SHIRLEY

My condolences to the Treleaven family and to all the rest of our family unit.

We lost one of our own this week and I wanted to express my own feelings as I mourn her loss. I awoke Friday morning at 4 am with a tear. Glen and I awake during the night regularly but the reason that morning was to think fondly of Shirley.

I didn't get to spend too much time with Shirley and that was just because of circumstance and residence distance. However, not for the the lack of trying on her part - She always made an effort and we enjoyed eachothers company. Her voice was distinct and I knew instantly who it was when I heard my name initiating each visit.

One of those kindred spirits where we couldn't get enough talking time - we shared books we read and remedy creams for our cracked heels. Made work seem light while working together in the kitchen to make the time go by. She and Ron have been very helpful to Glen, myself, and our children.

Wife - yes Mother - yes, Grandmother - yes, but my relationship with Shirley, I would have to say - SISTER . She knew what it meant to be a Sister - in the true sense of the word - in the world as well as out.

Love to all

Janet

Snow in Texas

No, my post isn't quite as elegant or as eloquent as Arta's London ones, but snow in Texas is no less remarkable, right? Last week, this whole area got a pretty good covering one morning, stayed long enough for us to play in it, and then was gone. Senya had just recently experienced snow for the first time in Ohio when we visited in December and was eager to try it out again. Ivan had mixed feelings...when he was standing up, he loved it; when he fell, he hated it. Who can blame him? That pretty much describes my feelings about snow too.

Loving it...

Not so much...

Senya discovered the snow covered hula hoop on our back deck. (Yes, just a few days prior we were outside hula hooping.)

One of the first things Senya wanted to try was to eat the snow. We quickly laid the ground rules for that (i.e. skimming off the top only, no yellow snow, etc.) Then she wanted to reenact a scene from the children's book "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatball" where a boy catches soup and juice in his umbrella to eat.

London The Execution of Lady Jane Grey

Of my own free will, I got trapped in the Painting History: Paul Delaroche and Lady Jane Grey Exhibition on Friday, a pre-paid ticketed exhibition to prevent too many people entering the space at the same time. All of the rooms were empty when I got there. I set aside the day to be there, not something an ordinary visitor to London could do. Someone who has to see all of the sights of London in 14 days or less would be out on this one, but only because the major attractions are many.

I was alone for the day and when I am, my modus operandi is to take a quick walk through every room to get an overview of what I am about to see, and then to begin in earnest, the hard hours I know I am going to spend there.

First, I watched the continuous running movie to see how what the curators wanted me to know.

Next, I did a slow walk of the gallery with the audio guide, knowing that I would do the same thing with the audio guide at the end of the day, walk the gallery, listening to the text once more, to solidify what I had learned. I love the sound of the theatrical diction of the voices and the swelling of the music in and out of the clips on the audio guide.

Finally, I went back to the exhibit’s beginning, this time to check out every original and print that was not on the audio guide for only about 20% of them were described that way. I know that the plaque on the wall beside the pictures is packed with information, but I wear out reading it.

Read the text, step back a few paces to take a look, then going back to read it again. Given all of the other factors that make up museum fatigue, I could see I wanted to eliminate this one.

So I tested out the large-print guide. It is not so much seeing the text with large print that is good, but the fact of having the text in front of me and not having to return to the wall.

I can sit down, read the text and then do a number of pictures without having to refer to the words on the paper again.

As well, this exhibit was so intellectually exhausting for me that I began to take out another of my tricks to keep me going. I put myself in a position on one of the viewing boxes as though I were on one of the pews at church, and then drop my eye lids. I can be asleep in 30 seconds, only to wake when the pencil in my hand slips to the floor or when the book slides off of my lap.

At one point, sitting down, I was thinking of Leo always working with wood, because I sat on beautifully hand finished boxes lined up so that 3 to 4 patrons can sit in front of the painting at the same time. The wood is so beautiful that I run my hand along its edges and can feel a six inch strip of wood etching along both sides of the boxes. I quit look at the paintings to look at the details on the furniture. That is when I notice that the style of it exactly matches the trailing vines and leaves of white stencilling to the left of the explanatory text on the wall of each room as I have been entering it.

At a wall called the Shakespeare Gallery, I stop to look at prints: mezzo-tints, a grey/blue/brown wash over graphite, etchings and all hanging on the wall together, brought together by a theme. Boydell opened a gallery and wanted to found a school where painting was done of historical events. He was successful in that he published 2 books: one, an illustrated edition of Shakespeare’s plays and the second book was a folio of 100 prints, illustrations supplied by artists all across Europe. They were looking at dramatic and historical composition. Boring to other patrons, for they move quickly on by. Fascinating to me and I linger to see which of the Shakespeare plays were illustrated.

