Gaining Gainsborough

There was something about Christmas time in London this year. Even now I can’t quite put my finger on what set it apart. Christmas lights (check), Covent Garden Christmas decorations (check), mulled wine, both good and shocking (check), Selfridges windows being a little too enticing (check). Hmm… Oh wait, I’ve got it! It was the hoards of shoppers, the driving rain and myriad of people who simply could not handle an umbrella without battering those around them.

Seem familiar? If not, you weren't in Britain and are therefore very, VERY, lucky!

Now, I am not a Christmas Grinch, but I have to admit there comes a time when a girl wants a little space, a little quiet, perhaps a cup of tea to restore some semblance of sanity. In short, one often needs a sanctuary to escape the world at large. For me, relief this last festive season was found within the hallowed halls and passages of the Royal Academy, where quiet contemplation and exceptional artwork was about as heavy as it got.

We all need a few quiet seconds away from it all - unfortunately we can't all have a mountain lake on our doorsteps...

  In the gathering dusk of a frankly rather chilly and drizzly late December afternoon, I stepped from the hustle, bustle and over-populatedness (genuine word I’ll have you know) of Piccadilly into the courtyard of Burlington House and immediately felt better. Passing through the gold and wood revolving door the darkness of the day was replaced by the sweeping central staircase, the opulent gold highlights, a feast of old masters on the walls and a calm, contemplative air. And, relax…

Who doesn't love a little gold every now and again?

Now, what was I doing there except escaping my fellow man? Well, I have to admit to having a wee bit of a soft spot for paint and canvas. Wait, you already guessed? Bugger it… Well in that case, it should come as little surprise that my steps were pre-ordained to patter their way through the Constable, Gainsborough and Turner exhibition which was (and still is, hint, HINT) on. Now, Turner is one of my favourite painters of all time. I could write about his use of light until I even bored myself, and long after I had bored all of you, so the thought of getting to see some more of his work was all the enticement I needed. What I got on the other hand was something I wasn’t entirely prepared for.

Dolbadern Castle (1800). J.M.W Turner RA. Oil on Canvas.

This exhibition is fascinating if you like a bit of old school landscape artwork. The elegance of the Saloon, Slaughter and General Assembly Rooms was perfectly balanced by a series of beautiful black and white engravings from the dawn of English landscape printing. Not having read any of the booklet which I was clutching in my frozen mitts (I do so hate spoilers) this trip down memory lane into this particular branch of image creation was rather a welcome treat. I rarely like prints as I simply like owning originals (you may call me a snob, I frequently do), but seeing these exquisite and unparalleled engraving by the great William Woollett was a rather eye-opening experience. I shall leave it at that – suffice it to say I’m converted, at least for the moment!

Niobe, (1761). William Woollett. Engraving. After Richard Wilson RA.

Now to the main event. Turner; Constable; Gainsborough; giants in the world of the Landscape image. Now, I think we’re all fairly familiar with Constable (The Hay Wain) and Turner (Rain, Steam and Speed) in these terms, but the one that came as a welcome revelation to yours truly was Gainsborough. Now I’m not one for sugaring the point so I’ll stick to ‘I was pretty impressed’, but when I say impressed I mean IMPRESSED. His Romantic Landscape (see below) dominated The Large Weston Room and not just in terms of size (though that was a definite consideration) but also in terms of sheer food for the heart and spirit.

Romantic Landscape (c.1783). Thomas Gainsborough RA. Oil on Canvas

For me, and remember I was cold, tired, grumpy and in desperate need of escaping wet London, it was simply a view of a time and a place of great beauty, which imparted a feeling of such complete calm and tranquility that I simply forgot where I was. I am rarely if ever moved by something so stunning, but for me that painting was like being drawn into a dream. The murmuring of the other people died away, and I was alone in a warm glade looking a world imagined or perhaps lost but, thanks to men of ceaseless vision like Gainsborough, not forgotten.

If you have one romantic bone in your body, you should visit this painting (and of the course the other wonderful images that surround it, particularly Dolbadern Castle) as they’re treasures for the soul as much as the eyes. In a world which is moving ceaselessly toward, well, who knows what unseen goal, standing and staring is something which we can all enjoy and should strive for whenever we have the chance.

