Two sunny mornings

A sunny morning in Lewisham (Thursday 21 February)

And Oxford in morning sunshine, 24 February

Magic

Ken Josephson, Postcard visit, Stockholm

This photograph, perhaps more than any other, demonstrates the magic of the human visual system. We see two more or less identical patterns of ink on the page, or in this case patterns of pixels on the screen. We interpret one of them as a three dimensional object and the other as a two dimensional card. What a powerful demonstration of the power of the human brain.

And what a reminder that we use context in making every judgment, that we can never be a neutral observer.

(Image taken from the website of the Yancey Richardson Gallery)

"Little has happened in my life, but I have read a great deal"

"Little has happened in my life, but I have read a great deal, which is to say I have found few things more memorable than Schopenhauer's ideas and the verbal music of England.

"A man sets himself the task of portraying the world. Over the years he fills a given surface with images of provinces and kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fish, rooms, instruments, heavenly bodies, horses, and people. Shortly before he dies he discovers that this patient labyrinth of lines is a drawing of his own face."

Borges, 1960

That's what worries me about keeping a blog.

Bright morning

The morning bright and green even when seen through my net curtains.

Paul Burwell (1949-2007) - the music of the Thames

Sad news of the recent death of the artist Paul Burwell. Many years ago I came across the marvellous sounds of his Bow Gamelan - constructed on the model of the Indonesian originals but with unlikely components such as a variety of motorcycle parts, if I remember rightly. Some years later - the last exhibition at the much missed gallery workfortheeyetodo - I enjoyed his variations on the record player, including one in which the rotating platter brought a stick into contact with a variety of bamboo rods, turning the gramophone from a machine of sound reproduction into a genuine percussion instrument. But sadly I didn't hear the following, described by Brian Catling in the obituary in the Independent:

"The day was gone and the fog closed in. A chalky white bass note shivered the river and stopped the blood. Fast-lapping rhythms echoed and smouldered into a vast and unknown space. Burwell was playing the river. In fact he was playing a fleet of marooned concrete barges. Sticks in hand, jumping between their different pitches, fluttering their cadence with consummate skill. The music was eerie and solid, a combined sounding of place and dream.

"There exists a BBC recording of Burwell playing on the Thames. When it was first aired, it so startled the ears of the listeners that it was asked for again and again, so that they might hear once more a resonance so perfect and so generously given. It is the sound of Burwell which endures, the drummer's flux between delicate whisper and furious vibration."

An exhibition and a concert

To Dulwich Picture Gallery today to see this copy of the Mona Lisa by an unknown artist. Once owned by Reynolds, who thought it was the original, it's particularly interesting because the colours are thought to have lasted better than Leonardo's so it gives us an idea what the original would have looked like some centuries ago.

Also went quickly round the (packed) Canaletto exhibition and was amused to find my workplace depicted in the first two paintings in the show.

I should also say something about Thursday, when seven of us braved the snow to go to a concert by the Schubert Ensemble celebrating Howard Skempton's 60th birthday. It was a very successful event. The programme - Skempton, Mendelssohn and a new piece by David Knotts - fitted together beautifully. Skempton is the master of the (very) miniature, and his new piece, which he described as "something to smile about but unlikely to raise a laugh", seemed to me to have great seriousness and weight despite its 45-second length. And at least two of us determined to buy the music for his piano pieces "Reflections", even if in my case it's wildly optimistic to imagine I might be able to play any of them. A wonderful evening.

Miss Calder

Miss Calder was my first piano teacher. I was taken to meet her for the first time: I recall it was before I started school, so I would have been four or five. I told her I liked making up my own pieces. She asked me to play one, so I proudly sat at the piano and, as was my wont, played notes at random: any pattern certainly wouldn't have been a musical one. She listened patiently, and at the end said, "That was lovely. Would you play it again please?"

I remember the sudden realisation that I was missing the point. And I don't think I ever tried to compose my own pieces again.

Remembering

My maternal grandmother, Euphemia (Effie) Valentine (nee Boys) (1893-1991) was born 116 years ago today. Remembering happy days at Knockavalley.

I'm jealous

I read in the obituary of Gian Carlo Menotti, who died on Thursday at 95, that he said of his move to East Lothian, "I've chosen to live here so that I could be completely cut off from my past. It was a desire to find a place where I could hide."

I wish I could do that. (Not move to East Lothian, obviously, but the rest of it.)

Problem solved

After receiving criticism from certain visitors over my allegedly inadequate care for my houseplants, I now have the solution, thanks to Private Eye: