Posting from the interstice.
Yodel Doodle Ladies and Gents
There hasn’t been a ceramics post in a long while on the blog. Now seems a good time to remedy that, while all things Regency Wreckish are slumped in a bit of a waiting ditch and marking time until the wind shifts and brings change. I find this clip quite beautiful and magical, for all its ear extensions, bike stands and doing of things one just doesn’t do. The music sends me into a bit of a swoon and the film making is lovely.
See it here Moire
Neither have the Herberts been receiving their rightful allotted fifteen minutes worth, so let’s put that to rights too. Or at least let’s give Remington his go, since Miss Elsie is still too harem scarem to stand still long enough to have her photo taken. First, though, let me introduce you to The Ralph, Rems’ younger brother in all but genes and geography. Here he is in a park in London, handsome and sleek as a seal:
The last couple of times we’ve been back in London I’ve been able to assuage my Remington withdrawals by fondling another Great Dane’s ears, Danes being great natural schmoozers and all. The truly wonderful thing about Ralph is that he comes fully equipped with two people whom I met through the blog (one of the very best things to come out of it), and about whom all I shall say is that they are both utterly delicious and live in an utterly delicious house in Spitalfields.
And I was so taken with Ralph’s beautiful orange collar (and so taken by the colour orange in general), that I took myself off to Harrods and bought Mr Big something a little similar of his own. (I then went to Istanbul on the way home and treated myself to a bright orange bag so that when we’re off shopping together, we do look a little….shall we say…accessorised. But neither of us is particularly fussed about that):
And perhaps, having mentioned Istanbul, I’ll end this somewhat mishmash post with a couple of rugs we fell in love with while we were there, but which, at $12,000 a pop, we were obliged to leave behind. The first two are samples of a new (to me at any rate) deconstructed design. We’re seeing them pop up more and more here in Uh Straya at what I believe they call ‘high end’ outlets. Interestingly enough, the prices here are comparable to the prices there, a symptom, maybe, of America having banned the import of Persian carpets, and the price of Turkish pieces shooting up accordingly. Either way, these were beautiful carpets, silk on cotton, but I suspect that they, like the patched and over-dyed rugs, will date quite quickly:
Below we have the old Pimperstich, fingering an eye-wateringly beautiful Memluk. Oh, the conversations we had over mint tea about whether we should or shouldn’t, could or couldn’t. Until we eventually decided that we shouldn’t and couldn’t. And didn’t. But oh, woe. We were still revisiting the whole thing at the airport! Actually, one main reason we didn’t, apart from, you know, the old spondoolicks, was that we have nowhere to put it. These rugs don’t just lie there quietly and think of Turkey, they are voluble, loquacious personalities and they demand attention. I don’t think I’ve outed Mr P before, but he has what might politely be termed a bit of a carpet fetish. At the farm we have a 60 foot shed and in that shed we have a rather embarrassingly large number of carpets that positively insisted on being bought, only to arrive and find there was no (immediate) home for them. Another thing about fetishes I didn’t know, and maybe you don’t either, is that they’re contagious. Really! I didn’t used to have one for carpets, but as surely as eggs is eggs, I do now. And doors. But that’s another story. Anyway, the Memluk:
I’m thinking just a few photos of Istanbul, outside of the carpet shops, where we did on occasion manage to drag ourselves. I hesitate to post too many because it was rather an embarrassingly long time ago, but I take heart from Blogland being a place where the mountains of time are levelled into a horizon of the perpetual present. So, the Spice Market, where I discovered, to my absolute joy, that I could buy Amber in liquid form (and only aficionados of Istanbul and Marrakesh will recognise that I smell of moth repellent):
And the Hagia Sophia, because how could I not include that? When Mr P told me it was built in 500AD I thought he had his figures wrong, and had casually left out ten centuries. Because, you know, being English, I’m used to old places being from about the 15th century. But actually, he was absolutely correct. As he often is, for the record.
Istabul was a funny old place. I had not managed to hear one word said against it before we arrived. And yet it took time to captivate us. It was a vast, working city which didn’t just crack open and fall into two neat halves, for the digestive convenience of its visitors. You had to work at it a bit. You had to get beneath the blare and the noise and the crowds. And when you did, then you realised (or I did), that you were somewhere really rather ancient and really rather unlike anywhere you’d been before. Because there is the modern city which overlays the Ottoman city, which overlays the Byzantine city, which in turn overlays the Roman city. Much in the way of a vast, urban layer cake, it seemed to me. And there was a very definite three-dimensional sense of this too – go through the basements of some old houses and you’ll find yourselves wandering ancient streets down there. We visited some astonishing Roman mosaic pavements. There was always a sense that if you dug down just a little, you’d literally be digging through the centuries. Anyway, enough waffling. The Hagia Sophia:
I was extremely taken with these lights. Actually, I was madly plotting how they could be re-imagined in porcelain. Because if you stand still for more than thirty seconds in front of me these days I’ll be re-imagining you in porcelain too:
There are many more, but considering I only stopped by to post the ceramics clip, I’ve bumbled on for long enough. And so I’ll leave you, Mrs Woodentop in her dressing gown still, with Spotty Dog at her feet twitching and whimpering in one of those impenetrable doggy dreams. Adieu! There will be house happenings soon.