Picturesque

Look on yonder earth.....

According to Wikipedia: in England the word picturesque, meaning literally in the manner of a picture; fit to be made into a picture, was a word used as early as 1703 (Oxford English Dictionary), and derived from French pittoresque and the Italian pittoresco. William Gilpin's Essay on Prints (1768) defined picturesque as a term expressive of that peculiar kind of beauty, which is agreeable in a picture.....

We have been revelling in this year's glorious explosion of flowers.  Falling on from a trip to imbibe the beauty of the bluebells in Ashridge Forest, we have slipped south, across the Thames, to sip the delights of Sussex....

Not before, however, a glimpse of the walled garden at Houghton Hall, which lies just a few miles from our Norfolk village.

I am not going to attempt to name everything, partly for fear of error, but also as many names have little to do with the soul of the plant.  This one, for example, might be called Gold Dust, but then it could be Chandelier, or Grand Perfection.....  To me it is the extraordinary unfolding of the mystery that attracts - not what someone chose to list it as in the catalogue.

And this pink beauty could be Gabriella, or Garden of Clusius, but then maybe not, and does it matter?

But I do know what this is, and I wish you could breathe the perfume as well..... Wisteria, a wonderful climbing vine with cascades of lilac racemes (though, sadly, the one over my front door has not yet reached maturity - seed grown plants can take 15 or more years to flower, and you have to prune them correctly....)

And look how it frames these potted tulips - a display to melt anyone's heart.

Anyway, below the Thames we visit several gardens.  The archetypal picturesque of Scotney Castle (where that much-loved aesthete Mrs T used to holiday) is ablaze with rhododendrons, azaleas and kalmias:

I shall leave you to put your own names to these - it is quite literally mind-blowing, though the restrictions of two dimensions, the lack of a gentle breeze across the screen and the absence of scent all diminish the pleasure:

Next stop is Charleston, long-time home of Duncan Grant and Vanessa Bell and several of their children and friends. This modest farmhouse is filled with works of art and craft, of which I may wax illiterate on another occasion, but the gardens are just pure joy:

Though some might find there are too many purple passages:

Not far away, we climb the 217 metres to the top of Firle Beacon, from where the views south to the English Channel and north across the Weald are stunning. While the domesticated flowers of managed gardens can be thrilling, the breeze-brushed carpet of mixed wild flowers and grasses here quite takes our breath away.....

Then to Farley Farm, the post-war home of Roland Penrose and Lee Miller. Again, I intend to tell more of the story here at a later date, but just look at this riotous border:

And imagine this rose:

Then, all too soon, we are back home, where the lilacs catch the morning sun:

Later, I walk through Lodge Hill woods, where the invasive rhododendron has it moments of glory:

And the rowan trees shake their delicate blossoms over my head:

It's all too quick.  Only the other day it was dark in the morning and the world was forty shades of grey.  Now I cannot but tread over the daisies, their sunny little faces smiling at me as I trample by:

And before you know it, Spring has Sprung, and the flowers have done their job and seed heads catch the light before being blown every which-way by the air:

Laying down the gossamer tissue in Itchycoo Park that will be woven into tomorrow's world......

 

It's all too beautiful

It's all too beautiful

It's all too beautiful

It's all too beautiful

The Picturesque at Scotney Castle

                            Look on yonder earth:

The golden harvests spring; the unfailing  sun

Sheds light and life; the fruits, the flowers, the trees,

Arise in due succession; all thing speak

Peace, harmony, and love. The universe,

In nature's silent eloquence, declares

That all fulfil the words of love and joy, - 

All but the outcast man.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

from Queen Mab

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Red Roses for You

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With very many thanks to all those who have made a donation to my Thames Path Walk (which starts next Wednesday) in memory of my wife Amanda, here is a link to my Just Giving page for anyone who might be tempted to support the National Brain Appeal:

https://www.justgiving.com/page/richard-gibbs-8?utm_medium=FR&utm_source=CL&utm_campaign=lc_frp_share_transaction_fundraiser_page_donation_received_-_nth_donation

Joining the dots

 Ways of Seeing

The sky is scored, streams of white trails slash the blue, even distorting the sun above my head. It is highly unusual for the air to be cut like this over Norfolk, as usually the air is thrumming with the play-fighting of American jets, rather than with commercial aeroplanes.

