Extraordinary ordinary

Yesterday afternoon, we visited the Cheltenham Art Gallery, which has some fine Chinese work in its permanent collection, though not often on show. It has been dusted down to accompany a new travelling exhibition, just opened. "Ahead of the Curve" is the somewhat opaque title of what is a fine assemblage of contemporary objects from China. It was not something I thought would be of much interest to me when it was advertised, but in fact, as my photograph shows, there is much to catch the eye: Wan Liya calls his beautifully crafted porcelain copies of everyday containers "Birds Twitter and Fragrance of Flowers". Many of the artists studied at the Jingdezhen Ceramic Institute: it hosts some 1,700 students of ceramics at any one time.

Later in the afternoon, we had tickets for a poetry recital. Once again, they were intended for Agnes, but she was in Bristol. The poets were Michael Symmons Roberts and Rowan Williams.  I found the work of the former infinitely more accessible than the latter's: obviously such a nice and good man, but "never knowingly understood" seems to hit the mark for his poems as well as his sermons.

Roberts not only read well, but gave us short glosses which illuminated his thought. A poem about a photo booth was prefaced by his describing it as a secular confessional where you are confronted with yourself.

Asked about the influences upon their work, Roberts referenced Marianne Moore, Elizabeth Bishop, John Berryman's Dream Songs, Donne and Edward Thomas; while from Rowan Williams came the names of Auden, Dylan Thomas, Eliot, "early to middle Geoffrey Hill", Browning and David Jones.

Moore still

Continuing our quest for Yorkshire treasure, we have just returned from Wakefield and the Hepworth Gallery. Brilliant! As a building it knocks the new Cheltenham extension into a cocked hat. And what other British artist of the 20th Century has such a shrine in their home country, around which so much other excellence is assembled?

Earlier we visited Salts Mill, which must have one of the most extensive arts-related bookshops in the country, not to mention all those Hockneys. And the magnificent Yorkshire Sculpture Park, with its eclectic mix, the majestic Moores (today is his 116th birthday) standing out from the crowd. A heady experience.

Hider

It's curious how a mask can alter one's appearance so completely. Here's our granddaughter, on our visit to the local museum this morning. I'm not sure which of us enjoyed it more.

I'm also enjoying "Mr. Tibbits's Catholic School", a memoir about the staff of St Philip's, the prep school where the late Roger Taylor worked for many years.

Written by Ysenda Maxtone Graham (a name that sounds as if it's the unlikely result of an anagram), it was published in 2011 by Slightly Foxed - three years before Roger's death: I hope it pleased him to read, "What was it about Roger Taylor that made him such a great man?" (despite the past tense). Five affectionate pages follow, answering the question.

The book made me laugh a lot. Here's an instance: St Philip's broke every prep school record for being beaten [at games]... Sports masters tried to be as upbeat as possible in their reports. "As 0-3 defeats go, it was one of the best I've known."

Portraiture

Our local art gallery is hosting the National Portrait Gallery's photography show entries at present. I went along this morning, and marveled at many of the entries, which make my portraits look feeble in the extreme.

The exhibits are on two floors: when you reach the top one, you find a list of the prizewinners; but why can't the portraits awarded prizes be identified, so you can see which they are when you look round?

Somehow, we managed to miss the Open West show this year, but the above photograph shows part of one of the entries, still left in situ outside the rear of 51 Clarence Street: an untitled viscose yarn installation by Londoner Stella Whalley.

Display of affection

The Tate's version of Rodin's The Kiss has returned to Cheltenham for a six-month visit: it had been here for a longer period in the '30s, when I trust it was better displayed. With a sculpture as iconic as this, you really need to be able to walk round it, so why is it stuck into a relatively narrow passageway, up against a wall?

Wet minster

The refurbished Cheltenham Art Gallery and Museum has now opened its Paper Store, which I visited yesterday. And very beautiful it looks too. What hasn't yet opened is the door to the wide balcony giving out onto the former St Mary's Church, recently rechristened Cheltenham Minster.

The town's sole mediaeval building - a fine one - has long been hemmed in, but from the Gallery extension it can be seen in all its glory. At present, however, only through a sealed window.

I enjoyed "Embrace", the current loan exhibition curated by Sophia Wilson. Next week its somewhat eclectic assemblage of works of the last century or so depicting loving relationships will be joined by Rodin's The Kiss - to commemorate the artist's visit to Cheltenham in 1914.

There's a "health warning" as you go into the show, aimed at parents of children under 16. I think in this day and age it's more likely to be relevant to alert the young who are thinking of taking their reactionary (grand)parents along - though it was only the Gilbert and George full frontal that I found really nasty.

Woolstone

It rained pretty solidly for the whole duration of yesterday morning's walk. Three of us set off to circle anticlockwise Oxenton Hill and Crane Hill. It was far enough in the conditions, but we made it longer by missing the turn to Dixton.

