Weekend
I saw two films this weekend - good and bad.
Waiting for the bus on the way home from Crouch End, the road all reflective from rain. A gang (not literally) of tarty girls fell in through the door of the kebab shop, crowded around the counter chatting to the bloke as he made them a couple of bags of chips. Hair all back-combed at the back, smoothed at the front, with small braided sections. A carload of chaps pulled up suddenly on spying them through the window and rushed in for a bit of a mingle. One lad loitering in the doorway long enough to get a hug and a kiss off two of the girls as they clattered out and rushed off the catch the 41 bus further into town.
Thursday, 11 August 2005
The Runny Jam Traumas
One of the delights of visiting the grandparents used to be their raspberry canes. August. Huge fat juicy rasps ripened to perfection in the Highland hills, lots of rain. Fighting midgies to pick enough for pudding with ice cream - 15 minutes - before you could stand it no longer. One of the better chores was the jam making. Big vats of syrupy sticky greatness. And the clinking jars in the back of the car on the way back to the big smoke. Over the rest of the year, on special occasions being able to bring a jar up from the cellar, dust it off and open it. The taste. Divine.
So my sister lives in Dundee where the pick-your-own farms are plentiful and we just happened to be passing back through there at exactly the right time... So we picked. There was a mild dispute about the number of baskets we were allowed - I wanted 5, bossy britches only let us have 4. So we came back with perhaps 16lbs of raspberries. (Oh and 8lbs of strawberries that were ready picked but delicious which I snuck in while she wasn't looking!). I think her greatest fear was the making up - her pan wasn't as large as the one Mum used. We did two batches at her house (and it turns out bossy britches was right - 4 were plenty). And I did all the rest when I got home.
The strawberry jam was a recipe from my Grandad which went like this:
Yield: 6.5lbs jam
4lbs strawberries
4lbs sugar
(following sisters advice I reduced the amount of sugar by a quarter)
Hull, wash and drain the strawberries. Layer strawberries and sugar in a large pan and cover with a cloth. Leave in a cool place for 24 hours.
Bring the mixture to the boil, boil for 5 minutes. Leave the mixture (covered) for a further 48 hours.
Finally bring back to the boil and boil for 20 minutes or until setting point. Pour into clean, dry jars.
The great thing about this recipe is that some strawberries remain whole in the jam, like expensive french conserve.
Mammouth jam making sessions all round. 24 jars of raspberry and 10 jars of strawberry. But although they taste fabulous, its a touch runny (this'll be due to the sugar not having pectin I reckon because we boiled them for longer than it said but we failed to add juice of lemon or pips of lemon).
This never happened to mother. But then its hard to live up to her exacting standards, I'm sure the meringue never slid off her lemon meringue pie either. Although I do know she blew up the coffee pot once - the grounds hit the ceiling...in a Georgian house.
One of the delights of visiting the grandparents used to be their raspberry canes. August. Huge fat juicy rasps ripened to perfection in the Highland hills, lots of rain. Fighting midgies to pick enough for pudding with ice cream - 15 minutes - before you could stand it no longer. One of the better chores was the jam making. Big vats of syrupy sticky greatness. And the clinking jars in the back of the car on the way back to the big smoke. Over the rest of the year, on special occasions being able to bring a jar up from the cellar, dust it off and open it. The taste. Divine.
So my sister lives in Dundee where the pick-your-own farms are plentiful and we just happened to be passing back through there at exactly the right time... So we picked. There was a mild dispute about the number of baskets we were allowed - I wanted 5, bossy britches only let us have 4. So we came back with perhaps 16lbs of raspberries. (Oh and 8lbs of strawberries that were ready picked but delicious which I snuck in while she wasn't looking!). I think her greatest fear was the making up - her pan wasn't as large as the one Mum used. We did two batches at her house (and it turns out bossy britches was right - 4 were plenty). And I did all the rest when I got home.
The strawberry jam was a recipe from my Grandad which went like this:
Yield: 6.5lbs jam
4lbs strawberries
4lbs sugar
(following sisters advice I reduced the amount of sugar by a quarter)
Hull, wash and drain the strawberries. Layer strawberries and sugar in a large pan and cover with a cloth. Leave in a cool place for 24 hours.
