Jellied eels

I took the train to Margate. Well, when I say I took the train to Margate, what actually happened is I took a train to Ashford International, then I took a train to Ramsgate and then I took a train to Margate. A subtle difference and only 2¾ hours in it.

On Saturday D and I walked from the vinegar and chip-scented shores of Margate to the boat-bobbing marina at Ramsgate via Broadstairs. It was an invigorating walk, and my face changed in colour from grey to lobster. At Ramsgate we sat outside a smart café and had a coffee. 'It's a bit cold to be sitting outside' commented the owner as she tidied the tables. 'It's bracing,' said D. 'It's what?' said the owner. 'Bracing!' repeated D. 'I don't know about that' said the owner shrugging and making a face, 'I'm from Germany.'

The day was rounded off with a rummage for rhubarb up the allotment, a fabulous supper (including rhubarb crumble with aforementioned stalks) and a disco daaan Sundowners - sadly I forgot to take my camera. Next time you may not be so lucky.

By the way, the photo is me paddling in the sea and not the overflowing public lav just outside Broadstairs, which incidentally was not a dissimilar experience.

Staring into space

Two more galleries on Wednesday had me travelling from Mile End to Latimer Road and back via Bloomsbury. The incredible backlit vinyl printed works by John Russell in his exhibition called Ocean Pose at Matt's Gallery held me in a trance. There were only four pieces, but they were so captivating I stayed in the gallery so long that the assistant came to check I was OK. Whew! At the other end of town the James Turrell exhibition, A Life In Light, was equally enthralling, particularly when it turned out that the incredible floating, glowing, colour-changing rectangle I had been staring at for twenty minutes was simply a hole in the wall. Imagine my surprise.

The next day - er, Thursday I think - I went to Apsley House at Hyde Park Corner. What a place. I was rather disconcerted by a giant sculpture of a naked Napoleon at the foot of the stairs, and amongst all the opulence (which doesn't float my banana) I came over all unnecessary over an incredible assortment of paintings by Jan Steen, Maes and Pieter de Hooch. After climbing the Wellington Arch, I headed off to college for an evening of song and dance. Not really...more dissertation presentations followed by a heart-starter or seven in the bar of the Tavistock Hotel.

Playing at home

I attended what is known as a ‘post-graduate seminar’ on Monday evening. The talk was called Playing at Home: Installations, Gender and Play in Recent British Art and focussed mainly on artworks to do with the home – Rachel Whitread’s Mile End House for instance, Tracey Emin’s tent and Cornelia Parker’s Exploded Matter. It was all very interesting and a lively debate followed on – as did one or two pints of very fairly priced lager in the ULU bar.

Westminster Abbey is one of those familiar, London-landmark type places that I have no memory of ever having set foot inside – although I’m sure I did when I was knee-high to cement-mixer. So I decided to take myself along. It is fascinating inside, completely full of intriguing obese American tourists and Japanese people digging their zoom lenses into the small of your back…at least I think that’s what it was. Once you’ve seen one old queen’s tomb you’ve seen them all – there’s not a lot to differentiate between them. I was particularly struck by some of the funerary monuments though, especially the one pictured which I have since been informed is by the French sculptor Roubilliac who was influenced by Bernini. There’s this wonderfully spooky skeleton hauling itself up from a dark gateway underneath the tomb and attempting to stab the female figure. Great stuff. The wax and wood funeral effigies in the Undercroft Museum were also morbidly fascinating. I was taken with a rather moth-eaten looking exhibit which my scholarly friend has since informed me is the world's oldest stuffed bird: the Duchess of Richmond. Squawk!

Onwards to Mayfair and galleries galore! I took a look in the Albemarle Gallery to see the paintings of people flinging themselves off London bridges by Stuart Luke Gatherer. Downstairs I found some paintings I loved by Tyson Grumm. Google him – he’s great! I also popped in to see Gary Simmons’ House of Pain at Simon Lee, Marc Vaux’s Colour Edge to Edge: Paintings from the mid ‘60s at the Bernard Jacobson Gallery and Euan Uglow at Browse & Darby. I then walked to Covent Garden to the Photographers’ Gallery to see the exhibition Found, Shared which was intriguing, consisting of dozens of unrelated photos which people had physically found lying on the ground or wherever, and sent in to an art magazine. From there I walked to the British Library and then on to City University for an evening class. Beer in the Red Lion led me seamlessly through to a time when the tubes get flaky.

