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Wednesday 27 August 2008

The Poetry of Silence

In a world of 'now', in which talking, communicating, writing, emailing, texting,and phoning fill our lives, taking time to stop and be silent often has to be enforced. Vilhelm Hammershoi is a silence enforcer, a painter whose canvases are acute observations of not the everyday, but the backdrop to the everyday. He paints the settings and scenes of daily life - a spartan house with pictures hung in unusual arrangements here, an empty interior disturbed only by a shaft of light there. Dust caught in sunlight, a solitary figure turning away from the painter. Hammershoi, not to get too philosophical, appears to be a man trying to bottle time, painstakingly capturing an instant before pouring it out onto a stretched white canvas. Hammershoi's paintbrush silences a London street as it takes shape on the canvas, there are no bustling figures here.Only a palette of muted colours, everything tinged with grey.A suspicion that Hammershoi might have been happy watching paint dry is never far away, that he might have uttered no more than five words in a day is a thought that speaks loudly. His view of the world, slow to reveal itself, unsettles.But it makes you stop, makes you stare. His paintings make audible the poetry of silence.

Wednesday 20 August 2008

Bristol symbols

Clifton Suspension Bridge is often held up as the iconic image of Bristol. Isambard Kingdom Brunel's impressive creation spans the craggy Avon Gorge. A gateway to the gorge beyond, the two Pennant-stone towers at either end are linked by fairy-lit iron chains, the road hanging over what can only be described as a long way down. It's a masterpiece in engineering that has lasted nearly 150 years. But for me, the bridge is superseded by a different Bristol symbol. The hot air balloon. Yes, in the battle of the 'Bs' there's a strong case for the balloon as the true image of Bristol. Sitting at breakfast, eating my shreddies, I often look out of my kitchen window. Over the past few days, my view of the leafy-green Ashton Court has been interrupted by a red balloon, peeking over the treetops. Slowly, slowly, like the sun rising, the full balloon emerges. Gently gliding, drifting, escaping, that balloon is a symbol of hope, possibility and wonderful freedom. And that, for me, is everything Bristol should aspire to be.

Sunday 17 August 2008

Sunday 10 August 2008

Threads of thought

Cornwall: pasties, cream teas, freezing ('invigorating') water, heather-clad cliffs, mossy pathways, hidden beaches, smell of seaweed, stinking stale water, fish and chips, seagull attacks, stripy sunburn, the end of the world at the end of the land, a theatre tucked into a cliff, aqua marine rock pools, first-gear-only hills, skies spread thickly with stars.

Sunday 3 August 2008

Cycling city

Don't get me wrong, I love cycling. In Cambridge I happily zipped about on my bike, though perhaps cycling into a lamp post there means that the city witnessed some of my less glorious manoeuvres. Lyon, home to the solid Velo'v, was ideal for two-wheeled transport: flat, full of neatly labelled, empty bike paths, and with a compact city centre. But in Bristol, oh dear, in Bristol. Much as I like cycling, much as I like Bristol, and much as I'd like to think this is a good idea, I've got just one problem with the attempt to make Bristol the UK's top cycling city. The hills. Yes, flying down the hills one way is exhilarating, but the other way? It's not just tiring, it's red-face and out-of-breath-tiring, not to mention you'll probably go so slowly as to almost be going backwards. Bristol: the cycling city. An oxymoronic concept if there ever was one.