Bring the mixture to the boil, boil for 5 minutes. Leave the mixture (covered) for a further 48 hours.
Finally bring back to the boil and boil for 20 minutes or until setting point. Pour into clean, dry jars.
The great thing about this recipe is that some strawberries remain whole in the jam, like expensive french conserve.
Mammouth jam making sessions all round. 24 jars of raspberry and 10 jars of strawberry. But although they taste fabulous, its a touch runny (this'll be due to the sugar not having pectin I reckon because we boiled them for longer than it said but we failed to add juice of lemon or pips of lemon).
This never happened to mother. But then its hard to live up to her exacting standards, I'm sure the meringue never slid off her lemon meringue pie either. Although I do know she blew up the coffee pot once - the grounds hit the ceiling...in a Georgian house.
Tuesday, 9 August 2005
Red Dress High Heels
Red dress. Flesh coloured high heeled mules with a rosette on the toes. I want her to look comfortable like she's coasting down the street but she doesn't. With each clenched-calf footstep she drags a shoe along the ground. Ends up stiff and graceless and doubtless will have knackered legs at the end of the day.
Red dress. Flesh coloured high heeled mules with a rosette on the toes. I want her to look comfortable like she's coasting down the street but she doesn't. With each clenched-calf footstep she drags a shoe along the ground. Ends up stiff and graceless and doubtless will have knackered legs at the end of the day.
Peckham Rye Station
One pisshead shouts abuse. [I'm gonna call him a pisshead on purpose and flout my knowing-better political correctness and not call him a street-drinker].
Around the corner of the station masters office a younger pisshead rips his plastic bags apart looking for something that he's lost. He throws a sandwich across the train tracks. Lettuce and grated cheese fly off. Smashes a bottle of beer on the edge of the platform, beer foaming up momentarily and then liquidising again. Empties his pockets angrily. Paces forth and back.
The other pisshead rounds the corner, goes up to the young pisshead and challenges him, takes his shirt off. The young one draws out a knife.
Concerned passengers run off to get the community police officer who was downstairs.
Things seem to calm down. The young pisshead has gone up the platform with what remain of his possessions. The shirtless one has managed to attain the other non-broken bottle of beer which he hides under his shirt. The community policeman arrives. The train comes in.
Pulling out of the station a small child stands between his parents holding a toy rifle the way soldiers on patrol do.
One pisshead shouts abuse. [I'm gonna call him a pisshead on purpose and flout my knowing-better political correctness and not call him a street-drinker].
Around the corner of the station masters office a younger pisshead rips his plastic bags apart looking for something that he's lost. He throws a sandwich across the train tracks. Lettuce and grated cheese fly off. Smashes a bottle of beer on the edge of the platform, beer foaming up momentarily and then liquidising again. Empties his pockets angrily. Paces forth and back.
The other pisshead rounds the corner, goes up to the young pisshead and challenges him, takes his shirt off. The young one draws out a knife.
Concerned passengers run off to get the community police officer who was downstairs.
Things seem to calm down. The young pisshead has gone up the platform with what remain of his possessions. The shirtless one has managed to attain the other non-broken bottle of beer which he hides under his shirt. The community policeman arrives. The train comes in.
Pulling out of the station a small child stands between his parents holding a toy rifle the way soldiers on patrol do.
Saturday, 6 August 2005
Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder
(Well perhaps not in blogland). Apologies for my long absence. I didn't realise that I was going to one of the most remote places in the world - no mobile phone access, no internet cafes. I left assuming I would post along the way. Even in the Little Karoo of South Africa I had more reception, but the Highlands of Scotland are pretty remote!
Anyway, my trip has been a cathartic one. I'm not going to say holiday because it wasn't as relaxing as it used to be. Long time coming.
My mother's 62 birthday would have been on the 29th July 2005, if she had lived that long. Instead we planned a memorial to her, having never felt ready for it until now in the 10th year after her death. As a family we had struggled to agree where would be the best place for her ashes to be scattered - a place that would be her final resting place. I always wanted a place which was somber and quiet like a graveyard - the others were happy to do that kind of contemplation at Kew Gardens where we had two trees planted in her memory the year she died.