Putting on the dampers

That was a bit of a wet weekend. Damp mainly. Drizzly. But not to worry, for there is much to do. On Saturday I took the train to Stoneleigh for a tour of J's new estate. Plenty of room for cat swinging, although I didn't indulge on this occasion. We busily constructed a garden bench and table (pictured) whilst dodging the raindrops before wining and dining al fresco and seeing how loud the stereo went. I made it back home in time to catch the Eurovision Song Contest voting - we woz robbed...woz we? Perhaps not, but it has all got a bit predictable.

In between shopping and Jude walking I worried at the edges of my dissertation subject and the rain fell relentlessly. The slugs and snails are having a field day with the smorgasbord of tasty young plants I have put out for them. We watched The Night Listener - the film version of Armistead Maupin's amazing book. It was interesting to see how it had been adapted, but for me it didn't achieve the complexity of emotional empathy which develops between the main characters in the book. But what do I know.

Kirottua minun peruukkini

So yeah, dissertation. Read all about it, oh yey oh yey. Oh no oh no. What on earth possessed me to choose early Georgian interpretations of Covent Garden as a subject? Did somebody slip something into my campari and soda when I wasn't looking? Well, I'm stuck with it now. I spent all morning and afternoon alternating between scratching my head and pulling faces reminiscent of Munch's The Scream (or Skrik as it's known in Norway - and which I prefer). I looked at my essays lying scattered on the floor and thought they fulfill their needs just by being there. Mmm, sorry, just had a Dave moment there.

If anybody reading this happens to have any images of Covent Garden and its inhabitants circa 1700-1760 perhaps they could send them to me. It's a long shot, but you never know. Actually, the tricky bit is coming up with something meaningful to say - I'm not short of material. More of this later.

Jude's afternoon walk got rained off - as we set off through the park I heard one hooded teenage mutter to his friend, 'Who the hell would take their dog for a walk in this weather?' I swiftly turned on my heels and headed back indoors, Jude slightly dampened and smelling distinctively of wet dog. At college I sat through two 'work in progress' presentations and then retired to the spartan yet not unwelcoming bar of the Tavistock Hotel. It was a spontaneous and well-attended happening, and 11 of the clock came around sooner than it should have. I travelled home on the DLR with drunken city boys who slumped in their seats with heads lolling and dribble cascading in perfect arcs momentarily connecting their mouths to their pinstripes. The semi-conscious guy next to me slid further in my direction with each jolt of the train until completing the full 90 degree movement by sliding into my lap, at which point I decided standing was the better option. Smashing.

I particularly enjoyed this today: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EVh15aUt8-c&mode=related&search

Oooh Rrrrrenoir

Here's a picture of my garden. Look at the palm trees sway in the breeze. After a day of frustration at not being able to get the internet to work at home - and resorting to reading dissertation-related topics in library books (I ask you!) - I headed into town to the National Gallery to catch the Renoir exhibition before the doors close for good next Saturday. I hadn't been that bothered about seeing this, and several people I know who are generally of sound mind had told me that they were not particularly impressed. Not impressed by an impressionist? Well, I beg to differ. Expecting a bunch of pretty-pretty-chocolate-boxy offerings, I was pleased to see it was nothing of the sort. The paintings were fantastic. Renoir made most of his money through his work as a portraitist, so he could afford to be experimental with his landscapes, and this comes through. However, it's not until you step back from the paintings and view them from 15-20 feet away that you can appreciate the skill. Top notch. An 8 out of 10 from me.

Afterwards I was dragged kicking and screaming to the watering hole known as the Round Table off Charing Cross Road for a couple of pints of the barman's finest before shuffling off home. I was greeted by Jude who delighted in the fact that in the hour and a half she had been home alone she had succeeded in chewing off the scab on her wound which I had been carefully nurturing and protecting all day. What can you do?

Attempts on her life

Jude went to the vet, and I agreed to go with her. She swayed on her tall, thin legs as the DLR train wobbled and lurched carrying us down through its tunnel beneath the Thames, emerging in the foothills of Greenwich. The vet sucked his teeth as he examined Jude’s wound. The only way he could stitch it, he explained, would be to make the wound larger to form an ellipse thus exposing the subcutaneous layers and providing suitable edges to join together. Even then he would need to fit a ‘drain’ to get rid of the likely discharge. Alternatively, we could let it heal naturally, although this course of non-action would most likely result in a sizeable, fur-free scar. It was a question of aesthetics he said. I checked out his curtains. I tried to explain all this to Jude using words she understood, like ‘biscuit,’ ‘walkies,’ ‘stay’ and ‘epistemological’. She furrowed her brow nervously as she considered the almost inevitable disfiguration of her sleek form resulting from the latter option, compared to the further discomfort, distress and anxiety associated with the former. Using a mixture of winking, blinking, low-growls and paw gestures, she explained that she would prefer to let nature take its course. I translated this for the benefit of the vet who, without another word, got out his electric clippers and proceeded to remove a square of Jude’s fur, leaving the wound exposed and now exaggerated against its nude pink background. The vet asked if I’d like anything else while I was there. ‘How about a Brazilian’ I ventured? Fie my flippancy – how I wished I’d opted for a stiff drink when they presented me with the bill. I’m sure The Priory’s cheaper hour-on-hour. Thank heavens for insurance. And merkins come to that. Come on Jude, let’s get you home. ‘Woof!’

Later on, sitting in the Circle Bar of the Lyttelton at the National Theatre I sucked on a cold bottle of Stella and wondered what the production of Martin Crimp’s Attempts on her Life held in store. As it turned out, we were confronted with nearly two hours of amazing theatre. I’m glad I didn’t have to stand up at the end and explain to everybody what it was all about because I would have floundered appallingly, which would have been a shame because I thought it was bloody marvellous. A tangled cornucopia of live video-feeds and rock music, news, reviews, think-tanks, brainstorming sessions, pop-culture references and about a thousand anxiously smoked cigarettes. And that was just me in the loo beforehand. Boom boom.

Dog’s breakfast

I promised myself a couple of days of non-art-based activity. I developed a cold. I had things I wanted to do. I didn’t do them. I went to the Garden Centre at B&Q in Greenwich. It was a hideous experience. I grew frustrated at my own lack of energy, my lethargy and my unshakeable ennui which hit rock-bottom halfway through watching Lucas and Walliams’ Perfect Night In. It so wasn’t mine. What had happened?

On Monday I woke with start. Jude had been attacked by another dog and H brought her home with a chunk of flesh missing from her flank. It looked awful. Why do things like this have to happen on a Bank Holiday Monday when the nearest emergency vet is in Richmond? That was a rhetorical question – I’m perfectly aware of the random nature of things and the human need to attribute some sort of explicable reason for them in the desperate hope of maintaining a semblance of control. Let’s call it fate then.

After administering to that I rushed to Waterloo to meet dad for the annual geranium handing over ceremony. The annual geranium handing over ceremony is a spectacle which traditionally takes place during the first weekend of May, and is a colourful and exciting occasion involving a selection of standard (red, pink and apple blossom), trailing and ivy-leaf geranium plants being handed over from father to son beneath the famous clock at Waterloo Station. The actual time of the handover tends to occur around 10.40am, but it is advisable to arrive earlier to get a good position.

Back home I planted out my stamp-sized garden, window-boxes, hanging baskets, troughs and pots with all manner of flowering flora. If I’m going to become a full-time freelance gardener, I need a shop window! Gardening is so immensely satisfying. I felt much better, which is more than I can say for Jude who was feeling very sorry for herself as she licked her gruesome wound.

The lovely and the embarrassingly unpleasant

I’ve just been listening to Vanessa Feltz on Radio London banging on about the futility of MySpace, Facebook and blogging in general. She has a point, but who cares? What isn’t futile? Why does everything have to be constructive and admirable? I agree that it is pointless, but it is also cathartic. I don’t know who is reading this. For that matter I’m not certain if or why anybody is reading this. But it’s like the whole 'keeping-a-diary' psychology taken to the next level. People who keep diaries pretend – even to themselves – that they don’t want anybody to read them. I think they secretly do. Blogs are like secret diaries that strangers (and non-strangers) can read without guilt. But it doesn’t matter if they don’t. This reminds me of an opening chapter in a book I wrote once upon a time…but that’s another story. Literally.

