Unfortunately I won’t be able to see the real thing on display at the Chelsea Flower Show, but was inspired to post up the pictures of my recent trip to the famous Columbia Road Flower Market in London.

It was bright but cold on the day of my visit, and reminded me of being at a festival as it was difficult to move for the crowds of people. Starting at one end, once you enter the market, you stumble along at the mercy of the crowd. I managed to snap these shots as a went by…

It was only a flying visit to London so wasn’t practical to make a purchase, so I bought some deliriously fabulous Italian soap from one of the shops nearby instead. It came wrapped in pretty floral paper. Flowers are indeed everywhere!

It was only by chance that I heard about the week-long exhibition of Cuban Art entitled Beyond the Frame, that finished yesterday at The Lighthouse, Glasgow. Art – including paintings, prints and photography by 29 of Cuba’s leading artists – was specially selected for this exhibition, which also ran for a week at Gallery 27 in London.

Beyond The Frame is a play on words: the frame as a formal device traditionally used by artists, and the frame-up and imprisonment of the Miami Five/Cuban Five. ‘Beyond the Frame’ is optimistic. It suggest that justice is being sought beyond the prison doors.

The exhibition was up in Gallery 5, at the top of the tree, sunlight beaming into the space. Having not checked the opening times of The Lighthouse, and arriving before they even opened on Saturday morning I unfortunately had less time than planned to look around.

I recognised some of the scenes depicted in the paintings from a trip to Cuba last year, specifically the grandeur of the Capitolio building in Havana, and the Che Guevara monument at his mausoleum in Santa Clara. Much of the work was abstract; vivid colour on large canvas. I recognised a Cubist-style. Some featured tears.

My favourite was a wide panoramic canvas featuring a black background with white trees and bushes. It really caught me and I could have given it a great home, though unfortunately my purse couldn’t oblige. At £1,800 it was a good price for a fantastic cause. I hope The Swamp finds a conscientious and thoughtful owner who will admire its alluring simplicity; the drama of monochrome.

I didn’t even get the name of the artist, which is a shame. However, here is a list of all the artists who took part in the exhibition, including two of the Five - Antonio Guerrero and Gerardo Hernández - and other local artists submitted to the cause – I spotted work by Alasdair Gray and John Bryne, and thought, good on them!

Even while staring at The Swamp, I didn’t realise what the exhibition was for, that all funds raised from the sale of the work would go to the campaign to free The Cuban Five. I had heard of ‘Los Cincos’- their Spanish moniker – while in Cuba last year, but I hadn’t fully appreciated the efforts that were raging on their behalf, or of the terrible injustice of their plight. That one man – René González - was ‘freed’ last year after serving 13 years in prison, but is still not able to see his wife because the US government continue to deny her an American visa, and he has to serve a three-year probation in Florida. It goes beyond cruelty. Beyond the Frame.

Glad I was able to attend the exhibition, albeit only briefly, I reflected afterwards on the lack of promotion. I had heard only via a friend on Facebook. Tenuous. What if I hadn’t checked in that day? I was also stunned to learn – from the curator of the exhibition – that Glasgow is actually *twinned* with Havana. Since 2002. Ten years of twinning that I had completely missed!

Somehow, I thought I would have remembered that fact if I had ever heard about or read about it before. Poor show Glasgow: mucho cultural cross-pollination missed, until now.

Find out more about The Cuban Five:

http://www.freethefive.org/index.htm

http://www.cubabeyondtheframe.com/Site/Miami_5.html

http://www.thecuban5.org/wordpress/index.php

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuban_Five

Sign the Petition:

http://www.freethefive.org/obamapetition.htm

Write to the Five (in Spanish or English):

http://www.freethefive.org/writethefive.htm

I arrived around 3.30pm, thinking perhaps that it would be quietening down towards the end of the day. I was wrong. I queued for 15 minutes and by the time it was my turn to buy a ticket, it was for entry at 4.30pm.

