A Tribute

The African storm has finally subsided and for Mama the clouds have cleared to make way for that magical light that is liquid sunshine.

After a long and courageous battle against Pulmonary Fibrosis Tessa passed away on Monday, 27th December surrounded by her family.

She brought warmth, light and colour into our lives and the world is a drabber, sadder and drearier place without her. No words can describe the loss we feel, but she will forever remain a bright, shining star in our memories - warm, bold, brave and strong.

This blog was meant as a memoir for her children, but through it she found new friends who lifted her spirit and helped her fly. Thank you.

Warmest regards,

Beani, Georgie and Guy Edwards

Luxury Travel

 

“Reading makes immigrants of us all. It takes us away from home, but more importantly, it finds homes for us everywhere.”   ~ Jean Rhys

 

 

 

I love looking up and realizing the hours have passed without my noticing because all the while I've been so deeply immersed in my book. Surely that is transportation of the most definitive kind? The ultimate in travel and exploration? And, best of all, you don’t need luggage.

**Do have a look at the Link Viewer at Illustration Friday for some wonderful art from artists around the globe.  This week's prompt is "Transportation".... so why not give it a go yourselves?  Go on, I dare you! **

The Quangle Wangle's Hat

 

Today, October 7th is National Poetry Day.  To celebrate we are all supposed to write a poem about home.  Since I haven't had time to pen some prose, I'll just leave it to one of my favourites - the delightfully weird and whacky Edward Lear. 

What I did manage to do a couple of days ago was paint a picture of a hat.  (After all, home is where the hat's at...right?)  Although it is by no means as wonderfully beribboned or jangly and jaunty as Quangle's, it is rather fitting, I feel, for the approach of Autumn.  One must not have a chilly pate.  Not under any circumstances.

 

 

 

The Quangle Wangle's Hat

by

Edward Lear

On the top of the Crumpetty Tree

The Quangle Wangle sat,

But his face you could not see,

On account of his Beaver Hat.

For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide,

With ribbons and bibbons on every side

And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace,

So that nobody ever could see the face

Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

The Quangle Wangle said

To himself on the Crumpetty Tree,--

'Jam; and jelly; and bread;

'Are the best food for me!

'But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree

'The plainer that ever it seems to me

'That very few people come this way

'And that life on the whole is far from gay!'

Said the Quangle Wangle Quee.

But there came to the Crumpetty Tree,

Mr. and Mrs. Canary;

And they said, -- 'Did you ever see

'Any spot so charmingly airy?

'May we build a nest on your lovely Hat?

Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that!

'O please let us come and build a nest

'Of whatever material suits you best,

'Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!'

And besides, to the Crumetty Tree

Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl;

The Snail, and the Bumble-Bee,

The Frog, and theFimble Fowl;

(The Fimble Fowl, with a Corkscrew leg;)

And all of them said, -- We humbly beg,

'We may build our homes on your lovely Hat,--

'Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that!

'Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!'

And the Golden Grouse came there,

And the Pobble who has no toes,--

And the small Olympian bear,--

And the Dong with a luminous nose.

And the Blue Baboon, who played the flute,--

And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute,--

And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat,--

All came and built on the lovely Hat

Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

And the Quangle Wangle said

To himself on the Crumpetty Tree,--

'When all these creatures move

'What a wonderful noise there'll be!'

And at night by the light of the Mulberry moon

They danced to the flute of the Blue Baboon,

On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree,

And all were as happy as happy could be,

With the Quangle Wangle Quee.

Beneath African Skies

 

 

Niger, West Africa - Tessa 2010

 

 

Children of the Sun and the Wind

by

Mohammed Ebnu

We still live
on the brink of nothingness,
between the north and south of the seasons
We still sleep
on stone pillows,
like our fathers
We still follow the same clouds,
resting in the shadows of thorn trees
We still drink down our tea while swallowing fire
and we walk barefoot not to frighten the silence
And in the distance
at the edge of the mirage
we still watch, every evening
the sun fall into the sea
And the same woman greets us
while she posts lookout for the dusk
in the middle of the map
She greets us, then is lost
in the eyes of a child
smiling from the lap of eternity
And we still wait
for a new dawn
We still wait to begin again

If to dance is to dream......

