A Rainy Night....

In Soho (and other stories)....

Anouk Aimee entices me. What can you say? Her call is her call. I sometimes wish it was so simple.....

But it is a rainy night. And I am in Soho. Not that that means much these days.....

I mean, far from the seedy side, these days you can be clean.....

And you don't need to be hungry....

I'm not singing for the future

I'm not dreaming of the past

I'm not talking of the first time

I never think about the last

Everywhere changes.  Nothing remains.  (The centre cannot hold....)  Cold, shiny alleys are the veins of an older city....

And where for sixty years or so i camisa & son provided the best of Italy on Old Compton Street, economical issues led to the demise of the family firm. It is sad to face the old shop front, without the bicycle, and to think of the passing of time..... But that is how it is....

And not far away there is another outpost of Europe, where pints are not the accepted measure....

Meanwhile there are those who like to sit:

And those who seek:

And the cool cats who rely on past vibes:

And those who, like me, will pay over the odds for something that reminds the soul of Italy:

Yay! 

Though one must not forget that there is inequality and some may sit on the cold steps of society rather than in the comfort of hallowed halls:

Night falls, and there are those who have no memories, no sense of the past, but who enjoy in their own perfectly secure way the delight of the now:

And the plastic angels still fly overhead, as they have flown for some years now.....

While, as dawn begins to wash the pavements, the big names reappear, their price tags only a mark of the way some people have, and others don't.....

It is Christmas time after all,

And everything is shiny and high gloss - good for glittering memories:

Nothing can be said about these delightful windows and their messages.  As long as I have more than you, or less than you, it matters not whether Jesus was born in a stable, nor whether he was conceived by miracle....

And all the tinsel and baubles and glitter of Christmas says is that in the depths of ugly winter we must rise up and cheer each other with love and kindness:

Whether we are Fortnum, or Mason.... Or immigrant, or visitor, or poor, or rich,

We should remember refugees and immigrants and those who have nowhere to lay their new born, even if the stage is clumsy and chronologically inaccurate:

And not forgetting that only a few yards away the scene is even less composed:

And that Nelson, our National Hero, is reduced to a fairy figure atop a foreign tree:

But then, with a new day, we take time to review the lives and works of:

Remarking that an early woodland work by Constable would have been the perfect image for Winnie the Pooh [Isn't that sacrilege?  Ed]

But then as the years passed and life took its toll, we find that both masters are watching the clouds form and the rain lash down.  Tell me who painted this?

And who this?

If you know your chocolates, this won't be difficult, but it was a surprise to me that John Constable (the painter of the second picture above) was just as able as his contemporary Turner to depict the falling of the skies, the concatenation of watery forms, and the lights of whirling shadows.

And so, I am led to the darkness again, and wander through the park night, marvelling at the variety of illusion around me, sometimes grand and robust:

Sometimes heartbreakingly alone and just soooo overthinking:

The Serpentine seems almost inviting in its pearly sheen:

But then the lights of the great Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park restore my faith in the Christmas Spirit, and I am reminded of how life is really about other people - I am reminded that it is worth attempting to understand the Buddhist concept of Dukkha, as the wheel of life turns.....

Though by a curious coincidence it is Claudia Cardinale who shakes me out of my melancholy and encourages me to consider the sinuous strands of sanity:

Don't ask me how, but Fellini's Otto e Mezzo still has the power to poke fun at my state of indecision.....

I'm not singing for the future

I'm not dreaming of the past

I'm not talking of the first time

I never think about the last

Now this song is nearly over

We may never find out what it means

Still there's a light I hold before me

And you're the measure of my dreams, the measure of my dreams

Shane Macgowan

A Rainy Night in Soho

The da Vinci code

Develop your senses, 

especially learn how to see.....

Per sviluppare una mente completa studia la scienza dell'arte, studia l'arte della scienza. Sviluppa i tuoi sensi, impara soprattutto a vedere. Comprendi che tutto è connesso.

[Principles for the Development of a Complete Mind: Study the science of art. Study the art of science. Develop your senses - especially learn how to see. Realise that everything connects to everything else.]

