The Continuing Tale of Small Adventures

Decided to make the most of today's bout of insomnia (take that brain! Won't let me sleep? Fine, you can do some work instead) and post about my recent trip to London to see the Paula Rego exhibition at the Tate. 

I don’t spend much time in the capital, so I tend to go with a friend to make sure I don't get lost/run over/corrupted to the dark side while I'm down there. This friend used to work a lot there, so she headed from the station with confidence, me scurrying behind like a country mouse, albeit one with a huge rucksack (flask and train snacks, space for buying of many books and things) and red trainers. 

 

By the simple act of turning right out of Paddington, she opened up a whole new world for me. One of parks and sculpture, where the air felt clean, the traffic noise dropped and London revealed itself to be rather spiffy indeed. 

Everything sparkled in the sunshine. Even the barista in the park sparkled with good will to humankind, especially those that are ladies of a certain age in need of strong coffee and plentiful napkins to mop the damp seats with. 

 Refreshed, we set a pace through Kensington Gardens (which I hadn't known was there!), past Wellington's house - No. 1 London, which is a pretty cool address to have, even for an old warhorse - through Marble Arch, past the astonishing memorial, along the outside of Buck. Palace (lots of spiky topped walls and signs warning oiks to Stay Away), and along to Vauxhall Bridge for lunch. 

I ate a plate of gnocci in a gorgonzola sauce and it was Good. Admired the backs of the MI's 5 and 6 - they don't exactly try to blend in, do they? Then hotfooted it to the Tate. 

 

The first thing to strike you as you enter the Rego exhibition is just the sheer scale of her work. They are huge. Vast canvases that command your attention. So often her work is seen through social media, which democratises art, but also, I thought in this context, diminishes it. How can you possibly feel the raw energy and power of work like this through a tiny phone screen?

Anyway, I will shut up for a minute, so you can see for yourselves (yes, I'm aware of the irony)...

Each canvas was as large as a man, and contained all the power in the world. I loved how the Tate were showing a whle life retrospective, so you really got an idea of how her work had progressed throughout the decades. 

I also really appreciated that she and her regular model really collaborated on the works together. So often models are ciphers or, perhaps worse, muses. Silent and passive things. Not this time and the combination of minds creates something strange and other.  

Her drawings are delicate things, beautifully executed, that then transform into these storms on canvas. You're left with the impression of a woman who learned to become uncompromising, who was politically engaged from an early age, and who will have no truck with mealy-mouthed "niceness". 

I'd quite like to sit at her feet and listen to her talk.

And now I’m going to sign off. The Kid returns to Sunderland today and I’m already a little wibbly about it. Come on Collett, stiff upper lip, straight back. You got this. 

Till next time. 

ps N says the last Rego portrait is my spirit painting. I’m good with that. 

My week in...Sights

Sights, quite literally, for sore eyes as I was struck down with an allergic reaction to hydrocortisone/hayfever (take your pick according to whether you are a) my doctor or b) me)). My eyes, for the first time ever, had swollen so much I could barely see. 

One hour and 4 slices of allotment cucumber later, they had reduced enough to allow me to work but then developed very dark circles. It took 3 days to completely calm down. A trip to the pub had to be cancelled so no one called the police thinking the boyfriend had hit me, or the zoo thinking I was an escaped panda. 

Despite this, I saw some things that gladdened my heart this week; here are 7 of them:

Cuban wildlife, thanks to a great BBC documentary, Wild Cuba: A Caribbean Journey. Cuba is one of those places I've always wanted to go. For now, I'll settle for watching jewel-bright humming birds and lizards on the screen. 

The planting of the honeysuckle in the new garden border. This is the boyfriend's project and I'd honestly expected the honeysuckle to live out it's entire life in the pot until last weekend. 

Beautiful sunsets over the rooftops, even if each one has preceded a day so hot the air feels like warm treacle, followed by lightening that flickered and flashed silently through the clouds. Eerie and spellbinding. 

A peacock butterfly. 

Little Mabel waiting for me to wake up with all the patience of a toddler, i.e. none. Nose tapping by paw occurred. 

The glorious illustrations in Samin Nosrat's Salt Fat Acid Heat. They're so lovely, I almost want to put them on the walls. Plus, the book is revolutionary, logical and funny. I want her for my friend. 

The new piece of linocut art that I invested in, hanging on the wall in our living room. 

How are we all?

Well my dears, how are we all? It seems I can't move at the moment for news of the virus, advice on how to avoid the virus or tips on how to spend my time during the virus. To paraphrase Hermione, "fear of the virus increases fear of everyone who wants to see me self-improve during the lockdown". 

