The Turbine Hall of the Tate Modern is one of my favorite places in the entire world, and currently it is filled with a jaw-dropping piece by Anish Kapoor called "Marsyas." He has taken three ginormous steel rings and set two of them at either end of the hall while suspending the third above the platform in the center. Blood-red membranes of PVC fabric are stretched over them, forming funnels that whisper with the air that moves through them. They gave me vertigo if I stared up at them for too long. The name of the piece summoned up for me associations with flayed flesh and the human body, but I fell in love with "Marsyas" nonetheless.

The Barnett Newman retrospective is also at the Tate Modern right now, which I went into full of skepticism. I have never been impressed with the handful of his paintings that I have seen in person, and I have also been turned off by his exasperatingly pretentious statements about his work. However, this exhibition changed my mind about the paintings, gorgeous fields of color interrupted only by a line or two, the famous zips. A well-chosen artist's statement here and there actually helped illuminate Newman's struggle with his chosen medium. I was particularly moved by the "Stations of the Cross" series, stark black and white canvases on which he captured the emotion of Christ's Passion. "Who's Afraid of Red, Yellow and Blue?" indeed.

I have to confess that even though I timed my visit to London so that I would coincide with the Turner Prize 2002 exhibition at the Tate Britain, I skipped it and went to the Thomas Gainsborough show instead. I was satisfying a deep-seated need for feathery brushstrokes, obviously. I love Gainsborough's portraits, especially his women. They are gorgeous and full of strength, all of them. The exhibition also displayed quite a few of his landscapes, which he was not very successful at selling during his lifetime, and an unfinished painting of his daughters in which one of them is sweetly pulling a cat's tail.

I would have loved to have seen Sam Mendes's production of Twelfth Night at the Donmar Warehouse, but the only tickets available were for standing room. Trekking around London all day and then standing through a Shakespeare performance didn't appeal to me at all. I opted for Ibali Loo Tsotsi: The Beggar's Opera at Wilton's Music Hall. The venue itself is the world's oldest surviving music hall, and it still has the dust to prove it. John Gay's 18th-century social satire was updated by a 40-member South African cast who mixed native languages with their English and Afrikaans while incorporating African instruments into the traditional British folk tunes. Even when it was hard to follow the plot, I just waited for the next song to come along so I could boogie in my seat.

The sun was shining on the morning of the day I decided to go for a hike in Richmond Park, but it was merely a trick. It started to sprinkle as I climbed Richmond Hill, and the raindrops grew more insistent while I lunched at Pembroke Lodge. By the time I got down to Ham House I was drenched. I stopped to marvel at the gorgeous interiors, to peer out at the gardens, to fortify myself with tea in the orangery, and then I set out through the mud along the Thames back to downtown Richmond. Even the cows were giving me dubious looks.

I devoted an entire day to Madame de Pompadour, thanks to engrossing exhibitions at the National Gallery and the Wallace Collection. The former was subtitled "Images of a Mistress" and did an excellent job of telling the story of Louis XV's mistress through pieces of art that just wouldn't be that interesting out of context. Madame's ability to recreate her image many times over (in the interest of keeping herself in court) is a study in self-promotion through art. The Wallace Collection show, "The Art of Love," concentrated less on paintings of Madame and instead displayed many of the art objects she commissioned and purchased. It was beautiful stuff, but I think I'm done looking at furniture and china for a little while now.

I poked my nose into the Notting Hill Arts Club for some dirty dirty house music (and an Asahi) one evening, but I only stayed long enough to get buzzed and identify that I liked the DJs (Stuart Patterson and Leo Elstob) quite a bit.

I paid my first-ever visit to the V & A to see "100 Photographs: A Collection by Bruce Bernard." The late picture editor was asked to select the 100 photographs he thought to be the best ever, and these were them. It's impossible to capture every nuance of photography in only 100 photos, but Bernard came pretty damn close. Each image was exquisite, and only two or three of them were familiar to me. I tried not to glance down the wall so that as I came upon each new photograph it was a surprise and a revelation.

Atlantic Waves 2002, a festival of exploratory music from Portugal, was running while I was in London, so I picked a night pretty much at random (as I am wont to do) just to see what I got. Jacob bravely accompanied me to the Purcell Room at the South Bank Centre. First up was Danças Ocultas, sublime music played on four accordians. Anyone who bought the Amélie soundtrack should track these guys down as soon as possible. The other group performing that evening, Gaiteros de Lisboa, was completely different but equally as good. Their name literally translates as the bagpipers of Lisbon, and pipe they did, accompanied by some boisterous percussion and singing. Both Danças Ocultas and Gaiteros de Lisboa played beautifully layered music that was simultaneously folksy and current. It was the perfect way to wrap up my visit before taking a deep breath and reluctantly returning to the States in time to watch the election results roll in.

Tate Britain
Wilton's Music Hall
National Gallery
Wallace Collection
V & A
Atlantic Waves
South Bank Centre
Danças Ocultas
Gaiteros de Lisboa