Crosby beach

A pleasant day meandering amongst the Anthony Gormley casts; my determination to produce half a dozen studies bettered by the wind and then by the rain. If you are ever in the vicinity I recommend Katie's Cafe for breakfast. If feeling brave one might even attempt the 'Big Dave' (half a pound of sausages, ten rashes of bacon, a dozen eggs, ten pieces of toast and a bucket of tea...well you get the picture).

Dante Alighieri

For all of those who've been listening to R4's adaptation of The Divine Comedy with John Hurt, I recommend a quiet moment in front of Henry Holiday's depiction of Dante, as he looks longingly at Beatrice passing by. Part of the wonderful permanent collection at the Walker.

Matisse at the Tate Modern

****
Give a man in wheelchair a pair of dressmaking scissors and some large sheets of brightly painted paper and, just over half a century later, the Tate can hold a retrospective. Simultaneously child-like  and sophisticated these cut-outs undoubtably act as a precursor  for much of twentieth century abstract art.

The Silver Tassie

***1/2 One can see why Yates criticised The Silver Tassie for it's lack of a central character and lacklustre narrative, but it's not that bad. Our hero Harry Heegan is more the whinging footballer than war hero, but there is a wonderful tension between him and his girl Jessie. Mrs Foran, who see her husband's return to the front as her renewed freedom, also adds to the sense of a gender divide. Although the music hall-like comedy duo of Simon and Sylvester carry the first act, it is the pyrotechnic of the second (take ear plugs) that stay in one's shell shocked head long after the play has ended. Soldier sing 'why are we here' to the tune of Auld Lang Syne, ridiculing the pomposity of the officer class. During the party back in Blighty, both Heegan's breakdown and heartless female sexuality are reinforced. In the final scene woman dance with puppet soliders, collapsing and limp.

Homage No.6

My opinion of Matisse continues to be polarised between awe and incredulity. How can the work be so awful and so wonderful at the same time? Then again, Henri was the only contemporary that Pablo revered so maybe I should shush...and I do especially like his goldfish.