I have finally come to terms with the fact that the best place for her was in the far north - Highlands of Scotland - in the place her mother and father lived out their retirement. The place of my grandfather's birth, early life and death. The place we visited several times a year for the first 15 years of my life. A good place, remote, ruggedly beautiful, awesome, amazing light that bounces off the sea, lochs, lakes. A place where it might rain solidly for two weeks but may also be sunny on occasion.
As children we were free here - we came and went as we pleased spending large amounts of time outside. There were walled gardens, derelict houses (grandad knew stories of the families who used to live in these small stone houses - often just 2 rooms for a family of 6, reduced to piles of stones after their roofs were removed when they ceased to be lived in), lochs, burns full of stickle backs which could be caught in small nets, woods and grandad's croft which went down to the sea loch.
I hadn't been there for years, not since before the death of my grandfather, granny and mother. It was hard to go back. So much of the place was tied up in memories of these three people. For the first week, in the build up to the scattering, I didn't really know what to do with myself. People arrived who I hadn't seen for years, family, friends. Lots to speak about. Some planning.
I liked the fact that my aunt Emily and uncle John now have grandad's house - its still lived in and has changed to suit them which means it is still a living place as opposed to a dusty old museum (as the cottage we stayed in was - we used to like staying there with its view across the village and pretty garden but it has stayed the same as it was 20 years ago and it was old and musty then).
We walked to Duart through the woods to the stone beaches and looked in the rock pools, and watched the fish farmers feeding the fish off across the loch. Lamented the loss of seal life that has occured since this new industry has taken hold. Used to love watching seals in the loch, lolling around on the rocks, poking their heads out of the water to watch you when you were in the boat or swimming (we used to swim all the time here out in the dark black cold water but I really couldn't see how we did it now). Sadly they took great advantage of the new fish supplies sucking fish through the netting of the farms. They were culled. None live here anymore.
We went back to Clashnessie - possibly my fondest beach memories are of this place. It was smaller and pinker than I remember. We used to spend long days here, providing there was nobody else there before us (if there was we would go somewhere else - unable to share a beach in this remote place). It had a river that flowed into the sea across it which had great sand cliffs to collapse into the water, easy to dam and change its course.
My sister once nearly drowned in the place where it reaches the sea. The tide was coming in and where the river met the sea was a swirling undercurrent - as she toddled in her stripy swim suit it got the better of her and spun her face down in the water for probably not more than a couple of seconds until Mum grabbed her out. But I have a strong memory of her face down in the water. Pops once refused to wear suntan lotion here ("you can't get sunburnt in Scotland") and got exceedingly sunburnt, having to stay in bed for 3 days with the pain (he refutes this memory - but I don't think I made it up!).
So on the day of the memorial we all went down to the bottom of uncle John's croft, sat on the rocks by Loch Nedd, drank wine and people shared memories of my mother, while a piper played the bagpipes up on the hill.
Dad met Mum in London where Mum was making the forth of a dining party. They saw each other 3 times before he went back to Chicago. (Within four weeks they were married.)
Mum announced to her friends that she was going to Chicago - she'd been sent a one way ticket and £100 to buy clothes. Her flatmate Sue told her she was out of her mind (as did Dad's flatmate Randall). She called Sheila asking if she wanted to help her spend this £100 - Sheila thought it was dead romatic. The marriage lasted 28 years until she died.
Sheila and Mum went to see Ray Charles and when a gorgeous black man walked onto stage they got quite excited not realising at that moment that the hunched-over chap hanging onto his shoulder was actually Mr Charles, and the gorgeous one was his body guard. This is Sheila's version of a story which Mum had also told us making it seem like Sheila was the only one to have made this mistake (a little embellishment to make Mum seem a little more sophisticated, perhaps?).
On their way to school Mum and her sisters were bundled into the car, Cathering crying but not saying why until she finally admitted she'd forgotten to put any knickers on. Mum (as her elder) gave up her own and spent the rest of the day standing against the wall with her foot on the hem of her dress.
And we even managed a trip to Handa to see the puffins.
(Well perhaps not in blogland). Apologies for my long absence. I didn't realise that I was going to one of the most remote places in the world - no mobile phone access, no internet cafes. I left assuming I would post along the way. Even in the Little Karoo of South Africa I had more reception, but the Highlands of Scotland are pretty remote!
