Mystified and busy with Grimes and Bourne

Can anyone enlighten me as to why this:
http://imogenscreativefire.blogspot.co.uk/2009/08/i-hasten-to-add.html
appears to be my most-viewed blog post ever?  As the saying goes, how weird is that?  There must be a lot of people out there who really love the word "purple"...

It's been a busy patch: work has picked up again; the hot sunny weather got completely overwhelming last weekend and has only just become bearable again; I met a friend's gorgeous new cat and fell for him heavily (he's snow-white and fluffy, very sweet-natured and slightly daft), and then scared said cat rigid by farting loudly after drinking far more cold cider than was good for me on a very hot afternoon; I ate almost a whole Walls Vienetta on my own; I went to a brainstorming session in a pub (good venue!), the new Bourne film (ace!) and a fascinating marketing workshop, and had lunch with Jane; and tomorrow I've got the afternoon off and am heading into South Ken for "Universe of Sound" with the Philharmonia at the Science Museum and a prom performance of "Peter Grimes".

I have also, needless to add, been cramming a bit of writing in around the edges.  Since it is forecast to rain for most of this Bank Holiday weekend, I may well end up doing a bit more of that.

No prizes for guessing why I'm going to "Peter Grimes" - I'll probably have a good cry, since Stuart Skelton is singing the lead.  The glorious Mr Skelton in full flow, and all that stunning Britten music and painful emotion, in the heightened atmosphere (& probably elevated temperature) of the Proms; irresistible. 

No prizes for guessing why I went to "The Bourne Legacy", either.  I would probably have gone anyway, but perhaps not as soon after it opened!  I loved the other Bourne movies; they've been a welcome blast of clarity and grittiness in a field that tends towards the bloated and ludicrously unlikely (see: pretty much any Bond film, ever)...

The latest one is, like the previous three, intelligent and exciting.  The script requires you to pay attention, listen and think, as well as assuming you know what "vector" and "metastasise" mean.  There's a very pleasing sense of a new spiral swinging off from the circles of the previous storyline, and a fascinating touch of "Flowers for Algernon"...  Rachel Weiss is, as always, excellent.  And having always found Matt Damon's who-me-I'm-just-an-Everyman good looks just a tad too doughy-faced for my tastes I am very happy indeed that with the arrival of Mr Renner's grimly brooding hunk of a new hero the eye-candy quotient has been much improved!  Along with the acting intensity.  I'm beginning to wonder if there's anything this man can't do?  I gather he also sings and play several instruments (& does DIY, and can cook, and loves dogs - hell's teeth, I'm looking at perfection here).  Maybe he can't tap dance?...

All go this week...

 It’s been very busy since I started the new role at the beginning of last month.  It’s a different kind of busy-ness to my previous job – here, one can plan and organise far more, because there is less necessity to be constantly picking up on the steady stream of new enquiries, which could feel at times like being under fire from incoming missiles.  I don’t have to do as much firefighting of sudden weirdnesses or disasters, or as much thinking on my feet, and I don’t have to deal with nearly so many really strange random things, either.  Now I’ve got over the ten days or so of grogginess which that minor operation had left me with, and the very heavy period that followed it last weekend, I have begun to feel more like a normal human being again, and I think (I hope) I’m getting my head round my new job a bit better. 

Stephen is coping well with his broken wrist, I’m glad to say; much better than I did two years ago with mine.  He’s probably a lot fitter than me, and it is his non-dominant hand, which must help.  I listen and make admiring noises on the ‘phone.

I had a touch of backache on Monday, following my first really serious gardening session of the spring at the weekend.  It was raining, and I took advantage of that to do some planting and transplanting.  I put in some echinceas and asters, and a dicentra I got in Poundshop and sowed the first of my seeds, and then did some weeding and pruning jobs.  I then did a lot of cleaning.  All three of my housemates have moved out in the last two weeks, which is a pretty weird coincidence; it’s odd to have the house to myself, but I don’t suppose it will be for long.  If anyone knows anyone looking for digs in west London, send them this way. 

Culturally this has been a slightly insane month.  Last Thursday I had a Philharmonia concert, Monday night I went to the Royal Ballet double bill of “The Dream” and “Song of the Earth”; Wednesday I went to “The Death of Klinghoffer” at the ENO, and last night I was at the ballet again, having managed to get a return for “Romeo and Juliet”.  Tonight I actually get to have an evening in – then tomorrow I’m out again, seeing Giraudoux’ “Ondine” with friends.  Next week I have another Philharmonia concert, the week after I have tickets for an English National Ballet mixed bill and the “War Requiem”, and the week after that the RB revival of “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” and a second ENB mixed bill.  Then things get a bit quieter!   I hardly know where to start with reviewing...

Music first.  The Philharmonia concert was Schoenberg and Beethoven; odd but effective bedfellows (please excuse the kinky image).  Mitsuko Uchida was the soloist in the Schoenberg piano concerto, wonderfully magisterial and jazzy, and then the second half was a thrilling seventh symphony.  My favourite maestro Salonen was conducting, with his customary combination of lucidity and passion, and the orchestra always play their socks off for him.  Then “Klinghoffer” the evening before last; a fine production of a beautiful and painful piece.  I’m a fan of Adams’ music, though the opacity of some of the libretto is irritating, and this was well worth seeing.  As for the accusations of unacceptable political bias, it struck me a remarkably even-handed over a dreadfully sensitive subject.  It is one of the duties of the artist to try and be honest, after all, and another to look at serious subjects.  By all means let the offended cry “I’m offended!” – otherwise we have no freedom of speech – but if they cry “You have no right to offend me, and so I will silence you!”  - then we have no freedom of speech, and not even the freedom to say so.  If works of art may not address any difficult or sensitive subject without being threatened with censorship for having caused offense, then god help us all.

Ballet.  “The Dream” was, well, dreamy.  It’s one of those little Ashton mini-masterpieces, a pure gem, perfectly  polished, balancing humour, charm, grace, love, magic, and fiendishly difficult technical challenges (the latter disguised with consummate delicacy as simple beauties).  He takes Shakespeare’s play and sums it up brilliantly.  Paul Kay’s cat-soft landing was an asset for his athletic Puck; Roberta Marquez’ Titania was like a sexy creature of air, Steven McRae was a sinuous, polished, decidedly nasty Oberon.  Oberon has a signature move (which probably has a proper technical name – a fast pirouette that slows to a controlled standstill and then goes straight into a sort of arabesque penchée) that looks agonisingly difficult; McRae glides through this repeatedly, looking completely at ease, and still acts while he does it.   “Song of the Earth” was, well, Mahlerian; emotionally socking, profound yet simple, evocative and tragic.

I had been meant to be going to “Romeo and Juliet” this weekend with friends but it fell through, so I was very happy to get a single returned ticket in a good spot in the Amphitheatre.  More Marquez and McRae.  Fabulous.

I know this isn’t a term one would often see used in a ballet review, but the best word I can think of is raw.  It was incredibly raw.  Not in technique – this was a top-notch cast and the company as a whole were going full-on and flat-out.   But raw in feeling; acutely naturalistic and fresh. 

