Is it me ?!!!!!

IS IT ME????  Am I INSTANT DEATH to any restaurant through whose portals I enter?   I truly don’t understand it.  I take our restaurant ventures seriously. We’re not great gadabouts, but I read all the reviewers I care about – A A Gill, Giles Goren, the Good Food Guide, and a few others here and there -  and I ponder about the location, the price (oh God, THE PRICE!), and when everything seems to fall into place (or even when it doesn’t), I talk my wonderful husband into taking me.  In spite of years of CONSTANT disappointment, I still enter with a spring in my step and optimism in my heart.  At my age, I really should know better.

And so we come to The Quality Chophouse.  The clincher, of course, was Giles Coren saying that this was a restaurant you simply HAD to go to before you died – a touchy subject at my age, let me tell you. He positively waxed rhapsodic.  Well, I thought, obviously we HAVE to go.  I want to die HAPPY, after all. The fact that it was a HUGE schlep across London from Kensington gave me pause, but not for long.  Hey, it’s going to be worth it, right??? And I will die HAPPY, because  Giles said so.  So we went, taking our friend Alex with us, because this was a treat to be shared.  Had to hire a car, but that’s what you do if you don’t have one and the restaurant you’re heading for is halfway to Siberia.

DISMAL BEYOND BELIEF, this gloomy little area of London, this gloomy little restaurant with quite possibly the most underwhelming food I’ve had in a long time.  And I’m not even going to talk about the most uncomfortable seating I’ve sat on in a long time (my bones are still creaking).  Because if the food is good enough, you don’t really care about the seating.  WE CARED.  Oh God, WE CARED.  It was impossible to ignore.

I came home totally deflated and SO DAMN CROSS. This is howa I feel when my high expectations are dashed, which, unsurprisingly, is quite often.  And did I learn anything at all from that?  Obviously not, because our next Big Venture into Fine Dining was, again, a result of another Giles Coren review.  This one is called Gymkhana, and the food is Indian.  Now, I grew up with Indian food – we lived next door to an Indian family who became good friends when I was a child -  and I ADORE it.  I’ve eaten the best over the years (and probably some of the worst).  I KNOW Indian food, okay?  We are ALWAYS on the quest for a good Indian restaurant, preferably one that doesn’t require a second mortgage to dine there (incredibly difficult to find).

If I’d had my wits about me (recently they seem to have been mislaid, but only temporarily, of course), what should have rung bells and given me a message loud and clear was that Giles started off by writing words to the effect that he had never really liked Indian food.  And thereafter proceeded to shower this restaurant with all the highest accolades he could possibly think of.  So of course we went.  And yes, yes, it was STUPID of me.

The most notably memorable thing about this particular evening happened after we were ushered down to the bowels of the earth to the lowest level, which I didn’t mind, EXCEPT my God it was DARK. One little dim flickering light stuck on the wall next to our table, to the extent that we actually couldn’t read the menu. No, no, I’m serious, we TRULY COULD NOT READ IT.

Now comes the wondrous part (and no, I’m not talking about the food):  when we flagged down the (very nice) guy in charge and asked if MAYBE, just POSSIBLY, we could get an extra candle or a torch to read the menu, he whipped out his iPhone, switched the light on, placed it upside down on top of a wine glass and HEY PRESTO, we had a lamp on our table.  He’d obviously done it before, and I truly don’t know what to say about that.

The FOOD??  I can only say that there was not one compelling reason for me to want to return.  This may sound immodest, but I generally do it better at home, although there are times when I’d rather not.   The search continues.

So who can you trust these days?  Not you, Giles, that’s for sure.  Give up the day job and take care of your kids instead, okay?

I can’t end this without special mention of Bill’s, which has recently opened around the corner in Kensington Underground Arcade. A new restaurant opening in Kensington is always a subject of burning interest to us locals – good ones in our neck of the woods are few and far between, although it was not always thus.  This one has the dubious distinction of being the first restaurant I’ve ever been in where you can only – and I mean ONLY – get crushed ice in your drink.  And whether your drink is alcoholic or not, crushed ice is going to kill it DEAD (unless it’s just water, in which case who cares) even as it makes its way to your table.  TOTAL INCREDULITY AND DISBELIEF from me.

