Paint It Bright

Ye Olde York

On a previous trip to London we'd learned how easy it is to get around by the national railways, and how pleasant that can be as well. This trip we also learned that if you mean to leave London via the rails on a Friday afternoon, you'd better reserve a seat on board the train of your choice. Seriously, do not skip this step. We spent the early part of our rail journey to York standing between cars, trying not to fall on the well dressed young woman who had curled up in the corner. I actually eyed the overhead luggage racks, thinking "If they do it in India, which is a former British colony after all..."

Fortunately I was saved that indignity by a defensive young woman sitting in a seat she had not reserved. Once I assured her that I was only a fellow traveler incapable of planning ahead like herself, and not in any way affiliated with the train conductors’ union, she explained that the trick was in looking at the ticket on the back of the seat. If the intended embarkation point of the seat’s intended seatee is already past, you're probably safe intending to seat yourself there.

York is a medieval walled city which still retains most of its ancient wall, several of its gates, and one of the two last remaining medieval barbicans in the world. Sorry, no picture of the barbican; just imagine the security gate at an airport, only made of stone, and if they don't like the size of the applique scissors you packed in your carry on, they spear you, stone you, or pour boiling boiling liquids on you. Apparently they weren't that picky about which liquid they used either, so if they'd had a big ale bash the night before...

There’s a picture of one of York’s gates. Please notice where the crenelations seem to be taller on each tower. Those are actually statues of men wielding boulders, medieval international sign language for “beware of men on tower wielding boulders.” It seemed to be rather a point of pride with the locals that this tower also sported “murder holes” from whence they could pour more boiling liquids on any unsavory persons who managed to get through the first defense.

The Shambles, the medieval street where all the towns' butchers kept shop. You can see the two fourteenth century houses nearly touching each other there. This is one of the most photographed spots on the planet, and who is Randy to argue? That’s me in the grey top and denim skirt on the right. I’m not really that fat, it’s just the little chocolate shop in the leftmost top heavy building that made me look that way.

York is also the scene of a weekend phenomenon known as the “Hen Party”, which seems to involve large flocks of young women in pink dresses, rampaging about whilst carrying inflatable dolls (of both anatomically inaccurate genders.) Seems what happens in York stays in York. It also seems it is a lifestyle choice for young women to behave as badly as men did back in the days when I was a girl. Hmph.

Is it old in here, or is it just me?

York is also home to York Minster Abbey , a twelfth century Gothic cathedral. It was the Queen’s official birthday on the Saturday we were in York. (She has two “birthdays,” only one of which is on the actual date of her birth.) To hear how York Minster celebrates royal birthdays, watch this short video.

York Minster towers over the rooftops of York.

Clifford's Tower; this is the stone version which replaced the wooden fort originally built there by William the Conqueror in 1068. Seems the moment William left to go back to France, the villagers burnt the wooden version down. Who saw that coming? The castle was rebuilt in wood, and burnt several more times, culminating in the last wood version of the fort being destoryed by a fire in decidedly unhappy circumstances in 1190, yet another tragic case of mans' inhumanity to man.

Wikipedia says this about how the version of Clifford's Tower that now stands came to be gutted: On St. George's Day (23 April) 1684, at around 10pm, an explosion in the magazine (artillery) reduced the tower to its exterior walls. There is some reason to believe the explosion was not accidental. At the time, it was common in the city to toast the wished-for demolition of the "Minced Pie", as the castle was known, and not only did the explosion not kill anyone, but the garrison had previously removed their belongings....

If you want to read more about the long bloody history of Clifford's Tower you can do so here.

St. Anne’s Abbey, a ruined Gothic church which was built on the site of a previous ruined Norman church. It seems it burnt in a fire, and then the locals started looting its limestone away. It’s awfully picturesque just the way it is, don’t you think?

A section of York’s wall. Not a great picture, but you can see where the wall was patched. In places the lower section of the wall is part of the original Roman wall. Built atop that, is the medieval wall. The wall was patched in places where it was destroyed by cannon fire during England’s Civil War in 1644. I think the tower is a later addition, but don’t quote me on that.

Randy on the walk atop a well preserved and restored section of York's medieval wall.

There I am curled up in a chair in the 1960s exhibit at York Castle Museum. This proves I'm not really that fat, just older than the chair!