Steven McRae has one of the most exposed faces I’ve ever seen; every emotion burns across him like electricity.   His chemistry with Marquez is intense, and really brings out the youth, the inexperience, the headlong recklessness of the two lovers, and their hopeless inability to hold back in the face of disaster.  It may sound a bit bizarre, but the acting, right the way through the cast, was of such an order that at times I didn’t really register the dancing; the dancing was so completely at the service of the drama.  

One little example; Roberta Marquez as Juliet, starting to relax with Paris as she dances with him at the ball, so that you see she has begun to feel more confident things will work out in this arranged marriage, with this perfectly presentable older man – but then she meets Romeo and unleashes the full flexibility of her back; it’s as though her body has suddenly come into its own, and in her increasingly pliant, yielding movement one sees volumes of sensual self-discovery.  It was acting through dancing.  One doesn’t need words, with a performance of this calibre.  Marquez is also the deadest drugged Juliet I have seen; McRae was really lugging her, in the tomb scene, the horrible indignity of it adding to his agony.  And McRae does a good line in agony; he can make a spin tortured, yet equally he has the dramatic sense to stand stock still, as though frozen by horror, during the dying Mercutio’s last dance.  He has also, it would seem, studied exactly what a very fast-acting herbal poison would do - “Oh true apothecary, thy drugs are quick!” – his is not a romantic death at all, but startlingly gritty.  The legs and hands going numb, the heart muscles and the muscles of the chest rapidly paralysed so that breathing becomes unsustainable and the circulation stops; collapse and death follow swiftly...  and I cry into my binoculars.

I wonder what the play of “Ondine” will be like?  I haven’t read it, but Giraudoux was a fine writer.  Someone ought to revive “La Folle de Chaillot”, I’m sure that would go down well in the present social climate.  Probably too inflammatory, with its message of the ordinary people resisting and eventually eliminating the capitalist leeches who want to destroy their lives...   Goodness knows I can think of a few capitalist leeches I’d like to see lured into the sewers of Paris and left there.

On which unkind note I will leave you, and say, have a good weekend!

A packed week

Well, this has been a surreal week. Mostly good, except for the house being broken-into on Wednesday evening. It sounds surreal even to say it. But it truly would have been a good week if it hadn’t been for the burglary. Even that has a good side, for me at least, because mysteriously but blessedly my bedroom door alone withstood the crowbars and did not get broken down, so I didn't get robbed and trashed.

I'd spent the weekend in Kent, down at my Mum’s. We had a splendid afternoon in a nature sanctuary near Sandwich Bay and went to a Food Fair where we bought and ate far to much in the way of gorgeous edibles from all over Europe; biscuits, mustard, onion chutney, smoked garlic, sweets, cider, mead, vegetables, bread, cake, pies, nuts, wine, olives…

On Sunday I went to a fabulous performance of “Tristan und Isolde” at the Festival Hall, with the sort of cast one could die dreaming of, including a fantastic American tenor named Gary Lehman who I’d never heard of before but will now watch out for. You wait years for a good Wagner tenor and then two turn up! – what with this chap and Stuart Skelton, I have the happy thought that Tristan, Siegmund at al are safe and secure for another generation. Well, a happy thought for a person with tastes like mine, anyway – I do realise not everyone cares a hoot if there are any good heldentenors about…

On Monday I went to a funny and touching Farewell Talk by someone at Kew who is retiring after 40 years (& who will be much missed). Then I had fish and chips, another good thing in my book. Tuesday I actually went home and cooked my own supper, finished re-reading “The Enchanted April”, and had an early night. On Wednesday I went with three colleagues for a behind-the-scenes tour of the Tropical Nursery with one of the Kew diploma students, which was fab. The Tropical Nursery is a simply gorgeous place packed to the rafters with, as the name suggests, tropical plants, of every kind imaginable including the very beautiful and the very weird.

That evening I’d managed to pick up a returned ticket for an Open Rehearsal at the Royal Ballet, so I then charged into the west End, eating sarnies on the tube, and spent an hour and a half watching Kim Brandstrup working on his new ballet with Ed Watson and Leanne Benjamin, two of my very favourite dancers. Then I went home and found the front door hanging wide open, the lock busted, Jennie standing in the hallway trying not to hyperventilate, and the place in chaos.

The front door had been broken open with a crow bar and so had Jennie’s bedroom, while Bethan’s room, where the door doesn’t even close properly, far less lock, they had simply walked into and turned upside down. They’d had a damned good go at my door as well, but it has a stouter lock and somehow it withstood the assault, though half the door frame has been ripped off. There was a heck of a mess everywhere and the girls had both had all their small portable valuables, like laptops, i-pods, jewellery and so forth, taken.

We were like three shell-shocked soldiers, incoherent with disbelief and stress. Jennie’s boyfriend Andy came straight over when she called him, and was a rock, as was Beth’s brother, who she had been out with for the evening. As for me, I had to be my own rock, but I’ve had plenty of practice at that, after all.

We were up till about 3 am, what with ‘phone calls, hysterics, and then police and more police… Matters were made worse by the fact that neither of the others had ever been a victim of a crime before, so they hadn’t a clue what to do or what would happen. I felt a little weird saying “Oh, I have, several times...”. Purse stolen x3, Assaulted x2, Home broken-into x1, Bicycle stolen x1. It’s interesting, in a horrible way, to realise the feelings of insecurity and vulnerability that come after being robbed or attacked don’t get any easier with the greater experience. I still feel like a jelly whenever I think of it, and I didn’t lose anything… I also seem to have a sort of survivor’s guilt; I ought to be delighted that my room wasn't entered, but it’s really quite uncomfortable to be the only one who didn’t lose anything.

Then more hassles the next day (mercifully I was told I could take the day off); trying to get some sense out of the landlady, finishing clearing up, trying to have a rational conversation about something this upsetting, getting a new Chubb lock fitted on the front door, and generally trying to get our respective heads around things. As well as the mess there was fingerprint powder everywhere, which turns out to be strangely clingy stuff; I have a towel thick with it in my washing basket now.

I also got mistaken for a bloke while queuing outside the public loos at Sainsburys, when I went out to get some yoghurt and a time switch for my big lamp. Grr; talk about adding insult to injury.

It always baffles me when I am mistaken for a man. I’m a bl**dy double-D cup, for crying out loud. I do not expect to have to say “Actually I don’t use the gents, I am a woman”, and nor should any woman with good, big, perky boobs. Like mine.

So yesterday was spent getting things sorted out, and then in the evening I made myself go out, as it was my one chance to see my Aunt Juliet, my darling Dynamo-Auntie from Oz. She was in London for two tourism-packed days; she’s now in Paris, then on to Venice, then Florence, and then a week on the Nile before she flies home to Adelaide again in three weeks time.

