Jesús Rafael Soto.

In around 1966, I was managing a small Art Gallery in London's Devonshire Street; twixt Harley Street and Marylebone High Street.

As such, even though we didn't deal in anything much later that 1900, I was invited to almost all the vernissages, at London's major avant garde galleries.

One of the more interesting galleries of the time was the nearby  'Signals' in Wigmore Street; a street better known for its medical supplies shops than for Art Galleries.

Signals was established as a link between artists of Latin America and those of London. London, at that time was the center of all things cultural.

The Signals exhibition that I remember best was that of Jésus Rafael Soto, a kinetic Sculptor/Painter who created stunning work that was impossible to ignore.

Most of his work involved canvases that were painted with thin vertical stripes, with other thin vertical strips of metal loosely suspended in front. Any slight movement of the hanging metal rods created eye-catching movement. At the time these were fascinating, although they must have been difficult to live with. The above is a reasonable example.

Signals' 'Private Views' were always interesting affairs regardless of the work on show. Amongst the wealthy buyers were always well-known faces from TV, famous models, and (for some bizarre reason) a few Nuns. No doubt the great Jesús himself was also there on that occasion, which could explain the presence of the Nuns; his name might have confused them.

Soto was the darling of the kinetic art world back in the mid to late 60's, but I haven't heard of him since. Fame can be very fleeting.

Cider.

Do you like Cider?

When my son Kimbo was here recently, not only did we crack open a few bottles of Canard Duchene, but also some good ole Breton farm cider.

I really do enjoy drinking quality cold cider. On a Summer's day, there is little more refreshing; other, of course, than my own Elderflower Champagne.

France makes a big thing of it's farm produced Cidre Bouché. It is regarded in a similar way to wine, even though there is no Cidre Grand Cru, Chateau Pomme, or great vintages. 

But the French have a right to be proud of their Cider, it's a wonderful drink, not overly alcoholic (5.5%), and follows a tradition that dates back for centuries.

The UK produces FOUR TIMES the amount of Cider than France, but it tends to be sold in big nasty plastic bottles. The main producers make no attempt to market it as a quality drink, and as a result it is held in little regard. I think this is a big mistake.

When we first moved here, local farmers used to pass fresh Cider through their wine vats after the wine had been drawn off. The mixture of the remaining wine, and the Cider, in amongst all the grape detritus made a very acceptable bonus Cider flavoured wine.

I remember, up in Normandy and Brittany, that cider used to be sold in shops without labels. The bottles were corked in the same 'Champagne style' fashion, but the maker wasn't mentioned. I rather liked this, it gave a rusticity that was authentically Breton.

Cider, like Beer, is a quality drink and really should be treated with the respect that it deserves. I love it.

One season ends; another begins.

This is the last of our winter veg'. Time has come to grub-up all the spent Cavolo Nero, PSB, Perpetual Spinach (above), and Curly Kale plants, and dig-in plenty of compost in readiness for this years crops. I now have a two section compost system, so the compost I'm spreading is two years old; much better looking than before.

As usual I'm following my four year rotation, and the section where all my winter leafy vegs have been growing will, this year, be replaced by our summer Peppers, Aubergines, Beans, and a few Butternuts.

My 2018 harvest was generally very good, except for the Tomatoes. They became diseased, and stopped producing much earlier than expected. This has prompted me to plant much later this year, and to follow some slightly different growing methods. We'll see!

I've got all the seeds I need, and the garden shops are filled with plants. It's all 'go' from now on. Let the fun commence.

What a load of rubbish.

This may not be breaking news to you; but it is to me!

Some meddling bloody bureaucrat has come-up with a really bright idea. We shall soon be issued with electronic keys (above), that open our public waste bins, and the amount of 'black bags' we put in will be counted throughout the year, so that an extra tax can be added to our already high local taxes. 

The obvious effect of this will be more fly-tipping. Why place your rubbish in a public waste bin, if you're going to be charged for the pleasure? Far easier just to chuck it to the side of the road (making sure first that you can't be identified). Of course one could simply stockpile all the black bags, open the waste bin just once at the end of the year, then pile them all in.

Big brother really has arrived. You can't do a damned thing these days without either being spied upon, or taxed. It really has become ridiculous. Apart from anything, we are already paying for rubbish collection through our local taxes. Better, I would have thought, to spend a small amount of money on re-educating the public about their rubbish, and to increase fines for ignoring the basic rules.

I get the impression that our lives are no longer under our own control, and that France's massive bureaucracy has taken over. Civil servants rule everything; even our rubbish.

School uniforms.

School uniforms were designed not only for institutional recognition, but also for social equalising. When school clothing becomes a fashion parade, I imagine that concentration on classroom work fades.

I've just found the above photo of my own alma mater, a tad before my time; and looking decidedly like something out of 'Goodbye Mr Chips'. I see mortarboards, short jackets, and stiff collars; more like my father's school uniform. These days gowns of various ilks are worn, and in my day we wore boaters; which I rather liked.

Today, the hairy, drinking, smoking, scruffs, that frequent these hallowed college grounds, seem to wear sharp suits or dinner jackets; and with girls now in the mix (since 1970), I imagine fashion definitely plays a part.

The school clothing department of a well-known Knightsbridge shop, from whence our uniforms were purchased, was always an 'interesting' place. I remember lots of dreadful mothers overseeing the purchase of ill fitting jackets for their little Cedrics or Poppets (they were bought to 'grow into'). Time there was best kept to an absolute minimum.

I wonder how much longer rigorously strict school uniforms will last. I suspect not that much.

                   

The world today.

It looks as if the weather has changed for a while. I see that on-and-off rain is forecast into May.

This means two things. The bloody grass will grow and I won't be able to cut it, and I'll be spending a lot more time indoors, which to me means boredom.

However, it also means that we won't be having any frost, and that our fruit crops will be safe. If even a fraction of the blossom develops into fruit, we'll be overwhelmed.... which is how I like it.

Elsewhere in our tiny hamlet, the wild Orchids are mostly in flower, the man building the Stalag Holiday Camp seems to have temporarily abandoned it, and one of my favourite dogs (Bok's girlfriend, Izzy) is having serious epilepsy problems, and is now half blind and sleeps 23 hrs a day. Poor gal.

We now see green everywhere, Pine pollen covers just about everything, and the Cuckoos sing all day long.

I've spread most of the compost at Haddock's, and the Courgette plants will soon go in. I shall hold back from planting-out the Tomatoes, Peppers, Aubergines, etc, until almost mid-May.

On the tedium front; Brexit has returned to haunt us, and yet again we mourn the senseless killing of those whose gods others disapprove.

N.B. PLEASE, if you're going to follow some ridiculous primitive nonsense about gods and devils, do have some respect for those who follow equally ridiculous nonsense under different names. You're all as crazy as each other, so for goodness sake, the least you could do is to shake hands and be friends in your mutual folly.

Billy, update.

I was just reading that Border Collies don't 'grow up' until they're two years old. I do hope that IS the case, as little Billy keeps us thoroughly amused, and I'd quite like him to stay as the hooligan that he certainly is.

So, how's he doing? Well, the black spots on his pink nose seem to be growing. As in the tradition of Teddy Bears having only one eye, he has one ear bent. And he seems to be as happy standing on his two rear legs, as he is on four.

Otherwise he has a canine 'comb-over' on his back, with his fur all going in one direction. He has a lower jaw that is shorter than 'official'. He eats mountains of Cow 'manure'. And he has boundless energy.

I think that just about sums him up.