Only two more posts on my UK trip, I promise! I sit down to write these things, and they just grow in direct proportionate to how much we enjoyed our stay!

A Cabinet of Curiousities

High Holborn is a typically busy London street dotted with chain restaurants and cafes, including (disappointingly, to this American) a Krispy Kreme and the ubiquitous Starbucks. Construction goes on behind plywood barriers. Pedestrians dodge each other at most hours. There are two tube stations on High Holborn, and its a good thing, because during certain congested hours a taxi picked up in the middle of the block can cost two quid - beyond the two pounds twenty just for sitting in it - before you've reached the next corner! We learned this the hard way, because the hotel we stayed in was on High Holborn.

But wander back a couple of blocks and you find tiny alleyways hiding ancient pubs like the Olde Cheshire Cheese whose sign boasts that it was rebuilt in 1667! Just around the corner from the Olde Cheshire Cheese you find the house of one of it's famous customers. Dr. Samuel Johnson wrote the first comprehensive Dictionary of the English Language which was supplanted only by the Oxford English Dictionary written 150 years later. (A dictionary which preceded Dr. Johnson's simply defined the word "red" as "a color.")

Across the small courtyard is a monument to Samuel Johnson's cat Hodge - "a very fine cat, a very fine cat indeed."

Elsewhere, surprisingly near even the busiest streets - tiny parks with trees, frolicking dogs and singing birds are like little oases of quiet away from the daily rush.

Off one such park, Lincoln's Inn Fields, we found our feet carrying us by happenstance to one of London's many free museums. The entirety of Sir John Soane's Museum, once his residence on Lincoln's Inn Fields, is a cabinet of curiosities. Mr. Soane was an eighteenth century architect, and a serious collector. Over six thousand books reside behind glass like the jewels they are. Bits of marble architectural details are mounted to the wall, including large cornices suspended in corners that make you wish hard hats were handed out at the entrance! (They're really quite well suspended though because they've been there since Sir John installed them two centuries ago!) A gorgeous collection of Greek black-on-red, and red-on-black figure vases particularly enchanted me. There's a three thousand year old alabaster Egyptian sarcophagus downstairs, the arrival of which prompted a three day reception!

Sir John lived with his wife and two sons in the house, which even at that time served as a museum for Soane's architecture students. You had to wonder where all the accoutrement of daily living were stored. In one room I thought I'd figured it out, but I was wrong. This room was about fourteen by fourteen feet. Above the original shiny brass chair rail (which you touch at your peril!) the walls were crowded with several beautifully rendered architectural drawings and at least as many paintings, all of which seemed to be hung on cabinet doors. Clever place to stash the household linens or dishes I thought.

About then a curator entered the room. He told us about the art on the walls, how many of the beautiful buildings that Sir John designed were never built because, as the son of a bricklayer, he was not fond of the aristocracy and frequently insulted them! Several of his fine Georgian building were of course completed and remain, including the Bank of England.

And then the curator/tour guide did something surprising. He opened a pair of large cabinet doors to reveal yet more paintings and drawings on another wall behind, as well as on the backs of the doors! But that wasn't it by half, because yet another pair of large cabinet doors behind the first were opened to reveal a deep niche which houses a statue of Venus, the plaster study for a marble statue which was destroyed in a palace fire. A stained glass window illuminates Venus as well as several smaller statues and busts.

Back on the street I began to see the whole of London as a curiosity cabinet. Her nooks, crannies, back streets and alleys contain many wonders and fascinating juxtapositions, more than you could discover in a lifetime. But I'd sure be willing to try!

Of Cabbages and the Court

It was the second day of the patent trial my husband will testify in, so this morning I went as an observer.

Our only photo of the front of the Royal Courts of Justice.

The Royal Court of Justice fronts onto The Strand in London. It's a huge building, covering almost an entire city block. With it's Neo-Gothic arches and spires, it's almost cathedral-like, and you fell nearly compelled to confess to anything just walking into it.

But for the security check point just inside, you might imagine you were inside a church. This front hall is wide, with high vaulted ceilings. Marble memorials to justices past line the hall, with oil portraits of other judges glaring down at you from higher up, red robes and full-bottomed (shoulder length) white wigs showing their office.

