The Last Weekend and Several Last Suppers

It’s been an epic last weekend in London with all the requisite factors – alcohol, tears, museum visits, high teas, posh meals, public transport fails, contemporary art piñatas and pouring, sobbing rain.

I’m exhausted, a little overwrought, foggily dazed and both dragging my feet and ready to pull the pin. 

I might be flexible but I don’t thrive in limbo.

A Suitcase and a Spatula

There are moments in a friend’s life. Birthdays 18… 21… 30… (god, 40), the first dates, the weddings, frequently babies. There are dream jobs, first houses, fuck, sometimes there’s just a really awesome pair of new shoes and a bottle of good wine. And then, well then there’s the launch of a first book.

Rain, rain....

I’ve had a very quiet last 10 days thanks mostly to the free gift of a chest infection that came with my cold two weeks ago. A strongly worded talking to from Mum sent me to the doctor on Monday and I’m now working my way through a heavy dose of antibiotics. Oh the joy. I think because I tend to diagnose hypochondria before anything else I didn’t actually stop to consider my inability to breathe properly and what that might mean. I’m still quite exhausted, wan - in that fabulous Victorian sense of being both weak and white – and going through the tissues, but am stubbornly on the mend. And would be pushing on even if I wasn’t.

Thankfully the weather has co-operated marvellously and provided ideal indoor weather throughout – we’re talking heavy rain with thunder and lightning, single digit temperatures and a bracing wind. Delightful. And they’ve just forecast the coldest May in a hundred years so that should be something to look forward to. Or should I say to look forward to escaping. See you soon New York.

I wish I could say I took this with an arty filter...

The weather has been rubbish since Easter really. The winds and spitting rain on Easter Sunday that accompanied us on our trip to Hatfield House only gave the big, dark manor an even more austere feeling. And last Friday when we went to dinner in Notting Hill it was the chillies in the Pad Thai at the Churchill Arms and not the should-be-balmy-season that warmed our bones.

Hatfield House, Hertfordshire

I’m not sure if I’ve written about the Churchill Arms before. It’s this totally quirky pub in Notting Hill, on the 27 bus route towards Kensington High St and is probably best known for its evolving foliage. At Christmas time it’s covered in small fir trees and lights – in Spring (otherwise known as now despite all evidence to the contrary) it looks like this:

Inside it’s a hoarder’s delight. Everything hangs from everywhere a la higgledy-piggledy – ceramic pots and pewter jugs dangle from the roof; signs, certificates, photographs and strange charts jostle on the walls, skewed perilously, and throughout the bar and into the always-busy Thai restaurant out the back, there’s even more foliage. Heading to the loos feels like an amble through someone’s neglected greenhouse. And because of all this and more, the place is something of an institution and is thus regularly jammed with people. We were there with some freshly betrothed Aussie friends for an overdue catch up and had a grand time talking wedding planning survival strategies between mouthfuls of noodles.

Inside The Churchill Arms

This weekend has also been punctuated by some great meals. On Friday we had Argentinian steak at Buen Ayre on Broadway Market with an extended collection of some of my most favourite Antipodeans and then last night we caught up with Tor and Andy at Wahaca, the ultimate triple treat of great friends, guacamole and salty margaritas.

Today has been blissfully uneventful. I’ve pottered about the house while Lovely Boy’s been out and I have unapologetically enjoyed having the whole house to myself. Space is such a rare commodity in London – headspace, personal space, regular old space space – that lately I’ve been taking every opportunity I can to be home alone. I did occur to me today that next weekend I might take myself off to Regents Park for a picnic with the papers and to find some open space to occupy. But then of course I looked at the forecast. 

Notting Hill nights and a spring in my step

When thinking about this post, albeit last week, I had visions of myself sitting down to write, staring smugly out the window toward the blue skies and blossoms that were then gracing London. If the lesson wasn’t made pointedly clear by the clock I spotted this week on Peckham Rd then it has been now by the fact I’m sitting on the bed, swaddled in blankets and layers of fleece and going through a box of tissues at the rate of snots. That and it’s grey and miserable outside, back to single digit temperatures and the long range forecast is for (yet more) rain.

I’m not too despondent about it all – though my blocked ears are absolutely giving me the shits – daylight savings has started, and while it’s windy and cold, the trees are still ruthlessly turning green, my magnolia trees are blooming and the cherry blossoms respond to gales by shedding a delight of blooming confetti. I love spring. If potential had a time of year, spring would be it. Before it turned to pants earlier this week, we had a glorious nearly fortnight of perfect weather.