She’s my favourite aunt, as she was my late father’s favourite sister, and she never seems to change; although we only ever see one another every three or four years, I always spot her instantly. The exact same spruce, cropped-haired, colourful figure as ever came bounding towards me and, keyed up as I was, I nearly cried as we hugged. Juliet was the perfect person to see, full of warmth, common-sense and humour. We had a stiff drink followed by a light supper, and we talked and talked and talked.

And then - I went to a concert. I was determined to hold out against the urge to hurry home and check everything was safe. I had booked a ticket and I was going to use it, god damn it.

I was rather surprised when “Finlandia” made me cry, as normally I find it buoyant, rousing stuff. Something to do with being at such an emotional pitch, and all the timps, and having seen Juliet, and talking with her about my Dad. The Beethoven was lovely (good grief, Helene Grimaud is so small; I never expected to see a pianist so tiny) and the Lemminkäinen symphony (if it isn’t technically a symphony it might as well be) was simply superb. Dear Philharmonia, knocking my socks off once again. And of course, the house was all fine when I got home.

I'm planning a quiet weekend, though. I think I ran on pure adrenaline for twenty-four hours straight; I have felt completely shattered today. I know this sense of anxiety will pass, and the best thing I can do to help it is to be gentle with myself, and as normal as possible in my life. In the name of which, on with the weekend motley, and homeward with me, via M&S for some groceries and perhaps a bottle of wine – I think we all deserve a drink.

Pick-of-the-Proms, and romantic comedies...

There were seven concerts I wanted to go to in this year’s BBC Proms season. Two were sold out by the time I came to book, and one clashed with a previous arrangement. I was able to get tickets for the other four, though. As an experiment, I had seats in different parts of the hall for each concert; this was interesting, and useful, though of course putting what I’ve learned into use next year will still depend on availability of seats.

My first Prom was “Meistersinger”. I like “Meistersinger” although it is five hours plus of bum-numbing Wagner; because it has buckets of thrilling music, because unlike most of his work it has a happy ending, and because I have played in the overture (& I still know the triangle part!). I had a seat to the side of the gallery, with a fair view and pretty good sound, and despite the heat it was a good afternoon.

My second Prom was number 32; Tchaikovsky, Janacek and Berlioz. I went with my stepmother Jane and we sat in the choir stalls. The sound is surprisingly good from here, though of course it is off-balance. Jane is used to this, as she plays regularly in an orchestra herself. I’m less adapted to it, as I haven't done so for years, but I also have a less-sensitive ear. We were right above the percussion section, with a splendid view of them and of everyone else except Maxim Rysanov. Recommended if you like watching the conductor (which I like to do occasionally) and don’t mind being blown out of your seat when the timpani let rip (not a problem for someone whose Dad was a timpanist), and of course provided you don’t have a crush on a string soloist.

Third Prom was Lugansky playing the Rachmaninov “Rhapsody”, reviewed last week. For this I was right at the back centre of the gallery. Seats here sell out ahead of the sides of the gallery, but my feeling was that the sound was worse - small and a bit muzzy - and the view awful. The back of the gallery is great, sound-wise, in the Festival Hall and the Barbican Hall, and even in Canterbury Cathedral (most of which has bl**dy lousy acoustics). Not so at the Royal Albert Hall. I have a bit of an “I-love-you” thing about Nikolai Lugansky and I’m sorry I wasn’t a scrap closer to him; it’s amazing just how far away the gallery is from the stage, in that huge building. It’s like trying to see the action from the back row of the Colosseum (NB not the Coliseum – where the cheap seats have surprisingly good sightlines).

My fourth and final Prom was on Friday, and it was easily the best. Of course, it was my favourite orchestra and my favourite maestro, so there is a remote possibility I was prejudiced... I’d splashed out on a seat in the side stalls for this. For me, that gave the best of both worlds; close enough to give me crisp, clear sound and a really good view, but far enough back that I wasn’t swamped by one section of the orchestra. It was a terrific concert.

It’s available on BBC iPlayer, at least for the next few days; sadly iPlayer slots only seem to last a week. The four pieces were well-matched; the Mosolov thrillingly hot stuff, the Pärt symphony haunting, tensely meditative and melancholy, the Ravel a jazzy treat. The final piece, Scriabin’s “Poem of Ecstasy”, which I didn't know before, absolutely blew me away. And Esa-Pekka Salonen was simply wonderful. Do have a look and a listen if you have the time (you can fast forward, in a rough-and-ready manner, to get through the applause and the talking-head presenter). I know I am a creature of crushes, and very boring it must get listening to me rave about them, but honestly; watch the Maestro, and marvel. Now that is one brilliant guy, and a damned attractive one too. And it is corking good music.

I had a constructive weekend afterwards. I got several small irritating jobs done - like retuning my television, which I’ve been meaning to do for months, and mending the handle of my nail scissors. I did a lot of gardening, bought my spring bulbs and made another batch of jam (strawberry and blackberry – oh yes, it’s good!). But I slept badly and had weird dreams on both Friday and Saturday night. On Friday it made sense; I was hyped-up after the concert, fizzing with energy after the magnificence of the Scriabin, and couldn’t shake the mental image of Esa-Pekka Salonen’s honey-and-silver hair and elvish smile, and his marvellous energy.

But Saturday puzzles me; I’d had a good, busy day, spent plenty of time outdoors in the fresh air, and had a very nice supper of home-cooked fasoladha and roasted squash with feta cheese. Then I dreamed that someone I was at college with had gone to live on the island of Hvar in Croatia and got in trouble. I woke up and said to myself “It’s just a dream”, got back to sleep – and had the same dream again. Creepy.

Last night I really wanted a relaxed, no-need-to-think evening. I cooked a dead-simple supper of pasta, veg and tuna, and sat down and watched tele. So I’m a slob. I ended up with a film called “Sweet Home Alabama”, which I’d heard was a good straightforward romantic comedy. It starred Reese Witherspoon, who is such a delight in the first “Legally Blonde” film (& is so badly let-down in the second by a truly dire plot and script). It didn’t look too intellectually taxing, which was fine, as I wanted fun, not intellect. I have plenty of opera and classic French art movies on dvd if I want to be intellectual.

But it just didn’t work for me. I didn’t really like any of the characters. I felt the heroine was silly, shallow and mean, and so was the husband she had fled from. There was no explanation of why their marriage hadn’t worked, beyond a nasty story about him throwing up at the wedding. I have no doubt that that would be vile, and infuriating – but grounds for separation? Not among grown-ups, I hope. The man who wants to marry the heroine seemed far too old-fashionedly decent and nice to be in love with her. It just – didn’t work. I gave up about halfway through, so I may have missed the moment when suddenly it all came together. But I don’t want to have to sit with a film for over an hour without a single character getting my sympathy.

It’s funny what works and what doesn’t, in films, tv, fiction, you name it. I guess it’s partly a matter of taste. Comedy is such a personal thing, too; and romantic comedy must be particularly hard to write and to play. I loved “Legally Blonde”, I enjoyed “Maid in Manhattan” and “Pretty Woman” – and the latter is about as air-headed a fantasy as they come – and “While you were Sleeping”, and “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”, and “Practical Magic” and “Hitch” and “Mystic Pizza” and “Moonstruck” and “Groundhog Day”… So I know I am perfectly capable of sitting down with a chocolate box Girls’ Night-type movie and enjoying it for exactly what it is. I just wish I’d had one last night.

