yarnstorm

postcard from the edge

It's funny how an image can stay with you for life. This painting by Harold Gilman has been part of my personal visual library for a long, long time. So clear are its details and associations, I can go for years without seeing it but when I do it suddenly brings home all kinds of memories.

I first saw 'The Eating House' (c. 1914) soon after I arrived at Sheffield University to train as a teacher of Russian and French after my degree. I lived in a tiny room in a tiny terraced house very close to where the Yorkshire Ripper had recently been caught (which somehow put us off late nights out). I spent most of the year avoiding doing lesson-plans by listening to the radio and knitting a cabled pink mohair Patricia Roberts sweater which I subsequently never wore. When I did go out, it was often to the virtually empty Graves Art Gallery to see the wonderful collection of paintings there. And this is where I bought the postcard which occupied pride of place on my pin-board.

In between knitting and feeling very sorry for myself, I spent hours looking at this painting. I remember wishing myself into the scene so many times that I was almost convinced that it must exist somewhere in a city like Manchester or London. I loved the colours, the view-point, the anonymity, the promise of something filling to eat like pie and chips or liver and mash served with cups of steaming tea. I always felt this must be a warm place to sit and read a newspaper - something I needed to combat the freezing Yorkshire winter outside (and inside).

It was a horrible year. I was cold, heartbroken, lost, lonely and most definitely not cut out to be a teacher. But I stuck it out and used the university 'milk round' to get a job which didn't involve caring about school uniform and staff rooms. And then I tucked the whole experience away in a mental box, and got on with the rest of my life.

So today when I saw the painting once again at the excellent Tate exhibition of the Camden Town Painters, it was like being back in that student room, dreaming of a place where I would be comfortable. It's much bigger than I remembered, and the colours are still quite brilliant and unfaded. It still makes me want to abscond immediately to a place like The Quality Chop House (which I disovered with Simon, and is the closest I have come to finding Gilman's eating house) to enjoy some black pudding or devilled kidneys.

I was almost surprised that no-one else seemed to be having the same reaction as me. Surely everyone must know how wonderful this painting is? Because even though it's something of a personal Pandora's box, it also gave me the one thing I needed more than anything - the hope that things would get better. And they did.

The postcard is up on my wall where I can see it in my office (which is uncannily similar in colour) and all the bad memories are back in their metaphorical box. Where they belong.                            

grey

'Horsechestnut Buds and Winter Flowering Jasmine' (c 1935) Winifred Nicholson 

We are enveloped in grey. Grey skies, grey light, grey trees, grey moods. This morning I thought I couldn't stand much more greyness. And yet when I looked up just now, I saw that the sun was shining. Then I thought of this lovely painting and remembered that grey is also beautiful and calm, and just as varied as any other colour. But, it has to be said, it does look better with a splash of yellow.

saying it out loud

My English teacher used to say to us, 'You don't know what you are thinking until you can say it'. Now, as someone who has a running (but silent) conversation with herself all the time, I was never too convinced. When I was at school it felt like my stream of consciousness was pretty clear and articulate to me. But I've since had reason to think she was right - and once again her theory came up trumps when I was talking to Simon and Phoebe about my visit to the Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery in Glasgow (above, with an afternoon sky full of snow).

The Kelvingrove has undergone a huge refurbishment since my last visit. Its wonderful, eclectic collection was displayed in a quite haphazard way, but as the rooms are large it was possible to wander round easily, get close up, stand back, enjoy the various collections, and make up your own mind.

Now, though, it's all been re-jigged and re-hung and as I looked around I could feel myself getting more and more infuriated with the hotchpotch approach, nearly backing into screens as I tried to get a better view of a painting, finding a Picasso and a Dufy at what felt like knee-height and behind a childrens' interactive game table, reading fatuous captions, being invited to type words into a thought-bubble superimposed on a classic Victorian painting on a computer screen, coming across the imposing portrait of Vita Sackville-West by William Strang in a corner as part of some simplistic compare and contrast themed room, discovering that the Scottish Colourists have been split into two sections when they used to all fill one gallery with brilliance and beauty, and fuming at signs such as 'where's it gone?'

I've read the museum's own explanation of the reorganisation and it's revealing that the target age group which stands out is 5-14 and, goodness me, it really feels like they are communicating with the lower end of that group. I know from taking Alice (14) to Tate Modern last week that she can cope with polysyllabic words and a little specialist art vocabulary and a smattering of pretension - and that she would feel patronised by captions such as this next to a stunning still life by Georges Braque: 'If GB was struggling with a complex painting, he would often paint still lifes to clear his mind. The bowl of fruit in his studio also provided a handy snack!'

