It's Friday now, and we've been home since Monday. I'm hoping that eventually my internal timing systems will realise that and reset to local time,
I haven't mastered adding pictures very well yet, so for a while they might appear and disappear in a random fashion. And a few memories still need to be recorded - it would be a pity to forget the the helmets on the bands at the ceremonial changing of the guard at the Portuguese presidential palace.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
From our Atelier
Due to poor internet facilities, and exhaustion from traipsing around too many historical sites and Museums, I have fallen behind in recording stuff I want to remember. I will just have to try and fill in some gaps later. Fortunately, we are now at a place so beautiful and interesting from several different perspectives, that George has been moved to make a note of it, and he has kindly allowed me to put his prose on my blog. What follows is George speaking until further notice.
Mertola is a hill town in the south east corner of Alentejo and of Portugal. It is described as a museum town and that is true in every sense. Several good museums, an excavated Roman town centre and a seriously good castle, but houses falling down and for sale in all directions (sometimes the same houses). At about 160 ft, it is at a lower altitude than Evora (1150 ft) and Beja (650 ft) but still pretty cool until the sun comes out. The area is obviously drier than either of those, and much drier than Lisbon: we have been here 24 hours with no rain yet.
The town is strung along a hilltop, really a crag. The old, upper part of the town is enclosed by its walls, which are mostly intact. The lower part of the town, which has streets instead of alleys, is on one slope of the hill. The castle sits on top, with a view for miles. As usual, the Romans started it, quite possibly on an Iron Age base, the Visigoths and Moors improved it (well, repaired it anyway) and then King Dinis came along in the C13th and made a proper job of it, to keep out the meddling Castilians. It has been repaired in the last century and is quite impressive.
Much of the upper town was not repaired in the last century, and is falling down. There are a lot of nice houses and some grand views, but you can peer down from the castle and count the ruins. A pity, but many of the houses must be pretty inconvenient: small, damp, and seemingly without adequate running water, as bottled drinking water is delivered all over the old town.
We are staying in an old monastery just outside Mertola (the Convento de Sao Francisco) which a Dutch family have rescued from falling down and turned into an artist colony and environmental showcase. As well as the main house and the workshop in the former church, there are several rooms available for artists in residence, but none are residing at present, so we have one of the rooms. It is a large studio apartment with a bathroom, kitchen, sleeping loft, hot water that works, fridge that doesn't, wood stove and draughts. Out the back, it has a good view of a hillside with scrub, gum trees, swifts, hawks etc, and if you peer around the corner a bit, a good view of Mertola perched on its crag. If you walk up the hill to the clothesline, there is a spectacular view over the convent buildings, the town, the valley of the river Guadiana and a lot of storks nesting around the convent.
The convent was founded by the C17th, and there are old statues from here of Sao Francesco and Sao Antonio in a museum of sacred art in the town. The order was expelled from Portugal in 1834 and the buildings then ceased to be used for ecclesiastical purposes. They were not well looked after from then until 1980, when the Zwanniken family took them over. Some of the roofs fell in and some of the outlying buildings are ruined, but the former church is still structurally sound, though nearly all decoration has been removed by passers-by, museum curators or the damp. The central part of the monastery has been restored, and the project is now being extended to a nearby building, in which our room is.
When I say they have rescued it from falling down, that's a work in progress. The recent rain got into a wall in the room next to ours, and the wall collapsed. Since they are mainly mud, with a stone facing, once the roof falls in, the walls don't last long. Now a couple of men are working at rebuilding that wall and putting a new roof on the room. They are using what seems to be a Portuguese specialty, which is a sort of hollow brick like a ceramic breeze block. Usually anything like that is found in a museum, labelled flue tile from Roman bath-house. Utter confusion awaits archaeologists of the future.
Internet connection here is a bit ropy. The convent is wired for ethernet and ADSL, which both work, but they have forgotten the combination to connect to their ISP (the man who knows it is snowed in, in Holland). The mobile broadband works, but only in the morning, and even then it's on-and-off. Odd, since from the clothesline we can see the mobile phone towers across the river: perhaps Vodafone.pt's hamsters get tired as the day goes on. One of the museum staff at the castle has a mobile broadband key and a line of sight to the mobile phone towers not a mile away, with nothing at all between, apart from the odd swift, and her connection was flickering. [Later - Vodafone must have seen that bit, and given the hamsters some more crunchies. The connection is OK tonight.]
