Simple facts

I'm a little frazzled and edgy today, the reason being that I'm not sleeping well. And the reason for that in turn is simple: sunrise. I'm always caught a little off-guard at this time of year by the long days. They are wonderful aren't they? But long days imply either early sunrise, late sunset, or both. Early sunrise can be a great thing if you're a farmer readying to milk the cows, a hiker wanting to make as much progress as possible during the cool early daylight hours, or possibly a rodent eager to gather nuts. Late sunset of course means long leisurely nights out.

Less extreme than sleep deprivation, but more insidious, is confusion and disorientation. With years of habits we come to associate certain feelings and activities with certain levels of light. You wake up feelingly like you've just gone to sleep (and you have) -- it should be dark. You're out having far too many drinks after dinner and stumbling home -- it should be dark. You arrive at your first appointment for the day -- it should be light.

One of my vivid memories of my year in London was waking up to broad daylight, feeling tired, and then discovering it wasn't yet 5 am. These are the simple facts as of 1 July:

City	Sunrise	Sunset	Daylight hours
New York	05:29	20:31	15:02
London	04:47	21:21	16:34
Paris	05:51	21:58	16:07
Mumbai	06:05	19:20	13:15

It explains everything, doesn't it? In New York, nights out are dark at this time of year, and I wake up as the sun is on the rise (I'm afflicted with a serious case of early rising.) In London, sun rises at 4.47 am. How does one cope with this? Are drapes heavier? Are sales of eye masks one per man, woman, and child? And Paris, sunset almost 10 pm, with dusk taking you to almost 10.30 pm, those long endless evenings. They were not just figments of your imagination. They really happened. (Well, at least the light. For the rest, I can't say.) And Mumbai, sunrise 6 am. Memories of being woken by the parents as they make their way to play tennis, and deciding since I'm awake and won't get back to sleep I might as well go. Listening to the morning birds. Watching (being blinded by) the rising sun as the game plays out.

It all makes sense.

xo

BB

BIG CHEESE little cheese

Somehow, somewhere two weeks have slipped since my last post. I thought this next post was going to be about some films I've seen (the next one maybe...) but this one is a about:

BIG CHEESE and little cheese.

So what's it all about? There's no way to pretend the following will be coherent, so I'm not going to try:

* In London I lived next to a cheese monger (love that occupation name - monger, iron monger and cheese monger being the two I continue to see - it's not used in American English). Well, I thought of myself as living next to La Fromagerie, though in reality it was a 4 minute stroll away. It's a gem of place, and most things cost just about as much as gems. But getting back to the cheese, they have their own cheese cave. I should say "cave", because it's a wonderful room that the customers can walk into, to be surrounded by the smell of ageing cheese. What a smell! And the cheese monger himself will give you a tour, with some suggestions and tastings thrown in. Looking back, I don't know why I didn't buy more cheese. For one thing, you could get unaged raw milk cheese, which we can't here. For another, it's irresistible! So just for the record, it's not that I could resist, it's just that somehow I went shopping on Sunday, market day, and tended to buy my cheese there...

* In New York, I live next (in the same sense as above) to a very fine, quite reputed cheese section. Indeed, one person liked it so much he asked - and was given permission - to get married there! (No, not me, though not a bad idea for the future...) The only problem here is they have many cheeses pre-cut and pre-wrapped. Good cheese, but usually hunks (don't like that word, but it's the right word...) Of course, you can get them to cut piece for you, but you have to endure the competitive sport called New York grocery shopping. Some people move too fast and knock you over. Some run their shopping cart into you Achilles' tendons (there's a reason ancient mythology picks this as Achilles' weak spot...) Even more taxing is weaving your way through the crowd. Overtaking the slow walkers and the indecisive, while yourself being flanked by a shopping cart and a baby stroller. In this kind of high-risk situation, you don't really want stop to to ask for your bespoke slice of cheese. You grab what you can and run.

* In Boston, I now have my own cheese monger. Actually it's a wine store and provisions store. The wine store is great, if like me you enjoy good wine but don't enjoy the sticker shock of buying wine outside continental Europe (sorry UK -- same problem there as here....), and I'm sure at some point I'll write about how this has changed my life. (But that phrase sounds bad no? At the least, a bit tricky...) But the cheese monger... Life changing... My local grocery options here basically consist of overly expensive, overly large, pre-packaged cheese. Now instead, I pop in for somewhere between $2-$4 worth of cheese. A thin sliver of Gorgonzola here, a brick of Robiola there, and even better a great selection of American cheeses. (For the doubters out there, American cheese isn't only Kraft slices. There's good stuff there. Right now I'm nibbling on a American raw cow milk's cheese...)