Leonardo da Vinci

Principles for the Development of a Complete Mind

This was not my first visit to Dedham Vale, the Stour Valley, and Flatford Mill. I have photographed these places, and written about them (please see below) before, and have endeavoured to follow the instruction of Leonardo.....  Basic questions arise:  what does it matter if a painting of a Haywain is an effective, accurate, realistic representation in two dimensions of something seen by the artist?  Or, what if it is a composite made from various seeings?  Or what if it is an imaginary recreation of something similar witnessed elsewhere?

Flatford Mill, 1930 - Frances Hodgkins (1869-1947)

I have just got back from a brief trip that encompassed something of Essex and Suffolk, and then parts of London and London galleries and exhibitions, and my mind is ablaze with glorious art and autumn colour, while also being  confused and disturbed by personal and emotional vortices that include differences between my daughters, memories of my late wife, and hopes for the future.....  Realise that everything connects to everything else (Leonardo da Vinci).

So, if I photograph Willy Lott's cottage, whether in sunshine or in overcast cloudy light, whether with a swan in the foreground or with a friend on the wall, what does that mean?  What does it tell us about the price of fish?  Does it help anyone?  Did it help anyone that John Constable painted it, and that it is still there?

We walk along the Stour, from Flatford to Dedham, and back, in sunshine one day and under grey skies the next..... The pollarded willows reach back into the past, and yearn for an untroubled future:

Some are broken by wind and weight, living alone and un cared for:

A kingfisher eludes my lens, splashing into the water then winging to a hiding place amongst the falling leaves:

Is this art?  Or is it life?  It changes by the moment, and it slips through our fingers, much as we might try to clutch it to our hearts:

We visit the house where Gainsborough lived, in Sudbury. It is an extraordinary mixture of ancient and new, without seeming rhyme or reason. There is no sense of the artist's presence, but I do learn that he was a landscape artist who, along with Jacob van Ruisdael, would have been a considerable influence on the young Constable:

Then we drive to Kenwood House, frustrated by traffic and a lack of parking, to see two paintings by Vermeer, or not.  Two versions of the same picture, The Guitar Player, are remarkably similar, thought the girl's hairstyle differs.  It is thought that the later version could be a copy by Vermeer himself, though others think it could have been painted by his daughter.  Whatever the truth, the nature of art again makes us think, though what we think may remain a mystery.....

Also in Kenwood House is a picture by Constable, of one of the ponds on Hampstead Heath, the sky rich in coloured airs and water vapour.  

Every day ends with the dying of the sun, and yet every day is different. Sometimes it is beautiful; other times we regret the coming of the dark:

The next morning the trees in Kensington Gardens are glorious:

And Peter Doig blows Yusef Lateef softly at us from 1950s wooden Klangfilm Euronor speakers in the Serpentine Gallery.....

His exhibition, House of Music, lets the Lion of Judah roam free in imaginary landscapes, dancing to the music of time.....

Outside, London confuses and baffles. Part rustic idyll, not so unlike Flatford:

Part individual loneliness amongst the crowds:

And part urban jungle, a labyrinth beneath the towering constructions that shelter so many closed windows:

In Tate Britain I find Peter Doig again, though this time without the soundtrack:

Echo Lake, 1998 - Peter Doig (1959 - )

And then we immerse ourselves in the starry world of Lee Miller, whose extraordinary career spanned fifty or so years and several continents, and whose work stretched from Vogue and glamour:

To the violence and horror of the Second World War, but which took in artistic experimentation on the way:

Model with Lightbulb, 1943 - Lee Miller

It has been a busy few days, and I am tired now, my mind filled with images and confusing thoughts. I recently read that Dr Tony Woods, researcher at Kings College London, said: The research clearly shows the stress-reducing properties of viewing original art and its ability to simultaneously excite, engage and arouse us.

Interesting....

But it can also be exhausting.....

I also read recently that: exposure to nature activates the parasympathetic nervous system – the branch of the nervous system related to a “resting” state. This instils feelings of calm and wellbeing that enable us to think more clearly and positively, (Sam Pyrah, The Guardian)....

The falling leaves drift by the window

The autumn leaves of red and gold

I see your lips, the summer kisses

The sun-burned hands I used to hold

Autumn Leaves

Johnny Mercer, Jacques Prevert

Why does the eye see a thing more clearly in dreams than the imagination when awake? 

Leonardo da Vinci

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Please also see:

https://www.richardpgibbs.org/2014/11/mr-constable.html

https://www.richardpgibbs.org/2019/06/putting-suffolk-on-map.html

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[For November 2nd]

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