I made enquiries, being as patient and polite as I possibly could (my daughter would probably dispute this – she always seems to be THERE when I’m not on my best behaviour - it’s like having my mother back!!), pointing out the fact that in order to have crushed ice, you have to have REAL ice to begin with, only to be met with TOTAL INCOMPREHENSION.  No no, they said, looking at me as though I was some nutter from outer space.  That was how it came out of the machine, they said.  Like breadcrumbs happen without actual bread?  I’ll probably go back for a quick snack when my back is to the wall, because it’s just around the corner and the food is not terrible, and you can’t be too picky in this neck of the woods, but I’ll have to take my own flask of ice.  As you can tell, my life is not a bed of roses……

KILLER HEELS

I am DIZZY with delight. I’ve just bought myself a pair of very expensive Killer Heels. So called because they’re probably going to kill me the first time I wear them. But what a GLORIOUS way to go.

I guess I never did get the hang of this Growing Old thingy. As I am given to understand, I’m supposed to be doing it gracefully. Now there’s a gathering of words totally beyond my comprehension: Growing Old Gracefully. What does that actually MEAN???? And how are you supposed to do it? Is there a guide book? And if there is, who wrote it?

After much research and analysis, I can state with confidence that it means BEIGE, and I’m not just talking about the colour. You have to start THINKING beige. Outlook on life. Pearls. Cardigans. WHITE WINE (but only in moderation, of course, like perhaps ONE GLASS). In other words, quietly melting into the distance. And not a sequin in sight! I would rather DIE, no pun intended.

Who makes these rules?? And why does anybody take any notice? I read all the fashion articles, because they’re a laugh a minute and NEVER to be taken seriously (I guess everybody has to earn a living). I avoid what I have always hated – frills, pleats, long skirts, stripes, navy blue, anything brown – and wear everything else with gusto. I simply don’t understand what age has to do with it.

I feel HUGE compassion for all those people who actually believe what they’re told and follow it to the letter. You poor darlings. Get out there and have some fun. Go buy some killer heels. They’ll lift your spirits, even if you never wear them. And that’s pure gold.

So – I’ve got the Killer Heels. I’ve got the black leather biker jacket. Next stop: a motorbike and a guitar. And then I’m OFF, darlings, to San Francisco. See you there, maybe?

Facebook

Allergic as I am to New Year’s Resolutions (which is VERY), I’m actually thinking of making an exception this year. I’ve been on Facebook for MONTHS, and I may just have to find out what it’s FOR.

About 6 months ago, George, our wonderful computer guru and friend, without whom we could not survive in the world of computers, TOTALLY convinced me that it was what I needed to do. A BIG HELP, he said, in getting your work out there and more widely known. And in two ticks, he’d set it up. He’s wonderful that way.

And ever since then, I’ve had INNUMERABLE people wanting to be my friend on Facebook. Now here’s the thing: they are ALREADY my friends. WHAT AM I MISSING?

It’s not for want of trying. Every now and then I tap into Facebook, and indeed, there are familiar faces all over the place. But they all seem to be having a GREAT BIG PARTY with a lot of other NOT familiar faces, and I HAVEN’T BEEN INVITED. There are pictures – a LOT – of people holding drinks in their hand, draping themselves over somebody, lying on beaches, cavorting all over the place, the word that springs to mind is BACCHANALIA. I think Bacchanalia is probably wonderful if you’re a participant (Mental Note - must try it some time). But when you’re just an observer, it undoubtedly loses something.

I keep in touch with my friends – sometimes not as frequently as I should - but it eventually happens. I use this very old-fashioned thing called email. It’s one-on-one, face-to-face, and it works a treat for me. But I’m NOT GIVING UP. I am DEFINITELY NOT GIVING UP. I’m going to crack the secret of Facebook if it KILLS me.