Up a wide flight of stairs you find a display of judicial regalia from the past. In one case is a judge's robe from 1781, making it the oldest known robe in existence according to the accompanying description. Very impressive indeed, it is made of black silk velvet, with gold lace, and a long white wig. The description notes that it was "accepted in lieu of inheritance tax."

Another robe is red velvet, with a short ermine cape, this one was obviously for high ceremonies. Other robes resemble those of a catholic or Anglican priest, with red or purple hoods hanging down the back. There is a three cornered judge's hat, with black cockade. Black shoes with large cut steel buckles complete a Victorian judge's ensemble.

I find the court room where my husband is to testify and go inside. The courtroom is small, and tiered, a bit like a tiny arena or theater. The walls are paneled in quartersawn oak up to the height of a normal ceiling, and then there is a stone upper arcade. High up the windows are leaded glass with pointed tops. A very large skylight pierces the dark oak ceiling. The two side walls are covered in tall oak bookcases stuffed with row upon row of legal tomes in suites of matching bindings. The peculiar claustrophobic sensation specific to Victorian architecture pervades the space. A library ladder stands ready.

Amid all the dark imposing Victorian finery, a few concessions to modernity stand out. Several microphones dangle from cords stretched across the width of the room. Signs request that you turn off your cellphone, take no photos, and use no mechanical means of recording. A wide piece of packing tape adhered to the elegant molding of the judges' bench holds the docket microphone at and advantageous angle.

The Judge's bench is forward, higher than the rest of the room. An oak canopy overhangs it, and a set of large paneled doors partially covered by a green velvet curtain lead into the judge's chambers. Under his bench is the desk of his clerks, who each wear their own black robes. To the judge's left, and a little lower, is the docket box from where testimony is given.

Barristers and lawyers come in singly and in small groups. You can tell them apart because the barristers are the ones in black morning coats with tails, and vests. They wear white swallow tail collars, like a parson in a Jane Austen film. Some enter already wearing the black robe that goes over their suits, while others carry them, along with their white wigs. They deposit stacks of binders tied into bundles with red tape on their table.

Historically, the robes were once brighter, and heavier. But when King Charles II died, black robes were adopted in mourning. Finding the new robes much more comfortable and affordable, the barristers refused to go back.

The barristers are the stars of the show. They are charismatic men and women who inspire respect, and a touch of jealousy in the lawyers who work beneath them.

A stack of documents tied with red (pink) tape can be seen in the window of a barrister's office.

The courtroom is arranged like this: Between the two rear exits there are three long benches for observers and lesser court staff. In front of these are three long tables, ranked one behind another where the barristers and lawyers sit. As an American I expected to see a table each for the prosecution and the defense, on opposite sides of an aisle. But here the only division between prosecution and defense is a "great wall of China" built over the long tables, and up and over the long benches behind them as well. Composed of boxes full of thick binders, each thick with documents which are evidence in the case, this great wall is deconstructed at the end of each business day, and then re-erected each morning by clerks. Sitting at the table, the barristers and lawyers will not be able to see their opponents for the wall of boxes between them.

At some point I realize how conspicuous my rumpled off-white linen jacket must be in the crowd of black and charcoal suit jackets. I take a seat at the very end of the last bench.

As the commencement of their work day nears the barristers don their robes, and wigs. The first witness assumes his place in the docket, and I imagine how nervous he might be waiting for the judge to enter.

Exactly at 10:30AM a blond woman in a black robe (whom I had noticed earlier at the table under the judge's bench) comes in from the chamber doors, and says in an almost conversational tone "All rise." We do so as the judge enters. He's a small man in a big black robe with red at his lapels, his balding head not covered by a wig. We all bow, the practiced lawyers and barristers managing to do so even as they take their seats.

We're barely back in our seats before the defenses' lead barrister begins to grill the prosecution witness without further ceremony or preamble. It's almost as though the conversation is continuing from moments before rather than yesterday. His voice is quiet, a bit hard to distinguish sometimes with the clatter in the hall outside as other courts get down to business. He has a proper Queen's English accent. From time to time, in full flight of a complicated multi-part question, he reaches up and adjusts his wig slightly, never hesitating in his speech. There is no pacing, or emphatic gesticulating; only a quiet man standing in place, as he delicately picks apart his opponents' evidence, word by word, phrase by phrase. The only other sounds are of papers shuffling as passages are sited for consideration, and the occasional creaking and popping of the old wooden benches. I can see over the shoulder of the men in front of me as they share copies of documents, heavily marked with notes and coffee stains.