The woman in front of me in the queue gave up and wandered away. I saw her and her husband in the shop a few minutes later, checking out the cost of the silver wallpaper with the pills on shelves. Only £575 a roll. We laughed about how we would each take half a dozen. Mwah hahahaha. Then I clocked the gloss-painted skulls on display, also for sale, at a cost of £36,800. She asked me if I had seen the exhibition. Well no, otherwise I wouldn’t have been queuing for a ticket would I?

“Oh…well I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” Her tone was unconvincing.

“Have you been in?”

“No. My daughter has. And she is very open minded. She, err…I’m sure you’ll find it interesting.”

Not the best prologue, but I wasn’t deterred and happily busied myself with the glory of the Tate Shop merchandise while waiting for my entry time. I had to make a purchase of course. A Damien Hirst butterfly badge – Sympathy in White Major – Absolution II – some postcards and a Hypotrochoid Art Set. *Happy childhood memory alert*. I knew instantly what it was but I didn’t know it was called that. I can’t pronounce it either.

And then I made my way up to the gates of Damien’s mind…

Everything was a marvel; curious, bizarre, disgusting, thought-provoking. I recoiled at the stink of fags in the massive ashtray – Crematorium 1996. And then I found myself peering into the depths of severed muscle and bone and innards of the cow/calf in formaldehyde. It was amazing to walk between the two halves, but disgusting too, in a compelling,  must-see kind of way.

My favourite Rooms were 5 and 6: the butterflies. I queued up with everyone else in quiet intrigue, not quite sure what lay behind the plastic strip doorway. Well I didn’t anyway; I hadn’t read my show guide. I like surprises.

Then I saw them, butterflies, their wings twitching about an all-white room with huge canvasses showcasing their hatched pupae, dripping like dead tea bags into window-box style planters of colourful flowers.

We were told to be still and quiet and not make any sudden movements. It was very humid. Bowls of fruit lay on a table for the butterflies to feed off. The thought of the butterfly life-cycle playing out, live, in the gallery space was quite fantastic and somehow humbling. It also made me wonder what right did Damien Hirst have to mess about with nature in this way, and what would happen to the butterflies that were still living on the last day of the exhibition? Those that died in the gallery would never get to breathe real air or feel the sun on their wings, or the rain. Maybe I thought about it too much.

I didn’t follow the proper flow of the exhibition, as the rooms were so big and there was a lot to see.

I skipped quite quickly through Room 10 – all surgical instrumentation which I find mildly painful to observe in pristine order and regimen. Maybe its a phobia.  Moving on to Room 11, I wanted to stare and stare at the butterfly patterns which were beautiful kaleidoscopes of wings, but also made me think of dead butterflies and cruelty and were they real and what kind of glue did he use to stick down those fragile wings? Was it just craft glue or textile glue or some special mix that he had to test out to make sure the wings didn’t fade or disintegrate in the gloop?

Room 12 was grotesque with its bumpy cluster of dead flies. Really, DEAD FLIES. Yes, it made my skin crawl, which is an extreme reaction, but it was repulsive. Again, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it - Black Sun 2004. Where does he collect his raw material? Does he recreate it out of art materials? I hope so. I really hope so.

The gold and diamond ‘Midas’ room (13) made me think of Arabs and Aladdin and shopping centres paved in gold in Dubai. Alas, no photography was allowed in these rooms. Maybe not in the whole thing, but it was specifically prohibited by special photography police here. The glass crystals/diamonds were convincing. Painstaking work to mould and create so many, just like the pills sequences. Damien Hirst is a man of patience.

The last room – Room 14 – held a white dove, mid-flight, preserved in formaldehyde. It was somehow sad that it will never find its own peace, trapped like that for eternity, or however long formaldehyde performs its job. Still, it was an appropriate end to Damien’s body of work.

I enjoyed it. It made me think, and it provoked reaction and it inspired me in some small way to break boundaries in my own creative work. Go Damo!