Last Friday was the last of those lovely days and thankfully I made the most of it. I took the afternoon off work, sauntering home via Putney to pick up the other framed screen print Lovely Boy and I bought at the Art Fair, before putting on my Jimmy’s and heading to Notting Hill to meet Katie, Nina and Jen for a cocktail and dinner. It was a trip to the mild, mild west for my girl o' the east but they, like me, have a special spot in their hearts for the charms of Notting Hill and so there we went, ambling down the beautiful leafy roads with their spectacularly beautiful houses and lovely posh shops. 

Anyway, I’ve been waiting 12 months to take these sparkling gold shoes out for a spin. Their extravagant purchase was made over a year ago and “justified” (if only barely…) by the fact I planned to wear them to the wedding. Before January 7 the only outings they had were around the house while I broke them in, usually while wearing Lovely Boy’s tracksuit pants. And so since their debut in January – where they ended up discarded on the grass - they and I have been waiting for an occasion and Friday was it. Dorothy knew the power of a pair of sparkly shoes and while without them I’m sure the night would have been just as divine, the shoes definitely put a seasonal spring in my step…

the naff obligatory shoes shot taken
by every wedding photographer out
there - even despite my protestations

Proceedings kicked off at Beach Blanket Babylon, a restaurant and bar in an old Georgian mansion on Ledbury Rd. The décor is pure girls-night-out: baroque light fittings, gilt mirrors, candles, chandeliers, quirky flower arrangements in quirky china teapots. And the cocktails… oh my god the cocktails. If spring had a flavour it would be the La Vie En Rose martini. Even thinking about it now makes me thirsty. Really thirsty. Reminiscent in colour of the lately cherry blossoms, the combination of gin, lychee liqueur, rose syrup, cointreau and lime juice was just prettiness personified. Add the luxe surroundings, the lovely girls and the conversation – well call me happy in a pair of gold shoes.

From here we went to the Lonsdale, detouring from all things girly with a round-table order of burgers but keeping things sensible with a bottle of prosecco to wash them down.  It wasn’t a late night but it was lovely.  Spring always gives me pause for gratitude – mostly that fucking winter is finally fucking over – but also now for the incredibly special friends I’ve made and for the life I’ve succeeded at building here in London at last.

This past week at work has been spectacularly boring, mostly because everyone I’ve needed to communicate with seems to be on holidays but I’ve enjoyed the quite office and am enjoying the Easter long weekend, even though it’s been so far squandered with coughing fits and a slight temperature. 

Because I’m stubborn Lovely Boy and I are still going out for dinner tonight – to Sketch to experience Martin Creed’s new installation in the gallery. I’m quite excited about it actually and can’t wait to see Lovely Boy’s reaction to the singing pods in the bathrooms and kinetic sculptures in the entrance hall. It should be a memorable night.

Tomorrow we’re off to Hertfordshire for the day for lunch and a visit to Hatfield House with an old family friend who’s in London for the week. So, lots to look forward to, not just a returning ability to breathe through my nose and the proper spring weather….

Tripping and skipping

While the world seems to be going to hell in a really ugly hand basket life in my little London bubble has been washed freshly clean with a healthy dose of gratitude.

It's been a satisfying kind of week. Work is going really well, though I'm still struggling to accept the reality of my new situation. A month ago and I was ready to admit defeat, suck up the next six months doing all kinds of retail hell and then head back to Sydney with the need for A New Plan. And now, well I'm going to meetings at the Royal Academy and, this week, to New Bond St for a meeting with the head of press and marketing for Louis Vuitton to talk about art and education and websites and creative opportunities. It is a total trip. Intellectually and, so it is too proving, practically. Peckham is not a fun place to get to from Hammersmith every day - in fact it sort of sucks, but this last week getting home each night at 7.30 has meant LB has had dinner ready and waiting on the table for me. A sure fire stem to my exhausted tears and a wealth of brownie points for him.

On Thursday I stayed late to finish up some work and to check out the event the SLG's young people's group had organised - a video exhibition and Q&A with the main gallery artists. It was so fabulous - the enthusiasm, the professionalism - they even ran a bar offering a bevy of non-alcoholic cocktails. It was pretty fucking cool. And then on my way home I decided to play bus lottery - ie. get on the first one that comes along going vaguely in the direction I need it to and see where I end up. On Thursday I found myself winding through some fairly unappetising parts of south London before crossing Westminster Bridge and travelling up Whitehall to Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus. I still get a kick out of the incidental history and architectural majesty that living and travelling through London offers. Which is lucky, as three hours of door to door travel every day is going to get dull very, very, soon. Or, like, yesterday.