At one point a woman enters the court quietly. She wears a flamboyant pile of curls on her head, and a subtly sage suit that seems almost colorful here amid the sea of black. She sits quietly for a while next to a judge's assistant whose shiny bald head is set off by a pair of black earphones. Presently she leaves again, as quietly as she came, giving a small bow toward the bench on her way out.

From my corner, I can only make out the barrister's wig over the great wall of boxes, and sometimes occasionally I catch a glimpse of the side of his face. He might be a preternaturally intelligent cauliflower with only the white wig to be seen bobbing about on his dark head. And as much as I understand of the minutiae he is sifting, I might be no more than an ordinarily endowed cabbage! I notice that the numbers "1939" have been deeply scratched into the back of the bench in front if me, and imagine someone sitting just where I am seventy years earlier.

At one point the defense barrister asks the witness if there are any "scientific or technical terms"that need defining in the document they are parsing. When the witness answers for a second time that he doesn't think so, the judge interjects that the question might be more for his benefit, and a low chuckle rises from the audience. At another point the barrister asks the witness if something "is not only common sense?" The witness pauses, as though considering that he may have just been slightly insulted, and the large dark Victorian clock on the wall can be heard ticking loudly in the sudden momentary silence.

Anglophile Geekspasm

No pictures this post. I mean, I was so sorely tempted, but just didn't have the nerve. After all, these people really know how to hurt you.

See, the reason we're here in London is because my husband is a witness in a patent case. I had mistakenly told someone that he was a full-on "expert witness." But turns out he's only a witness. Well, you could see how I was mistaken considering the posh accommodations, etc. But anyhow. Anyhow, I walked Hubs over to the lawyer/barrister's offices this morning.

Which has occasioned a complete anglophile geekspasm. The offices are in buildings some of which are older than my country! The doors are wide and glossy dark green or black, with fan lights arching over them,  and marble tiles on the floors. They're brick (the oldest sootier than the others), with wide windowsills, and paneled shutters. Real fully functional shutters, not those cheesetastic faux shutters that we sometimes tack on the outside of our houses in the States.

In one such window could plainly be seen a stack of documents, well more an untidy pile, complete with "red tape!" (Let's be honest, lads. It's pink ribbon!) I actually declared this allowed to Husband-Darling. "Look, a pile of documents with actual pink ribbon!" Probably ought to remember that the folks striding purposefully by are the actual sort who can "certify" you, as in "certifiably..."

As if this weren't enough....OK, you know how the British barristers don't wear the wig and all anymore? I mean this is common knowledge in the states, that they don't wear the wig. Well, guess what? I think the actual fact is that they don't have to wear the wig. Because there they were, their black robes wafting about them, with little wigs pearched on their heads! Not all of 'em. But two, which is a creditable anecdotal sampling, isn't it?

Before we'd left home I'd told Hubs that I would like to sit in on a day of the trial when he's testifying. I love to hear him explain to people what it is that he does. He's a very articulate man about his field, and there's just something about watching your man explain something he's passionate about, and authoritative in. The promise of a few wigs and robes has got me all the more excited to do so!

Well, I'm off to the British Library to see what trouble I can get into there!

pamela

Postcard from London, June 11th

We made it. Crossing that ocean gets a little harder every time. But we made it.

Only to be confronted by this:

Day Two of the Tube Strike. Its set to end tonight at 7:00pm, give or take. I'm very relieved (along with a lot of Londoners whom are very very relieved, I'll bet) because the Tube is so convenient for getting around.

We hopped onto the Heathrow Express train, and got to Paddington station, where it at last occurred to us that the Tube strike would mean a long line for the cabs.

By then the clock said it was lunch-ish, so in an effort to synch our body clocks up with local time, we decided to grab a bite. We couldn't resist the shear obsuridty of this little food stand:

Bagels? In London? (Mooooo.)

H_D's bagel had cream cheese and guacomole (which makes me giggle all over again.) He says the cream cheese and gauc clashed, and the cream cheese won out.