There are splendid views round there, as evidenced by the two large primitive early 18th Century landscapes in the Cheltenham Art Gallery. But it was misty and anyway our eyes were cast downwards, as we picked our way through the mud. When we eventually arrived back at the Woolstone lane, by Grange Farm, we struggled to cross a broken stile and slithery ditch bridge: at the far side was a notice saying "Footpath closed".

My photograph of St Martin's church doesn't do justice to its eccentric tower.

"The Wilson"

Our newly-reopened art gallery and museum has given rise to much comment, especially about its vacuous name. Sarah and I went there to see the Open West 2013 exhibition on Friday evening. I let her guess what "The Wilson" signified. "Harold?" she tried. "Woodrow? Pickett?" In the foyer, I was able to introduce her to Sophie (Wilson), who put her right.

The Open West show itself is in the "old" bit of the gallery, all but a few items that is. It looks quite well there, but not as good as in the early years, at the Summerfield Gallery, in Pittville. My photograph shows co-curator, Lyn Cluer Coleman in conversation before one of the relatively few two-dimensional exhibits. I hope to return to look round the rearranged permanent collection, throughout which some more Open West objects are scattered.

The Literature Festival presented a number of events on artistic themes, besides the Alan Hancox Lecture. Caroline enjoyed Jenny Uglow on Turner, and we both found the Cornelia Parker session later on Friday evening of more interest than we'd imagined it would be: this was largely down to the intelligence and good organization of the interlocutor, art historian Anna Moszynska. Thoughts of pilgrimage and relics (The Maybe) brought Grayson Perry to mind, but Parker seems to lay more emphasis on destruction leading to transfiguration.

We are a long way from Reynolds Stone's trees and waterfalls, the product of a process through which culture grew from nature, rather than being set over against it.

Joanna Trollope

“Simplex munditiis” is one of those phrases that, like others in Horace, a schoolboy may long be able to recall. Anyway, this one does: its translation, “artless in her elegance” came to mind as I listened to Joanna Trollope on the theme of “Real Life: Real Stories” yesterday evening.

With her immaculate appearance, commanding presence, bejewelled sentences and warm involvement of an all-too-small audience, she charmed us in her discussion with Edward Gillespie. And in the second part of the evening, she displayed a deft touch, turning the tables on her interviewer. “How do you stay a fresh-minded nuisance?” she asked Edward, as he contemplated life after Cheltenham Racecourse. (I rather wish he had done so more succinctly: listening to him was less interesting.)

Alongside such as David Attenbrough, Judi Dench and Imogen Cooper, Joanna Trollope is surely now close to attaining the status of National Treasure. On the strength of her performance – it was in aid of the Cheltenham Art Gallery & Museum’s appeal – she certainly counts as one of Gloucestershire’s treasures. Born near Minchinhampton Common (“an offered up upland,” as she described it), she clearly acknowledges both her roots in our county, and that our causes are also hers – encouraging philanthropy amongst Gloucestershire’s super rich, opposing threatened library closures, not to mention “Building a New Future”, the title of the Art Gallery appeal. On the screen behind her, the first image projected was Piero della Francesca’s “country” Christ Risen: she told us how she had been to see it this Summer in Borgo San Sepolcro (lucky her).

By way of contrast, Joanna’s second image was a Gwen John interior, reflecting the fact that a decade ago she left Gloucestershire for self-imposed exile in London, from where she does not now contemplate a return. After all, she maintains – rather controversially so far as our household is concerned – “men are more romantic about landscape than women.” And, as a writer, “you do get terribly sick of the inside of your own head.” (Her solution? To go and sit anonymously in Caffè Nero in the King’s Road.)

For someone so outwardly conventional, even middle-brow – Joanna listens to Korngold, looks fondly upon black Labradors, and has a way of speaking that might best be described as retro – she espouses some surprisingly radical ideas. Feminism, naturally. (“Now that we have the vote, we are in quite a hurry.”) But more than that, she possesses a brave candour. The cuttings don’t let us forget the furore that blew up when she compared the plight of the villagers of Aston Magna with those in Moss Side, Manchester. As she said last night at the Parabola Arts Centre, “We all have equal human validity… It won’t do to live in a bubble.” “What gets my goat? Injustice.” Inside the rather stoical velvet glove, there is an iron hand.

Yet her cheek is still soft: this I can tell from the nice double kiss she gave me during the interval yesterday. Not so long ago I looked through the nearly-50-year-old bundle of thank you letters my mother had received from those who came to my 21st birthday party. (What a pity no such archive will exist for this generation of 21-year-olds! Even if – unlikely – they get round to writing to say thank you, they will at best do so by email.) Anyway, in the bundle I found one signed “Joanna”. A reminder that we had known each other at Oxford.