Back to me now. The only other visitor here is a young woman from Holland who is writing poetry. I will claim to be a textile artist if anyone asks. We met the young poet this afternoon in town. She had just descended from the tower of the castle as we were about ascend. I asked how the poetry was going. "Very well", she said, "the atmosphere is so special you just want to write or paint or make music" She is obviously right because as far as I am aware, this is the first time George has been moved to prose by our surroundings.
Our hosts speak English, and have a small herd of cats and several dogs.. All of them were rescued from abandonment and neglect - apparently a common thing in Portugal, they could do with a Hugh Worth to straighten them out a bit. Despite all the cats and dogs there are lots of storks building nests, and hawks just thinking about nesting in the tower specially built for them. As mentioned earlier, lots of swifts, and plenty of other birds I haven't identified. There are also half a dozen horses here, I suspect acquired on much the same basis as the dogs and cats. I asked Louis what the horses do, "Oh they eat grass and hay" The only working equine obvious is the mechanical donkey, created by a son of the house, a sculptor specialising in kinetic works. I won't even attempt to describe this creation, made to operate the the donkey works that powers the chain and bucket system that raises the water from a well that is the heart of a restored watering system for the convent garden. Tomorrow I will resist the attractions of the town and take photos here.
I just thought to add a link to the web site, and I'm powerfully reminded of a slightly embarrassing fact - this place is very like Ceres, only on an old monastery site instead of an old quarry turned rubbish tip, and it looks across a river to a museum town, instead of across the Merri creek to an industrial estate in Northcote. And it's more fun to be at either of them than to read the propaganda on their websites. Convento de Sao Francisco Ceres
Mertola is a hill town in the south east corner of Alentejo and of Portugal. It is described as a museum town and that is true in every sense. Several good museums, an excavated Roman town centre and a seriously good castle, but houses falling down and for sale in all directions (sometimes the same houses). At about 160 ft, it is at a lower altitude than Evora (1150 ft) and Beja (650 ft) but still pretty cool until the sun comes out. The area is obviously drier than either of those, and much drier than Lisbon: we have been here 24 hours with no rain yet.
The town is strung along a hilltop, really a crag. The old, upper part of the town is enclosed by its walls, which are mostly intact. The lower part of the town, which has streets instead of alleys, is on one slope of the hill. The castle sits on top, with a view for miles. As usual, the Romans started it, quite possibly on an Iron Age base, the Visigoths and Moors improved it (well, repaired it anyway) and then King Dinis came along in the C13th and made a proper job of it, to keep out the meddling Castilians. It has been repaired in the last century and is quite impressive.
Much of the upper town was not repaired in the last century, and is falling down. There are a lot of nice houses and some grand views, but you can peer down from the castle and count the ruins. A pity, but many of the houses must be pretty inconvenient: small, damp, and seemingly without adequate running water, as bottled drinking water is delivered all over the old town.
We are staying in an old monastery just outside Mertola (the Convento de Sao Francisco) which a Dutch family have rescued from falling down and turned into an artist colony and environmental showcase. As well as the main house and the workshop in the former church, there are several rooms available for artists in residence, but none are residing at present, so we have one of the rooms. It is a large studio apartment with a bathroom, kitchen, sleeping loft, hot water that works, fridge that doesn't, wood stove and draughts. Out the back, it has a good view of a hillside with scrub, gum trees, swifts, hawks etc, and if you peer around the corner a bit, a good view of Mertola perched on its crag. If you walk up the hill to the clothesline, there is a spectacular view over the convent buildings, the town, the valley of the river Guadiana and a lot of storks nesting around the convent.
The convent was founded by the C17th, and there are old statues from here of Sao Francesco and Sao Antonio in a museum of sacred art in the town. The order was expelled from Portugal in 1834 and the buildings then ceased to be used for ecclesiastical purposes. They were not well looked after from then until 1980, when the Zwanniken family took them over. Some of the roofs fell in and some of the outlying buildings are ruined, but the former church is still structurally sound, though nearly all decoration has been removed by passers-by, museum curators or the damp. The central part of the monastery has been restored, and the project is now being extended to a nearby building, in which our room is.