Munch Ado About Something

Autumn is definitely creeping into the air and getting under my skin, and when that happens you’ll find me in the galleries and museums of our fair capital. I’ve had my eye on a few exhibitions recently, but the first one of the new autumn season to actually draw me through the door was the Edvard Munch: The Modern Eye show at Tate Modern.

Girls on the Bridge, 1927. Oil on Canvas. The Munch Museum, Oslo

 I’m not going to lie, I knew next to nothing about the chap before I stepped through the door of the old power station. I knew The Scream, which in my opinion, humble as it never is, may be one of the most angst ridden and psychologically troubling images ever created. There are four versions of The Scream of Nature, which Munch created between 1893 an 1910, and the inspiration behind the image gives a great introduction to the way Munch’s mind worked… One evening I was walking along a path, the city was on one side and the fjord below. I felt tired and ill. I stopped and looked out over the fjord—the sun was setting, and the clouds turning blood red. I sensed a scream passing through nature; it seemed to me that I heard the scream. I painted this picture, painted the clouds as actual blood. The colour shrieked. This became The Scream.

The Scream, 1893. Oil, Tempera and Pastel on Cardboard. National Gallery, Oslo

Well… Not a lot one can really say after that apart from clearing ones throat and moving on to discussing the weather. Do not be put off though, like an eccentric Uncle, Munch may throw the odd curve-ball into conversation but he’s definitely not to be written off as raving. His history help to explain a lot, so pay attention for a little History… Munch was born on the 12^th of December 1863 and grew up in Norway’s capital Christiania (renamed Oslo). His mother died of tuberculosis in 1868, as did Munch's favourite sister Sophie in 1877. After their mother's death, the Munch siblings were raised by their father and by their aunt Karen. Often ill for much of the winters and kept out of school, Edvard would draw to keep himself occupied, and received tutoring from his school mates and his aunt. Christian’s (Munch Senior) positive behaviour toward his children was overshadowed by his morbid piety.  Munch wrote, "My father was temperamentally nervous and obsessively religious—to the point of psychoneurosis. From him I inherited the seeds of madness. The angels of fear, sorrow, and death stood by my side since the day I was born." As his artistic career progressed he began to identify himself more and more with a bohemian circle of writers and artists who rejected traditional value in art and life. Much of his time during three years was spent in Paris and Berlin, living an often precarious existence, he drew upon his anxieties and spiritual unrest. Unlike many expressionists who focused on the world around them, Munch took to recording his own emotional and psychological states set against a backdrop of his native land.

Red Virginia Creeper, 1898-1900. Oil on Canvas. The Munch Museum.

Given his somewhat precarious psychological state, it is little wonder that Munch suffered a nervous breakdown in 1908 and he returned to Norway to lead a more settled lifestyle, though still prone to the odd unconventional outburst. He continued to record new ways of seeing, revealing a fascination with photography and film, new movements in theatre and literature, and the latest scientific breakthroughs. This was definitely one of the strongest and most interesting parts of the exhibition; the link between science and the psychological effect on society that these leaps forward had. Munch was painting at a point in time when there was both a demystifying and a growing curiosity and fascination with the unknown. Whilst there are many beautiful images created by Munch during this period, my favourite (and interestingly my +1’s as well) is the below. For me it typifies a human fascination with the wider world, a step into the darkness with the hope of salvation and light in the distance.

Starry Night, 1922-24. Oil on Canvas. The Munch Museum

To say Munch was complicated would be like saying Caterham cars are somewhat speedy (oh yes, my +1 is starting to rub off on me). The thing that struck me the most in hindsight was his obsessiveness for repeating the same image throughout his career, particularly the series of images Weeping Woman. There seems to be a compulsion to capture the subjects state of mind, and the reaction of the artist to it. Whilst there is no suggestion of frenzy or angst here, there is something unsettling and emotionally uncomfortable about these paintings and the way the figure is enclosed by the room and her own thoughts, occasionally bearing down on her literally as well as metaphorically. Given this, they are still beautiful images and remind me somewhat of Sarah Lederman’s paintings – beautiful and inhabiting the world somewhere between darkness and light, and self-reflection.