It says a great deal that the museum had to bring in an external consultant to teach the gallery employees how to write simple, banal copy. I am shocked. In fact, I was so shocked that when I came home I suddenly started telling Simon and Phoebe the reasons why I didn't like what has been done at the Kelvingrove. And as I talked I realised I was putting into words all the inarticulate thoughts that has been swirling around in my brain during and since the visit. And by the end of my explanation I knew exactly what I was thinking. Miss Thomas was right. Again. (Even though she never let us discuss the sex scenes in The Rainbow by DH Lawrence.)

glasgow hide-away

I know Glasgow wouldn't necessarily be on the top of everyone's list of places to hide away and write for a few days. I'm sure others would prefer something a little warmer/prettier or more rural/isolated/unpopulated, but I love coming to places like this to work. I can't imagine being shut up in a quiet place and trying to ransack my imagination when there is nothing to contrast externally with what's going on internally in my mind. Even though I don't get out much when I'm working, I do like to know that there is something happening nearby, as a sort of counterbalance to all the activity in my brain.

I also happen to love Glasgow, with its incredibly confident architecture and characterful streets. I'm most definitely not here to shop or eat out, but I'm here for the buildings. Even though it's very cold and windy, a long walk round the West End of Glasgow is quite a treat and a great antidote to sitting in my room sorting out recipes and book references and wondering how best to pickle limes (as in Little Women). I must have found dozens and dozens of beautiful houses I'd be happy to live in - solid, plush, beautifully designed and proportioned Victorian and Edwardian houses and terraces built in smooth red or pale sandstone, with fabulous wrought-iron fences and gates and stair-rails and all kinds of lovely details, but never showy or over-the-top. And never have I seen such an amazing collection of stained-glass windows in domestic buildings, especially in the big doorways and porches.

It's so easy to start wondering about the people who live or have lived in these houses, some of which reveal a commitment to never knowingly underfurnishing a room (I've also never seen so many paintings/pot plants/massive mirrors/lampshades/pianos as those glimpsed through the windows). In fact, I wanted so much to find out more about West End domestic life, I realised that if I couldn't find a book to satisfy my curiosity, then I would just have to imagine it. And that, I suppose, is how writers of fiction come to their subjects?

But then I came back to my room and returned to a different world. Tomorrow I get time off for good behaviour before going home, and am looking forward to going to the Kelvingrove Art Gallery & Museum (itself an amazing building) to revisit the wonderful paintings by the Scottish Colourists such as the one below. And to imagine yet another world of high-ceilinged interiors, elegant women, orange and pink roses and silver tea services...

FCB Cadell 'The Orange Blind' c1927

tea time

Before I sat down to write this post, I had to make myself a nice cup of tea.

So here I am, with my favourite Yorkshire Gold tea from Taylor's, thinking about tea. Not quite as serene and minimalist as Chardin's Lady Taking Tea (1735), but just as content to stir my tea and watch the wisps of steam curling out and above my cup. And noticing that fat brown tea pots haven't changed much in nearly 300 years.

 

Then again, taking tea is a timeless pleasure and one which punctuates every single day of my life. Even though tea is a constant, tea time and tea cups have been on my mind since several people asked where I found the lovely tea cup fabric. It's by Yuwa and I bought it from Purl Patchwork in New York (see here). I fell for it because I like the way the tea & coffee cup design captures the delicacy and elegance of the cup shapes - rather like a set of designs for Wedgwood bone china cups or Herend porcelain.

I bought it in two colourways. The pale latte one above suits a self-contained, elegant but homely, quiet French tea moment like the one in the Chardin painting. 

And the red would match this wonderfully indulgent, baroque tea and samovar and cakes and fruit and cat tea time occasion. This is 'The Merchant's Wife at Tea' (1918) by Boris Mihajlovic Kustodiev - a riot of colours, vistas and enjoyment.

 

After looking at this, I realised that the only thing missing from my tea moment was something to eat. So I made a trayful of Melting Moments with dark chocolate chips.

Tea and biscuits. Lovely.

                                 ***

Re my last post - the painting on the cover of Dombey and Son is 'A Portrait of Henry Thomas Lambert' (1858) by George Townsend Cole.

amaryllis

Amaryllis bulbs make me laugh. They are just so huge and self-sufficient. As soon as you bring them indoors and open the bag, it's bang! and they are off and racing to be the first to produce a massive flower.

I usually buy several bulbs around this time of year. I don't go mad because I haven't got enough suitable containers and, anyway, a single successful bulb can provide quite enough entertainment and decoration for one room. I can never remember what I grew last year, so I choose something which sounds good. This year it's 'Benfica' which is apparently a deep cranberry red; that's what the top bulb is - already putting out two flower shoots and it hasn't even seen compost and water.