When I say they have rescued it from falling down, that's a work in progress. The recent rain got into a wall in the room next to ours, and the wall collapsed. Since they are mainly mud, with a stone facing, once the roof falls in, the walls don't last long. Now a couple of men are working at rebuilding that wall and putting a new roof on the room. They are using what seems to be a Portuguese specialty, which is a sort of hollow brick like a ceramic breeze block. Usually anything like that is found in a museum, labelled flue tile from Roman bath-house. Utter confusion awaits archaeologists of the future.
Internet connection here is a bit ropy. The convent is wired for ethernet and ADSL, which both work, but they have forgotten the combination to connect to their ISP (the man who knows it is snowed in, in Holland). The mobile broadband works, but only in the morning, and even then it's on-and-off. Odd, since from the clothesline we can see the mobile phone towers across the river: perhaps Vodafone.pt's hamsters get tired as the day goes on. One of the museum staff at the castle has a mobile broadband key and a line of sight to the mobile phone towers not a mile away, with nothing at all between, apart from the odd swift, and her connection was flickering. [Later - Vodafone must have seen that bit, and given the hamsters some more crunchies. The connection is OK tonight.]
Back to me now. The only other visitor here is a young woman from Holland who is writing poetry. I will claim to be a textile artist if anyone asks. We met the young poet this afternoon in town. She had just descended from the tower of the castle as we were about ascend. I asked how the poetry was going. "Very well", she said, "the atmosphere is so special you just want to write or paint or make music" She is obviously right because as far as I am aware, this is the first time George has been moved to prose by our surroundings.
Our hosts speak English, and have a small herd of cats and several dogs.. All of them were rescued from abandonment and neglect - apparently a common thing in Portugal, they could do with a Hugh Worth to straighten them out a bit. Despite all the cats and dogs there are lots of storks building nests, and hawks just thinking about nesting in the tower specially built for them. As mentioned earlier, lots of swifts, and plenty of other birds I haven't identified. There are also half a dozen horses here, I suspect acquired on much the same basis as the dogs and cats. I asked Louis what the horses do, "Oh they eat grass and hay" The only working equine obvious is the mechanical donkey, created by a son of the house, a sculptor specialising in kinetic works. I won't even attempt to describe this creation, made to operate the the donkey works that powers the chain and bucket system that raises the water from a well that is the heart of a restored watering system for the convent garden. Tomorrow I will resist the attractions of the town and take photos here.
I just thought to add a link to the web site, and I'm powerfully reminded of a slightly embarrassing fact - this place is very like Ceres, only on an old monastery site instead of an old quarry turned rubbish tip, and it looks across a river to a museum town, instead of across the Merri creek to an industrial estate in Northcote. And it's more fun to be at either of them than to read the propaganda on their websites. Convento de Sao Francisco Ceres
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Self discovery
Since I have been singing the Sacred Harp, discussed in several previous entries, I have been claiming an affinity with religious sentiment prepared to gaze on the dark side of existence. Now I see that I was just seeking a little balance to counteract the sometimes remorseless commitment to positive thinking in the communities where I spend most of my time. It is possible to have too much of a dark thing. It is possible to walk into one Portuguese church and have too much of a dark thing.
Talk about death and glory. Back when Portugal was fabulously rich, it seems that everyone who was anyone set up a splendidly ornamented church, dripping with gold, showing as much suffering and death as could be be crammed into the space. If you gaze around to rest your eyes from graphic crucifixions and martyredoms, you might find a statue of a hearty looking saint on top of an altar, but if your eyes drift down they might be assaulted again by a distressingly realistic representatation of a dead body underneath the altar, just in case you had temporarily forgotten that you will die soon, probably in some horrible way (my cold is almost better thanks, if you are interested) That's why I was quite excited this morning to find a small side chapel, in the private church of the Dukes of this town, that had only one token, quite discreet, crucifix. All the other images and statues were of saintly folk going about their celestial business in a perfectly cheerful and unmolested fashion.
Anyway, this leads me to my theory about why there are no Goths to be seen round and about here. Not much differentiation from your parents' generation to be found in death and gloom here. Feminism and modern art are much more the thing.
Talk about death and glory. Back when Portugal was fabulously rich, it seems that everyone who was anyone set up a splendidly ornamented church, dripping with gold, showing as much suffering and death as could be be crammed into the space. If you gaze around to rest your eyes from graphic crucifixions and martyredoms, you might find a statue of a hearty looking saint on top of an altar, but if your eyes drift down they might be assaulted again by a distressingly realistic representatation of a dead body underneath the altar, just in case you had temporarily forgotten that you will die soon, probably in some horrible way (my cold is almost better thanks, if you are interested) That's why I was quite excited this morning to find a small side chapel, in the private church of the Dukes of this town, that had only one token, quite discreet, crucifix. All the other images and statues were of saintly folk going about their celestial business in a perfectly cheerful and unmolested fashion.
