Old friends

A postcard of this painting by Ivan Puni used to be up on my wall for most of my publishing career. I never really paid attention to the artist - I somehow have always thought of it as a Matisse, and obviously never checked the back of the card. However, on Sunday, I was amazed and delighted to encounter it for real in the From Russia exhibition at the Royal Academy in London.

I wanted to go to the exhibition primarily to see Matisse's Red room (Harmony in red) painting for real. I have been influenced by and loved this painting for many years, but have only seen it in reproduction, the largest of which being about A2 size. It was wonderful to see how large and vibrant the painting really is. I was also struck by how in looking at the real painting the figure recedes to become part of the pattern, and what one would normally call the pattern elements - those taken from the fabrics he loved - at the bottom/front of the painting acquire prominence. This work which was an early jolt into contemplating art has started me off thinking all over again.

Matisse's great The Dance is one of the key attractions in this exhibition, drawing the crowds that I usually try to avoid. This too for me was certainly worth braving the hordes. I find powerful movement in the drawing of the figures, the juxtaposition of limbs, the simplicity of the forms, the outining, the curves. I find it elemental, and pointing forward to the work he did later when cutting out paper. It is different from his approach through paintings such as Red room, and I find it interesting that he divided his exploration of different approaches to colour and form in this way: one so fluid, and the other calm and more contemplative.

I am not bothered by the technique differing in the two approaches as perhaps Natalie is in her post of 31 January. I am sorry to say that I seem to have had different reactions to a lot of the other art too. Much of what is on show I just walked straight past. It is the only way that I can savour the pieces I am interested in. But I did like the Gaugins - not his greatest, but I was drawn to them, especially one almost unitone one I'd never encountered before: Man picking fruit from a tree, which wasn't much more clear than it is in this reproduction, but the gauziness, the feeling of haze on a late summer afternoon attracted me.

What I really loved, however, were the Malevich pieces. Three large pieces of a square, a cross, and a circle in black were stunning: minimal, but with the hand of the artist clearly visible in the making. I have been intrigued by Malevich's work for some time, but again had not really seen anything much in reality. This was a wow moment for me, and especially so when I saw Red square: Painterly Realism of a Peasant Woman in Two Dimensions 1915. I loved it. It is outrageous - a title evocative of the conceptualists in the manner of Damien Hirst, and yet so far before they were conceived of themselves. Can't you just see the stolid, but quirky personality of that peasant woman!

I hate crowds, I hate blockbuster exhibitions, I am liking less and less exhibitions of mixed work, and yet this visit to this exhibition brought me enlightenment, joy, and inspiration.

Slow book progress

trying to jumpstart my design engine by reworking old bits and pieces

My 'serious' daytime reading seems to have ground to a halt this month, and I have only finished one bedtime book: The sea lady by Margaret Drabble. It is a pleasant, interesting read, which I enjoyed; but not one which particularly filled me with enthusiasm. Having read other reviews I can see why she called it what she did, but otherwise I don't think it quite fits the book itself. The characters are attractive, and that's what makes it for me.

My present bedtime book however is a different kettle of fish! I am very much enjoying Anne Fadiman's At large and at small: confessions of a literary hedonist which is a collection of essays. I am extremely fond of the essay as a literary form - I'm not quite sure which I prefer: essay or short story. These are very well written, and cover both serious and light approaches to diverse subjects such as collecting butterflies (the first essay which gives the theme to the endpapers and jacket designs), ice cream, and the difference between those who function better at night or in the morning.

The book is a delight to read (so far), and a real pleasure to hold in the hand. It is one of those hardback books with endpapers, as mentioned above, and is beautiful to feel and look at.

I am just over halfway through, and of course I am planning what to read next. Often when I enjoy a book I want to read more by the same author or in the same subject area immediately. This time, however, I have ordered Writing in an age of silence by Sara Paretsky. This is not one of the V.I. Warshawsky whodunnits (which I love), but a kind of autobiography and perhaps a political polemic too. I very much like her writing, and biographies of artists intrigue me, so I eagerly await its arrival.

Comfort blankets

child's embroidered bodice with amulets - Sheila Paine's collection

Sheila Paine wrote an interesting book about amulets, and we all surely need our comforting talismans in different ways. When I was a child I had a turquoise eye and a tiny herb stuffed fabric heart pinned to my underwear to ward off evil, and indeed prompted by my mother I have a head of garlic hanging in the window of my sewing room!

We have a post office in the village, but when I'm in need of cheer I go to one two villages away, particularly when my preferred 'cuddle' consists of efficiency with a helpful smile. Also, this particular place has fluffy whatnots which are the delight of and indeed a comfort to my mother, and as the UK mother's day is coming up soon I wanted to buy a suitable card and giftlet.

