A bright, warm and sunny autumnal day. For two weeks now, no rain. Watering like a mad thing.
This morning in the car, once free of the children and their obsession with 'The Five Findouters' audio mysteries, I'm listening to the immortal Dame Janet Baker sing Elgar's Sea Pictures Op. 37. I pull into the car park as she starts in on the sublime 'Sabbath Morning at Sea', from the poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (how much more English can you get?), and I can't tear myself away. I am immobile in the driver's seat, windows open, ancient cassette player vibrating (not quite, but almost) like the drum-&-bass trunk of some city pimp. I am gazing across Lago Maggiore, which glitters in a very Italianate way in the morning sun, and I am dreaming of the sea, as sometimes we English must.
In the parking space beside me I notice with the small part of my being that's not drenched in musical salt spray, a dark blue Twingo has arrived. In the driver's seat is a short man in his mid-60s, who glances at me with a twinkle that gives me to understand he was not always pear-shaped and male-pattern bald. I also shortly become aware that instead of immediately going about his business, he, too, has become caught up in the drama of Dame Janet's ineffable mezzo and is soaring with her across the lake, so to speak.
We reach the climactic "He shall assist me to look higher, he shall assist me to look higher", and now the tears are streaming down my face (note to self - must stop being moved to tears by great art in public car parks). He glances at me, can't fail to see the tears, and smiles a gentle smile. As the moment dies away, we are both still for a moment, and then the man leans slowly across.
"Una meraviglia," he says, quietly, "Una meraviglia!"
He twinkles again, then gets out of his car, and disappears from my day.
And I am left with the strange sensation that something has happened, but I can't quite put my finger on what...
Thursday, 29 September 2011
Monday, 26 September 2011
I had a little nut tree...
Sixteen degrees at 8am. Bright sunshine. And up here on The Rock, a gentle laundry-drying breeze.
The other day in Conad Supermarket, Cannobio. Prime walnuts, price €8.95 per kilo. Price includes first class shipping by Noberasco some 11,000km from Argentina.
Part of what's wrong with the world.
Today in Carmine Superiore. Just-fallen walnuts, price €0.00 per kilo. Price includes a breath of mountain air to pluck them from the tree, 15 minutes gathering, first class transport 300m down the hill from the prato, and a day on the windowsill drying in the autumn sun.
Part of what's right with Carmine Superiore.
Saturday, 24 September 2011
Open House, Tile Kiln Studios
Passing through north London today or tomorrow? Pop by at Tile Kiln Studios, Highgate, for the 11th annual Open House. Featuring the work of friends Jazmin Velasco, Colin Moore, Danielle Eubank, Tom Crew and Mychael Barratt.
Monday, 19 September 2011
Three colours
Seventeen degrees at 8am, although the raging wind leaves us feeling more like seven. After a weekend of stormy weather, there is snow on the highest of 'our' Swiss Alps...
Red, yellow and blue.
Brissago marina, September 2011.
Friday, 16 September 2011
Quote of the week No. 50 : On Patience
Nineteen degrees at 8am, with a good cooling breeze. Could do with a bit of rain.
Living in Carmine Superiore these last few years, I have learned many things. How to light a fire, how to pluck a chicken, how to walk quietly in the woods, how to save a life, how to find my place in the family I made. Most particularly, I have learned patience.
I live in the land of Leonardo, who wrote:
“Patience serves as a protection against wrongs as clothes do against cold. For if you put on more clothes as the cold increases, it will have no power to hurt you. So in like manner you must grow in patience when you meet with great wrongs, and they will then be powerless to vex your mind.”
Powerless to vex your mind... Yes.
Living in Carmine Superiore these last few years, I have learned many things. How to light a fire, how to pluck a chicken, how to walk quietly in the woods, how to save a life, how to find my place in the family I made. Most particularly, I have learned patience.
“Patience serves as a protection against wrongs as clothes do against cold. For if you put on more clothes as the cold increases, it will have no power to hurt you. So in like manner you must grow in patience when you meet with great wrongs, and they will then be powerless to vex your mind.”
Powerless to vex your mind... Yes.
Thursday, 15 September 2011
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
Sunday, 11 September 2011
September 11, 2011
On September 11, 2001, nearly 3,000 people died. God bless all those souls, and keep their families.
Every day since then, some 16,000 children have died of hunger.
Every day.
Every day, 16,000 mothers weeping over a small, broken body.
Every day, 16,000 mothers weeping over a small, broken body.
Every day, a tragedy more than five times greater than 9/11 enacts itself over and over and over again.
