A Day of Penny Arcades and Puppet Theatres

London Art Correspondent Shares a Day

London is the world epicenter of eccentric museums. This interest might very well be a vestige from the Dickensian age. Dickens flourished during the age of the touring circus and the penny-novel. Both are looked on as quaint entities today, things that

bring a smile to our post-modern faces. I can only imagine that in some ways, this is also how the Dickensian age viewed such curiosities, sans the post-modernity.

Tottenham Court Road, the street I live on, is one of the major throughways in London. One is hard pressed to discover such strange little museums in this vicinity. Electronic shops and computer stores line the sides of the street. The main office

of Time Out, the London events guide is on Tottenham Court Road.

A little ways down the street is a warehouse of a place called Easy Everything. The store contains five-hundred computer screens for access to the Internet. The store is open round the clock and one never fails to see people indulging in their favorite toy of the moment. If one looks close enough at the surrounding areas, these curmudgeonly old museums can still be found.

Particularly grand is Pollock's Toy Museum. Pollock's is two houses that have been joined together. It is a Tudor anachronism buttressed by a pub and some offices.

What caught my eye was a large sign that announced "Pollock's Theatrical Print Warehouse." I stepped inside to discover a cramped little wooden room with a wooden desk and a space heater rigged up over the doorway. Hanging above me in every corner were model theaters.

An Englishman with the thickest glasses I have ever seen looked up from a ledger. His hair appeared to dictate how it would appear on his head. It seemed most comfortable in the manic disarray that was presented before me. He wore suspenders and a belt.

"Hewwo." He pronounced W's where there should have been R's. I swear I had seen this guy in a Monty Python sketch. "Welcome to Pollock's. Museum or shop?"

I don't think he much cared that I said I just wanted to see the shop. In fact, I do not think he really registered my presence. He heard the bell as the door opened and slid into autopilot. Aside from the room dedicated to toy theaters, there was a room filled with replicas of children's toys from the past: marionettes, Victorian masks, the red plastic mood fish that curled in the hand.

The toy theaters themselves were big objects, measuring two feet in width and a foot or so in depth, for the largest one. All are made from cardboard which the owner glues together and assembles, or, in the case of the two big German models, constructed from wood. Many were painted with beautiful detail and reminded me of the old hand-tinted photographs from the turn of the century. The man in the suspenders and a belt didn't look at me as I silently inspected his wares.

"Can you tell me a bit about the big German models?" I asked. With that, like one of the wind-up toys he stocked, he jumped off his stool and exploded in a gunfire of commentary. I had said the magic words.

"Of course! Yes, the Gewman models. Pwevalent duwing the tuwn of the centuwy. A pawticulawly nice example is the Neptune model displayed above. These Gewman models had the ability to pewform opewas. Pawticulawly nice is this punch-out set of chawactews fwom The Magic Flute."

He went on like this for ten minutes, displaying this facsimile sheet and that Victorian collector's photograph; a tour de force. If one was in dire need for a dissertation topic, I am sure this guy could have convinced you to research Victorian model theaters.

Better yet, reproductions of Victorian model theaters.

He buzzed on. "Hawahd University in Cambwidge, Massachusetts has a pawticulawly nice collection of models."

I thanked him generously for his time vowing to make a return visit to see the History of Toys exhibit in the cramped museum. Just for a moment, the one-hundred seventy dollar Neptune recreation looked like it needed a good home.

Walking back up Tottenham Court Road after visiting Pollock's, I passed a giant video arcade. The lighted sign screamed the word "C-A-S-I-N-O." Spilling onto the streets through the open entrance was the splash of neon explosions and the glow of LED screens. Inside mostly boys sat, pumping pennies into the video games and pushing the buttons.

Was it too late to admire the Neptune again? Probably Pollock's had closed by now. But I could always check my e-mail.