Toadflax. Only found out this week what it is. Pretty ain't it? Just sitting there

on the wall like it owns the place.  

As a natural introvert, this is pretty much my idea of bliss: enforced staying in, no contact except with those I love. I'm happy to wake up at my usual time and, in lieu of my 20 minute walk to work, read for a bit longer. Or start work earlier, so I can knock off similarly and then spend the extra time at the allotment. 

So far I have:

• read an inordinate amount of crime fiction, because I find this soothing
• planted 4 rows of potatoes at the allotment
• sowed many seeds at home, which I regularly stand over, raising my hands, saying "grow my pretties, GROW"
• made cinnamon buns and focaccia
• chatted to family via video call
• invented quizzes to keep people I work with occupied with my nonsense even when I'm not physically there
• weeded the front garden
• started learning Spanish (once started, long abandoned)
• bent myself to a benevolent yoga goddess and practised most days (even if only for 20 mins at a time)
• eaten too much chocolate, crisps and bread but I don't care
• cycled near-empty streets

Rosemary at the allotment. The bees are loving it. 

This really is a time for finding pleasure in the small things and that's always been my forte. I get an intense pleasure from things like clean sheets, cow parsley on the tow path, the smell of bread, proper coffee, cutting my own fringe (been doing it for years now), lying in a patch of sun with a book, listening to the cat purr, watching the crochet blanket grow under my fingers. 

I have so far resisted the temptation to make my own sourdough starter, but that is surely only a matter of days away. And to be fair, sourdough is my favourite type of bread, after soft white sesame seed rolls, which have a long held treasured taste memory for me (my Nan used to toast them and serve them with real butter and marmalade. Eating them now, I'm 8 years old again, swinging my legs at her kitchen table, eager to get out across to the farm opposite for a good long explore).

Picked up a pen and started drawing again - with mixed results. Some of those birds

are quite disturbing. Slow growth of the crochet blanket. 

Podcasts rumble on in the background, under the clatter of my fingers on the laptop keyboard as I work from home. Shedunnit, Backlisted and In Our Time. 

Ah work. I am lucky in that I've not been laid off, my job isn't zero hours and I'm not front-line in the care sector or NHS. That said, it has felt harder than usual. My head hurts by the end of the day and my back is stiff. I've decorated my little "office" and filled it with plants, but still there is something lacking. People. I miss the volunteers and my colleagues, all of whom are now furloughed. There is a sense that I'm what the museum is relying on to see it through, and the responsibility is a little overwhelming. It's also slightly lonely.   

My office. Succulents, flowers from the canal path, 

some research and tea, old tin pen pot resisting attempts 

to make me use a proper pen pot

And I miss my son. He not long moved into his own place and was loving working with adults who have mental and physical disabilities. Yes, he is in the front-line of the care sector, but is treating it all with his usual sanguinity (is that a word? I say yes, spell check says no) and messages all end with his standard "lol" that makes me want to slap a thesaurus in front of him. I find I am better if I don't think about it and just check in with him every couple of days. 

"How are you doing kid x"

"Yeah, good thanks lol"

See what I mean?

So far, I have not:

• started a podcast
• repainted the house
• started a couch to 5k
• become an influencer
• mastered the art of cordon bleu cookery ("sandwich for dinner okay, yeah?" "yeah")
• put all my "content" online - mainly because I have no content
• started any of those challenging books people say are good for lockdown situations. James Joyce, I'm looking at you
• written a blog post about all the things people should be doing or how they could improve themselves during this time.

Life is weird, do what makes you feel good. And you don't need me to tell you what that is. 

Robin with a beak full of flies, sitting cheekily close 

when I took a break

Whimsy, or Whumsy

If your fingers are anything like mine and instead of hitting the right keys at the right time and in the right order, they are missing them, hitting the wrong ones or splodging 3 down at the same time, so that what should read "green" actually reads "fgrweemn". I feel like Homer in the Simpsons episode where he eats to be fat enough to work from home and then can't work the telephone keypad. "If your fingers are too fat to dial, smash the numbers with the palm of your hand, you terrible, terrible person." Or something. 

Anyway, today is Valentines or Galentines or Palentines or Petentines or just another Friday. However you wish to consider this day (I haven't done Valentines for years and frankly this one freaked me out: what was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to buy? Why is he not like normal people and happy to mainline salted caramel? Why did I not fall in love with a woman and thereby have a multitude of sad, cheap shit to chose from in the shops?), I think we all need some whimsy to carry us through the storms predicted this weekend. 

 

And that's just from those who brought Val. Day stuff but didn't get anything in return. 

