The view from my window here: overlapping planes of roofs in blackish brick. There is a church behind, close enough to reach out and sweep with a broom. Patch of sky, upper right hand corner, sky yesterday so blue we sat on the roof and talked and weeded pots, leaving only the forget-me-nots. We moved our chairs as the sun moved, from left to right, squeezing into the strip of it below the wall of the house next door, where the priest used to live and lend his bibles to my daughter, who was doing a project on narrative and thought the bible might be a good place to start. Grubby fingernails, I was still in my nightie. Happy. The reading in the green house--no, not the green house, the greenhouse--the night before was, well, magical, the Thames was across the street, the tide was low, there was bottleglass to be picked. Supper in a repurposed power plant full of turbines, vaguely green, smooth, clean and demanding to be stroked. You (one/me) would love to have one (you/me) at home to lay books or hands on.
Saw the Hockney show at the RA last night. Exhilarating. The paintings big enough so that even with the crowds one can always see something, and then something else. What is it about landscape? There was a stump he called Totem, like Constable's huge tree trunk, you know the one. No human figures, I thought, but of course I was overlooking the eye of the artist and the eyes of the viewers, human sensibilities everywhere. Fauve colors. Swirling skies. Carpets of little flowers straight out of Renaissance Mothers & Childs. My mother, my child(s). Maybe my favorite painting was an ipad drawing-print of dandelions, yellow flowers and--what's the word?--the word for cobwebs, the word Mercutio uses in the dream speech, I forget--but diaphanous dandelion clocks. It will come back to me.
Hawthorns, the aubepines of Swan's Way--as if overnight, Hockney said, someone poured cream over the whole landscape. He called it Action Week, the few days he had to capture the hawthorn in bloom.