Though most of the gallery passers-by are toting freshly coned ice-creams (chocolate chip seems to be popular), jackets and gilets are on and no-one is sure what the weather gods are up to. All is calm in the gallery and lucky for us we are rolling through the summer with a distinctive collection of ceramics in the gallery by Tricia Thom....
Tricia Thom Round Teapot, Red Porcelain 20 x 16 cm. £190
Tricia Thom Large Moon Jar with Gold Rim Porcelain Diam 32 cm. £950
Tricia Thom Oval Clear Blue Jug Porcelain 19 x 21 cm. £190
'What Came to Me' by Jane Kenyon
'I took the last
dusty piece of china
out of the barrel.
It was your gravy boat,
with a hard, brown
drop of gravy still
on the porcelain lip.
I grieved for you then
as I never had before.'
On these sultry summer days, I love the thought of being on a hillside, face brushed with mist, maybe in Snowdonia...
'I took the last
dusty piece of china
out of the barrel.
It was your gravy boat,
with a hard, brown
drop of gravy still
on the porcelain lip.
I grieved for you then
as I never had before.'
On these sultry summer days, I love the thought of being on a hillside, face brushed with mist, maybe in Snowdonia...
Daniell Crawshaw Tryfan Oil on Canvas 150 x 200 cm. £7,000
Or alternatively lazing in and out of the sun with a good book....
Mark Entwisle Recliner I Oil on Board 20 x 25 cm. £1,400
Walking on Sunday it was marvellous to see the swallows and housemartins doing their early evening aerobatic displays down on the river Frome. I think I can distinguish them but I wouldn't swear to it...
'Parable of Flight' by Louise Gluck
'A flock of birds leaving the side of the mountain.
Black against the spring evening, bronze in early summer,
rising over blank lake water.
Why is the young man disturbed suddenly,
his attention slipping from his companion?
His heart is no longer wholly divided; he's trying to think
how to say this compassionately.
Now we hear the voices of the others, moving through the library
toward the veranda, the summer porch; we see them
taking their usual places on the various hammocks and chairs,
the white wood chairs of the old house, rearranging
the striped cushions.
Does it matter where the birds go? Does it even matter
what species they are?
They leave here, that's the point,
first their bodies, then their sad cries.
And from that moment, cease to exist for us.
You must learn to think of our passion that way.
Each kiss was real, then
each kiss left the face of the earth.'
This little fellow is back in the window of the gallery, watching the world pass by...
'Parable of Flight' by Louise Gluck
'A flock of birds leaving the side of the mountain.
Black against the spring evening, bronze in early summer,
rising over blank lake water.
Why is the young man disturbed suddenly,
his attention slipping from his companion?
His heart is no longer wholly divided; he's trying to think
how to say this compassionately.
Now we hear the voices of the others, moving through the library
toward the veranda, the summer porch; we see them
taking their usual places on the various hammocks and chairs,
the white wood chairs of the old house, rearranging
the striped cushions.
Does it matter where the birds go? Does it even matter
what species they are?
They leave here, that's the point,
first their bodies, then their sad cries.
And from that moment, cease to exist for us.
You must learn to think of our passion that way.
Each kiss was real, then
each kiss left the face of the earth.'
This little fellow is back in the window of the gallery, watching the world pass by...
Beth Carter Sitting Minotaur II Bronze, Ed. 15 33 x 20 x26 cm. £6,750
Perhaps he is thinking back to when he was a calf....
'The Lanyard' by Billy Colllins
'The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.'
Roger Hardy, Journey Together, Wood with Earth Pigments, 39 x 75 x 10 cm. Unique, £ 2200.00
August 1, 2024