tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7313988931781845442024-03-16T05:20:22.063+00:00mrs miniver's daughtermaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13955194101659665925noreply@blogger.comBlogger1241125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-9209807889567579132024-02-29T22:10:00.004+00:002024-02-29T22:12:48.901+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUS-SiKIPVTZeoCV4sVZku8m3YjjsrJKjMBQzICmRO4SwLQQKDGd6lE2KlvIFw_hl6RP9ThkE6VekcC7ZW3MhUuNxBgXtXa_lkpRG3qMn29MCdXurHfHR1P-K1vLtPeKo5-LWcbd5gd32HpbLjXx5A_tzvHJRPKwdwSJg2QArLrK_U5cNhyphenhyphenAtZ_tgPg4w/s920/GettyImages-1371412553-900x920.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="920" data-original-width="900" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUS-SiKIPVTZeoCV4sVZku8m3YjjsrJKjMBQzICmRO4SwLQQKDGd6lE2KlvIFw_hl6RP9ThkE6VekcC7ZW3MhUuNxBgXtXa_lkpRG3qMn29MCdXurHfHR1P-K1vLtPeKo5-LWcbd5gd32HpbLjXx5A_tzvHJRPKwdwSJg2QArLrK_U5cNhyphenhyphenAtZ_tgPg4w/s400/GettyImages-1371412553-900x920.jpg"/></a></div>
Absolutely glorious... and if I'm too low-brow to meet the Guardian's high standards (another <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2024/feb/18/flaming-june-royal-academy-review-frederic-lord-leighton">snotty review</a> here) I truly couldn't care less. That fabulous dress - the warmth of the evening - the scent of oleander (does oleander smell? I haven't a clue) - the light shimmering on the sea - the faintly perspiring slumber of a lady who 'merely glows' ... oh, give me Flaming June over Angelica Kauffman any day. (I found the RA's Angelica Kauffman exhibition rather too worthy ... I can respect her as a woman thriving in a man's world, but her paintings spark nothing in me at all.)
And <a href="https://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2015/06/flaming-june-identity-frederic-lord-leighton-dorothy-dene">what a back-story</a> to Flaming June! Disappeared in the 1930s - rediscovered behind a false wall during building work in 1962 and separated from its frame which was considered to be more valuable than the painting - discovered again in a London antique shop by the young Andrew Lloyd Webber, whose granny refused to lend him £50 to buy 'Victorian junk'- and finally ending up in a museum in Puerto Rico. Currently on loan to the Royal Academy. (And free to get in. Unlike the worthy but ever so slightly dull Angelica Kauffman.) Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-81296302177595765262024-02-27T19:45:00.001+00:002024-02-27T19:45:13.613+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-toBkfNAL8Oi3zk6ZugDCxZ-GzEmdncZShxT7zAFS_h1NGMhHOAfQl4yp0xz2bmwdWBIctr80qZ8ppYCodDqTSJXajRuoADIbETHLhzrwDBXeH2PdbLRraBi8Cx37MWKd9cBqAbFmlKcKvdrsEFDz7NQIVR6F_ME50QycNmDNJ415eOcAJ-SWnU9kDS4/s300/Unknown-1.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-toBkfNAL8Oi3zk6ZugDCxZ-GzEmdncZShxT7zAFS_h1NGMhHOAfQl4yp0xz2bmwdWBIctr80qZ8ppYCodDqTSJXajRuoADIbETHLhzrwDBXeH2PdbLRraBi8Cx37MWKd9cBqAbFmlKcKvdrsEFDz7NQIVR6F_ME50QycNmDNJ415eOcAJ-SWnU9kDS4/s400/Unknown-1.jpeg"/></a></div>
Just booked my ticket. I'm really <a href="https://theartsdesk.com/theatre/dear-octopus-national-theatre-period-rarity-real-pleasure">looking forward to seeing this</a>. A nice, old-fashioned play.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-6171482025675709702024-02-03T20:12:00.000+00:002024-02-03T20:12:32.520+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjlNADenZ-5qSaHFYMvchAaCa3fapBOGXRpi4oIJHf_FZPv_HVV4j0KZ9VjR3n3XLxgqoMeQL6H6AAI3Z_OPJACnNOkewfvLzjjNg2hzXI-w81I2UexzSNSbg6C97j7lvB_Skpi_CyGglJEqz3dMy15Aa5EYYhGtzvCZewGx1v6fSIojuvQIlqA1MMZD8/s276/shopping.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjlNADenZ-5qSaHFYMvchAaCa3fapBOGXRpi4oIJHf_FZPv_HVV4j0KZ9VjR3n3XLxgqoMeQL6H6AAI3Z_OPJACnNOkewfvLzjjNg2hzXI-w81I2UexzSNSbg6C97j7lvB_Skpi_CyGglJEqz3dMy15Aa5EYYhGtzvCZewGx1v6fSIojuvQIlqA1MMZD8/s400/shopping.jpeg"/></a></div>
This was fascinating and heart-breaking - the true story of a prosperous Jewish family in Vienna, written by their son. It's quite slow-moving and gives such a vivid picture of ordinary life through the 1930s, the meals, the holidays, the visits from relatives, a 17-year-old's first ball only days before the Anschluss, a tea-dance in Berlin even as other Jews were being rounded-up on the streets. Burying heads in the sand because it will all blow over, the procrastination, the bad decisions, then - incredibly - after escaping to neutral Ireland the return to Paris where it still seemed possible that life might be ... normal. And reading it you realise that you'd have been exactly the same, frozen by indecision, incapable of action, sweating the small stuff because the unthinkable is exactly that - unthinkable. Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-36238524405235998682024-01-25T19:46:00.003+00:002024-01-25T20:00:36.104+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI8meSNPYroJR_kf9M2icbySGstob3G4G17itlyKcDGKIcrxHDGmS_waornRMRGhUYEZLYa5nRLeWgvHw9dVmVtkgnRsB5S4JKYoIeHdDhrCLdE9FWK_4BfODFgfuP7cwAjHFIJgYgsHGtXOBQnmF4_kBvhXPaf_HcPRsrx2ACj_x7WBlChJXO5TrREZ4/s918/image.webp" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="918" data-original-width="650" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI8meSNPYroJR_kf9M2icbySGstob3G4G17itlyKcDGKIcrxHDGmS_waornRMRGhUYEZLYa5nRLeWgvHw9dVmVtkgnRsB5S4JKYoIeHdDhrCLdE9FWK_4BfODFgfuP7cwAjHFIJgYgsHGtXOBQnmF4_kBvhXPaf_HcPRsrx2ACj_x7WBlChJXO5TrREZ4/s400/image.webp"/></a></div>
I loved The Crown, at least I loved the early episodes before all the Diana nonsense (I'm not a huge fan of the People's Princess!). So it was fun to see this auction exhibition at Bonhams of costumes and props from the series, so clever - even though close-up you'd never mistake them for the real Norman Hartnell etc. I did wonder who is going to bid for a life-size State Coach, looks authentically bone-rattlingly uncomfortable (estimated price £30,000-£50,000); or a Coronation chair with fibreglass Stone of Scone (£10,000-£20,000); the Queen's many ballgowns and Princess Anne's teenage mini-skirt ensemble for the Caernarvon Castle Investiture (£2,000-£3,000); or for smaller budgets perhaps a slightly battered barbecue from Balmoral (£400-£600). Diana's engagement ring? Genuine cubic zirconia (£2,000-£3,000) - or her off-the rail engagement outfit from Harrods (£1,500-£2,000). They said they are expecting lots of interest from America. Where I'm guessing there is perhaps a hazy perception of what's real and what's Netflix. Four floors to browse and it's all free. Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-54664621464800027952024-01-17T02:03:00.001+00:002024-01-17T02:03:26.641+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv0OKgSb6WUWdmtIqAXyqL0DneOl2C1Yt71WweX9PgHTyiHVy-wWmKkamzFDlxogfUBQVP3wwk7VgWRgT9XjLiobanUhl8MpIOKKl-pmGs0xq_ZaiKb10s5-lrVk_s7ktv1O4N5MV7mGEsbp1Y0Czsd-Wd6nLPKCpwFm4oCYwwMRomIzUZGF3T041uobw/s583/SC457618_IG.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="583" data-original-width="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv0OKgSb6WUWdmtIqAXyqL0DneOl2C1Yt71WweX9PgHTyiHVy-wWmKkamzFDlxogfUBQVP3wwk7VgWRgT9XjLiobanUhl8MpIOKKl-pmGs0xq_ZaiKb10s5-lrVk_s7ktv1O4N5MV7mGEsbp1Y0Czsd-Wd6nLPKCpwFm4oCYwwMRomIzUZGF3T041uobw/s400/SC457618_IG.jpg"/></a></div>
So looking forward to this <a href="https://www.mfa.org/exhibition/fashioned-by-sargent">sumptuous exhibition</a>. And especially to seeing the gowns from the portraits. Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-26460981741578940612024-01-10T22:51:00.003+00:002024-01-10T22:52:45.494+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEACQ6fYTb2jsOcgKiEh-hIf70OcMG3Ptekd5rdf5ZrDHL7OFciwK4u8HKM-WD9nqaYM5pXmkidsBuJZVwZGI17HjTYqNsTUhM4s-OqiE0A5bzuGgiYRMQD19uM_KGAQQlIXHP3gRcL9G7u1bh74xD-7UR8u0SEMRzL5LZXHL-J3o_mS1JlS2l3CnioCE/s278/Unknown-10.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEACQ6fYTb2jsOcgKiEh-hIf70OcMG3Ptekd5rdf5ZrDHL7OFciwK4u8HKM-WD9nqaYM5pXmkidsBuJZVwZGI17HjTYqNsTUhM4s-OqiE0A5bzuGgiYRMQD19uM_KGAQQlIXHP3gRcL9G7u1bh74xD-7UR8u0SEMRzL5LZXHL-J3o_mS1JlS2l3CnioCE/s400/Unknown-10.jpeg"/></a></div>
And the second film of the year ... Think Chariots of Fire: The Wet Bobs. I enjoyed it well enough but Chariots of Fire was better. Bizarrely, George Clooney didn't think to tell us at the end what happened to the real boys in the boat after the Olympics. There is <a href="https://www.esquire.com/entertainment/movies/a46191503/the-boys-in-the-boat-true-story/#:~:text=After%20winning%20the%20gold%20medal,As%20for%20his%20teammates%3F">a bit more here</a> but not much. Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-36163252691367060272024-01-04T20:36:00.005+00:002024-01-04T21:40:30.837+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi61Erpo2adt68QSG0SDIrP6TygCNwcJHYj65IcopDQg6l3gJdxaDSl4fIlf_OMmWM05uxCZ8kaWKFsnwZiau0aebFsyXbG4MsN3Z6Riq-djotG0YZpKngK5GbdB7tRjEXkb0XvXWGdYx-otX2b4cD8eKwGdpd-UPrlcOefvsPsE-_4EmLcaptCn7WLDaE/s300/Unknown-8.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi61Erpo2adt68QSG0SDIrP6TygCNwcJHYj65IcopDQg6l3gJdxaDSl4fIlf_OMmWM05uxCZ8kaWKFsnwZiau0aebFsyXbG4MsN3Z6Riq-djotG0YZpKngK5GbdB7tRjEXkb0XvXWGdYx-otX2b4cD8eKwGdpd-UPrlcOefvsPsE-_4EmLcaptCn7WLDaE/s400/Unknown-8.jpeg"/></a></div>
First film of the year - which reduced a super-annoying sweet-rustling audience to complete, rapt silence after the first ten minutes. I did feel sorry for Sir Nicholas when he got ambushed by the ghastly Esther Rantzen, though. Happy New Year everybody.