I suppose my talismans are the pieces of art, craft, or reproductions of such without which I find that a space is not wholly comfortable - or 'mine'. Ever since I first saw it I have had a postcard of Kees van Dongen's portrait of Modjesko in my office or workroom. It always cheers me, the exuberance of the colours and the enthusiasm with which the singer is belting out the notes, ... it is like singing out myself.

There is an East African carved wooden head which we bought in Bath, England before I had ever been to Africa - a lovely elegant piece which I try always to have somewhere where I will see it every day. But although the familiar and pleasure-giving objects add to the relaxation felt in one's own home, and despite the garlic, I'm not a believer in superstition. I conform to some of my mother's desires so that she does not get all het up - such as not starting any significant project on a Tuesday (the Byzantine Empire fell to the Ottomans on a Tuesday apparently!).

I think I gave up any belief in the power of amulets etc. when I saw that 'lucky' horse shoes were hung up in different ways in the homes of my Scottish and my Pontic Greek grandmothers. The former was with the edges up in order to hold the luck in, and the latter with the edges down in order to keep the luck from floating away. Well, they couldn't both be right, could they?

On the other hand I find it fascinating to read about other people's beliefs and superstitions as it can illuminate so much about their culture.

The sounds of silence

A gun cosy from Afghanistan - an item in Sheila Paine's collection

Folks who visit us here always remark on the silence. We live in a small cul-de-sac in a village with a patch of wetland as part of our garden (bits of the wetland belong to the houses which back on to it), and we have a cemetery alongside the longest boundary. So, yes, I guess we are quiet.

However - there is much noise too! The pleasant sounds of birds - even if somewhat persistent in some cases! The coots love the environment so much there are several families which warn each other off all spring with sharp notes, even at night. Our neighbour over the wetland keeps and breeds wildfowl, and as only the females are pinioned we get visiting males, including a delightful if persistent whistling duck - another sharp note which can become trying. However, the owls, the birds and foxes are all welcome, but they are not the only sounds.

Chain saws, mechanical reed cutters, the bird breeding neighbour's shotgun in the middle of the night as he sees a rat or a fox in the beam of his searchlight (with barbed wire and an electric fence we call the place Colditz!), the hunters blasting off at pheasants or pigeons, pleasure airplanes all summer, the helicopters from a nearby Air Force base, and ordinance exploding during Territorial Army exercises, ...oh yes, the silence is remarkable!

In urban areas there is always a background hum of sounds and so the sudden bursts of intrusion do not seem so remarkable unless they are directly under one's ears. Here there is a delightful background of peace, and so any violent breach of that calm can feel like quite an assault! And yes, as at this moment all I can hear (apart from the klacking of my keys as I type) is the singing of a blackbird, most of the time it is wonderful.

An opportunity missed - and an opportunity presented

Photo of Sheila Paine by Richard Nicholson for the article in Selvedge

Some time ago I had the privilege of interviewing Sheila Paine for Selvedge magazine. What an experience it was listening to her about her lifetime of travels and her collecting. And what a collection in both breadth and depth, and what beauty! Embroidered textiles everywhere one looked, and each and every one with such a story. It was an ever unfolding wonder, hearing about Sheila's journeys, the dangers and delights, and being told the whys and hows of the work itself. The short article I wrote barely scratched the surface of the treasure trove I walked into that day.The collection is undoubtedly of museum quality. Sheila has not only bought the embroidered textiles themselves, but has documented the techniques, and has taken thousands of beautiful photographs such as the one above of a cap maker in Margilan, Uzbekistan. Sheila has written several fascinating books, and her most well-known, Embroidered textiles is being published in a new edition this summer.

It was with sadness that I learned that the collection is now being auctioned. Sheila had hoped that an institution would take it as a whole, but that opportunity has been lost to us. Now, individuals have a chance to acquire magical objects which hold in many of them a now lost world of cultural individuality and heritage. Below is information about the auctions:

Sheila Paine’s Collection to be auctioned.

Christies’ Islamic and Indian sale on the 11^th April 2008, South Kensington

This will include major items from North and West Africa, the Middle East (including Zoroastrian), Central Asia, Afghanistan, Pakistan, India (including chikan).

Some will also be in a later auction at Christies in Paris, in October. Please enquire..

Dreweatt’s, Donnington , on the 22^nd April 2008.

One owner sale. This includes a complete range of both Yemeni costume and Makrani from Baluchistan.

Costume from Eastern Europe, including major pieces.

Smaller items from India, Pakistan and Central Asia.

Children’s clothing, mostly fromTurkmenistan.

Pieces from East Africa, the Egyptian desert and Siwa oasis.

A few Central American. Small Chinese and Japanese.

A collection of amulets.

Dreweatt’s, Donnington on the 23^rd April.

