I began my path to a Structured Life last night. I prepared a list of things I wanted to get done today; it was a "closed" list, a list of Must Do tasks.
Unfortunately, I stayed up so late making the list that I slept in and didn't have enough time to get all the tasks done.
There's more to this thing than meets the eye.
Saturday, 21 October 2006
Tuesday, 17 October 2006
A Night with Roger
There are times when I can surrender to sentimentality, but it's not often that I'm overcome with emotion. Last night was a whole other order of emotion. Patsy123 and I went to see Roger McGuinn at the Sage Gateshead and both came away on an emotional Higher Plane.
From the opening Mr Tambourine Man (McGuinn walking onstage with electric guitar and wearing a "McGuinn No.1" NUFC shirt) to the 3rd encore My Back Pages, it was an unforgettable trip through his back catalogue via Byrds and Appalachian songs, all with witty and entertaining introductions. I gasped - gasped - when he played Eight Miles High on his 7-string acoustic (the Roger McGuinn RD7) - it brought back memories of hearing it for the first time and now it was even better. A combination, as he said, of "Andres Segovia, Ravi Shankar and John Coltrane."
I always contend that I dislike nostalgia for its own sake and I don't honestly think this was nostalgia. It was honest-to-god consummate musicianship, truly memorable songs and the still pure, still strong voice of one of my favourite performers.
Many of my friends tell me that good music came to an end with the 80s. I've always disagreed and gone on buying new music, but last night's concert helped me see their point of view.
I was moved, I tell you. Moved.
From the opening Mr Tambourine Man (McGuinn walking onstage with electric guitar and wearing a "McGuinn No.1" NUFC shirt) to the 3rd encore My Back Pages, it was an unforgettable trip through his back catalogue via Byrds and Appalachian songs, all with witty and entertaining introductions. I gasped - gasped - when he played Eight Miles High on his 7-string acoustic (the Roger McGuinn RD7) - it brought back memories of hearing it for the first time and now it was even better. A combination, as he said, of "Andres Segovia, Ravi Shankar and John Coltrane."
I always contend that I dislike nostalgia for its own sake and I don't honestly think this was nostalgia. It was honest-to-god consummate musicianship, truly memorable songs and the still pure, still strong voice of one of my favourite performers.
Many of my friends tell me that good music came to an end with the 80s. I've always disagreed and gone on buying new music, but last night's concert helped me see their point of view.
I was moved, I tell you. Moved.
Saturday, 14 October 2006
As I Walked Out
Walking and thinking. Thinking and walking. They do work together if you want them to. I'd set out with the intention of seeing where my thoughts led, and it was instructive, if not terribly unexpected.
Because it had come up the previous day, I reflected on the idea of the city and the countryside becoming interpenetrating. What started to surface was the possibility of seeing how this subject might be treated in paintings. At this point, I'd reverted to thinking in images, so I can't readily convey to you what was in my mind. It'll have to be filed away for the future. Before I can tackle that as a subject, I have to finish wrestling with the sensory input of two weeks in Venice last September. There are canals and vaporetti to be brought into existence.
It was only after I'd finished shopping in Borders and Sainsbury's that the other raft of thought drifted into view. The choice of self-help books had been almost instinctive and while I'd be the first to admit to serious tendencies to disorganisation and time mismanagement, I'd not felt previously that these were indicative of anything more deep rooted. But now I began to see that they probably are.
When I left work in 1997 to go to University, I didn't find it difficult to adapt. I simply exchanged one form of disciplined routine for another. There were times when I was lonely (my fellow students didn't share my need for discipline or routine and stayed away in droves, so that most of the time I was alone in the studio) but everything seemed to be continuing more or less as before.. I suspect now, however, that the first cracks in the foundations of my life structure began then. It was as I graduated in 2001 that the real collapse began to manifest itself. In rather quick succession a series of Bad Things happened in a period on which we do not dwell.
So here I was now, a free agent trying to make a living from painting, but with no sense of routine, no commitments to anyone or anything,other than to visit my Mother and ensure that she had everything she needed (except that I couldn't provide the one thing she needed above all else - my Father).
In September my Mother died, shortly after her 90th birthday. It wasn't unexpected and given the quality of her life I viewed it as something of a release. Until now, however, I hadn't viewed her death as the destruction of the last remaining prop in my world edifice.
But here I am now, an even freer agent whose only constants are the need to make artworks, and Patsy123 (the least demanding and more reliable of the two).
It may seem obvious that the death of my Mother should leave me in something of a state, but it's more than that. It's the death of the past; the death of all the old certainties; the death of my original support system.
So I need a new support system and a new set of routines and structures. Recognising that is the beginning. Enter the self-help books.
Because it had come up the previous day, I reflected on the idea of the city and the countryside becoming interpenetrating. What started to surface was the possibility of seeing how this subject might be treated in paintings. At this point, I'd reverted to thinking in images, so I can't readily convey to you what was in my mind. It'll have to be filed away for the future. Before I can tackle that as a subject, I have to finish wrestling with the sensory input of two weeks in Venice last September. There are canals and vaporetti to be brought into existence.
It was only after I'd finished shopping in Borders and Sainsbury's that the other raft of thought drifted into view. The choice of self-help books had been almost instinctive and while I'd be the first to admit to serious tendencies to disorganisation and time mismanagement, I'd not felt previously that these were indicative of anything more deep rooted. But now I began to see that they probably are.
When I left work in 1997 to go to University, I didn't find it difficult to adapt. I simply exchanged one form of disciplined routine for another. There were times when I was lonely (my fellow students didn't share my need for discipline or routine and stayed away in droves, so that most of the time I was alone in the studio) but everything seemed to be continuing more or less as before.. I suspect now, however, that the first cracks in the foundations of my life structure began then. It was as I graduated in 2001 that the real collapse began to manifest itself. In rather quick succession a series of Bad Things happened in a period on which we do not dwell.
So here I was now, a free agent trying to make a living from painting, but with no sense of routine, no commitments to anyone or anything,other than to visit my Mother and ensure that she had everything she needed (except that I couldn't provide the one thing she needed above all else - my Father).
In September my Mother died, shortly after her 90th birthday. It wasn't unexpected and given the quality of her life I viewed it as something of a release. Until now, however, I hadn't viewed her death as the destruction of the last remaining prop in my world edifice.
But here I am now, an even freer agent whose only constants are the need to make artworks, and Patsy123 (the least demanding and more reliable of the two).
