Carrington in Chichester

I want to write a bit more about Llanmadoc, but we also had another fun adventure, the week after we got back to Swansea.

We found out in the Spring that there was going to be an exhibition of paintings by our favorite two painters in the whole world/over all time: Leonora Carrington and Rememdios Varo -- at Pallant House Gallery in Chichester. Pallant House is a museum endowed by Edward James, who was a Lord of some kind (I think) who had a taste for Surrealist art and acquired a large collection. The museum, in association with the government of Mexico, developed this exhibition.

Carrington was born in the UK, but at a very young age she fled her family's social demands (she was a debutante and supposed to behave and marry well) and went first to London to study painting, and then to Paris--where she met the Surrealists and fell in love with Max Ernst. She and Ernst were together for only a short time before the threat of the Nazi's interrupted their artistic romance. Ernst, as a German alien in France, ended up in a camp. He was released briefly but ended up back in a Nazi camp after the Germans invaded. Carrington stayed in France for a while but eventually was forced to flee to Spain. In Spain she had a breakdown and ended up in Santander Asylum. Her family meanwhile tried to get her designated insane and committed permanently in another asylum in order to try and mitigate her "damage" to the family name. She was released from Santander, managed to give her family's agent the slip, and got away. She married a Mexican diplomat in order to obtain a visa to be able to leave Europe. After some time in New York she went to Mexico City. There she divorced (it had been a marriage of convenience, for the visas) and later married Emerico Weisz, a photographer and expatriate Hungarian Jew.

In Mexico City she continued to paint and develop a truly unique artistic style and an amazing body of work. She is now considered a Mexican artist--though she also spends some time in the US each year. She is about 93, still working.

So consider this part one.

As a p.s. There was a contest to write 150 words about the story behind one of Carrington's paintings. There were 3 paintings, 3 chances. Christien and I both wrote little poems to go with the images. So I will include one here to go with the image of one of the paintings ....




Are you really Syrious?

It is a dawn sky, the first of summer. Sirius rises: flame, fire. He noses up from the underworld where for two months he scented out the tunnels and caves, tracking through the maze. Weaver webs his progress on a loom of sails, each line of feather-fine silk is a line of light that Sirius scored through the dark. And now he is returned. There are dances to be done, another mark to carve on the totem. The long nails of the dogs scratch patterns across the marble tiles. They will all go hunting soon. Rabbits, through the dew-damp flowers. Antelopes, through the tall bent grass. The dogs will chase the hard hot heartbeat, hearing it far off in the cool morning, following its echo down toward the waiting river.

Puppies, puppies

Quite behind as usual ...

So--we were house-sitting out on the Gower for two weeks. It was gorgeous. A lovely house, lots of light. Our bedroom had windows to the north and south. South was a great rising hill topped with cairn/ruins. North was the trailing arm of the dunes out toward the tidal inlet, and a skeletal metal lighthouse (which once went on auction for 1 quid--they just wanted someone to take responsibility for the place's upkeep).

Morning one was us waking up at quarter to 7, stumbling downstairs to make sure the dogs didn't need to burst out of doors. But no, Lurchers seem to be a little bit camel (in the opposite sense) and never in a huge rush to go out and pee in the garden. But they were quite keen to get out on their walk and we rushed out the door, unbrushed, half-dressed, trailing bits of dream and sleep in our wake and bounded up the hill top (gasping desperately for air). Lurchers are part greyhound, sleek, fast, strong. Even Bella, with her injury, was a handful. They pulled us up and down. They long to chase and heaven help the sheep, rabbit, or cat who dashes past their nose if we were to lose the leads. (We managed, sometimes painfully. I brusied a finger holding onto Lyra when she lurched after a cat on one of our evening walks.)

After that first scattered business we learned how to cope better--if not gaining the upper hand exactly, we made a sort of compromise with the dogs. I came down early, let them out, had tea and a few almonds. Christien came down a bit later after stretching, and then I went up to change for the walk. Much more coordinated and organized.

First round here I will post a few pics of the dogs ...

Sweet Bella, who broke her foot in February, had just started wearing an orthodic brace and taking longer (45 min) walks with the rest again.


Lyra is the rescue that was abandoned in a parking lot. She is very shy--but warmed up to us by our first walk that evening and by the end of our two weeks we were very close. She loved to play and fetch. Can't believe a person who abuse such a sweet creature.


Terran was the baby, antsy, energentic and wicked strong! She loved to run straight up the garden and straight back again ... forget fetching.

Updatey

Just an update on the doings here.

Starting Saturday Christien and I will be house-sitting for two weeks for a family in Llanmadoc, which is out on the far north end of the Gower (right down the road, about 20 miles from Swansea, you'll remember us talking about Rhosilli, we will be north of there). Not the most glamorous of house-sits, we had looked into some in France, Spain, and Ireland ... but the most practical for us right now, basically no travel costs, etc. The owner is a Professor at Swansea U, so they were glad to get someone there associated with the school and who knows the area. Plus we figure with a "local" recommendation (all things going well, hopefully) we will have a good start toward some holiday getaway/house-sitting gigs in the future. They have 3 dogs, Lurchers (which are a mix breed, with greyhound in them) which need lots of walking. The house is right below a hill which we will be walking with the dogs every day, with 360 degree views of the sea and peninsula. They are just up from pine woods, dunes, and beach. No market except a tiny co-operative place just down the road. A real Welsh village. So we will take lots of pics and I will update how it goes! We will have internet, but not on our laptops, so I will have to post pics later.

