The highs and lows of April 2015 – Durand-Ruel and The Impressionists, Eric Ravilious, ‘Woman in Gold’, books and Springtime being the ‘highs’ …

April was packed full of highs and lows – all squashed up together –  just like no buses followed by three,  racing each other round the corner.  At times, I found myself taking on the air of a bull with its head down, deeply frustrated and ready to charge.  But, all in all, it was just the fact of being worn down gradually by a constant run of irritating and repetitive trivial events bunching up and knocking into one another with dreary repetition – not major disasters.  I shouldn’t complain – the highs cancelled out the lows – sort of.  I use too much energy in just feeling furious at being powerless.  First off … I got a monstrous coldy virus  –  I very rarely get lurgies so couldn’t quite believe it … especially since I went to the trouble of  getting a ‘super’ ‘flu jab that was meant to head off most gremlins. I was definitely ‘ill’ –  deeply ‘malade’.

Celandines on Barnes Common

Celandines on Barnes Common

Blue butterfly on Barnes Common

Blue butterfly on Barnes Common

The car needed its MOT  –  the same cheerful man as last year came to collect it after I’d divested the boot of a great deal of ‘stuff’ –  piled up wellingtons and tennis balls, warning triangles and tartan travel rugs (still with my school nametape attached), ice scrapers, rusty spanners, replacement headlight bulbs (for the car before this one), plastic bottles, a first aid kit , an ancient frisbee, a battered cricket bat and Bamber Gascoigne’s quiz book.  This last made me happy, as I thought of Ted Loveday, who shone rather gloriously just recently on TV to win the final of University Challenge for his team at Gonville & Caius College, Cambridge.  He comes from Hammersmith – a five minute bus ride from me, so I was basking in reflected glory.  He was also very likeable and a tad eccentric and will go on to be a brilliant lawyer, I hope.

Nose is dripping constantly, like a leaky tap, but heavily armed with comforting pocket handkerchiefs  I made a necessary visit to the bank.  It was worth the hassle –  came home and made myself lemon, honey and ginger drink with a slug of whisky and took to my bed.

Car has sadly not passed its MOT and needs new headlights at huge expense.  There are also other improvements to be made.  I tell the mechanic to go ahead.  Sink into many pillows thinking that car expenses could be better spent on a week by the shores of an Italian lake.  Ah well ….. must resign myself to the fact that I am not Mrs. George Clooney.

Beginnings of Spring

Passing by a front garden in Elm Grove Road

Next day, in which John disappeared to Dubai, I stayed in bed, reading  ‘The Black Eyed Blonde’ by Benjamin Black (aka John Banville), inbetween periods of being dead to the world.  Felt I was buried in soft cotton wool or in the centre of a cumulous cloud  –  rather warm and blissful but suffocating at the same time.  Nobody called all day, I didn’t have any dealings with the computer and before long night had returned.  I made myself have a hot bath, inhaled with a bowl of steaming ‘Vick’ in the kitchen, which brought back memories of childhood and consigned myself once more to the river of Lethe.

Awoke to find the boiler literally ‘on the blink’, so very little hot water.  Its blue light is flicking on and off in a malevolent fashion – hypnotic –  like a snake.  It’s still under guarantee. Somebody does arrive within hours to put it through its paces.  The man who tests the house alarm arrives at the same time, despite saying he would come in the afternoon.  Noises off,  while I run up and down stairs, answering questions about timers and thermostats, as the two men investigate multiple problems. We are all in danger of becoming deaf from massive alarm testing on our ears! I am constantly sneezing.

Next morning boiler has reverted again to breakdown state and another man arrives to check things out.  He does show me how to reset it and this works.  But it’s not acceptable for me to do the work of the timer.  The  ‘refusenik’ par excellence sulks  –  however,  I can now force it to do what I want.  But that’s not good enough!

Flowers from Rosy

Flowers from Rosy

The grim virus is being slowly vanquished and next day brings three musketeers. The boiler engineer, somebody to sort out my computer problems and the arrival of a new washing machine. My old one was fourteen years old and gave up the ghost, howling out in ‘spin’ mode like a banshee.