It may seem obvious that the death of my Mother should leave me in something of a state, but it's more than that. It's the death of the past; the death of all the old certainties; the death of my original support system.
So I need a new support system and a new set of routines and structures. Recognising that is the beginning. Enter the self-help books.
Friday, 13 October 2006
Not so Down in the Valley
"You should get out more." Everybody says it, though mostly in a Postmodern, ironic sort of way. I say it myself, but rarely to myself. Anatole France said, "If fifty million people say a foolish thing, it is still a foolish thing," which is worth a moment's consideration; but more to the point, he also said, "It is good to collect things, but it is better to go on walks."
I decided to test his theory today and set out for the Valley once again. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and it was a beautiful day.....
Trudging back from the Valley in the dark some four hours later, I felt I was able to consider the project in an even-handed way. Even-handed, because in my left I carried a bag of books from Borders; in my right, a bag of groceries from Sainsbury's. In my mind I carried thoughts from the walk, and as anyone will tell you, they were the most valuable of all. If they don't tell you that, you should thrash them soundly until they admit it is so.
What were the books? Books to change my life. Books to put me on the path to order, success and happiness. Nut books, in the words of my friend Doctor Pam (who swears by them) But not your run-of-the-mill everyday nut books like,Men are From Mars but Women Moved my Cheese. I sat at the table used by the man who'd committed to memory the Illustrated Karma Sutra on the previous day - though I was careful to sit in a different chair - and looked through a bundle of potentially life-changing books.
I came away with Why Am I So Disorganised? - Sort Out Your Stuff by Dr Marilyn Paul; Getting Things Done by David Allen; The Creative Habit by Twyla Tharp; and another which I shan't tell you about (and no, it isn't the Illustrated Karma Sutra) I also bought a magazine glorying in the improbable title of Turps Banana.
The David Allen book is something I just had to read. I did some research on the Interweb yesterday, finding out what I could about the books I thought I might want to buy. In the course of my research, I came across David Allen. David Allen is a phenomenon. I've never heard of him before, but try Googling his best known book Getting Things Done - or better yet, the way it's become known, GTD - and you'll find around 20,300,000 hits. It's like a religion, with the GTD acolytes vying with one another to find the best software to accommodate his "43 folder" system (which he himself advocates putting into, well, folders). Who knew so many people were in need of advice on Stress-free Productivity?
Tomorrow: what I bought at Sainsbury's. No, really...... tomorrow: what I thought about on my walk. Well you'll just have to wait, won't you?
I decided to test his theory today and set out for the Valley once again. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and it was a beautiful day.....
Trudging back from the Valley in the dark some four hours later, I felt I was able to consider the project in an even-handed way. Even-handed, because in my left I carried a bag of books from Borders; in my right, a bag of groceries from Sainsbury's. In my mind I carried thoughts from the walk, and as anyone will tell you, they were the most valuable of all. If they don't tell you that, you should thrash them soundly until they admit it is so.
What were the books? Books to change my life. Books to put me on the path to order, success and happiness. Nut books, in the words of my friend Doctor Pam (who swears by them) But not your run-of-the-mill everyday nut books like,Men are From Mars but Women Moved my Cheese. I sat at the table used by the man who'd committed to memory the Illustrated Karma Sutra on the previous day - though I was careful to sit in a different chair - and looked through a bundle of potentially life-changing books.
I came away with Why Am I So Disorganised? - Sort Out Your Stuff by Dr Marilyn Paul; Getting Things Done by David Allen; The Creative Habit by Twyla Tharp; and another which I shan't tell you about (and no, it isn't the Illustrated Karma Sutra) I also bought a magazine glorying in the improbable title of Turps Banana.
The David Allen book is something I just had to read. I did some research on the Interweb yesterday, finding out what I could about the books I thought I might want to buy. In the course of my research, I came across David Allen. David Allen is a phenomenon. I've never heard of him before, but try Googling his best known book Getting Things Done - or better yet, the way it's become known, GTD - and you'll find around 20,300,000 hits. It's like a religion, with the GTD acolytes vying with one another to find the best software to accommodate his "43 folder" system (which he himself advocates putting into, well, folders). Who knew so many people were in need of advice on Stress-free Productivity?
Tomorrow: what I bought at Sainsbury's. No, really...... tomorrow: what I thought about on my walk. Well you'll just have to wait, won't you?
Thursday, 12 October 2006
Down in the Valley
I wonder if it's possible to write and paint? For me, I mean. I'm fully aware that there are painters who write. And there are writers who paint. There are even painters who write on their paintings. But it seems that the only time I'm visited by the writing muse is when I'm stuck with my painting.
Or when I'm in something of a depression.
Which tends to be the same thing.
I went for a walk on the Valley yesterday. As a kid, I used to love the Valley. I'd cycle there with my buddies and we'd play all day in the woods, drinking Tizer and making useless clay lamps out of the mud we'd dig up from the river bank. I don't think you can get at the river now; it's been culverted in. And there's not much left of the woods either. Cut down to make room for more offices and factory units. But that's OK really; it's what the Valley is for, and if it makes for more jobs, then who am I to complain?
I still like walking on the Valley, though. Despite there being fewer areas of woodland, there are still open fields and every Avenue is filled with trees and bushes. These are usually kept trimmed a bit, but still spill out onto the pavements. And curiously, it's pretty quiet.
A dual carriageway runs down the middle and this is always full of cars, lorries and buses rushing about their business, but the other Avenues are generally rather quiet. I suppose because everyone's at work. Except me, the lone pedestrian.
So it's a little like walking in countryside which has been invaded by the city. Or in a city which has been invaded by the countryside. I guess it's one of those curious non-places that modern civilisation tends to produce, such as airports and shopping malls, but this one is much nicer than those.
The Valley teems with wildlife. Every bush twitters with sparrows and there are innumerable blackbirds flitting silently from tree to tree, or shrieking at everyone and everything. Earlier this year (or maybe it was late last year - pleasant memories seem to flow together now into a sun-filled whole) Patsy123 and I walked on the Valley and saw a family of rabbits sitting about in the late rays of a setting sun. As we approached, they scampered off to the safety of a huge clump of overgrown shrubs by the side of their field.
But why was I on the Valley yesterday? It was a fairly miserable day, grey and misty with occasional showers, and I was somewhat grey and miserable myself. I'd decided to go there to see what Borders might have in stock (did I mention that, in addition to offices and factory units, there's also a Retail Park?) My curiosity had been piqued by mention in a recent blog of a book by Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now. I thought it might prove interesting and/or useful.