This weekend has been lovely - in large part because yesterday was gloriously sunny. Spring is set to do just that at any moment now. The blossoms are getting their pink on and the magnolia trees, my favourite, are a whisper from exploding. I cannot wait. Yesterday I went to Notting Hill to meet my dear friend Nina, a fellow bride-to-be, and we enjoyed an extensive word vomit over flowers and table settings and dresses and ceremony plans while sitting in the sun eating cheese and drinking carrot and ginger juice at Daylesford Organic on Westbourne Grove. So civilised. I've already earmarked it as a place to take Mum next time she's in London. She might have to BYO sun though if Spring doesn't hurry up and get here.

And then last night I took LB out for dinner to celebrate my first pay cheque at our favourite Spanish restaurant, El Pirata in Mayfair. This was the same place where LB cupcake bombed me for my birthday.

Oh my GOD it feels good to be employed and to be able to do things like pay for dinner! The world suddenly feels full of possibility and conquerable even and my gratitude for the support of Lovely Boy, the Best Parentals and all my friends while despondency and quiet pessimism have been my accessories du jour over the last few months, god, let's call it a year, well it's bursting like the blossoms.

Welcome back woollens

It's cold. The clocks don't change for another two weeks, winter doesn't officially start until November 1 but today was the first day I felt it in my toes. That numbing, achy cold that says, "Hello, I think I need socks. And probably some sensible leather shoes in the form of smart boots." I was anticipating this day. Last week I pulled out all my woollens - the chunky knits, the cute cardies, the accessory scarves, the functional scarves, the v-necks, the roll necks and my three pairs of knitted bed socks. And still I left the house today in fabulous but totally inappropriate slip ons...

The grey is steadily making itself known, mopping up the last occasional blue days and sunshine with a moody sort of melancholy that will eventually see it settle in until March. Which feels like forever away and too soon at the same time. Not too soon for sunshine mind, more too soon for a new year with an old broken plan. But one thing at a time.

LB and I had a lovely weekend, armed with little more than a plan to do "Something" that involved leaving the house. Something turned out to be a stroll through Portobello Road Markets, the purchasing of an exquisite, totally insane necklace (for me, not LB) and a visit to Hyde Park to see the new Anish Kapoor sculpture exhibition. It's been a while since I dragged LB somewhere in the name of Art but we had a great time and I am now earnestly in love with Kapoor's work. His Sky Mirror appeared to me like an alchemic dish of lost souls and moments, with the stainless steel disc angled skywards and thus reflecting the shifting grey clouds and silent thoughts of the world above. It was just exquisite.

 

To write about it or not write about it however remains the question. Pithy, self-indulgent observation is one thing, sitting down to extol my MAsterful opinion on contemporary art is quite another. I still haven't written anything for myself since the knee-capping of my confidence and honestly, it feels just like that summer in 2006 when that stupid big wave at South Bondi landed on me after a moment of hesitation (FYI dive, don't think) and I came away with a mouthful of sand and an inability to go beyond knee deep for the rest of the summer without having a serious anxiety attack.

I'd like to imagine that my triumphant career version of the conquering of my oceanic panic by successfully swimming the Bondi to Bronte 12 months later was somewhere in the non-wave near pipeline but I'm not holding my breath. Basically, my convoluted point is that I think I have to learn to swim again, artistically speaking. And without the help of that patient Bronte lifeguard. 

I'm trying not to over-think overthinking it but giving up on my career - momentarily, temporarily or forever, whatever it is I'm doing right now - is basically me on the beach, refusing to get my feet wet. Or unable to. I don't know. Whatever the case, Anish Kapoor on a cold, grey day in Hyde Park made something inside me want to get back in the water. 

I guess I just have to trust that whenever I'm ready, I won't sink, despite the conditions. Though speaking of conditions, I probably shouldn't be waiting for a warm day either.  

Kissing and making up

I'm off to see the Turner Prize tomorrow at the Tate Britain before a date with Anish Kapoor at the Royal Academy. I'm looking forward to it, especially Anish, but I'm also, strangely, a little bit nervous.

I dunno, but I suspect it will feel like one of those awkward first encounters post-squabble with a good friend, the ones you just have to get through and then everything will be alright again. I mean let's be honest, art and I haven't had much to do with each other for nearly a month now and when I haven't been avoiding it I've said some rather rude and disparaging things about it in the weeks since school ended. I'm hoping it will be fine.