For a small break I go into the shop where I can buy a catalogue from the exhibition: £20, which is too much for me, though I doubt it is the price that is holding me back from the purchase because I really enjoy what I scan on the pages. It is just that I have figured out how many books I can read in the rest of my lifetime, and bought them already.

Pearls, medieval candles holders, a hand-carved Tudor rose to hang on my wall, a red moleskin book, so soft that I open it up and examine the binding of it and the grosgrain ribbon that is attached to it for a book mark. Still I buy nothing yet read a few more pages from the catalogue. There is so much interesting detail there that is not on the audio guide or on written the walls beside the paintings, but still I resist its purchase.

Paul Delaroche had a love affair with the model he used for Lady Jane Grey: Madame Annais, a woman who played ingénue parts in the theatre. Research for the exhibition brought the correspondence to light. A glass covered case in the middle of the room with two examples of the letters and a translation from the French to the English. I read the text there and wonder if anything was lost in the translation, so I try to check English translation against my basic and now rusty French. Looks good to me since I do know the word amour. Delaroche’s tender and playful letter to Anaiis Aubert give a sense of the relationship that was between them at the time when he was preparing to paint The Execution of Lady Jane Grey. The fact is that the letters are touching and I lingered over them, looking at his careful handwriting, re-reading his beautiful phrases to her, and looking again at her face as he had captured it on the sketches he did of her, preparing for the larger work, which I then go back to view.

I began to study the small print on the plaques, the tiny line that tells where each of the paintings came from: the British Museum; Gallery de Terrades, Paris; the Louvre; National Museum, Liverpool; Gallery of Scotland, Edinburgh; Koninklyk Museum voor Schone Junisten, Antwerp; Musee National des Chateaux de Main Maison et Bois-Preau; Depot de Musee Carnivalet, Paris; plus many paintings gathered together with only the words, Private Collection. I start to become overwhelmed, for I know that in the lifetimes of those who have lived before me, they could never have seen such a collection of the world’s treasures. A world of travel to other countries and negotiations to get into private collections could not have revealed what I saw, and there, for the price of $20 and 5 hours of my time I get to drink it all in.
The frames that the curators have chosen catch my interest. I have a measuring tape – my hand. I know that from the tip of my thumb to the end of my baby finger is six inches. I get close enough to the paintings that I can measure the depth and width of the frames – one of them is 12 inches deep and twelve inches wide, gold, sculptured, the relief revealing flowers and vines. So I go on for a while, frame to frame, trying to get words to describe their differences.

Next, I am drawn to the picture of St. Joan being interrogated by Cardinal Bauford of Winchester. This print is from the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. I have flashback to all I know about Joan of Arc – the George Bernard Shaw play of the same name, the movies where she was the star and I was young girl watching her, and I remember a few years ago, me as a mature student, studying Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928), -- seeing the inquisitors pass by in that stunning long shot of the close-ups that reveals their wrinkles and warts. All of that seems to be mixed into the painting I am seeing in front of me.

I am getting tired and go for another of my power naps.

The audio guide promises a wrap up if I will push the play button once more. The text reminds me of Delaroche’s dramatic use of space and his careful attention to accurate detail. Further, the words remind me how he was a precursor to the visual culture of cinema with its moving frame that scans fields and draws the viewer into what is outside of the field of the frame.

When I leave the exhibition, there is one thing more I must do. A Delaroche painting, thought to be destroyed during one of the World War II bombings of London, has been unrolled, and the restoration committee of the Gallery are going to have it repaired. That will take a couple of years. But for now, it is hanging in Room 1, so that all can see the shrapnel damage to it, a painting called Charles I, Insulted. The interrogators are around him, one blowing pipe smoke in his face, others in positions mocking him. I stop by to observe for the text tells me to think about how this pose is a mirroring scenes from paintings where Jesus is mocked. I sit for a long time there before returning to the real world where I hop on the Bus 24 or Bus 29 and head home.

Love,

Arta

London Love Never Dies

Tonia saw Love Never Dies before she left for Calgary and kindly left her programme for us. We were reading it at lunch. A border along the bottom of the page traces some of the history of Coney Island” 1) the word coney means rabbit, since the early settlers found rabbits there; 2) one of the old posters advertized: 10 cents for ten hours of fun; 3) “mix bathing is frowned on” at Coney Island. And yes, is a great scene about public bathing, but no men get on the stage.