In the event, I found I wasn't in the mood for the Tolle book, but I spent some time leafing through some other self-help books. Nowhere near as much time as the guy who slid a big illustrated copy of The Karma Sutra off the shelf and sat himself down at a table in the corner with it. He was still there when I left, slowly turning the pages. I'd like to think his wife or girlfriend might be in for a good time later that night, but somehow I doubt it.
Mostly I was fascinated by books about organisational strategies and time management which seemed to suggest a way out of my present malaise, but in the end I didn't buy anything. Maybe I'll go look again. Or maybe I'll just shake myself up and get on with things.
Or when I'm in something of a depression.
Which tends to be the same thing.
I went for a walk on the Valley yesterday. As a kid, I used to love the Valley. I'd cycle there with my buddies and we'd play all day in the woods, drinking Tizer and making useless clay lamps out of the mud we'd dig up from the river bank. I don't think you can get at the river now; it's been culverted in. And there's not much left of the woods either. Cut down to make room for more offices and factory units. But that's OK really; it's what the Valley is for, and if it makes for more jobs, then who am I to complain?
I still like walking on the Valley, though. Despite there being fewer areas of woodland, there are still open fields and every Avenue is filled with trees and bushes. These are usually kept trimmed a bit, but still spill out onto the pavements. And curiously, it's pretty quiet.
A dual carriageway runs down the middle and this is always full of cars, lorries and buses rushing about their business, but the other Avenues are generally rather quiet. I suppose because everyone's at work. Except me, the lone pedestrian.
So it's a little like walking in countryside which has been invaded by the city. Or in a city which has been invaded by the countryside. I guess it's one of those curious non-places that modern civilisation tends to produce, such as airports and shopping malls, but this one is much nicer than those.
The Valley teems with wildlife. Every bush twitters with sparrows and there are innumerable blackbirds flitting silently from tree to tree, or shrieking at everyone and everything. Earlier this year (or maybe it was late last year - pleasant memories seem to flow together now into a sun-filled whole) Patsy123 and I walked on the Valley and saw a family of rabbits sitting about in the late rays of a setting sun. As we approached, they scampered off to the safety of a huge clump of overgrown shrubs by the side of their field.
But why was I on the Valley yesterday? It was a fairly miserable day, grey and misty with occasional showers, and I was somewhat grey and miserable myself. I'd decided to go there to see what Borders might have in stock (did I mention that, in addition to offices and factory units, there's also a Retail Park?) My curiosity had been piqued by mention in a recent blog of a book by Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now. I thought it might prove interesting and/or useful.
In the event, I found I wasn't in the mood for the Tolle book, but I spent some time leafing through some other self-help books. Nowhere near as much time as the guy who slid a big illustrated copy of The Karma Sutra off the shelf and sat himself down at a table in the corner with it. He was still there when I left, slowly turning the pages. I'd like to think his wife or girlfriend might be in for a good time later that night, but somehow I doubt it.
Mostly I was fascinated by books about organisational strategies and time management which seemed to suggest a way out of my present malaise, but in the end I didn't buy anything. Maybe I'll go look again. Or maybe I'll just shake myself up and get on with things.
Rat!
I saw the Giant Rat of Sumatra on Sunday. Well OK, it almost certainly wasn't the Giant Rat of Sumatra, given that although we don't know the outcome of that infamous case, we can usually assume that Mr Holmes effectively sees off his foes and anyway, it would be rather elderly by now.
But it was a big rat.
I spotted it as I was helping myself to some muesli in the kitchen. It was at the bottom of the garden helping itself to the seed I'd just put down for the ever-hungry wood pigeons and collared doves.
At first I wasn't sure it was a rat, because I couldn't see a tail, but using the binoculars in the living room, I could see it well. As I watched, I could see it raise up on its hind legs and sniff the air. I could feel Patsy123 shiver next to me.
It wasn't totally unattractive. Unlike the rats in movies, which are always wet and dirty, this was a very clean specimen, with white fur showing clearly on its underbelly. But it was a big clean specimen and I manfully went out into the garden and sent it one its way. It ran off through Lucy Smooth's garden, so far as I could tell.
With luck it might prove to have been just a passing rat, a traveller by trade. But it does mean I've had to stop putting down seed for a while. The feeders are kept well stocked, but the wood pigeon doesn't like the new regime of having to pick up bits and pieces the sparrows have dropped or thrown away.
But it was a big rat.
I spotted it as I was helping myself to some muesli in the kitchen. It was at the bottom of the garden helping itself to the seed I'd just put down for the ever-hungry wood pigeons and collared doves.
At first I wasn't sure it was a rat, because I couldn't see a tail, but using the binoculars in the living room, I could see it well. As I watched, I could see it raise up on its hind legs and sniff the air. I could feel Patsy123 shiver next to me.
It wasn't totally unattractive. Unlike the rats in movies, which are always wet and dirty, this was a very clean specimen, with white fur showing clearly on its underbelly. But it was a big clean specimen and I manfully went out into the garden and sent it one its way. It ran off through Lucy Smooth's garden, so far as I could tell.
With luck it might prove to have been just a passing rat, a traveller by trade. But it does mean I've had to stop putting down seed for a while. The feeders are kept well stocked, but the wood pigeon doesn't like the new regime of having to pick up bits and pieces the sparrows have dropped or thrown away.
Tuesday, 9 May 2006
Casting a Wider Net
I posted three small paintings off to a gallery in Birmingham today. We've been in correspondence for a little while. They wanted some pictures which are now sold, but I sent them some jpegs of similar work and they chose three.
Really, it's cost me a small fortune to post them and the potential return is not that great. But I have to keep operating on the principle that exposure in other parts of the country can only be good and might in the long term lead to something greater.
Meanwhile, my new picture of a storm over the island of Naxos is giving me some pain. I think I can see where it needs to go - the manipulation of the original photograph was too extreme and I need to pull back a little to get at the essence of the subject. I should have tackled the problem earlier today, but got involved in the packaging of the three Birmingham pictures and once out in the sun (it was gloriously hot today) didn't feel like hiding away in the studio. Maybe I'll pick it up again tonight.
Really, it's cost me a small fortune to post them and the potential return is not that great. But I have to keep operating on the principle that exposure in other parts of the country can only be good and might in the long term lead to something greater.