The last couple of days I've been interning and whiling away the hours endlessly googling everything from beef stroganoff recipes to long range weather forecasts for Sydney (23 days and about... oh.... 15 hours until 24 hours of economy hell and then... HOME. Yeehah!) I've also been looking for all and anything by way of remunerated activity for next year. A rental agreement and a lovely LB should not be my only reasons for returning to Ye Olde Land of Crappe Weather.


It rained most of the weekend. Funnily enough it always seems to rain whenever LB and I decide to visit Portobello Rd - dinner with Mamma: thunder, lightning, huge puddles. Dinner with lovely friends from home: pouring rain, enormous puddles, ruined shoes and hair. Aimless market wandering with vague hope of Christmas present inspiration: rain, rain, rain, some cold wind, some decent puddles and a solid hour in the pub.

LB did purchase me a gorgeous framed photograph though - a 'just because' present - and it now has pride of place on the wall. Makes me yearn for the day when I can afford to fill my house with beautiful art. Assuming we make up tomorrow of course.

Thump.

So it is back to reality with an ungracious landing, a strange combination of worry and excitement about my dissertation and a fabulous haircut to ease the pain of life sans parents and continental adventures.


Mum left on Friday morning and I was remarkably composed and only cried a little bit seeing her off at Paddington. Previous experience would have suggested epic streams of tears and a right public spectacle but I managed to keep it together with but a few snotty sobs. Yay for maturity.

The last three weeks have just been a tonic, and while not so much gin, there has been plenty of wine, some solid encounters with cheese and generally lots of great eating, exploring and pontificating. Berlin was true to form - good weather, cool bars, interesting art and a plethora of old school locals in socks and Jesus sandals. I love it when cliches come to life, just not so much when they then step on your toes.

Parentals had left me in charge of organising Berlin and to their credit overcame their horror at my having booked us all into a youth hostel. To their immense relief - and with only a minor withering look from me - they checked into the top floor apartment of the hostel, cosseted from the rank smell of mixed sex group dorms by two security doors, and took in what even I knew to be a pretty awesome Berlin view, as far as Berlin skylines go:


I think one of the highlights for me this time around, Berlin tragic that I am, was visiting the East Side Gallery, the longest remaining intact part of the Berlin wall, which was given over to muralists in 1989 to create images of peace and reconciliation. Over the last 20 years the wall has fallen victim both to pollution and morons from all over the world, scrawling all over it with poetic treatises that read, "Jennaya waz here". This year though, to mark the 20th anniversary since the wall came down, all the artists have been invited back to re-paint their work and this mammoth undertaking is there for all to witness and some of the most iconic images have already been brought back to life. It was pretty special to see.


Returning to London for a night and sending Maxy home after a tres posh, tres delicious, (tres) boozy dinner at Terence Conran's new venture, Boundary, in Shoreditch, Mum and I took to Paris, with a vocabulary consisting solely of tres, bon, merci and si vous plait. Thank god for maps and pointing fingers.

The last time I was in Paris was 10 years ago (what's French for "God I feel old?") and I was travelling with my cousin. All I remember from that trip was queuing to get into the Louvre, queuing to get into the Musee D'Orsay, queuing to get into Versaille and John telling me that I had no appreciation for anything pre-Monet.


This time it was totally different. I did all sorts of appreciating - of the sales, the sidewalk cafes, the boulevards, the quality mother-daughter time and the solid hour we spent in Sephora trying on lipsticks in lieu of a visit to any of the major art institutions we might have otherwise patronised in this beautiful, beautiful city. But I figure a colour palette is a colour palette and there is nothing wrong with appreciating the textures, tones and shades of the Chanel cosmetics counter and not the Fauvist wing of the Musee D'Orsay.

Quite by accident we did stumble across a little bit of culture and history - unbeknownst to us we happened to be in Paris on Bastille Day. Thankfully we realised this the day before because had we not the sound of low-flying fighter jets might have troubled us somewhat. We managed to glimpse but the end of the parade - beautiful horses carrying smartly dressed French soldiers (soldiers?), closely followed by the city pooper scoopers. If only they swept up the dog shit too Paris would be even prettier.


Not quite shopped out but with other places to visit, Mum and I then travelled north to Normandy to spend a couple of nights with friends of hers from home. Such a pretty part of the world and the most ridiculously charming house:


We had two nights and a day in Normandy and in the morning we drove to the coast, to Omaha Beach and the American War Memorial. It was a blustery day but the sun was out and the whole experience was incredibly moving and sad and thought-provoking. It's really so hard to imagine that such a beautiful stretch of coastline bears the unseen scars of some of the most horrific violence in modern history.