Anyoldho, what do you want to cock-a-doodle-dandy-know? Where did I get up to last time? I think I was last heard of partaking of a rather splendid dinner in a posh eatery in Notting Hill. The next day I braved the vagaries of the semi-closed underground system and made my way to Moorgate (via West Ham, Mile End and Liverpool Street for heaven’s sake!) and found the Standpoint Gallery. Last year I took an evening course entitled Photography: The New Art? and the lecturer was an artist called Fiona MacDonald. Her show (in which she collaborates with John Holland) is called Dirty Nature and runs until 19 May. The work consisted of ‘mutating or abused landscapes, echoing current fears concerning the environment, but with a twist of overactive, gothic imagination.’ Sounds good? How about this: ‘Picking their way through the philosophical and aesthetic fracture between nature and our cognitive experience of it, Holland and MacDonald seek some useful interpretive framework, but are repeatedly drawn back to worrying places where the writhing roots of feral leylandii enfold ancient, snail-eaten copies of Readers’ Wives.’ Now if that hasn’t whetted your appetites then nothing will.

Met up with the rest of my City Uni classmates at the White Cube in Hoxton Square where we gazed appreciatively at the work of Jessica Rankin: ‘Appropriating methods traditionally identified with feminine pursuits – embroidery and needlework – Rankin’s work features a series of ‘mental maps’, with codes, signs and symbols that explore ideas of memory, intuition and interpretation.’ Within the words you get snippets of text saying things like: WHENYOUHIDEINTHESHADOWSYOUBECOMEME;IWANTEDTOSCREAMBUTINSTEADDIDSOMEWEIRDSORTOFJIG. Put that through your spell-check and…er…smoke it.

We hopped on a bus which took us eastward along the Hackney Road, passing my erstwhile address on Goldsmiths Row, and jumped off onto Cambridge Heath Road. Our tutor pressed the buzzer on the unmarked door of what appeared to be a boarded-up shop, and we were unceremoniously ushered inside. Extraordinary – it was a gallery. The Wilkinson Gallery to be precise, and the show was called (rather marvellously) The Folly of the Mysticals by Jacob Dahl Jürgensen. This is a bit from the blurb – it’s wonderful: ‘Jürgesen’s work is informed by a blurred recollection of the histories of Modernist art and design; the social and spiritual ideologies and aesthetics underpinning much of the creative output of the avant-garde but seen through the distorting prism of contemporary culture.’ You can’t top it! It goes on: ‘As an archaeologist trying to read an arcane civilisation through a pile of potsherds, Jürgesen picks through the flotsam of the 20th century, reconstructing and interpreting the half-recognisable fragments. Projecting ritualistic implications on familiar anecdotes of cultural movements, the work locates points of intersection in communities formed through shared belief systems, yet renders the activities of these communities obscure.’ I don’t even need to tell you what we saw…but I quite liked it. Do you think I could write a review for a contemporary art mag, where I say things like: ‘Yeah, I quite liked it, but I’m not sure why.’ I think it would be refreshing in its unflinching rebuttal of mendacity.

Onwards friends, to the Cell Project Space where we saw work by Nick Laessing (‘The place of the material world in the universe is that of an exquisitely beautiful precipitate or varied cloud-work in the universal aether’) and Althanasios Argianas (‘Draw a Circle and Follow It’ series). This was totally lost on me, or I on it – I’m not sure which.

On Vyner Street we called in at Modern Art (Jacqueline Humphries’ paintings ‘create a complex visual conflict between the open-ended proposition of lyrical abstraction, with the seemingly violent interference of spatial geometry contradicting the more epic gestures of her paintings’ – pure gold!). Next stop was the Kate MacGarry gallery where we saw Luke Gottelier’s Dart Paintings which, we were told: ‘explore the themes of Victoriana, pub culture, James Ensor, Aubrey Beardsley and the grotesque’. Are you still with me? At Vinespace we saw ‘…light reflecting booster technology’ by Simon Morse and Kevin Wright (this was excellent), at One in the Other we saw Satoru Aoyama’s Good Aliens (‘poses an interesting discussion on the traditional distinction between craftwork and the boundaries of masculinity’), at Ibid Projects we gazed uncomprehendingly but admiringly at Guillermo Caivana’s Ekagrata and in a gallery carpeted with turf we were baffled by 900 Calories and finally, we emerged blinking in the daylight from FRED where we oohed and ahhed over Dolly Thompsett’s beautiful maritime-themed paintings, featuring glitter.