9/11 - 10/11 - 11/11 - 12/11 - 13/11 - 14/11 - 15/11 - 16/11 - 17/11 - 18/11 - 19/11 - 20/11...
Every day, the crime of death by hunger perpetrated against the innocent, the most vulnerable, the tiniest.
Do these 58 million slow and painful deaths get blanket news coverage?
Are they commemorated in grand ceremonies year on year on year?
Does anyone build vast and lavish memorials to these dear little souls?
Are they commemorated in grand ceremonies year on year on year?
Does anyone build vast and lavish memorials to these dear little souls?
Shame on all of us.
Saturday, 10 September 2011
Biou!
This weekend, our friends from the House of Bava are beginning grape-picking.
In Arbois, France, where I recently spent a very happy couple of days recharging my batteries, the grape harvest is celebrated in a very special ceremony in early September every year. The first of the grapes are used to make the Biou, an enormous bunch of grapes made up of dozens of smaller ones. The Biou is paraded in the streets to general celebration, carried by four local winemakers and accompanied by two fiddles. The Biou is then hung in the ancient parish church of St-Just as an offering to God (and I suspect as a throwback to a more pagan ritual).
In Arbois, France, where I recently spent a very happy couple of days recharging my batteries, the grape harvest is celebrated in a very special ceremony in early September every year. The first of the grapes are used to make the Biou, an enormous bunch of grapes made up of dozens of smaller ones. The Biou is paraded in the streets to general celebration, carried by four local winemakers and accompanied by two fiddles. The Biou is then hung in the ancient parish church of St-Just as an offering to God (and I suspect as a throwback to a more pagan ritual).
Gilles Thouyard's 1988 stained glass depiction of the Biou.
Eglise St-Just, Arbois
Good luck and buon lavoro to all our friends in the wine industry who are harvesting their grapes about now. We look forward to schlepping a few cases up the hill and popping those corks in years to come!
Thursday, 8 September 2011
Thursday already
Hot and sunny. Below 30°, which is fine by me.
Wildflowers.
Forêt des Moidons, Jura, France.
Seems almost solarized...n'est-ce pas?
Monday, 5 September 2011
Monday morning
After yesterday's torrential rain. Hot, sunny with clouds.
I've said it before, and I trust nobody will blame me if I say it again. I love Monday mornings.
In Carmine.
No bathroom sprint, no emergency dash with the smoothing iron, no where's my briefcase, travelcard, keys. No traffic cough. No underground crush. No "Mind the gap". No train cancelled. No mobile ringtones. No bad-tempered queues. No litter streets. No roaring trash trucks. No blaring sirens.
Not late, dirty-fingered, tired already.
Just this...
I've said it before, and I trust nobody will blame me if I say it again. I love Monday mornings.
In Carmine.
No bathroom sprint, no emergency dash with the smoothing iron, no where's my briefcase, travelcard, keys. No traffic cough. No underground crush. No "Mind the gap". No train cancelled. No mobile ringtones. No bad-tempered queues. No litter streets. No roaring trash trucks. No blaring sirens.
Not late, dirty-fingered, tired already.
Just this...
Monday morning in the sacristy.
Chiesa di San Gottardo, Carmine Superiore.
Sunday, 4 September 2011
Casa Chiera
Warm and raining. And raining. And raining. And raining...
Casa Chiera, Carmine Superiore.
In the rain.
Saturday, 3 September 2011
Wedding wishes
Bright skies at 8am, promising a beautiful wedding day.
Today the Chiesa di San Gottardo, Carmine Superiore, welcomes Nora and Michi, and all their guests.
Today the Chiesa di San Gottardo, Carmine Superiore, welcomes Nora and Michi, and all their guests.
"Serenità , felicità e complicità vi siano compagni per tutta la vita."
Friday, 2 September 2011
First fruits
Twenty degrees at 8am. Bright, warm, humid, with a breeze.
That breeze? It's bringing down the first sweet chestnuts and littering our prato with walnuts. I'm off for a bit of a forage. Beats cleaning the kitchen floor...
That breeze? It's bringing down the first sweet chestnuts and littering our prato with walnuts. I'm off for a bit of a forage. Beats cleaning the kitchen floor...
Thursday, 1 September 2011
Reported conversations No. 28: Home alone
Still hot and steamy after this morning's cloud burst - the first of many, I fear, perfectly timed for the school run.
The idea that Mama and Pappi might at some point in the near future take a break alone, together, sans brood, was some days ago mentioned at the family dinner table. Floated gently on the waters of the family psyche.
B., aged 5, obviously takes a while to digest new ideas. Only this morning did her considered opinion on the matter bubble up to the surface of her little pond.