Anyway, this leads me to my theory about why there are no Goths to be seen round and about here. Not much differentiation from your parents' generation to be found in death and gloom here. Feminism and modern art are much more the thing.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
There are no Goths in Lisbon
At least none that I have seen. As always, I have a theory, but I'll save that for later. I'm several days behind on recording stuff, so I'll jump straight to this morning, and hope to go backwards later. I've claimed a mediterranean right to a siesta and have escaped further strenuous touristing about for the rest of the afternoon.
We survived our interesting but scarey accommodation in the oldest part of Lisbon and are now in a proper hotel in Évora with fire plans and extinguishers.
Anyway, back to this morning. This morning we went on a tour of several megalithic and a Roman site. If you've been to Stonehenge and been disappointed by the crouds and the site all fenced off, Almendres Cromlech is the place for you. It's just sitting there, beside the dirt track, and we were the only people there, wandering in and out amongst the stones, listening to the birds, taking pictures, trying to capture the place and imagine back 7000 years to when someone had the bright idea to make an architectural statement there. The stones aren't as big as stonehenge, I say that so you will not be disappointed, but it's a powerful site. There are not many places around that speak across so many years. Bit hard to work out what's being said, but being in a country where I do not have the language, I'm getting used to that.
When we stopped off to look at the Almendres Menhir, a large standing stone at some distance, but associated with the henge, we met a friendly tortoiseshell cat with a stumpy tail just like Bluey's.
For any readers not familiar with my family, Bluey is my brother Bill's very devoted stumpy tail heeler. I think I got a photo. Like the rest of the photos, it will be uploaded once we get home, maybe.
The countryside around here is green and damp now, with many olive trees and cork oaks. The trees are fairly well spaced with cattle grazing underneath. The cattle are mainly big beef cattle, Limousin coloured, ranging from a reddish buff to quite strong reddish brown. I did see a few that were patched with white, but they just looked like a colour variant of the others we had seen. The only dairy cattle seen were a few Fresian Holsteins at the agricultural college. We saw quite a lot of gum trees in our travels this morning. They seem to be being grown for firewood. They had all been coppiced
Thursday, January 14, 2010
More from Lisbon
I'm writing this on the morning of Thursday 14th January, sitting in our garret in Lisbon with sunlight streaming through the windows. It may not last long, it has been raining on and off ever since we arrived. Ever the optimist, George has washed his socks, pegged them out on the balcony, and gone off on a walking tour of interesting sights of Lisbon.
Yesterday surprised with a free exhibition at the new (but in a very old building) Museum of Design. I was attracted by the more than life size cut outs of the Beatles from the Sgt Pepper album cover. There were two floors of exhibition, the ground floor showing fashion and furniture from the 1920/30s through to the present, and the first floor exhibiting fashion and furniture, particularly chairs, from 1960 to 1973. I would have bought the catalogue, but it was sold out. The clothes, all of them perfect examples of the work of major designers, were displayed on the open floor with examples of contemporary furniture design. Although touching and photography were not allowed, the public could walk right up to and around the displays, no glass cases or any other barriers on the lower floor. And they were all the kind of clothes that could be worn today and still look fantastic.
Ironically, the floor dedicated to the freewheeling 60s had more barriers to close inspection, possibly because some effort had gone into recreating environments, each of which featured music from the period as well as clothes and furniture. I thought the furniture starred in this section, with all sorts of interpretations of furniture for flexible, communal and casual lifestyles. My accidentally purchased Featherston suite would have fitted right in, although on the conservative design end of the selection. I wished that Meredith could be there – it was a goldmine for a serious student of the chair. The clothes were beautiful, but there is something a bit wrong about designer clothes expressing an anti authoritarian ethos. The curators had cunningly acknowledged this by displaying the clothes on stands, and scattering naked manikins throughout the exhibition.
I think George would have passed on the design Museum, except that the young staff were so lovely, and so proud of their exhibition that he did not like to disappoint them by not looking.