Happening upon the little gated entrance, I entered into a pretty, shaded space, with flower beds bright and lush with colour and greenery. I didn’t let the father and infant playing football – and subsequent toileting of said infant behind a bush – put me off.

The fountain trickled away with fish plumbing the murky depths of the pond. Beyond that a row of gravestones quietly stand to attention, growing mossy with age. The memorial plaques brought a tear to my eye reading the circumstances in which people died, most trying to save others. Very sad.

There was a strange beehive contraption further in, behind benches laden with bird poo. I gather there was some kind of competition to design a new type of beehive. Curious and intriguing and adds to the overall charm of Postman’s Park.

I expected it to be a bit bigger I suppose, but what I got was peaceful and perfect. I would definitely pop in of a lunchtime if I worked nearby.

Today I went back to get a filling re-filled. *Apparently* a tooth on my lower right was showing signs of decay, with the original filling coming away.

The dentist began by numbing my gums on the left-hand side of my mouth. Alarm bells. I managed to throat-gurgle that something was wrong.

“Wasn’t it a tooth on the other side that needed work? ”

“No. It’s definitely on the left.”

“Err, no, really. I’m sure it was on the right.”

She stuffed the mini-tampon-smeared-with-numbing-gel back into my left gum, rendering me speechless. I gave it one last go, this time adding some arm-flailing for extra emphasis. I’m not normally wrong about these things.

Reluctantly she asked the assistant to check my notes. At this point I was wondering why she hadn’t checked my notes as a matter of course, before I came into the consulting room. Why leave it to chance? I know it was only a week since she saw me, but hey, I’m not that special. I wouldn’t expect her to remember exactly what work I needed apart from perhaps that it was a filling. It’s not a memory test, is it?

So she checked. Both of them checked.

She was wrong.

Mmm.

“So, is the tooth on the left decaying too?”

I had to ask.

“It was just a bit of discolouration which made me think that was the one.”

I was only at the bloody hygienist the week before!

So, looking into my mouth, the dentist can’t figure out where the filling is coming away – do I even have a filling in the tooth on my left? More bells, ringing out of sync, by maniac bell-ringers. It crosses my mind that this work is totally unnecessary and that none of my teeth are at threat of decay. I use Listerine btw, the alcohol-free one…

With all confidence now gone, we begin, me reminding her that I am sensitive to the injection. She asks if perhaps I would rather do without an injection. As in no pain relief, just pain.

Not really.

“On a scale of 1 to 10, how painful is the pain?” I ask, feeling like maybe I should just ‘man up’ and do it.

“About five.”

Mmm.

I opt for pain relief.

As she comes at me with the big, bad needle, aligning my unsuspecting jaw, the door opens and the receptionist pops her head through to ask a question. The needle sinks into flesh. I jolt in panic, bracing myself for the ‘tiny scratch sensation’; the explosion of numbness. I twist my head, fists clenched. It hurts. Really hurts. I’m not tough.

“Is it numb?”

“No.”

“Can you feel this?” Prod, prod, prod.

“No.” (Surprise)

“Ok, you’re numb. Let’s go.”

The drilling starts, the noise excruciating, my brain not computing that the jarring, vibrating drill doesn’t hurt. Hang on. It does! I throat-gurgle and arm-flail.

“I can feel it.”

The dentist and the assistant exchange glances.

“We’ll give you another injection.”

“Oh, OK.” (reluctant, verging-on-tears)

This time I’m mainly expecting to feel nothing, seeing as my mouth is half-numb already. Wrong again. I feel everything, in vibrant high-definition. The dentist rubs my cheek in an effort to disperse the active numbing elixir. I recoil in pain. The right side of my mouth and cheek feels like a swollen, tender mass.

“Is your tongue numb?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

They carry on, pushing the plastic goggles back over my eyes. I’m trapped. The goggles sit so close to my skin that they steam up. I can’t see through the scratches and condensation. The light glares in my face. I feel like a lab rat and it isn’t fun.