Weeping Woman, 1907. Oil and Crayon on Canvas. Munch Museum

So, the season is underway, I hope you’re all prepared for many more gallery trips and exhibition jabbering. Now, I’m off for a cuppa to warm me up, brrrrrr…

Snow Falling In The Lane, 1906. Oil on Canvas. Munch Museum

A Blue Heart

Tonight I am considering the heart. Can you hear a heart break? Interesting, and admittedly odd, question – it reminds me of the endless quandary of a tree falling in the forest. The great and the good would argue that logically the tree would have to make a noise, and the same great and good would argue that equally logically it doesn’t have to do a damn thing. It’s the same thing with hearts. I remember the first time it happened to me; the sound itself is inextricably linked with arguing and the smashing of glass and sound of flesh hitting wall (don’t panic it wasn’t my own). Amongst all of that there was a silence. A silence which stretched on for an eternity; then a flutter like the wings of a butterfly against glass and the tinkle of crystal.

Pablo Picasso, Women With Crossed Arms, 1902. Oil on Lithograph. Private Collection

More than anything I remember a pain without a wound. It seemed to appallingly wrong to my mind that there was nothing to show for the agony. I’ve sat next to a couple as they broke up, and experiencing it at close quarters is like going to the theatre to see Oedipus Rex or Electra – you know it’s going to end badly but you can’t turn away. The shock, pain, rage and sadness radiates outward almost immediately, but just before it hits there is a second of bewildered quiet, where hope is flattened and despair waits in the wings to take the stage.

Pablo Picasso, Blue Nude, 1902. Private Collection.

Now before any of you start beating a path to my door with worry for my relationship, I am not talking about myself. Though that is admittedly one of my favourite topics, this time it really was a simple case of wrong thought wrong time and a need for a little catharsis. This is so much the case in fact, that I haven’t decided whether or not to even publish this post. I should report dearest readers that it is four o’clock in the morning and my +1 is, if not asleep, then being very quiet and leaving me to write and muse.  The heart in all its myriad different guises, has no sense of timing. It can tip us from happy oblivion to desperate introspection in the time it takes for a thought to flit quietly across ones mind. It is this that has driven me from my bed, to expound and ponder

Pablo Picasso, La Vie, 1903. Oil on Canvas. The Cleveland Museum of Art

Whilst hearing your heart fall apart is a moot point, there is definitely a booming market in depicting it. If you tap ‘heartbreak’ in to Google the images are, to be completely honest, slightly disconcerting – and that’s me being polite. None of them seem to be accurate, in fact the whole page is a study in red hearts and cartoons. Last time I checked it wasn’t exactly like that. Luckily some of the greatest artists in the world have tackled the subject slightly better than Manga and moody black and white drawings. Thank. Goodness…

Pablo Picasso, The Old Jew, 1903. Oil on Canvas. The Pushkin Museum, Moscow.

Heartbreak pretty much always follows the conclusion of a relationship – whether by desire or death or distance, it is an end product. There is so much inspiration for artists with this emotionally charged period of time, and many of them do some of their best works when plunged into such turmoil. My personal favourite is Picasso and his Blue Period which it is now believed to have followed the death (suicide) of his friend Carlos Casagemas. Out of the ashes of tragedy etc, etc.

Pablo Picasso, Mother and Child, 1902. Oil on Canvas. Fogg Art Museum, Harvard University. 

A brief history lesson and then I’ll continue: The Blue Period is a term used to define to the works produced by Picasso between 1901 and 1904, when he painted essentially monochromatic paintings in shades of blue, blue-green and blue-grey, only occasionally warmed by other colours.  In choosing austere colour and sometimes dubious and disheartening subject matter—prostitutes, beggars and drunks being amongst the most frequent—Picasso was influenced by a journey through Spain and by the suicide of his friend Casagemas, who took his life at the L’Hippodrome Café in Paris, France by shooting himself in the right temple on February 17, 1901 over a love affair that went wrong.

Pablo Picasso, Death of Casagemas, 1901. Oil on Wood. Musee Picasso, Paris.

For four years Picasso was plunged into the strony and emotionally destructive depth of depression, his canvases his only outlet for the grief he felt at the loss of his closest compatriot. The sadness, the ache and the profound sense of loss roll over you when you see these beautiful, stark and vulnerable images. 

Pablo Picasso, The Guitarist, 1903. Oil on Panel. Art Institute of Chicago.

The colour of blue is an interesting choice given the way in which it was originally venerated for its vitality and vigour when it appeared in Europe in the 15th century, but the tonality which Picasso uses perfectly complements the mood of the images. It seems an odd thing to say that a colour can typify an emotion, but the hues he explored during those years really do seem to be those of loneliness – it is almost as if the life has been leached from the pigment, leaving us with figures who have been cast adrift on an endless sea of melancholy, no longer sure of their place in the world they inhabit.