It's a bit hard to tell as a tourist with no language but possibly this is now a much more fertile city for the young and arty than Paris. The old town is full of beautiful but neglected houses, I've noticed a few old buildings divided up into artisans' studios with young folk busy inside. The place is dripping with history, and there are plenty of cheap drinking opportunities. Even for tourists the cost of living is modest, and if you were really trying, the proverbial oily rag could be had very cheaply indeed
Added in the evening.
George came back from the walking tour well informed about various things including the empty, decaying houses in the city. Something to do with rent controls making it uneconomic to maintain the houses. Tragic really. Someone should do something.
Yesterday surprised with a free exhibition at the new (but in a very old building) Museum of Design. I was attracted by the more than life size cut outs of the Beatles from the Sgt Pepper album cover. There were two floors of exhibition, the ground floor showing fashion and furniture from the 1920/30s through to the present, and the first floor exhibiting fashion and furniture, particularly chairs, from 1960 to 1973. I would have bought the catalogue, but it was sold out. The clothes, all of them perfect examples of the work of major designers, were displayed on the open floor with examples of contemporary furniture design. Although touching and photography were not allowed, the public could walk right up to and around the displays, no glass cases or any other barriers on the lower floor. And they were all the kind of clothes that could be worn today and still look fantastic.
Ironically, the floor dedicated to the freewheeling 60s had more barriers to close inspection, possibly because some effort had gone into recreating environments, each of which featured music from the period as well as clothes and furniture. I thought the furniture starred in this section, with all sorts of interpretations of furniture for flexible, communal and casual lifestyles. My accidentally purchased Featherston suite would have fitted right in, although on the conservative design end of the selection. I wished that Meredith could be there – it was a goldmine for a serious student of the chair. The clothes were beautiful, but there is something a bit wrong about designer clothes expressing an anti authoritarian ethos. The curators had cunningly acknowledged this by displaying the clothes on stands, and scattering naked manikins throughout the exhibition.
I think George would have passed on the design Museum, except that the young staff were so lovely, and so proud of their exhibition that he did not like to disappoint them by not looking.
It's a bit hard to tell as a tourist with no language but possibly this is now a much more fertile city for the young and arty than Paris. The old town is full of beautiful but neglected houses, I've noticed a few old buildings divided up into artisans' studios with young folk busy inside. The place is dripping with history, and there are plenty of cheap drinking opportunities. Even for tourists the cost of living is modest, and if you were really trying, the proverbial oily rag could be had very cheaply indeed
Added in the evening.
George came back from the walking tour well informed about various things including the empty, decaying houses in the city. Something to do with rent controls making it uneconomic to maintain the houses. Tragic really. Someone should do something.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Lisbon
The flight from Paris went smoothly, even comfortably. There were lots of spare seats on the plane.
George had predicted that Lisbon would be similar to Melbourne in winter, and he was right, sort of. Since we have been here it has been like Melbourne used to be in winter, grey and wet. The countryside looked very pretty from the air, but also flooded in places. I suppose the snow that has been falling over the rest of Europe is falling as rain here.
The accommodation I booked turns out to have been a fairly courageous choice – more starving poet than old folk with stiff joints. Fortunately it is all white paint and Ikea furniture comfortable and clean, but tucked under the roof of a seriously antique house on a stepped alley in that part of town that is still laid out like a Moorish settlement. We get from the front door of the house to the door of our apartment by way of a terrifyingly steep set of steps. In case of fire I think we just perish. I think it may be worth stepping onto the balcony and closing the shutters behind us, but George has no faith that anyone could get a ladder along the alley to save us.
At the end of our alley we can catch something very like a W class tram, only much smaller.
We visited the Cathedral yesterday, impressively old with plenty for those who like their religion gloomy. But I noticed a few charmingly light touches, and forgot to attempt some photos, I may have to return. In the treasury there is a lovely little statue of the Virgin Mary and child Jesus, boy Jesus and Mummy Jesus as Gavin would have said when he was 2, with mother and child reading a book together. Now I may not have identified the personages correctly, Maybe it is St Anne and Mary, but it is a sweet little statue with the illuminations still showing under the child's pointing finger.
Also on the literary theme, there was not one, but two tombs with female figures (saints? Queens?)
taking their eternal rest perusing open books with little dogs at their feet.