Firstly, success still eludes us on the boiler front.  My ‘help’ lesson with the computer was at 4pm for one hour.  The washing machine was scheduled to arrive between 2pm and 9pm.  It arrived at 4pm, just as I’d opened the door to Mr. Computer Whizz.  BOF!!

Mr. Computer was kind and intelligent but not whizz enough to solve the problem. This wasn’t helped by me having to break off –  running up and down stairs, scrubbing the spider infested floor under the old washing machine until it sparkled and was ready for the new one.  It’s a pity I’m so good at cleaning floors (compliment from the washing machine installers!)  and not a technical genius.  I expect it won’t be long before the computer is top dog and we are all its slaves. Had no money to pay IT chap, so will have to drop it into his office next week, even though he hasn’t sorted things out.  Frustrata is my middle name. The men have all now disappeared.

This is how I feel - even fish get unhappy!

This is how I feel – even fish get unhappy!

Utterly exhausted, I take to my bed with a cup of hot tea and a rather louche and seedy but irresistible Philip Marlowe. He is ‘cool’ and my equilibrium is finally restored.  A computer could never learn to write like this because it doesn’t understand the human spirit.

‘It was one of those Tuesday afternoons  in summer when you wonder if the earth has stopped revolving.  The telephone on my desk had the air of something that knows it’s being watched’.  Later on Marlowe describes  how the nasal whine of the telephone operator made it seem as if he had a wasp trapped in his ear.  Yes, I’d seemingly spent days ‘on hold’,  unrevolving and unresolved – waiting in limbo for people to turn up and mend or deliver things.  ‘They also serve who only stand and wait’ – that’s me, but I wish it wasn’t!  Thank you, Milton, for noticing! (‘On His Blindness’ by John Milton, died 1674).

Later, after the house was blissfully empty and silent, I tiptoed downstairs to get introduced to my new aide.  The washing machine instructed me to have a clear ‘clothes barred’ run through before it started its new life.  I managed this successfully and went back to bed. Tomorrow I’m going to meet my cousin, Isobel, at Dulwich Picture Gallery to see the Eric Ravilious exhibition.  This is something I’m looking forward to!

London Bridge station is apparently still ‘up the creek’ and not returning to normal any time soon.  Isobel  had suggested I take the bus.  I should have taken the overland train to Vauxhall and picked up the 176 bus all the way to Dulwich.  Somehow, I found myself on the 12 going all the way to Dulwich Library,  settled in with my book for the duration (‘London Under’ by Peter Ackroyd), which is utterly fascinating.  Spring Gardens, Well Walk, Stockwell, Shadwell, Clerkenwell, Camberwell.  As the author says, ‘It would be weary work to enumerate all the buried wells of London.  It is enough to know that they all existed’.

At Camberwell I was reminded of a butterfly with the same name – ‘Camberwell Beauty’.  It is the colour of dark chocolate with a lacy cream coloured edging and small luminous blue spots inbetween, marking out the wing shapes. Did not see this or any butterfly in Camberwell but did watch a programme on the history of Camberwell Grove that night on TV, which was an eye-opening tale of rags to riches repeating itself.

Ploughing onwards in heavy traffic through the maze of winding streets, which is Peckham, I was beginning to feel slightly disorientated.  Lots of fruit and vegetable shops passed by, jostling each other for attention, containing many things I didn’t know the names of.  A smell of highly scented soap invaded the bus from time to time.  Better that than the smell of drains.  The innards of Peckham were finally reconnoitred and soon we were bowling out along Peckham Rye into bright sunlight, with a large green space on one side and a heartening signpost to East Dulwich in view.

At the terminus, Dulwich Library, I was the only person left on the bus.  I’m pretty good at mixing up North and South, left and right and was soon surrounded by three lovely ladies with good intentions, pointing out the way.  Two young men outside a pub helped me further on and I finally arrived at Isobel’s, only ten minutes late.  In retrospect, I should really have picked up that 176 bus at Vauxhall (which starts off at Tottenham Court Road) and stops a few minutes from her front door.  But I enjoyed my journey and people were so helpful when I got a bit lost, which restored my liking of the human race. This had been at a critically low ebb for some days now as I padded about like the minotaur in its lair with sinister intent.

Dulwich is awash with green sward, elegant lawns rolling forth in front of  enormous and beautiful architectural buildings of great note and private Georgian houses, of which I am envious.  The gallery and its sculpture gardens are well worth a visit even if just for the permanent collection.

