Thursday, 26 March 2015
Thanks to Non at The Dahlia Papers for the nudge that sent me to Chiswick House on a glorious afternoon to catch the Camellia Show. Camellias make me think of ballgowns, swirling pink chiffon and debutante white; the pink and white stripe ones like a crisp, expensive, ballerina-length summer dress, something Audrey Hepburn might wear on a Riviera holiday. But Non got it exactly right. They're flamenco dresses.
Fascinating to learn that these are some of the oldest camellias in the country; some were brought home by East Indiamen sea captains as gifts for the shipowners and their wives. In 1825, a camellia sold for 5gns which was half a year's wages for a housemaid.
I didn't buy a camellia. If plants had social workers, mine would be taken into care.
But now I think of it, it cost me 5gns for coffee and a slab of Simnel cake sitting outside in the sunshine. (Chiswick House does exceedingly good cake.)
Saturday, 21 March 2015
I watched the eclipse yesterday from the train on my way up to York, wondering if it was okay to gaze at the sun through grubby windows; possibly not, as I had yellow spots before my eyes for quite a few minutes. The world went dark ... well, that's what happened in 1999, when the birds stopped singing, too, but this time, as it turned out, we'd only gone into a tunnel. The other passengers were very blasé and barely gave it a glance.
There's something very special about arriving at York into what was once the biggest station in the world (although the lovely ladies' waiting room with the polished mahogany table is long gone). No matter how long I've been away from York, it feels like coming home, especially in spring when the city walls are a mass of daffodils. (Misjudged that, though; I've become such a southerner that I hadn't allowed for how much later things are in the north. The daffodils were barely opening. And there doesn't seem to be anything like as many as there used to be - gulp - 40 years ago.)
I spent a couple of hours in the Railway Museum, because I'd never been there. And then I just walked, because there is history around every corner. Down an alleyway, wriggle past the wheelybin ... and there's the ruins of a house, more than 800 years old. Look out from the window of a medieval townhouse and see a grey cat (a live one) curled up on the rooftiles. Sit in a windowtable at Betty's with a pot of tea and a fat rascal and spot a cat statue (originally to frighten the rats) over a door across the way. And don't miss the little red devil. It doesn't take much imagining to people these narrow streets with apprentices and cooks and canons and guildsmen ...
But I could so easily have missed what turned out to be the highlight of the day. I went into the Minster to visit my favourite window - lingered listening to the choir - but I didn't feel drawn to something that looked like an intergalactic cowpat. So thank you to the verger who told me to retrace my steps or I'd miss the chance of a lifetime for a close-up view of glass from the Great East Window. The detail is amazing - whether it's the surprised, gossipy faces of the angels as St John peeks through a trapdoor into heaven or the delicate plants on the clifftops as his little boat is tossed ashore on Patmos. It is humbling to think of those 15th century craftsmen who must have thought that their work would be hidden from view for all eternity. And when the restoration is complete and the glass goes back in (it's one of the largest windows in the world, it's the size of a tennis court) ... it could be generations, or even centuries, before anyone gets a close-up look again.
I've been enjoying Jane's recent posts about stained glass. I was in Somerset a few days ago and popped in for a look at this quirky Victorian chapel. The glass was modern and, frankly, awful. But I'm awarding myself extra I-Spy points - because it's not often that you get a tractor and farm animals in a church window.
Lovely to see lambs and hedgerows full of primroses .. and realise that spring in the country is the real thing.
Wednesday, 18 March 2015
|Rosehips and Iris reticulata|
|Cornflower in Yellow Jug|
|Blazing Tulips below Magnolia|
This is a small, but very pleasing exhibition of paintings by Emily Patrick that's on for another week. I only had a few minutes to spare this afternoon but that was time enough to wish I had the money to buy one. No surprise that they were nearly all sold. I was dashing to meet a friend at the Royal Academy where, despite the 5* reviews, I found myself underwhelmed by Richard Diebenkorn. But you can't look and chat at the same time, so maybe I'm not being fair.
Tuesday, 17 March 2015
Does it live up to the hype? It does ... it's ravishing, utterly spell-binding, the fashion show of the century. Even bigger and better - so they say, I wouldn't know - than when it was on in New York.
