Also part of the exhibit: A brief (about 5 or 6 minutes) film compiled of various clips featuring the family, with Tchaikovsky’s “Spring” as the perfect accompaniment. The film display is located in one of the back display areas—something, in other words, to view after being bowled over by what you’ve already seen. And visitors were certainly pausing for the film, with expressions—if I read them correctly—of both affection and sadness. Much of the footage I had never seen before. And I have to admit that one of the clips gave me particular pause: Alexei suddenly slapping one of the cadets with whom he is marching! As a former teacher, I felt like blowing my playground whistle, then yelling, “You! Alexei! Benched for the rest of recess!!” (And of course hearing the inevitable “But he said a bad word!” “I did not!” and so forth . . .) Aside from that nasty bit of behavior, the rest of the short film is wonderful. However, at the end when a portrait of each of the grand duchesses is shown, they are sequenced incorrectly as TOMA. A minor point, I suppose? At any rate, I wished the museum had been marketing this brief montage at the gift shop—despite its brevity, I would have readily shelled out $19.95—but unfortunately it was not available.
What was available at a gift shop area, positioned near the doors of the exhibit, was a rather extensive selection of books. Everything from the “good”—i.e., Robert Massie’s classic book, Greg and Penny’s
The Fate of the Romanovs, and Peter Kurth’s
Tsar (which I recommended, due to its wonderful photo layout and wonderfully written text, to a woman who wished to purchase just one book)—to the not-so-good. What were those? Well, this is merely subjective, but I’m not a fan of so-called “journalists” who write florid, undocumented (or questionably documented) accounts of so-called “escapes” and “survivals.” And there were some videos as well, but mostly they were videos that various people on this website have discredited, so I steered clear. Plus, the wonderful
Russian Ark . . . but since I’ve seen it available in my own area, I decided to consider purchasing only items which I felt were unique to the exhibit. In fact, the museum’s main gift shop offered additional Romanov titles, but—lucky me and huzzah!—I happen to have them all! Plus, there were a number of glass ornaments, stacking dolls, etc., etc., from Russia . . . but not exactly what I wanted to spend my meager amount of money on, let alone pack in my two carry-on bags. (When I was in Russia in 1992 I purchased one of those wonderful stacking dolls, the largest in the series being Nicholas II, the smallest being Peter the Great—and, at the risk of sounding as if I’m gloating, there was nothing comparable at the gift shop.) Anyway, here’s what I finally decided to purchase: the exhibit’s catalog (of course!), plus an icon of the family—overpriced, but when will I have the chance for something like this again?—plus a very handsome black canvas bag, with the name of the exhibit embroidered in red, which I am temporarily using to store all my Santa Fe brochures and souvenirs.
To sum up, I shall borrow from the Christopher Isherwood play by saying that I wish I was a camera and could tell you more! However, those of you who have already visited the exhibit will understand when I mention that, in addition to everything being fascinating, it was also very, very overwhelming. In fact, when I saw the first portrait—that lovely one of Alexandra—I flinched, my knees buckled, and I heard a gasp . . . which turned out to be mine. Very quickly, though, I recovered and was able to enjoy the rest of the exhibit without being a public menace! But those of you who also have immersed yourselves in the Romanov story will be simpatico when I add that to be so very close to items that surrounded Nicholas, Alexandra, and their children on a daily basis . . . well, it is literally breathtaking! And walking through that exhibit was undoubtedly the closest thing to time traveling—unless an H.G. Wells time machine suddenly materializes in front of me—that I’ll ever experience.
Anyway, that’s it, and my thanks to all of you who have read this long account. I’m still suffering from a cold (or flu?)—picked up, presumably, via the plane’s air conditioning vents on our way back from Albuquerque, New Mexico, to Phoenix, Arizona—then from Phoenix. Arizona, to Orange County, California. So, if anything I’ve related sounds incomplete or incoherent . . . well, we’ll blame it on my fogged-over brain!