Meanwhile, my new picture of a storm over the island of Naxos is giving me some pain. I think I can see where it needs to go - the manipulation of the original photograph was too extreme and I need to pull back a little to get at the essence of the subject. I should have tackled the problem earlier today, but got involved in the packaging of the three Birmingham pictures and once out in the sun (it was gloriously hot today) didn't feel like hiding away in the studio. Maybe I'll pick it up again tonight.
Tuesday, 2 May 2006
The Lakes
Grasmere Tree (sketchbook, fibre tip)
I just got back from a week in the Lakes. Every year at about this time, I go painting with Compo & Clegg and the rest, but the last three trips to the South-West of Scotland have been Ordeals of Bad Weather. This time we thought we'd give the Lakes a go. I know, the Lake District and rain are not generally regarded as mutually exclusive, but we thought we'd chance it anyway.
As it turned out, we hit lucky. Apart from an overnight bout of rain, and a shower or two the following morning, we had terrific weather. But there were, unfortunately, some desperately cold winds blowing off the lakes themselves, which somewhat restricted the kind of work we might have got done otherwise. I limited myself to drawing a few rotted and blasted trees. One of them (see above) I was rather pleased with, even if it harks back more to my illustration days.
I suspect that next year we'll not return to the Lakes. Walking the hills is always an attraction there, and a distraction from the primary purpose of the trip.
Friday, 14 April 2006
Friday, 7 April 2006
Movie Time
I liked The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada a lot. A fine film in fact. There were echoes of Peckinpah's Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia and nice little touches like the old blind man (played by Levon Helm) listening to Mexican radio, even though he can't understand it, and later a group of Mexicans watching a US soap on tv, even though they can't understand it.
There's a truly bizarre scene in a cantina, with a little girl playing an out of tune piano, while a tv blasts out a dubbed version of what looked like an old Flash Gordon serial.
The tv soap opera pops up in various other places in the movie. Turns out it's not a real tv show; Jones created it for the movie. Just one of many fine and subtle touches.
I'd like to think this signalled the beginning of a great directorial career for Jones.
There's a truly bizarre scene in a cantina, with a little girl playing an out of tune piano, while a tv blasts out a dubbed version of what looked like an old Flash Gordon serial.
The tv soap opera pops up in various other places in the movie. Turns out it's not a real tv show; Jones created it for the movie. Just one of many fine and subtle touches.
I'd like to think this signalled the beginning of a great directorial career for Jones.
Thursday, 6 April 2006
It's been a long, long time...
I dunno. Why am I doing this again, after so long? In a sense, it's sublimation. I have to get work done for three shows in the not too distant future, I'm not sure quite what it is I want to paint, or indeed what size canvas I want to paint on. This is not a good frame of mind to get anything done. So I've picked my way over the floor covered in bits of stretcher pieces to the computer, my Electronic Buddy who never criticises and always says hello (except last week when his power unit went phut).
And that's it, really. Putting my head over the parapet to see if anyone shoots at me, but more to simply do something. In a moment, I'm off to meet Patsy123. We're going to see Tommy Lee Jones's film, The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada.
Talk to you later.
Maybe
And that's it, really. Putting my head over the parapet to see if anyone shoots at me, but more to simply do something. In a moment, I'm off to meet Patsy123. We're going to see Tommy Lee Jones's film, The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada.
Talk to you later.
Maybe
Thursday, 14 April 2005
Thursday, 6 January 2005
Update
Winter landscape (12 x 12 ins, oil on board)
Since I'm here and I've been asked, I might as well update you on things at Stately Zip Mansion.
I spent Xmas at Tynemouth with Patsy123 and her two sons. A good time was had by all. I saw the New Year in at Buddy K's palatial Quayside DesRes. Walked round the Sage Gateshead, over the Gateshead Millennium Bridge and back for nachos and champagne with Jools's Hootenanny.
Patsy123 is away for a month in Argentina, so I'm taking the opportunity of getting lots of work done. And lots of work is required. Suddenly I find I have a painting to finish for Monday, several for a show in Harrogate in February (three sales there last month), at least ten for a show in Alnwick in February/March and umpteen more for a show North of the Border in March/April.
Which means it's not time for me to return to the blogging fold. Hope you're all well, though, and that you have a Happy and Prosperous New year.
Sunday, 21 November 2004
I don't know why I say goodbye, I say hello.....
Beyond Lemba (work in progress)(oil on board)
I've come to a realisation recently that I'm overextending myself. I've added so many things into my life in the last year that they're causing conflict and chaos. Something has to give, if only for a while.
When I started blogging, it was with the (unexpressed) intention of posting something every day. Clearly that's fallen by the wayside. My other activities have meant that I couldn't channel my mind into writing mode to enable me to keep up the output. I don't want the blog to become a chore.
So for a while at least, I think I need to put Boogie Street on hold. I thank all those who've shown a surprising interest in what goes on at Stately Zip Mansion and hope to throw open the doors again in the near future.
See you in the blogs!
Thursday, 18 November 2004
A Good Egg of a Day
The People Show will be looking for entries in the New Year, so I decided to press on today. Instead of fannying around with some of the small pieces which glare at me in the studio from time to time, I made a decision to do two new paintings for the Show.
Despite the handicap of an obviously off-square canvas, I managed to get something involving the rigid grid-like structure of the Tyne Bridge off to a good start. The top two thirds of the 24 x 24 ins square canvas is taken up with the mass of the end of the Bridge, reminding me a little of Franz Kline. Behind are the cool planes of what I used to think of as the Black Stump until it was clad in some greyish stuff last year, and the pier of one of the Bridge supports.
The bottom third of the painting consists of runners in the Great North Run. A return to an old friend.
I like the way the composition divides into a calm cool grid played off against the energy of runners in reds, ochres, yellows.
Later, I went into town for an hour or two. Picked up some olives and sour cream and spoached around the HMV store.
Back home, I whipped up some chicken with wild mushrooms. Too much chicken, not enough olives. Too much cream. Too rich. Would have been fine for two, but Patsy123's away looking after her mum who's had a fall.
After dinner I made a first acquaintance with Philip Glass's Symphony No.2 and Symphony No.3 which I'd picked up at HMV. Great stuff. I've never thought of Philip Glass as being impressionistic, but there were moments there when I found myself thinking restless sea pictures (indeed, Rebecca came to mind) and steam locomotives.
And then it was time to delve further into Chuck Palahniuk's Diary. A very strange and disturbing novel, and certainly engrossing. And hey! It's about an artist.