On the way home I bought a bunch of skinny pencil-bud daffs - and that was the first of the year, too. Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-30597333395065330592023-12-20T17:54:00.001+00:002023-12-20T21:29:53.260+00:00Disgusted - if not surprised - to see Easter eggs on sale in Sainsbury's today, alongside the selection boxes. That's proper Easter eggs, not mini eggs or creme eggs - which does seem to be hitting a new low. I'm kind of resigned to year-round hot cross buns that are invariably disappointing ... but is nothing sacred as a properly seasonal treat? Couldn't they at least hold back until 2024? Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-71462927395446354122023-12-13T02:52:00.004+00:002023-12-13T02:54:37.771+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmm59CgVyHTO3Vxr922EZkeaZ1FGXFjQHqfuHG0kTVzAvsLz_qF5KqijMvG1vcLrIKQMurN7UWmD-dLGOXSTSP6ux9Cvqwf79CXKNQLpLHH79hD78nwuNqIRjRRFQNLxEyp8Vmo-JwBaQLweLi6hAF567NDGdyU-_GA-KZd_KnVv5F8Harv_GNJAN6Pm4/s1200/3000.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmm59CgVyHTO3Vxr922EZkeaZ1FGXFjQHqfuHG0kTVzAvsLz_qF5KqijMvG1vcLrIKQMurN7UWmD-dLGOXSTSP6ux9Cvqwf79CXKNQLpLHH79hD78nwuNqIRjRRFQNLxEyp8Vmo-JwBaQLweLi6hAF567NDGdyU-_GA-KZd_KnVv5F8Harv_GNJAN6Pm4/s400/3000.jpg"/></a></div>
A jolly, rather than a spine-chilling Christmas Carol on Saturday afternoon - but <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2023/jun/28/boston-manor-house-in-west-london-readies-for-public-opening">what a setting</a>. I couldn't help thinking of all the Christmas festivities that must have been held here over 400 years. Although perhaps not when it was 'bedsit accommodation for spinsters'.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-23314602860346534872023-12-04T23:11:00.001+00:002023-12-04T23:11:24.772+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUIAD8b4LwkW1Xc4QJoBq11KiA4jhJU7HMq66ahg6BcMCBdyjtCe_RmUyZOLFO0jLZ6CuheshYhg6tAwhtDtGZMKIO6nZMrs0-gYkL6Zr6qmBpIAyNEa6Al410kCoEVQwum29EdD07RGM5zFOjmrlj9m199Sm9xgeSTx4DR0S1sXkLSH_m4zXUzJo49do/s251/Unknown-7.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUIAD8b4LwkW1Xc4QJoBq11KiA4jhJU7HMq66ahg6BcMCBdyjtCe_RmUyZOLFO0jLZ6CuheshYhg6tAwhtDtGZMKIO6nZMrs0-gYkL6Zr6qmBpIAyNEa6Al410kCoEVQwum29EdD07RGM5zFOjmrlj9m199Sm9xgeSTx4DR0S1sXkLSH_m4zXUzJo49do/s400/Unknown-7.jpeg"/></a></div>
Well, that was .... boring. I think I slumbered through the second half. A saccharine Wonka with no darkness in his soul - Roald Dahl must be spinning in his grave. Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-16646602421650927632023-11-15T17:28:00.001+00:002023-11-15T17:28:37.065+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd-IT8Per1plkDpCBAb73Y93PtralvuflzrVThhjA8ABzXZ2mB602D-QkOQaoaPFDeb9dR6uOAZfYUa5QP8XGsygfl_TUrmiZDlmncTG_ddA6wWRiNr7lXT03GKAuoiGAL7DUO1oOH-BUZy4ZlhTAXo4tr9hDgUtjrd_3q34_iIuNY_J6Ag69KV_w06zw/s273/Unknown-6.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="185" data-original-width="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd-IT8Per1plkDpCBAb73Y93PtralvuflzrVThhjA8ABzXZ2mB602D-QkOQaoaPFDeb9dR6uOAZfYUa5QP8XGsygfl_TUrmiZDlmncTG_ddA6wWRiNr7lXT03GKAuoiGAL7DUO1oOH-BUZy4ZlhTAXo4tr9hDgUtjrd_3q34_iIuNY_J6Ag69KV_w06zw/s400/Unknown-6.jpeg"/></a></div>
I haven't been to a Nutcracker in years - I think I was Nutcrackered-out - but this jazzed-up performance at the toasty-warm and cosy <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2023/nov/06/nutcracker-review-drew-mconie-southbank-centre-london">Tuff Nutt Jazz Club</a> last night was great fun, brilliantly colourful and very inventive. So close to the dancers you can see their plastered toes and bunions - ouch! Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-40679949645519078652023-11-13T14:57:00.001+00:002023-11-13T14:57:40.175+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGk3zl-QgCMvHlFuxmvbiUAgMRcbrZiQEZdG30rwjPr499PPaSw9vvj99ba9EbcwtMg-r-CuadD3uJ5GsQ4acZktOQJRzGSfg2lK0n3YFMNCQoZWXOoRXebNIMp_25eqeUvJ0I7CtAnaMvjeWB-uK3x64-tbkcHBKRMEMUANR_RZNJNNtQksRZWSp8_Jo/s238/Unknown-5.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="238" data-original-width="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGk3zl-QgCMvHlFuxmvbiUAgMRcbrZiQEZdG30rwjPr499PPaSw9vvj99ba9EbcwtMg-r-CuadD3uJ5GsQ4acZktOQJRzGSfg2lK0n3YFMNCQoZWXOoRXebNIMp_25eqeUvJ0I7CtAnaMvjeWB-uK3x64-tbkcHBKRMEMUANR_RZNJNNtQksRZWSp8_Jo/s400/Unknown-5.jpeg"/></a></div>
Happened on this Pauline Boty self-portrait when strolling through the National Portrait Gallery last week - the only stained glass work in the collection, and she was 19 when she made it. In real life, it glows.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-76220518570796536962023-11-07T19:14:00.003+00:002023-11-07T19:16:00.774+00:00Get there while it's still fresh! Though I imagine that only crumbs will be left by the end of the week. The quirkiest afternoon-tea experience in London (and it's free!) has to be An Edible Family in a Mobile Home outside Tate Britain ... just follow the scent of vanilla and knock on the door of the pre-fab. (Well, by tomorrow there will probably be a long queue!) Yes, it really is an edible family - lifesize mother, father and three children made out of real cake, and visitors get to nibble them with a doll-size cup of tea. (Actually, the mother is a mannequin with a teapot on her head who serves biscuits from a flap in her tum.)