I jumped on a bus and journeyed home with the hackneyed shoppers from Hackney. After quickly whizzing Jude around the farm, I was back on public transport and making my way to Wilton’s Music Hall (near Shadwell) to see the one and only Marc Almond in concert for the first time since his near-fatal motorbike accident in 2004. What can I say? What class! What showmanship? What a blindingly brilliant, talented and charismatic fellow our Marc is. 50 years old, and doesn’t look a day over 25 – although he confessed to a certain amount of, er…tightening. By the end the entire audience was on its feet, swaying along to the strains of Saint Judy and Mother Fist. I was transported back in time to another place. Shivers ran up and down my spine and a tears welled in my eyes…I was back in 1986. Sing-along if you know the words, here we go:

When I’m downtown in Barcelona
When I’m pissed or when I’m pissed off
Mother Fist
Just gives me her tender kiss
And some of her sexy stuff
And I lock my door from the inside
Turn my mind to sweet sweet pain
And I wail just like Yma Sumac
Mother Fist she never complains

Mother Fist
Never gets angry
Mother Fist
She never gets bored
I don’t have to feed her
I just have to need her
She cries give me the word

Monumental

To the Bloomberg SPACE and an exhibition called Prison. Believe it or not, and remember - nobody's forcing you to - this was an exhibition about prison. Now when I say prison, I mean prisoners, the architecture, the reality, the concept and society's relationship to it. OK, so I'm paraphrasing the booklet. It was...interesting.

Off then to St Paul's where the plan was to climb to the top - something I haven't done since my brownie days (shortly before my greenie days) but the plan was half-baked. St Paul's was closed for a private ceremony. So, desiring and alternative landmark to climb, the Monument beckoned. I got a certificate. I'm very proud.

This was followed with a wander round the Science Museum (where machines morphed photos of your face adding the traits of the opposite sex - I ended up looking like someone's maiden aunt with five o'clock shadow) and the V&A - but the cast-courts were closed which was disappointing. The evening was spent in the Notting Hill Brasserie - in, er, Notting Hill. Lovely duck, and I love a duck.

Work in progress? Er...

A bit of history just so I could use this photo: On Tuesday I took myself off to Buckingham Palace to meet mum and dad (who live there) and see the Queen's collection of Italian Art, currently on display in the Queen's Gallery. A splendid show, but how come Liz has got all this amazing stuff hidden away when it's meant to belong to the nation...and when it is brought out we have to queue up and pay for the privilege of looking at it. It makes me come over all anti-establishment. Well I never. For all that (and the ghastly staff who appear to have been recruited from a particularly stuffy branch of the WI and treat you which such haughty condescension...) it's well worth seeing, even if just for the Caravaggio's - or indeed the Michelangelo drawings. Afterwards, we flopped on the grass in St James' Park and had a bit of a picnic. It was very un-anti-establishment. Mmm - rum and raisin ice-cream.

I took my leave and headed off to the National Portrait Gallery to seek inspiration amongst the members of the Kit-cat Club. It's all so eighteenth century. As is my dissertation, which brings me seamlessly to today. I spent all morning busily downloading and scanning images for my presentation, or 'Work In Progress' seminar. I then dashed off to Birkbeck to put together a Powerpoint presentation. It was all a bit strange. I had to tell people what I had been doing, and what I intended to do for my dissertation, the title of which (Interpretations of Modern Urban Life in and around Covent Garden during the Early Georgian Period) is already giving me the heebee-jeebees. If anybody happens to have an images of Covent Garden and its inhabitants from circa 1700-1750, then be a love and share! Well, my presentation was met with a stunned silence. They were either impressed or bored shitless. You decide! I went to the student union bar and drank very cheap Kronenberg to make the memory go away. Unbelievably it worked.

