tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44973900207426670692023-11-16T07:48:51.037-08:00OK. Now I believe it but what's next?After cancer, the drama of the diagnosis, the treatment, baldness and tears - there comes survivalJane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.comBlogger100125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-4749722883203349272012-12-04T05:09:00.000-08:002012-12-04T05:09:19.008-08:00Royal intimations <br />
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<br /></div>
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A new royal child is on the way, most people are happy but
some of us are rattled.</div>
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It’s unsettling to realise that this new baby of the blood,
will not get a chance at the throne for at least sixty years. </div>
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I will never see it become a sovereign. If it turns out to
be twins I will also miss the civil war which might ensue, and I
doubt if I will be around for King William V. </div>
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On the radio today other middle aged people were
commiserating because they will never see another diamond jubilee, the next one
will probably occur in the 22<sup>nd</sup> century.</div>
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All I can hope is to see the coronation of Charles Philip
Arthur George and I hope he doesn’t mess it up by relinquishing the title,
Defender of the Faith.</div>
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I wonder which name
he will take. He could style himself King Arthur II which would be fun.</div>
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Rather than coffee spoons I am living out my life in royal
crowns, and owing to the tough royal genes and increasing longevity, one
coronation is all any of us are likely to get. </div>
Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-76809529271815416622012-11-26T11:43:00.000-08:002012-11-26T11:43:04.066-08:00English maidenhood 2012<br />
<div>
On my way to the hospital this morning, Monday 26th Nov, walking past HMP
Wormwood Scrubs, I met a young woman, aged about 23, who asked me where she
could find a cash point. I suggested she should come along with me to the
Hammersmith Hospital entrance where they have one. As we walked she told me she
was on her way to visit her boyfriend, aged 24, who is now in the Scrubs doing
five years for fraud.</div>
<div>
Apparently he stole all her money and defrauded about 40 other young
women.</div>
<div>
"But I still love him," she told me, "and I have decided to wait for him
until he gets out." </div>
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I felt that she wanted my approval and felt a bit harsh for not giving
it. </div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
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On the bus back home I sat in front of two well spoken school girls aged
twelve. I know that was their age as it was discussed as one of them told her
class mate that her mother is 36 years old. She also has a sister aged sixteen.
The two of them set about trying to work out how old the mother was when she
had her first and second child. They could not do it. They struggled with the
subtraction sum for most of our journey and never hit on the correct
answer.</div>
<div>
I was very surprised firstly because my life has been blighted by my
inability to do maths, but I could do that one albeit using my fingers. Secondly
because I have been labouring under the delusion that maths teaching has been
improved in our schools lately. From the sound of them they were attending quite
a "good" school. </div>
<div>
</div>
Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-14681145410736029602012-11-25T10:29:00.001-08:002012-11-25T10:29:30.821-08:00OK I am back! 25th November, 2012.<br />
<br />
I have been writing my blog on the Salisbury Review on line blog spot for a few months. That is all bad tempered political stuff, not a place for random thoughts, or reflecting on the cancer which originally led me to start blogging. <br />
<br />
It is now over two years since I took ill and had the dread diagnosis, ovarian cancer stage four, grade three, that was in May 2010 and despite predictions of doom, I am still here going strong!<br />
<br />
My check ups are every six months from Feb, but I was surprised when the time of the 3 months check came, I felt anxiety, even though I didn't have to go for a check. My brain is still hard wired for the 3 monthly anguish it seems.<br />
<br />I wouldn't perhaps think much about the cancer at all now, if I didn't keep meeting other unfortunate beings who keep getting it.<br />
<br />
On Saturday at my art class a middle aged woman revealed that she has brain cancer. She told me that it began with a polyp up her nose which her GP failed to diagnose. By the time they found it, it had developed into a rare form of brain cancer. When they operate she will lose the senses of taste and smell and perhaps her sight, and the tumour could of course kill her.<br />
<br />
She is a self-important, rather unfriendly woman but I felt bad for her of course. She is striking a pose of absolute strength and determination, even saying, "if I die, I die, can't do anything about it." Perhaps not the best way to face the future, but she will change as she enters the tunnel and goes along it, at what ever pace.<br />
<br />
This morning I was thinking about her as I got ready for church. As I walked there I suddenly felt terribly tired, after the service I came home and went to bed. I dreamed that a large tumour had come up on my neck. The fear is all there in me, and other people with cancer act as "triggers" re-traumatising me, but I don't resent that at all. That is all part of my new life, post cancer, or "in remission" as people put it, which is a word which also traumatises me, as my conscious, waking mind likes to believe I am am cured.Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-81951984683782761622012-10-08T06:56:00.000-07:002012-10-08T06:56:18.122-07:00<br />
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Dear pals and enemies alike, </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
at present I am putting my blogs on to the Salisbury Review blog spot. </div>
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It is a magazine of conservative thought, but don't let that put you off! </div>
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You can add your remarks</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="http://www.salisburyreview.co.uk/">www.salisburyreview.co.uk</a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<img apple-height="yes" apple-width="yes" height="298" id="7d27a15a-f33e-4770-be10-41403b904c0f" src="cid:B3C137E1-900D-4F17-9BB2-EA5388394477" width="239" /></div>
Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-74729623521235529892012-08-12T01:33:00.001-07:002012-08-12T05:08:04.618-07:00Mother's 90th birthday<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">6/8/12<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Home to
Codsall for my mother’s 90<sup>th</sup> birthday. The houses seem increasingly adorned with vertical drapes and the new, apparently modish, shit coloured window frames.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On the morning of the
birthday she found a large brightly coloured hoola-hoop on the back garden. It
had a label on and seemed to be new. None of the neighbours knew anything about
it and we noticed small holes in the edges. I think it was a gift from the
local fox population, or possibly carried there by the birds. She has been
feeding them steadily every day, for the last fifty years. Over the years their food has improved greatly, they now get all kinds of expensive seed all year round and in the winter tiny, perfectly cut lard sandwiches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I always
take my cat Maisie, who in human years is 86, for treatment when I’m up there, as
it is so much cheaper than vets in London. Looked up the phone number in my
mother’s book, hunting through a maze of crossings out realised her book is
like a grave yard. Almost everyone in it is dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">My
mother seemed a bit disturbed before her birthday, worrying about her future.