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_EhZAvRLVuKTrXhDzqVbIeRsEKsvYW6S76uAXR8FPJN15nXXiLqd3NL9-0Lto3MYniU5vfzvjwUCZUIwc_nLFVPwGDFfbCtcej-KONGY7-y1j42xxayL7mlN-FA7lbjAeuHjdKeep_ML6gKPZr3cQEAPtA6kv21TsJWB2d6X7aY_Ci1DmnyENG94vPnA/s275/Unknown.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_EhZAvRLVuKTrXhDzqVbIeRsEKsvYW6S76uAXR8FPJN15nXXiLqd3NL9-0Lto3MYniU5vfzvjwUCZUIwc_nLFVPwGDFfbCtcej-KONGY7-y1j42xxayL7mlN-FA7lbjAeuHjdKeep_ML6gKPZr3cQEAPtA6kv21TsJWB2d6X7aY_Ci1DmnyENG94vPnA/s400/Unknown.jpeg"/></a></div>
This is the coconut sponge baby in her cot. Artist Bobby Baker created the original edible family back in 1976, when she was 25; the figures are based on her real life family, and she was the youngest. She is 73 now and was pouring tea in the pre-fab kitchen, wallpapered with pages from 1970s' Woman's Owns and Good Housekeepings and Woman's Journals ... well, that took me back!
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This is her father - a very nice rich fruit cake, slumped in front of the telly, watching Charlie Drake. Sadly someone (not me!) had already trodden on one of his fruit cake feet because it is a bit cramped inside the pre-fab. (A reconstruction of Baker's 1970s home.)
There is also her older brother, made of Garibaldi biscuits, sitting in a bathtub of dirty vegan chocolate cake water, and a teenage sister made of meringues.
Strangely poignant, reading the old newspapers pasted on the walls with headlines picked out in icing - Austerity Britain was a front page splash in 1976, so nothing changes. And I can't imagine how it would feel to see strangers nibbling your family. If you don't make it before the cake goes stale (it's on until December 3), the exhibit returns freshly-baked in March/April next year.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-70321569706495179302023-10-27T19:38:00.003+01:002023-10-27T19:38:36.031+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxORIz14NnMsIy3yVPukD2O355A2-SS9ILFy1XyWHCwP1wT9TswvzKRKhSrPFes-HrMBOfof040wP_Q-o4uwpnamV3oMy5KaWXpsad7pOI3yGRqFZ13LjJ1ZWzSzPPmNAkDNGRyooFRyDYlRp8-p2kgC4Drfry4v5dybAKgJbDgXwQ9BINuIqCQ9ih0jE/s960/-methode-times-prod-web-bin-cfca53dc-4bf7-48c5-af21-45caf56a3cc1.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxORIz14NnMsIy3yVPukD2O355A2-SS9ILFy1XyWHCwP1wT9TswvzKRKhSrPFes-HrMBOfof040wP_Q-o4uwpnamV3oMy5KaWXpsad7pOI3yGRqFZ13LjJ1ZWzSzPPmNAkDNGRyooFRyDYlRp8-p2kgC4Drfry4v5dybAKgJbDgXwQ9BINuIqCQ9ih0jE/s400/-methode-times-prod-web-bin-cfca53dc-4bf7-48c5-af21-45caf56a3cc1.jpg"/></a></div>
Even if money were no object, I'm afraid I'm too clumsy to be trusted with anything like this - but isn't this Lucie Rie bowl simply beautiful?
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But wouldn't you just love to own a collection of her wartime buttons? I'd have to learn to knit!