I also love some of the more exotic colour combinations and I'm trying out a Charisma (above, 'blush white and paprika red' according to the bag label) and a Prelude ('blood red and creamy white') and am now wondering just how many different ways of describing 'red' the bulb merchants have at their disposal... These two haven't yet started pushing out their mammoth stems because they have only just come in from the cold. But it won't be long, I know.

I like the sound of 'amaryllis' and still use this name rather than the more correct term hippeastrum. How could I resist anything which comes in amongst Amalthea, Amarantha, Ambrosine, Amethyst and Aminta in lists of Greek names for girls? Ian Fleming, the creator of James Bond and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, had a half-sister called Amaryllis who was a well-known cello player (it's the perfect name for a cellist, don't you think?) and the Bloomsbury couple David Garnett and Angelica Bell named one of their daughters Amaryllis.

A pot or two of rich red amaryllis will make a lovey background to my winter crochet, even if I don't wear a hat when hooking like Jeannette Rubenson in this 1883 painting by Ernst Josephson. (And I can't imagine how her yarn doesn't get tangled in all those rings on her fingers.)

So now I'm going to pot my amaryllis and shout ready, steady, go!   

touchableness

When I was checking to see whether there is such a word as 'touchability', I discovered the far superior 'touchableness'. Despite being a syllable shorter, it is actually far longer sounding and more onomatopoeic, and suggests the wonderful quality that some textiles possess - that of crying out to be touched.

Cables are the epitome of touchableness. I have knitted many cables over the years, simple and complex, but I have never created one which has not made me want to run my finger over it and trace its snaking progress as it plays hide-and-seek, disappears, reappears and follows its own personal path to the end. Cables remind me of plaited bread and pretty pastry decorations, and traditional cream-coloured Arans are like those amazing harvest festival breads, only slightly undercooked. I'm knitting something with a very simple cable pattern as a present (above) and its softness and sinuousness mean that I have to stop frequently in order to touch its wonderful twists and turns.

I was thinking about touchableness yesterday when I made a quick visit to the Millais exhibition at Tate Britain. I don't need to be convinced that Millais was brilliant - I've liked his paintings for years - and I dropped in to see what was there so I know what to expect when I go back for a 'stand and stare' visit.

 

Even though some of my favourites aren't there, this one is. It's 'The Black Brunswicker' (1860) and, despite my limited time yesterday, I was entranced once again by Millais' ability to depict texture, and I had to restrain myself from touching this pale, silver-grey satin dress. I'd seen it before in the Lady Lever Art Gallery in Port Sunlight but I don't think I could ever tire of looking at it.

I sometimes think I could quite happily have been a Victorian; I share their taste for Millais and wordplay. I only just managed to resist calling this post 'touchcableness'.

weather-talk

 

We have so much to say at the moment. It's said that the English like to talk about the weather, so there's currently no shortage of subject-matter for polite conversation. The rain, more rain, and yet more rain, plus the winds, and low temperatures made June far from flaming, and July is no better. All of which is making us quite garrulous. 

It means we haven't been able to sit out in the garden since April, or even do any gardening. So when I had a look around yesterday (in the rain) I was taken aback by the verdant growth - and shocked that so much of it is lush, healthy, happy and rampant weeds. Still, the light is pretty dramatic for taking close-ups of the flowers which manage to rise above the uninvited guests.

I was thinking about Englishness and reticence, and the way we talk about the weather in order to avoid more troublesome subjects, as I went round the How We Are exhibition at Tate Britain earlier in the day. This is the most wonderful collection of photographs of England and Englishness from the 1840s to the present. It demonstrated that there is no single way to define Englishness, but there were certain attributes which connected the 600 photos. Mild eccentricity, a touch of earnestness mixed with self-deprecation (in case we try too hard), visible pride in gardens, landscapes, flowers and traditions, a very clear valuing of the ordinary and, as a result, some unexpected beauty in everyday people and places. There's also an undercurrent of gentle good humour without irony which makes you look at photos of Butlin's holiday camps and 1960s beauty contests in a new light.

I thought maybe Robert Frost wasn't the right poet to be reading in this climate of thought, but then realised that he's almost an honorary Englishmen because so many of his poems feature rain, snow, sun, nature, woods, walls and paths. He has the knack of saying so much when apparently simply writing about the weather or ordinary things that it's almost possible to think that really these are all there is to his work. And then you remember that there's a lot more to weather-talk than clouds and rain and even the occasional ray of sunshine.   

pineapple passion

One of the best presents I ever received was a pineapple in a paper bag - given to me at a time when a pineapple was way beyond my student means. I remember being so thrilled when I took the fruit out of the bag and realised the act of generosity it constituted. I displayed that pineapple until I could bear its juicy temptations no longer, and it was the most delicious piece of fruit ever. And very romantic.