At least I slept okay afterwards; and no bad dreams. But no lovely orchestral ones, either.

A good week so far... Good, did I say? Best!

This has been a good week; passably good weather, a party, a concert, a behind-the-scenes tour, a chance to meet a hero of mine, then the ballet tonight and another party on Sunday. And most of my French beans have come through, and my tomato plants are thriving and growing daily.

I do love getting behind-the-scenes. Yesterday, after the dress rehearsal for their evening’s concert (& it was fascinating to discover how detailed and rigourous this was), I and four other middle-aged Friends of the Philharmonia got a backstage tour of the Royal Festival Hall. Good grief, what a labyrinth. It’s as bad as the Herbarium here at Kew.

Dozens of passages and dressing rooms and storage areas are packed together, folded round the great central box of the auditorium in an amazing piece of architectural origami. The nice Friends’ co-ordinator showing us around admitted she still gets lost sometimes – and later proved it by losing the way out. We also got a chat with one of the stage managers, the chance to go on the stage (sorry if this sounds incredibly starry-eyed, but this was a huge thrill for me), and best of all we got to meet Maestro Esa-Pekka Salonen.

Who turns out to be a very sweet, rather shy guy who needed a shave, and who couldn’t have been nicer, friendlier, or more interesting. I was, as I’d feared, completely tongue-tied at first; two of the men in the party rather monopolised things, though, giving me time to go through the process of saying inwardly “be still, my beating heart” over and over, until I was fine and could participate rationally in the conversation, even under the gaze of those brilliant slate-blue eyes.

Oh, yes, I have a crush. Horsesh*t yes. I already had, but this has reinforced it. What a lovely bloke. Oh horsesh*t yes…

Well, as I’ve said before, I’m attracted to genius, and that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. Married genius, in this case, so quite safe from any tendencies to embarrassing behaviour on my part.

Oddly, he turns out to be a lot taller in person than he looks on stage. I had thought (no offence meant) that the Maestro was a bit of a short-arse, but he’s about my height; at most, maybe half an inch shorter.

The evening’s concert was, as usual with my favourite orchestra, terrific. An interesting programming zeugma gave us Brahms, the ultra-classical purist, paired with Berlioz, most passionate of the early romantics. Both were played beautifully. Sergey Khatchatryan was a tremendous soloist in the Brahms Violin Concerto. I wish my father could have heard him; he would have been purring, figuratively speaking. In the second half, Berlioz’ “Symphonie Fantastique” was as huge and dramatic and intense as it should be, and, again as it should be, a tad bonkers.

Chatting earlier about the programme, the Maestro had remarked that Brahms “would have had a fit” at finding his work played together with Berlioz. “He would have hated every note,” he said, and then went on to remark that in the early nineteenth century there used to be fist-fights in the streets between the supporters of Brahms and of Bruckner; comparing this to today, when only football seems to arouse such violent emotion, he said rather sadly that he felt it suggested classical music was now tangential to the dialectic.

It’s an interesting point; the sort of question I’d love to corner him in the pub with. Is it that classical music is now tangential, or is it that the social structures that inform that dialectic are so different now as to render direct comparison meaningless?

After all, in the nineteenth century it was completely normal for people to want to “better themselves” – a concept so loaded now with socio-political baggage that I feel unable to use it without inverted commas. The interests, activities and passions of the educated classes were once things to aspire to, whereas today the aspiration is to become yet more intensely involved with the latest pop culture, yet more post-modern in one’s outlook. The bourgeois today aspires to be (or at least to seem) less like a bourgeois, rather than more so.

To my mind the whole things is deeply tied-up with the ingrained dirt that is the British class system. But then, how does that work in other countries? How widespread is that class system? I’ve always been taught to see it as a specifically British thing, but it must have equivalents in other countries and other cultures...

And how specifically British, I wonder, is the other factor I think may be contributing to this situation – namely contemporary culture’s profound alarm in the face of sincerity? The post-modern world view is fundamentally flip. Since everything is held to be of equal value, nothing can be genuinely serious or genuinely sincere; hence anything that is is viewed as suspect, even dangerous. And classical music, even at its lightest and most upbeat, is fundamentally serious - and most of it, absolutely sincere as well. But a cultural discourse which maintains that nothing can be authentic, that everything is relative and contingent and nothing can be understood unless seen in this way, pours out mockery and bile when confronted by sincerity. It reflects, to my thinking, a deep, deep insecurity. Contemporary cultural discourse is as terrified of the real as a mediaeval atheist would secretly have been terrified of divine retribution. And as a result, as one of the characters in “Sunday in the Park with George” says, “It seems to be more and more about less and less”.

Oof, heavy stuff, Dent. Going back to the pleasure of meeting the Maestro, seeing the orchestra rehearse, visiting the Green Room and so on, I have to say it gave me one other thrill. It is so easy, watching performers of any kind doing their thing with grace and brilliance - beautifully costumed, distant, glowing under the stage lights - to fall into a childish admiration, and see them almost as demigods. Yesterday I saw the Philharmonia in street clothes, with shopping bags and cups of coffee at their feet. I heard them push themselves hard, even make mistakes, working for hours to achieve something better and finer than the last time. It all suddenly became much more about the collaborative effort of a great body of individuals, rather than some shining final product. And that is a precious extra dimension to bring to my experience of their performances.

The last few days...

The glorious hot weather has broken thoroughly and we’ve had a lot of rain in the last couple of days, which is probably no bad thing as the soil in my little garden was as dry as dust. I haul cans of water and promise it further doses of compost come autumn, but in the meantime it is still basically London clay with a lot of stones, and it bakes hard as cement in next to no time. Mother Nature waters things a lot more effectively than I, anyway.

As for the last few days; well, “Pearl Fishers” was indeed hokum, with tumty-tum music and an inordinately silly plot even by operatic standards. Add on the fact that two of the three principals had throat infections, and the fact that my friend Alan hated it and went on about it at every opportunity, and you have a rather mixed evening. The best thing about it was the production itself, which was an intelligent and coherent updating and had a magnificent set and stage designs. Though I must admit the thought of the lovers escaping to consummate their passion soaked in petrol was a little yucky…

Saturday night, on the other hand, I went to see the programme of New Works by Royal Ballet Company Members at the Linbury Studio, and that was an out-and-out wow. I know I have a tendency to be wildly enthusiastic a lot of the time, so that sometimes anyone reading this must think everything I see is a wow! - in fact this is partly because I tend not to review things I didn’t like (just try and forget them asap), and partly because I am pretty picky about what I go to in the first place; music by A Lloyd-Webber? – I won’t bother; directed by C Bieto? – er, no, thank you; an iconoclastic and challenging production? – probably a yawn, then… But this really was an outstanding evening.

