Art and pesto... the art of pesto?

I don't know where the last week has gone but wherever it went it went quickly.

For the most part I have been at home, sitting at the little desk LB procured for me, writing diligently if not excessively about portraits, artists and the 21st century. I don't know if it's the magic of the desk, or the submission to total art submersion but I have really got a buzz from the writing I've accomplished this week.

Adrian Ghenie, Pie Fight Study 2, 2008

This is going to sound ridiculous from someone who has too many art degrees to be basically unemployed and has called herself an art writer for the last near decade, but sitting down to write about artists I haven't known very well, if at all, and having then to actually look at their paintings/sculptures/videos and then articulate what I see, has been the most obvious but satisfying of revelations. It's like intuitive map reading and the journeys I have been taken on and the surprises I have encountered just by looking and asking myself what I see and what that might mean has been a bit like coming home intellectually. And it's been a lot of fun too, chewing through the artspeak gristle to find my words. It could all still turn out to be complete bullshit of course but right now it's inspiring and what I need to keep going. If only the bloody Duke of Edinburgh award in high school had been this satisfying.

Tim Noble & Sue Webster, Dark Stuff, 2008

It's back to being miserable here so it's fortunate I haven't had to venture far the last few days. The sun all but disappeared the moment I posted my last entry - but of course - and the weekend has been pitifully cold so we're back to the delight that is tights under jeans and tight they most definitely are. Undressing at the moment is less romantic foreplay and more pantomime on crack.

Despite the wind chill factor LB and I decided to brave the outdoors on Saturday and headed in the direction of Barnes Farmers Market. A friend told me about this little nook of deliciousness last year and since our first visit a few months ago, the lure of homemade basil pesto has been enough to get us back there every few weeks. Organic vine tomatoes, cheeses from the Isle of Wight, every part of pig, apple and ginger juice and homemade dips including houmous with harissa and LB's new favourite, Etna pesto, with 30% chilli peppers, 25% garlic and then olives and all other kinds of sinus clearing, kiss repelling ingredients.

After doing our usual lap we moved on to this cute little pub opposite the famous Barnes Pond for an afternoon cider and some idle chat about everything and nothing. I don't normally drink cider (mostly because someone once told me about the calorie content. Pathetic I know but I dare any girl to enjoy an albeit delicious pink fizzy alcoholic drink knowing it's the calorific equivalent of two McDonalds chocolate sundaes. In terms of value for calories give me the sundaes any day...) But anyway it was cold outside and it was warm indoors and the combination of pink and fizzy was too much to resist and it proved a delightful way to pass a couple of hours. On our way back home along the Thames path we almost tripped over ourselves when we spotted this:

Cherry blossoms. In the heart of winter. (And against a rare moment of blue sky). European summer time is still 65 days away, actual summer, let's be honest, is 265 days away and all these beautiful, naive blossoms do is lean in to whisper hope in your ear only to have a sharp winter gale swoop in and snatch it away before you catch it all. Do Not Get Excited About The End of Winter. This discontent has some time to go yet.

The other thing that made us stop was this:

It's not exactly what you'd calling getting your ducks in a row but it was such a funny sight, delightful both in its unexpectedness and its oddly poetic beauty. Which is no mean feat for a bunch of ratty seagulls.

I'm not sure what this week will entail. Lots of work, lots of art, hopefully some exercise, almost certainly some new shoes and probably the phone call from home that I've been dreading for nearly 12 months now. There isn't enough cherry blossom hope in the world that things will end well for the greatest of grandmothers. But hopefully there's enough for a swift, painless, dignified end. Grief is one fucked up, complicated thing. And cancer ain't so hot either.