Happened on this exhibition as I was walking in Berkeley Square this afternoon.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-66804551620480540162023-10-16T23:48:00.001+01:002023-10-16T23:49:37.704+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt0prqLS7Boa4ZGjKiQfddR370d3DdaMABjwEBnEDt0CV6P43Gq-JfXLorfh_WB-jq0xg6CDqWcOQqJKmT4M8tMZJk9J41GY5zPUAKubDSv6iTbsPNSSg238FF4k0dm5_GfQJhx_OyT6almCh30SVXaMvThfE34c9qRb3JTUV_yb2jSgDIImbBem6WDjo/s1500/918pcHjmSzL._SL1500_.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1046" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt0prqLS7Boa4ZGjKiQfddR370d3DdaMABjwEBnEDt0CV6P43Gq-JfXLorfh_WB-jq0xg6CDqWcOQqJKmT4M8tMZJk9J41GY5zPUAKubDSv6iTbsPNSSg238FF4k0dm5_GfQJhx_OyT6almCh30SVXaMvThfE34c9qRb3JTUV_yb2jSgDIImbBem6WDjo/s400/918pcHjmSzL._SL1500_.jpg"/></a></div>
I'm not the biggest fan of historical novels, but once in a while - and this appealed to me because it's about the gardener John Tradescant and it's nice to think that I've had tea and cake by his tomb in the Garden Museum. Oh, how wrong I was - I had steam coming out my ears reading this! Okay, so hard facts are sparse and they won't knit into a novel without a dollop of poetic licence and imagination ... but when gardener Tradescant gets ecstatically buggered by the beautiful Duke of Buckingham, favourite of two kings ... oh, give me strength, what absolute tosh, and not a shred of historical evidence. I vaguely recall reading The Other Boleyn Girl and I'm sure it was better than this - but Earthly Joys managed to be plodding and repetitive as well as silly, so I think that's me done with Philippa Gregory. Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-11285163001753260282023-10-08T16:12:00.003+01:002023-10-08T16:12:57.373+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipm0q7XcjBsKtPB20Q-9-uB08EGN1H3s2wLRoraInWHtdS26KdA0ct2qxU3BUq2Xdlk6xodiTF7C-OD6QciV37_vAdWRH9RpZ2H68tF2-i_gz9CvMkVarWF19vC1SbDlD1aam2O_FMLLJBGux4UhoE2JP-RJ8QgwoSnuhqL7zosVeRC6qEaUDgeq5xJU8/s225/images_2023_IOLANTHE.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipm0q7XcjBsKtPB20Q-9-uB08EGN1H3s2wLRoraInWHtdS26KdA0ct2qxU3BUq2Xdlk6xodiTF7C-OD6QciV37_vAdWRH9RpZ2H68tF2-i_gz9CvMkVarWF19vC1SbDlD1aam2O_FMLLJBGux4UhoE2JP-RJ8QgwoSnuhqL7zosVeRC6qEaUDgeq5xJU8/s400/images_2023_IOLANTHE.png"/></a></div>
What an absolutely fabulous show ... as soon as the curtain went up on Iolanthe's fairyland I was smiling. Lovely afternoon matinee yesterday with a friend, full of colour and laughter. The set design - whether fairyland or the House of Lords - is fantastic.<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-9LwQ5RpvPml11atGjIex1kkmBYSMCeAkQz-Rms74Rs2k_md0I3iZFhN8JvUeKRO4fXNR_4x25vthajGYn8XIQ7vhXWDWlq7oc9U-3QamN7IMqeSGTg5ctdgCaonGYkkDZbo_tGrMtgCX2cAS5uxKwHUR83RL3RzIsqfEc9RDft3hfH7Or3PKp_BSNg/s290/Unknown-7.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-9LwQ5RpvPml11atGjIex1kkmBYSMCeAkQz-Rms74Rs2k_md0I3iZFhN8JvUeKRO4fXNR_4x25vthajGYn8XIQ7vhXWDWlq7oc9U-3QamN7IMqeSGTg5ctdgCaonGYkkDZbo_tGrMtgCX2cAS5uxKwHUR83RL3RzIsqfEc9RDft3hfH7Or3PKp_BSNg/s400/Unknown-7.jpeg"/></a></div>
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The <a href="https://londoncoliseum.org/your-visit/history-of-the-london-coliseum/">gorgeousness of the Coliseum</a> hits me every time. We lingered admiring the mosaics in the entrance hall but I googled them when I get home, thinking they might be by <a href="https://www.google.co.uk/search? client=safari&sca_esv=571720465&q=boris+anrep+mosaics&tbm=isch&source=lnms&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwj5__Tx3eaBAxXi7rsIHWA4Cd8Q0pQJegQIDRAB&biw=1457&bih=820&dpr=1">Boris Anrep</a> - they're not. Turns out they're not mosaics at all, but glass chips over paint. You'd never guess.
Still a warm, sunny afternoon when we emerged so we walked up to Soho for apple strudel ice cream and black fig sorbet. Still dithering over whether I should have gone for the marron glacé so I might have to go back before the autumn menu disappears. (Friend is very accommodating about my pernicketiness about the best ice-cream shop! Which is <a href="https://gelupo.com/">this one</a>, trust me!)
Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-69115709046358101432023-09-24T17:21:00.001+01:002023-09-24T17:21:08.976+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuPBmxjxwk8zk8fo1yxA-Ph-3gRfUNYkWTxmsYuManVk5IbV7M6tl8Wp6gCX7Sv1FJrE6iwomAmrNcFt_9igkuZHHs87txT1gAboFxatvqUtBTYx2mYbjBPCgZxieGBQPhoSQxSF76EzxWhKv3kXspc4aZQdsI2YNs7SGK1H4XgbPbDocK048b7tUaBP8/s275/Unknown-5.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuPBmxjxwk8zk8fo1yxA-Ph-3gRfUNYkWTxmsYuManVk5IbV7M6tl8Wp6gCX7Sv1FJrE6iwomAmrNcFt_9igkuZHHs87txT1gAboFxatvqUtBTYx2mYbjBPCgZxieGBQPhoSQxSF76EzxWhKv3kXspc4aZQdsI2YNs7SGK1H4XgbPbDocK048b7tUaBP8/s400/Unknown-5.jpeg"/></a></div>
Just about warm enough last night to sit for a few minutes in the lovely rose garden behind the Actors' Church before the concert. (I was well upholstered by a warm cardamom bun dripping in syrup. <a href="https://www.bunsfromhome.com/homemade">Best buns in London</a>!) Then a bit of <a href="https://actorschurch.org/memorial-plaques-list/">memorial-spotting </a>in the interval.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-15292062757654537662023-09-15T17:43:00.007+01:002023-09-15T17:56:05.542+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiDO5XCl1tazx_-rm-pQzPQfEVeNVHvPNppoaCovwNS39e1x9wFleIy0A2wBLffLaZuNOLxwgX0FA9u_Tkm63kb53K8ctkQ_uoPN6XRUtE3vBd6oEnCDq-KgkeqLHVeGIxWJj5OeKQRJ1x2pIublpg297hfqAfHDLsO-Eo_DTYF_g-VmxUyc3NdfQNrhY/s279/Unknown-4.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiDO5XCl1tazx_-rm-pQzPQfEVeNVHvPNppoaCovwNS39e1x9wFleIy0A2wBLffLaZuNOLxwgX0FA9u_Tkm63kb53K8ctkQ_uoPN6XRUtE3vBd6oEnCDq-KgkeqLHVeGIxWJj5OeKQRJ1x2pIublpg297hfqAfHDLsO-Eo_DTYF_g-VmxUyc3NdfQNrhY/s400/Unknown-4.jpeg"/></a></div>
Not setting the intellectual bar very high this week, as you'll have guessed from my last post - but I've been really enjoying this old-fashioned children's book and galloped through it in a couple of days. I read the Persephone edition but this old Puffin cover seems rather more appropriate than Persephone's elegant dove-grey jackets which would have had zero appeal to me as a 10-year-old. Warning: it's best to switch off your critical faculties and just wallow. Once you start nit-picking about feckless parents who abandon their children (think a dry-land version of Swallows and Amazons' 'only duffers drown') and wonder why none of the children seems even mildly distressed, let alone traumatised (perhaps because Daddy is a foul-tempered crank and Mummy's a drip); and why, even though there's a master-class in hay-box cooking, nobody explains how to go to the loo when you live in a barn (or were middle-class kiddies in the 1930s too well-bred to have bottoms?) .. no, best just to wallow. Though I did long to shake Sue, the elder girl, and get her to stop washing and cleaning for her brothers - even their hankies, yuck - and making their beds! Sue, you are training up three useless husbands for the next generation!
And possibly this book should come with a warning about putting flighty ideas into parents' heads: 'Sorry, dearies, had a bang on the head, woke up half way up a mountain and forgot you brats existed' ... even today's helicopter parents might be sorely tempted!
Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-66356372983343196322023-09-14T23:15:00.001+01:002023-09-14T23:15:16.208+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFErXl_UFyu0nyCRdwv4plegzkS5l5uu1SU8acq6yo2gwwLHqy1n84n6z1AVslaLEElINKklrgh1fKR4wK6KSljR6voKcYS4sOIhQIBGUwHieUtSk38YdWNtoiz1VYFm_oujyJX60ZXdQh-DanaRmqYz8zQc7wUCc6l9bs8mzQUjNARz3nuigcoySrmac/s275/Unknown-3.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFErXl_UFyu0nyCRdwv4plegzkS5l5uu1SU8acq6yo2gwwLHqy1n84n6z1AVslaLEElINKklrgh1fKR4wK6KSljR6voKcYS4sOIhQIBGUwHieUtSk38YdWNtoiz1VYFm_oujyJX60ZXdQh-DanaRmqYz8zQc7wUCc6l9bs8mzQUjNARz3nuigcoySrmac/s400/Unknown-3.jpeg"/></a></div>
Guess it was inevitable - I kind of knew I'd crack in the end.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-1216374117122045042023-09-06T02:56:00.003+01:002023-09-06T02:58:09.320+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidP6qJjHj8rfVx4ObzBWLoCNG52r7OZ0TbWBU7GNLzWvUY0zVR4FDUzeg2MYtfVvqM_pOd9Xnjg6-PNjLdMi8y69tREOB-HBg-cnixqujA62wsJDtAkZWX5Y1EQTaq8LXPKorUTyvm7E0yXfvvs5Gc4_4c6F0zZdVnHaN0oKQRcWv-5A2E5eR35S3HmF8/s1024/GD-MASTER-ARTWORK-LS-2023-2000X1000-2-1024x520.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidP6qJjHj8rfVx4ObzBWLoCNG52r7OZ0TbWBU7GNLzWvUY0zVR4FDUzeg2MYtfVvqM_pOd9Xnjg6-PNjLdMi8y69tREOB-HBg-cnixqujA62wsJDtAkZWX5Y1EQTaq8LXPKorUTyvm7E0yXfvvs5Gc4_4c6F0zZdVnHaN0oKQRcWv-5A2E5eR35S3HmF8/s400/GD-MASTER-ARTWORK-LS-2023-2000X1000-2-1024x520.jpg"/></a></div>
That was absolutely the best night out ... great songs, brilliant set design, and we were greeted on arrival by Tower Bridge opening to let a tall ship through which was fun.
