That cant be art..............can it ?

I don't know about you but I generally tend to find that when somebody makes a negative statement then many times [but not always] the opposite is true. "I don't care one way or the other about.................................." someone may confide to you in a hushed tone but I suspect really they do. So when I say to you that I am no artist and I know nothing about art then believe me it is true. The skill of drawing a straight line with the aid of a ruler is one that has eluded me my whole life, but I do know what I like when looking at art, my eyes can fall upon a picture, irrespective of medium, and I can look at it and nod to myself and think yes I like that.

During our recent holiday to Cornwall the small, perfectly formed and rightly famous resort of St Ives was in the process of celebrating its annual festival. St Ives is rightly proud of its artistic heritage, there is the world famous St Ives School of Art for example, St Ives hosts a satellite of the Tate Modern and St Ives celebrates many of its past famed residents, Barbra Hepworth and Ben Nicholson are two who immediately spring to mind. So it was as part of these annual celebrations that the Lady of the House and I took the opportunity to visit some of the many artists studios in and around St Ives that are not normally open or accessible to the public.

I don't know what I was exactly expecting to see when I actually ventured into any of these working studios but perhaps I had in the back of my mind that it may be art. Now I better set out my stall here and now and make it clear that I in general am a traditionalist. Show me a seascape and the sky will be at the top, the sea will generally occupy some of the middle ground and the beach or cliffs or both will in most examples be found around the bottom or sides, perhaps to highlight an individual flair the artist may include a vessel of some sort, a sailing yacht being a favourite. As a final flourish perhaps a couple of birds in the distance, now that is my type of picture, I can see what it represents, it is easy on the eyes but perhaps most importantly of all I can understand what it is and what the artist is showing us.

As we entered the first of many studios that warm morning two weeks ago we entered an alien world, well to us anyway. The room measured perhaps twenty feet by twenty feet and the whole of one wall was taken up by a huge ceiling to floor window that illuminated the whole studio, the place was empty and on both side walls was an array of canvas. The Lady of the House and I stood side by side and looked at one of the canvases hanging before us, it measured I guess perhaps two by two foot. It was white except in the top right hand corner was a hollow red circle, we looked at each other and I saw her eyes raise very slightly. Just then a small side door opened and a tall figure, the artist, entered. He was what I can only describe as a caricature of an artist. He wore a blue smock which was liberally covered in smears of every colour and hue of paint I have ever seen and some I have never seen. His hair was long and unkempt, he had a short beard and clamped between his fingers was a cigarette that he smoked from time to time.

He smiled and welcomed us to his studio and mentioned he had seen us admiring he latest work, he was going to call it White Circle with Red Outer, the Lady of the House sniggered but very cleverly I thought immediately made it look as if she had sneezed. This work he went on was for sale today for only 450 pounds, I looked at the white canvas with the small red circle top right and then looked again at the artist, I was going to ask what it all meant but the Lady of the House had pre-empted that and nudged me so I just smiled at the artist and then turned again to study the finer points of White Circle with Red Outer. Fortunately some other people entered the studio so we thanked him for his time and made a hasty retreat.

The next studio we entered was not that different from the one we had just left. As we got inside we saw a huge figure of a man standing looking out of the large window. Suddenly and with no warning at all he spun around and in a large booming voice and with an expansive wave of both arms he declared Brown on Board. Pardon I said trying to follow the wave of his arms; Brown on Board he boomed again and with a small nod of his head toward both sides of the studio our eyes followed to see on each wall three boards each perhaps a foot square and each covered in brown gloss paint, nothing else just brown gloss paint. His collection then of six identical bits of what I take to be MDF each painted in a couple of coats of brown gloss was Brown on Board.

If by now dear reader you think we had seen the worst of it I can only, if somewhat sadly, contradict you. The first two studios it seemed were to be the highlight of our visit, it rapidly got worse I am afraid. One canvas we saw looked to me as if some four year old child had been given several trays of coloured paint and a pair of wellingtons and told to stand in one colour and then walk over the canvas then repeat the exercise with each other colour in turn, this was titled, we were informed, A Walk with Colour.

That day we visited twelve studios and it was horrendous, but then I suppose you have to ask yourself what is art. We have all seen, I expect, examples of art being shown to us television for the Turner prize, for example. The names spring to mind, Antony Gormley, Damien Hirst, Tracy Emin. Martin Creed et al. Is that art ? a pile of bricks, an unmade bed a film of a room with the lights going on and off; perhaps it is art just as much as Brown on Board or White Circle with Red Outer, perhaps I don't understand it or perhaps it is just pretentious elitist rubbish.