I wish there a were a more philosophical peroration to this line of thought. But really, that's it for now. Big cheese, little cheese.

bb

Design Real

Yes, but is it art?

As promised, at last, a few images from The Frieze Art Fair... I always enjoy art fairs because you get to see it all. Frieze is pretty blue chip, big galleries and famous names. But still, there's fun stuff to be found.

One of the pieces that seemed to get the most attention in terms of foot traffic was this first piece (Questions to my father 6, Karl Haendel). People would stop in front of it and read through it all -- it takes quite a while. The crowd gathered in front makes a pretty successful work of art by some measures. But then again, I'm not sure -- is it art? Ponder that while looking at a few other images below...


Art boys and girls, always rushing around...


Except when stopping to chat:


Or to have coffee (or Champagne!)


This one, made from chairs won a prize (getting into the Tate's collection):



And this made me laugh:


Is there an implication here for the balance between the genders?



And surely the most fantastic piece was this... The picture sort of gives it away...


When you approach, you see the lights, but when you look in:


It's bottomless. I really want one of these for my next apt. I lacked the needed 140,000 (don't recall the currency, but does it matter? Pounds? Euros...) So apparently did the Tate.


And an Ian Davenport is always fun. Those lines and colors, hypnotizing...

BB

Postcards from London

Sorry to keep up this lazy approach to blogging -- but promise to be back to my verbose self soon!

xoxo

BB

A day without advertising...

would look like this...



(Did I post this already -- perhaps a year ago? Well, posts, like reruns but unlike bread, improve with age...)

(Was inspired to post this by Famapa's wonderful pictures and post on this theme.)

BB

Six of six -- tagged!

I was tagged by Mette of ungtblod for a six of six: "Open the 6th picture-folder on your computer, open the 6th photo and blog it. Write something about it." Wonderful invite. So here we go:


Many things about this picture. Every weekday at about 6.30 am I would walk from home to work. It was about a 35 minute brisk walk which I enjoyed. It was early and there was rarely anyone on the street for most of the way, even in Central London. After a while, I even began enjoying the moody sky that often greeted me in the morning. In an entire year of commuting to work on foot, I was turned back by rain only twice.

I also enjoyed the sight lines of London, particular these neighborhood with their late 19th Century/ early 20th Century homogenous blocks of buildings (with the occasional modern block punched in to remind us of the bombs of World War II if it was a 1950s building or of the modern boom if it was of 1990s vintage). Compared to New York the sky really opens up. Indeed, as I noticed and as you see above you get these great V-shaped slices of the sky. Early in my stay, I had a plan to take a picture of the sky everyday. It would be my diary of London. It didn't happen, but I still like the idea.

Finally this picture captures another feature of London, at least last year (don't know how it is now): constant construction. Everywhere you looked you could see these great cranes hovering over the city, like an alien invasion tearing away it.

BB

I've been Banskied

Just before leaving London I borrowed my friend Clementine's camera to take a few pics. One of my favorite pictures was this one:

(Hola! This image belongs to me! The art, I suppose, belongs to Bansky?)

I thought I was very clever to capture this street scene, the ominous graffiti and the public going about their business below, oblivious, inured.

Then today I saw this on the BBC:

An artwork by street artist Banksy in central London will be removed to send a message to graffiti artists in the city, a council has decided.

Westminster City Council has ordered a 23ft-high (7m) mural, entitled One Nation Under CCTV, to be removed from a building on Newman Street.

The artist's sketches have sold for thousands of pounds at auctions.

But deputy leader of the council Robert Davis said keeping the mural would mean "condoning" graffiti.

The mural has the words "One Nation Under CCTV" stencilled above two painted people.

One appears to be a child in a red hooded top apparently painting the words, while a police officer holding a camera and a brown dog look on.

The mural is painted on the wall of a building shared by Royal Mail and another business.

Of course he is not going to fill in a form and apply for permission. Notoriety is what makes Banksy exist Rupert Maas, art critic

The council said the artist did not gain the necessary permission and, once it has established who owns the painted wall, the artwork will be removed by the owner.