She also started “de-cluttering” facing up to the possibility of losing her home by offering to unload her treasures on to me. She has some very
nice things but I have noticed in the past that when I bring them back to
my place in London they don’t look right – removed from the context of her
house they lose their shine, and my joy in them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Later,
when she was feeling better she started congratulating herself on living so
long.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> “I must have done something right” she said with satisfaction.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> I
mentioned my great grandfather who lived to be 100 although he was hugely fat, smoked and drank heavily.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> “It’s the luck of the genes,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“It wasn’t
genes,” she said, “He was just wicked Irish.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She received at least 50 cards, not bad going and I gave her lots of parcels. Ever the optimist she wanted a watch from me, and was quite specific; stainless steel face, black strap. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I ordered it from Samuel's on line. It arrived in a very large box with lots of wrapping and two other boxes inside. We opened the final one and there it was - sparkling gold with a brown strap. </span></div>
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<br /></div>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-56450253170171469652012-08-12T01:04:00.000-07:002012-08-12T05:09:28.370-07:00The cancer survivor's diet<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />
12/8/12<br />
<br />
The fear I had after I started treatment, when the doctor's told me such bad news, has begun to fade now after two years. Sometimes it returns unexpectedly but I recognise it as it almost always comes back in the evening when I'm alone. I notice feelings of bloating, indigestion etc. the symptoms of ovarian cancer - but in the morning I wake up feeling fine, nothing wrong. All that was going on was my digestive system responding to daily battering from whole heads of broccoli, thick tangles of fresh parsley, sage and coriander, and pounds of fresh fruit.<br />
<br />
The cancer survivor's diet is a work of intelligence and industry. I visited a friend recently who has prostate cancer. He was once a jolly farm lad who lived on burgers, pub food and beer. He now has a juicer in his kitchen which he told me cost £350. He has a breakfast of juiced pomegranate seeds with grilled tomatoes topped with turmeric in olive oil. This is followed by apricot kernels ground to dust and drunk in fresh pineapple juice. He eschews all sugar and alcohol. Under his sink he has installed a maze of pipes to provide purified water.<br />
<br />
Does it work? Well he was given 18 months to live over three years ago. The food he eats might not be able to shrink his tumour but battling away in the kitchen to defeat it seems to be keeping him going.Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-35084148327281743922012-08-11T12:05:00.001-07:002012-08-12T01:04:31.396-07:00The interview with a survivor<br />
<div>
11/8/12<br />
<br />
I have just put up an interview about an Olympic athlete who was diagnosed with Ovarian C last year. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's not terribly penetrating - she was
diagnosed a year ago, had chemo but now says she has a clean bill of health. Is that possible? </div>
<div>
Doctors here are much more pessimistic about it coming back and surviving with
the thought of recurrence is the most difficult thing. I wonder if she has to
have the 3 month check ups? I have got my next one on Monday and I am starting to get all the psychosomatic symptoms and anxiety - not as bad as it used to be though, it no longer resembles a crashing seventh wave that smothers everything in its wake. <br />
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-32561057314022224062012-08-11T11:54:00.004-07:002012-08-11T11:54:52.983-07:00Olympian battle with ovarian cancer<br />
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Hello,<o:p></o:p></div>
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My name is Heather Von St. James. I came across your blog and
noticed that you have written about ovarian cancer. I was wondering if you would
help me to spread the word about the silent killer.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The Mesothelioma Cancer
Alliance did an interview with former Olympic gymnast, Shannon Miller, on her
recent battle with ovarian cancer. With the Olympics underway, I think this is
the perfect opportunity to shed some light and increase awareness of this
disease. I was wondering if you’d be willing to post a link to the interview: <a href="http://www.mesothelioma.com/blog/authors/staff/from-olympic-gold-to-ovarian-cancer-our-interview-with-former-us-gymnast-shannon-miller.htm" moz-do-not-send="true">http://www.mesothelioma.com/blog/authors/staff/from-olympic-gold-to-ovarian-cancer-our-interview-with-former-us-gymnast-shannon-miller.htm</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p>Let me know if you decide to post it! I think we
can really shed some light on ovarian cancer with this being so current! <o:p></o:p></div>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-38491558247835760342012-08-01T07:52:00.002-07:002012-08-01T08:04:38.918-07:00Help! They are throwing BRICs at us!<br />
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1/8/12 <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The
Olympics have taught me to keep my elbows up in the breast stroke and use my
forearms more. Today I did a full summersault at the end of the line to start
off my backstroke, I haven't done that before. So far I just cannot get that
fly kick going to start me off though. I wish I had some of that stuff that
Chinese girl is taking, it would surprise the bored lifeguards at my Virgin
health Club. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I have
also concluded that we will have to start treating the O Games the way we now
treat the Eurovision Song Contest. Demographics and globalisation are so much
against us that we should retreat with a gracious smile. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-55989398064680088942012-07-26T04:33:00.003-07:002012-08-01T08:12:15.636-07:00All Gas & Gaiters<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">25<sup>th</sup>
July 2012<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Maisie my cat is outside all day, she doesn't put her nose outside the door unless it's at least 30 degrees. I stay in, near a large fan as much as I can. But today I braved
the horrible heat, why oh why didn’t I ask for “aircon” in my car, for the coffee morning at the vicarage in Ealing. We sat in the garden for the first
time this summer and that wasn’t the only surprise. We were visited by an
Archbishop of Malawi, apparently they have several, and his wife. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">He
seemed a sweet, gentle man but I was surprised by the wife in her bright blue
robes with big frill round the bust. Gladys, a Nigerian lady who celebrated her
80<sup>th</sup> birthday on Sunday produced some chocolates. She gave them to
me to hand round. Archbishop’s wife grabbed them, took three out of the box,
handed them to him then made no attempt to pass them on. Then came my biscuits
and another cake from Gladys’s birthday party. The wife seemed to have been
struck dumb as she made no attempt at conversation, did not introduce herself,
make eye contact or smile, just grabbed everything I handed out, without a word
of thanks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Eventually,
offering her another piece of cake I said, “thank you” pointedly. She smiled at
me faintly and murmured it like a good child.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Our
vicar, Bill, asked the bishop to say a few words. At first he was silent. I thought he
might have dropped off in the heat, but then he launched into a peroration, beginning with the subject of
greed. I couldn’t help thinking that was
pertinent as I glanced at his fat wife’s swanky Swiss bracelet watch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was
determined to do him the courtesy of listening intently. Some of it was quite
interesting; he said he came from a very
poor area of peasant farmers, talked about the “slaughter” of Christians by
Muslims in Africa, particularly in Nigeria. The indifference of foreign governments including UK and USA.