Savage Beauty, the long-awaited Alexander McQueen show at the V&A makes you feel as if you've disappeared down a rabbithole to find yourself in an alien world of strange, beautiful creatures.
It's exquisite, macabre - and it feels like being immersed in some extraordinary theatrical performance. (In my case, with a walk-on role as Boring Middle-Aged Person in a Raincoat.)
But in this alternative universe, inhabited by people 10inches taller and many stones lighter, there are gowns of clamshells and crimson feathers, a coat of golden goose-feathers, jackets embroidered with human hair and slippers embroidered with gold bullion ...
I spent nearly an hour sitting in the colossal, black-lacquered Cabinet of Curiosities, marvelling at headdresses like branches of coral and animal horns -
I coveted an exquisite Philip Treacy bird's nest hat made of mallard wings and jewelled eggs -
Learned a new word. Plumassier -
And caught my breath at the wraith-like apparition of Kate Moss who made me think of Catherine Earnshaw rising from her grave.
I'm not sure whether the V&A is strictly controlling the throughput of visitors or whether I was extraordinarily lucky this afternoon (I got there at about 3.30) because there was space to stroll and sit and marvel - and for a few moments at the end of the afternoon, I was all alone in the Cabinet of Curiosities. I'd love to go back, but it wouldn't be the same experience shuffling round in a crowd.
This is a purely visual exhibition. It tells you almost nothing about McQueen. I liked that. I get distracted by words and labels. Being a word-y kind of person, I don't have the self-discipline to ignore the outpouring of too much information.
It was like walking through a work of art - and for once I didn't need to read all about it.
Saturday, 14 March 2015
|London: The Old Horse Guards from St James's Park, c1749, Canaletto|
|Capriccio: St Paul's and a Venetian Canal, c 1795, William Marlow|
Sometimes I set out to see one thing, then something else takes my fancy when I get there - and yesterday, although I was aiming to see Canalettos, I found myself lingering in this small exhibition of early black and white photographs by Martin Parr who is now renowned for exuberant colour. But in the mid -1970s, colour was for snapshots and commercial photgraphy and, if you wanted to be taken seriously, you worked in b/w. (Anybody remember the first newspaper colour pix and how frivolous they seemed in a serious monochrome world?)
Parr was in his early 20s when he moved to Hebden Bridge in Yorkshire, straight from art school - and he captured a world (now gentrified and completely changed) that still revolved around chapel and hill-farming. These were hard-working, frugal, self-reliant people - who were fond of tea and cake. Ladies in hats and Crimplene coats with cavernous handbags and varicose veins enjoy sit-down chapel teas of fairy buns and buttered malt loaf and liberally-sugared tea. There was a bit of a scrum for slabs of pork pie and boiled eggs at the Mayor's inaugural banquet (above) and middleaged men got together for the AGM of the Ancient Order of Henpecked Husbands. (It disbanded in the mid-1970s; but presumably would have become redundant, anyway, given today's lesbian demographic!) There was a butcher's shop that displayed joints on bloody china platters in the window and a baker's that sold wobbly custard tarts; you could buy coal, clogs and corduroy - because people still made their own trousers. Women took pride in the whiteness of their nets and clothes hung on a maiden to dry above the fire. And although I grew up on the other side of the Pennines, there was so much here that I remembered and it's shocking to think that it's 40 years ago and it's history.
I've also been watching this TV series which brought back memories, although unfortunately the mother in this family who are eating their way through the decades from 1950s Austerity and into the future would have been a grimly incompetent cook in any era. (I wanted to shake her when she dished up cold fried liver and cold cauliflower because any 1950s housewife could surely have managed liver and onions and Oxo gravy.) But, heavens, it took me back ... I'd completely forgotten Rise and Shine orange juice, a rare treat in our house, and the crispy noodles on a 1970s Vesta Chow Mein (though I preferred the reconstituted chicken and shrivelled prawns in a Vesta paella.) But surely these were never served up for family meals; they'd have been far too expensive if you bought enough to go round.