Even if some of the choreography had been dud, it would have been a treat just to see members of the Royal Ballet so very up-close-&-personal (I was in the second row, and had Thomas Whitehead’s perspiration literally flying around me at one point). There were no turkeys among the six new pieces (five premiers and an expanded version of something I saw at a gala in the winter); even the weakest piece was interesting, and tremendously well danced, and the best were downright thrilling. It’s very hard to single out highlights when standards are this high: “Hallelujah Junction” was a feast of incredible athleticism in sky-blue Star Trek uniforms; “Lieder” was a haunting pas de deux about longing and disconnection; “One Shade the More” made wonderful use of the chemistry between Steven McRae and Roberta Marquez.

I clapped so much my wrist watch stopped, which must be one of the odder tributes one can pay to a bunch of performing artists. Mind you, that said, I used to have a front-fastening bra that would come undone if I applauded hard while wearing it; I’d be clapping away madly and feel this sharp “ping” and think “oh dear, the puppies are loose”… Most embarrassing.

After that I had a lovely meal out at my local Turkish place, Lara Restaurant on Turnham Green Terrace; cold beer, tarator, which is basically tsatziki but with spinach instead of cucumber, and wonderful falafels with tabbouleh and a garlicky dip. My mouth is watering now just thinking about those falafels. I do love my grub…

Most of Sunday was taken up with gardening. I had a list of jobs that I thought would take a couple of hours, but I kept seeing more things to do, and it grew and grew until at 7 pm I was gasping as I tried to straighten my back, and the day was almost gone. Gone very satisfactorily, but gone nonetheless!

Yesterday evening we had a Work Do; a buffet and barbecue on the roof terrace of the naffly-named Inn The Park, in St James’s Park. Kew’s new caterers run this, so I think it was basically a charm-offensive; we enjoy the food, we tell enquirers the food is good, they eat and enjoy, everyone wins. Everyone would have won if it hadn’t been raining hard, but that did slightly dampen things down. Nonetheless the food was good, the wine was plentiful (and much better quality than I can normally afford), and the setting, looking out over soft green trees in the rainy dusk, was poetic in the extreme (but wet).

And on Thursday I am going to a behind-the-scenes “Meet the Philharmonia Orchestra” event before their concert at the Festival Hall; a wonderful opportunity – I like getting to see backstage pretty much anywhere. Of course I will probably go tongue-tied and be unable to think of anything sensible to say if I meet Maestro Salonen, who is conducting them that evening. But I’m hoping to have the chance to tell Andrew Smith and Peter Fry how much I always enjoy watching them at the timps.

Always enter competitions...

Following my own stated philosophy, I'm trying to do as instructed and enter a comp for a free crit. "Gabriel Yeats" has already had one, which it got on merit (yay!); this comp is a draw, though, so totally random. Never mind.
I have to do this:
http://editorialass.blogspot.com/2010/03/half-million-and-counting.html

There; no harm done and it's all grist to the mill, ect ect moleworth he sa. And Editorial Ass is a very funny blog, so I don't mind steering you to it.

Last night I heard Joshua Bell playing Beethoven with the Philharmonia. And then some more Beethoven. Conducted by Maestro Riccardo Muti (= gravitas, presence, fiery control, and the epitome of an attractive older man). I think I'm still a little lost for words...

Emotional barometer going down again

Feeling rather low after a physiotherapy session this morning which was a mixture of encouraging and deeply dispiriting. There are not going to be any quick fixes with this wrist of mine.

Some aspects of the session were encouraging. My flexion is "pretty good considering" and my finger strength is "excellent". My pronation and supination - the pivoting-from-below-the-elbow movements - are much as expected. But my extension - the bending-back movement - is non-existent and my radial deviation is poor, and both of these may be affected by the position of the plate in my arm. I have a list of exercises as long as my arm, and two different types of massage; all of these have to be done several times a day. No starting on strength exercises until I have more flexibility, since strength exercises will not lengthen the muscles but if anything shorten them; I need to lengthen them back to a good normal standard before i do anything else. I've also been given a night-splint to wear; rather like a brace for one's teeth, only to stretch the tendons instead of straightening the gob.

I came out feeling tired and shaky and rather dismal, got as far as the tube station saying "Pull yourself together, woman" to myself, and then gave up, and limped into Starbucks for a large coffee and an apple doughnut. It's no good; when you feel weepy and wimpy sometimes you just have to accept it. I dropped my teaspoon in the café and nearly cried at that; so clearly I am hardly emotionally robust at present and I'd do best to be honest with myself about it.

Last night's Philharmonia concert was exhilerating; George Benjamin's "Dance Figures", which I didn't know and liked enormously; a dazzlingly icy and bravura Stravinsky concerto from Viktoria Mullova (in a very strange nightdress-like frock worn over black cigarette pants - not sure this was a good look, though it did leave her arms free), and the Bartók "Concerto for Orchestra", which I adore and was duely blown away by once again. The brass practically lifted me out of my seat. The first time I heard this it was being played by the amateur orchestra my godfather Jim Clinch used to conduct - it's probably one of the most ambitious things they'd ever tackled - and at the end, in the split second before the applause started, Jimmy could be heard hissing "Well done!" as he laid down his baton. I think that was the concert when he lost a dress-shirt button ten minutes before the start and I got hoiked into the Green Room to sew him back together (I am one of those odd people who carry needle and thread, and sticking plaster, and a rubber band, and a pencil sharpener...). Sadly I don't think I'll ever get to rescue Maestro Salonen from a sartorial whoops, but one can't have everything in this life of ours.

I know the Benjamin piece was choreographed (by Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker, I think) on its première, but someone ought to play it to Wayne Macgregor anyway; I'm sure it's right up his street. For that matter, I don't think anyone's ever made a dance piece to the Bartók, either, and it practically cries out for movement.

I came home on a high, trying to write a poem about Bartók. Must remember that, when I feel low. There is so much beauty in the world, so much of excitement and passion. My little woes amount to less than a grain of sand in comparison.

Exhausted...

Last night I went to hear David Fray playing Mozart at the Festival Hall. Lovely. Bizarre-looking lad, though, I must say. His publicity pictures make him look smouldering, chiselled and cheekbone-y - trying to draw in the "Twilight" audience to classical music, perhaps? In the flesh, he looks like baby bro aged thirteen; six feet-odd of gangly, skinny, stooping awkwardness with huge feet, and hair in his eyes. By gum he can play, though. His Mozart (Concerto no. 20) was delightful, beautifully balancing emotional tension and delicate precision; his encore, which I didn't recognise, a distillation of ethereality, floating melodic veils of sound (excuse the attack of the purples). But it's Nikolai Lugansky they should be promoting as a pianist-sex-symbol, not this wee boy; and his (Lugansky's) publicity shots make him look like a horse. Weird.

Why won't the rest of the world agree with me about what constitutes good looks, I wonder? Now there's a rub...

The second half, for a bit of contrast, was Mahler 5. So I am pretty tired today - though not as tired as the Philharmonia boys and girls, and Maestro "Father Christmas" Segerstam must be.