B.: "Mama, you and Pappi can't go away together without us!"
Mama (seeing a romantic weekend away-from-the-hill slipping through her fingers, and trying not to sound too desperate): "Why not darling, I think it's a great idea..."
B.: "No, you can't go away without us!"
Mama (staying cool, but giving herself away with the unconscious Enid-Blyton-speak): "But why ever not, dear?"
B. (speaking slowly as to a particularly dull dullard): "Because we can't - reach - the - pasta - machine."
Mama (guffawing into the washing up, thinks): I could always leave it on the bottom shelf...
Pic: justinsomnia
The idea that Mama and Pappi might at some point in the near future take a break alone, together, sans brood, was some days ago mentioned at the family dinner table. Floated gently on the waters of the family psyche.
B., aged 5, obviously takes a while to digest new ideas. Only this morning did her considered opinion on the matter bubble up to the surface of her little pond.
B.: "Mama, you and Pappi can't go away together without us!"
Mama (seeing a romantic weekend away-from-the-hill slipping through her fingers, and trying not to sound too desperate): "Why not darling, I think it's a great idea..."
B.: "No, you can't go away without us!"
Mama (staying cool, but giving herself away with the unconscious Enid-Blyton-speak): "But why ever not, dear?"
B. (speaking slowly as to a particularly dull dullard): "Because we can't - reach - the - pasta - machine."
Mama (guffawing into the washing up, thinks): I could always leave it on the bottom shelf...
Pic: justinsomnia
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Thursday, 29 September 2011
Sea pictures in a Cannobio car park
A bright, warm and sunny autumnal day. For two weeks now, no rain. Watering like a mad thing.
This morning in the car, once free of the children and their obsession with 'The Five Findouters' audio mysteries, I'm listening to the immortal Dame Janet Baker sing Elgar's Sea Pictures Op. 37. I pull into the car park as she starts in on the sublime 'Sabbath Morning at Sea', from the poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (how much more English can you get?), and I can't tear myself away. I am immobile in the driver's seat, windows open, ancient cassette player vibrating (not quite, but almost) like the drum-&-bass trunk of some city pimp. I am gazing across Lago Maggiore, which glitters in a very Italianate way in the morning sun, and I am dreaming of the sea, as sometimes we English must.
In the parking space beside me I notice with the small part of my being that's not drenched in musical salt spray, a dark blue Twingo has arrived. In the driver's seat is a short man in his mid-60s, who glances at me with a twinkle that gives me to understand he was not always pear-shaped and male-pattern bald. I also shortly become aware that instead of immediately going about his business, he, too, has become caught up in the drama of Dame Janet's ineffable mezzo and is soaring with her across the lake, so to speak.
We reach the climactic "He shall assist me to look higher, he shall assist me to look higher", and now the tears are streaming down my face (note to self - must stop being moved to tears by great art in public car parks). He glances at me, can't fail to see the tears, and smiles a gentle smile. As the moment dies away, we are both still for a moment, and then the man leans slowly across.
"Una meraviglia," he says, quietly, "Una meraviglia!"
He twinkles again, then gets out of his car, and disappears from my day.
And I am left with the strange sensation that something has happened, but I can't quite put my finger on what...
This morning in the car, once free of the children and their obsession with 'The Five Findouters' audio mysteries, I'm listening to the immortal Dame Janet Baker sing Elgar's Sea Pictures Op. 37. I pull into the car park as she starts in on the sublime 'Sabbath Morning at Sea', from the poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (how much more English can you get?), and I can't tear myself away. I am immobile in the driver's seat, windows open, ancient cassette player vibrating (not quite, but almost) like the drum-&-bass trunk of some city pimp. I am gazing across Lago Maggiore, which glitters in a very Italianate way in the morning sun, and I am dreaming of the sea, as sometimes we English must.
In the parking space beside me I notice with the small part of my being that's not drenched in musical salt spray, a dark blue Twingo has arrived. In the driver's seat is a short man in his mid-60s, who glances at me with a twinkle that gives me to understand he was not always pear-shaped and male-pattern bald. I also shortly become aware that instead of immediately going about his business, he, too, has become caught up in the drama of Dame Janet's ineffable mezzo and is soaring with her across the lake, so to speak.
We reach the climactic "He shall assist me to look higher, he shall assist me to look higher", and now the tears are streaming down my face (note to self - must stop being moved to tears by great art in public car parks). He glances at me, can't fail to see the tears, and smiles a gentle smile. As the moment dies away, we are both still for a moment, and then the man leans slowly across.