Some of the statues wear clothes, very beautiful embroidered clothes. In the treasury there is a small statue of St Anthony, dressed in his robes holding a lovely little child Jesus, also dressed in something like a christening robe. Displayed around the statue are other items from St Anthony's wardrobe, including a couple of spare pairs of shoes. It seems that, like the clergy, the saint changed his robes according to the liturgical seasons of the church. Someone must have had a lot of fun making these high class dolls clothes.
Other things to be investigated further, an entire street of merceries, or whatever they are called in Portuguese, and several fabric shops, right in the poshest part of town.
George had predicted that Lisbon would be similar to Melbourne in winter, and he was right, sort of. Since we have been here it has been like Melbourne used to be in winter, grey and wet. The countryside looked very pretty from the air, but also flooded in places. I suppose the snow that has been falling over the rest of Europe is falling as rain here.
The accommodation I booked turns out to have been a fairly courageous choice – more starving poet than old folk with stiff joints. Fortunately it is all white paint and Ikea furniture comfortable and clean, but tucked under the roof of a seriously antique house on a stepped alley in that part of town that is still laid out like a Moorish settlement. We get from the front door of the house to the door of our apartment by way of a terrifyingly steep set of steps. In case of fire I think we just perish. I think it may be worth stepping onto the balcony and closing the shutters behind us, but George has no faith that anyone could get a ladder along the alley to save us.
At the end of our alley we can catch something very like a W class tram, only much smaller.
We visited the Cathedral yesterday, impressively old with plenty for those who like their religion gloomy. But I noticed a few charmingly light touches, and forgot to attempt some photos, I may have to return. In the treasury there is a lovely little statue of the Virgin Mary and child Jesus, boy Jesus and Mummy Jesus as Gavin would have said when he was 2, with mother and child reading a book together. Now I may not have identified the personages correctly, Maybe it is St Anne and Mary, but it is a sweet little statue with the illuminations still showing under the child's pointing finger.
Also on the literary theme, there was not one, but two tombs with female figures (saints? Queens?)
taking their eternal rest perusing open books with little dogs at their feet.
Some of the statues wear clothes, very beautiful embroidered clothes. In the treasury there is a small statue of St Anthony, dressed in his robes holding a lovely little child Jesus, also dressed in something like a christening robe. Displayed around the statue are other items from St Anthony's wardrobe, including a couple of spare pairs of shoes. It seems that, like the clergy, the saint changed his robes according to the liturgical seasons of the church. Someone must have had a lot of fun making these high class dolls clothes.
Other things to be investigated further, an entire street of merceries, or whatever they are called in Portuguese, and several fabric shops, right in the poshest part of town.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Les Merceries
Due to the rigors of sightseeing in a giant freezer, and having to share this computer with a hotel of guests, lots of stuff has been left out;
In my excitement over Legeron, I forgot to mention the mercerie we visited the first day. The entire establishment was a functioning antique, stuffed with ribbons, braids, buttons, and across the alley, milliners' supplies. At least in part, this shop survives by selling bits and pieces to a visiting clientel sufficiently charmed by the ambience to pay very superior prices. That is a bit cynical and unfair, because there is such a range of braids, buttons and suchlike that it would be a precious resource for someone looking for just the right trim for a project. Or for an inspired designer who could start with a unique braid and build a garment around it. I may add the name in later when my unfortunate room mate is not trying to sleep.
Yesterday we visited another, much more contemporary mercerie, again nameless until I hunt through my papers. I can assure Angela that they do still produce knitting yarns in France. I didn't buy any though. The proprietress (did I just invent that word?) was very impressed by my home made alpaca scarf and wants a link to the website showing my work. So there you go Angela, Card 2 EON T10 tuck is about to take over the world, just as soon as I write it up in greater detail.
In my excitement over Legeron, I forgot to mention the mercerie we visited the first day. The entire establishment was a functioning antique, stuffed with ribbons, braids, buttons, and across the alley, milliners' supplies. At least in part, this shop survives by selling bits and pieces to a visiting clientel sufficiently charmed by the ambience to pay very superior prices. That is a bit cynical and unfair, because there is such a range of braids, buttons and suchlike that it would be a precious resource for someone looking for just the right trim for a project. Or for an inspired designer who could start with a unique braid and build a garment around it. I may add the name in later when my unfortunate room mate is not trying to sleep.