Oh, and then there’s LinkedIn. I’m on that TOO. Now THIS is positively TERRIFYING. It’s filled with words like “Corporate” and “Business” and “Foundations” and “Projects”. Out Of My Depth doesn’t even BEGIN to describe it. The thing about THAT one is – they never seem to have any parties. I ask you - WHERE’S THE FUN IN THAT??????

Instant Therapy

I’m talking about LISTS.

I am a totally dedicated maker of lists. Not only is it GREAT FUN – there you are, sitting back with pen and paper, possibly a gin-and-tonic in your hand, LOVELY – but you actually feel as though you are sorting out your LIFE while you’re doing it. A DESTINATION in mind.

The therapeutic value is beyond belief.

Now, I want to say right away that I don’t always follow through on my lists, but oh, the HEAVENLY SENSE that you are getting your life in order while you’re making them is PURE GOLD.

I’ve just been through our annual Christmas celebration, which we all ADORE. It’s a BIG DEAL in our family and involves TEN of us in residence for about 10 days. HUGE amounts of food, HUGE amounts of presents. HUGE amounts of EVERYTHING. It’s the way we do it, what can I say? WHERE would I be without LISTS????? Locked up in a strait jacket, no doubt about it.

And then there’s the Christmas Presents list, without which I would be a DEAD DUCK, but I simply can’t think about that now. Maybe in about 300 days time.

My daughter Noelle is, I think, even worse than I am. She doesn’t just make lists of things to do, she actually includes things she has ALREADY DONE, just for the pleasure of crossing them off. CAN YOU BELIEVE???? She tells me there are Computer Software Programmes for lists out there, but assures me that there is NO PLEASURE in that. And I believe her. Talk about taking all the fun out of it.

You can’t watch TV while you’re doing it, though – you get some strange results. Trust me, I KNOW.

The big exception to this is the New Year’s Resolution List. DON’T GO THERE. Positively SUICIDAL, because you just KNOW you’re never going to do any of those things, and then you’re going to hate hate hate yourself. It’s the road to INSTANT DEPRESSION, and is absolute DEATH to any therapeutic value you may be hoping for.

Just one note of caution: if you find yourself making lists of your lists, you just may be taking it a step too far.

How long does it take to paint a painting?

You might as well ask how long a piece of string is. I'm sure there isn't a painter in the WHOLE WORLD who hasn't been asked that question. And it drives me RIGHT UP THE WALL.

I've never been able to figure out a) why anyone would want to know ­they either love the painting or they don't, RIGHT? - and b) from precisely which point I should start counting the hours. So get your calculators out RIGHT NOW if you're one of those who REALLY need to know. Because THIS is how it goes for me:

1. Get the SEED of an idea. Think about it while looking out of my studio window a LOT. A gin-and-tonic would help, but it's too early, or so I'm told. It will have to be coffee (WHY does everybody love coffee so much??? Beats me, but maybe that's because I drink Nescafe. I KNOW, I KNOW SHAME on me). REALLY need to call my daughters in Spain ­haven't spoken to them for AT LEAST 24 hours,and I DO have responsibilities,you know. XX number of hours.

2. Choose a blank white canvas (that's how they come) and cover it as QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE with a thin wash of colour. NOTHING dries up my imagination quicker that a Blank White Canvas. AAAH, NOW I'm on a REAL ROLL. Go home, because it needs to dry overnight. X number of hours.

3. LOVELY coloured canvas. TRULY LOVELY. Look at it admiringly for a while, and then look out my window a LOT. So many buses going past. Wonder what I'm going to cook for dinner. Arrange all my paints prismatically. Is that BEAUTIFUL or WHAT!!! Look at them LOVINGLY from time to time ­they make me feel SO GOOD. Is it time for a gin-and-tonic yet? X number of hours (are you adding all this up?)