I had the chicken, pesto, sunsweet (sundried) tomato, and spinach. It was great, but then those are four ingredients its really hard to mess up. The bagels? Eh, not so much. They were'nt bad, in fact they were quite pleasant, but it takes more than a hole to make a bagel.

On the way to our hotel, the cabbie filled us in. Local architecture, a bit if history natch, and - most interestingly - the tube strike. Its only a two day strike, but in losing those two days of ridership the government will lose one hundred million pounds! Staggering, right?

And in this economy, the tube employees are asking for the moon! A five percent per annum raise, and  no future redundancies! The economy is just as bad here in England as back home in the states. Many have lost jobs. Still more have taken pay cuts, some voluntarily so that their fellow employees could be kept in jobs. Stunning.

The trip to the hotel was prolonged due to several more cars than are usual on the streets of London. It's temperate here, so we rode with the windows open. By the time we got here, I could actually taste the exhaust! Bleh!

H_D's clients are putting us up in a lovely hotel, the Chancery Court. Here's the courtyard. That's me over there next to the gate.

And here's a little bonus picture for you H1N1 fans! Well, duh!London taxis, gotta love 'em!

Pamela's Theory of Wallpaper

I like wallpaper in theory. I love patterned surfaces in general, so this pronouncement isn't exactly news to anyone who knows me. I've got notebooks full of pages ripped from magazines showing beautiful wallpapered rooms. I've been known to ask the  local wallpaper store for their old books. And then I actually keep the large, unwieldy things. I own three "coffee table" books on the subject of wallpaper!  (Here's a picture, because I know some of you won't believe such a thing exists. And the rest of you like a pretty picture as much as I do.)

This may evidence  low intellect. But if so I'm in good, fuzzy company. (Image courtesy of comics.com)

Wallpaper in the bedroom is risky. At some point in your life, you might have to spend a lot of time in there with nothing to do but stare at the wallpaper. As practically anyone can tell you, Oscar Wilde's last words were "Either that wallpaper goes, or I do." The narrator of the short story The Yellow Wallpaper  is driven to psychosis by the combination of bad wallpaper and a domineering husband.

Many years of my childhood were spent eating two meals a day whilst contemplating harvest gold pears. As a result, there will be no wallpaper in the kitchen of any house I ever live on, so long as I can help it. My kids should probably know this; it ought to be a consideration when they choose the nursing home in which I live out my final days.

I'm avoiding wallpaper in the livng room as well. Just think about every movie scene you ever saw where dowdy wallpaper symbolizes the claustrophobia of a dysfunctional family, and you'll see my point.

But I really do like wallpaper in theory. And I think if there's a place for wallpaper, it's got to be the guest bathroom. It's practically impossible to be over-exposed to the wallpaper in a guest bathroom. I suppose if you became pinned in one as the result of some natural disaster, the wallpaper might begin to wear on you before you were rescued. But then it would probably be dark, and you'd likely have other things on your mind anyway. Unless you're like me.

I've always wanted to do something decoratively bold to a bathroom wall. So when the guest bathroom got bigger as a result of combining two tiny rooms, the wheels began to turn. I looked at wallpaper of course, but none of it really suilted; an Eichler house is no place for the faux Tuscan plaster look.

Besides, there are artists in the family, and there's not much artwork in our house that wasn't made by some family member or other. The decision to "grow my own" was made even easier by the fact that Husband_Darling was wildly enthusiastic for the project.

With Adobe Illustrator, I was able to test my design ideas on scale models of the wall. At the Tech Shop, Husband and I cut the stencils on an Epilog lazer cutter. (Cool!)  Our artist daughter came home for the weekend, and helped me do the actual painting. And Husband helped line up the stencils.

Daughter gets goofy in front of he mirror.

Long Time No See

I think we're finally mostly recovered from the phase II of our remodel. This time it was the guest bathroom and laundry "room."

I don't have any before pictures to show you. I couldn't bring myself to take 'em. Just too ugly. Picture this. The laundry was really just  an extension off the main hall from the front door. You took a left turn, and there you were in a space just long enough, and just wide enough to accommodate a standard washer and dryer. Between that and the bathroom, a wall with a doorway so narrow that my husband had to turn his broad shoulders a little to one  side to maneuver through it.