Nevermind the thousands of graves bearing young boys and men. It was a pretty sobering experience.


Back to the house, we then took off for this quaint little village called Honfleur. Very charming, very floral - and a sale on cashmere sweaters. You couldn't have had two starker experiences.


Eurostarring it back to London (tres civilised) LB and I took Mum to Notting Hill for a final dinner before her flight the next morning. Welcoming us back to London was torrential rain, some old fashioned lightning and thunder and a severe delay on the Central line. Ahh to be back in London.

Next major adventure: Dissertation. But before then, two days next week in Barcelona for a meal at El Bulli with dear friends from home. Sometimes my life is gloriously ridiculous.

Spring not quite sprung but getting there

Winter is definately so last season. The daffodils are out, the ratio of sun:cloud, while wobbling occasionally like a cheap drunk, is nonetheless redressing itself and there is generally an increasing sense of optimism to be found in the air. It's quite lovely actually and while not quite open-toed shoe weather it's tantalisingly close. I can feel it.

There has been much and nothing happening of late. I fear I'm turning into one of those people I normally loathe - those smiley, hand-holding, kissing on public transport types whose death by choking on their own kissy kissy smugness I regularly invoke. I suppose when the karmic stakes are measured up there are worse ways to go....

The last 10 days have been distracting and hectic and not a little tiring. I am trying to get through a hideously protracted essay, one that got well and truly left by the wayside in the dealings with all things housemate. As usual I'm juggling stress and apathy and my irrepressible need to be brilliant and it's proving fucking torturous. Especially as the deadline was two days ago... I think it will be fine once I get started though and I've surprised myself by discovering that in fact I have an urgent curiosity to understand the implications of what I'm researching.

Under the somewhat pretentious rubric of 'the art network', I have been encouraged [read explicitly pushed] to write about the Sydney Biennale, looking at how it is understood curatorially, geo-politically and artistically in terms of post-colonial theory, globalisation and the Asia-Pacifc region. I hadn't realised before now just how big a victim I had become of the cultural cringe. Perhaps my not-so-latent convict blood has realised that I'm not in Kansas anymore skippy and finding that balance between being Australian and being on the other side of the world is actually more complicated than it might first seem.

Whatever the case, it's been a revelation to discover a desire within myself to understand the place of Australia within the global world and the complexity of questions about responsibility, reception and engagement when it comes to transactions of culture.


One thing is for sure - this assignment is a long way from the last, an auction catalogue entry about Andy Warhol's famous Triple Elvis painting. Perhaps I was being provocative but I rather enjoyed comparing Elvis to a Renaissance religious icon...

God I can't wait to have this essay out of the way. So many more fun things to think about - possible weekends in Cornwall, a party at a tiki bar on Portobello Rd tonight, the arrival of European summer time....

Desperately seeking....?

WARNING: This here is where my pithy observational blog turns desperately and momentarily Bridget Jones. Maybe I'm over-tired, maybe I'm overwhelmed but is everybody in this city hooking up, making out or holding hands in MY PUBLIC SPACE? STOP IT. Please. The first four hundred times it was charming - London the new Paris when it comes to love blah blah blah. But seriously - enough is enough. I'm broke, potentially homeless and currently unemployed - must we highlight single as well? Whatevs. Just please get a room.

Speaking of... still looking, still fighting the rising panic that London is full only of mad people and dodgy accommodation. I looked at a room this evening in Whitechapel - renaissance ghetto is a term that comes to mind. Nuh-uh is another.


House-hunt/panic ongoing it's nevertheless still been an interesting way to explore London. Wandered through Shepherd's Bush on Saturday - kind of a big hole full of Australians - but a gorgeous sunny day which encouraged a stroll to Notting Hill and Portobello Rd. Gone are the days of frivolous purchasing sadly but je-sus those triple chocolate brownies make a case for "essential buy" status...

School is still going well - off to the Tate Modern again tomorrow and counting down the days until the Mark Rothko retrospective opens (10 in case anyone is interested...) First assignment is due in a fortnight - a 400 word exhibition review. Now if only they were going to pay me 40p a word to write it...


Have been walking the streets of central London quite a bit the last week, looking for galleries and tarot readers and the like (while fighting off the Heathrow Injection... multi-task, multi-task) and yesterday I came across my first Banksy work - on Newman St. Not sure how I feel about Banksy but I like his wit. And I like that for whatever reason it's been allowed to stay. For now anyway.

More house-hunting tomorrow. Oh and a hard-hat tour of the Whitechapel Gallery's renovations. Just for something different.