4. Pull myself together and start painting. OH MY GOD. But hey,it's not so bad. There is DEFINITELY potential there. Come home with a spring in my step, KNOWING things are going well and I deserve a gin-and-tonic. Or maybe vodka would be better - THIS IS BRILLIANT. XX number of hours.

5. Go back to the studio at the crack of dawn. HATE HATE HATE what I've done. DO A RETHINK. Somehow, coffee doesn't help (IMAGINE THAT!). Look out the window. RIVETTED with interest, because there's someone out there DESPERATE for a taxi. Keep craning my neck (from my first-floor studio) to see if I can find one for her. I simply HAVE to see that one through. Sort out my brushes, throwing away the ones worn down to the bone. COUNT MY BRUSHES (I really HAVE to stop buying brushes). This is WONDERFUL. Takes time, though. And I do need to call my daughters again. It's been AGES. Hasn't it? XXX number of hours.

6. It gets better, and I suddenly find myself VERY INVOLVED. Don't think I'll throw myself off my balcony after all. Apart from the mess it would make, I've got grandchildren who LOVE me. NEED TO CALL MY DAUGHTERS. XXXX number of hours.

7. FINALLY get to where I think I want to be. Oh HEAVENLY BLISS. BUT just in case ­ put it aside while I go through the whole agony of starting YET ANOTHER painting (see all steps above). And out of the corner of my eye, spot something I missed COMPLETELY. HAVE TO FIX IT. XXXX number of hours.

8. FIX IT. I THINK. But now I have to paint the FRAME. Two or three coats of paint at least. GOD FORBID I should actually do a painting without a painted frame. Whether it suits it or not. I've tried it (especially with my African paintings, which in fact look better with an unpainted frame) but I have come to realize that people ACTUALLY THINK they've been cheated without it. Go figure. XXX number of hours.

9. AND THEN ­ my VERY unfavourite thing ­ THE VARNISHING. Two or three coats at least, over the same number of days. Drape cloths all over my lovely floor and spray like mad. Got to get an even surface on the canvas. VERY HEADY STUFF, this spray. It may EVEN better than a gin-and-tonic. I wonder if it's legal? XX number of hours.

OKAY. THAT'S IT!!! So add it all up, divide it into the price of the painting, and DON'T, PLEASE DON'T, tell me the answer to THAT MADDENING QUESTION. I may discover that my cleaning lady is earning a whole lot more than me.

Bottom line: it takes as long as it takes, and that's all I've ever been able to say about it. I do, however, try and say it as profoundly as I can.

Aaah, ART GALLERIES

A lot of people go to art galleries ALL THE TIME (or so they tell me), and I LOVE that. Where would I be without them, after all? I love the feedback, I love the connections, it’s HEADY STUFF if you’re a painter. But darlings, you have NO IDEA what’s it’s like behind the scenes. I could write a BOOK (and maybe I will……….one day).


I speak from an artist’s point of view, of course, and it may sound as though I’m biting the hand that feeds me, but I have severely conflicting emotions when it comes to art galleries. If you’re HUGELY lucky, they can make you feel pretty good. OR they can make you feel like they’ve single-handedly saved you from a life of TOTAL OBSCURITY (thereby indebting you to them FOREVER, of course). I’ve had my fair share of them over the years, with varying degrees of – God, can I call it PLEASURE? I have to think about that. But with one notable exception, it could NEVER have been described as FUN.


BUT THEN – there was this note, you see, which popped up in my studio mail a long time ago, asking if I’d be interested in exhibiting with them. OH SURE, I thought, AND I believe in Santa Claus, I thought, and threw it into the bin.


One phone call later, and this lovely tiny hippy-chic person with a Cockney accent came through the door and into my life. Su Gibson. She’s been there ever since. She has wheedled, cajoled, coerced and persuaded me, as only she can, (I think out-and-out BLACKMAIL came into it occasionally) into more exhibitions than I had ever DREAMED of doing. And, much as I may have moaned and groaned along the way about the STRESS of it all – there’s ALWAYS stress – each one has pushed me along the road to confidence, and taken away some of the angst I’ve always felt deep down about my capabilities.