Sheila Paine’s research library.

All auctions are without reserve.

To coincide, Thames & Hudson will be launching a new, greatly extended, edition of Embroidered Textiles with a reception at Dreweatt’s.

Apart from some ikat pieces, the collection is of embroideries and not textiles in general. Most were acquired in situ on my travels, all have been inventoried and labelled. Further information and background ethnographic material is available.

Enquiries:

Pat Frost, tel: 0207 930 6074
Christies, Textile Dept., 85 Old Brompton Road, London SW7 3LD,

Clive Stewart-Lockhart, tel: 01635 553 553
Dreweatts, Donnington Priory, Oxford Road, Donnington, Newbury, Berks RG14 2JE .

Life-enhancing Greer!

Germaine Greer has followed up her recent article on body-focused artists. The second article was in yesterday's Guardian newspaper, but I only caught up with it this morning. I laughed out loud. Wonderful stuff!

Like Greer's output, I am not always completely in tune with Paula Rego's work, and this portrait (Blogger will not let me load any pictures just now!) she has done of Greer I find sums that up for me. I both love it for its character, but hate it rather like I used to hate sitting on those tuft woven bus seats with bare legs - a kind of irritating scratchiness, but so mild an irritation compared with the total benefit gained.

I hope her name isn't Godot!

Listening to the afternoon play (framed embroidery 2003)

I seem to be missing a Muse. I have tried constructing designs, but am not going anywhere with anything.

Some people swear by working at ideas, and that might indeed happen in my head now while I'm getting on with stitching the designs I already have printed. That sometimes happens - well, quite often really, I'll have notions of what I want, how I want it to look, what I want to say, and suddenly by magic it has worked itself out to be greater than the parts of its making. That's when I'm pleased with what I design. But too often I find myself ending up with what might make a decent graphic design, but not more than that - not an image that has the strength to last - not enough to satisfy.

Today I came across this quote in a review by Adrian Searle on the current Peter Doig exhibition:

Doig is full of anecdotes about the events that led to certain paintings, but stories can get in the way. Narratives have a habit of holding artworks to ransom, turning them into illustrations.
Doig's paintings become really interesting when they free themselves from the references and narratives that made them, and become something new. This also means going beyond the trademarks and tics of style, leading the artist into uncertain territory. Many painters don't have the guts or the curiosity to let this happen.

The forced idea has not worked for me, and yet I think that I should learn to think and work through and shape /control my ideas more. I feel that I should not just hang around waiting for inspiration. I am trying to grasp the facility to think/work ideas through while hanging the brain loose at the same time. It's difficult when I don't have ideas that stand up to my scrutiny. I certainly need to think outside my current box, but at present I'm blowed if I know where.

Maybe Maisie the cat was my Muse - I have had very few good creative ideas since she died.

I remember

design vaguely using February's colours

Design ideas have not been flowing in their usual way for some months now, so I have been taking Sharon B's Take it further challenges as a nudge. This month she has asked for memories, and as I was already in reminiscing mood I cast my mind back far beyond my last post.

Most of my really early memories are of Salonica, Greece in the early 50s. Vividly I can still hear the street sellers calling, announcing their wares such as oregano or ice cream - or wanting cast-off metal goods such as old pots and pans. Donkeys brayed as they pulled carts piled high with round dark green watermelons (there were no oval shaped ones then; they came later and were called American), and we lowered a basket from the balcony with the money in and the goods were then pulled up.

Every morning the ice man shouldered a huge piece of ice up on thick hessian. Mid morning one aunt would take a full wide round baking tray to the baker to roast the stuffed vegetables, or lamb with tiny pasta which would absorb all the delicious juices. There was no oven in the kitchens then, only a couple of electric rings.

What a different room the kitchen was then, with no gadgets of any kind but full of containers with water (the flow was cut off nearly every day), butter (it came in almost liquid form), olive oil, olives, ... these large tins when empty were later used for planting pelargoniums. There was nowhere for washing many clothes. The washerwoman came every two weeks and used the boiler room on the roof of the block of flats. She boiled the water, stepped into the great trough with the sheets and pounded them with her feet wearing only her underwear, then hung it all out on lines on the roof. Everything was then carried down to the ironing shop a few doors away where they kept the irons full of coals and steam was everywhere.

This changed by the time my brother was born in 1954, and my memories change, but these early years were a fascinating time for me. I look back now and feel that I was even almost living in a previous era because the widowed women of my grandmother's generation were sprightly, and the generation before was still active too, and as refugees from Trepizond, Russia, Alexandria, ... all related directly or by marriage, the conversation was all about their youth. Every afternoon, sitting stitching in a different aunt's house each day, I quietly listened and was transported there.

Now the best conversations I have with my mother are when we remember those people and those times.