I was reminded of this personal passion fruit when I was in a very chic grocery with Alice recently. She went into raptures when she spotted a whole candied (or glace) pineapple - leaves and all. I couldn't not buy it for her as my own act of pineapple generosity and, besides, it is quite bewitching to look at. Plus it lasts longer than fresh ones which are out of season at the moment.

It's amazing what a single fruit can inspire. The pineapple has wonderful sculptural qualities, brilliant colours, an amazing texture and a bold surface pattern. These translate into an inspirational natural object which can be turned into all sorts of forms. It's no surprise that Matisse painted a pineapple; I like the idea that behind the hard, prickly exterior lies an exotic, intense interior - something like Matisse himself, if Hilary Spurling's book is anything to go by.   

Pineapple and Anemones Henri Matisse (1940)

One of my favourite pieces in the Manchester City Art Gallery is the HUGE ceramic Queen Pineapple by Kate Malone. This has to be seen to be believed. 

   

I am also very taken with the idea of a pineapple teapot, like this Staffordshire Creamware example which was made around 1760 (and probably costs more than all the tea in China). It would take an exceptionally generous wooer to buy this.

   

But I find myself inspired on a more domestic level. If I can't have the teapot, I could at least have a pineapple teacosy and my thoughts are turning to a kitsch, bright, beaded version with a burlesque topping of pointy leaves that Carmen Miranda might favour. I could pour tea from it to accompany a retro Upside Down Pineapple Cake complete with garish red cherries.

Or a fruity quilt? I bought the pineapple fabric (above) from equilter because I liked the graphic quality and the spaces, but I'm not so keen on all the overblown, hot-house prints that pineapples inspire. I'm thinking of a fruit theme rather than a Pineapple quilt (a complex-looking and sounding version of the Log Cabin pattern - Patricia Cox's book has some lovely examples), but I do admire the way the lines and fabrics cleverly form a spiky pineapple motif.

And who knew that there is practically a whole industry devoted to pineapple crochet? There are some really intricately beautiful pineapple designs (as opposed to pineapple stitch) and I just wish I had a grandmother willing and able to make me a few of these. Alternatively, should I have a few months to spare, I could always knit a pineapple afghan.

But, before I get carried away with pineapple possibilities, I must read The Pineapple: King of Fruits by Fran Beauman which sounds just...delicious.

english drawing room cushion

The title gives it all away. Because if I really did have a drawing room, I would call it a 'drawin' rum', the way people who do have them pronounce it. But I have a yellow lounge and that will do just fine.

This Jelly Bean cushion came about because ages ago I saw some magazine photographs which lodged in my brain. They were taken in Raffaella (Hens Dancing) Barker's old house. I'm not quite sure which 'rum' it was, but one of them had wonderful golden-yellow walls and magnificent curtains in deep gold with huge purple and plum flowers. It seemed such an assured, sophisticated, and yet unusual combination, I thought.

Summer in Cumberland James Durden (1925)

And then, a while later, I discovered this beautiful painting in the Manchester City Art Gallery and realised that yellow and purple drawing rooms might actually be known to more people than I'd realised, and that it was only because I don't move in country house circles that I'd never encountered them. Then, just the other week, when I'd already started the cushion, I saw this old favourite in the Tate and recognised this great English colour marriage once again.

Iris Seedlings Sir Cedric Morris (1943)

I collected the angora yarns in Paris (Anny Blatt) and New York (Lorna's Laces, Joseph Galler Belangor) without a preconcieved plan - much as I always do with the Jelly Bean cushions. When I recalled this lovely mix of colours, I could see I had enough plums, lilacs and purples, and that I just needed the gold for the background. This took 4 balls of Jaeger Baby Merino DK yarn.

The pattern is from Home by Debbie Bliss, adapted at the back, and knitted on 4mm needles. The 1950s buttons are from The Button Queen on Marylebone Lane in London, where I half expected to be served by a fabulously camp button-encrusted vision, but in fact the reality was much more prosaic and the man who works there is bespectacled, unadorned, but knows his buttons.

Anyway, back to the English Drawing Room. I was thrilled to find a delightful description of a spare bedroom in Someone at a Distance by Dorothy Whipple. She writes that when you entered the room, 'fresh with Chinese yellow chintzes, you were almost startled by the blaze of yellow light flung up by the forsythia bush in bloom below'. I think my cushion would have looked just right in here and it would have brought indoors the colours of the 'primulas and hyacinths and violets' which can be seen from the window.

A yellow theme runs throughout this novel and is the colour of matrimony, as one character points out (indeed, the spare room is where the fateful action takes place). Now this colour association was new to me, but I am making sure the cushion stays where both Simon and I can see it, in all its fluffiness, right here on our settee.

Or should that be 'sofa'?

Thanks for all your kind birthday wishes. Champagne will be drunk very soon, I assure you.