 

“On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined”

Lord Byron

 

I'm all dressed up, my date is here and the helicopter awaits.   I pick up the beautifully embossed invitation to The Third Annual Willow Manor Ball which has been tucked next to the flowers on my bedroom mantle piece and with a whiz, a whir and a whoop we are on our way!

 

A little background first....

The lady who defined 20th century fashion was born in 1890 into a wealthy and distinguished family in Rome, where she spent her childhood. She was outrageous from a young age, offending the nuns who taught her in her strict Roman Catholic school and disgracing her family when she attended a ball in Paris wearing only a length of fabric wrapped around her body, which promptly unravelled! When she was 23, she travelled to Paris, and then to London, where she met William de Wendt, whom she married the following year. After the birth of their daughter – Gogo - in 1919, The marriage didn’t last - due to financial difficulties and William's unfaithfulness - and the couple divorced in 1920. This left Schiaparelli a single mother, and fuelled her determination to succeed independently in the fashion world. She moved to Paris and met the celebrated designer, Paul Poiret, who introduced her to the art of couture.

Elsa became famous for being superbly original in her designs and marketing. She printed press releases on fabric, for example, and produced fashion shows that were uniquely spectacular. These days such performance in relation to fashion is commonplace; in Schiaparelli’s time it was unheard of. Her collections and shows most often had themes. One collection was inspired by African iconography; another drew inspiration from sailors’ tattoos, and dresses bore snakes and anchors. Other collections included 'Musical Instruments', 'Butterflies', 'The Pagan Collection', 'The Astrological Collection' and 'The Circus Collection'. Each collection of highly original and the often eccentric clothes caused scandal and success.

She had a wide circle of friends, with whom she often collaborated. She was good friends with the writer, filmmaker and artist Jean Cocteau; Schiaparelli once reproduced a drawing by Cocteau on an evening cape in embroidery. She was recognised as an artist by such people as Marcel Duchamp, Picasso and Stravinsky, and closely connected to the Surrealist movement - for example, Schiaparelli’s 'Lobster Dress' was a collaboration with Salvador Dali. This connection with the wider art world set Elsa Schiaparelli apart from most other fashion designers - she was not merely interested in beauty or fleeting fashion trends, but in art, culture, ideas and innovation. Essentially, Schiaparelli was distinctive in her involvement with the wider intellectual and creative world.

I shall be wearing an Elsa Schiaparelli creation of course – she one of my all-time favourite designers. This bronze-gold gown is, I feel, perfect for the time of year.  I shall wear it with these shoes – just for a bit of funk  – and an African inspired necklet also designed by Schiaparelli.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As my hair is neither here nor there, I will have to wear a hat. I rather liked this one, but Ranulph said that I looked as though I was about to go on safari in the Serengeti.

 

So instead – and to link to the African theme I chose this…..er…hut. Perhaps a few little yellow diamonds scattered like moon dust would add a certain je ne sais quoi. What do you think?

I’d had decided some time ago to invite Ranulph Fiennes as my (hot) date. He accepted with an alacrity I found utterly charming. I do love the unique combination of reckless adventurer, intrepid explorer, acerbic wit, flawless raconteur, excellent writer and a man of deep – but not overt - familial love. I think you’ll all find him rather entertaining!

Last, but of course no means least, for our most sensational of hostesses, I have a little thank-you gift in the form of some rather luxurious personalized writing paper from the world renown Smythsons of Bond Street just because the lady loves the scent of old paper and words dancing on a page.

 

 Dance, dream, discover, devour - and desire just a tad! Tess, this is too, too marvellous darling.  Thank you!

 

Just an old fashioned girl.