Pablo Picasso, Blind Man's Meal, 1903. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Oil on Canvas

Now hearts heal and time takes the edge of pain – whilst never forgotten it is accepted as a daily ache – and the same is true of Picasso. His Blue Period ended with the beginning of the Rose Period (anyone else seeing a theme in nomenclature?) and the darkness began to recede. However, these striking, disturbing and haunting images remain as a constant testament to the loss we all endure during this wonderful, terrifying and brilliant journey called life.

Pablo Picasso, Portrait of Sebastia Juner Vidal, 1903. Oil on Canvas. LACMA

When Car Meets Art and A Role Reversal

It is a rare thing for me to be surprised by anything – I mean really, anything. I’m adept at guessing presents ahead of time, not because I’ve badgered people into submission (trust me that does not work in our family) but simply by putting together information and being uncannily accurate in calculating the odds on getting a specific something… Weirdly enough this also means I’m excellent at cards.

For that reason, it was something of a surprise when my +1 announced that there was an exhibition he wanted to see. Now dear reader, please bear in mind that I never drag him along to anything – well, not really – so this was somewhat flabbergasting, perplexing and downright bizarre that he wanted to go, and to something I knew nothing about. Our usual routine in all matters exhibition tend toward him agreeing with me that we should go in order to expand his cultural horizons (this is my fall back argument if all artistic arguments fail). Things became clear though when he showed me exactly what exhibition it was he needed to see – the BMW Art Car collection curated by the ICA…

Sandro Chia, BMW 3 Series. This reminded me strongly of Chagall and his images - are they looking at you, or are you looking at them?

There are some exhibition you come across which are so achingly cool that they completely miss the point that they should be about people enjoying, experiencing or being challenged by what they see. I have, on occasion, been somewhat baffled by exhibitions at the ICA for the simple fact that they are trying too hard to be cutting edge, at times they cut out the people element entirely. This one, I’m happy to report is somewhat dirtier, grittier and much, much cooler.

Alexander Calder, BMW 3.0 CSL was arguable where the Art Car began - it was one of my favourites

So, there can be little doubt that my +1 and I are somewhat into our automobiles (understatement!) so this exhibition combines both of our passions perfectly. There is something about a beautiful car, it really is so very much more than a car. I once spoke to a gentleman who loves his motorbikes and is lucky enough to have one of the best gallery spaces in London at his disposal. He would restore the bikes, then wheel them into the gallery and photograph them, because after all as he said they were works of art in their own right. This exhibition proves the point – and does it in abundant style (even if it is in the NCP Carpark on Great Eastern Street – that’s gritty realism for you!).

Frank Stella, BMW 3.0 CSL, the only art car to take place in two real races  - Le Mans and the Manufacturers World Championship in Dijon (1976)

Now, a little history if the whole car/art combination hasn’t scared you all off. The BMW ART CAR COLLECTION started when French racing driver and auctioneer Hervé Poulain invited his friend Alexander Calder to design a car that married artistic excellence to 'an already perfect object'. The end result was a racing car that would ultimately compete in the Le Mans 24-hour race in 1975. And so the BMW Art Car was born... Since then, some of the greatest names in contemporary art have added to the collection creating a wide range of artistic interpretations. David Hockney’s 1995 Art Car paints the inside of the car on the outside, revealing everything from internal engine parts to a dog in the back. Rauschenberg incorporates photographic transfers of Ingres paintings while Andy Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein used the canvas of the car to portray the essence of speed

Roy Lichtenstein, BMW 320 Group 5 - another favourite given my love of pop art...

