The approach to Reading Station is now fab, all futuristic and bendy with new roads and concrete. I remember the pain in this gain, however, and still we have no direct late night service. Thinking of starting a campaign. Encouraged by @FGW.
My lovely maternal grandmother was born 126 years ago yesterday. From what I can gather, she was the eldest of many children born to alcoholic parents,. She had a much harder life than me but was so kind. To me at least. Most found her fearsome. I will never understand why.
There are new yellow lilies in the pond, just like those in Mull.
It is just a wonderful show. What a come down to find myself on the 16.18 FGW sardine can home. My Cafe Nero Earl Grey is so piping hot that I scald myself when struggling with the lid. I wrap my hand in a cucumber wet wipe for the rest of the journey and get my head down with emails and the newspaper. Two young friends get on later and cheer me up.
A defenseless baby rabbit was beaten to death on live radio in Denmark, Fifa is a disgrace and the PM is appeasing The Tory Right. On the plus side no mention of appealing the Human Rights Act in the Queen's Speech.
On arrival at Paddington, the rain has stopped and I decide to walk. I look up for the first time, on leaving for Praed St and take in the lovely 1932 art deco office building. Pity about the passive smoking risk. This is probably why I have never looked up before; in too much of a rush for fresh air. Having abused my lungs till the age of 32, I have no wish to inflict further damage. If I am dying I may start again. Perhaps with skunk thrown in for good measure.
I send this photo to my Danish friend who has a birthday today. Seems that London is having Copenhagen weather in his honour. I decide to walk the 4km to the National Gallery. I love walking in London when time allows. I have crossed Hyde Park so often . Usually to the old RCGP building, sometimes elsewhere. My favourite memory is taking my lovely departed Mum to the Bomber Command Memorial just two years ago. 82 years old and she traversed Hyde Park with no problem. Here she is on that day.
So groovy. I miss her so much. But a short illness and not much pain is the way to do it. Not sure she agreed. I don't really know how she felt. We did not have enough time to talk about things. I loved her so much. Just hope she knew this. I took her there that day because her beloved husband, my peculiar Dad, was in the Bomber Command. One of the 10% or so to become a POW and one of the 50% or so to return. Had he not done so, I would not be here now blogging away. He would have loved to blog. For sure. And he would have told David Cameron what to do with his Eurosceptics.
There are new yellow lilies in the pond, just like those in Mull.
I need to be at the exhibition in an hour and a half so I cannot dally and explore. A shame as there is much to see in Grosvenor Square, Berkeley Square and the rest of Mayfair. I have a quick peanut butter sandwich in Trafalgar Square then brace myself for the Sainsbury Wing. It is more frantic than security at Heathrow on a bad day and the exhibition is packed. But it's worth it. I take some deep breaths, chill and ignore the crush. As long as I am prepared to move slowly, it is fine, and I have lots of time to take in so many beautiful works.
It is an exhibition with a difference, charting the ups and downs of the career of the Art Dealer, Paul Durand-Ruel, who was the most important figure in the success of The Impressionists. We have him to thank for their durability and reputation today. Born in Paris in 1831, he was one of the first to provide emotional, financial and practical support to artists. Although he was a conservative and monarchist, he supported them regardless of their creed and political stance.
Paul Durand-Ruel , Renoir.
Paul's father was a also a picture dealer and in 1865, somewhat reluctantly, young Paul took over the family business, which represented artists such as Corot and Barbizan. He was blown away by the work of Delacroix and soon established a relationship with the group of painters to whom he belonged. This would become known as the Impressionists.
During the Franco-Prussian War, 1870–71, Paul escaped to London, where he met Monet and Pisarro. In 1870 he opened the first of ten Annual Exhibitions of the Society of French Artists at his new London gallery in New Bond Street, where I walked today.
He recognized the potential of Impressionism and eventually brought their work to New York, where his three sons, ran the gallery on a daily basis, doing much to establish the popularity of Impressionist art in the United States. Here they at last achieving financial security, after periods of hardship.
Paul soon became the best known art dealer and most important commercial advocate of French Impressionism in the world. He once said, "The American public does not laugh. It buys! Without America, I would have been lost, ruined, after having bought so many Monets and Renoirs''. Up till now the Impressionists had all been working hard, but were poor and disillusioned, for their work was met with nothing but ridicule from the Parisian intellectuals. Paul was a breath of fresh air to them. The new works had had a profound effect on him, convincing him to follow in his father's footsteps after all. And now, Monet and Renoir were able to live comfortably.
The exhibition includes some of the earlier works of the Impressionist movement and is a fantastic tribute to this privileged but bold and principled man who dedicated his entire life to supporting and defending the Impressionists long before their talent was recognised. “We would have died of hunger without him, all we Impressionists,” said Monet. “We owe him everything.”
Paul's wife died in 1871 when she was pregnant with their sixth child. He never remarried, devoting himself to his artists, to whom he acted as a father figure. As well as coordinating their careers and inflating the prices of their works by paying way beyond market value, he also paid their doctor’s fees, their tailor’s bills and even their rent, thus ensuring that they could continue to paint.
It is ridiculous that you cannot take photos, but here is a small selection of the works on display, taken from the internet.
The Bridge at Villeneuve-la-Garenne by Alfred Sisley (1872)
Dance at Bougival by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1883)
Portrait of Mademoiselle Legrand by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1875)
Music in the Tuileries Gardens by Edouard Manet (1962) ( Manet is on the left)
As well as some wonderful works by Degas are some by a woman, Berthe Morisot, my favourites, I think. Just one woman. A disgrace but inevitable. Here they are.
Hanging out the Washing (1875)
Woman at her Toilette (1985-80)
It is just a wonderful show. What a come down to find myself on the 16.18 FGW sardine can home. My Cafe Nero Earl Grey is so piping hot that I scald myself when struggling with the lid. I wrap my hand in a cucumber wet wipe for the rest of the journey and get my head down with emails and the newspaper. Two young friends get on later and cheer me up.
I walk home and we have a nice night with belgian beer, fresh pasta HIGNFY. Good old Ian Hislop. Oh yes, the old man is around too.