I said we visited twelve studios and they were all horrendous, well that is not quite true. The last studio we ventured into was shared by two middle aged ladies each sharing half the studio. One of the ladies drew full size nude figures in charcoal on thick white parchment paper and they were fantastic, the other lady painted with watercolours and she painted landscapes and seascapes from around the Cornish coast.

So it was here in the last studio that I stood silently and studied the picture before me. The sky was at the top the sea was covering most of the middle ground and along the bottom and toward one side were golden sands rising to high craggy cliffs. In the far distance just below the horizon I spotted a small sailing ship and in the top left hand corner were three birds flying along in formation, I liked it.

Yes I am a traditionalist but I know nothing about art and that's the truth.

Back to normal..........or what passes for normal here.

I have now safely returned from my holiday in Cornwall, well I say safely but that might be no thanks to the half wit who at Junction 18a on the M5 Motorway Northbound [Northwest of Bristol] was in the left hand lane to leave the M5 to join the M49 heading for the M4 as I drew level with him, both of us doing around 80mph [sorry officer I mean 70mph]. He decided he was in the wrong lane or perhaps that the M49 held no interest for him and without any warning or indication he swerved off the M49 slip road and rejoined the M5 right in front of me. Mrs F screamed and I sounded the car horn and flashed my lights as I at 80mph [sorry 70mph] took avoiding action to the right into the middle lane, which thankfully at that very moment was devoid of any other traffic. As I increased speed a little to overtake, but of course not at any time exceeding the prescribed speed limit, Mrs F lowered her window and shouted some friendly words of advice at the other driver that I am afraid modesty forbids me from repeating here.

I was saddened to read about the death of Mary Travers, though she had been suffering from Leukemia for some years, news of her death on the 16th of September still made me briefly stop and take stock. Perhaps for the benefit of some of the younger readers of this Blog I should explain that Mary Travers was one third of the folk group Peter Paul and Mary. Now there are those of you who may know that my musical tastes may be varied with a slight bias toward American Bluegrass and Blues and I play, just for fun and in my own fashion, the five string banjo, so folk singing I agree is not my main musical passion.

However it is not directly for the folk singing that I remember Mary Travers or Peter Yarrow and Noel 'Paul' Stookey but for what happened on August 28th August 1963 and the small but significant part Pater Paul and Mary played during the March on Washington at which Martin Luther King Jr delivered his [now] famous 'I Have a Dream' speech. The song 'If I had a Hammer' which they sung during this rally became the anthem for racial equality just as much as Bob Dylan's 'Blowin' in the Wind' also sung during the rally did.

Mary Travers was an outstandingly beautiful woman as anyone can see if they take the time to surf the web for pictures of her during those times with her blond almost white hair bobbing about her face as she moved and sang; even now up until her death she still retained an air of beauty and dignity. Sadly another link with my youth has now disappeared forever.

Regular readers will remember in last month's entry of the Blog I mentioned briefly about the impending start of the NFL season and that the Denver Broncos had then played and lost two of their pre season friendly games and I thought perhaps that the oncoming season did not bode well. An update is that they also lost their third game but won the fourth, despair began to creep in I feared for the season ahead and wondered even after all these years perhaps I might select another team to support. Imagine then my delight and no doubt the delight of Bronco fans worldwide to discover that they have won both their opening games of the new season. Perhaps this may be a return to the glory days of the Broncos when they won the Super Bowl two years running, 1997 against the Green Bay Packers 31-24 and 1998 against Atlanta Falcons 34-19; but then again it might be the kiss of death for them with me now having declared in a celebratory manner their early success, we will have to wait and see.

Many readers I am sure will also remember in last month's Blog my brief mention of the Bus Pass rightfully earned at the young age of 60. Much enjoyment was had in using the pass whilst on holiday and I might add that I became somewhat complacent about its use. I would casually board the bus approach the driver and innocently wave my pass in his general direction whilst mumbling to him my intended destination prior to taking my seat. Once as an act of rebellious defiance, and just because I could, on one journey I stayed on the bus a further stop prior to alighting and walking back to my intended destination.

Mrs F being a child bride does yet qualify for a bus pass, and so we had to pay for her transportation. At one point whilst enjoying a liquid lunch at the Union Inn I suggested to her that she may wish to consider walking back to our apartment [a distance of some three miles] I had calculated the money saved from her bus fare would afford my another pint of beer and I would return later by bus, for free of course.

There followed a short sharp abusive tirade the like from Mrs F that I have only ever heard once since and that to a half wit motorist on the motorway when returning home a week later.