Mr Davis, who is also chairman of the council's planning sub committee, said: "I take the view that this is graffiti and if you condone this then what is the difference between this and all the other graffiti you see scrawled across the city?

"If you condone this then you condone graffiti all over London."

Mr Davis said the building's owner had "every right" to sell or exhibit the Banksy graffiti - as long as it was removed from the wall.

"What we are against is people coming around without proper permission or consent and exhibiting their work without permission."

'Vibrant and interesting'

Art critic Rupert Maas defended Banksy's graffiti, saying it made the city "vibrant and interesting".

"He is doing something that is quite valid," Mr Maas said.

"Here he is making a point that we are increasingly governed by CCTV cameras. I think it's great - good for him."

Mr Maas added: "Of course he is not going to fill in a form and apply for permission. Notoriety is what makes Banksy exist."

Banksy has created at least one other artwork in the borough, in an underpass in Marble Arch.

But that mural has not been removed as the whole area is being redeveloped, the council said.

The mural will be removed once the owner of the wall is established

More on the Bansky installation in New York soon...

BB

Fill 'er up (2)

I'm always a little surprised when the American media make such a fuss about General Motor's plans to build an all-electric car, the Chevrolet Volt, and amused when such a fuss is made about Tata Nano, an Indian designed micro-car that will sell for something like two thousand dollars.

I'm surprised because an Indian-made, electric, micro-car can be seen plying the streets of London daily, the Reva, which is called the GWiz in the UK. Sometimes living in the US I feel so far behind the times. In London you find free parking spots for electric cars. Anyway with these little beauties, parking space is not a problem.




Apparently the driving range is 40 km. But in London this isn't too much of a problem because you can always fill 'er up here:



BB

P.S. Not to say that I don't miss the Texaco Station altogether.

The Bird

I can all ready hear the groans. Why and from whom? Because for the last several months I have been complaining to anyone who would listen that I am being persecuted by a bird. I thought initially it was several birds, Hitchcock style, but have now concluded it is one solitary irresponsible bird. This early bird, for that's what he is, starts to sing between 4.15 and 4.45 every morning, though usually much closer to the latter time. After doing his think for a few minutes he goes back to sleep, leaving me wide awake and unable to sleep. The first few times it was charming and I didn't mention it to anyone. The I did a small blog entry. But after six weeks of missing the tail end of my sleep I couldn't take it anymore. I began wearing earplugs to sleep. By and large this works, but sometimes this bird wakes me up through the earplugs.

You see? You don't believe me do you? I've tried to record it, but you've got to imagine it 10 times louder - or more precisely piercing.


Aren't birds adorable little fluffy creatures? By and large they do appear to be. But recall that the genetically closest living descents of dinosaurs have been show to be birds.

Trouble sleeping

I've been having trouble sleeping lately, which is just the nearest excuse at hand for my lack of posts over the last week. Normally I'm a good sleeper: 6 hours needed and usually achieved with 6-7 hours in bed. Solidly through the night, into a light sleep early in the morning so I wake up without an alarm most of the time. Isn't life wonderful?

I've already mentioned the birds. Well that singing bird is back, big time. He (she?) is Sinatra (Celine Deon) in Vegas. Really, such sweet song, but at 4.45 am every morning? The other day 4.30!

But what happens these days is that I wake up and look at the clock with those is-it-morning-yet eyes and find it is only 2.00 am! But it seems very bright outside. And when that bird sings, it again seems pretty sunny outside. Does the sun not set in London? Am I being transported to the Arctic Circle while I sleep? Woody Allen couldn't film any late night strolls through London, as he has in New York, at least in this season.

Of course the irony is that in New York, even if it's dark, there are so many things to do at all times of the night. You can sleep, but you don't have to. Here instead, it seems I can't sleep, but wish I could because there's nothing to do after 11 pm. OK, I could go clubbing - but when it's so bright out?

One of these nights I'm just going to get up at 2, dress, and head out for a stroll, and see what it's like. Await future posts.

ZZzzzzzzz

BB



Manhattan, 59th Street Bridge, 6 am. In Allen's forthcoming Central London this scene will be filmed at 2 am.