I'll keep you posted on that one. 

These gorgeous creations are automaton (which I have a soft spot for anyway, much like I do stop-animation films) created by Rowland Emmett, the genius behind the designs for Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, an illustrator for Punch and one of those people that I really wish I known and met when he was alive. 

Whimsy, beautiful design, attention to detail and a blatant call on your curiosity, I love these so much, I'd knock down some of my house to get it in. But I'm not allowed to. However, there is a touring exhibition of A Quiet Afternoon in Cloud Cuckoo Valley (see images above). If you go along and have to elbow a middle-aged woman with unruly hair out of the way, that'll be me. Say hi while you're elbowing.

My Week in Pictures

I had an early morning visitor - the Velveteen Splodge (Thor-cat's new nickname because he is as soft and strokable as the purest velvet, and also because when he splodges out on the carpet, he looks almost boneless) wanting to know, in the nicest possible way, where his damn breakfast was.

A quick visit to the allotment last Sunday and a final bout of digging the long bed in time for the frosts (ha!) to break the earth down. It yielded quite the biggest ant's nest I've ever seen, plus a leftover from the previous tenant. I have no idea what a "Pupleurium Houndifalum" is. If , indeed, that is it's real name *squints*

Tulips in the dark dark morning. 

The Withnail Wall is finally up, a mere 7 months after moving in, and it is splendid. It's been our habit for the past 3 years to go to the annual screening of Withnail and I at the Electric Cinema in Birmingham. There we eat themed cake, watch the film amongst like-minded (and often costumed) people and take part in the charity auction. Hence quite so many Richard E Grant signatures. The day they get Paul McGann in to talk about it and sign stuff is the day I genuinely lose my tiny mind with excitement. And have to remortgage the house.

Treated myself to some new t-shirts from Cakes with Faces. Love their designs. Cute but not mutton-as-lamb cute. 

Not shown, my Mum's new knee, my first ever attempt at making a teriyaki sauce (that turned out rather well) and the crochet blanket I started thinking to follow along with Attic 24's C-A-L. I ripped it apart after 4 lines, vaguely unhappy with it but not able to articulate why. Just couldn't face 293 rows of sodding treble stitch. 

Also not shown, my newly-painted bathroom. It is a vivid pink and no mistake. Like being on the inside of a raspberry. If you're going to go pink, go hard, say I. Insert your own double entendre, you filthy minded so-and-sos. 

Riding out the waves of a very wet week (not quite literally) and coasting to a Saturday night full stop. 

The Happy Things Round Up

Okay, I'll admit it. Even I'm struggling to find the good about this week (*rests head in hands briefly when remembering who's just got the top job of running the country*) but it is out there, I promise. 

1. Facebook is not necessarily all evil, stolen data and cat videos! Sometimes it's a force for good. See how the people of Aleppo are keeping their histories alive. 

2. A wonderful piece of craft, combining the words of the most excellent Michael Sheen with a whole-hearted swear, all in lovely stitches. If only embroidery had been like that at school. 

3. Something to bring a happy tear to your eye. A Twitter thread (yes, I know they're a bit of a bore but in the absence of a blog to send you too...) about LGBTQ acceptance and growth.  

4. For those of us who have mothers with opinions on what we wear...you ain't seen nothing till you've seen the WhatsAppMama Instagram account.  

5. Lucy Ellman has a new book out - hurrah! I've loved her work since Man or Mango: genuinely funny, inventive and take-no-prisioners writing. Long-listed for the Booker, but don't let that put you off. If you need shaking out of a reading rut, she'll do it.

5a. It's published by the amazing Galley Beggar Press. Support small presses where you can - they take risks where other, bigger, publishing houses won't. 

6. And finally, this. Because we need love around here, and lots of it. Plus it's going to look awesome in the bedroom when I've finished decorating in there...

Art Make Good Now

I love illustrators and cartoonists, the way they can take a piece of reality and gently show you the absurdity or sublimity of it. So I'm dedicating a series of Friday posts to the visual gifters of this world. 

One of my absolute favourites is Tom Gauld - the sparsity of the line, the wry observation that makes you snort, the lettering, the adorable little people...

Hey, I said this would be about graphic artists I like, not that I would be giving an intellectual review of them. 

The only annoying thing about him is that he's exactly the same age as me and draws like he does whereas the last time I drew anything, my 6 year old niece squinted at it and said "why does the lady look afraid?" She was supposed to smiling at a squirrel. I will draw a veil over what she thought the squirrel looked like...

But for a quality visual feast for your eyes, you can see more of Tom's work here.