Ruskin Alumni Society launch 110115

Well, was it worth it? Yes, it was, definitely. With prussian blue pastel firmly embedded beneath my finger nails after a morning teaching I made a snap decision to catch the train that would lead me to the minibus that would take me to the Saatchi gallery for the launch; the prospect of being at the start of something, the sum of which would be greater than the individual parts, was too great a temptation.

Unfortunately as I sat in my railway carriage contemplating the space around me I had the stomach churning realisation, horror of horrors,  that I had left behind my make up bag ( AAAGH! so if the guys who saw me after 25 years thought I was wearing cheap makeup, understand this, I was, courtesy of a smash and grab sprint into Boots in Oxford); normally, you see, gentlemen, I wear Chanel (a kind gift to myself when I turned 40).

The Saatchi Gallery was awesome: a fantastic space for a really exciting range of painting, sculpture and photography and I loved every minute of it. I particulaly liked the 20′ high triangular faceted cardboard and white emulsion pair of Staffordshire dogs, the embroidered photographs by Maurizio Anzeri and the paintings  by the name of an artist I can no longer remember, but the abstract imagery, vocabulary and use of colour of which will live on in my mind forever.

The generous gallery space was soon filled with 100s of unfamiliar faces guzzling free flowing prosecco and I didn’t hold back either. The vast halls hummed with the buzz of creative networking , speeches, photographs: individual and en masse. The new Ruskin Master – a philosopher- was introduced looking young enough to be my son (I always thought they  had to look old, but then again I once thought that about policemen)  and the two hour stint was way too short a catch up time as the Saatchi staff then tried with great difficulty to break up our party and usher us all home.

I had many brief and poignant encounters with those I knew and those I didn’t; one unexpected highlight must have been bumping into Sarah Simblet, author of The Drawing Book,  in the ladies powder room (I had to check my cheap makeup hadn’t slipped), being able to tell her face to face I use her book all the time with students. It made my day, and you never know perhaps made hers too.

This was a tremendous meeting of minds and energy and a mere glimpse of what might be in the future. Thank you Ruskin, but after twenty five years of silence, and 140 years of existence, not before time.

Thaw (extract) 110102

Thaw (extract)

Grey growler lurches forth

Past soft edged solid road

And low light snow surfaces

As disconsolate trees breathe…..

Dreary sledges in long night mist dim straight abreast

As white town turns

And leading magpies blankly glide;

Eternal ice flow drips and grey grime skids -

As this grey dawn starts to thaw.

single 101115

rambler now alone

skirts around bull field towards

single track highway

pheasant 10929

When I walked in to the studio yesterday I was greeted by a pheasant lying lifeless on the table. Nice. Always the opportunist I quickly devised a lesson plan that gave the impression this session had been long planned and was very much a special treat.

My students drew the dead bird all day long and by home time had also designed a pub sign for a hostelry called, yep, you’ve guessed it, “The Pheasant”. Staring at the thing all day I noticed the colours of the feathers were stunningly beautiful- from ginger through deep chocolate to magenta, with splashes of irridescent turquoise: gorgeous. I loved the  graphic quality of the red, black and white feathers around its head, not to mention the elegant long tweed inspired tail feathers draping so gracefully; the designer was clearly on good form that day. At the end of the session one student removed a speckled tail feather as a souvenir and exclaimed, “Oh! It’s got blood on the end.” “What did you expect?” I quipped and he promptly tried to push the thing back.

So, the pheasant shooting season begins tomorrow, lasting until February 1^st and I can feel a winter stew coming on. When I told my students about the various cooking options for a brace of pheasants: pheasant in cider, pheasant pate, pheasant in milk, pheasant stuffed with mushrooms, Lincoln pheasant, and how the Italians cook it with pancetta, plenty of white wine and brandy, they were listening intently; drooling even.

That is, of course until I advised them to watch out for the shot.

Incidentals 10922

The pots on my terrace which I have been nurturing all summer are fading fast; the hostas are withdrawing into themselves and even the banana plant is eyeing up the coming frosts and tipping me the wink to be brought indoors. However the weeds that grow up between the cracks on the terrace  are multiplying faster than you can say Roundup; those green and bushy weeds are thriving so much you’d imagine I was feeding them a great RHS elixir. Hhhmmph! the ones I give my attention to are failing and  the ones I ignore are thriving; you can imagine my sense of injustice.

When I’m writing I sit staring at a blank screen with some vague idea of my intended outcome and………..ppssshhht…………nothing comes, my brain goes blank, the result of those alcohol filled teenage years no doubt; however if  I so much as converse, jump in the car, go to the cinema, ride  a bike, or  read a book  the ideas flow faster than an iceflow in summer BUT because I’m occupied  I do not write them down and then when I sit back in front of my computer…………ppssssht………..my mind’s gone blank again; my brain would never admit to any idea, let alone a good one, and I  conclude my brain prefers multitasking and naturally I should be carrying a notepad at all times. Still, the incidental  (ie a new idea) is a byproduct of going off task, completely unexpected.

With painting I toil all day with a difficult painting or illustration, battle  it out, break out in a real sweat when it doesn’t go to plan; then at the end of the day when I’m no longer concentrating, just idly toying with the colours left on my palette – like a surly child playing with her food-  I see the most succinct little abstract piece with layers of meaning you could ever hope to create. And that’s just the palette. Still, the incidental (in this case an end of the day painting) is a byproduct of going off task, completely unexpected.

In Venice we found ourselves millimetres away from the Scuola di San Giorgio degli Schiavoni itching to see the Carpaccios; scratching our heads in dismay as the actual entrance eluded us (I later found out it was covered in scaffolding and closed anyway). Stopping and asking a chichi Italian woman exactly where it was, she sign languaged us to follow her. With her arm fully outstretched as her chiwawa lead the way, she marched us all over Venice on a wild goose chase, down every imagineable alley and over every conceivable bridge, until finally emerging  on the Grand Canal, where she pointed at the water meaningfully, we smiled gratefully (how very British), then promptly disappeared. Uhuh? Che? Never understanding what our grand tour had been about and not having the language wherewithal to enquire further, to this day I think she harboured an earnest disregard for all visitors to Venice (ie hated tourists), and was taking sweet revenge by trying to wear at least one set out. Perhaps I’m being too harsh. What she hadn’t realised however was that she had inadvertently created the most powerful experience of the place for us and an indellible memory etched on our brains for ever more. In hindsight I loved that walk, not so much Lost In Venice as misled in Venice. Still, the incidental  (ie a wonderful memory) is a  byproduct of going off task, completely unexpected.

So today in and amongst the weeds in the cracks on my terrace I happen to notice half a dozen little winter flowering pansies smiling in the sunshine. How lovely. Self set, the seeds have obviously blown off the bowl of violas on the table, which had flourished until earlier in the summer. The new little baby plants are a delightful by product, one I hadn’t planned, but one which I shall now nurture. Hhmmm, thank goodness for those unexpected incidentals but hey, go easy on the Tumbleweed, Sara.

blue sky 1083

high pitched forest squeals,

up in lime lush canopy -

splinters of blue sky

shells 10727

hear ocean floor’s cries

rattling in my crowded palm -

pale handful of shells

dog 10724

evening walk with dog

heralds the end of one day

and the start of next

captivity 10625

slinking off early

last day of term time; monkey

fleas captivity

open window (haiku 10528)

through open window

persistent wasp buzzes in -

ready for the kill