It’s a great word, incandescent. One of my favourites. I first heard it when I was at a party at university and I complimented a friend from the North on his choice of tie. I know, a tie at a student party, but it was precisely because it was so vivid and bright that it was a party tie. Incandescent, in fact, as he said. Now, I’d never heard this word before and I have to admit it had even more of an impact when said by someone who had a lovely, rich Lancashire accent. What with the brilliant colours and a great new way of describing them, it’s no wonder I’ve never forgotten the moment.
[Karl Parsons (1912), St Alban, Hindhead, incandescent pinks and oranges, and a nice bit of nominative determinism]
It’s also a positive word. As in party ties, my summer toe-nail varnish, bougainvillea, shot silk fabrics, dahlias, silk threads, Howard Hodgkin’s paintings, jewel-like pieces of stained glass, craft felt and acrylic yarn, Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Mirror Rooms, and Fred Ingrams’ paintings.
This is the kind of incandescence I’m trying to focus on this week. Not the incandescent with rage sort. But, my goodness, it is hard. I said no politics here, but how can I ignore what’s been going on? Despite all that, incandescent is a word that also makes me laugh. It has a kind of onomatopoeic quality, especially when it has firm stress on the third syllable, and and conveys anger which is almost comically explosive. I’ve always been amused by the idea of ‘Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells’ letters to the Torygraph, but this week feel I could justifiably sign myself ‘Incandescent of Cambridge’.
So a bit of balance has been required, in the form of stained glass, bread, buttonholes, sunflowers.
Windows on the world
[Edward Payne (1968), St George, Didbrook, and another good example of nominative determinism]
I’m giving a couple of talks on stained glass soon, one on mid-century figurative windows, and one on women stained glass artists. (I’ll also be saying something about the latter at the Persephone Books event on 26th January.) It’s been a while since I trawled through my photos and notes, and it reminded me just how much I love a good window which says a great deal about contemporary society and its visual culture.
[Margaret Rope (mid-C20), Holy Family & St Michael, Kesgrave]
Not to mention all the stained glass by extremely talented women whose contribution to the medium has been seriously overlooked. A while ago, I was commissioned to write a book on the subject, did six months work on it, and then the publisher was suddenly acquired by a bigger company. Whoever’s desk my book fell on decided they could do without it, and the contract was cancelled. I received £500 as ‘goodwill’ compensation. For six months’ work. Incandescent doesn’t begin to cover it. Anyway, I have a book’s-worth of material on women artists and their windows, and the many interesting reasons why they may have chosen to work in this area. Just in case any editor is reading.
Heaven of bread
My starter has lasted nearly eight years, something I’m quite proud of. I know sourdough has become a cliché but there’s a reason it’s so popular: it’s delicious, cheap, and requires very simple ingredients. I adore bread, and like making it, though there’s a limit to how much the two of us actually need. But this week I’ve got a new bread pan, a kind of Dutch oven, and I’ve been very excited to try it out. With great results, though I say so myself.
We are also very fortunate to live in something of a bread heaven here. The Cambridge Oven does the best croissants and a wonderful buckwheat and kalmut loaf (Fri-Sun only), and Hot Numbers does amazing sourdough. We also buy bread from Alison McTaggart who makes all her loaves at her home in Cambridge. On collection days there’s a steady stream of locals rolling up to her front door to collect warm loaves, including our favourite roast potato & cumin or green olive & lemon specials.
Buttonholed
[herringbone tweed from Fabworks, lining fabric from Sherwoods Fabrics]
I’m very keen on making jackets and coats, less so on doing the buttonholes. They make me nervous, coming right at the end of so much careful work, and have the power to ruin a nicely made garment if you don’t get them right. So usually I put off doing them for a day or two after finishing something. However, several putting-off days accumulated and I found I had a coat and two jackets requiring buttonholes, giving me fourteen chances to mess up.
Now, after many deep breaths, a Foreman in navy moleskin for Simon, an Ottoline in a slubby Merchant & Mills denim for me, and my third September coat in a pink - sadly not incandescent - herringbone Yorkshire tweed all have buttonholes. Done and dusted. We can finally wear them, and I need to find something else trivial to worry about to distract me from worrying about politics. Like sewing on fourteen buttons.
Sunny sunflowers
Our neighbour at the allotment is an artist, and we arrived at the plot earlier this week to find her with her easel, painting one of the tall, multi-headed sunflowers I’d grown from seed. She’d been eyeing it as a subject for a while, and picked a series of lovely sunny days to paint it. It’s so nice to see that something I’ve grown has inspired someone to get out her brushes, and although we discussed the ever-changing Westminster situation, it was good to know that there was something much better and more permanent going on where we were.
Bon dimanche!
Did you pitch your book to Birlinn? They published Elizabeth Cummings’ lovely book on Arts and Crafts movement. Worth a shot.
To be “colourful” with rage seems highly appropriate! Love the bread & buttonhole talk and the allotment artist looks divine 😍