Wilsons 2

In the late '80s, we stayed a number of times at Brandsby Hall when visiting Edmund at Ampleforth: a friend had bought it from the Fairfax-Cholmeley family, owners since the 16th Century. It's a large, square, mid-18th Century house in dark stone sitting just up from the plain of York, with gardens to match the grandeur of the house.

I popped into Cheltenham's Gardens Gallery yesterday morning, where Robin Wilson (here photographed) and Rosie Fairfax-Cholmeley - daughter of the man who sold Brandsby to our friend - are at present exhibiting linocuts (mainly). It was good to see the Gallery with its doors fully folded back, resembling more the stage set that the building was originally.

Inside, I particularly liked Rosie's animals, but both artists nicely evoke a rather period sort of English spirit. Together with its display of their books and cards, the show looks great - one of the better ones I've visited in this gallery. (Their website is interesting too.)

Also looking was Sophia Wilson, Exhibitions & Education Manager at Cheltenham Art Gallery & Museum - with time for visits, her base still being closed for work on the new extension: she reports they're proceeding well.

"Exploring solitude"

This is the title of an unusual exhibition at our Gardens Gallery. It "opened" this evening. Neville Gable travelled to the Antarctic a year or two ago on an artistic commission under the auspices of the British Antarctic Survey. There, he produced videos featuring himself, photographed by cameras (one launched on a kite); and he wrote daily emails to his wife, Joan, who used the text to produce a series of imaginative drawings. A book in a very limited edition has resulted - it was on display, alongside the last letter of Cheltonian Edward Wilson, who was part of Scott's last - ill-fated - expedition. Cheltenham Art Gallery & Museum are promoting this show, and have acquired the videos to go with their collection of Wilson memorabilia.

Seeing our MP, Martin Horwood, amongst others present at the opening, I bent his ear with my view of the government's Alice in Wonderland approach to the definition of "marriage": he said I was the first person in his constituency who had told him of their opposition to the proposal that gays should be able to "marry"; which amazed me. "All that's necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing," didn't someone say?

"Skylight Red"

A couple of months ago, we had a visit from my cousin David McMillan, who was on a European tour from his home in the Southern part of New South Wales. Leo and I had visited him and his wife when we were in Australia in 1998: even though it's in the Murray River area, there is always a shortage of water.

The image of a bush fire advancing though a forest of tall, straight trees came into my mind when I saw this sculpture on Tuesday, by Chinks Grylls. "Skylight Red" is etched on mouth-blown, antique glass, and is on display at Cheltenham Art Gallery & Museum as part of its "On the edge" exhibition.

Surrealism and Spain

Paul McKee dressed very much for the occasion on Friday evening last, for the opening of Surrealism Returns at Cheltenham Art Gallery. I enjoyed the exhibition as much as any I've seen at Cheltenham.

As usual the display is limited by space, but what it lacks in quantity it makes up for in quality. I knew nothing about the original Realism and Surrealism exhibition, which took place in Gloucester 70 years ago; but it is clear from the present show what an effect the conduct of the Spanish Civil War was having at that time upon the artists exhibiting: not just Picasso and Miro, but others too protested forcefully against Fascist atrocities.

At a recent visit to the glaucoma clinic, I was reminded how important it was to keep taking the drops to avoid blind spots developing. We all it seems have blind spots about the history of the decades immediately before and following our year of birth: I must read more about that Civil War period before we depart for Spain later this month.

Garden news

Today it looks as if we may at last have a bit of the rain we need. The runner bean plants are flowering too early and are covered in black fly. Home Guard potatoes have only just come into flower: Tim Rose Price (400 foot higher up) says he is eating his. My lettuice plants have been eaten by the slugs, and seed has twice failed to germinate: the rocket gone to seed. We have had some radishes, none exactly a prize-winner. Rhubarb is good; gooseberries and raspberries are now on tap. Caroline is fighting with the pigeons over the currants.

The Philadelphus, the pineapple tree, sweet peas and Sweet Williams are all flowering; and the lavender and a rather wonderful dark blue iris. The white clematis looks better than usual in our far apple tree. A tobacco plant has seeded itself by the door of the bikeshed. The oriental poppies are nearly over. Of the roses, New Dawn, the big rambler on the stable and Buff Beauty are all past their best, but Félicité et Perpétue is just coming into full bloom, and Compassion is as good as ever. On 17th June last year, my Datura had ten blooms - see photograph: this year there is so far nothing showing.

Graham Sutherland has a vivid drawing of Datura blooms in the Arts Council Touring Exhibition, "Geometry of Fear", currently showing at the Cheltenham Art Gallery, which I saw yesterday: it features work created in the aftermath of World War II - from the exhibits, a time of hope, as much as fear, it seemed to me. The show is very worth a look - if you happen to be in Cheltenham, Rhyl, Plymouth, Ayr or Leamington Spa between now and next March!

Th Gallery also has an excellent Hogarth print exhibition - on till the end of next month.