Then he added that he’d heard that Obama’s govt was supporting the Muslim
rebels in northern Nigeria.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I was aware that some people's attention was slipping, they were cutting more cake, fiddling about and great monolith wife was
looking at her mobile. Now and then he would stop talking and seemed to be
praying but it was hard to say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">When it
was fairly clear he had finished I leaned forward to ask him whether our Archbishop of Canterbury is
interested in the plight of Christians
in Nigeria. His eyes remained shut and he did not answer. I didn’t know if he’d
heard. The stone faced wife gave him a nudge, he opened his eyes and his mouth
to speak, but at that moment Father Bill insisted we all turned round to have
photos taken. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I
retreated to the shade and sat staring
at someone’s long, uncut, desiccated toe nail. At the table in the sun, the
wife went on sitting silently beside her husband, and I wondered how she could come from such a poor area and sit there with expensive watch, grabbing cake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">On the
way out I told Fr. Bill that I thought they were a disappointing couple. He
shook his head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “There are problems with African clergy” he said wearily. “It’s extremely hierarchical.
She is used to a very high status."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> "You can’t fight that at a coffee morning in
Ealing”he snapped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I wasn't trying. It was far too hot. He also
said very sadly that the bishop was “In the grip of American evangelists in
Texas, who are very generous.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> That explained the mixture of prayer and speech,
the constant closed eyes, and the
strange implication that the Obama gov’t is supporting Al Qaeda backed murderers in Nigeria. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I had a
vision of this somehow very innocent African couple touring Europe and America
picked up hither and thither by well meaning groups vying to support them for a whole
variety of reasons, some worthy others utterly misguided. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">They were on their way to Hastings next where their son is due to get married. If
the bride is anything like the mother I think it will be a case of marry in
Hastings repent at leisure. Image of Fr. Bill worrying that I might write something libellous.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAwEd1OKb3jtw5DT05IkRtjFOKVGFq3ADDdTYox6ErVzhWTGa3anXrVuW4SL6HrJ3P5ySZvhizDEgGVUhp5Y9Yte0UnXX5BFXBeitQhJIiXRNovxEYAeBVp2RGf3osYMSoV-vfDhbUY5g/s1600/On+phone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAwEd1OKb3jtw5DT05IkRtjFOKVGFq3ADDdTYox6ErVzhWTGa3anXrVuW4SL6HrJ3P5ySZvhizDEgGVUhp5Y9Yte0UnXX5BFXBeitQhJIiXRNovxEYAeBVp2RGf3osYMSoV-vfDhbUY5g/s320/On+phone.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br /></div>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-82671937076970680892012-07-14T01:36:00.001-07:002012-07-14T01:36:12.936-07:00Snooping and prying<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes I think I lead a rather odd life. Today 11<sup>th</sup>
July 2012 I had breakfast consisting of a stale old roll left from some I made
last week after impulsively trying out
Kamut, an Egyptian bread flour which it said on the bag, contains lots of
selenium. I also had a piece of Hovis
wholemeal toast from a bag of bread I found unopened on the pavement outside my
flat. I also found a beef tomato in good
condition on the pavement in Chiswick yesterday and ate that. Perhaps I am
turning into one of those people who eats road kill?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Set off for the Titian exhibition at the National Gallery, in the rain as usual, and the bus driver
pointed out that my umbrella was “all broken up.” I told him I had only used it twice. I was nurturing the futile desire to “get some wear out of it,” just like my
mother would have done. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are three paintings on show, Diana and Callisto, Diana
and Actaeon, and the Death of Actaeon, all made for Philip II of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Spain</st1:country-region> in about
1551. If you are trying to find anything good about Philip of Spain and his
vicious reign, this must be it. </div>
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These great paintings are together again for the first time since the 18<sup>th</sup>
century, but not for long as two of them
are soon off to <st1:country-region w:st="on">Scotland</st1:country-region>
on permanent loan, so I for one will never see them again. </div>
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I tried to foment some anti-Scottish feeling about this
among the old ladies and unemployed gathered in the gallery, it’s a free
exhibition, and they were suitably disgruntled.
</div>
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Attached to this show are some contemporary installations by Chris Ofili
who is famous for his elephant dung, Conrad Shawcross and Mark Wallinger. Don’t
know what they are famous for but it’s bound to be something disturbing. There are also three ballets opening at the Royal Opera House
called Metamorphosis, tying in with Titian’s
work. </div>
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We had a look at set design, costumes, a film shot very
close up and low down of ballet rehearsals, and at the installations and
paintings. Very dreary they were apart from an installation by Wallinger
consisting of a locked wooden box containing
a naked woman inside having a wash. Several women change places during the
day to do this chilly task. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were able to spy on her, like Acteon on Diana, through a
break in the misted glass and slits in the closed window blinds. These were set
so high that my friend and I couldn’t
see anything. We agreed that they were placed at man height. Men were obviously
meant to be cast as peeping Toms.</div>
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I was a bit annoyed and banged on the door, shouting: “Are
you going to be in there all day?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A good question in the circumstances but from out of the
Stygian gloom the prissy voice of an attendant said : “They would prefer it if you didn’t do that.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At least I wasn’t turned into a stag and torn to bits.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend noticed a key hole, painted black in the black door. The
traditional and best method of snooping.
We had a peer and all I could see was the woman’s bottom filling the expanse of
the key hole. Surely a repressed, prurient English perv’s dream come true but
it didn’t do anything for me. Then I got
an eye full of unpleasant Scottish looking red pubic hair. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was glad to have seen something but it was a rather a
mundane experience. Perhaps we should
have left it to the men. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After that we went off to room 35, to see two small
paintings by Andrea Schiavone, showing
Zeus disguised as Diana seducing Callisto. Now is that is a very odd idea,
which assumes that most women at the time were Lesbians. The other shows Arcos
shooting his mother Callisto by mistake, after Diana had turned her into a bear. Well
these things happen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were in room 10 and took some time to find, but were
worth it. Vibrant, beautiful little paintings and I would like to use them in
my work and my friend felt the same. Then we had a conversation about all the cross-dressing
men we’d known in the past. One of her friends had been tricked into sleeping
with a prostitute in Paris who looked like a lovely girl but turned out to have
5 o’clock shadow. I noticed an elderly man standing near us covertly listening to what we were saying. Thanks
to Titian and his friends it was an afternoon of prying and snooping. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-59960537400168438232012-07-05T13:03:00.002-07:002012-07-05T13:03:39.777-07:00A good impression4/7/12<br />
<br />
To the Clark collection Impressionist show at the Royal Academy.<br />
A beautiful exhibition full of jewel like paintings collected by the grandson of the man who founded the Singer Sewing machine empire, and his wife, who was once a French dancing girl.<br />
They were particularly keen on Renoir and owned thirty of his works. I have never liked him much, his strokes seem too busy and his subjects too similar, those sugary cat faced girls all looking strangely alike. But this included a splendid pile of onions by Renoir and one of his sunsets, which was extraordinarily expressionistic and free. It reminded me of a water-colour by Nolde.<br />
I wish he'd stuck to nature and left the ladies out of it, or perhaps they were considered to be "nature" at the time.<br />
Brian Sewell in the Standard wrote a strange review of the show, sneering at people who like the Impressionists saying that they respond to the famous painter's names like Pavlov's dogs hearing a bell, then saying how wonderful many of these paintings are and well worth a visit.Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-4358561195750133172012-07-01T12:23:00.001-07:002012-07-05T12:55:02.145-07:00Nordic Beauty<br />
<div>
To the Munch exhibition at Tate Modern yesterday. It was a scream, or a "skrik" as the
Norwegians apparently say which sounds like a cross between a scream and a shriek.
