09 December 2013

The very centre of London on a December Friday evening is a swarming mass of humanity on a promise: theatre-goers with a pressing deadline to be somewhere, cabs and buses crawling with intent, hopeful holidayers staring about them, the pavements outside pubs a crush of jollifying office-workers getting the weekend or Christmas party started.

And then there's the National Gallery. Okay, the cafe is rammed, and noisy, full of well-off culture-vultures from around the world straining to hear each other, what with the possibly needless bass-heavy pop shmush coming from the speakers. However. The wee espresso bar gives out onto a space that is roomy and quiet, where I can collect thoughts arising from the very interesting work meeting I've just had on the South Bank.

And then on to the galleries: I'd imagined visiting the Rembrandts or the Italians in the Sainsbury Wing. But as it was nearby I drifted toward the French, late 19th/early 20th. Manet, Monet, Renoir. Light and colour and shimmer and vibration. I was brought up short by this. 


Miraculous mundanity. Also the planes and curves and interplay of light and shadow... And that burst of reflected sun.  

30 November 2013

Here again, isn't it. There will be new posts, as there's a lot going on in my little head and I need a place for the excrescences. To celebrate, here's a current favourite clip from Seinfeld.