Yesterday we visited another, much more contemporary mercerie, again nameless until I hunt through my papers. I can assure Angela that they do still produce knitting yarns in France. I didn't buy any though. The proprietress (did I just invent that word?) was very impressed by my home made alpaca scarf and wants a link to the website showing my work. So there you go Angela, Card 2 EON T10 tuck is about to take over the world, just as soon as I write it up in greater detail.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Still in Paris
Today was particularly splendid, crisp and clear with powdery snow on the ground.
This morning we visited Legeron the last remaining independent maker of artificial flowers for the Haute Couture trade. I think this will have been the the highlight of the trip, it was worth coming just for this. I do hope my snaps of the machinery and implements of the trade, and the well worn premises, are good enough to see. It was a journey back into history. The last technical innovation the firm adopted was a press to replace the mallet previously used used to hammer the dies used to cut out the silk petals. That was back in the 20s. Of course it only survives now because it can command high prices from the very top end of the fashion industry to cover the cost of the painstaking hand processes used to create these delicate masterpieces. I felt compelled to do my bit to support this last remnant of an almost lost art by buying a couple of examples. I bought a small bunch of violets, in memory of my Dad's habit of buying bunches of violets for Mum in the season, and a strange anemone like creation, because we had seen the Heath Robinson mechanism used to create the elements of the piece.
In the afternoon we visited an exhibition of clothes by Vionnet - beautiful, clever clothes that show that Miyake was not quite as original as he looked at first glance.
An interesting feature of the exhibition was the photographs of the original models. Quite plump by present standards, they lived in an era when models were chosen to resemble the women rich enough to buy the clothes. I wonder if that will come back?
This morning we visited Legeron the last remaining independent maker of artificial flowers for the Haute Couture trade. I think this will have been the the highlight of the trip, it was worth coming just for this. I do hope my snaps of the machinery and implements of the trade, and the well worn premises, are good enough to see. It was a journey back into history. The last technical innovation the firm adopted was a press to replace the mallet previously used used to hammer the dies used to cut out the silk petals. That was back in the 20s. Of course it only survives now because it can command high prices from the very top end of the fashion industry to cover the cost of the painstaking hand processes used to create these delicate masterpieces. I felt compelled to do my bit to support this last remnant of an almost lost art by buying a couple of examples. I bought a small bunch of violets, in memory of my Dad's habit of buying bunches of violets for Mum in the season, and a strange anemone like creation, because we had seen the Heath Robinson mechanism used to create the elements of the piece.
In the afternoon we visited an exhibition of clothes by Vionnet - beautiful, clever clothes that show that Miyake was not quite as original as he looked at first glance.
An interesting feature of the exhibition was the photographs of the original models. Quite plump by present standards, they lived in an era when models were chosen to resemble the women rich enough to buy the clothes. I wonder if that will come back?
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
In Paris
The flight to Paris was lovely, with splendid views of the white cliffs of Dover, and of lots of snow over the French countryside.
It is cold, but I am well wrapped up and it is pleasant walking in the streets. We are staying near the Opera house. This morning my new friend and I walked past the Louvre, across the Seine to the left bank to go to an art supply shop. It was shut - but it was a nice walk.
So far I have had two very satisfactory French meals. I have phone snapshots of some of the dishes. and cards with the addresses, just in case you need a really nice restaurant in Paris.
When I get a chance I will download the pictures from the phone. They will not be flash but at least I will have a record. There is a shot of the Christmas tree made of recycled soft drink bottles. There is a substantial metal frame to support the bottles, and the bottles are all tastefully distorted, so I am not sure if it is anything more than a symbolic gesture joining good environmental intentions with festive decorations - still, it is both attractive and amusing.
OK, we've just skipped to the next day, which has been full. And wintery. We were walking out in the falling snow for a while this morning. There was lots of retail sightseeing. my only purchase was a piece of leather, die cut in such a way that it stretches out into a mesh. Not sure what I'll make with it, but I haven't seen anything like it at home, and it won't take up much room in the luggage. I was quite taken with one shop we visited in the posh end of town. The woman greeted me with puzzled familiarity. I was wearing (as a top layer over numerous other warm garments), my old Issey Miyake coat that I made from a Vogue pattern something like 25 years ago. The shop's main item of merchandise was the very same coat in various colours and fabrics, available for hundreds of euros each. I feel like a much more significant addition to the Paris scene now.
