My sleep has got very bad lately. How am I getting through the days? On adrenalin, I guess. It will get better soon, when this stress is out of the way.
Had a good day in London yesterday It was a good meeting, the editor has decided she will stay on for another year, which is just as well because we haven’t found anyone else. I’ve been doing the DTP for a year now, she says she won’t be so involved in the design, she’ll be more of a commissioning editor, which suits me, more work for me (can’t believe I said that!), but work I enjoy.
I had a few hours to kill before the evening train, so I went to the Wallace Collection. I was looking for the Dance to the Music of Time and the Shepherd Paris, but when I got there I realised I hadn’t a clue where they were, so I asked one of the guides.
‘Upstairs’ she says with a smile, ‘In the Great Gallery’.
I go up the stairs, I’m not sure where the great gallery is either, and the free plan I picked up isn’t very helpful, but I wander from room to room.
When I find the Dance to the Music of Time, I’m surprised how small it is. It would fit easily on my wall, I expected some massive canvas. I watch the four figures. If they represent the seasons, it’s hard to see which is which. Only one of them is looking out of the painting at me, a coquettish woman with thick blond hair blowing loose. There is one man and three women, which seems strange, unbalanced. Which way round the circle are they going? It’s not easy to tell. The other two women don’t seem particularly symbolic of anything.
http://www.artchive.com/artchive/P/poussin/poussin_music_of_time.jpg.html
I find a guide sheet. Apparently they don’t represent the seasons, but four stages of human life. The man is Poverty, which leads to Labour, then Riches, Pleasure (the coquettish woman), and finally, if over-indulged, back to Poverty again. Makes sense. When I re-read Powell in the evening, he seemed to think they were the seasons.
Paris is only a few pictures down on the same wall. He’s as gorgeous as I remembered. Dark eyes, unruly curls, gazing off into the distance. By Van Dyk, apparently thought to be a self portrait. Not very Dutch.
I bought postcards of both, to stick over my desk.