I think I will call that painting, which was conspicuous by its absence from the show, "The Shriek" in future.
<br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">There was a catalogue of his work on
sale, in three volumes, costing over £200. They said you had to buy all three,
you couldn't have only one at a time. I had a look in vol one. It was
interesting as it contained many early paintings before he became an
expressionist, before he managed to paint so loosely, tighter but lovely works that I have never seen before. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">I think they
are all dispersed where as all his later work, over a thousand canvasses which
were kept in his house, were all bequeathed to Oslo on his death. Apparently he
did that to stop the Nazis getting the paintings as they were still in Norway
when he died. I can't think that would really have stopped them, they
probably regarded his work with the deepest suspicion "entarte dekunst" as they put it. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">I have seen two exhibitions of his work in London, but this one was rather different, showing his photographs and his films. The self portraits sometimes in the nude showed Munch in all his handsome glory, what a gorgeous creature he was. I am not surprised that women followed him about obsessively and used fire arms against him. He was operated on for his gunshot wound without an anaesthetic because he said it was important to "live each moment to the full." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">With that attitude he could have had a great sex life but I don't think he ever did, as his upbringing left him with anguish and guilt. I suspect that he gave up on sex quite early as too dangerous and too distracting. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">He was not only a cracker but he cracked "it" becoming world famous with one image, which is want every artist now wants to do. I whispered this to one of his small, faint photos, congratulating him. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">His films were very hazy and flickering, most of them long lost. But it was interesting to see how he applied to painting what he saw through cheap camera lenses; faces bang up against the picture plane, legs and road plunging away into the background, foreshortening and cropping. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Two of Munch's themes I take away from the show and hope to use more strongly in my own painting -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">"Thou shall write thy life" and "Death is always nearby." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
It was a lovely day to be out in London, despite the crowds, and I enjoyed
seeing the Olympic rings hanging from Tower Bridge. They cost the same price as my
flat. </div>
</div>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-92164253596495448812012-06-24T12:34:00.000-07:002012-06-24T12:35:46.916-07:00Older<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
After my experience with the doctor in the menopause clinic
who wanted to pump me full of drugs, I am still reflecting on my apparent loss
of libido. According to the doctor this "lack of chemicals." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is strange to think something like that can have happened
without my knowing – it’s like the theft of something I hardly used, still a
shock when you realise it’s gone. You look at the space where it used to be and
wonder about it, but it doesn’t mean a great deal and you vaguely hope you
might just have mislaid it somewhere. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I toy with myself by thinking of things that used to excite
me. There is a moment of anticipation – then nothing. Like pressing a button or
flicking a switch, expecting a power surge which doesn’t happen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I now look at people in a very detached way, and observe
beauty very coolly, easily, without any
envy. That has died too and I’m glad to lose it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One trial of getting older is that many people you know, old
and middle aged, die off. But this also
includes the people who remember your most embarrassing failures. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Daily Telegraph has a whole Saturday spread on what they
call “predatory” women, single women thy call “lone wolves,” and married women
who try to snatch innocent husbands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was very like a Daily Mail piece with reckless
chariacature and deep mysogeny. Perhaps
if us “lone wolves” were invited out to
dinner by married couples more often we wouldn’t be so desperate. There is of
course another syndrome they ignore the married
ladies who think that if you talk to their husband for more than a minute you
are “after” him. That is often horribly insulting. </div>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-25039904091326536662012-06-13T11:23:00.001-07:002012-06-24T12:36:03.106-07:00Still feeling surprisingly sunny<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Follow up letter from the doctor in the menopause clinic
arrived today. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She describes me as a “nulliparous lady,” never heard that
said about me before. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Says I finished chemo in November 2010, wrong, once had
“severe menopausal symptoms,” wrong, and “continues to be troubled” by night
sweats, decreased memory, and irritability. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I used to feel panic when I thought about the past, the fact
that there was now a great chunk of it behind me. I wanted to run back and
change things, do it better, differently
to produce better results. I don’t feel that horrible regret now. My days have
separated out like a child’s, each one enough and I don’t think much about past or future. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My only problem is money. Well a lot of people have that
worry and it’s not fatal. Everyone wants salmon on a herring diet. And I worry
about getting fatter. I noticed recently that my friend Pam who has always been
rather round, seems much slimmer. She insists she hasn’t lost a single ounce,
it’s just that all her friends have put on loads of weight. That is one answer
to the middle-aged spread issue. </div>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-48316804118576548942012-06-10T11:51:00.001-07:002012-06-10T11:51:18.268-07:00Feeling young again<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went to a birthday party last night, put on make-up and
pretty dress and felt like a teenager again. No eligible men around though so it's a good job I didn't take the testosterone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was in the church hall, with two vicars present but a
jolly, boozy time was had by all. I was sitting opposite young, perfectly
formed Fr Steve, and another young man of the parish. The generation gap showed
strangely when I tried a joke. To wit:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Scots are like haemorrhoids. If they come down and go
back up again you are OK, but if they come down and stay you have a problem.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They both stared at me uncomprehendingly. Fr. Steve blinked and said, “I think we will
have to find out more about haemorrhoids before we can appreciate that one,
Jane.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh well. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Got home late and slept well. I can sleep now after over two
years of insomnia. I used to struggle hopelessly for sleep then wake up at
3am. I would lie there my neck and shoulders aching, hands tingling and I
couldn’t find any comfortable position. Looking back I think that I was
literally scared stiff. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sleeplessness started with the menopause, got worse with
the chemotherapy and the doctor’s dire words. Time goes on. Words fade. I remain well and slowly my mind unclenches.