It's 40 years since I last saw Guys & Dolls (gulp!) at the National Theatre with a very starry cast including Julia Mckenzie, Bob Hoskins and a very young Imelda Staunton - but honestly I think tonight was more fun. If my knees were 40 years younger, I'd have booked standing tickets - which really should be called dancing tickets! I must say I rather regretted my sensible, grown-up decision that we needed a seat. Still humming those tunea!Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-75508350286796330962023-08-27T21:27:00.003+01:002023-08-28T02:46:22.439+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjewoEcF37GCBmId4f_rNecxnl46EgT5iusz3MMsANwo6iLTEs9cAZZBNu95pAiak9IWrdhEY7O9GJ9Px6vmzopePoQJn-eapyNPlz8Sa17Hvh2xIjwHNr9nXT6Jux25s3xdACWGiRs9G_SuAKCe83BGi3CHpWxAPhfbIWysOrAl3t81EQ0GwAKAtwdCXs/s271/Unknown-2.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjewoEcF37GCBmId4f_rNecxnl46EgT5iusz3MMsANwo6iLTEs9cAZZBNu95pAiak9IWrdhEY7O9GJ9Px6vmzopePoQJn-eapyNPlz8Sa17Hvh2xIjwHNr9nXT6Jux25s3xdACWGiRs9G_SuAKCe83BGi3CHpWxAPhfbIWysOrAl3t81EQ0GwAKAtwdCXs/s400/Unknown-2.jpeg"/></a></div>
So glad that I, Claudius has proved every bit as engrosing as it was back in 1976 when it was cult viewing in the college JCR. (Two TVs for the whole college and much bickering over channels ... those were the days!)Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-53698696604260832622023-08-27T19:46:00.002+01:002023-08-27T19:54:20.351+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1bwulGmTVpqybQmm0zrZp8M4SwM6K3QokIvMLowMPW8diP72-Nwgwmic_7ASlqvwnyWiJJB-o3GGVP15zEA4sf_zUTb9EDOLaz312tQOorvEZht6n-VhvU2RDl9EDj7XnR89bBxr1Es_ieKLgHfdTfmpUR45LG5LxD9iRWLMSGMlRpYMQwEZZAYPryU8/s1300/boros_109_lighter_for_website_backdrop_jpeg_a71cf302-2606-4a42-b452-c0a8599cfd28.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="1300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1bwulGmTVpqybQmm0zrZp8M4SwM6K3QokIvMLowMPW8diP72-Nwgwmic_7ASlqvwnyWiJJB-o3GGVP15zEA4sf_zUTb9EDOLaz312tQOorvEZht6n-VhvU2RDl9EDj7XnR89bBxr1Es_ieKLgHfdTfmpUR45LG5LxD9iRWLMSGMlRpYMQwEZZAYPryU8/s400/boros_109_lighter_for_website_backdrop_jpeg_a71cf302-2606-4a42-b452-c0a8599cfd28.jpg"/></a></div>
I'm down on thrift this week, having just destroyed my printer, seemingly by recycling scrap paper. (Well, how was I to know?) But then I often find that looking after pennies ends up costing pounds in the end.
So, no - I'm not going to refashion my worn-out denim into a <a href="http://mrsminiversdaughter.blogspot.com/2014/04/">Japanese <i>boro </i>garment</a> that's likely to become a collector's item. Still, there was something very satisfying about the Japanese Aesthetics of Recycling exhibition that appealed to my (well-buried) inner Marie Kondo. I'd never been to the Brunei Gallery; turns out I used to walk past it every other week on my way to seminars that, sadly, have moved on-line since the pandemic.
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Nothing was wasted. Handmade <i>washi</i> paper was made from old ledgers and used as wrappings for kimonos or other bulky objects. (Perhaps I should have tried that with my stacks of old book proofs instead of jinxing the printer!) This one was made from pawn shop ledgers; the writing reveals that the family who deposited a kimono never managed to redeem it. The recycled papers were rendered waterproof with persimmon paste.
And can you imagine having a jacket made from wisteria fibre - which actually looks quite tough. Or a kimono made from advertising banners for violet soap or camellia oil shampoo?
The exhibition is free, always a good thing! And on a sunny afternoon last week, I sat for a while in the Japanese roof garden, that I never realised was there, reading my book and enjoying my bird's eye view over the rooftops of Bloomsbury.
Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-30647663967261779872023-08-15T23:48:00.002+01:002023-08-15T23:49:46.670+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw7xY5Cc75J6IY26ulCU0zl6ULnb28O171fcJfmXJfKKCrUKWgxRhE5sL2IVvXuZAQ5H0vu0gHsUS5uMLfnDFLkJEGvFlK4U4rhkq4v360qIvDDSsqxtgUxhhrubriedRTlvRtwD1WgH2eytjtlfMUeoY5W9aRSsd0TRxwsKGt1Ls6vlIpiFMbW_IpIbs/s500/9780571370863.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="329" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw7xY5Cc75J6IY26ulCU0zl6ULnb28O171fcJfmXJfKKCrUKWgxRhE5sL2IVvXuZAQ5H0vu0gHsUS5uMLfnDFLkJEGvFlK4U4rhkq4v360qIvDDSsqxtgUxhhrubriedRTlvRtwD1WgH2eytjtlfMUeoY5W9aRSsd0TRxwsKGt1Ls6vlIpiFMbW_IpIbs/s400/9780571370863.jpg"/></a></div>
I came across this book purely by chance, after reading a blurb at the back of <a href="https://dauntbooks.co.uk/shop/books/mrs-caliban/">another strange book</a> by the same publisher - and having read it in two sittings (it's only 100pp), I can honestly say it's one of the most disturbing I've ever read. Up there with Shirley Jackson's The Lottery. <a href="https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2020/08/13/a-lost-dystopian-masterpiece/">'They'</a> are purging an idyllic pastoral England of art and artists - destroying books and tearing out bookplates to efface the memory of bookish gifts. 'They' loathe people who live alone, people who make things, people who are self-sufficient. 'They' maim writers and promote blaring television 24/7. 'They' was published in 1977 but seems more horribly relevant today. Of course, the reader smugly identifies as one of 'us', not one of 'them' - and I'm not sure that's altogether healthy, either. Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-71694291635998650452023-08-14T02:35:00.003+01:002023-08-14T02:44:50.868+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX1pRqWE04_0oUr__5otfF3aUS3wRhSmjsgB3-ZdsG3ph0PnWrP0WCFIki_yEoeCr8DsO1uTfgRawjToDtkYR3hH9kuvC2aQTO6igt1ZisWgwBsoY62fhoz0vtXuXGW7Jg1UNGALYfJrKXf8ICrS6oFloyDv-KRcnpeKGavL00PUkGJ17YQSz_SW61Pew/s843/default.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="843" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX1pRqWE04_0oUr__5otfF3aUS3wRhSmjsgB3-ZdsG3ph0PnWrP0WCFIki_yEoeCr8DsO1uTfgRawjToDtkYR3hH9kuvC2aQTO6igt1ZisWgwBsoY62fhoz0vtXuXGW7Jg1UNGALYfJrKXf8ICrS6oFloyDv-KRcnpeKGavL00PUkGJ17YQSz_SW61Pew/s400/default.jpg"/></a></div>
<i><i>Woman at her Toilette</i>,</i> 1875-80 (Grr, why won't Blogger do captions like it used to?? And paragraphs?) This was painted in Berthe Morisot's own bedroom and if you look closely, you can see her Louis XVI bed. I can't even blame lockdown, or not wholly - but it must be a good five years since I was last at Dulwich Picture Gallery which somehow I build up in my mind as being A Bit of a Trek. But on a glorious sunny day last week, the Morisot exhibition was very much worth the effort. Though I do wonder what has happened to that lovely old mulberry tree in the gallery garden, which used to be weighed down with berries - not a single one!
