Life Enhancers

After a ludicrously hectic week, I was supposed to be visiting Bath today. A spot of Georgian-style relaxation is just what the doctor ordered. Yup, bank holiday – guess what the weather is like? Not fancying a bath in Bath, I am plumping for staying at home and making mischief on the net. There are so many satirical targets this week, quite frankly, I’m spoilt for choice. First up is Balenciaga with their Ikea-bag hommage. I can’t tell you how much I love this bag. It can only be surpassed in my affection by Louis Vuitton’s offering from a few years ago. The latter is exactly the same as the bag popularly known in Nigeria as ‘Ghana-must-go’ except that it cost 7000 smackers rather than £3. I personally believe they came up with the bag just to provide all Nigerians with a belly laugh, for which we are all grateful.

 

 

In the same week, it has been reported that there are already fakes of the shiny, new unforge-able £1 coin. This beat the 4 weeks it took for fake £5 notes to appear. Makes you proud to be British – that’s enterprise, that is. The Bank of England refused to comment. I bet 🙂

 

Next up was Gwyneth Paltrow’s contribution to the world of gardening. Her website is offering absolutely fabulous gardening equipment at absolutely fabulous prices. My favourite? The £300 pewter watering can. Now, my garden is currently a blot on the landscape. I have been thinking I ought to clear it before my neighbours start a petition. Now I can buy the tools I really need! This news provoked the rather funny Pugh cartoon below:

 

Personally, I have never believed that Gwyneth Paltrow actually exists. Ever since she came up with the Spring wardrobe must-haves that every woman needs to have which came at a cost of £300,000, I have firmly believed that she is a satirical construct by one of our finer comedians. The fact that she has convinced huge swathes of the population that Quinoa and Kale belong in cakes and cookies only makes the experiment even funnier. Gwyneth, I salute your Hogarthian escapades.

My fave all-time satirists are Karl Lagerfeld and Moschino fashion house founded by the late, much-missed Franco Moschino. The Chanel shopping basket is yours for $12500. The dopey papers say that the offerings are a sign of the fashion for ‘stealth wealth’, where the rich like to carry bags etc that do not have any logos to show how posh they are. As any fashion-forward fule kno, this is completely untrue. These bags are instantly recognised by those who care about such things, and we know how much they cost. In reality, they are a huge joke on the part of the designers, the butts being the clueless fashionistas who think they are in on the joke. Sweetie, if it costs £3000 to be part of the joke, sorry, you are the joke. You don’t even get fries with that. It all adds to the gaiety of the nations and I for one thank all participants for their efforts. Now, where are those £6000 galoshes. Don’t you realise that there’s a British bank holiday in the offing? Have a terrific weekend.

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Emperor’s New Clothes

Now the design season is upon us, I had been looking forward to writing a post on the fabulous new baubles presented by our finest artisans, starting with Salone del Mobile in Milan. My dear readers, what a load of insipid, life-draining, uninspiring, mediocre old tat. How are we mere mortals supposed to be inspired if the geniuses can’t be bothered to put in the effort? All concerned ought to be ashamed of themselves. I suspected things were not tip-top when all the articles covering the premier design show of the year kept covering the oh-so-clever installations and not mentioning the products. All the big houses were there- Louis Vuitton, Hermes etc etc, and the products were a load of rubbish. All that money to set up the stands and you wouldn’t buy any of the stuff at BhS prices. I am thoroughly depressed. Thank God for Luca Nichetto’s glass lamps for Salviati, the ever dependable Tom Dixon for his ‘Cut’ lights, and my fave Jaime Hayon for his collab with Caesarstone. We will draw a discreet veil over the rest of of the show but ye gods and little fishes, what an absolute shower.

Instead of handing out paeans and laurels to the brilliant designers and manufacturers, I send them rotten fish-heads and the following poem by G.K Chesterton, and a big fat Sigma as their collective grade:

The Song Against Grocers
(From “The Flying Inn”, 1914)

God made the wicked Grocer
For a mystery and a sign,
That men might shun the awful shops
And go to inns to dine;
Where the bacon’s on the rafter
And the wine is in the wood,
And God that made good laughter
Has seen that they are good.

The evil-hearted Grocer
Would call his mother “Ma’am,”
And bow at her and bob at her,
Her aged soul to damn,
And rub his horrid hands and ask
What article was next
Though mortis in articulo
Should be her proper text.

His props are not his children,
But pert lads underpaid,
Who call out “Cash!” and bang about
To work his wicked trade;
He keeps a lady in a cage
Most cruelly all day,
And makes her count and calls her “Miss”
Until she fades away.

The righteous minds of innkeepers
Induce them now and then
To crack a bottle with a friend
Or treat unmoneyed men,
But who hath seen the Grocer
Treat housemaids to his teas
Or crack a bottle of fish sauce
Or stand a man a cheese?