I thought he first scene was sinister, with warnings that disaster was about to happen, I thought referencing Tod Browing’s “Freaks” (1932). But the show did not go as dark as that movie.
Wyona saw the peacock motif right away: the brilliant eye seen in the centre of a peakcock feather in the dress of one of the circus performers, then in a costume that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, and again in a whirly-gig effect to the costume of one or the acrobats. Soon we were seeing elegant bird feather icons everywhere – on the plume of Christine Daaė’s hat, and in a bejewelled necklace during one of her stage performances for example. The proscenium arch also quotes a peacock feather with stylized feathers on the outside and in the viewing area, the shape of the centre of the feathers.

We saw the show this afternoon, a brilliant mix of genres: musical theatre, cinema, opera, Hollywood film music, with smoke, sleight of hand, a glass coach, acrobats, women on swings and a man on stilts thrown in. And when the show was over while the audience was leaving, the orchestra played a long reprise. Perhaps 5 minutes. Stay in your seats when the show is over. If you put your coat on and head right out,you will loose your chance to hear some of the best music of the show, tied up with a nice ribbon for you.

At the performance Tonia attended, the show stopped after the first 4 minutes and someone came on stage to tell the audience that a glitch that had never happened in the rehearsals had happened now. Then the show went on, none for the worse.

The most interesting song title in the show is called “Devil Take the Hindmost”, a saying I have never used. The title is a proverbial phrase indicating that those who lag behind will receive no aid. The line was first recorded in print in Beaumont and Fletcher's tragic/comic play Philaster, or Love Lies a-Bleeding, 1611:
"They run all away, and cry, 'the devil take the hindmost'."

I hope I never have occasion to warn anyone with the phrase. And I loved the touch of having the bad guy (Raoul) dressed in white and the good guy (Mr. Y) dressed in black. Nice reversal for those of us who like reading images.

Beautiful show. But no spoilers for you in this review.

Two and a half hours of musical and visual pleasure. A little bit of vaudeville, some amazing costume changes and some opulent staging set against scenes with the minimalist simplicity.

Since the Phantom has been running for 25 years, I think the sequel will be around for a long time. The show is also coming to the stage in Australia and in New York, so it will be at a theatre near you (or at least in one country close to you) before 2011 is over.

Arta

Started looking for places in France

So I have started the process of putting our house up for rent for the 2011 - 2012 academic year and put in an initial search in Sabbaticalhomes.com. We are looking to move to France for Rebecca's sabbatical year and being a type A, I thought there was no time like the present to get started. We are looking at Paris or the south of France. It would be great if we could swap a house, but it will probably end up with a rental for both.

On another note, Rebecca is currently in Spain teaching for two weeks. This weekend she is off to Barcelona with her friend from Quebec City so I hope she can avoid being hit by any street cars (ala Gaudi) and can survive things being shutdown between one and five.

S

St Neots - Revisited

On Visiting St. Neots
February 25, 2010

“How did you find this place,” I finally asked Wyona.

“I was on-line,” she answered. “I looked around at what was selling at auctions and decided I would try St. Neots Auction. I thought I would have some fun out in the countryside. Tomorrow will be my second time there.”

She was looking at the price of a round trip train ticket the evening before. “Look, Arta, £19 for one way, £22.50 for a return ticket.”

“Must be a Shangri-la,” I thought. Apparently no one wants to leave St. Neots.

Twenty pound bags of turnips were auctioned off among the vegetables and large flats of flowers came next. Then tools and outside equipment. We spent some time looking at the lot numbers inside a covered building, writing down a top bid on each. At least that is what I was doing. Wyona had already hired Peter’s Moving Van to bring her stuff back to London in case she bought anything: a flat rate of £110 for the trip back to London, no matter what she decided to get.

A marble wash stand, double marble, a piece on the backsplash and another on the counter top was the item I saw many people look at – one woman examining the feet of the wash stand, and thoroughly measuring its every dimension with her tape measure.
When the furniture auction began it was just with the slight tip of the chin downward, a mere flick of the eyelid and that bid went up.

Afterward Wyona said to me, “Could you tell who was bidding against me, Arta.” I had the advantage on her, a casually by-stander, not feeling the stress of the speed of the bid going up and up.

“The partner of the distinguished looking man over there -- and she looks crestfallen.”

