Saturday, April 14, 2012

3BT 14th April 2012


Two furiously discordant throstles dispute an invisible territorial boundary in the middle of Clapham Common.  For Heaven’s sake, lads, it’s a COMMON !




































Two goldfinches, their bonces allegedly tinged with the blood of Christ, chirrup sweetly together whilst they search for nest-building material, and remind me of this solemn kidnapped prince.


http://nicepaintings.org/works/84678

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francesco_Sforza_(il_Duchetto)








Dev, born in Bengal in 1932 and literate in Bengali, English, and Sanskrit, a keep-fit die-hard on the Common despite having to take eight prescribed medicines each with their own side-effects, and having five grown up children each with their own set of troubling grumbles, reels off the names of half a dozen of his other films without hesitating when I mention Satyajit Ray’s exquisite film Pather Panchali, and then, after a moment of solemn contemplation, he turns to look at me and whispers one word, gasping as if in reverence of the name and of the beauty it evokes ... "Apu !".


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Apu_Trilogy






Monday, April 9, 2012

butterflies of the soul





























http://thebeautifulbrain.com/2010/02/gallery-images-from-cajals-butterflies-of-the-soul/

3BT on a dismally wet and windy Easter Monday










In a free exhibition at the National Gallery, a newly restored early work by Titian, The Flight In To Egypt, 


(http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/whats-on/exhibitions/titians-first-masterpiece-the-flight-into-egypt ,


  http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2012/apr/03/titian-first-masterpiece-national-gallery?INTCMP=SRCH  ), 


... it is a remarkable painting by a teenager beginning a long career in Venice and possibly already nostalgic for the lush meadows around his home town of Pieve di Cadore in the foothills of the Alps, about eighty miles north of Venice.  The accompanying set of naturalistic etchings and drawings by Durer, who visited Venice for the second time just in time to have probably influenced Titian, are lovely, too.

Entering the Ritblat Gallery, a treasure house in the British Library, the narrow doorway is slightly constricted when a young Japanese woman stops in a pool of intense halogen light to check her smart phone and as I pass her I am enveloped in an intoxicating cloud of expensive perfume.

Passing the philatelic section of the British Library I spot a Spanish man and his elderly parents marvelling at the extraordinary collection of stamps and envelopes collected after their Civil War, objects of pilgrimage even ?  Earlier I’d been sitting near them in the cafĂ© when they laughed in disbelief at the awfulness of Peyton and Byrne’s coffee, arguably The Worst Coffee in the Whole History of the Universe, and certainly something that even the most desolate and forgotten and far flung village bar in Spain would be deeply ashamed to serve.

when i was about nine, the hobbes close gang were standing knee deep in the stony fish-full brook at backbridge when this flew over low and slow, complete with small phalanx of jet fighters, really, and now that i've just found this picture i realize how clear some memories can be































http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Convair_B-36


Friday, April 6, 2012

she's probably re-calculating my value


yours sincerely, eagerly anticipating your grooming tips !


all those years ago, in pangbourne !
















http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=htobTBlCvUU&feature=relmfu

isn't that what we used to call a fun-fair ?


3BT, 5th April 2012 … no four ! ... no, five !


Just after four in the morning, the bus to work is trundling through the darkness along the edge of Clapham Common.  On the Common side of the road, in a brightly lit bus shelter, sits a fox.

In Horsham, an oncoming vehicle catches my eye.  It is a very old VW Camper, a low-rider, meticulously restored and perfectly re-painted in cream and white.  The driver looks interesting, a slender man, tweed suit, bow tie, old-fashioned bushy moustache and, I think although it was only a glimpse, half-moon spectacles.  From the cab of my little truck I stare down into the pale interior which looks as if it has been re-organised and re-furnished to look a bit like a stretch limo.  On a plush bench seat in the back, with acres of legroom, sits a laughing bride between her two maids.

My least favourite word in the lexicon of management-speak is “just”.  Can you just … ?  Today it is “Can you Just deliver a pallet for Dubai to an air freighter’s warehouse, as close to twelve as possible ?"  This will, of course be in the middle of one of the year’s busiest working days, the last before the Easter holiday, and will involve a diversion that will add an hour to an over-long day.  Miraculously, after all kinds of delays and hardships, smoothing out a few customers because of some typical office blunders, and working flat out from four thirty onwards, I arrive at one minute to twelve, am unloaded, and depart at one minute past.

Down a grimy backstreet in chaotic Brixton, a tall girl with an upturned white face and long dark red hair parted symmetrically, and totally the wrong shade of pale red lipstick on a un-kiss-ably gloomy mouth, is walking with stately grace, arms straight and holding a flower pot at zipper height, from which stands incongruously a single perfect orchid on a very long stalk, its creamy white flower with an erotically hot pink centre facing forward only six inches away from her lips, as if embodying or symbolizing or pre-determining the imminence of that magically transforming kiss.


A big Caribbean mum clambers on to the bus with three carrier bags in each hand.  Four children follow, three girls and a tiny boy.  The girls ( 7?, 9?, 11? ) are also carrying bags.  They have identical spectacular showbiz hairstyles … upwardly mobile dark curls sculpted like flames and culminating in a gold tinted peak well off to the left.  All four children have brand new violin cases slung across their backs.

Monday, April 2, 2012

today would have been george collinson's next birthday, and whilst i mourn him, i know that he would have preferred a smile ...


















he was very fond of football, and of original thinking

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ur5fGSBsfq8

and he was rarther keen on chess, too, although i can't remember if we ever discussed that game in the context of the life and work of marcel duchamp ... if you can call it all work !
















but i digress and so ... to conclude, if there's a collinson-type of heaven, then it should be very easy for us to track him down when we arrive by the sound of his booming laughter