It's been an unusual day when I haven't felt any real pressure. When everything - even the not terribly successful chicken and wild mushrooms - felt right. Not often I can say that.
And so, on that rather comforting note, to bed.
Despite the handicap of an obviously off-square canvas, I managed to get something involving the rigid grid-like structure of the Tyne Bridge off to a good start. The top two thirds of the 24 x 24 ins square canvas is taken up with the mass of the end of the Bridge, reminding me a little of Franz Kline. Behind are the cool planes of what I used to think of as the Black Stump until it was clad in some greyish stuff last year, and the pier of one of the Bridge supports.
The bottom third of the painting consists of runners in the Great North Run. A return to an old friend.
I like the way the composition divides into a calm cool grid played off against the energy of runners in reds, ochres, yellows.
Later, I went into town for an hour or two. Picked up some olives and sour cream and spoached around the HMV store.
Back home, I whipped up some chicken with wild mushrooms. Too much chicken, not enough olives. Too much cream. Too rich. Would have been fine for two, but Patsy123's away looking after her mum who's had a fall.
After dinner I made a first acquaintance with Philip Glass's Symphony No.2 and Symphony No.3 which I'd picked up at HMV. Great stuff. I've never thought of Philip Glass as being impressionistic, but there were moments there when I found myself thinking restless sea pictures (indeed, Rebecca came to mind) and steam locomotives.
And then it was time to delve further into Chuck Palahniuk's Diary. A very strange and disturbing novel, and certainly engrossing. And hey! It's about an artist.
When they were in school, Peter used to say that everything you do is a self-portrait. It might look like Saint George and
the Dragon or The Rape of the Sabine Women, but the angle you use, the lighting, the composition, the technique, they're all you. Even the reason why you chose the scene, it's you. You are every color and brushstroke.
Peter used to say, "The only thing an artist can do is describe his own face."
You're doomed to being you.
This, he says, leaves us free to draw anything, since we're only drawing ourselves.
Your handwriting. The way you walk. Which china pattern you choose. It's all giving you away. Everything you do shows your hand.
Everything is a self-portrait.
It's been an unusual day when I haven't felt any real pressure. When everything - even the not terribly successful chicken and wild mushrooms - felt right. Not often I can say that.
And so, on that rather comforting note, to bed.
Wednesday, 17 November 2004
Mark my words.....
Into the Depths (oil on canvas, 36 x 36 ins)
This is one of the reasons I've been quiet. Getting pictures ready for another exhibition. This time it's the Gallery Friends Show, with a theme of "art from words" to try to get the more conservative members to think outside the box.
Won't work, of course. Last year we used an "art from art" theme and still got the usual watercolours of bunches of flowers, allegedly based on some obscure Dutch work. This year they'll be on even safer ground, what with the availability of Wordsworth's daffs and the like.
Not that I can honestly say my entries are actually based on literature. The picture above was done a couple of years ago and was based on a shelled building in Cyprus. I've simply hung an Orpheus & Eurydice tag on it.
No photographs of the other two yet. The second one was another 36 x 36 ins unfinished work called Woman in a Garden. Patsy123 helped out by finding a couple of verses from a D H Lawrence poem called Snap-Dragon and I reworked the woman. I'm still not sure about it, but it's been accepted, so I'll think again when it comes back (I regard these Friends' shows as a chance to show slightly unusual work, knowing it won't sell. It's the watercolour bunches of flowers that always sell.)
The last one is very much an oddity. It's 24 x 24 ins and based on Siri Hustvedt's The Blindfold. It started out as something out of die Neue Sachlichkeit but I was uncomfortable with the way the two figures were not contained within the picture area. I got rid of the subsidiary figure and it started to look like a mid-period Paula Rego. Then it simply took on a life of its own and became what it is now. Very strange.
Thursday, 11 November 2004
Moveable Feast
Have you decided what day to celebrate Christmas Day yet? I haven't made up my mind which of the days in the Christmas Day period to make my own personal Christmas Day; a day that suits my own circumstances, not one forced on me by something as meaningless as a date on a calendar.
Last Friday was Guy Fawkes' Night, right? Or Bonfire Night as my calendar calls it, so as to ensure that children everywhere can go untroubled by the historical origins of the celebration.
As it happens, Patsy123 and I had a really good night watching the Council firework display in Saltwell Park. The crowds were well-behaved, the weather quite clement and there was plenty of ooing and ahing to make the night a success.
But some people evidently don't see any need to join in such communal tomfoolery. They had their displays on the Wednesday before. Others chose Thursday, while still others went for Saturday or Sunday and even Monday.
And I'm not talking about the odd rocket or banger. I mean big displays lasting ten minutes or more. From my living room window, I've been able to watch Guy Fawkes Night being celebrated every night for the best part of a week.
So why stick to December 25th for your Christmas Day? As it happens, the 25th falls on a Saturday, but that might not be convenient for you or your family. Why not have your own individual Christmas Day on the Thursday beforehand, or perhaps later, on Tuesday 28th?
This is the 21st Century, for godsake. Let's not be hidebound by tradition and calendars. You have nothing to lose but your sense of any kind of community. Maybe that crazy old bat Thatcher was right and there is no society
[That was an Old Fart Rant on behalf of the Christmas Party]
Last Friday was Guy Fawkes' Night, right? Or Bonfire Night as my calendar calls it, so as to ensure that children everywhere can go untroubled by the historical origins of the celebration.
As it happens, Patsy123 and I had a really good night watching the Council firework display in Saltwell Park. The crowds were well-behaved, the weather quite clement and there was plenty of ooing and ahing to make the night a success.
But some people evidently don't see any need to join in such communal tomfoolery. They had their displays on the Wednesday before. Others chose Thursday, while still others went for Saturday or Sunday and even Monday.
And I'm not talking about the odd rocket or banger. I mean big displays lasting ten minutes or more. From my living room window, I've been able to watch Guy Fawkes Night being celebrated every night for the best part of a week.
So why stick to December 25th for your Christmas Day? As it happens, the 25th falls on a Saturday, but that might not be convenient for you or your family. Why not have your own individual Christmas Day on the Thursday beforehand, or perhaps later, on Tuesday 28th?