For me, the combination of some truly beautiful machines with some of the biggest names in art was fabulous. There were amazing paintings in a car park in the East End of London, ON CARS! This was a brilliant exhibition because it was simply about the cars and the artists who painted them. It was the perfect marriage of man and machine (in my opinion) and was interesting from all sorts of different points of view – car fanatic (+1), art lover (moi), art student (thousands…), mums with bored children (you know who you are)  - and there is something for everyone. Go. Now.  Immediately. Before it finishes…

Jeff Koons, BMW M3 GT2. An explosion of colours and geometric figures symbolizes the power of the BMW

Gaudi and Gia

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

This is one of my favourite poems. EVER. When we were walking around the Sagrada Familia there was a small side room which was dedicated to explaining the way in which Gaudi used formations drawn from nature to construct the details of the cathedral. It spoke briefly of his love of the outdoors, founded on spending his childhood summers at the family home in Mas de la Calderera where he studied the natural world around him with zeal and fervour. Much as I’m sure we would all love to be able to indulge ourselves as William Henry Davies wanted. There are few times in the adult world when we have the mental, as well as physical, time to devote to doing absolutely nothing but watching and absorbing the life that whirls ceaselessly around us. Children on the other hand do, and luckily for all of us Gaudi’s love of detail and the perfection he discovered from his childhood studies were never lost to him.

The Ammonite shell is a recurring motif in much of Gaudi's work

He was a man of his homeland, and despite being a world-renowned architect he continued to live in Cataluña all of his life. Gaudi believed strongly that where a man came from shaped him as an individual, gave him purpose, direction and a strong foundation – ironically, everything that a great building needs to make it strong. His love of his home can be seen all over Barcelona and the surrounding Catalan region in the numerous commissions he undertook; from churches and apartment blocks to humble lampposts and frankly awe inspiring gateways. Gaudi’s vision has lent Barcelona an air of refined modernism concealed beneath a distinctly Catalan veil. In any other city his refined architectural motifs would look out of place, the undulating building forms for example, would be an eye-saw rather than a distant echo of the surrounding hills. Cataluña ran through his veins as much as blood does another human, the land was in his bones and he began to shape its principle city in its image.

Gaudi designed lampposts throughout his career - this is a particularly illuminating example. Yes, I really am that dreadful...

In my oh so humble (yes, I am capable at times!) opinion, we all undertake a few journeys before we find out who we are. Artists and craftspeople are distinct from us in the fact that we see their progressions unfold before our eyes; their journeys of discovery are open for the criticism and wonder of all. Like all of us, Gaudi didn’t arrive at his style immediately – he experimented with other popular architectural movements along the way. He was particularly fascinated with oriental art, especially Indian, Moorish and Japanese for a time, and the influence of these can be seen in the Capricho, the Güell Palace, the Güell Pavilions and the Casa Vicens (Gaudi’s first important architectural work once he graduated). He took various structural and ornamental solutions from nazarí and mudéjar art, which he used with variations and stylistic freedom in his works. Notably, Gaudí observed of Islamic art its spatial uncertainty, its concept of structures with limitless space; its feeling of sequence, fragmented with holes and partitions, which create a divide without disrupting the feeling of open space by enclosing it with barriers – something which is immediately apparent in many of his structures.

It is interesting that when I first saw the Sagrada Familia my immediate impression was that it was decidedly gothic in its construction – the soaring arches and myriad towers brought to mind a fairytale castle gone slightly bonkers. No surprise therefore to note that the other major influence on Gaudi’s early career was Gothic Revival – a movement begun by the Frenchman Viollet-le-Duc – though he wasn’t without his criticisms of the style. In the end, he was to ‘perfect’ the Gothic style, beautifying its vault and buttresses using form derived directly from the study of internal natural forms such as trees, reeds and even bones. The key to doing this was the hyperboloid shape (ever twisted the ends of a slinky in opposite directions? The shape it makes is a hyperboloid) which allowed Gaudi to create structures which were more expressive gothic than the more traditional austere: the hyperboloid vaults have their centre where Gothic vaults had their keystone, and the hyperboloid allows for a hole in this space to let natural light in. In the intersection between vaults, where Gothic vaults have ribs, the hyperboloid allows for holes as well, which Gaudí employed to give the impression of a starry sky. The effect it nothing short of brilliant.

Vaulted ceiling in the Sagrada Familia

 Now for me, architecture should escapes the bounds of the building that it is manifest in. The Sagrada Familia is a Cathedral to celebrate religion, however within its construct it is so much more – it is an ode to the beauty of nature and its inherent perfection regardless of the hubris of man in believing he can do better. Gaudi became known for championing the natural within his work as I’ve already mentioned, and this went from the weird to the wonderful, the profound to the profane and everything in between. This is something I love about him as an artist, nothing was too humble to be glorified – the structure of a shell, snails, leaves, it all moved him and in turn he moved us by highlighting them and reminding us of the beauty to be found when we truly open our eyes and look.

