sheltering from the rain – tate modern

Back to see the Agnes Martin again and realised that I want to absorb it all again and again – no photography allowed and anyway the reproductions in books and on line are all poor, which I like; some plants and landscapes too don’t photograph well – they’re above and beyond our manipulations. So spent some time watching the video on the ‘landing’ of level 2 with little people jumping on and off the benches, falling over, crying, being promised things if they behave or threatened if they didn’t, being fed and all the usual activities of young families spending their day sheltering from the rain.

Here Agnes is saying:’and the older I get the more I like to paint’.

‘To progress in life you must give up the things that you do not like. Give up doing the things that you do not like to do. You must find the things that you do like. the things that are acceptable to your mind’.

in the collection displays, full frontal on the photography and an atmosphere akin to a jamboree – folks engaging in their own way – with work displayed that took my breath away. Read here for lists . . .

. . . Rothko and Richter incorporated with eclectic hangings. The Joseph Beuys room is included as part of the journey  . . .

. . . the strength of his work contrasted today with the watery views outside  . . .

. . . but then into a gallery where Bacon’s powerful colour concentrates the mind. A friend in New York posted  this  recently – similarities? or not? But she always makes me smile – an Essex thing perhaps.

Thought provoking words from Bill Viola and then plenty of time to mull them over in Brindisa watching the rain cascade over Borough Market while tasting a little tapas – good day.

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round. Margaret Atwood