Anyway, my trip has been a cathartic one. I'm not going to say holiday because it wasn't as relaxing as it used to be. Long time coming.
My mother's 62 birthday would have been on the 29th July 2005, if she had lived that long. Instead we planned a memorial to her, having never felt ready for it until now in the 10th year after her death. As a family we had struggled to agree where would be the best place for her ashes to be scattered - a place that would be her final resting place. I always wanted a place which was somber and quiet like a graveyard - the others were happy to do that kind of contemplation at Kew Gardens where we had two trees planted in her memory the year she died.
I have finally come to terms with the fact that the best place for her was in the far north - Highlands of Scotland - in the place her mother and father lived out their retirement. The place of my grandfather's birth, early life and death. The place we visited several times a year for the first 15 years of my life. A good place, remote, ruggedly beautiful, awesome, amazing light that bounces off the sea, lochs, lakes. A place where it might rain solidly for two weeks but may also be sunny on occasion.
As children we were free here - we came and went as we pleased spending large amounts of time outside. There were walled gardens, derelict houses (grandad knew stories of the families who used to live in these small stone houses - often just 2 rooms for a family of 6, reduced to piles of stones after their roofs were removed when they ceased to be lived in), lochs, burns full of stickle backs which could be caught in small nets, woods and grandad's croft which went down to the sea loch.
I hadn't been there for years, not since before the death of my grandfather, granny and mother. It was hard to go back. So much of the place was tied up in memories of these three people. For the first week, in the build up to the scattering, I didn't really know what to do with myself. People arrived who I hadn't seen for years, family, friends. Lots to speak about. Some planning.
I liked the fact that my aunt Emily and uncle John now have grandad's house - its still lived in and has changed to suit them which means it is still a living place as opposed to a dusty old museum (as the cottage we stayed in was - we used to like staying there with its view across the village and pretty garden but it has stayed the same as it was 20 years ago and it was old and musty then).
We walked to Duart through the woods to the stone beaches and looked in the rock pools, and watched the fish farmers feeding the fish off across the loch. Lamented the loss of seal life that has occured since this new industry has taken hold. Used to love watching seals in the loch, lolling around on the rocks, poking their heads out of the water to watch you when you were in the boat or swimming (we used to swim all the time here out in the dark black cold water but I really couldn't see how we did it now). Sadly they took great advantage of the new fish supplies sucking fish through the netting of the farms. They were culled. None live here anymore.
We went back to Clashnessie - possibly my fondest beach memories are of this place. It was smaller and pinker than I remember. We used to spend long days here, providing there was nobody else there before us (if there was we would go somewhere else - unable to share a beach in this remote place). It had a river that flowed into the sea across it which had great sand cliffs to collapse into the water, easy to dam and change its course.
My sister once nearly drowned in the place where it reaches the sea. The tide was coming in and where the river met the sea was a swirling undercurrent - as she toddled in her stripy swim suit it got the better of her and spun her face down in the water for probably not more than a couple of seconds until Mum grabbed her out. But I have a strong memory of her face down in the water. Pops once refused to wear suntan lotion here ("you can't get sunburnt in Scotland") and got exceedingly sunburnt, having to stay in bed for 3 days with the pain (he refutes this memory - but I don't think I made it up!).
So on the day of the memorial we all went down to the bottom of uncle John's croft, sat on the rocks by Loch Nedd, drank wine and people shared memories of my mother, while a piper played the bagpipes up on the hill.
Dad met Mum in London where Mum was making the forth of a dining party. They saw each other 3 times before he went back to Chicago. (Within four weeks they were married.)
Mum announced to her friends that she was going to Chicago - she'd been sent a one way ticket and £100 to buy clothes. Her flatmate Sue told her she was out of her mind (as did Dad's flatmate Randall). She called Sheila asking if she wanted to help her spend this £100 - Sheila thought it was dead romatic. The marriage lasted 28 years until she died.
Sheila and Mum went to see Ray Charles and when a gorgeous black man walked onto stage they got quite excited not realising at that moment that the hunched-over chap hanging onto his shoulder was actually Mr Charles, and the gorgeous one was his body guard. This is Sheila's version of a story which Mum had also told us making it seem like Sheila was the only one to have made this mistake (a little embellishment to make Mum seem a little more sophisticated, perhaps?).