I go for a drink in the Folies Bergère, where, in the 1880s Suzon would serve me in my absinthe, while I reflected on the role of mirrors in art and life....

Édouard Manet - A Bar at the Folies Bergère

Now she draws the crowds to the Courtauld Gallery, her bottles of Bass and warm champagne attracting inspection through lorgnettes....

Meanwhile, all is quiet at the Halcyon Gallery, New Bond Street, where there are spare chairs for Hockney.....

David Hockney - Sparer Chairs

It is winter near Kilham:

David Hockney - Winter Road Near Kilham

But then it is summer as well.....

And then we are in Normandy, half timbered and red-tiled.....

I find myself singing under a blue sky in Trafalgar Square (one too many absinthes, perhaps?)

And then I am on the perplexing staircase in Somerset House, aspiring to the upper floors of the Courtauld:

Under the ribbed eye whose shadow seems to be ticking like a sundial:

We are here to join up the dots of Georges Seurat's Neo-impressionist seascapes, sometimes identified as pointillist pictures.....

I stare at the wall between the frames, wondering if I am going dotty....

Then I look closer at the brushwork and try not to think of the opposing colours,

Though the closer you get the more difficult it is......

Try not to think about the way the image is created:

After all, nothing is real.  What Seurat saw on the coast of Northern France a hundred and fifty years ago is no longer there, and never was in two dimensions anyway.  In fact it wasn't even there when he 'saw' it, as light takes time to travel and then our rods and cones have to crowd down the optic nerves for our brains to interpret what is coming through the lens....

Art is a pleasure.  While some works may provoke thoughts and serve political or social ends, much of what we admire is artistry, the ways somethings are communicated.  I love the shadows in this one, not unlike Lowry, though also entirely different:

I love the transparency in this one - you can see through the boats and sails, and see the sky in the water, all of it a delightful post-impression....

I see the great courtyard outside in a similar way, the light fragmented by fine gauze, the shadows falling across the floor like drops of ink on the paving stones.....

Not far away, in the Serpentine North Gallery, Hockney (again) is looking down on us through his square glasses from his tree house:

He too is dotty. This exhibition is entitled David Hockney: A Year in Normandie and Some Other Thoughts about Painting, and the blurb informs us that David Hockney invites viewers to slow down and notice the extraordinary within the everyday..... Created specifically for this presentation, Hockney’s new paintings extend his lifelong fascination with the act of looking, affirming his belief that simple beauty is worth celebrating.

Although some critics have begun to hint that you can have too much of a good thing, I disagree, and love this wraparound display of the seasons at Hockney's French home.....

Whichever way you turn it's a colourful and subliminally happy take on nature and domesticity, a picture of gentle life as we all wish we could lead. The fact that it is not possible for everyone to reside in such an idyllic environment does not mean it is wrong.... It is a reminder that there is beauty in this world and that we should celebrate it.

Other images in the exhibition play with perspective and again remind us that what we are viewing is not reality, but a representation of what can be experienced if we use our imagination and look at pictures from different vantage points.....

Outside in Kensington Gardens Henry Moore's six metre high travertine arch frames the Long Water and a distant Palace.  What is it?  Why is it?  Does it matter?  Surely those are the questions that we ask about life, and there are no right, or wrong, answers....

Just as a ring-necked parakeet flying from a tourist's hand is meaningful or meaningless depending on which side of bed you got out of that morning,

Or as a photograph in The Photographers' Gallery may make you smile or shiver,

We should remember that it is magical and glorious to be able to see anything.  We who have sight are blessed and we must be grateful for what we have.  

Back home I get up early to watch the sun come up over the North Sea, amazed by the power of light to banish the dark, thrilled by the bands of grey and gold, by the streaming rays that bring us life....

I am beginning to lose the plot, miss the point.....

Never mind.  It is what it is....

I would like to be a dot in a painting by Miro.

Barely distinguishable from other dots,

it’s true, but quite uniquely placed.

And from my dark centre

I’d survey the beauty of the linescape

and wonder-would it be worthwhile

to roll myself towards the lemon stripe,

centrally poised, and push my curves

against its edge, to get myself

a little extra attention?

But it’s fine where I am.

I’ll never make out what’s going on

around me, and that’s the joy of it.

Moniza Alvi

I Would Like to be a Dot in a Painting by Miro

from The Country at my Shoulder (OUP, 1993)

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For my companion in art

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