This is the 21st Century, for godsake. Let's not be hidebound by tradition and calendars. You have nothing to lose but your sense of any kind of community. Maybe that crazy old bat Thatcher was right and there is no society
[That was an Old Fart Rant on behalf of the Christmas Party]
Monday, 8 November 2004
Opportunity Knocks Again
An Angry Buzzing (oil on canvas, 36 x 36 ins)
Where does the time go? Things have happened but gone unreported on Boogie Street, like the Crete trip and the walk up on Simonside. I'll have to try to get to them.
Meanwhile, the time today was spent initially on tidying the place up in anticipation of the arrival of the Two Ladies from Harrogate. They're opening a gallery there and having seen the work at the Big Gallery in Newcastle, wanted to take a look at some more of my work.
We had a good afternoon together, chatting about stuff, and eventually they left with eleven of my pictures, including the one above, to show at their inaugural exhibition.
Who said there isn't a god? (Note to self: it was you, but others got there before you.)
Monday, 1 November 2004
"[Mr Zip] paints the town"
[Mr Zip] and his Great North Run painting
According to the Evening Chronicle of Saturday October 30th, "Eight scenes of Newcastle by artist [Mr Zip] are on display and up for sale at a city gallery." It goes on to say that the "oil paintings of streets around the city have been on display ..... since September 10 and are proving popular with visitors."
The gallery manager was quoted as saying that they'd had some of Mr Zip's work on display before "and it went down very well."
"They are all up for sale from between £650 and £1600."
Mr Zip said, "They are all of streets in Newcastle, like Blackett Street and Newgate Street."
"I am particularly interested in the effect of light on those streets, especially on wet days."
In addition to reproducing "The Burning Bush" they also showed a copy of this one:
The Sage, Gateshead (oil on canvas, 24x24 ins)
Friday, 29 October 2004
Fame calls after all.
The Burning Bush (oil on canvas, 36 x 36 ins)
Given that I was standing in my underwear in the draughty hall, I probably didn't acquit myself overly well when the woman from the Chronicle phoned today.
Seems I misjudged them and they do intend to publish a piece on me and my work, either tomorrow or Monday.
That'll teach me not to be so pessimistic.
Saturday, 23 October 2004
A Heath Robinson Affair
I met some old friends for lunch in town on Friday. I hadn't seen Mad Mal and his wife for about a year, so we had some catching up to do.
We met in the cafe area of the Laing Art Gallery, which, along with the rest of the gallery, has been newly decorated. The horrid custard walls, which had such a disastrous effect on the viewing of their fine David Bomberg, have been replaced by a much less obnoxious cream.
Which is fine, except the Bomberg is no longer on the wall. Nor are any of the good pictures that used to line the staircase walls.
It's an unfortunate fact that the modern breed of curators seem not to like things cluttering up their walls, especially those old-fashioned painted things. I'm hoping they're going to put them back in due course, but I can't forget that when Sunderland Museum and Art Gallery was refurbished a few years ago, the big Victorian pictures which used to hang on the walls of the staircase were never put back. And both galleries are run by Tyne & Wear Museums.
Nevertheless, we did have a good time in the current exhibition of W. Heath Robinson illustrations and paintings. Heath Robinson was always one of my heroes, particularly as I once thought I'd like to be an illustrator. I gave up on that when I found I got bored with having to draw the same character more than once - I wanted to invent new ones each time.
The exhibition covers most of his career, from the early work much inspired by Victorian wood-engraving, through his illustrations for Rabelais, Shakespeare and various collections of fairy tales, including Perrault and Hans Andersen, to the illustrations he is best remembered for - the improbable inventions.
There were one or two watercolours done, not as illustrations, but as fine art. I have to say that, despite the blurb attached to them which suggested he was using a much more loose style, they looked very uncomfortable, as if he yearned to get back to his trademark precision.
His mature drawing style is wonderfully concise. He developed a balance of clean even line set off by one or two areas of (usually) solid black which, together with his fondness for an elevated viewpoint, endeared him to me forever.
Friday, 22 October 2004
Mr Zip's Nature Diary Contd.
So there I was, getting on with my little jobs in the garden. I'd finished putting some chunky brass screws into the fence panels ripped loose by the rampaging Italian topiarists and was getting ready to fill up the birds' seed feeders.
Then the mouse walked by.
It's that mouse I've seen before, scoffing the birdseed, but this time he was really close. He crept over and picked up a sunflower seed, tested it , then ran off with it to wherever his apartment is under the badly-laid concrete path.
Seconds later he was back, so I threw him a piece of breadcrust. He thought about it briefly, then came forward and picked it up. It too passed the nibble test, so he went off with it.
When he came back I was bending over, filling up the container with peanuts, so I threw a couple his way. He liked those too. Then he came back and edged nearer the little heap of seed I put down for the ground feeders. Eventually, he was directly below me and as I was still bending over, he was within a foot of my hand. I could see his pale little limbs with their beautifully delicate paws and his bright, bright little dark eyes.
Why should it be that a fieldmouse isn't scared of me? I'd have thought that by it's very size and nature he would be scared of just about everything. I accept that I'm probably too slow to actually catch him, but getting within a foot of me seems like extreme rodent bravado.
Whatever he felt about the experience, it gave me a little thrill.
Then the mouse walked by.
It's that mouse I've seen before, scoffing the birdseed, but this time he was really close. He crept over and picked up a sunflower seed, tested it , then ran off with it to wherever his apartment is under the badly-laid concrete path.
Seconds later he was back, so I threw him a piece of breadcrust. He thought about it briefly, then came forward and picked it up. It too passed the nibble test, so he went off with it.
When he came back I was bending over, filling up the container with peanuts, so I threw a couple his way. He liked those too. Then he came back and edged nearer the little heap of seed I put down for the ground feeders. Eventually, he was directly below me and as I was still bending over, he was within a foot of my hand. I could see his pale little limbs with their beautifully delicate paws and his bright, bright little dark eyes.
Why should it be that a fieldmouse isn't scared of me? I'd have thought that by it's very size and nature he would be scared of just about everything. I accept that I'm probably too slow to actually catch him, but getting within a foot of me seems like extreme rodent bravado.
Whatever he felt about the experience, it gave me a little thrill.
Thursday, 21 October 2004
Careful with that axe, Eugene
A gang of crazy Italians has destroyed my hedge.
Woken by the sound of rhythmic thumping from a reverie over what to do with the stalled picture on the easel, I went outside to find three old men armed with a big axe and a pair of loppers cutting into the hedge.
Watching them wield the axe in a most un-Boy Scout-like manner (I had my Woodsman's Badge, so I know about these things) was really frightening. If the axe hadn't been quite so obviously sharp, I'd have feared for arms or legs ending up on my lawn. And arms and legs do make such a mess in the shredder.