The fight or flight response retreats to normal and I can sink into my pillows
like a child. </div>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-865551116026564832012-06-09T04:15:00.000-07:002012-06-09T04:15:54.338-07:00Jubilee final day<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tuesday 5<sup>th</sup> June 2012</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have spent almost all day spread out on the sofa in my
pyjamas, only getting up to feed the cat and the birds. I never usually do this
unless I have a really bad cold. Even when I was having chemo I always managed
to get dressed in the morning. The Queen has turned me into a slob. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was pleased to receive this message from a friend in <st1:place w:st="on">Chicago</st1:place>:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<i>“Have been having a very good time watching the Jubilee,
particularly as the British people are enjoying themselves so much and
seemingly feeling at home in their own skins despite decades of PC social
engineering trying to effect the contrary.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s quite moving to see the crowds on TV, so jubilant
despite the wet. The Mall looks like an Impressionist painting, with a great
mass all pinks and greens with threads of blue.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am even catching up with a repeat of the concert which I missed
last night. It sounded like a lot of
good natured but excruciating acts, egotistical outpourings so diametrically
opposed to anything that the Queen represents. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Robbie Williams introduced it, waddling about the stage like
a cross between Norman Wisdom and Little Richard. His movements are strangely
erotic, but it seems he has no voice which is rather a let down. In the end he
provides a poor pastiche of Sinatra. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A lot of old faces are there ready to parody themselves, but
happily no sign of Engelbert, Steven
Cowell or the normally ubiquitous Stephen Fry.
It was a bit worrying that there
are a few guests I’ve never heard of. Who exactly is Gary Barlow? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will stick with it until Rolf Harris comes on with his
wobble-board. He is sure to be there as
like the Queen he has recently started to become a cult figure. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Madness were best, even though they sang an old song they
managed to be funny and interesting, or at least the lighting engineers did,
opening up <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Buckingham</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place> like Queen Mary’s
doll’s house, and sometimes turning it into a simple terraced house. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Queen arrives
wearing a long cloak similar to
the one she wore when she was painted by Annigoni in 1969. Perhaps she goes
flapping around in it a lot, much more theatrical than one would have thought. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
I know
that many republicans out there think that the utterly dim British public has
been hoodwinked by the evil “meedja” into coming out in force to support the
Queen’s Jubilee, as if they’ve been herded into the streets and forced to smile
and wave their little flags. They’ll dismiss it all as “bread and circuses,”
but I think this outburst of enthusiasm has put paid to their miserable, boring
agenda for awhile. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
It’s
still out there though – the struggle
between fun-loving Cavaliers still proud to be Brits and pious Roundheads who insist that <st1:country-region w:st="on">Britain</st1:country-region> and
particularly the English part of it an immoral concept which happily no longer
exists. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-6749689920199267542012-06-09T03:28:00.002-07:002012-06-09T03:28:39.506-07:00Those doctors again<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
On May 30<sup>th</sup> I trundled off rather reluctantly to
the menopause clinic at Queen Charlotte’s hospital. I did this because when I
had my check up three months ago, I told the doctor I had some hot flushes and
insomnia. The symptoms weren’t bad but she referred me, and I thought I’d go as
I am worried about weight gain. Even though I am reducing what I eat, I seem to
be increasingly shaped like a turnip.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw a young woman doctor who looked rather like one of
those women in Personnel, girlish some
how whilst being slightly over-dressed with stiletto heels. I noted the sapphire
engagement ring on her finger. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She fired questions at me and I tried to explain that I have
hardly any symptoms now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She ignored that and recommended HRT.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was surprised as
I’d always thought women who’d had cancer had to avoid drugs containing
oestrogen. Glancing up briefly from her pad she said they had no evidence that
HRT would cause ovarian cancer to return, but then she admitted they had no
evidence that it didn’t. I said no thank you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How’s your sex life?” She asked. I said it’s non existent but I don’t really care. I don’t fancy anyone and no one fancies me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That is probably all chemical,” she said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps I would get my libido back if I met an interesting
man? I suggested. She flashed me a line of straight pearly teeth and
prescribed a course of testosterone saying “there might be some
increase in body hair but it would be alright.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pictured myself, with beard and moustache out on the hunt for men, returning to those
dingy speed-dating venues and trying to find someone honest on line. I pictured
the depression that was sure to follow these adventures. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I questioned this too and she admitted it worked partly with
oestrogen. I said no thanks again and realised she was one of those doctors who are
clever but mad, or perhaps unashamedly working for the drug companies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can see you are a bit sad,” she said. “Frustrated with
the hand life has dealt you.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There she was, young, full-health, brilliant job, ring on
finger, what could she see when she looked at me, nothing she could really
understand. She went on asking for my medical history. I said that I once had
vaginal warts and saw the look of surprise register briefly in her eyes. She
didn’t think I had ever been that kind of woman, but how could she tell. She thinks I’m sad, does she know anyone who
isn’t at my age. As a matter of fact I am happier than I have ever been before. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I said I was sorry if I came across to her or anyone as sad
and anxious. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, you’ve got a lot to be anxious about” she replied.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was the doctor’s killer line. I had felt it hanging
in the air above me all through this interview, just waiting to descend and stick
in my head. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She prescribed what she called a “mood enhancer,” and I
certainly needed it by then. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat sadly in the pharmacy for an hour and a half waiting for
the happy pills, and got home feeling glum and rather scared. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps she was right and I do have sad, bitter, regretful
feelings, I am just repressing them. Even if you feel quite happy you might in
fact be suicidal without knowing it until someone tells you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I took out the box of pills and read all their contra-indications, such
as, be careful about taking them if you have ever been depressed, had negative