On their way to school Mum and her sisters were bundled into the car, Cathering crying but not saying why until she finally admitted she'd forgotten to put any knickers on. Mum (as her elder) gave up her own and spent the rest of the day standing against the wall with her foot on the hem of her dress.
And we even managed a trip to Handa to see the puffins.
Friday, 22 July 2005
Someone searched for Cleavage Mishaps
Have to say I've never had a cleavage mishap. Or a boob mishap either for that matter (unlike Judy and Janet - although Janet's must have been staged since you're hardly likely to wear nipple sheilds for no reason, anyway..).
I have had cleavage exposure mistakes however. Wearing a top which is either too short or too low cut and not being able to decide whether exposing a smidge of stomach is worse than a smidge too much cleavage. At work. Tirelessly undecided all day I seem to remember. Or having bought a new beaded top with a wide neck realising that the cut was not quite right and it didn't stay on the shoulders correctly creating a bra-exposing problem in a non-bra-exposing-situation (colleagues wedding - one of those family affairs where the women all wear mauve and are rather up-tight in their catholicism).
There's still time, though I suppose. One can only hope (that it never happens).
Have to say I've never had a cleavage mishap. Or a boob mishap either for that matter (unlike Judy and Janet - although Janet's must have been staged since you're hardly likely to wear nipple sheilds for no reason, anyway..).
I have had cleavage exposure mistakes however. Wearing a top which is either too short or too low cut and not being able to decide whether exposing a smidge of stomach is worse than a smidge too much cleavage. At work. Tirelessly undecided all day I seem to remember. Or having bought a new beaded top with a wide neck realising that the cut was not quite right and it didn't stay on the shoulders correctly creating a bra-exposing problem in a non-bra-exposing-situation (colleagues wedding - one of those family affairs where the women all wear mauve and are rather up-tight in their catholicism).
There's still time, though I suppose. One can only hope (that it never happens).
Thursday, 21 July 2005
Macho Macho Maaan
There's an imposing motorcycle cop who has a pitch outside Moorgate tube where he guards the city - his shift is about 6.00pm. He wears a big mustache and each time I see him he puts me in mind of those Tom of Finland pictures. Very British Village People.
There's an imposing motorcycle cop who has a pitch outside Moorgate tube where he guards the city - his shift is about 6.00pm. He wears a big mustache and each time I see him he puts me in mind of those Tom of Finland pictures. Very British Village People.
Monday, 18 July 2005
Lost
Its been a bit of a disaster. The boyfiend lost his phone between my house and his house somewhere between 12.30am and 3.30am last night. He's convinced its at my house and we spent some 45 minutes looking for it at 3 in the morning. He couldn't find it. I couldn't find it. In the morning I was tired and consequently left my work case on the train on the way to work - my diary (all my appointments, some important numbers, annual leave card, picture of my mother and stuff), two notebooks - one for my MA, the other for work, and a book I was reading for my course, and work keys. All sailed away to Beckenham Junction. Southern trains said it might be a week before the warehouse at Victoria calls me (if they do at all). A week.
Its been a bit of a disaster. The boyfiend lost his phone between my house and his house somewhere between 12.30am and 3.30am last night. He's convinced its at my house and we spent some 45 minutes looking for it at 3 in the morning. He couldn't find it. I couldn't find it. In the morning I was tired and consequently left my work case on the train on the way to work - my diary (all my appointments, some important numbers, annual leave card, picture of my mother and stuff), two notebooks - one for my MA, the other for work, and a book I was reading for my course, and work keys. All sailed away to Beckenham Junction. Southern trains said it might be a week before the warehouse at Victoria calls me (if they do at all). A week.
Friday, 15 July 2005
Giant African Snails
I had a friend who kept being given pets for birthday presents. There were goldfish who lived in a tank that became algae infested and slowly turned silver. And before that was the giant african snail. He was rather cute (I say he but really he was a bit of both), as long as he hadn't crawled on your newspaper or the table - BIG slime trail. He was also fond of nibbling her bills - she couldn't understand why her paperwork ended up with these weird holes in them for ages. She let him wander in the garden one day and he made a break for it and was never found. I like to think he met some up-for-it commonal garden snail and created a mutant Stoke Newington snail strain, but I fear the cold did for him.