I close my eyes and tense my whole body.

“Do you want to take a break?”

“No, I want to get this thing done and get out of here and never come back!”

She recoils from her leaning-over-faux-caring-pose.

“I’ll be as quick as I can.”

More drilling. More tensing. I can’t feel it but I feel like I can. It is a horrible sensation and nothing I can do anything about. The suction pipe squelches against my cheek producing the most horrific noise. My lips feel dry and stretched to splitting point. I always mean to apply a thick coating of Vaseline but forget. Half my lip is numb and half is vitally alive. I take in the ceiling tiles and the oval light and try to sink deeper into the chair. It could be quite comfortable if it wasn’t for the drilling.

“OK, the drilling is done. We are just going to do the filling now.”

“How much longer?”

“Just a few minutes.”

Various apparatus looms into my blurred vision, most of it reminiscent of a Barbie hoover or other Lilliputian device. Some make clicking or beeping noises. It seems so…complicated. Then, I am stunned as a transparent, luminous orange mini-chopping board device is held over my mouth, somehow creating a barrier between them and me. I marvel at this chopping board, certain I have never seen it used before, apart from perhaps in a Barbie kitchen.

More suction, some air, clicking, filing, drilling, clamping down on the little film plates. The little mirror on a stick. The sharp bent stick on a stick. I wonder if a spy would ever use this kind of gear?

Then it stops.

The bib is whipped away and I am elated to be free of the plastic goggles.

“You can rinse.”

I reach for the pink antibacterial liquid and slurp it down my chin. My tongue is now numb.

My lip curls into a half-smile on one side so I look like I’ve had a stroke.

They smile.

I grapple with my coat and grab my bag in a daze, smiling too, though unsure quite why.

The receptionist has no idea who I am, despite throwing me to the wolves just 3o minutes before.

“I jussst need to pay pleasshe.”

“That’ll be £46.”

Great. And still at the back of my mind: did I just pay for a perfectly good tooth to be drilled and tampered with, causing immeasurable stress and a nasty dent in my credit card?

I think it’s time to change dentist.

It has been a while. Quite a while really. Since January. And there aren’t any excuses

that could atone for such an absence. Poor show.

So what have I been doing that is more important than blogging?

I have quite a few, and each has its own story. Some are old, others are older. Some are new and likely made in their thousands, e.g. the Bright Birdy Tray which is from Ikea. It doesn’t matter to me because fun prints make me happy and with enough shelves, trays can be propped up or even hung up, like art.

Yesterday, walking by the window of the British Heart Foundation charity shop, I was stopped in my tracks and compelled to buy a new tray for my collection. I deliberated over it, not because it was expensive (it was in the sale at £1.99 – BARGAIN!), but because I really don’t need another tray.

But it spoke to me with its Bauhaus-esque repeating hearts, its simplicity, and the fact that it was all for charity. I knew, just KNEW, that if I didn’t buy it right then and there, I would go home and think about it and want it and wish I’d bought it and have to write it on my list of things to do to go back and get it.

So the sun came out today, probably not wearing a hat, but bright and cheering anyway in the cold, harsh early days of January. Normally this is a bleak time, very bleak. But not today.

The glorious brightness of the sunshine made me want to fling the windows open wide, hang washing on the line, feed the birds their summer fayre and wear florals and pale lipstick and my short sleeved jacket. Memories of summer came back to me; birds and bees doing their thing, flowers in bloom and the reassuring warmth beaming down from the sky.

Weird how something so simple, so basic, can have such a profound effect really? And we’re still technically in winter. Obviously its too cold for short sleeved anything, but with gloves, not so bad. And the afternoons are getting longer already; so there’s hope. Definitely hope on the horizon for the warmer weather and the exciting possibilities of Spring.

