Running away

First to Greenwich Park where we took in a photographic exhibition

at The National Maritime Museum -

The Great British Seaside.

I have never known the lime blossom to be more

blissful and poignant.

There was a whole avenue of it to drink in.

That along with privet blossom is the scent of childhood summers.

And then today when the kerfuffle and cacophony reached its apogee

with the arrival of more scaffolding and men with nail guns,

we went to Igtham Mote.

But even that was too noisy for comfort so we set off

(at midday) on one of the estate trails.

Unfortunately we timed our arrival back home with the work still in full swing,

and the music on the roof had increased in volume with our absence.

Someone had brought along their own playlist.
Bobby Darin was an improvement on talk radio but

my first choice for the scaffolders would have been

I think it was the first pop song I ever heard.

Forward March*

I took very few pictures of my visit to Two Temple Place

- my phone makes a loud shuttery kerlik noise

which cannot be turned off because it's Japanese

and it's The Law.

However, I had to have a record of these wonderful windows.

I would ask for them as my luxury

in case I was cast away on a barren island.

I was mightily impressed by the attention to detail in the Ladies.
Half a pipe was grained to match the panelling.
For a more erudite and complete report of the exhibition
Cotton to Gold, currently on show, 
you can do no better than to visit Katherine here.

*The clocks go forward tonight. 
This is the only way I can remember it.
Baby B. who is currently staying with us
will wake around 6 am tomorrow.
Hurrah!

Freddie

Here comes Freddie.

He's a Harlequin Great Dane.

Hip height to a short adult (me).

I was a little apprehensive.

But he was more interested in this horse than me.

We've never seen grazing horses here before

and we've never seen a Harlequin Great Dane.

We talked to his owner while he stood a little way off

surveying his surroundings.

Freddie has a tumour and has already outlived the vet's prognosis

of fifteen months survival.They decided against invasive treatment

and so he is enjoying leisurely walks in the late summer sun.

My camera had done this strange thing as he and his owner loped off.

Blog on auto

No more fiddling around to get that perfect shot.

Just press the shutter as you pass wherever the camera happens to be resting

 and bingo, freehand photography.

Is it the silly season yet?

The archaic smile

John Fowles described the archaic smile in The Magus as being

'full of the purest metaphysical good humour'...

'timelessly intelligent and timelessly amused.'

With this hovering smile, Greek archaic sculptors were thought to be

suggesting that their subject was alive and infused with a sense of well-being.

Well the Millesgården certainly had the same effect on me.

The sculptor Carl Milles and his wife Olga a painter,

came to live in Stockholm in the early 20th century.

The house, sculpture garden, and gallery

were donated to the Swedish nation in the late 1930s.

The breakfast nook in their kitchen with Olga's decorative paintings

on the cupboards inspired by the Delft tiles on the walls.

Sadly behind a window, with some touristy bod

(you know who you are P) reflected in the glass,

Anne's house, built for Anne Hedmark, Carl's assistant,

who lived there after his death in 1955.

The furniture is designed by Josef Frank.
I could have settled quite happily into the armchair
by the fireplace, perhaps listening to this

We visited Svenskt Tenn of course,

where I would happily have chosen any number of lampshades

were it not for their eye-watering prices,

so after a rather sobering discussion with the very cool sales staff

I came away with these scraps

rather specifically described as breadbasket liners.

I will not be burying them under my bread rolls.

A strange thing happened to my camera
while I was there.

It decided to take pictures in black and white for a while.

 I rather like them.
Here is Glenn Gould in black and white.

The allure of the past

 I'm not sure what I feel about 

Alastair Hendy's Home Store

after my second visit at the weekend.

Experiential shopping taken to extremes.

Who is buying the 

Denby and Woods Beryl Ware china

(aka Anglican china)

and ostrich feather dusters?

They aren't cheap here, but elevated to museum status

in their meticulously contrived vintage setting,

they exert a curious pull.

The fact that the same things can be found 

down the road in one of the many junk shops

at half the price means that people must be

 willing to pay through the nose for

the scent of the real open fires and dusty floorboards

if this oddity is to survive.

His window dressing is pitch perfect,

the attention to detail obsessive,

but the place has a haunted,

not a happy atmosphere.

It reminded me of Dennis Severs' house,

another time capsule experience

dominated by the personality of its creator.

I went in with my camera,

and wandered about in a slightly hypnotic state

but came out empty-handed into the chilly street 

with a feeling of relief.