My, what a weekend of cultural treasures!
Friday: I schlepp home early and get stuck at the Jolly Wagoners roundabout for three quarters of an hour, nodding off into the pages of Yellow Dog. Later, we catch up with the Stiff at the Beeb stuff we recorded from last week. Nick Lowe and Brinsley Schwartz singing Surrender to the rhythm is the highlight - a young Lowe looking like a bizarre amalgam of British pop legends - part Bowie, part Terry Hall, with Joe Brown's haircut.
Saturday, I meet Val (Man U), Jim (Spurs) and their young Gooner lad, Calvin at the Auld Triangle, before young C & I take our seats at the Emirates to watch The Arsenal record their first ever league win at the new ground - a 3-0 romp against a workmanlike Sheffield United. Reuniting Cal with his folks at the A.T., Val asks Cal if he's learned any new chants today. Cal furrows brow in consternated recall, then his face lights up as it did when he first took his seat and beheld the splendid rectangle of green baize before him. "..Stand up if you hate Tottenham..." he sings with full throat. I can't look at Jim....
Sunday: To the Tate Modern for Kandinsky: the Path to Abstraction. A blissful collection of early works outlining the development of the artist from Fauvist fellow traveller to genuinely radical pioneer of abstract art. There's a greedy hedonism in his use of colour that I really love, and that seems to give way to a more measured, graphic style around 1921, the point at which this exhibition ends. I'm reminded of the way that Eno thought of music as aural painting - Kandinsky taking the reverse route, painting as composition, the canvass a stave for his explosions of colour and form. But there's another story here, one senses - that of artist and muse. The sensuality of so many of the paintings seems to fuel the narrative of the already married Kandinsky's attraction to his fellow-painter mistress - each brushstroke seemingly an unanswered (to us, at least, in the absence of any of her work on display) plea to the love of his life, Gabrielle Munter, his muse waiting patiently for him to escape the shackles of convention and unite with him in art and love.
Mind you, you'd want to get rid of a surname like that, wouldn't you?*
* Punchline courtesy of S. You know the drill...
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