Thursday 30 October 2014

The photograph as a tribute

The man who lives in his eyes is continually confronted with scenes and spectacles 
that compel his attention or admiration and demand an adequate reaction.
To pass on without pause is impossible 
and to continue after purely mental applause is unsatisfying: 
some real tribute must be paid.
Photography, to most of its addicts is a convenient and simple means
 of discharging these ever-recurring debts to the visual world.

Olive Cook

Olive Cook was an art and architectural historian
married to the photographer Edwin Smith.
RIBA is currently showing a collection of his work from their archive.
If you are interested there is a great deal more about the couple here
and the exhibition here.

Tuesday 28 October 2014

Things to do on the beach in October


Make a dog happy

by throwing pebbles for him to chase.

Bird watch.
Wish you could say you'd seen a Bar-tailed Godwit.

Find and pocket a useful Duralex tumbler.

Seek shells.

Marvel at the tenacity of Marram grass.

Watch the river flow into the sea.

Wonder what these razor shell initials stand for.

Find industrial archaeology.

Find beauty in debris
but wish there wasn't so much of it.

Admire the geology but stay away from the foot of the cliffs
because you've seen the rock fall without warning.

Stand and stare.

Wait for the sun to break through.

Stay as long as possible.

Watch the beach empty.

Monday 27 October 2014

Thursday 23 October 2014

Look who's back

We hadn't seen Tall Cat for months.
It was rather a sad and puzzling absence.
He reappeared at the kitchen window yesterday 
and came in for his bowl of milk as if he'd never been away.

A bit like Mise
but with less to say about turbot and Nutella.

Monday 20 October 2014


If the sun is low you get the most amazing definition
to the imprint left in the sand by the ebbing tide.
And in places these sculptings are overlaid by 
wind-blown ripples in the shallow pools 
reflecting and shadowing in a finer dimension.
Subtler still than these, are the gentle waves of air,
eddies, on a plane, felt but unseen.

Wednesday 15 October 2014

Written in stone

In further shingle related news,
I found this pebble on the beach
and sent it straight to our Japanese expert.

Turns out the lines represent the kanji pronounced

Tuesday 14 October 2014

as small as a world

maggie and molly and milly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and

 milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays languid five fingers were;

 and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles: and

 may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose, (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea

E.E. Cummings

Monday 13 October 2014

Plus ça change,

plus c'est la même chose.

If you have lately been pondering the exigencies of your wardrobe
(and Freda has been tackling this full on for us),
then you may be diverted from the task temporarily
by my extracts from The Diary of a Provincial Lady by E.M. Delafield
and comforted  or not, by the thought that the intervening 84 years
since its publication have not much alleviated the problem of deciding
What to Wear, in all or any circumstances.

On dressing for a party:

I consider the question of what to wear,
and decide that black is dowdy, but green brocade with Ciro pearls
will be more or less all right, and shall have to have old white
satin shoes recovered to match.

Take endless trouble with appearance,
and am convinced, before leaving flat, that this has reached
very high level indeed, thanks to expensive shampoo-and-set,
 and moderate use of cosmetics. Am obliged to add, however, 
that on reaching party and seeing everybody else, 
at once realise that I am older, less well dressed, 
and immeasurably plainer than any other woman in the room.
(Have frequently observed similar reactions in myself before.)

On what other people think of ones appearance:

Am shot down in lift - full of looking glass,
and am much struck by the inadequacy of my appearance
in these surroundings, and feel certain that lift-attendant
is also struck by it, although aware that his opinion
ought to be a matter of complete indifference to me.

On packing and dressing appropriately whilst away from home:

Cannot decide whether it is going to be hot or cold,
but finally decide Hot and put on grey-and-white check silk
in which I think I look nice, and small black hat.
Sky immediately clouds over and everything becomes chilly.
Finish packing, weather now definitely cold,
and am constrained to unpack blue coat and skirt,
with Shetland jumper, and put it in place of
grey-and-white check, which I reluctantly deposit in suitcase,
where it will get crushed.

We have dinner - niece has changed into blue frock which suits her
and is of course, exactly right for the occasion.
I do the best I can with old red dress and small red cap that succeeds
in being thoroughly unbecoming without looking the least bit
up to date, and endeavour to make wretched little compact
from bag do duty for missing powder-puff.
Results not good.