Within an hour they'd hacked it down to fence height, luckily sparing the thick branch to which one end of my washing line is tied.
So why didn't I tell them to piss off and leave my hedge alone (apart from the presence of a glintingly sharp axe)? Well, because it's not really my hedge. It belongs to Lucy Smooth, whose husband used to keep it under control until he died.
It's not exactly hedge material. Not your privet or Leylandii. The gardens round here are regularly visited by the Tree Fairy who leaves little trees agrowing. Most people just pull them up, but years ago Lucy Smooth's husband thought it a good idea to let one grow and turn it into a hedge. Although it flowers, I've never seen it produce any kind of fruit, but I think it's some kind of Mountain Ash.
Training the trunk to grow horizontally, he allowed the branches to shoot away in a vertical direction, weaving some of them into a dense screen.
However, by the end of every year the branches are some fifteen to twenty feet high and have to be cut down or they'll turn into trunks. Since he died, I've done my best to deal with the monster. But as the tree-hedge is actually in the garden next door, I can't quite reach some of the branches and Lucy Smooth's son (who lives just over the road) is too indolent to lend a hand.
So it seems she's called in the local mafiosi to make the hedge an offer it couldn't refuse.
But I've been there. I know how the prune-craze can grip you when you set to with the secateurs, let alone a pair of loppers and an axe.
In a pruning frenzy, they gave the olive tree a flat-top. Then they parted the apple tree from its crown. By then everything in the garden was no taller than they were, so they retired indoors to shout at one another. It's the Italian way of having a conversation, compounded by aging hearing I imagine.
The wind sure as hell is whistling across the blasted heath and through the gap where the hedge and trees used to be. To make matters worse, on my way out today I noticed that a small blight on the hedge at the front (not mine either) has turned into some kind of arborial alopecia and there are huge areas of dead leaves and shrivelled berries.
I feel like my cocoon is under attack.
And the birds aren't gonna like it.
Woken by the sound of rhythmic thumping from a reverie over what to do with the stalled picture on the easel, I went outside to find three old men armed with a big axe and a pair of loppers cutting into the hedge.
Watching them wield the axe in a most un-Boy Scout-like manner (I had my Woodsman's Badge, so I know about these things) was really frightening. If the axe hadn't been quite so obviously sharp, I'd have feared for arms or legs ending up on my lawn. And arms and legs do make such a mess in the shredder.
Within an hour they'd hacked it down to fence height, luckily sparing the thick branch to which one end of my washing line is tied.
So why didn't I tell them to piss off and leave my hedge alone (apart from the presence of a glintingly sharp axe)? Well, because it's not really my hedge. It belongs to Lucy Smooth, whose husband used to keep it under control until he died.
It's not exactly hedge material. Not your privet or Leylandii. The gardens round here are regularly visited by the Tree Fairy who leaves little trees agrowing. Most people just pull them up, but years ago Lucy Smooth's husband thought it a good idea to let one grow and turn it into a hedge. Although it flowers, I've never seen it produce any kind of fruit, but I think it's some kind of Mountain Ash.
Training the trunk to grow horizontally, he allowed the branches to shoot away in a vertical direction, weaving some of them into a dense screen.
However, by the end of every year the branches are some fifteen to twenty feet high and have to be cut down or they'll turn into trunks. Since he died, I've done my best to deal with the monster. But as the tree-hedge is actually in the garden next door, I can't quite reach some of the branches and Lucy Smooth's son (who lives just over the road) is too indolent to lend a hand.
So it seems she's called in the local mafiosi to make the hedge an offer it couldn't refuse.
But I've been there. I know how the prune-craze can grip you when you set to with the secateurs, let alone a pair of loppers and an axe.
In a pruning frenzy, they gave the olive tree a flat-top. Then they parted the apple tree from its crown. By then everything in the garden was no taller than they were, so they retired indoors to shout at one another. It's the Italian way of having a conversation, compounded by aging hearing I imagine.
The wind sure as hell is whistling across the blasted heath and through the gap where the hedge and trees used to be. To make matters worse, on my way out today I noticed that a small blight on the hedge at the front (not mine either) has turned into some kind of arborial alopecia and there are huge areas of dead leaves and shrivelled berries.
I feel like my cocoon is under attack.
And the birds aren't gonna like it.
Wednesday, 20 October 2004
Fickle Fate
Newgate Street (oil on canvas, 35.5 x 26 ins))
Do you ever get the feeling that you've jinxed yourself? However irrational it may seem, however foolishly superstitious, does it ever seem to you that by telling everyone some good news about something about to occur, you somehow prevent it from happening?
I picked up a copy of the Chronicle tonight and found they'd run with a story about the guy whose pictures are hanging next to mine at the Gallery. I knew they'd photographed them, but apparently he was in the happy position of being at the Gallery when they were there and was able to be interviewed.
Now they've done that, I think it unlikely they'll run anything about me.
Poot. If only I'd kept my m........
Anyway, this is one of the pictures they probably won't be showing.
Monday, 18 October 2004
The Photographer Calls
I was woken at the ungodly hour of 11.30 this morning by the insistent ringing of the telephone.
It was a man whose name appears to be The Photographer From The Chronicle. At least that was what he called himself throughout all of our conversations.
Apparently, when there's no news and The Photographer From The Chronicle is twiddling his thumbs, the accepted solution is to go down to the Big Gallery and take some shots of the pictures in there.
Anyway, that was what The Photographer From The Chronicle did today. And as he'd taken some shots of my pictures, he thought it would be good to get some extra shots of me to go with the shots of the pictures. Maybe it'll make a feature.
It was a man whose name appears to be The Photographer From The Chronicle. At least that was what he called himself throughout all of our conversations.
Apparently, when there's no news and The Photographer From The Chronicle is twiddling his thumbs, the accepted solution is to go down to the Big Gallery and take some shots of the pictures in there.
Anyway, that was what The Photographer From The Chronicle did today. And as he'd taken some shots of my pictures, he thought it would be good to get some extra shots of me to go with the shots of the pictures. Maybe it'll make a feature.
When he arrived, he said "Hello, I'm The Photographer From The Chronicle."
So it was that I found myself in the studio with my nose shoved up against The Madonna of the Toboggan, my palette (which I never pick up) clutched near my left ear, a dry paintbrush in my right hand.
