gallimaufry

Remembering:

How it felt to finally see these two horses at Ribeira de Piscos in the Côa Valley last week. (Was it only last week?) This time last year we visited caves in the Vézère Valley and they were very dramatic, painted in ochres and charcoals. The engravings in the Côa sites, in Portugal, are engraved, either incised or finely pecked, in a different rock, schist rather than sandstone, and their beauty is subtle. These two horses, their faces superimposed on one another, are both delicate and powerful. They’ve lasted in place for more than 20,000 years. I am remembering that morning, the sound of birds, of bells across the river as a shepherd followed his flock along the water’s edge, and by the path, tiny bee orchids in bloom after rain.

Sipping:

We arrived home this morning after sleeping off a long flight in a motel near the airport where we’d left our car and after I unpacked the groceries and made a fuss of the cat, I boiled water for a pot of the coffee I love best: dark beans ground, water poured over them in the filter basked lined with a homemade cone of unbleached cotton, and then the resulting brew drunk from a green pottery mug. I am at my desk now, drinking the last of the first cup.

Reading:

For my forthcoming book, The Art of Looking Back: A painter, an obsession, and reclaiming the gaze, I read a fascinating essay by Sigmund Freud, “A Disturbance of Memory on the Acropolis”, written in the form of a letter to his friend Romain Rolland as a gift for the latter’s 70th birthday in 1936. I discovered in it so much of my own experience as a young woman climbing the path to the Acropolis in 1976: like Freud, I carried a sense of disapproval on the part of my father (and my mother) for travelling so far from home, so far from family expectations. And in London in late October, John and I visited the Freud Museum where I was surprised to find a copy of a book, Tracing Freud on the Acropolis, published to coincide with an exhibit at the Museum from July 2023 — January 24, just as I was writing my own book. So yesterday, on the plane, I finished reading it and now will revisit Jacqueline Rose’s The Plague, which I read a few years ago and which meditates on death (via COVID-19 and the Ukrainian war), part of which was to be delivered as a lecture to commemorate Freud’s birth but was given instead to commemorate his death. These strands that find other strands! (Is it just me?)

Thinking:

Thinking, wondering, trying to remain open to what it means to travel to a valley to look at rock art in my 70s: is this a discovery of a road not taken or is it a detour or is it the end of the road? This remarkable panel of a single aurox in animated movement or several companions, one above the other, feels like it might be a clue.

Eating:

In the archaeological museum at Vila Nova de Foz Côa, we ate 3 lunches in the restaurant that looked out at the most beautiful valley. We ate grilled sea bream, grilled sea bass (with green olives and rosemary), lamb with braised vegetables and smashed potatoes. One of us ate pork. A glass of the beautiful Douro wine was perfect with this food.

Appreciating:

What it was like to walk into the Alison Jacques Galley in London on a very rainy morning to look at the work of Sagarika Sundaram. Her pieces are layered hand-coloured pieces of felted wool, arranged in place (the floor of the gallery), and then opened or allowed to bloom by cutting into the layers. Some of them are huge and others are more modest. One was hanging from the ceiling of the gallery and it was like looking into a sky you might have dreamed of but never seen.

Another hung in the middle of the room so you could look at it from both sides and figuratively follow a thread into its brilliant body.

Watching:

Golden leaves falling from the wisteria vine climbing a post outside my study window. Rain falling. A few tendrils of smoke rising from our chimney.

Loving:

The scent of our cedar fire.