Another woman bought a gilded triptych 3-sided mirror and some framed pictures. Wyona went over to her and said, “I wanted that mirror.”

“How about if I give you the mirror for £4 of the £12’s I paid. It is the books I wanted”, said the successful bidder.

Coming back to London, there was only room in the cab of the truck for two people, the driver and Wyona. So at least my round trip ticket did not go to waste.
I have been wearing a coat in London that has no pockets. Last night I sewed an inner breast pocket into the left side of my coat, a pocket that will fit my map of the streets of central London. I stitched another pocket in the right hip side of the same coat – one that will fit a pen and larger papers I am always digging into my purse for. The new pockets came in handy today because this is my first time finding my way home from an unknown location an hour’s train ride away from London.
I was well prepared for being out on my own: a map, a pencil and a piece of paper. My kind of happiness.

The speed of the express train surprised me initially. I stood on the platform at St. Neots to watch the train go past and involuntarily reached out to a pole to steady myself, wondering if I was going to be suck under the train when it whipped by. There had been a voice over the intercom warning passengers that the next train was an express and wouldn’t be stopping and then “Woosh!” in less than 2 second it had come and gone.

Even the local train is fast and the underground is efficient. I was alone and taking all of the correct corners in the tube to get myself on the Victoria line going south. I was home 45 minutes before Wyona. Now that was fun. All alone in London and getting it right.

When Wyona arrived home, she called up to the apartment. The driver did not want to take the time to use the lift on the back of his truck to get the furniture out of his truck and to the street level. He was parked illegally. So with back breaking labour, she and I carried the 2 china cabinets, the 2 drop leaved tables, the marble wash stand and the hand operated tread sewing machines from the platform of his truck to the foyer. I was wondering if we shouldn’t buy a dolly of our own on our next trip to the market.

Two ethnic working class women, arms laden with package of their own and walking by on the street offer to stop and help us. It was beginning rain. It was beginning to rain and seemed better for at least two of the four of us to get our packages home dry.

Wyona paid Peter the Mover. We had everything into the foyer, safe from the rain. Two tall able bodied twentyish-looking guys who live in the apartments on the second floor keyed their way into the building. They saw us struggling to get the furniture into the elevator and said that they would take the stairs and leave the elevator for us. I know you can hear me laughing inside.

Tonia had done similar furniture moving on her own for Wyona’s last auction run. I was reminded of that today and I believed that two 60 year olds could accomplish together what one 30 year old had done alone. We got the 2 pieces of furniture finely tucked into the elevator and found that there wasn’t room for the elevator doors to close – only room in the elevator for two of the barley twist tables -- no room on the side of the elevator for either of us.

Even though everything is an adventure, I was getting tired. I took a Buddha pose and perched cross-legged on top of the table in the elevator. That seemed easier than running up four flights of stairs to catch the elevator doors as they opened on the fourth floor.

The apartment looks strangely the same tonight, even after bringing that furniture home. Wyona says she might make one more St. Neots run before Greg gives up his post here. Why not? The 3 foot high cabinet that the sewing machine is in, is a beautiful piece of furniture that she will use for an end table. The fact that it is a sewing machine is just extra.

The cost at the auction -- £2.

Love,

Arta

The Audley

Just to remind you of the Audey, here is what they say about themselves:

This immaculate late Victorian pub fits perfectly into classy Mayfair. The exterior is clad in pretty pale pink terracotta tiles, its large arched windows in turned hardwood frames, are decorated with window boxes of vibrant flowers and tumbling ivy. Inside it is immaculate, more like a gentlemen's club than a pub, with dark wooden panelled walls, highly polished hardwood fittings and some delicate carving.

We went there for lunch with Greg.
Original crystal chandeliers hang beneath an ornate plaster ceiling. A long hardwood bar counter serves the two bar areas; one provides ample seating and tables for diners. The other has a series of U-shaped leather benches which run along the exterior wall. The screens that separate them once extended to the bar, dividing it into several small booths.



The four of us met Greg for lunch at the pub that is around the corner from his work. We mocked the space where we were to meet all of the way over there. Previously Wyona and I had to meet Greg there and we had to take a taxi to make it there on time. Unfortunately the taxi driver could not understand where we were going.

“The Audley. The Audley. Near Barley Square. You know, Barkley Square, near the Canadian Embassy. The Audley. A pub.”

Nothing Wyona said would turn on the lights for him and the taxi was not ye could get his pointed in the right direction. When the penny dropped for him he said, “Oh,you mean the ohohohdley, the ohohohodley at baaakley squaae.”