Art in unexpected places

On a walk through an industrial estate this morning

 

                              

                                            

Hidden memories

As I have no doubt gone about many a time on this blog - memory is an extraordinary thing, in particular, why and how certain moments in life are preserved.

Mark recently borrowed the entire works of Pink Floyd (box set the size of . . . well, a small shoe box) from the music library. I am not au fait with the earlier works apart from a rather super-ly titled song, 'Careful with that Axe Eugene' that featured on an album Mum acquired at some point called Relics. But of course I am very familiar with all the later stuff that was so commercially successful - Animals, Wish You were Here, and of course Dark Side of the Moon.
It was a joy to hear this re-mastered version: somewhat different to my old creaky, ash-stained vinyl edition.
Going back to the memory thing . . . On hearing this part of the album, I suddenly had a vivid recollection of sitting with Mum (think I would have been about twelve) in some velvet-clad basement in the centre of London listening to this track as it zoomed in and out of four speakers, and a be-suited man leapt about telling her about the benefits of Quadrophonic Sound. Something, that Mark pointed out when I told him of this recollection, in fact lasted for a squintesimal amount of time once people realised you had to sit stock still in the middle of the room rather than doing the washing up.
The really odd thing is why we were there. Mum was poverty struck enough that buying a pot of marmite was a very serious consideration.
Anyway, I was left with a desire to go and buy the album and play it to death on our very old and crap record player - which I/we did.
Well worth a re-listen if you haven't heard it for years, especially for all the marvellously morose lines such as 'Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way' or 'ten years have got behind you; no-one told you when to run'.

visual tricks

These happen to me often, probably to everyone else too but maybe most people don't remark on it - dragons in clouds, animal shapes on patches of damp wall, rabbit-toast, smily pancakes . . .
This was a good one this morning, after a weird night's interrupted sleep (dogs barking many times at, probably, a passing hedgehog, outside).
A minuscule leaf-sculpture of a Lion-monkey? No a dried tomato top that has missed the compost bin.

                                   

And another one spotted by Ezra on a recent trip to Rodez  - a black cat reposing by a wall, or a drain hole.

                                   

Catalonia wanderings and no internet

Needing a bit of think-time and excuse to do no house/garden work - strained groin thing, I went down to Cerbère, our favourite thinking/wandering spot, for a couple of days.
At first when I arrived in the flat I felt bereft - no internet, no checking emails, no glancing at the weather/Facebook/Ebay, no 'ooh, I wonder if', nothing. No procrastination.
After about an hour, I'd forgotten its (internet's) existence. I wrote, read, walked, looked, and thought - without the usual distractions.
The next day I went up into the hills behind the town and followed the tracks of shale through the vine fields. These are unlike most other vine fields in France - set into steep hillsides of rock and with very little soil. Everything: clipping, picking and maintaining has to be done by hand as tractors could not scale the hillsides.


  First rock rose 



On the hill terraces, plumes of smoke drifted from small vine clipping fires; the almost complete silence interrupted only by the clink of hand tools working the ground.
I watched a man digging around the base of an antiquated-looking vine, and risked a question. He came over and we chatted for some time about the wine industry of the region and the care of his own seven hectares.

                 New vines      Old vines - maybe fifty years

I decided against trying to find out, once again, what 'Las Ocas' is (black bull-shaped sign saying two kilometres) - next time, and headed of into Spain.
First stop was Castelló d'Empúries, a medieval town in the province of Girona. All was quiet, being Sunday but the attractive little central square's eateries were open.
I chose 'Les Altos' as it looked warm inside and was greeted by an incredibly friendly waitress/owner? who seemed un-perplexed by my odd choice of tapas and tea.
I waited, sketched the terrace and tried to ignore the babbling flat screen, which would have been babbling except the sound was turned down and salsa was playing - why not just have the music and no TV on? I am an old git about this - almost as much as about 'patio heaters.' Grr.
Anyway, the tapas arrived: fantastic local ham, bread and a mound of potatoes the size of a small cat. I tried but only managed about a third of them. Then I went to pay, and discovered I'd left my wallet in the car.
I approached the till expecting grumpiness and raised eyebrows, possibly hostage taking in the form of my driving licence. Nope. The owner waved his arms about in a general display of 'don't worry, life is too short' sort of thing. I said I would be five minutes. 'Really, it's not a problem.'
I returned. He looked at me, then at the potatoes, then back to me: 'I can really not charge you for this - you have hardly eaten any.' I said that surely that was my problem for being a glutton, or something to that effect. But he insisted I pay for just the ham.
Glowing from this benevolence I left and drove on to Figueres, via a terrifyingly depressing sort of car boot sale on the outskirts - I bought NOTHING! must be a first.

  

  Rather amazing painting on the side of Figueres church and fleet of planters heading down the high street 

Figeras was also very quiet but I enjoyed loping through the empty streets admiring the buildings until stumbling on the Dali gift shops. I wondered what he might of thought of his paintings transformed into makeup bags, watches, mugs, tools, ties, earrings . . . perhaps he would have enjoyed the irony.



Statue near the Dali museum

And so back the flat, and no internet. Tea, book, writing, late walk and bed. A little self de-connection from the internet every now and then . . . not a bad thing.

Cerbère cats on an evening walk (me, not the cats)

 

Relax . . .

Hilarious and very touching. Someone who genuinely loves their work I imagine.

Eighteen years

It's just a day - a birthday, but somehow this one really does seem so much more than just a day.

                

As our lovely cousin, Nick's email this morning reminded our son - he can get married, drink, drive, vote, become an MP, rent a house, join the Foreign Legion, get tattoos, serve on a jury, apply for a pilot's licence, etc etc . . .
Well, maybe later . . . today, just an average school day, a posh meal out this evening and some time spent bashing away on his birthday present drum kit.
As music seems at the forefront of our son's mind on his eighteenth year, I thought I would mark it with one of his absolute favourite tracks. I quizzed him in the car this morning on the way to lycée - "Oh, so difficult, err . . . "
We narrowed some of the band choices to: Alt J, Radiohead, Django Django, RX Bandits, Tame Impala, The Smiths, Grizzly Bear, and of course, just about anything, anything by Everything Everything.
We've just about melted our CDs of this band through constant playing, and the track he favoured the most - Undrowned, probably my one of choice too, and here it is.

Happy Birthday to our wonderful son, Ezra!

Sad January

Another incredible talent lost . . .

One of my favourite actors - ever.