"Gmmm, Gmmm, Gmmm" quoth he

1
I am in a delicate state at 5 am, after a late evening yesterday. I was dreaming. I think it was pleasant. Then somewhere far away I hear a gentle "gmmm, gmmm, gmmm". Well, it's gentle at first till it grows louder, more insistent, more rhythmically precise. I am wide awake. It's not a dream. It goes on: "Gmmm, gmmm, gmmm". A pigeon. I spot him later in the day sitting on my terrace. He's a plump one too, strutting around as though he owns the place.

2
This time half awake. I hear the "gmmm, gmmm, gmmm". A pair of flapping wings. Some scraping feet. More wings. More feet. Wings, feet, wings, feet, wings, feet. Then thud, as something (a head?") hits my window. Wings. Pigeons wrestling.

3
Screaming, screeching, cawing, thrilled high-voiced, shrill. So excited to hear the sea even if I can't see it or smell it. Seagulls. You hear them often in London.

4
I am half awake. I hear a song, birdsong. A wonderful modulation, some kind of music I haven't heard before. A traveler from a foreign land speaking and singing in unknown tongues. He goes on for one cycle and then goes silent. I am awake and thrilled. The next day, the same, the same strange song. Again awake, pleased. The next day the same. Awake. The next day the same. Awake, annoyed? No, it doesn't feel right. How can I be annoyed? It's so beautiful. Day 5, ughh. Day 6, ahhh! Day 7, silence. The bird is gone. Day 8, silence. I miss him. Day 9, I hear him, in the distance, sitting on some other windowsill, as though saying, "I know where I'm wanted" or is he saying "I'm a traveller. I fly with the wind and seasons' whim."

Shocking Stroll on Wardour Street, March 15

It was probably my own fault. No it was definitely my own fault. I should have known better than to head home through Soho on the Saturday night before St. Patrick's Day and after some rugby match involving Ireland and England. The streets of Soho crowded and lively and boisterous and rowdy.

I've never wondered where the expression piss drunk comes from, and after Saturday I never will. Set up along the street were - how to describe them? - stand-up stalls. Not the portable loos you see near construction sites or at big events in the park. Imagine a corner, a ninety degree angle. Now imagine that four of these are arranged together around a central post, to form a single unit. Now imagine four men pissing into these corners, naturally with no door and you'll laugh at my even mentioning it but no way to wash your hands. Now imagine several of these horror machines set up in a row on the street.

I thought of taking a picture, but I'm glad I didn't. This is one memory that I'm hoping will fade.

In recovery,

BB

Civilized city

There's no doubt that this is a civilized city. You may not think so when you're being trampled on Oxford Street or when the nearest underground station has been barricaded shut exactly at rush hour because it's too busy, and you're huddled outside in the cold like Communists queuing for toilet paper. But the locals still have a way with words, a way of saying things without quite saying them.

It was a sunny day and I was walking near Hyde Park when I saw this:


Indeed, it is gratifying to avail oneself of the convenience when the need arises. I was particularly taken with the idea of the "cleansing hot line". They're the ones you call when you conveniences are no longer so convenient. In New York, there are almost no public conveniences, and if they exist you can assume they will be pretty filthy. And then a few days latter I ran across this one:



Note that it was the winner of the "Loo of the Year" award. What a wonderful idea! An awards night for loo directors, designers, and actors. Do you think they dress up in gowns and tuxedos? Do they give tearful acceptance speeches where they thank their mothers? Do they get angry and beat up the ushers when someone cuts them off? Does Ladbrokes accept bets on who will win? Is there a red carpret, and does Joan Ri

This is not a blog about celebrity spotting. But...

This is truly not a blog about celebrity spotting. I'm really not very good at it. Proof of which is that in NY I only spotted 2 celebrities (I do truly hate that word) in 8 years: Michael Douglas and Charlton Heston. I would add Charlie Rose, but no one outside the US knows who he is. NY is crawling with them, and when I'm out with friends who have a better eye, they're picking them off like shooting fish in a barrel.

I was a little surprised by the Stella McCartney and Elton John sightings I had recently. In New York going to galleries never really led to run-ins with anyone famous, only those who want to be famous.

In any case, my friend P took me to an opening of a very fancy architecture exhibition. I went along for the good company and the plentiful champagne (yes, in that order!). As I was going in I spotted this man:

This is not a cosmic event, I know. But I it was interesting to contemplate whether he would get up to some Mr. Bean type antics. Naturally, I didn't take this picture myself. It would have spoiled the dignified, nonchalant, seen-it-all attitude I was trying to project. I can however report that he does look and dress pretty much as he does in the films and television shows, except he seems a bit better groomed and wears a jacket that has been washed in the Christian era.