The Dragon Gate at the Guell Pavilions - beautiful yet bonkers

Barcelona!

Let’s all face the worst together – Summer at the moment just is not going to happen. The strawberries are flowering, the cream is flowing, the Pimms is just aching to be drunk but the rain just keeps on falling… Depressing is not the word. Frankly bizarre is one word, as is annoying and those are both closely followed by typical. Dear Blighty, I love you deeply but really, is this necessary?!?

Given the frankly appalling meteorological state of the nation (isn’t it wonderful we can complain about the weather rather than the economy for a change?) the thought of four days in the sun was not something I was going to turn down lightly. When my +1 had the Barcelona Brainwave I was sold immediately. Stepping out into hot sunshine when we landed assuaged my guilt at leaving these rain lashed shores , as did the great food, stunning hotel and amazing culture we surrounded ourselves with.

The W Hotel is an architectural gem, and one which you simply cannot miss on the skyline - it screams luxury and doesn't disappoint. In a city which is still heavily traditional in terms of style, this is a beautiful addition and points to a bright architectural future.

So, what can I tell you about Barcelona – or Peckham on Sea (long story and probably says more about my +1 and I’s grand designs for world domination than anything else) – that will make you want to visit. Well… there is absolutely nothing not to like, and by like I mean love and want to go back again and again and again. I’ll limit myself to the culture though since that’s what I’m best at, well, that and food – oh MAN was the food good. Oodles of seafood, everything fresh, great flavours, yummy wine… yummy!

The market on La Ramblas is the perfect place to kick back with some amazing food and do a little people watching... Bliss!

Right, the culture of this amazing city deserves a huge mention as once you get off the beach you can’t turn a corner in the old city without seeing a beautiful church, cobbled street, museum or local gallery selling beautiful pottery. We started our cultural eager beavering at the Museum of Contemporary Art which was a beautiful modern construct, surrounded by sun bleached stone buildings and cool shady side streets. The MACBA building explodes visually onto the quiet Catalan square – bright white, geometrically striking and almost Bauhaus in style and internal structure. Enter its quiet interior and be transported from the bright bustle outside to the calm and serene contemporary haven that it is. The exhibitions are varied and definitely lean more toward the visually challenging – as all contemporary art should do – and even i found myself questioning whether this really was art. Unlike the Tate Modern which mixes modern and contemporary, this place is for the cutting edge; the new wave of sculptors and installation artists who are making a name for themselves. 

MACBA is Barcelona's modern art mecca. If cutting edge and contemporary are your thing then head over to see the next big name.

Next stop: the Sagrada Familia. There aren’t words enough to describe this amazing building to you. It is a monument to natural processes as much as to religion, a testament to architectural vision and enduring passion, beautiful and slightly grotesque all at once. Getting off the metro I couldn’t quite believe the site of the cathedral which when you first look at it appears to have grown of its own accord from the bedrock of the city. Sitting amidst modern apartments buildings and dusty parks, the Sagrada Familia is truly monstrous in proportion; a seemingly gothic giant which has no right to be there. Like all amazing artwork though, the more you look, the more you see, and in this case come to understand about the building. Gaudi was a lover of all things natural, and frequently used motifs derived from the natural world within his work. When he took over the building of what was to be a church, he steadily adapted the design to bring in more and more of the naturalistic elements which he so admired. His vision outgrew the original project, and a beautiful cathedral was conceived. Once you get your head around the detail outside – and when I say detail, it is honestly utterly mind-blowing – the inside will transport you. It reminded me of stepping into a forest, but one which was bathed in all the colours of the rainbow. Gaudi was a genius, and the sacred nature of the space has been mixed seamlessly with the greater idea of natural creation, to create a space which is spiritual but not religious.

This is one place everyone should visit once in their lives...

Whilst we pottered around all manner of places over our four days, the only other one really of note here is the Picasso Museum. Now many of you will know my feelings on Picasso after the blog about the Tate exhibition of his work… (the condensed version being: I like him, a lot) and visiting this small museum in a city which the artist loved hasn’t changed my feelings about him. Unlike the London exhibition which focussed on the main stylistic periods of Picasso’s life, the Barcelona museum went chronologically from his earliest drawings to some of his latest paintings. What can I say? The guy really can paint incredibly well; he wouldn’t have been out of place amongst an old masters exhibition at the National Gallery. For me, this was one of the highlights of the museum as you can trace very slowly the evolution of his style from stately and proper beginnings, through impressionism into cubism and modernism. For those who want a complete portrait of Picasso as an artist, this place is a must, for those who don’t there is a great ice cream shop just down the street which you can enjoy just as much!

