I am often drawn to pottery where I recognize something of my own work. Rather like the people I’m drawn to, I’m looking for something familiar. It’s validating and reassuring. A pot is a pot is a pot. Much like a person is a person is a person. Same, but different. Glory Day Loflin’s work is monochromatic, simple, and ostensibly classic if not for the wacky handles and whimsical surface decoration. Through the process of creative osmosis, fringe and polka dots are definitely in my future.
I’m not sure that it gets better than this. Giant artichokes, mounds of pillowy burrata, crispy zucchini flowers, handmade agnolotti, olives, plump tomatoes and a crisp white. The Italians sure know how to eat. It’s the simplicity in the ingredients and techniques that set them apart. With food this fresh, what more do you need than the artichoke itself? Maybe a little sale e pepe? In Stanley Tucci’s warm, charming and funny memoir, Taste it’s the 4-ingredient zucchini pasta dish that he first ate at Lo Scoglio on the Amalifi Coast that appealed to my taste buds the most. “The simple but poignant spaghetti con zucchine alla Nerano, born from a quartet of oil, basil, cheese, and humble squash, points once again to the Italian ability to discover riches where others might find very little,” he writes. If you’re deliberating on dinner tonight, may I suggest this dish.
There is something thrillingly simple about working with paper. For a few months now, I’ve been painting flowers, fish and fruit on heavy cardstock and cutting them out like a child would, jagged corners and loose, shredded edges. The paintings are loose and messy, with layer upon layer of colour. They are quick, irreverent and playful, and the perfect antidote to years of working with clay. With paper, I can make a vase in five minutes; ridiculously oversized handles, an explosion of colourful pattern, flowers bursting through the top. The faster I work, the better they come out. This is not the case with clay. Antidote, but also companion. I like to use paper flowers as props for my clay pieces. I like the way a paper bottle looks standing next to a ceramic one, the interplay between ephemeral and permanent, monochrome and multicolour, functional and ornamental. A whole bunch of them are hanging in the window of the wonderful Good Egg right now. If you’re in the market buying fish or a baguette, mosey over and take a look.
I’m coming up for air after many days avec le dreaded virus, and much like I had hoped, there is some relief in having had it. As with anything we’re afraid of, the reality is rarely as bad as our imaginations would have us believe. I keep thinking about how far we’ve come, and how different my experience must be to people’s who caught it in the early months of a world in panic and lock-down, with no vaccine protection, long quarantines and a barrage of misinformation to wade through. I did throw a pity party for myself on more than one occasion, Jason being my only guest. We’re allowed to cry when we feel like shit. And we’re allowed to throw imaginary darts in the eyes of entitled, arrogant twats who’ve waltzed through the last two years ignoring and defying all sensible and altruistic action, people who’ve brushed it off as a mild headache or a bit of a sniffle. Goody for you. How nice that you’re sitting in a cafe with a mild headache. Now, do me a favour and choke on your croque monsieur. Once I stopped crying, (nothing like a good weep to release snot from your head) and feeling bitter and petty, I thanked my lucky stars.
Isamu Noguchi’s ashtray prototypes.
Pippa Dyrlaga’s exquisite paper cutouts.
Nathan Isaac’s mixed media collages.
Matt Stuart’s pictures of London’s busy streets.
Ice house in Iran, photographed by Lynn Davis.
These quilts by Korean artist, Woomin Kim are so packed with detail one needs time to take it all. Inspired by the markets in Korea, each one is bursting with a multitude of colour and print. Think floral aprons, silver fish, fried eggs, stripey shoes and silk lanterns. I’ve been working with paper and collage a lot lately, and these quilts are just the inspiration I needed.
I’m drawn to art that has a childlike quality to it –– raw, playful and unrestrained. Anne Barrell paints her ceramics using the sgraffito (scratched) technique. Her work is crude and spontaneous, and I love it. Her rum cups are lovely, and while I don’t drink rum, I’d gladly fill one with pencils, hot tea or a velvety Merlot. Through simple line drawings and coloured glazes she is able to capture a mood; a schooner sailing through choppy, grey waters, Moorhens floating under a raging red sunset.
It seems odd, indulgent, even to be paying for Greek lessons when I have a whole pool of family of friends to practice with. I could call any number of them for a natter. Only I know that within seconds I’d revert to English, as would they. I needed to talk to somebody that would only speak to me In Greek, and that would insist that I do the same. Enter Eleni from Thessaloniki. We only speak Greek, and it’s as frustrating as it is liberating. Frustrating because Greek is so hard. And because basic words like ‘bill” are a million letters long. λογαριασμό. And because it’s been so long since I spoke Greek that I can’t remember the word for toaster or pineapple. And because I learned Greek as a child, and my vocabulary doesn’t include words like bigotry and sensationalism. What’s the word for surreal, Eleni? How do you say expectation? Fuck, Greek is hard. Did I say that already? And liberating because I have no inhibitions with Eleni. I’m ok with sounding like a pillock. So much so, that I am more myself with Eleni than I am with many people I’ve known all my life. With them, I am a paler version of myself because I’m tongue tied or scared of making mistakes. I don’t have my usual artillery of words, and I can’t express myself the way I would like. When my brother moved to Athens 15-years ago with braces and very rusty Greek, he said to me, “Athena, I’m just not funny here.” Alex’s ability to make people laugh is his gift, and his storytelling is another. Words facilitate both. He was lost. Eventually, his Greek improved. And/or he got comfortable with being himself, broken Greek, and all. When I go to Greece next month, (my first visit home in four years) will I revert to English? Or will I charge through with whatever words I can muster? Am I willing to sound like a pillock? That’s how Alex did it. That’s how anyone does anything.
On the lake last week, the black flies were out in abundance. The mosquitoes, too. I wondered how all my camping friends endure the constant buzzing and swatting around their heads. “The mosquitoes are just part of it,” said one avid camper. “You learn to avoid dusk and dawn. Repellent is our Chanel no. 5.” I came home from a hike with 17 bites around my neck. Damn you, mozzies. Damn you, flies. How can something so tiny forge such a striking attack? Next hike –– because I love the woods too much to be at the mercy of mozzies –– I am bringing a mosquito suit. That, and I’m bathing in deet. Otto Piene’s 1979 painting entitled, “Mosquito” captures the heat and intensity that these little creatures are able to create inside the human body.
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