A busy day, yesterday. I
start this gloomy one, rather tired, and oppressed by the news of the
bizarre accident in Glasgow during the night.
To begin with, the picture
wasn't by what's-his-name. The owner, a thoroughly nice man, was
understandably disappointed. It's big, and relates to a picture in
the Tate. The owner of this one thought – had been authoritatively
told – that it was a preliminary study by the artist's hand, My
husband said it was a near-contemporary copy, and a good one, but not
ipsissima manu.
(I have myself developed a
certain awareness of this artist, over the years, and I agreed. There
was a deadness about it. However, I kept out of the
conversation, you will be glad to hear.)
My husband (understandably)
was unable to explain the reasons for his verdict to the owner's
satisfaction. I think in the end connoisseurship comes down to
something like recognising your mother's handwriting on an envelope.
Another few years, and that analogy itself will be unintelligible as
mothers will correspond only by email.
Mercifully, the owner had
also brought along a small drawing – and it was thoroughly good, in
every sense.
The postman brought the
eagerly expected something-to-pay card, certainly relating to the
yarn for the Sensible Christmas Project. I sat down to pay on-line,
as often before, and failed. I kept getting an error message telling
me to try again. I think something must be wrong with the Royal Mail
website – something to do with privatisation? So today I'll have to
call in at a sub-post office and pay in cash. Another day lost.
It's possible, of course,
that a Bad Man has stolen all our money. Also possible – and rather
more likely – that I will find I have paid the charge four times,
once from each of the different cards I tried. And now I'll pay it a
fifth time, in cash.
On top of all this, “The
Knitted Shawls of Helga Ruutel” turned up from the Schoolhouse. It
is a collection of lace patterns, each presented in a photograph and
a chart. I haven't spent much time with the book yet, but I don't
think it contains instructions for actually using the patterns in a
shawl. You're supposed to know how to do that. It's in Estonian and
English. There are lots of nups.
In the introduction, Helga
offers this, from an Estonian poet I love it:
“I left papers on the
desk.
Guests read them.
They asked if I wished to
publish them.
I answered that I had no
such wish.
Guests said that
no-one would publish them
anyway.”
Hope the evening has picked up a bit for you. Some days it seems nothing goes rightly.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the Estonian poem - I love it too. Doing my weekend catchup on blog reading and adding my best wishes for your niece, in coping with her diagnosis and treatment. It's different for everyone, of course, but survival is so much better than it was in the late 70s when I was first back in Canada from years in the UK, and coordinating some clinical trials of the lumpectomy + radiotherapy which has since made such a difference to the lives of women diagnosed with breast cancer - then being pioneered courageously here by a couple of docs.
ReplyDelete- Beth in Toronto