Things kept going funny on the computer this morning, and at first I thought it was me, because I was so tired; it was almost a relief to hear we had a virus in the system. In the end everything got shut down for an hour and a half. Poo.

Off home, via Sainsburys in the rain; it's Friday, hurrah, and this time next week, touch wood, I'll have both hands and both arms free. I may even be able to hold a pencil and make a line that goes where I want, instead of where it willeth. I am so nearly there... and I am so very tired... I am a weed.

The Immies 2009; my cultural highlights of the past year...

It's been a quiet day at work.

Thinking about "Les Patineurs" I was reminded of how, a bit less than a year ago, I came out of Covent Garden after seeing "Isadora" (a muddle, I'm afraid, and a waste of the very considerable talent performing it) and the magically wonderful "Dances at a Gathering", practically walking on air because the second piece had been so brilliant. It was definitely one of my highlights of 2009, and I have been wondering what, with hindsight, I would classify as the others.

I must emphasise that this is a purely personal collection of things I attended during 2009 which have stayed with me and which spring to mind instantly when I think "What were the big highlights of last year?" SO - not necessarily the greatest, just the particular things that hit my cultural g-spot; highly influenced by my current tastes and passions and by the fact that for some reason, I went to a lot of concerts and relatively few exhibitions last year; and certainly not selected through democratic decision-making processes. And if I had to think too long about why something was good, then I didn't count it; it had to be right there in my memory, leaping about like a spring lamb, bleating "Remember me?!"

So here, anyway, are the winners of the Imogen Awards - The Immies 2009.
Tum-tata-taah!

Albums of the Year (by which I mean, the top-played recordings among those I bought in 2009; I'm excluding things bought in the past but played a lot last year, like "The Cunning Little Vixen"):
Spiro "Lightbox"
Michael Nyman "MGV"
Edgar Meyer, Joshua Bell and friends "Short Trip Home".

Exhibition of the Year:
"Wild Thing" at the Royal Academy. The Gaudier-Brzeska and Epstein works are simply astonishing (though Eric Gill I can walk away from without a backward glance).

Concerts of the Year:
Mahler "Symphony no. 2" in Westminster Cathedral; Philharmonia Orchestra cond. Benjamin Zander.
Berg "Violin Concerto" & Mahler "Symphony no. 6"; Philharmonia Orchestra cond. Esa-Pekka Salonen.
Janácek "Sinfonietta", Lindberg "Graffiti", Stravinsky "The Firebird"; Philharmonia Orchestra cond. Esa-Pekka Salonen.

Orchestra of the Year:
The Philharmonia (in case you hadn't guessed).

Theatre Performance of the Year:
"War Horse"; Royal National Theatre. Unmissable.

Dance Performances of the Year:
"Dances at a Gathering", "DGV" and "Ondine" - all at the Royal Ballet, all terrific, all perfectly cast, perfectly danced, and perfectly played in the pit. "Dances at a Gathering" even gave me three gorgeous ginger men all on stage at once.
"Akademi Daredevas '09" at the Purcell Room - breathtaking Indian classical dance and contemporary dance drawing on Indian classical models.

Opera Performances of the Year:
Verdi "Don Carlo"; Royal Opera.
Adams "Dr Atomic"; English National Opera.
Berg "Wozzeck" (concert performance, part of the "Vienna, city of dreams" series at the South Bank); Philharmonia Orchestra cond. Esa-Pekka Salonen, soloists inc. Favourite Baritone in heartbreaking form.

World/Folk Performances of the Year:
WOMAD 2009 at Charlton Park. Sheer music-festival-bliss, despite the rain, and so much good music it is hard to single out individual performers or groups.
Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers at the Royal Festival Hall.

Unclassifiable Cultural Event of the Year:
Re-Rite at the Bargehouse.

Individual Performers of the Year:
Instrumental; Nikolai Lugansky playing Rachmaninov Piano Concerto no. 3 at the Royal Festival Hall.
Vocal; Stuart Skelton in "Peter Grimes" at English National Opera.
Roderick Williams in "The Magic Flute" at English National Opera.
Dance; Miyako Yoshida and Edward Watson in "Ondine", Royal Ballet.
Melissa Hamilton and Gary Avis in "DGV", Royal Ballet.
Theatre; The horse-puppetry teams in "War Horse", Royal National Theatre.

A sketch! A sketch!

Can you tell what it is yet (because the quality isn't great)?

I don't know his name, but he plays the double bass with the Philharmonia and he was resting and having a little think, mid-"Rite", so I drew him.

Many thanks to Viveka Gaillard for her help - but I can see I'm going to have to find a better system for this. Still it's a start - this is what my thumbnail sketches look like and I have a gazillion more of them, as well, now, as two large A1 mixed-media drawings worked up from them.

Drawing madness

I spent yesterday evening working from my orchestra sketches, developing some of them into more carefully-worked drawings, trying to find ways to explore the things that fascinate me about the orchestra.

I can't express the music!! I haven't got the space to express the scale of this huge group of people and their monumental work. I can't do a portrait of each individual musician, I haven't got the time (though it would be tremendous fun). So where do I go with this? Because it has to go somewhere; I am fizzing like shook champagne at the moment, and this energy has to be poured out and made use of, or I will pop.

I am interested, visually, by the tension between the individuality of the players as people and the fusion of those individualities into a harmonious ensemble. Looking along the fiddle section, for example, every instrument is the same shape, every bow is the same shape, and every player is making more-or-less identical movements; but the individual human beauty of each player is unique. In formal visual terms there's an intriguing balance there.

I think what I am going to do is to work up to making some A1 drawings, like the pieces I did years ago based on sketches I had done in Canterbury Cathedral. Big, nuanced, multiple-overlayered charcoal pieces. I am excited just thinking about it. I am excited. I don't know who it was who thought of this idea, this crazy "digital residency" that has given me licence to draw musicians without getting in their way, but whoever you are, thank you! and blessed be!

Re "re:Rite"...

I'm so sad to see that only the Daily Telegraph have bothered to send someone along to have a look and listen to this extraordinary project. Darn it, I don't want to turn into a Telegraph reader; that would be embarrassing.

I have to agree with some of Ivan Hewitt's remarks, too. I think it's the first time anyone has done something like this, on this scale. It is hugely ambitious; and they certainly didn't pick a nice, safe piece of music to use, either. I used to use "The Rite of Spring" on my headphones when I was an art student, playing it over and over; staying late so I could get the studio to myself, dancing and drawing together, getting filthy with charcoal and acrylic and practically hurling myself at the walls as the energy built up and up. I got a touch of the same fever yesterday, and I was just doing pencil studies in an A5 sketchbook. What I want is for someone to make over to me a final, unused room in the Bargehouse, and give me charcoal and paint and a sheet of paper about six feet by twenty, and let me loose for the duration. I know that isn't going to happen; but I can go back and draw some more, at least.