Inside, the answer to the competition to guess which painting in the gallery was a fake had just been unveiled  –  so I missed having a guess.  In fact, only 300 people out of 13,000 had guessed correctly.  The two paintings (portraits) were now hanging side by side and looked very different. A Chinese company that specialised in commercial art had made the fake. The original portrait itself was of slightly obscure origin –  let’s say not the sort of painting to stand out in a crowd. But I liked the idea of ‘guessing the fake’. There are many of them masquerading as originals in the art world today. I would love to be a fake detector … so many paths untrodden …

I didn’t know a lot about Eric Ravilious.  I’d bought a couple of cards of his illustrations in the past to send to people but I wasn’t hopping with excitement as I had been for the Durand-Ruel Impressionists exhibition at The National Gallery, which is, by the way, wonderfully presented. It’s just fabulous that this man took on the Impressionists, who, but for him, might never have seen the light of day. As we might have said in the sixties – Durand-Ruel rocks!

Paul Durand-Ruel who discovered and promoted the Impressionists

Paul Durand-Ruel who discovered and promoted the Impressionists

This portrait on the front of the delightful book about him which I bought at The National Gallery is by Renoir in 1910.  Renoir said of him ‘This well-mannered man –  good husband, good father, loyal monarchist and practising Christian –  was a gambler.  But he was gambling for a good cause.  His name shall endure!’ Monet said of him ‘Without Durand, we would have starved …  We owe him everything.  He was stubborn, tenacious, he faced bankruptcy twenty times to support us.’ I love him! I wished we could have met.

I was about to find out that Ravilious is special too –  in a different way.  He very much appeals on home ground – being British. He captures the years before and during WW2 in a way that is often architectural and draughtsmanlike in execution,  yet at the same time evokes a romanticism and nostalgia.  There is a stillness, even in his illustrations as a war artist, which sinks into your psyche and gives space for quiet contemplation.  There is something of that feeling in Seurat’s work but Ravilious is so much his own person that his pictures couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else’s.

Ravilious - catalogue cover

Ravilious – catalogue cover

He can take on big subjects like the ‘Ark Royal’ and at the same time ducks on a pond or a teapot on a table.

A table set for tea

A table set for tea

Cottage Flowers

Cottage Flowers

All of these things are perfectly portrayed but with a modesty, which is a social trait we have maybe lost in our rage for consumerism today. Ravilious is brilliant but you feel he is not thinking of himself except as a ‘reporter’ of social history.

Ship's screw on a railway truck

Ship’s screw on a railway truck

Our relationship and connection with machines of all kinds gives pause for thought when you look at these pictures. Even a watercolour and pencil picture of a ship’s screw on a railway truck in winter time is so romantic and elegant – when at the same time you can see the footprints in the snow of the labourers working on the railway in the freezing weather. The curves of the ship’s screw are exquisite, yet at the same time this was a machine invaluable for the war effort, doing a workmanlike job and probably sticky with oil and creating a terrible noise as it contributed to the deaths of the enemy.

The 'Ark Royal'

The ‘Ark Royal’

Firing a 9.2 gun

Firing a 9.2 gun

Tiger Moth

Tiger Moth

Seascape with flying boats seen from sick bed

Seascape with flying boats seen from sick bed

 

Perhaps I should revise my view of the boiler and see romance in its flashing blue light – perhaps not!   Everything like that works digitally now but does take over those grim, backbreaking jobs of fire grates and washboards and mangles.  Comfort, once gained, is something not to be lost again.

Lifeboat

Lifeboat

South Coast Defences

South Coast Defences

Midnight Sun

Midnight Sun

 

Ravilious encompasses large subjects and small day to day happenings with equal genius and perfection.  All is important.  But he is not shouting for attention  –   he is diligently recording life in his understated way –  yet when you look at these pictures they are magical and enriching and they sink into your memory and remain there.   They tell a visual story of a time which is now past for ever.

Landscape from a railway carriage

Landscape from a railway carriage

Ravilious’s work makes a wonderful addition to the history of this country.  And yet he died aged thirty-nine.  The paintings have stood the test of time and are ‘top drawer’ – such an important contribution.  And they give enormous pleasure to the viewer.  Please go.   Don’t delay.  You have until the 31st August.