thoughts, had conniptions or felt like kicking anyone, I decided to put them away
in a drawer. </div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">When I was a child I was depressed. As a student I was
on Librium, Valium etc and I do not intend ever to go down the path of
pharmaceutical hopelessness again</span>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-7097492038300647922012-06-03T13:12:00.003-07:002012-06-05T09:56:57.680-07:00JubileeSunday 3rd June.<br />
<br />
Last week I found a Coronation copy of Good Housekeeping in a second hand shop. It wasn't as lively as I hoped but it did include a recipe telling readers how to make an exact replica of St Edward's Crown, the great state crown, out of jelly. I think some of those bored ladies on the staff were having a bit of a laugh.<br />
Ventured up to Piccadilly in the rain and watched on a big screen set up in the street as Queenie boarded her boat looking very vulnerable her white hat sticking up. I watched standing next to a friendly policeman as tables were laid all along the highway for a festive lunch. I had just had mine at St Michael's Church, far too much of it; Coronation Chicken followed by at least three puddings.<br />
This image show me standing in the RA in front of my painting, "Dead Hand."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotI26fB8dUAvOmMt7pfBuzDrPuyoMv7D2aVjCwOWDHVIuusSByr4MT6W8maDWDrWsbjVU9RyZ9szrH1CYTePlNHOcRdLR2xW7YcaQsxjbHWvoEdL8VVsAGXZd4Q2ljYAUL6dPXE-_Svs/s1600/jane+&+maisie+in+RA+show.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotI26fB8dUAvOmMt7pfBuzDrPuyoMv7D2aVjCwOWDHVIuusSByr4MT6W8maDWDrWsbjVU9RyZ9szrH1CYTePlNHOcRdLR2xW7YcaQsxjbHWvoEdL8VVsAGXZd4Q2ljYAUL6dPXE-_Svs/s320/jane+&+maisie+in+RA+show.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
In the Royal Academy again, found that my painting has now sold, which was a bit of a relief. A red dot can mean a lot. <br />
<a name='more'></a>It was on sale for £600. The gallery takes 40%. On the right you can see a tiny bit, about £3,000 worth of the painting by Miss Eszter Karpati MA (RCA) from Hungary, priced £15,000. So far it has had no takers, but there is time yet.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwXUzvVHm8ILO_n4PUJBhKfFMloPprkPn7yIHnhO02atJR3ws0cVlTGskstXjjk_pHu6z3niChpOlzKSAaZz_txRvZRzJ3sQ2-qNTuzRQsaaGkQImjlzDTWAu_Td9eNmKVwtbqsmxsUQ/s1600/maisie+in+RA.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwXUzvVHm8ILO_n4PUJBhKfFMloPprkPn7yIHnhO02atJR3ws0cVlTGskstXjjk_pHu6z3niChpOlzKSAaZz_txRvZRzJ3sQ2-qNTuzRQsaaGkQImjlzDTWAu_Td9eNmKVwtbqsmxsUQ/s320/maisie+in+RA.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Miss Joel Penkman's painting turned out to be quite large and it sold almost immediately. The Summer Show is both a lottery and a mystery as to what people buy. joelpenkman.com<br />
I think I remember her painting of some strawberries in the Discerning Eye exhibition at the Mall Gallery two years ago. She is obviously one to watch.<br />
When I came out the rain was sheeting down, the tables were useless and the lunchers had all gone. We joined a crowd heading for the tube station with our rotten brollies. Horribly crowded at the top of the escalators, but I did manage to get a seat all the way home as the tourists all crowd into the first few carriages. Like most people who were out in London today I am now waiting for the late news coverage on TV so I can see something of what happened.Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-51126767710185025642012-05-29T00:50:00.003-07:002012-06-05T09:51:27.940-07:00Special day slightly later<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The 244<sup>th</sup> RA Varnishing Day starts with a service
for artists at St. James Church.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t think many
artists would be interested in going to church, but there was a queue along the
pavement and the church was packed. Perhaps the RA attracts the Anglican chapter
of painters, but I stood next to a young Canadian called Joel Penkman who told me she had a painting on show, the image of a tin of treacle in egg tempera. As there were no pews left we had to go up stairs where it is hard to see anything going on
below, and to hear properly thanks to Sir Christopher Wren’s acoustics.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a happy feeling rising up towards me with the heat,
but I don’t think many there were as
happy and grateful as I was. All my anxiety of earlier on melted away and I was
so happy that I sang with gusto, particularly Come Down, O Love Divine, by
Ralph Vaughan Williams. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a good service, quite rigorous with good prayers for
people in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Afghanistan</st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Syria</st1:country-region>, and <st1:country-region w:st="on">Congo</st1:country-region>. We heard a poem by <st1:place w:st="on">New England</st1:place> poet, Mary Oliver called, “When Death Comes.”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 10pt;">When death comes<br />
like the hungry bear in autumn<br />
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 10pt;">to buy me, and snaps his
purse shut;<br />
when death comes<br />
like the measle-pox;</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 10pt;">when death comes<br />
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 10pt;">I want to step through the
door full of curiosity, wondering;<br />
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 10pt;">And therefore I look upon
everything<br />
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,<br />
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,<br />
and I consider eternity as another possibility,</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 10pt;">and I think of each life
as a flower, as common <br />
as a field daisy, and as singular,</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 10pt;">and each name a
comfortable music in the mouth<br />
tending as all music does, toward silence,</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 10pt;">and each body a lion of
courage, and something<br />
precious to the earth.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 10pt;">When it's over, I want to
say: all my life<br />
I was a bride married to amazement.<br />
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 10pt;">When it's over, I don't
want to wonder<br />
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.<br />
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened<br />
or full of argument.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 10pt;">I don't want to end up
simply having visited this world. </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Revd Mark Oakley took up this theme of struggle and
making a mark and the difficulty of being an artist and a “person of faith.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently if you try being both you will be accused of
being mentally deficient or an emotional wreck. I happily admit to both and so
did he, I suppose on the basis that if you lay down your arms no one can attack
you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said most people think the search for God and the search
for Art are a shocking waste of time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back inside the Summer Show at last, I made my way slowly
round the great rooms where the light pours in through the high windows, looking
for my painting of Maisie. I was also looking desperately for the tiny tables
they put in a few rooms, where you could put down your glass, catalogue,
vegetarian chillie, strawberries and
cream.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They have abandoned
the usual room once kept for small paintings, which is always so popular and
spread the small works throughout the gallery. Maisie looked surprisingly good
sitting there among much bigger works, across the room from a large Ken Howard,
and Olwyn Bowery’s usual green house paintings. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My painting is on sale for £600, but there was a young woman
from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Hungary</st1:country-region>
with a work next to mine on sale for £15,000.