The Spiderwoman

Aw look. It's Jude. Yes indeed. After I last posted an entry here, I bounded off to Greenwich with Jude (well, she kind of led the way and I trailed behind) and we spent a pleasant afternoon tracking bush-tucker amongst the horse-chestnut trees. I've now got enough squirrels in the freezer for a casserole. Delicious.

A quick change out of my hunting clothes and I was back in the West End for a brimful-pot of mussels at Belgo, a couple of Belguim beers and a crisp bottle of white and tickets for Kiss of the Spiderwoman at the Donmar Warehouse no less. I saw the musical version back in the early nineties, but no songs tonight. This was a production of the play. Not a lot of laughs (intended), and one of the characters was a cross between John Malkovich and Julian Clary (not-intended), but quite moving for all that.

One other thing - selling cheap processed cheddar in a French market? I'm am of course refering to The Apprentice. How stoopid exactly do you have to be to get on that program? Great telly though.

I'm a blue lily of the valley emerald rooster, so there

I've always said I'd be back just as soon as I had a spare five minutes. OK, so it's been three months. Have you missed me? Your silence speaks volumes.

Can I just say 38 and leave it there please? No, over there. Right over there. Back a bit. Back a bit. I thank you.

Well, how can I make up for my absence? Here's a list of things I've done since the last entry:

Ready? A-her-her-her-hem (and other throat clearing noises).

Went to a drawing class at the John Soane’s and British Museums, tried to draw some Chola bronzes (failed – decided to give up drawing), went to see the swan song of the magnificent Modchik at the Hope & Anchor in Islington (to see John singing his goodbyes to London use this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=klwcQCZQLeE), wrote an essay on Caravaggio’s Religious Art and the Counter-Reformation, got enlightened about the Enlightenment at the British Museum, went to a lecture on conversation pieces at the National Portrait Gallery, went back to see Frith at the Guildhall, saw Spamalot, went to see Canaletto at Dulwich, saw Dreamgirls, saw Notes on a Scandal, saw The Glass Menagerie, saw Hogarth at Tate Britain five times (oh brother!), went to a study day on Frith at the Guildhall, went to see the Victorian art at the Royal Holloway College, caught a cold, went to various lectures on Hogarth at Tate Britain, saw The History Boys (what on earth is the fuss about?), presented a seminar on fifteenth century martyrdom-cycles, went to a dinner party in Hitchin, saw the Gilbert & George exhibition at Tate Modern - er, twice, saw Rufus Wainwright’s Judy Garland concert at the Palladium (fan-bloody-tabulous), went to the Art Today exhibition in Greenwich, saw The Seagull at the Royal Court and travelled home on the tube with Kiera Knightley (that’s true), went to Paris and visited Musées d'Orangerie, Louvre, d'Orsay, plus the Pompidou centre and Dali and Picasso exhibitions, climbed the Eiffel Tower and went to Père Lachaise (and met Stig of the Dump) in between various memorable lunches and dinners, saw the Samuel Collection at Mansion House, saw Harry Potter wave his funny little wand around in Equus, saw Monet at the Royal Academy, saw Tennessee William’s newly discovered plays in Lovely and Misfit at the Trafalgar Studios, saw David Lynch’s three-hour marathon Inland Empire and nearly burst my bladder, flew to Pisa and spent a week in Florence and, amongst other things involving vast quantities of Chianti, went up and down the Duomo and Campanile as well as going in and out of the Uffizi, Palazzo Pitti, Boboli, Bargello, oh and a daytrip to Lucca, wrote a monster of a research project called Investigating Public Spectatorship via Technology and Materiality, saw The Rose Tattoo at the National, saw Surreal Things followed by a lecture by Ralph Steadman at the V&A, saw Kylie: The Exhibition at the V&A, saw The Caretaker at the Tricycle Theatre, saw Total Eclipse at the Menier Chocolate Factory, saw The Taming of the Shrew at Wilton’s Music Hall, had an evening of Victoriana in Fulham, started earning my living by doing some gardening (let me know if you need your bush trimmed), went to see The Art of Italy at Buck Pal, oh, and started evening classes at City University: Art in London Now. Plus college and greyhound walking of course.

I expect you wish you hadn’t asked now. What do you mean you didn't?

Here are some pictures. I can't seem to master captions on here, so you decide!