 

“Nothing is so dangerous as being too modern; one is apt to grow old-fashioned quite suddenly”

Oscar Wilde 

 

 I love receiving letters. Written in ink and filled with words carefully chosen and eternal. I'd be happy with just one page -- I'm not hard to please. Maybe I'm just a hopelessly romantic dreamer…

With Twitter, Facebook, emails and instant text messaging, writing a letter is so very old fashioned. Hardly anyone writes letters any more: at least not the kind of erudite, humourous missives that are the hallmark of great correspondence. As we are so often told, we live in the digital age. Now we correspond with friends, relations and businesses through email, not snail mail.

 

 

Quelle tragedy! Nothing will be left for posterity. Think of those wonderful exchanges between Evelyn Waugh and Nancy Mitford for example, or Kinsley Amis and Philip Larkin, Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath; the letters of people like Oscar Wilde, the Bronte sisters and Noel Coward. Entertaining, informative, sad, witty and even rude – and each a precious slice of social history.

 

The other great thing about letters is that they have the advantage of being tangible objects. You could treat them like the latest novel, curl up in your favourite spot in the house, and devour the thick wad of paper full of gossip and news. You could create a mood with your letter the same way you could create a mood with a novel - this is much harder with an email which will have to be read off a screen, in a no doubt office-like environment, while pop-ups go about their business, browsers crash, and instant messaging partners interrupt you.

I sent my brother-in-law a book a couple of weeks ago for no special reason other than the fact he had once mentioned that when he watches the swallows leave at the end of summer, it makes him cry a little. I found Horatio Clare’s book ‘A Single Swallow’ and, along with a little painting I did, popped it in the post to Peter.

It’s important to explain here that Peter is a truly magnificent mix of Rex Harrison and Winston Churchill. Looks like Rex, talks like Churchill – and holds fast to the lost age of chivalry and so eschews the age of technology with a shudder. He will positively not correspond via “that blasted electronic mail nonsense”. I’m so glad he doesn’t, because I want to share with you his beautifully written thank-you note.

 

"One swallow does not a summer make"  Aristotle

 

Emails are great for getting in touch quickly and easily, but as literary vehicles they are severely lacking. Digital messages tend to oscillate between the deathly dull and formal and the blithely irreverent (complete with BTW, FYI, LOL's and garbled text-speak) with precious little middle ground. Letters can be revealing, expansive and humorous while emails, even at their best, tend to exhibit only one of these characteristics of good writing. Of course, many of us use social media such as Twitter and Facebook, sometimes to great effect; but publishing revolution or no publishing revolution, I find it hard to imagine that generations to come will one day download the "Collected Tweets of a Literary Genius" on to their e-reader.

**Post Script.  Thank you all for standing by while I underwent horrid treatment, drugs and a myriad of tests.  I will never be able to express my gratitude for your loving wishes and warm thoughts.  Every friendship is my very special treasure.**

Caged

 

"The very idea of a bird is a symbol and a suggestion to the poet. A bird seems to be at the top of the scale, so vehement and intense his life. The beautiful vagabonds, endowed with every grace, masters of all climes, and knowing no bounds -- how many human aspirations are realised in their free lives -- and how many suggestions to the poet in their flight and song!"   John Burroughs (1837 - 1921), Birds and Poets, 1887

 

The only way to deal with a seemingly inequitable world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion. I adamantly refuse to be caged by this illness that has tried to capture me, so I have started my very own rebellion!  

 

As this personal rebellion gathers momentum, I shall close this blog for a little while in order to undergo the restoration, conservation and repairs which are required to (hopefully) eradicate this horrid scary monster. It is true isn’t it, that birds sing after a storm so there is no earthly reason why people shouldn’t feel as free to delight in whatever sunlight remains to them? That is what I’m determined to do.

Sizobonana, kwaheri, zbogom, auf wiedersehen, ciao, salám, na razie, au revoir and totsiens my lovely friends…..for now.

**Postscript:  The 'Friendship' and 'Fish Trio' lino cuts I promised to send to those who wanted them are slowly being pulled, matted and mailed.  Forgive delays, please - there have been so many unwelcome interruptions.  If you've forgotten to send me your snail mail address and want one of the prints, please drop me an email**