She was standing there balanced on killer heels, tossing her long blonde
locks, chatting to men who seemed
enchanted with her. When I went back an hour later she was still there by her work, chatting up mainly elderly men. They
looked so pleased and flattered and she was certainly businesslike.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By 1pm there was a very large crowd, “arty types” you might
say of all sorts from savage looking retro punks, to very smart women in
designer dresses to frail, bookish elderly men. And of course the single women artists like me, who tend to look slightly battered and crazed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4I0Xbp7tz7RXfbJg-mOV2nxIk45-z8emSc1J2ICxnD-OhoYpbguiHnAmHQdzHDwkmUBH_n2A5zNNTZE61Xx-i2w6TzJfqsJqSN6Hnhjj7RRGw4ci512Y2Bxoc1WVkWSfXjIYJWPDOETg/s1600/DSC00348.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4I0Xbp7tz7RXfbJg-mOV2nxIk45-z8emSc1J2ICxnD-OhoYpbguiHnAmHQdzHDwkmUBH_n2A5zNNTZE61Xx-i2w6TzJfqsJqSN6Hnhjj7RRGw4ci512Y2Bxoc1WVkWSfXjIYJWPDOETg/s320/DSC00348.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
I don’t remember so many people there before, twelve years
ago. Then we sat at tables with our strawberries and cream. But it’s a bit
hazy. I walked around half cut with the <st1:state w:st="on">Champagne</st1:state>
enjoying the sense that I didn’t have to look at anything too hard, I was just
there for the pleasure, and all was well. </div>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-4692600763271374072012-05-29T00:37:00.002-07:002012-06-05T09:49:41.832-07:00Special day early<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Arrived at the cancer clinic at Queen Charlotte’s at 8.30am
for a 9.20 appointment, because I woke early and then just couldn’t hang about,
best to get it over with, to start
walking. Two fat magpies in the park, a good sign as I crossed over into the
dismal atmosphere of east <st1:city w:st="on">Acton</st1:city>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the waiting area with my copy of Metro, I felt the stinging anxiety of waiting again,
just like every time before. Everything
hangs on so few words. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By 9am the clinic had begun to get crowded; youngish women
with gynae problems still hoping for children, and older women like me hoping
for a bit more life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I continually imagine meeting with the doctor; her clean,
bright face, they way she will welcome me, we’ll sit down feeling fairly formal almost as
if it was a job interview, she’ll look away for a few moments at the screen or
go through some papers then she will speak –
words that mean everything, more than “I love you” or “will you marry
me?” ever meant. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Come Holy Ghost our souls inspire,” we said on Sunday.
Where is it when you need it. Banished by
panic is the answer. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Metro headline reads: “Football is a matter of life and
death says Sol.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sitting here too early in the morning is a matter of life
and death. I wonder who Sol is with his silly words. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How many women have passed through here and died? Tell
myself I have got to stop being afraid of death as that is the only way to
live.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The nurse from <st1:city w:st="on">Belfast</st1:city>
I saw on the Victor Bonney Ward goes past. When I had my original op she used
to come and stand at the bottom of my bed in the morning looking furious and dressed
up like an admiral. She was part of my
morphine dream. I saw her again last
August and she seemed to have been demoted to mere nurse. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is the same young male receptionist. I wonder how he sticks
it. A chav girl comes in with bottle tan
and wearing a vest covered in sparkling sequins. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I am moved a bit nearer to the doctors’ consulting
rooms. There are nine of us in this new
waiting area, two of us English, one Scot, the rest veiled, sitting with
anxious looking men. The <st1:city w:st="on">Belfast</st1:city>
nurse notices me and a smile flits across her lumpy features. Perhaps she recognises me or my
note-pad. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I am in with the doctor, a very young man I haven’t
seen before. He welcomes me, we sit, he looks at the screen and says, “Everything
is fine from the blood test. Any problems?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tell him I had a short period of constipation and got really
worried about it thinking that the cancer had returned. As I speak realise I am
getting emotional and struggle to control it. That is very embarrassing. Tell
him I am taking Asprin to try to prevent the cancer returning. Not a good idea
he says, thirty percent get a stomach bleed. He wouldn’t do it. That thirty
percent again, only that number survive this cancer longer than five years. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All over in about ten seconds and I am out in the sunshine
again, on my way to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Royal</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Academy</st1:placetype></st1:place> for "Varnishing Day," which these days means champaign. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-89544140143363351722012-05-26T09:23:00.005-07:002012-05-26T09:25:38.456-07:00Here Comes the Sun<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
22/5/12</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Getting used to breathing easily now that the thieving
Robsons have gone. Went out into the garden this morning without the unpleasant
feeling that curtains were twitching above me. There was a robin on the garden
table, haven’t seen him or her for a while, and a tiny little bird balancing
merrily on top of one of those tall thistley things. It was almost as if they
were greeting me, I had come back into their zone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later I remembered more things missing from the flat.
Perhaps Robson is a case of nominative determinism?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I haven’t got a recent inventory and didn’t bother with it
much as all my previous tenants were honest. They had an enormous amount of
stuff when they moved in which surprised me as I was offering a furnished flat.
Now I wonder if they do this if they regularly acquire property from other
people. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, never mind. Taffy was a Welshman as they still used to
sing when I was a child, along with De Camptown Races and Paddy McGinty’s Motor
Car. </div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Treated myself to a day out in town, in the new sunshine, first to the Royal
Portrait show at the Mall Gallery, which I found had finished the week before,
then the Bauhaus exhibition over at the Barbican. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I had a dog I could build it a Bau wow wow haus. </div>Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-85841546178356660662012-05-21T11:03:00.004-07:002012-05-26T09:07:42.879-07:00Other Adventures<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
21/5/12</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apart from reclaiming my territory from the bug-eyed
Welshman and his hygienic wife, I had my three monthly blood test today at the cancer clinic in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Hammersmith</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How things have changed since all that started almost
exactly two years ago – they have moved the chemo clinic upstairs, removed the
large fish-tank and replaced it with a large flat screen TV and you no longer
seem to have to queue for hours in a corridor. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am different too, at least this time. I
felt no fear, no dread. Watching the face of Robin Gibb appear on the TV
screen, I thought more about the day I once spent with him and his wife rather
than the fact he has just been killed by cancer.</div>
<a name='more'></a>I have grown accustomed to the
situation. I am almost blasé as I wait for the nasty little sting in my arm. I
am also buoyed up by the words of the doctor I saw three months ago who told me
that after two years there is a chance of survival. Hope she is right.Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-30643669297890219542012-05-21T10:28:00.000-07:002012-05-26T09:07:26.909-07:00Spick & Span and Away They Ran21/5/2012
Approached the flat with caution this morning at 8am. Found the keys hidden in the electric box and got in holding my breath with anxiety. It looked OK. They had done some cleaning up – the wife was always worried about hygiene. In the first long text of complaint I received from them after they moved in, they listed, “layers of dirt,” and “fleas” in the carpet.<br />
Later after she had been convinced there were no fleas she said she could see dust mites. The last thing I heard before the outbreak of hostilities was her insistence that there was a stain on the carpet in the hallway which would give her asthma.