He sells us sands of Araby
As sugar for cash down;
He sweeps his shop and sells the dust
The purest salt in town,
He crams with cans of poisoned meat
Poor subjects of the King,
And when they die by thousands
Why, he laughs like anything.

The wicked Grocer groces
In spirits and in wine,
Not frankly and in fellowship
As men in inns do dine;
But packed with soap and sardines
And carried off by grooms,
For to be snatched by Duchesses
And drunk in dressing-rooms.

The hell-instructed Grocer
Has a temple made of tin,
And the ruin of good innkeepers
Is loudly urged therein;
But now the sands are running out
From sugar of a sort,
The Grocer trembles; for his time,
Just like his weight, is short.

Thank God for decent literature and art and the wonderful artisans who have pride in their work. Hope you all have a beauty-soaked week. Pip pip.

 

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Love Story

 

I whiled away an hour on Good Friday, trying to decide what my favourite Holy Week painting is. I tend to shy away from paintings of the crucifixion as they are so distressing. Crucifixion paintings are any empath’s worst nightmare; even the biblical accounts freak me out. A process that is so agonising that a new word had to be coined to describe how painful it is: excruciating. Thanks, but no thanks. I do love Salvador Dali’s ‘Christ of Saint John of the Cross‘ though, because it is so original and beautifully conceived. I remember the first time I saw Zurbaran’s ‘Agnus Dei‘ at the National Gallery. It literally stopped me in my tracks. You don’t need to understand its cultural significance for your heart to bleed for this lamb that was bound and would soon be slain. It’s way up there in the list of paintings I wish I’d painted.

So, Easter. Bunnies and chocolate and hot cross buns? Not really, terrific as those things are. For the times when I am under so much stress I feel like my head will explode; for the times I wonder what the blazes I am doing on this benighted rock; for the times when the world is so beautiful, I find it hard to breathe; for the times I feel like I am in a pressure cooker and the heat is being turned up fast; for the times I feel like a bird in a cage that is hurling itself at the bars’ let me out, let me out’; for the times I turn a corner in a gallery and unexpectedly come across Holman Hunt’s ‘Light of the world‘; for the times when a baby beams at me and stretches out its arms, asking to be carried; for the sheer relief of sins forgiven and conscience cleansed; because wars will cease from Pole to Pole and all be prayer and praise. That is the significance of Easter Sunday and the astonishing work that Jesus carried out on that cross. So hush your noise you men of war, and hear the angels sing. People, I won’t lie to you. I would let a million worlds burn down before I would let anyone crucify my son. But then, I’m not God, and his ways are not my ways, and we can all thank our lucky stars for that 🙂

 

Tied in with the crucifixion is the agony of poor Mary who had her heart pierced, probably having spent many an anxious day watching her son steadily and unerringly heading for that cross. Sassoferrato’s ‘The Virgin Mary in Prayer‘ is a beaut and one of my all time faves. Those colours and shadows, that blue. It’s tremendous, as is Michelangelo’s ‘Pieta‘ which makes me want to cry every time I see it. For sheer exuberance, I also love Giorgio Vasari’s picture of a triumphant Christ. The first time I saw it at the Church of Santa Maria Novella, I actually burst into laughter. Pure swagger. This Jesus had obviously been eating 3 Shredded Wheat for breakfast and drank nothing but Irn-Bru, made from girders. If you’ve ever read Vasari’s ‘Lives of The Artists‘, you’d have no trouble reconciling the painting with the man. He was a first class delinquent.

I also love Titian’s beautifully composed  ‘Noli Me Tangere‘. Most of these paintings are in the National Gallery. Don’t waste Easter Monday; go there and look and wonder. I leave you, not with one of my dopey poems, but a snippet of a Chris Tomlin hymn. Happy Easter.

My chains are gone; I’ve been set free.

My God, my Saviour; has ransomed me.

And like a flood, His mercy reigns

Unending love, amazing grace.

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In The Ether

I was reading a monograph about the Foxglove plant earlier this week, about how originally it was used to treat ‘dropsy’, often killing the patient along the way until a chemist figured out how much of the dried leaf to give, and that digitalis works by strengthening and slowing the heart. It is still widely used today in the treatment of heart failure; as digoxin rather than the macerated leaf. It made me wonder how knowledge is first discovered. Who was the first person to use the leaf all those hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago? Why did they think it would work? Who first noticed the painkilling properties of Willow bark, leading to the discovery of Aspirin? How did people know to treat tumours with the extract of the Yew tree which is incredibly poisonous, centuries before scientists isolated taxanes? Pharmacognosy is endlessly fascinating to me. I often wonder if knowledge is just out there in the Cosmos, and that if I pay enough attention, I can glimpse something out of the corner of my eye. Fanciful, I know. It is the difference between understanding and knowledge. The former is usually to do with discovery, the latter to do with accruing power. So, a large glass of Pimms to the discoverers, and a loud raspberry to the power-mad egomaniacs.