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Critic Charles Ephrussi (who owned The Hare with Amber Eyes ... I do love artistic connexions) said that Morisot worked with a 'palette of crushed flower petals.'
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To avoid being bothered by lookers-on when painting out of doors, she would start work at 6.30am - and head home at 9 for a cup of coffee. As a night owl/vampire, I am always impressed by how much early risers achieve before I'm out of bed.
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She spent her honeymoon on the Isle of Wight where you could rent two bedrooms and a sitting room in high season for £2 a week, including laundered bedlinen and gas lighting.
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While in England, she met Tissot 'who does very pretty things that he sells at high prices ...he is very nice, though a little vulgar.' I'm inclined to agree - I've always thought that the 'ladies' at his shipboard ball were too showy to be quite ladylike.
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I'd never have guessed this was Morisot - an Impressionist take on Boucher. I could rather fancy it hanging in my bathroom but the artist hung it in the recption room of her home.
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I love this painting of Morisot's seven-year-old daughter 'catching goldfish' with the concierge's little girl - an inspired way to amuse the children while maman paints them. Do hope there was something down to protect the carpet!
Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-731398893178184544.post-4751275793974547732023-07-17T17:12:00.005+01:002023-07-17T23:37:57.445+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqskMIrT_c9NlQEojSw2wtcIF_z7QsM9NBalh5Kl-KTvSKYOMX6s8DXfCds73VFfIsAxUVxNnyWVMEfYcWwcZiiyj0vI-8L05awusKeFYXhtaY51rh1KysMtBMcgucjRklS2hUwBoPMOA/s3000/60688e71fb8f52e74a8ed7c5f2f641129f0512b1-2248x3000-1.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="2248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqskMIrT_c9NlQEojSw2wtcIF_z7QsM9NBalh5Kl-KTvSKYOMX6s8DXfCds73VFfIsAxUVxNnyWVMEfYcWwcZiiyj0vI-8L05awusKeFYXhtaY51rh1KysMtBMcgucjRklS2hUwBoPMOA/s400/60688e71fb8f52e74a8ed7c5f2f641129f0512b1-2248x3000-1.jpg"/></a></div>
I was thrilled to bag a ticket at long last to visit the Cosmic House - you have to be quick off the mark when they're released - and it's now top of my list of 'Best Things To Do in London for a Fiver.' The house was the <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2021/sep/26/the-cosmic-house-charles-jencks-holland-park-london-review-maggie-keswick-postmodern-house-for-all-seasons">home of Charles Jencks,</a> the post-modernist architect who lived there until he was 80 (and I am lost in admiration if he still managed that spiral staircase, 52 steps one for every week of the year - and very impressed with myself, too, because I gulped when I saw it!). I'm not a fan of post-modernism but this eccentric house was fascinating to see - and even Jencks admitted that he had gone Too Far. It's so busy ... throbbing with ideas about life, the universe and everything, you feel exhausted looking at it. It did strike me as a very masculine home - his big, important ideas squashing any sign of the wife and young family who lived there too. (Tellingly, his daughter says that she didn't like bringing her friends home.) And I'm guessing that the person who designed the witty frieze of spoons in the kitchen wasn't the person who had to do the fiddly cleaning - though I suppose that if you can afford a Holland Park mansion, you can afford the staff to go with it. Frankly, I could live without my husband exercising his schoolboy 'wit' in the cloakroom ... the symmetrical double flush to the loo - one side works, the other doesn't - well, hilarious if you're 14, but the women visitors in my tour group all agreed that it verged on bullying and we wouldn't want to embarrass our guests for a larf. (Symmetrical soaps, too ... one tablet is soap, the other is stone.) Much use is made of MDF ... in fact, Jencks was really like a more high-minded Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen.
You can wander round at your own pace - sit on the (very uncomfortable) furniture - and be very grateful indeed that you don't live with a clever clogs with an insatiable urge for DIY. What I really did love was the beautiful garden designed by Jencks'wife Maggie Keswick; I remember reading her book about Chinese gardens before what for us seemed a very adventurous trip to China back in the 1980s.
And around the corner from the Cosmic House is the Best Horribly Unhealthy Lunch for a Fiver from <a href="https://www.bunsfromhome.com/">here</a>. Oh, those buns ... no seating, but if you're determined you can grapple with bun/coffee/monsoonal downpour whilst lurking in a doorway.
Fuelled with 5000 calories (full disclosure: it was a cheesecake bun ... the whopping XXL Wimbledon bun filled with clotted cream seemed excessive even for me), I jumped on a bus to the National Portrait Gallery. Bad mistake - it was heaving. And it used to be such a calm, peaceful hideaway for discoursing with Brontes or Beatrix Potter. I hope it's just temporary enthusiasm and too much publicity for the revamp. Too hot - too crowded - too noisy ... I gave it just 10 minutes and went home. Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554985023503646664noreply@blogger.com4