Looking at that bit of carpet today in the early morning light, I could see there was no stain of any kind there at all.<br />
Being so conscious of these things they had dusted every shelf and cleaned every drawer and cupboard – unfortunately for me they had also emptied every drawer and cupboard. There was nothing left, not a pan, a wash-cloth, a pedal bin, waste basket, or Little Henry vacuum cleaner. All gone. They had indeed cleaned the place out.
They’d even taken a rather melancholy old stick umbrella that used to hang on the back of the door, used by many tenants over the years. I saw it as a token of London.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
It is strange to think that in their new place, where ever it is, they will be cooking in purloined pans and at night cuddled up together in bed be reading by the light of a lamp stolen from me.Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4497390020742667069.post-68620725122901354902012-05-21T09:30:00.004-07:002012-05-27T05:35:52.988-07:00A Small Win in Life's Lottery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxnpuzc0c-rMXYiRTSynfbsSOKd7HoTpafFBrReoQGuHSAoFW5I7OsmHK3MeK046RQJU1uglCprkGyCDI9EH-653d8PVstSXF5YBQkiHtvnH2gfeF8X8gKGDc9_o-H9ATGkJBtnQvHaXA/s1600/DSC00297.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxnpuzc0c-rMXYiRTSynfbsSOKd7HoTpafFBrReoQGuHSAoFW5I7OsmHK3MeK046RQJU1uglCprkGyCDI9EH-653d8PVstSXF5YBQkiHtvnH2gfeF8X8gKGDc9_o-H9ATGkJBtnQvHaXA/s320/DSC00297.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
20/5/12
8pm
I am sitting here listening intently for noises from my flat upstairs. The squatters who moved in before Easter verbally agreed to leave tonight, but I have no way of knowing when or even if they will really go. They don’t answer any phone calls or e mails, so I just have to wait. I think the place is empty. They lived with all the curtains and blinds permanently drawn and now they have been opened, but I cannot be sure. If I hear the floor boards creaking above me at 3am I will be sick.
Tomorrow I could go up there and find they have gone but not left the keys (they changed the locks illegally) or they might not have gone at all. If that happens the agent’s husband, a burly policeman has promised to come over and assist, but it could all be so ugly. Or it could be OK – they will be gone and I can clean the flat and start again.
This is a situation I never expected, a bit like cancer, suddenly you can find yourself in a very nasty place without any certain means of delivery. Not many people have recourse to the law these days, it’s too expensive. You just cut your losses again and again, or perhaps take out endless insurance the way they do in the US.<br />
However, yesterday was a very good day. On Friday night, when I returned from my portrait painting class, which is like being in a hot room with a lot of spitting cats, I discovered that I have got a painting in this year’s RA Summer Show.
I had to read the letter several times. I went through the same disbelief last time I got in, way back in 2000 with a portrait of Ken Livingstone. In those days they sent a card showing just the number of the paintings you’d sent in and a code for refused or accepted or accepted but not hung. It is easier to understand now, but just as hard to believe.
This year I submitted a painting called “Insomnia,” which I liked. It was small with lots of glazes and showed my hand reaching out for the DAB radio in the night. Also a painting of my cat Maisie lying on my arm, called, “Dead Hand.”
They chose that one. I am not proud of that painting but at least I’m in. After getting in with Ken I got a series of D Notices, which means selected but not hung, then straight rejections. Getting a painting in against 11,000 other entries and all the boring old RAs is like winning a national lottery.
So yesterday I was moving hither and thither on a cloud of joy. I hope we still get the strawberry and cream reception that they used to do on Varnishing Day, not sure. I remember a week before the public were admitted, wafting around the RA rooms, all flooded with sunlight, feeling extremely groovy.
I had a busy but joyful day; I had to go all the way over to Stratford East, to find the Lakeland cookery shop as a friend had given me a token to spend there for my birthday.
It's a seductive shop, at least if you like heart shaped pastry cutters, cake-tins celebrating the Diamond Jubilee and kettles for fish. I bought a new hand- mixer
for making bigger and better Victoria sponges. What a summer we have to look forward to – the Queen’s Jubilee celebrations in all their daft glory, the Bedford Park “Green Days,” two days of unparalleled garden fete, then the Bedford Park Arts Festival, with speakers, poets, plays, film and music. Also a “Festival Mass” at St Michael’s, Bedford Park, with full orchestra and professional choir.<br />
(27/5/12) I completely forgot here to mention the Olympics! For most of my friends and me our only real interest in that subject concerns how well our public transport system is going to hold up.
After the emporium of baking I set off for Bethnall Green on overland rail as the Central Line was off. After a long walk from the station I found a rather obscure, dusty art shop called AP Fitzpatrick on the Cambridge Heath road, near the picturesque “Three Colts Road,” where they sell odourless solvent at half the cost of the regular art shops.
At the classes I attend you are forced to non smelly solvents for H & S reasons, and in Cass Arts they cost £10 for about 250ml. I made my way back to Stratford to get the overland again, no buses from there to Islington. I struggled to get there carrying 4 litres of solvent and one of linseed oil. The weight wasn’t too bad but one of the tins really cut into my back even though I tried lagging it with newspaper. I had to reach the The Hen & Chickens pub in Highbury and Islington in the other direction.<br />
I had promised to see a friend in a matinee performance there of a new production entitled, rather vaguely, “An Evening of Neo-Absurdism.” I was worried about being late, shoved a slag heap of natchos down my throat and rushed up the stairs to the stage door where I was told it was not going ahead as I was the only person who had showed up.
The cast had a vote on it and went ahead. I was joined in the audience by a
member of the production team who designed the posters. <br />
I was expecting some wild Dadaist stuff on stage, but they were gentle sketches about the absurdity of modern life, rather Lewis Carroll meets N F Simpson, with a bit of Oscar Wilde thrown in. Some might have made afternoon radio plays if they were worked on, but it was all a bit flaccid.
During the performance I almost dozed off, had a sneezing fit and my mobile went off. The John Heartfield chap was fiddling with his mobile throughout. Between us we committed almost as good a range of theatrical crimes as if there had been a full house.<br />
<a name='more'></a>
At the end I stood up and cheered and called, “Encore!” Happily they didn't.
In the pub afterwards my friend and the cast of three others didn't seem at all bothered. Perhaps actors are used to that kind of thing these days, or perhaps they are just very persistent, and like me recognise that artistic success is rarely more than a lottery.Jane Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146889388705318919noreply@blogger.com0