Today in Peckham the butcher was selling two big baskets full of them. Not as cute as said cute pet, they had a darker foot but were equally up for it trying to get away. Its just a bit hard for them dragging that huge shell over the edge. Apparently they get made into a very strongly flavoured stew. I was half glad when they said stew - I was having horrible images of trying to get the cooked snail out of its shell with the picker thing that they give you when you're eating escargot. And it would be a bit of a chewy mouthful. Ugh.
I had a friend who kept being given pets for birthday presents. There were goldfish who lived in a tank that became algae infested and slowly turned silver. And before that was the giant african snail. He was rather cute (I say he but really he was a bit of both), as long as he hadn't crawled on your newspaper or the table - BIG slime trail. He was also fond of nibbling her bills - she couldn't understand why her paperwork ended up with these weird holes in them for ages. She let him wander in the garden one day and he made a break for it and was never found. I like to think he met some up-for-it commonal garden snail and created a mutant Stoke Newington snail strain, but I fear the cold did for him.
Today in Peckham the butcher was selling two big baskets full of them. Not as cute as said cute pet, they had a darker foot but were equally up for it trying to get away. Its just a bit hard for them dragging that huge shell over the edge. Apparently they get made into a very strongly flavoured stew. I was half glad when they said stew - I was having horrible images of trying to get the cooked snail out of its shell with the picker thing that they give you when you're eating escargot. And it would be a bit of a chewy mouthful. Ugh.
Wednesday, 13 July 2005
London
I'm loving my city this balmy evening, bare legs not cold, night black with illuminations - blue Lloyds Building, green & blue on Nat West Tower, orangy gold reflected in the Thames. My mood enhanced with alcoholic lubrication and a mammouth bitching session with colleagues. Men in hats, particularly hats which are not caps but have brims and are worn pushed back on the head, or as part of a hawain shirt baggy jeans big chain and converse hi-top ensemble. And drunk love is in the air. Girls hanging off guys, snogging, glowing faces. Outside All Bar One in Finsbury Square an office girl sits astride a man slumped in a chair, her skirt ridden up in an undignified manner. Oh the hangover tomorrow. The man in front of me eats his dinner on the bus - tuna sandwich and crisps. Somehow the crips smell worse than the tuna.
I'm loving my city this balmy evening, bare legs not cold, night black with illuminations - blue Lloyds Building, green & blue on Nat West Tower, orangy gold reflected in the Thames. My mood enhanced with alcoholic lubrication and a mammouth bitching session with colleagues. Men in hats, particularly hats which are not caps but have brims and are worn pushed back on the head, or as part of a hawain shirt baggy jeans big chain and converse hi-top ensemble. And drunk love is in the air. Girls hanging off guys, snogging, glowing faces. Outside All Bar One in Finsbury Square an office girl sits astride a man slumped in a chair, her skirt ridden up in an undignified manner. Oh the hangover tomorrow. The man in front of me eats his dinner on the bus - tuna sandwich and crisps. Somehow the crips smell worse than the tuna.
French Polish
I've never really understood the whole french polish thing - I think its supposed to look natural - sort of au natural nails with perfect and lovely whites across the top. Just so. Very chic. Not at all gaudy.
But in reality I always think the white is too stark and doesn't quite manage to look nude enough. Worse still is the french polished toenail. A splash of colour to make something of toes in sandals yes but to bother with the hassle of french polishing, when the effect is sort of illuminous stark white toenail ends shouting out. Honestly I couldn't stop staring. And I don't think one's toes should steal one's show.
I've never really understood the whole french polish thing - I think its supposed to look natural - sort of au natural nails with perfect and lovely whites across the top. Just so. Very chic. Not at all gaudy.
But in reality I always think the white is too stark and doesn't quite manage to look nude enough. Worse still is the french polished toenail. A splash of colour to make something of toes in sandals yes but to bother with the hassle of french polishing, when the effect is sort of illuminous stark white toenail ends shouting out. Honestly I couldn't stop staring. And I don't think one's toes should steal one's show.