This time last year it was snow and ice and burst pipes. I’m certain we have some slates off the roof and a slightly unstable chimney thanks to hurricane bawbag and its big ugly brother, but because the sun shined today, I felt bright and vibrant and happy to be alive; wind in my hair, the joy of wearing two scarves (one silky ladylike affair, the other all wool and warmth), my pink converse splatted with paint and peachy-pink blusher like the bloom of a rose.

“A rose is a rose is a rose” as Miss Stein once said. Happy January:)

So I bought an orange. A while ago. It sat in the kitchen for some time, moving between the fruit bowl, by the tea bags, on top of the tea bags, next to the popcorn and then over the sugar. It got around.

The thing is: I don’t eat oranges. I don’t like them. Never have. Not since I wanted one as a child – “ooh, bright, dimply pimply thing” – and my Dad made me eat it, bit by bit by bit, all the while the fleshy pithy orangeness churned around my mouth like cud.

I just hadn’t expected it to be so chewy; so bloody unpalatable. But it was. And I was stuck with it for my childish yearning.

Ever since then the mere hint of anything from the general Family of Orange (clementines, tangerines – how does anyone ever tell the difference?)  has been avoided in general. When people eat oranges near me, or I see their pathetic white peel with its stringy segmentations, I cringe inwardly and scarper.

That was up until last year, when dining in an Indian restaurant, the waiter brought a plate of juicy looking segments with the hot flannels. After the spicy richness of a bhoona there was something so refreshingly zesty about a bright beacon of orangeness. And I quickly realised that under such circumstances, it was quite acceptable to delicately suck a segment rather than attempt to peel the peel with bare hands.

So I gave it a go. I did it. I’d never had a problem with orange juice, and I LOVED it; I wanted it ALL!

Since then, I have cautiously approached the orange aisle in the supermarket, and bought the occasional orange to enjoy after a meal in a palette-refreshing way. And it was in this way I ended up with a stray orange nestled atop the Kilner jars in the kitchen.

I eyed it suspiciously and day after day, decided I would have it the next. I couldn’t remember if it had been there since Dad visited in September, but then surely he would have eaten it himself? Then I started to worry if it was past its best. Gone, over, sour.

The curious thing is it didn’t seem to age. No mould ever formed on its robust and taught skin. Lemons – you know where you are with them because they quickly mould over if you aren’t watching. This orange was different: even after I took its photo, I left it for another week or so. Still nothing. And this time I was counting, scrutinising, supervising the situation.

Finally, yesterday, although it seemed to look ‘OK’, I decided that enough was enough and the consumption of fruit beyond three months old was not decent for 2012.

I threw it in the bin and vowed never to buy another orange ever again.

I should have drowned it in the mulled wine while I had the chance.

First up, Make Do & Mend at Platform, Easterhouse on Saturday 3rd December from 11am – 3pm. A super fantastic venue, a vintage vibe, a production of ‘A Victorian Christmas’, a vibrant cafe and a multitude of stalls selling wonderful wares – a top day out for sure.

Find me with my oh-so-popular handmade button brooches, vintage domino brooches, corsages, fabric necklaces, maybe a fascinator or two…AND a selection of beautiful hand knitted baby blankets, cardigans and booties by my very own Mum:) She is always in demand for her knitting!

Oh yeah. See you there for some crafty chit-chat and a chance to bag some unique, handmade gifts for that Christmas stocking.

All the deets are here. Ooh, nice stand, who made all those amazing items? I wonder….

 

*** AND IF THAT WASN’T ENOUGH ***

 

The following day – Sunday 4th December – will find me setting up stall for the very first time at the brilliant Little Birds Market at Sloans off Buchanan Street/Argyle Street. That’s INSIDE out of the rain and the wind, in the stunning ballroom upstairs. It’s a regular indoor market and I’m very excited about my debut, just in time for Christmas. There will be some amazing goodies, surprise gifts and treats on the day. Fabulous. 12noon – 5pm.

Hope to see you at one of these events next weekend, which both have totally FREE ENTRY!

Rebecca x