I promise to find some more serious matters to blog on soon, such as how to survive in a London without ever buying yourself a drink (a similar thing can be achieved in NY, but using a very different strategy...)

Cheers,

BB

Running an empire had its charms

Running an empire had its charms. You could get fantastic(al) interior decorators, and get someone else to pay for them too! I couldn't bring myself to photograph too much of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office (previously including the India Office) during London's architecture open house, but while averting my eyes, I did catch a few details that can seed your imaginations... Cheers, BB






≈

ART <+?=> CELEBRITY = did-i-underdress?

I began worrying the moment I stepped out of the house and was walking toward White Cube. My only previous experience of this in London was at Gagosian, where I had been to the opening of the Jeff Koons exhibition. On that occasion I had spotted Stella McCartney and a number of super/model types whose names I couldn't quite pin down. Since White Cube sits pretty high up (at the top?) of the pecking order of London galleries my worry was mounting that I had underdressed. True, why not think of these things before you leave the house? But I was in the uniform that could take me anywhere in New York: well-fitted jeans and a well-fitted black sweater, to which I added my own touch, a pair of gold and velvet shoes that I somehow or the other convinced myself completed the look. But of course I should have worried. Previously, at Gagaosian, I had noticed a proliferation of men and women dripping in designers. Men in the tie-off, immaculately tailored suit (that London pulls off so much better than NY) look. Women in everything from sexy co-worker to sequined glamor bombs looks.

This time around there were many of those, but also two other types. The eccentric trying-to-be-arty types wearing all sorts of crazy things. And then the just plain dowdy. And alas where did I fit into this triangle? In the very boring middle.

I haven't mentioned anything about the art, or about the Elton John sighting. The what? you say. Indeed, the man himself. I'm impressed by how A-list celebs come to art openings in London (albeit primo openings) and stand (if not mingle) with the masses at what are entirely open-to-the-public events. In London, people seem to be too discreet to gawk and just stare out of the corners of their eyes.

Oh yes, getting back to the art. Gary Hume. Pretty, sometimes. You'll have to look here. I couldn't grab the images, nor should I probably. Gloss paint on aluminum, in this case the media are the message exactly in terms of what you imagine of these materials. But sometimes pretty, let me not deny it.

These pics give you some sense of the scene.




Well Toto, I guess we're not in America anymore.

BB

Here is my problem

I've got some real problems with the weather forecast. No, not only that I don't like it, but: as far as I can tell the weather forecasts in the UK seem to cover the entire country. Typically the narrowest I can get them is regions vaguely known as the South East or South West, or North by North West. Which one I am in? In New York I am used to a forecast that covers just my borough (Manhattan), and that too I am used to hearing a weather forecaster (a meteorologist, Dr. Joel Sobel no less) who looks at a radar image while he speaks (raining now in Brooklyn, should reach Manhattan around 57th Street in 12 minutes -- well not quite literally, but you get the idea).

After a session of extreme googling I finally came up with an hour-by-hour forecast just for London. The trouble is that most of the forecast is filled with symbols that look like this:

What pray tell is this? Sunny and cloudy with doses of heavy rain? (Note the ominous double water drop. Serious.) Sunny then cloudy followed by rain? Rain then dispersing clouds followed by sunny skies? I seem to recall from some math class that there are at least six distinct combinations.

What I'm always hoping for is something that looks like this:

I am told that if I stir out at exactly 10 am tomorrow then I am due at least one minute of pure sunshine.

BB

Right now in London

It was just one of those days...


when London looks like a picture postcard of a lake in upstate New York.



Not that I've been to upstate New York or anything, but I'm sure that it looks just like this. This of course is just Hyde Park. Just in Hyde Park. Just in Hyde Park indeed.

Could someone turn up the heat?

I realize that in some of my previous posts I was noting (strike out, complaining) about the lack of sun here in London. Having been here two months (!) I realize that this was naive. There is plenty of sun. It's hard to predict, and doesn't necessarily last a whole day (let alone a few days or week), but it's there. But so far missing: heat. It can turn sunny but still with a stiff breeze to keep things nice and cool. I was on the continent last week, evidently, and there things were back to normal: clouds=cool, sun=warm. This will take some getting used to, and plenty of Ryanair... Cheers, BB