Monday, 11 July 2005
Monday's Life Class
Oh. My. God. The pain that is not having drawn for 3 months. Still having finished the lectures for the MA module for this term it feels good to go back and do something creative again. Gets better with practice (I keep reminding myself).
Top three = 5 min drawings. Bottom left - the first drawing of the night 15mins. Bottom right - last drawing of the night - 30mins.
Candid Arts Trust: open access sessions and more formal taught courses in both life drawing and painting. Behind Angel tube, Islington - first left down City Road. Contact: The Candid Arts Trust, 3 Torrens Street, London EC1V 1NQ, Tel: 020 7837 4237.
All original drawings £25 excluding postage and packing (A1 sized). Or alternatively, A4 sized prints for £5 excluding postage and packing. For further details see the lifedrawing gallery or email me.
Oh. My. God. The pain that is not having drawn for 3 months. Still having finished the lectures for the MA module for this term it feels good to go back and do something creative again. Gets better with practice (I keep reminding myself).
Top three = 5 min drawings. Bottom left - the first drawing of the night 15mins. Bottom right - last drawing of the night - 30mins.
Candid Arts Trust: open access sessions and more formal taught courses in both life drawing and painting. Behind Angel tube, Islington - first left down City Road. Contact: The Candid Arts Trust, 3 Torrens Street, London EC1V 1NQ, Tel: 020 7837 4237.
All original drawings £25 excluding postage and packing (A1 sized). Or alternatively, A4 sized prints for £5 excluding postage and packing. For further details see the lifedrawing gallery or email me.
Sunday, 10 July 2005
Reclaiming the City
Set out on a trip into town today - wanted to feel the city under my feet and get comfortable with that feeling again. The 73 took me past the front of Kings Cross, sweeping us past the cordoned area which was filling up with deposited flowers for those who died deep down under the pavement, a crowd surrounded it, complete with film crews and plenty of police. Shortly after we went past the top end of Tavistock Place, a huge awning erected to seal off the crime scene. Again at the top of the street a small camp of reporters and film crews, looking like they'd been there for some while. Police tape across the other side of the Friend's Meeting House signalling quite a considerable area sealed off against intruders. Roads closed to traffic. Coming down Gower Street evidence of cordons as we passed SOAS and the other side of Fitzroy Square.
I met with HS in Starbucks and we sat for hours drinking tea and watching the people pass by the window in front of us. Seemed to be a lot of tourists. Plenty of buses, plenty of crowds coming home from Oxford Street. We strolled across to Neal Street where the shopping was continuing apace. Eventually ending up eating pasta opposite the Opera House, drinking wine and soaking up the city. Watching the weird and wonderful arrive for some kind of do at the Theatre Museum (feathered hats, shoes only practical for standing in, white suits, naval officer uniforms, top hat), the audience arrive to the opera house (floral dresses with layered skirts, silk and satin), several hen parties stagger past. By the time we caught a 341 home again we were at one with the city again.
Set out on a trip into town today - wanted to feel the city under my feet and get comfortable with that feeling again. The 73 took me past the front of Kings Cross, sweeping us past the cordoned area which was filling up with deposited flowers for those who died deep down under the pavement, a crowd surrounded it, complete with film crews and plenty of police. Shortly after we went past the top end of Tavistock Place, a huge awning erected to seal off the crime scene. Again at the top of the street a small camp of reporters and film crews, looking like they'd been there for some while. Police tape across the other side of the Friend's Meeting House signalling quite a considerable area sealed off against intruders. Roads closed to traffic. Coming down Gower Street evidence of cordons as we passed SOAS and the other side of Fitzroy Square.
I met with HS in Starbucks and we sat for hours drinking tea and watching the people pass by the window in front of us. Seemed to be a lot of tourists. Plenty of buses, plenty of crowds coming home from Oxford Street. We strolled across to Neal Street where the shopping was continuing apace. Eventually ending up eating pasta opposite the Opera House, drinking wine and soaking up the city. Watching the weird and wonderful arrive for some kind of do at the Theatre Museum (feathered hats, shoes only practical for standing in, white suits, naval officer uniforms, top hat), the audience arrive to the opera house (floral dresses with layered skirts, silk and satin), several hen parties stagger past. By the time we caught a 341 home again we were at one with the city again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