‘Belair’ is a lovely Georgian House nearby in Gallery Road. It serves good ‘bar food’ in quiet surroundings should you find the restaurant at the gallery too busy.

Isobel and I walked back across the park where she comes with the dog every day.  It is quite idyllic and at the moment showered with blossom.  The ‘greens’ of Dulwich are both a feast and a relief for the eyes.   I came home on the 176 bus – only a 3 minute wait at the stop – and soon found myself trundling back into central London with a copy of the Ravilious catalogue in my bag to show John.  As I thought he would, he loved the pictures.

Next day another boiler visit was scheduled, as the beast continues sullen and truculent.  I am trying to keep my cool, helped by my oldest friend – we were introduced to one another aged four.  He arrived for coffee to recount his latest adventures in Barcelona and Madrid.  After he’d gone I got to grips with the  washing machine and was successful. I washed 30 handkerchiefs – inherited from my aunt. Preferable to tissues and have now come in incredibly useful with this lurgy.  I think the washing machine will be my new robotic friend. Fingers crossed!

Apparently, the boiler  (yawn) now needs the diagnostic techniques of the Worcester company as it still refuses to recover its ‘status quo’.  An engineer is coming on Bank Holiday Monday.  I continue ‘resetting’ it with some success but I am now losing patience and at some level totally ‘pissed off’.  I am also behind with all domestic stuff but have a day ahead to put things right.

I have said farewell to Philip Marlowe and am now starting a book by the Pulitzer prize winning journalist, Michael Moss, called ‘Salt, Sugar, Fat – How the Food Giants Hooked Us’. It’s a pretty damning report into the secretive world of the processed food industry and why you can’t resist a crisp, or a coke. I really must get to grips with the 5:2 diet, which basically is just eating less – of the right things! Am against weird diets in general  –  eating a half of what you usually do seems to be logical and easy to follow. I seem to remember that was Muriel Spark’s suggestion.

I work fiendishly at the chores given the motivation of tea at 4pm with a friend at The Olympic Cinema, followed by watching the film ‘Woman in Gold’ with Helen Mirren as Maria Altmann.  This is based on a true history of a Jewish family in Vienna who were stripped of all their property by the Nazis. Watching this film shows how trivial my woes of the moment are.

I am sitting in a plush scarlet, luxuriously appointed chair in the cinema, totally immersed, as the story unfolds.  It hangs on Adele, Maria’s aunt, who was painted by a then unknown Klimt and whose golden portrait hung above the mantelpiece in their house in Vienna before it was stolen by the Nazis.  The family had to flee. Maria wants the painting back but it is now, many years later, hanging in the Belvedere Art Gallery in Vienna, who lay claim to owning it today.

It is a riveting story, with sad and happy times –  and is well cast.  Helen Mirren, true to form, plays ‘Maria’ and Ryan Reynolds, playing her nephew, is a perfect foil for her eccentricities and her highs and lows.  The film is very sensitively portrayed.  Much recommended.  A friend said that the reviews were not good.  Ignore them and go.

The Olympic Cinema - Barnes

The Olympic Cinema – Barnes

The boiler is now working.  My cabin fever has abated and we have bought a lovely print from Simon Pemberton, an illustration for a book review which we saw in the FT.   It was a treat to visit him in his studio in London Fields.

So it’s onwards and upwards but also remembering things past.  Our memories are what make us ourselves. I wish they could be automatically boxed up when we die for future reference. History of all kinds serves as our memory and I’m afraid we are losing some of that today. I hope to be more exuberant in May and June  …

One duckling on Barnes Pond

One duckling on Barnes Pond

... and then there were three  -  things are looking up!

… and then there were three as the sun went down …

Things are looking up!

I’m not really satisfied with this blog.  In many ways it seems to be a muddle of too many different  things and the saga of the boiler takes up far too much of it.  But it did take up a lot of my life this month.  Maybe after all I have reported things as they are  –  life is often a great muddle which needs constantly sorting out.  So it’s a blog recording ‘life in general’.   The jewels being Durand-Ruel, Ravilious and springtime. Thanks for reading!

 

 

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