Speaking of which, say hello to the new boss; same as the old boss. I told the people who were traumatised by Trump’s election not to worry last year. It doesn’t matter who you vote for, the same agenda seems to be on the table all the time. And here we are. the same bloodthirsty, warmongering sons and daughters of Belial seem to be hellbent on starting a war in the Middle East, bombing Syria on the most spurious of grounds, and no one seems to be asking for evidence. They don’t even bother with the UN Security Council any more. There’s no money for healthcare or welfare but there’s always money for bombs. Still, man proposes and God disposes, and we shall see what we shall see. It’s just that it’s so disheartening in Holy Week to see us on the same path to destruction.

In a bid to cheer us all up, I’ve provided a link to one of my favourite cartoons, Tex Avery’s Rock-A-Bye Bear. This one is for my brother Wolix. Hope you all have a great week.

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The One Less Travelled

Finally made it to Glastonbury today – the Tor, not the dopey festival. I travelled through the ridiculously beautiful villages of Somerset. I’ve been wanting to visit the town after a lifetime fascination with the Once and Future King. If you haven’t read any of Stephen R. Lawhead’s books, you have a treat in store. Ynys Afallach and all the myths surrounding the Knights of the Round Table. What’s not to love? I was expecting the town to be the usual tourist trap and was quite surprised to be charmed by it. Yes, it does have more shops selling resin dragons than is strictly necessary, but I loved the whole hippie ethos of the place. I am rather fond of hippies; I admire their sturdy idealism in a deeply cynical world, and besides they smiled and said hello to me.

 

The next surprise was Glastonbury Abbey. Walking around the exhibits and relics left over from the final destruction of the Abbey during the time of that Arch-Vandal Henry VIII was quite a moving experience. The sanctity of the Abbey feels intact even though there are precious few ruins still standing. It was absolutely lovely and peaceful. The monks at Glastonbury claimed to have discovered the graves and bodies of Arthur and Guinevere but the relics went missing after the dissolution of the monasteries. I can’t tell you how much I love these mysteries 🙂 There are also some rather nice artworks exhibited in the tiny gallery attached to the museum. Check out Anabel Ludovici Gray and Alessandra Alexandroff.

Next stop was the Chalice Well which a friend had been raving about, telling me what a peaceful and healing place it is. I was a bit sceptical about this one. The Well is supposed to be the place where Joseph of Arimathea placed the Holy Grail containing drops of Jesus’ blood, with the water of the well turning red in reaction. The more prosaic explanation involves Iron Oxide turning the water red but where is the romance in that? The garden also contains the Holy Thorn Tree that is said to have sprung up where Joseph planted his staff. Terrific. Altogether now: And did those feet, in ancient time, Walk upon England’s mountains green…… Of course I tasted the water. It does have the ferric tang and smell associated with rust(rusty nails of the Holy Rood…) and of course, blood. I pretty much had the gardens to myself and there is very much a sense of peace there. I love a garden, I really do. I had a similar experience at the Garden Tomb in Jerusalem. Wonderful.

 

Last stop was Glastonbury Tor itself. Instead of going up the public footpath like a normal person, I managed to meander all over the place, climbing over stiles and keeping a beady eye out for bulls and stampeding cows. I finally found someone to ask directions from. He looked very distressed and told me that yes, I could indeed keep going uphill as I was, but that I really should join ‘the right path’ as soon as possible. That made me laugh – he was obviously one of life’s born conformists. The idea that I might take my own idiosyncratic path up the Tor freaked him out. The holiest hill in England, and he believed the only way to reach the top was by following the man-made path and none other. Did I join ‘the right path’? Do you even need to ask? Of course not. I steadfastly ignored it; instead I nearly killed myself clambering through the steep woodland clutching at trees and roots. My heart was beating like the clappers (note to self; you are NOT fit!) AND I ruined my shoes, but it was worth it. What a view! I could see three counties from the summit- Dorset, Wiltshire and Somerset. Totes Amaze. It was easy to see how it could be called Ynys Witrin, the Isle of Glass. With the Somerset Levels flooded and the Tor marooned in the resulting lake, the lower slopes must have looked like a sheet of glass in the sunlight. Did I find Excalibur or feel the awen  come over me? Nope, not a sausage. Not even a little tingle. I did clamber down with a huge smile on my face though. Glasto? Six stars, no question. I leave you with Robert Frost:

Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Have a lovely weekend, and never drink the KoolAid.

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