And it HAS been GREAT FUN. Okay, now and then a period of turbulence, but nothing that a really good friendship (which is what it became) couldn’t surmount. And ALWAYS – an abiding respect for each other. We sold a LOT of paintings, too. Spoilt me for life, it did.


Chalk Farm Gallery was – and still is – my idea of what an art gallery should be, but so seldom is.

It’s LOVELY to look at (see photo), fun to be in, AND – this is important, and the secret of her success, I think - HUGELY accessible to EVERYONE. Su has an irresistible energy and enthusiasm that just carries you along. And she LOVES art with a PASSION.


It couldn’t last, of course. Some years ago, she moved the gallery to Santa Fe, New Mexico, and I have felt UTTERLY BEREFT ever since. Never having done this sort of thing before, I made one or two half-hearted approaches to other London galleries, and came away feeling like some sort of sub-species of humanity, with my morale in UTTER SHREDS. God, I HATED that.


And so I don’t do that any more. Because the one thing that my experience with Chalk Farm Gallery – and Su – has given me is the knowledge that the people who buy my paintings do so because they love them. Not because they’re investments, not because they’re important, not because some gallery person with a lot of hype topped up the sales figures. Just because they love them.


You CANNOT IMAGINE how good that feels.

Love Affair

I’m having this MAD LOVE AFFAIR at the moment. I wish I could tell you that it was with George Clooney (my philosophy - if you’re going to dream, AIM HIGH), but this one promises to endure.

I’m talking about an iPod. Yes, that same little gizmo which even my grandchildren have had for YEARS. In fact, they give the impression that they’ve had theirs surgically implanted somewhere, because they NEVER seem to be without them. I’m beginning to understand why.

We have the MOST MARVELLOUS Christmases IMAGINABLE, and my poor lovely husband runs himself MENTALLY RAGGED trying to think of something WONDERFUL to give me ( and GOD, I’m picky!). And so of course he turns to our daughters. And when I talk about them, I’m talking about CUTTING EDGE here, you understand.

So there I was, confronted with an iPod – which I KNEW I didn’t want, didn’t need, would NEVER use, DIDN’T THEY UNDERSTAND THAT????? I have an absolutely SPLENDID music system in my studio. And it only takes me 8 minutes to walk there. But hey, I smiled BRILLIANTLY, said THANK YOU DAAARLING (I wasn’t fooling anybody) and stashed it away.

And then, and THEN……….a little tossed-off, by-the-way question from my husband some time later ( “do you ever use your iPod?”) , TOTALLY without censure, struck HUGE GUILT into my heart. God, I was STRICKEN with remorse. I hauled out all the instructions and actually sat down and READ THEM. This is practically against the law in our family – we MUCH prefer to work it out ourselves, and ALWAYS with DISASTROUS results.

But not this time. Astoundingly enough - you have to realize who you’re dealing with here - I managed to IMPORT MUSIC into it. MORTIFYING to discover how easy it was. Even MORE mortifying to discover what a lot of pleasure the result was, and just how much I had been missing. I’m SUCH an idiot sometimes.

So now I go up to my studio every morning listening to my iPod. With HUGE pleasure, and I mean HUGE. Bopping my way up and down Kensington Church Street, having the BEST TIME.

BUT – there are peripheral dangers. I’m TERRIBLY WORRIED that it’s turning me into a NICE PERSON. Oh Lord, WHAT A NIGHTMARE! I went to the Post Office yesterday and joined the longest queue imaginable. I hate queues with a PASSION, and long ones send me COMPLETELY MAD. And do you know what? I actually stood there SMILING HAPPILY at everyone while I listened to a lot of GLORIOUS music. People were starting to edge away nervously. No, no, I’m SERIOUS.

I’m DEFINITELY going to have to work on that.