On indecision over outfit for meeting with smart Society Women:

Take endless trouble with appearance, decide to wear my Blue,
then take it all off again and revert to my Check,
but find that this makes me look more like
a Swiss nursery governess,
and return once more to Blue.
Regret, not for the first time that Fur Coat,
which constitutes my highest claim to distinction of appearance,
will necessarily have to be discarded in hall.

On weather-appropriate dressing dilemma:

Query, at this point suggests itself:
Why does my wardrobe never contain anything except
heavy garments suitable for arctic regions,
or else extraordinarily flimsy ones suggestive of the tropics?
Golden mean apparently non-existent.
Am obliged to do the best I can with brown tweed coat and skirt, 
yellow wool jumper - 
sleeves extremely uncomfortable underneath coat sleeves - 
yellow handkerchief tied in artistic sailor's knot at throat,
and brown straw hat with ciré ribbon,
that looks too summery for remainder of outfit.

On dissatisfaction with wardrobe contents:

Put on my Green, dislike it very much indeed
and once more survey contents of wardrobe, 
as though expecting to find miraculous addition to
already perfectly well-known contents.
(I am very familiar with this dichotomy)
Needless to say this does not happen, and after some
contemplation of my black - which looks rusty
and entirely out of date - and my Blue -
which is a candidate for the next Jumble-sale -
I return to the looking-glass still in my Green,
and gaze at myself earnestly.
(Query: Does this denote irrational hope of sudden
and complete transformation in personal appearance?
If so can only wonder that so much faith 
should be met with so little reward.)

On trying to rectify deficiencies in appearance:

Perceive that Everybody in the World except myself
is wearing long skirts, a tiny hat on extreme back of head,
and vermillion lipstick.
Look at myself in the glass and resolve instantly to visit 
Hairdresser, Beauty Parlour, and section of large Store entitled 
Inexpensive Small Ladies, before doing anything else at all.

On trying on clothes in shops:

I ... plunge into elegant establishment 
with expensive looking garments in the window.
Try on five dresses, but find judgement of their merits very difficult,
as hair gets wilder and wilder, and nose more devoid of powder.
Am also worried by extraordinary and tactless tendency of saleswoman 
to emphasise the fact that all the colours I like are
very trying by daylight, but will be less so at night.
Finally settle on silver tissue with large bow. . .
and go away wondering if it wouldn't have been better
to choose the black chiffon instead.

On ill-advised holiday purchase:

Blue flowered chintz frock, however, bought at Ste. Agathe 
for sixty-three francs, no longer becoming to me, as sunburn fades 
and original sallowness returns to view.
Even Mademoiselle, usually so sympathetic in regard to clothes, 
eyes chintz frock doubtfully, and says
Tiens! On dirait un bal masqué. As she knows, and I know, 
that the neighbourhood never has, and never will, run to bals masqués,
remove it in silence to furthest corner of wardrobe.

On weeding out her wardrobe:

Go to sleep in the afternoon, and awake sufficiently restored
to do what I have long contemplated and
Go Through my clothes.
Results so depressing that I wish I had never done it.
Have nothing fit to wear, and if I had, should look like a scarecrow in it.
Send off parcel with knitted red cardigan, two evening dresses
(much too short for present mode), three out-of-date hats, 
and tweed skirt that bags at knees, to Mary Kellway's Jumble Sale,
where she declares that anything will be welcome.
Make out a list of all the new clothes I require,
get pleasantly excited about them, am again confronted
with the Rates, and put the list in the fire.

Meanwhile, I have taken delivery of a new cardigan
which considerably lifts my spirits
on this most debilitating of days.

Now I must face up to the task of Going Through my clothes.
Perhaps a little nap first.

Friday 10 October 2014

I must go down to

the sea again.

Tuesday 7 October 2014

The End*

When I was One,
I had just begun.

When I was Two,
I was nearly new.

When I was Three
I was hardly me.

When I was Four 
I was not much more.

When I was Five,
I was just alive.

But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever.
So I think I'll be Six now for ever and ever.

And if you have been:
thanks for reading
as this blog enters its seventh year
and I have a little think
about whither next.

* The last poem in Now We Are Six
by A.A. Milne.

Monday 6 October 2014

The Last Hurrah

Where better to be, to bid farewell to summer
than atop the tower at Sissinghurst Castle?

The coaches had not yet arrived.

Not an immaculate lawn, 
but the dense green sheet of algae on the moat.

The Mann Cornwallis weather vanes point West
signalling the arrival of gales and wet weather for the rest of this week
and a sharp dip in temperature.