One problem is that it was full of kids, and the "try out the percussion" room was consequently a nightmare of toddlers and parents squabbling over the gong, the tambourines and the bass drum, and a fearful racket was resulting. One had to simply tune it out. Then there is the problem that the screens in each room do not recreate the experience of being in the middle of an orchestra, because almost without exception they each show only one section of the orchestra - violins here, clarinets there, and so on. It is still amazing to get up close and personal with some of the best clarinetists, violinists, etc, out. But one doesn't get the surrounded-by-musicians feeling, the awe-inspiring sense of a huge collaboration, and the tension of that collaborative effort holding together, that I remember being such a buzz when I was a terrified and inept teenaged percussionist.

The up-close-&-personal thing is a little strange, too; it is odd to be so close to life-sized filmed poeple, and their indifference is somehow of a different order to that of filmed people on the small screen of the tele. I felt at times as if I were snooping on them; and I did catch myself once or twice muttering "Give us your profile again, lad" or "Please show me that fingering again" at the screens. And even (forlorn hope indeed, this!) "Keep still, Maestro!"

So I'm not sure the project accomplishes all that was hoped for it, but I still think it is exciting; and it has given me a chance to do something I haven't done for ages. I'm now so fired up about drawing I don't believe myself. Good heavens, did I actually go through a phase recently when I no longer carried a sketchbook around with me? Weird.

When you come to work for a rest...

It's been a busy weekend. I wouldn't change a scrap of it, but it has all been a bit rushed. I managed to do at least some of the week-in, week-out sensible jobs, like grocery shopping and clothes-washing. I made a disgracefully good risotto, and an even more disgraceful chocolate & chestnut mousse. I had lunch with my mother and went to an exhibition at the Royal Academy - an odd yoking of cool, formal, very-knotted-up Eric Gills, powerful early Epsteins, and a roomfull of stunning pieces by Henri Gaudier-Brzeska. Then on Sunday I passed several blissful hours standing drawing musicians at "re:Rite" - I'll probably never again get the chance to draw members of an orchestra that close up, and I intend to make the most of it, so I'll probably go back at least once. Then I went to a live concert to follow up the weird filmed and played-in-a-warehouse one ("re:Rite" is really rather peculiar altogether; more of that in a moment), and finally crept home, via my local indian takeaway, because I was too knackered to think, let alone cook. And I like their Saag Paneer.

The live concert was lovely, luckily. I was concerned that I would have wired my brain to modernism at "re:Rite", which is, as the name suggests, a performance of "The Rite of Spring". This is one of my all-time favourite pieces of music, and that is a good thing, since if I am going to spend a lot of time at it, drawing, I'll be hearing the piece several times over. I got about two and a half rounds of it yesterday, and didn't stop thinking it brilliant.

But I did worry, as I dashed, wolfing a small sandwich, back down the South Bank to the Festival Hall, that Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninov and Sibelius were going to sound a tad, well, conventional, in comparison with the Total Immersion Stravinsky Experience I had just had. The Tchaikovsky "Voyevoda" overture, to be frank, did (& I may now have added insult to injury by spelling it wrong); loud and jolly. Then Nikolai Lugansky came on and played Rachmaninov (piano concerto no.3) and blew me away; it was as though my brain had hopped across a bridge and come into a perfect place for this. Utter lush romantic passion, manly romantic passion that is, not sugary gambolly stuff in the manner of Hollywood. Mr Lugansky was wonderful - and he is delightfully ornamental (his picture in the brochure is very unflattering - he turns out to be about 6 foot four and fair, with a long nose and ravishing hands >sigh<). If he had been feeding me champagne and christmas cake on the side (between cadenzas!) I could hardly have been happier. And the Sibelius (no.2) went down a treat. The last time I heard this, it was played (with brio but a distinct feeling of "oh christ we are out of our depth now") by the amateur orchestra my stepmum and baby bro play in, so it sounded rather more clear and polished here in the hands of the Philharmonia. On whom, I have to admit, I am developing something of a collective crush...

It was a good curry, too.

All in all a great weekend; but I am tired, and a steady day answering silly emails seems restful in comparison. Tonight I am off to a performance of bluegrass banjo music. Ickle Miss Eclecticism, that's me.

This looks really interesting...

I haven't played in an orchestra since I was 17, when I acted as Assistant Percussionist in the University of Kent student orchestra (my father was their timpanist and he needed a spare pair of hands he could trust sometimes). I've always remembered it as tremendous fun, and absolutely terrifying - something of the same terror that goes with trying to cope with life in a foreign country when one knows almost none of the language.

Now my favourite orchestra, The Philharmonia, are doing this
and it looks bonkers but incredibly exciting. I shall have to go and see... I hope it isn't too much aimed at kids - always a possibility these days when accessibility is the top criterion for so many arts-based activities. But I'll take a sketch book along - if nothing else, I can draw double-basses (& double bassists) to my heart's content...

The darned laptop, and a bit of philosophising.

No, it was no good; that is one seriously ill laptop I am nursing there. I think it may have got a virus. I used one of those discs in an internet café a few months ago; it was a café I've used many times without trouble, but I guess that may have lulled me into thinking it was safe...

When I get my Dad's legacy in December I think I might treat myself to new laptop. A Mac laptop; the computer that speaks english instead of computerese. Now that would be nice.

It is particularly frustrating because I was making good headway on something, and am full of ideas to move another thing on. I'll have to go back to using the old-fashioned paper and pen method. Cor, real hand-made writing! - I'm such a retro chick.

Better news arrives from the box office of the Philharmonia, who, bless them, are holding three seats for me for a concert that is selling out fast, although my booking form has got lost in the postal strike. Now that is customer service! And it means I will get to worship at the altar of Joshua Bell at the end of March, and industrial action be dammed! I shall go to the ball; size eight glass slippers and all.

Had a very interesting conversation last night with my new housemate Jennifer (tall, thin, Hungarian/Canadian hybrid, a gentle rather absent minded young woman with a great sense of humour and a penchant for junk food). She had a near-fatal accident a few years ago and a near-death experience as a result, and was fascinating on the subject. She told me how strange it was trying to square in her mind the medical information about what really happens in such experiences with the overpowering vividness of what was an entirely objectively real experience to her at the time. She also spoke of how true it was for her that the brush with death gave her a strong sense of wanting to remake her life into something more fulfilling and less materialistic, and made her aware of the importance of living in the day and appreciating the moment. I still remember sitting in Christchurch on Ealing Broadway after I'd been told my ovarian cysts were normal cysts and not the pre-cancerous kind; and I agree with her wholeheartedly. Life is too precious to pass chasing after work promotions, power-based relationships, and new shoes.

So tonight I'll get out a nice, fat, clean notebook, and get on with some old-fashioned hand-made writing.

And a Leviathan in action

I should have also mentioned the concert itself, shouldn't I? Slightly odd one to start with, very cool and collected, Mendelsohn and Brahms. A little too cool for me, and I was left feeling a trifle unengaged. I'm not good at engaging with music using just my mind, I'm afraid. I guess I'm too somatotonic. I want the visceral, physical oomph of the music hitting me; the sensual pleasure of it. Live orchestral music can feel like being literally bathed in waves of sound; it caresses my skin and flashes through my guts, the vibrations entwining with my heartbeat and taking life as they meld with my own living tissue.