(edited to add, I loaded up this picture partly to show the coat, which it does very poorly, so if you are interested in the construction of the coat, have a look at the pattern details here )
I do like the Parisian pooches. It is so nice to be in a flash shop and meet a small, beautifully groomed dog out, in the shop, with its fashionable owner, checking out the bargains in the sales.
It is cold, but I am well wrapped up and it is pleasant walking in the streets. We are staying near the Opera house. This morning my new friend and I walked past the Louvre, across the Seine to the left bank to go to an art supply shop. It was shut - but it was a nice walk.
So far I have had two very satisfactory French meals. I have phone snapshots of some of the dishes. and cards with the addresses, just in case you need a really nice restaurant in Paris.
When I get a chance I will download the pictures from the phone. They will not be flash but at least I will have a record. There is a shot of the Christmas tree made of recycled soft drink bottles. There is a substantial metal frame to support the bottles, and the bottles are all tastefully distorted, so I am not sure if it is anything more than a symbolic gesture joining good environmental intentions with festive decorations - still, it is both attractive and amusing.
OK, we've just skipped to the next day, which has been full. And wintery. We were walking out in the falling snow for a while this morning. There was lots of retail sightseeing. my only purchase was a piece of leather, die cut in such a way that it stretches out into a mesh. Not sure what I'll make with it, but I haven't seen anything like it at home, and it won't take up much room in the luggage. I was quite taken with one shop we visited in the posh end of town. The woman greeted me with puzzled familiarity. I was wearing (as a top layer over numerous other warm garments), my old Issey Miyake coat that I made from a Vogue pattern something like 25 years ago. The shop's main item of merchandise was the very same coat in various colours and fabrics, available for hundreds of euros each. I feel like a much more significant addition to the Paris scene now.
(edited to add, I loaded up this picture partly to show the coat, which it does very poorly, so if you are interested in the construction of the coat, have a look at the pattern details here )
I do like the Parisian pooches. It is so nice to be in a flash shop and meet a small, beautifully groomed dog out, in the shop, with its fashionable owner, checking out the bargains in the sales.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Washing in Canterbury
I'm writing this while the washing circulates and snow falls past the window beside me.
This stay in Canterbury has been a good idea. It's our fourth day here and our bodies are still trying to run on AEDT.
The flight here was bearable. George was able to select seats with enough leg room. Acting on information overheard we used the time on the ground in Singapore to have showers - made for a much fresher second half of the trip. And my insane decision to rush out and buy an iPod the day before we left paid off handsomely thanks to Ginny kindly taking it, getting it started and filling it with talking books and music. Pity about poor Emma having to shift into a house that didn't even get swept,as I went out shopping instead.
I have now revised my opinion about luggage. Check it all through. Take only an iPod and some crocheting and just enough other stuff to survive until you replace the luggage that may all go to another of the round earth's imagined corners. Enough stuff may be one credit card if you are game enough.
Canterbury is a very high class theme park. It's been a tourist town since the middle ages, so we are in a bit of a loop - being tourists checking out the lives of tourists past. But the fabric of the building bears witness to centuries of friction between church and state, and a few theological differences as well. Not to mention changing fashions in architecture. I could spend weeks pottering around the Cathedral, so we are fortunate to be staying in a lodge inside the Cathedral grounds - an inspired find by George, at a special deal price and all.
This stay in Canterbury has been a good idea. It's our fourth day here and our bodies are still trying to run on AEDT.
The flight here was bearable. George was able to select seats with enough leg room. Acting on information overheard we used the time on the ground in Singapore to have showers - made for a much fresher second half of the trip. And my insane decision to rush out and buy an iPod the day before we left paid off handsomely thanks to Ginny kindly taking it, getting it started and filling it with talking books and music. Pity about poor Emma having to shift into a house that didn't even get swept,as I went out shopping instead.
I have now revised my opinion about luggage. Check it all through. Take only an iPod and some crocheting and just enough other stuff to survive until you replace the luggage that may all go to another of the round earth's imagined corners. Enough stuff may be one credit card if you are game enough.
Canterbury is a very high class theme park. It's been a tourist town since the middle ages, so we are in a bit of a loop - being tourists checking out the lives of tourists past. But the fabric of the building bears witness to centuries of friction between church and state, and a few theological differences as well. Not to mention changing fashions in architecture. I could spend weeks pottering around the Cathedral, so we are fortunate to be staying in a lodge inside the Cathedral grounds - an inspired find by George, at a special deal price and all.
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