In other news, our move will likely be the week of Sept 10th, sometime between the 10th and 17th. We are moving into a studio apartment -- which will take a little getting used to after all the enormous amount of space we've had here at Beck. However, with fire alarms and workmen and landscapers and 3 a.m. students talking outside our room, I think we are looking forward to a change. And the place will be cheaper, as well, which is good cause we need to save money, as usual!

I leave you, then, with a Swansea shot ....



This is down at the boardwalk near the beach looking back up into Brynmill and toward the Uplands. The lights and stands of the Cricket/Rugby grounds you can see right in the foreground.

California Dreaming?

Is it me, or are these California Poppies? They really look quite like them. There are a couple plants growing from a wall down on Pantygwdyr Street. I've now seen a few similar flowers at the botanical gardens in Singleton Park, but not in the pure golden California shade.




I've realized that in the past we've been very bad about taking atmospheric shots of places that we've lived. We take shots on special sorts of trips, like hikes, or of special kinds of things, like castles ... but I've realized that so much of what makes Swansea interesting is just the streets and the garden walls, and the alleys (I love the alleys) and the way you know you're in a sea town, even when you can't see it.

C & I both had a working Sunday this weekend, wrote, etc. -- but we stopped at 5 pm and walked down to the beach together. The tide was in, which I always like because then I get to touch the water. There were a number of fishermen down on the beach, and a whole group of sail boats doing S's around the buoy's out in the bay. Very lovely. Anyway, why did I bring that up ... oh ... cause I realized that even sitting in the flat with the breeze coming in through the window, you know there is sea out there--its just in the smell of the air, and the salty, seaish feel of it .... How's that for brilliant description? Hmmm, yes.

Back to the poppies--they could be transplants, there are so many plants here from all over the world. And the weather here is very California coastal ... a bit cooler perhaps. We've been averaging in the 60's -- low to high -- but that is beach weather I suppose.

I include, besides the poppies, a couple of my attempts at recording more of the everyday atmosphere of Swansea....







If you take a zig-zag route through Brynmill (neighborhood) down toward the bay you have to climb. You come out at a spot where there is a school with a gorgeous and very nautical bell on it with an amazing view of the bay and the lighthouse at Mumbles, and a great white fence. Just up from here is a pub and a chip shop (of course)


I just love rust ...

rain and cloud

After a sunny June and a fairly sunny April and May, the rain has returned to Wales. Mornings of drizzle followed by afternoons of deluges and evenings of light patter. Never realized how many kinds and qualities of rain there can be. A few days ago the rain was so tiny and faint that the droplets were alive, buzzing and drifting like insects rather than like water.

Today after a morning and afternoon of writing I hiked up to Town Hill, behind our apartment. From the edge of Uplands I could see I'd be walking into the cloud which covered the top of the hill. But its interesting because as you walk up it doesn't look like cloud--but it rains harder and harder. It was wet, but beautiful--looking at the wet beach and the ocean far below. Waves of rain rolling up the hill over the trees.

Some new pics

I am trying to get better about pictures. I just wanted to post a couple of nice ones from recent walks. June was amazingly sunny--we're told this is quite unusual, though it is the sunniest of all the months apparently. We took a long, 8 mile walk from Rhossili around the coast to Port Eynon a few weeks ago. It was beautiful if a little muggy. We saw a seal down at Mewslade beach, and "wild" horses up on the trail near the fields.

Another walk up onto Rhossili downs last week. Which is the higest point on the Gower, so a steep trek. But you could see all of the Gower penninsula--we were so lucky going on a really clear day--even when its sunny sometimes it can be so hazy. But we could spot the smoke coming out the stacks of the steel works at Post Talbot in Swansea Bay, 30 miles away. Gorgeous views.

So here are a few from those trips.

at the chip shop last night ...

I went to the chip shop late, near 10, though it was still light. Hungry cause it was a long day yesterday at Writer's Day, and our dinner was tapas, which never satisfies, unless you're willing to spend a ridiculous amount of money. Anyway, the guy at the counter, (young, perhaps in his late 20's, dark hair with a very conservative cut, dark eyes, olive skin, could be middle eastern, greek ...?) is the one who gave me extra chips last time and we had shared a quick knowing smile when he added another scoop. I came in, smiling, flirting my way into extra chips. But of course this time somehow instead of just saying "large chips, salt", a pantomine of customer and clerk, I repeated myself, stumbled, spoke the words over twice. A dead give-away. He said, "Where are you from?" "America" I said, already deflating, but still playing along with this game that is starting to become familiar. His hand, hovering, let's go of the scoop, he starts to wrap up the normal ration of chips. "Where do you think I am from?" A minefield. He gives a half-smile, looks at me narrowly. A horrid and terrible minefield I refuse to step in. If I say Greek he could be Turkish, (and they are enemies from way back), if I say Syrian or just Middle Eastern, Iranian? I keep repeating "I don't know" lightly, as he keeps saying, "Guess...", insistent now, and with a look in his eye that is not joking. Finally he says, "Iraq". I only hear the hard "kk" at the end, "Where?" "I'm from Iraq", he repeats. His eyes are intent, are asking me to answer some other question--not the one he just asked. No I am not making that up, it is not just a poetic or metaphoric device. There is a whole volume of words behind his look, just as there is when I turn to look back up at him again, flirtation over, thinking like a flash, "I'm so sorry," but biting my words down because this is a chip shop and he and I are just two people, and I have no idea what his life is or who his people are ... I can guess that with deaths from the war estimated at over 1 million in a country with a population of about 30 million, with 1 in 30 dead he knows someone, some friend or relative or colleague, who died due to the war, the violence, the starvation. And he says, "One pound seventy five" and I hand him 2 quid and he gives me my change. And I leave the shop with my wrapped packet of chips, and walk the alley back home, as the twilight turns the sky purple, streaked with red.