Last night this wasn't really happening at first. But then, after the interval, although we stayed with Brahms, the temperature was shoved up close to boiling by the monumental playing of Yefim Bronfman. This is one big man. Big in every sense, ability as well as build, and more than a match for this big concerto; he looks as if he could crack walnuts with one fingertip. He was terrific. He played with drama and precision, tightly together like twins in a neck-and-neck race, both the scale and the delicacy the piece needs, and he brought the house down.

I had heard good things of him, I went primarily for this, and the man (or should that be The Man?) delivered, in large, perfectly judged spadefuls.

Good things - list for the day

Good things about this time of year; because I have to remind myself, being essentially a spring creature and not an autumn and winter one.

Russet apples. Picasso painted them, I eat them. Their strange, furry-looking skins and rich-flavoured, firm flesh are a joy of the season. Like the wonderful Discovery and Worcester Pearmain, they are strictly seasonal and are one of my reasons for continuing to live in the UK. Seriously – British apples are a reason to live here. Try Spanish apples if you don’t believe me.

Autumn leaves. Do I need to say more? Sheer beauty, and all the evanescence of spring with the added poignancy of fading and ending instead of new life…

Booking tickets. I’m partway through a binge of bookings for concerts and ballet and opera for the winter. As the weather gets colder and the days get darker, at least I have lots of goodies to look forward to, from Vieux Farka Touré, to two new pieces premiering at the Royal Ballet,
to this
to Stuart Skelton singing Boris in “Katya Kabanova” (can’t wait, can’t wait; have to wait, bah!).

Conifer pollen. I used to have dreadful hayfever in my twenties but it eased off gradually as the years went on, and by the time I started working at Kew it was a thing of the past. At this time of year a lot of coniferous trees are flowering, and if, like today, it is rainy (which is what they need, as it is via the action of raindrops that their flowers are pollinated), the paths and pavements around here are speckled and streaked with the pale gold dust of fallen pollen. It reminds me of the line in Seferis’ “A Word for Summer” – “A few pine needles left after the rains/Raggedly strewn, and red like tattered nets” – only with blonde pollen not rusty needles. As the rest of the northern hemisphere’s plant world thinks “Time to shut up shop for the winter”, conifers are going “It’s that time of year again – hey, let’s make babies!” On windy days the pollen dances off the trees in clouds, like millions of tiny blonde sprites leaping together into flight.

Evenings when the muse is tired, watching movies on my new dvd player. I tidied up my dvd collection last night, sorting it into feature films, opera and concerts, and ballet... In the process, whetting my appetite for a good wallow in all three categories. Next rainy evening, I think I might settle down to "Swan Lake", or possibly "The Devil's Backbone", or possibly "The Cunning Little Vixen" (which I have bought a new copy of since my old one has vanished into the unknown tender hands of someone else who likes Janacek...

Migratory birds. Redwings. Beautful geese flying in from the artic. Chilly afternoons at the London Wetland centre blowing on my numbed fingers, trying to draw Great Crested Grebes in their stark, spare winter plumage.

Winter walks in the arboretum here at Kew, listening to robins singing and nuthatches and goldcrests and long-tailed titmice trilling their signal calls, and soaking up the bleak, misty, dripping atmosphere under the dark pines.

Mythical figures in concert

Last night at the Festival Hall was a nice concert of uncomplicated happy music; a complete contrast to “Wozzeck” last week. Just as there is a place for cartoon comedy in the world, so too there is a place for the full-on, heartily relished, colourful romanticism of Dvorak and Glazunov…

The Glazunov Violin Concerto, which I hadn’t heard before, was rather lovely, with a fast, tangy finale. It was played with delight and passion by Nicola Benedetti, in a wonderful dress that made her look like a mermaid. And conducted by Leif Segerstam, who I only knew from the radio until now. He looks like Father Christmas. So like, it’s uncanny. He stands at the rostrum to acknowledge applause, opens his broad arms and beams at us; Father Christmas, his very self. You just want to run and cuddle him. Damned good conductor, too.

So Father Christmas conducted, and a mermaid played the violin, and the Philharmonia did themselves proud with a lushly romantic programme, and I had a very pleasant evening, complete with a glass of tender, cold, liquid smoke on the balcony at the interval. I mustn’t make a habit of that, but I wanted to treat myself, and a measure of Laphroaig isn’t that much more expensive than an ice-cream.

Atmospherics after dark (with apologies to Tom Robinson, who may not even like Janacek)

Last night I discovered that the concert I had been to last week was on the radio, so I settled down with my plate of macaroni cheese to listen. The reception was terrible for about the first fifteen minutes – the start of “Sinfonietta” sounded as if it were being played in the shower – and I had to keep springing up to fiddle with the tuning. Every time I touched the dial, the reception improved dramatically, only to go off again the moment I let go. It made no difference if I had actually altered the dial or not – the improving factor was physical contact with me.

I am forced to the conclusion that my body is a gigantic radio aerial, an idea I find vaguely worrying. I am not made of metal, and I am not terribly technical (anyone who does know about radios is probably laughing at my naivety at this point). Besides the slightly disturbing “radio waves are dripping all over me” feeling, this also meant I had to stand up constantly, which interfered with my appreciation of my supper.

But then, oddly, the reception suddenly improved. The shower noise stopped and I could appreciate the rest of the Janacek, and the whole of the Lindberg and the Stravinsky, in comfort. It really was an excellent concert – I hope they consider releasing it on their own recording label. After all, clearly a recording has been made, by the BBC, so why not make use of it? As well as the quality of the performance, it was a superbly chosen programme, with two modernist masterpieces and what I feel on second hearing is certainly a natural successor. The three pieces complemented one another beautifully; like one’s handsome cousins at a wedding, they were delightful as individuals and as parts of a family relationship. It was particularly good to hear the Janacek played with such clarity and what I can only call lack of sugar. It was a great illustration of just how wide is the gap between that thick viscous layer of sweetness, like cheap salad dressing, that is sentiment, and powerful feeling, expressed with sincerity and commitment but without ostentation.

The upshot of all this, though, is that I have decided to treat myself to a decent new radio. It was so much more pleasant to be able to sit and eat, and then get on with my sewing, without having to keep tweaking the tuner.

I am working my way through a large pile of items of clothing that are nice but that don’t fit me, turning them into slightly different (& sometimes slightly odd) items of clothing that do fit me. If I had a digital camera and the means to upload pictures I’d do a fashion-shoot sometime – some of the results are actually quite good, and they bring me both the satisfaction of creative needlework and that of demonstrating an efficient household economy.

After the concert I put the sewing away and sat up till 2 am finishing “The Birds Fall Down”. I’m slightly pie-eyed today as a result; and tonight I am off back to the Festival Hall for “Wozzeck” (pauses to take deep breaths). I fully expect to be pulverised, both aurally and emotionally.