One of the great things about the Picasso museum is the building it is housed in -  traditional Spanish style stonework and plaster mixes seamlessly with the artwork giving the feeling of a grand (if modernist) house.

Barcelona is somewhere I always wanted to go, and it didn’t disappoint. Whether you want to wander through the packed streets, spend time on the beach or simply relax in a museum, there is something there for everybody. Go, immediately if not sooner, you won’t regret it for a second…

Phlegm and the Street

Occasionally my work at the gallery forces me to think and work outside my favourite box of contemporary and twentieth century artists. Recently the architect asked me to find a specific street artist for him – not, my box at all. Now I really am not a snob, and when he asked me sweetly over coffee several months ago my heart sank like a stone and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or discreetly become deaf and avoid the issue…My mind screamed the question: Street, ME?!? Whilst I found myself saying, “what a wonderful idea, I’d love to help…” After he beetled off to build another multi-million pound property, I drank my cappuccino in contemplative silence, wondering what exactly I’d let myself in for.

What I had done, it turns out, is open the door to a world of art I’d only really seen in passing, admired and by turn slandered as rubbish, and decided that it really isn’t as scary or achingly cool as I thought. The people I met and dealt with were charming artists who were passionate about their work and very unpretentious about the possibility that it was a transient addition to the urban landscape. The majority of artists I meet would throw an epic wobbly if something they’d worked so hard for was destroyed by anyone once they themselves had decided it was finished. In many ways it was a breath of fresh air for me to be surrounded by these guys.

In hindsight the whole operation was akin to a detective story. I had nothing but a picture and my wits and considerable brain to go on – oh yes, I really am that modest. That March morning I saw myself setting out on a journey of adventure and discovery which would take me to the darkest recesses of London, mixing with the seedy underbelly of artistic society. Thankfully I’m the kind of gal who gets stuck in to pretty much anything – particularly food – and whilst slightly nervous as to what I was going to find, I decided to take my reputation in my hands and dive straight in by calling my modern day Baker Street Runners. It took a while but we got there in the end, and as it turns out the seedy underbelly isn’t quite as uncouth as I had reared.

Now, when I started coming to the East End in the blisteringly un-wintery winter of 2010, I was struck by two things – firstly the people and secondly the street art. The first isn’t particularly pertinent to this discussion, but the second is fundamental – street art was everywhere! Being raised in a strictly canvas and paper art world, it was something of a revelation to me that some street art was beautiful. I was particularly struck by an image which I saw on the corner of Great Eastern Street. For a moment I was transported back through the years to my studies on the German reformation – urgh, what a waste of time that was – but way, way cooler… The thing that caught my eye initially was the style, the thing which evolved into a permanent love of the work was the subject; these images were full of wit, dark humour, humanity and curiosity, in short they were brilliant. I never dreamed in a month of Wednesday lunchtimes, that when I wandered by all that time ago that I’d be one day tracking down that same artist and working with him.

Phlegm. Phelgm… Good start with a name like that isn’t it? Well, interesting tag aside, he’s a street artist who lives and works in Sheffield and is fond of a reet good cuppa. Some may think the name was chosen  to be deliberately shocking, but as it turns out it was picked for its historical relevance to health. Phlegm's name derives from classical medicine, where the body was thought to have four main fluids (or humours), if you had too much phlegm in the system it was thought to lead to apathy. His artwork, particularly his comics (see below) were a release from the strict confines of the Fine Art Degree he took and allowed him to escape what he deemed the ‘stagnation’ of his post-degree work.

His artwork bridges a gap between what some people would call proper art and street art, it is intelligent, witty and provokes debate – what more do doubters about the place of street art in our cultural heritage want? For me the images are immediately striking; they aren’t like anything else out there. It’s like seeing a modern take on an ancient art form, bringing the past to present and doing it phenomenally well. I love it. I want it. I managed to get him to paint a wall in Old Street. I survived. I’m chuffed.  Enjoy them – I hope you like, but even if you don’t, I do!