"Una meraviglia," he says, quietly, "Una meraviglia!"
He twinkles again, then gets out of his car, and disappears from my day.
And I am left with the strange sensation that something has happened, but I can't quite put my finger on what...
Monday, 26 September 2011
I had a little nut tree...
Sixteen degrees at 8am. Bright sunshine. And up here on The Rock, a gentle laundry-drying breeze.
The other day in Conad Supermarket, Cannobio. Prime walnuts, price €8.95 per kilo. Price includes first class shipping by Noberasco some 11,000km from Argentina.
Part of what's wrong with the world.
Today in Carmine Superiore. Just-fallen walnuts, price €0.00 per kilo. Price includes a breath of mountain air to pluck them from the tree, 15 minutes gathering, first class transport 300m down the hill from the prato, and a day on the windowsill drying in the autumn sun.
Part of what's right with Carmine Superiore.
Saturday, 24 September 2011
Open House, Tile Kiln Studios
Passing through north London today or tomorrow? Pop by at Tile Kiln Studios, Highgate, for the 11th annual Open House. Featuring the work of friends Jazmin Velasco, Colin Moore, Danielle Eubank, Tom Crew and Mychael Barratt.
Monday, 19 September 2011
Three colours
Seventeen degrees at 8am, although the raging wind leaves us feeling more like seven. After a weekend of stormy weather, there is snow on the highest of 'our' Swiss Alps...
Red, yellow and blue.
Brissago marina, September 2011.
Friday, 16 September 2011
Quote of the week No. 50 : On Patience
Nineteen degrees at 8am, with a good cooling breeze. Could do with a bit of rain.
Living in Carmine Superiore these last few years, I have learned many things. How to light a fire, how to pluck a chicken, how to walk quietly in the woods, how to save a life, how to find my place in the family I made. Most particularly, I have learned patience.
I live in the land of Leonardo, who wrote:
“Patience serves as a protection against wrongs as clothes do against cold. For if you put on more clothes as the cold increases, it will have no power to hurt you. So in like manner you must grow in patience when you meet with great wrongs, and they will then be powerless to vex your mind.”
Powerless to vex your mind... Yes.
Living in Carmine Superiore these last few years, I have learned many things. How to light a fire, how to pluck a chicken, how to walk quietly in the woods, how to save a life, how to find my place in the family I made. Most particularly, I have learned patience.
“Patience serves as a protection against wrongs as clothes do against cold. For if you put on more clothes as the cold increases, it will have no power to hurt you. So in like manner you must grow in patience when you meet with great wrongs, and they will then be powerless to vex your mind.”
Powerless to vex your mind... Yes.
Thursday, 15 September 2011
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
Sunday, 11 September 2011
September 11, 2011
On September 11, 2001, nearly 3,000 people died. God bless all those souls, and keep their families.
Every day since then, some 16,000 children have died of hunger.
Every day.
Every day, 16,000 mothers weeping over a small, broken body.
Every day, 16,000 mothers weeping over a small, broken body.
Every day, a tragedy more than five times greater than 9/11 enacts itself over and over and over again.
9/11 - 10/11 - 11/11 - 12/11 - 13/11 - 14/11 - 15/11 - 16/11 - 17/11 - 18/11 - 19/11 - 20/11...
Every day, the crime of death by hunger perpetrated against the innocent, the most vulnerable, the tiniest.
Do these 58 million slow and painful deaths get blanket news coverage?
Are they commemorated in grand ceremonies year on year on year?
Does anyone build vast and lavish memorials to these dear little souls?
Are they commemorated in grand ceremonies year on year on year?
Does anyone build vast and lavish memorials to these dear little souls?
Shame on all of us.
Saturday, 10 September 2011
Biou!
This weekend, our friends from the House of Bava are beginning grape-picking.
In Arbois, France, where I recently spent a very happy couple of days recharging my batteries, the grape harvest is celebrated in a very special ceremony in early September every year. The first of the grapes are used to make the Biou, an enormous bunch of grapes made up of dozens of smaller ones. The Biou is paraded in the streets to general celebration, carried by four local winemakers and accompanied by two fiddles. The Biou is then hung in the ancient parish church of St-Just as an offering to God (and I suspect as a throwback to a more pagan ritual).
In Arbois, France, where I recently spent a very happy couple of days recharging my batteries, the grape harvest is celebrated in a very special ceremony in early September every year. The first of the grapes are used to make the Biou, an enormous bunch of grapes made up of dozens of smaller ones. The Biou is paraded in the streets to general celebration, carried by four local winemakers and accompanied by two fiddles. The Biou is then hung in the ancient parish church of St-Just as an offering to God (and I suspect as a throwback to a more pagan ritual).
