London Calling!

I meant to say, I was in London on Monday last week for the day. I do this now and again, a dart into London (Marcus thinks I’m bonkers), but I actually get a lot done in the day. First, I went to see the George Bellows show at the Royal Academy. It was fabulous, and dare I say it, much better then the Manet. It is hard to believe Bellows accomplished so much in so short a working life – he was 42 when he died. I felt I was such a slacker after seeing it all! I was really impressed by his lithographs and drawings of boxers… absolutely beautiful! There is a painting of boxers that could easily be a Francis Bacon, it is almost abstract in it’s energy.

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Dealing with Rejection

I was submitting some work for selection for the annual exhibition recently, when I met Michael, a friend and fellow hopeful. While discussing the whole business of submitting work for selection – and how we have to be brave when opening the envelope, taking any negative news on the chin, and walking the “walk of shame” to collect work if it hasn’t been selected – he said something I had never considered until then… counselling.



CSI Merrion Road

Scene of the crime….
I got some of the head-wrecker drawing done, and feeling quite pleased with myself, I cleaned up, put on my make-up and glad rags and went with LSH to a drinks party yesterday evening. To top off the outfit, I added the new black handbag (with fur trim), that our Italian friends gave me in January. We had a fantastic time, and it really was the perfect end to the weekend.



Note to self...

Note to self….

Well after an absolutely artic week with snow, hail and extremely cold temperatures, Good Friday, was very sunny, and dare I mention the word, spring-like. It’s still very cold in the shade, but at least the daffodils and crocuses don’t look as foolish as they have the last few weeks.

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Go Ahead Punk - make my St Patrick's Day

I love St Patrick’s day! Yes, I really do, honestly! You may well ask why…
It’s not the very cold and wet weather that we usually experience – and this year was no exception – it’s not the childhood memories of standing, miserably, in the rain on Westmoreland Street, looking at the even-more-miserable people on the floats. It’s not being mesmerised by the colour of the majorettes legs (a sort of piglet pink/purple /blue marbled effect), in stark contrast with the faux-tanned faces and the cheery bubble gum pink smiles.



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