"Do you always hold the brush like that? Looks kind of funny"
"Unlike the palette by my left ear?" I asked.
"Ah, that's to keep the striplight out of shot," he explained.
We finished off the session with me down on my knees with my head pressed up against some of the figures in The Great North Run, staring into the void like El Greco's St Peter.
I'm sure it'll look great when it's in print. And, of course, any publicity is good publicity.
Saturday, 16 October 2004
Toad
Just as I was leaving the house this evening, I saw a blackbird in the garden. I retrieved the latest gowk from the compost.
Walking up the path that runs by the dene, I met a toad.
Sometimes it's like a jungle out there.
I've always been rather fond of toads. I never quite forgave my mother for making me take back the one I found in Saltwell Park all those years ago. After all, she let me keep the tiddlers, and they all died.
In the gloom, I almost trod on the toad. Only the fact that he might have been a turd saved him. He was looking pretty miserable. You may think it's difficult to tell whether a toad is miserable or not. Trust me, he was miserable.
Maybe it was because his normally rough and leathery skin was slicked with rain, or maybe he was just, you know, having one of those days. A kind of toady brown study.
Sitting there on the path was not in his best interests, and I told him so. I'm not averse to carrying on conversations with animals, providing no-one is looking, so I explained that just where he was sitting, the Future of the Nation normally hang out, drinking lager, smerkin' tabs, scribbling their infantile messages on the fence and generally cussing as much as the sentence will allow.
"They will make short work of you, I can assure you," I warned.
I bent down to pick him up. He hopped a couple of hops towards the hedge. But that seemed to be it. I tapped him with my finger. No more hopping took place.
Since I did actually have shopping to do and it was pissing down, I figured bold moves were called for.
Very carefully, with the edge of my foot, I slid him, and the leaves he was sitting on, under the hedge.
"Thanks, bonny lad," he said, " I couldn't have hopped another inch."
Walking up the path that runs by the dene, I met a toad.
Sometimes it's like a jungle out there.
I've always been rather fond of toads. I never quite forgave my mother for making me take back the one I found in Saltwell Park all those years ago. After all, she let me keep the tiddlers, and they all died.
In the gloom, I almost trod on the toad. Only the fact that he might have been a turd saved him. He was looking pretty miserable. You may think it's difficult to tell whether a toad is miserable or not. Trust me, he was miserable.
Maybe it was because his normally rough and leathery skin was slicked with rain, or maybe he was just, you know, having one of those days. A kind of toady brown study.
Sitting there on the path was not in his best interests, and I told him so. I'm not averse to carrying on conversations with animals, providing no-one is looking, so I explained that just where he was sitting, the Future of the Nation normally hang out, drinking lager, smerkin' tabs, scribbling their infantile messages on the fence and generally cussing as much as the sentence will allow.
"They will make short work of you, I can assure you," I warned.
I bent down to pick him up. He hopped a couple of hops towards the hedge. But that seemed to be it. I tapped him with my finger. No more hopping took place.
Since I did actually have shopping to do and it was pissing down, I figured bold moves were called for.
Very carefully, with the edge of my foot, I slid him, and the leaves he was sitting on, under the hedge.
"Thanks, bonny lad," he said, " I couldn't have hopped another inch."
Know how it feels?
Patsy123 sent me this poem, though I can't quite recall when:
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even
forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
Billy Collins
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even
forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
Billy Collins
Wednesday, 13 October 2004
Harvest Fest
The TV told me today that weatherforecasters are predicting a cold and icy winter, with some of it coming along real soon now. This means I may have to throw out my firm belief that trees laden with berries do not constitute a sign of a forthcoming Bad Winter.
Because the trees and bushes round here are certainly heavily laden this year. My pyracantha has never had such a crop of orangeness and the dene at the end of the street is crunchy underfoot with hundreds of acorns. Best of all, next door in Bob Eh's garden, the hawthorn is full of fat little fruit. Fat little fluttery fruit. The best crop of sparrows in years.
I'm getting at least a dozen in the garden every day. I've not had that many for almost ten years. It's getting to the point where I may have to buy another feeder for them.
But still no blackbirds. I was up at Hexham today for a seminar on self-promotion and the trees were full of blackbirds gulping down berries from the rowans. The blackbird I reported here a while ago proved to be a young straggler who's not been seen since.
The gowks continue to go in the compost.
Because the trees and bushes round here are certainly heavily laden this year. My pyracantha has never had such a crop of orangeness and the dene at the end of the street is crunchy underfoot with hundreds of acorns. Best of all, next door in Bob Eh's garden, the hawthorn is full of fat little fruit. Fat little fluttery fruit. The best crop of sparrows in years.
I'm getting at least a dozen in the garden every day. I've not had that many for almost ten years. It's getting to the point where I may have to buy another feeder for them.
But still no blackbirds. I was up at Hexham today for a seminar on self-promotion and the trees were full of blackbirds gulping down berries from the rowans. The blackbird I reported here a while ago proved to be a young straggler who's not been seen since.
The gowks continue to go in the compost.
Interesting Facts
In my mailbox when I got home, was this from Will Barrow:
1. The Japanese eat very little fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than the Aussies, British or Americans.
2. Mexicans eat a lot of fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than the Aussies, British or Americans.
3. Africans drink very little red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks than the Aussies, British or Americans.
4. Italians drink large amounts of red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks than the Aussies, British or Americans.
5. Germans drink a lot of beer and eat lots of sausages and fats and suffer fewer heart attacks than the Aussies, British or Americans.
MEDICAL CONCLUSION: Eat and drink whatever you like. Speaking English is apparently what kills you.
1. The Japanese eat very little fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than the Aussies, British or Americans.
2. Mexicans eat a lot of fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than the Aussies, British or Americans.
3. Africans drink very little red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks than the Aussies, British or Americans.
4. Italians drink large amounts of red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks than the Aussies, British or Americans.
5. Germans drink a lot of beer and eat lots of sausages and fats and suffer fewer heart attacks than the Aussies, British or Americans.
MEDICAL CONCLUSION: Eat and drink whatever you like. Speaking English is apparently what kills you.
Home
Well, back from Crete already. Weather was wonderful, food excellent and I completed my fifth walk down the Samaria Gorge.
When I've assembled my thoughts, photographs and like so, I may have more to say. Didn't do any drawing, however (tsk!), so you've had that.
When I've assembled my thoughts, photographs and like so, I may have more to say. Didn't do any drawing, however (tsk!), so you've had that.
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