Gilles Thouyard's 1988 stained glass depiction of the Biou.
Eglise St-Just, Arbois
Good luck and buon lavoro to all our friends in the wine industry who are harvesting their grapes about now. We look forward to schlepping a few cases up the hill and popping those corks in years to come!
Thursday, 8 September 2011
Thursday already
Hot and sunny. Below 30°, which is fine by me.
Wildflowers.
Forêt des Moidons, Jura, France.
Seems almost solarized...n'est-ce pas?
Monday, 5 September 2011
Monday morning
After yesterday's torrential rain. Hot, sunny with clouds.
I've said it before, and I trust nobody will blame me if I say it again. I love Monday mornings.
In Carmine.
No bathroom sprint, no emergency dash with the smoothing iron, no where's my briefcase, travelcard, keys. No traffic cough. No underground crush. No "Mind the gap". No train cancelled. No mobile ringtones. No bad-tempered queues. No litter streets. No roaring trash trucks. No blaring sirens.
Not late, dirty-fingered, tired already.
Just this...
I've said it before, and I trust nobody will blame me if I say it again. I love Monday mornings.
In Carmine.
No bathroom sprint, no emergency dash with the smoothing iron, no where's my briefcase, travelcard, keys. No traffic cough. No underground crush. No "Mind the gap". No train cancelled. No mobile ringtones. No bad-tempered queues. No litter streets. No roaring trash trucks. No blaring sirens.
Not late, dirty-fingered, tired already.
Just this...
Monday morning in the sacristy.
Chiesa di San Gottardo, Carmine Superiore.
Sunday, 4 September 2011
Casa Chiera
Warm and raining. And raining. And raining. And raining...
Casa Chiera, Carmine Superiore.
In the rain.
Saturday, 3 September 2011
Wedding wishes
Bright skies at 8am, promising a beautiful wedding day.
Today the Chiesa di San Gottardo, Carmine Superiore, welcomes Nora and Michi, and all their guests.
Today the Chiesa di San Gottardo, Carmine Superiore, welcomes Nora and Michi, and all their guests.
"Serenità , felicità e complicità vi siano compagni per tutta la vita."
Friday, 2 September 2011
First fruits
Twenty degrees at 8am. Bright, warm, humid, with a breeze.
That breeze? It's bringing down the first sweet chestnuts and littering our prato with walnuts. I'm off for a bit of a forage. Beats cleaning the kitchen floor...
That breeze? It's bringing down the first sweet chestnuts and littering our prato with walnuts. I'm off for a bit of a forage. Beats cleaning the kitchen floor...
Thursday, 1 September 2011
Reported conversations No. 28: Home alone
Still hot and steamy after this morning's cloud burst - the first of many, I fear, perfectly timed for the school run.
The idea that Mama and Pappi might at some point in the near future take a break alone, together, sans brood, was some days ago mentioned at the family dinner table. Floated gently on the waters of the family psyche.
B., aged 5, obviously takes a while to digest new ideas. Only this morning did her considered opinion on the matter bubble up to the surface of her little pond.
B.: "Mama, you and Pappi can't go away together without us!"
Mama (seeing a romantic weekend away-from-the-hill slipping through her fingers, and trying not to sound too desperate): "Why not darling, I think it's a great idea..."
B.: "No, you can't go away without us!"
Mama (staying cool, but giving herself away with the unconscious Enid-Blyton-speak): "But why ever not, dear?"
B. (speaking slowly as to a particularly dull dullard): "Because we can't - reach - the - pasta - machine."
Mama (guffawing into the washing up, thinks): I could always leave it on the bottom shelf...
Pic: justinsomnia
The idea that Mama and Pappi might at some point in the near future take a break alone, together, sans brood, was some days ago mentioned at the family dinner table. Floated gently on the waters of the family psyche.
B., aged 5, obviously takes a while to digest new ideas. Only this morning did her considered opinion on the matter bubble up to the surface of her little pond.
B.: "Mama, you and Pappi can't go away together without us!"
Mama (seeing a romantic weekend away-from-the-hill slipping through her fingers, and trying not to sound too desperate): "Why not darling, I think it's a great idea..."
B.: "No, you can't go away without us!"
Mama (staying cool, but giving herself away with the unconscious Enid-Blyton-speak): "But why ever not, dear?"
B. (speaking slowly as to a particularly dull dullard): "Because we can't - reach - the - pasta - machine."
Mama (guffawing into the washing up, thinks): I could always leave it on the bottom shelf...
Pic: justinsomnia
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