Then into the bathroom itself. I'll bet the fixtures were original to the fifty year old house. They functioned, but were in a ghastly fleshy-beige color which I  countered somewhat successfully with a minty green shower curtain. The tub was old enough that no amount to scrubbing would get it clean ever again. One of the tiles in the shower had gone and we'd put a piece of Styrofoam in it's place with wide packing tape.

The afters: I'll try to let the pictures speak for themselves, with maybe an enthusiastic squeal here and there.

We knocked out the wall between the bathroom and laundry, and instead installed a door at the end of the hallway. All the doors opening onto the hallway were replaced with glass doors like this one. The hall used to be a dark and dingy place, but now it's sunny and inviting.

I love my new washer and dryer, so please don't disillusion me with any scary stories about LG products!

The  cabinets are re-used from the laundry room, with snappy new orange paint, and Emma Jeffs window film left over from another project. We were happy to find the orange birdcage on the clearance table at Anthropologie; it not only matches the cabinets, but sort of kind of subtly underscores a theme...

I love that sink! It's a Kohler Bateau, which we found on clearance at a home improvement store for a fraction of it's list price. It's a little quirky with that off center drain hole, but just the sort of thing I love. Simple clean lines, in beautiful materials with an unexpected twist.

Love the little glass tiles, too. We used them in small areas where they made the most impact, because they were a bit spendy.

More of those little tiles on the tub apron. Love the round rug with the whimisical crotched edge!
Another favorite element is the floating countertop. That cementy grey is delicious with our orange accents. The low cabinet under the counter is IKEA, but we switched out the knobs and legs (it came with adorable wheels, but Hubby-Darling wasn't havin' any of it.)

Nothin' like adequate, logical storage to keep the necessaries neat.

...and opposite the sink, a really long blank white wall. Hmmm, what would a surface and pattern textile designer do with a big blank canvas?

Besides the bird cage here's another clue, but you'll have to wait until my next post to find out!

happy luck!
pamela

The Picture Doesn't Do Him Justice

One of my favorite residents of the Steinhart Aquarium in San Francisco is a gorgeous white alligator. He's got beautiful ivory skin, and a pink freckled nose. He fascinated me.

A Page a Day, That's All We Ask

I received two lovely new journals for Christmas. My very good friend Leanne gave me one made of banana fiber, I think. And my daughter gave me one she'd handmade, composed of various scrap papers of all kinds. In fact I've at least one other blank journal here in my studio, made from a cast aside book. I seem unable to resist the things, and the potential that they represent.

So I've decided to begin keeping an art journal. Nothing serious, just for fun.  Sometimes its a joy just to do something for fun. Sometimes the things done for the joy of it are the ones that spark something bigger.

 
Maybe my silly goosey is there only because I started to sketch one of the wild ones I'd seen today, and then remembered that they had black bills and feet, which wouldn't have shown up well on a black page!

Or maybe she represents the inner longing of a mere decorative artist to fly more freely. Maybe...

Happy luck!

pamela

The Turquoise Quilt is "Finally Finished"

Two posts in one day! How do you like them apples?

Remember my turquoise quilt project? It's quilted, and on my bed. Has been for quite sometime, actually. Here it is in our newly remodeled bedroom, with the painting daughter-darling and I did.

I designed the quilting in Photoshop, after this gorgeous 1947 Stig Lindberg fabric, which I have long admired

My friend, Jenny Michaels of Finally Finished in Saratoga, CA machine quilted it for me.

Sounds so simple. It wasn't. First we had to convert the .psd file extension to type which Jenny's Statler long arm machine would recognize. Me, knowing about "this much" about machine quilting design had made two long quilting paths that extended the entire width of the quilt. Oops! Jenny mounted my quilt top on her machine, and did the first pass; so far so good. But on the return trip - big problem! The the long first pass of quilting had caused the quilt to draw up, and Jenny ran out of quilt before she ran out of "path"! Jenny had to dismantle my long quilting paths and convert them to shorter chunks of quilting to be repeated over the width of the quilt.

Here's a close up of the quilting.

Jenny did a gorgeous job, didn't she? 

Until next time, heureux chance! (Happy luck!)

pamela