to debate.
 |
| Cool |
The tour meandered through the wonderful world of venereal diseases, amputation, the animal kingdom, things removed from the body and surgical history. I don't know about you, but whenever I visit a place such as this, I head straight for the knobs and fannies. Here, they put them next to the gift shop; there's nothing like a dismembered testicle to get the consumerist in me all in a lather.
On that autumn morning, I honestly didn't expect that, at some point during the day, I'd be looking at the Bishop of Durham's arsehole in a jar.
There was a reference computer that was delightful for such a small place - more information was available to visitors who wanted it. The software they used had more 90s creak than RuPaul listening to Goosebumps on cassette, but it did the job. Just because it looks like an Encarta '89 beta doesn't mean it's bad, I love Seinfeld and that looks ghastly.
The Hunterian Museum's a special place and I really enjoyed my time there. That's not to say it's perfect. There's an emphasis on the Royal College of Surgeons as a seat of learning that's a bit stuffy and dry, especially after seeing the litany of pickled stuff. What shines through, however, is the institution's dedication to education, physiology and the oddities of nature. They never sneer, judge or sensationalise, they simply observe and try to instil the same scientific wonder in us that they clearly feel.
 |
| Cocks, fannies, condoms, foreskins, the lot. |
Overview
Oh, what a lovely time! One thing's for sure, these museums are very human experiences - the Soane displays one man, the Hunterian displays humanity. If I had to pick one, I'd say the Hunterian has a clearer identity of what it is, while the Soane focuses too much on a fella they admit was a bit of a drag. Perhaps they should push him a little further towards the background and concentrate on what they have: the weirdest collection in the weirdest space in London.
So, with this in mind, does science win the Great War fought on Lincoln's Inn Fields? No. It's puerile to pitch the two together as these are disciplines that define humanity. Science is what we understand and take from nature, art is what we understand from ourselves and try to give back. I'll be honest, I used the old art vs. science trope to get you interested as it's a long blog and I needed a frothy hook to keep you reading. If you read this far, you fell for it.
Idiot.
No comments:
Post a Comment