I'm not 18 anymore

There I was today at the famous Wong Kei retaurant in London's Soho, a place I first visited when I was 18. In those days, the waiters only spoke Chinese and the menu was also in Chinese only. How I managed to order anything then remains a mystery but it is an enduring memory of my youth. I was 18 a long time ago and the Wong Kei has hardly changed its decor in all those years- still anti everything, the waiters remain surly as they direct diners to the communal tables, covered in uninviting plastic tablecloths. That's the fun of this old establishment which traditionally was the preferred eatery of the Chinese community in Soho. A pot of green tea is provided free of charge and the meal arrives within minutes from the basement kitchen drawn up by a dumb waiter. I ate my favourite- a huge plate of boiled rice and sweet and sour pork. Dean Street, famous for its cinema and media companies and The Groucho Club, is just up the road. Everyone and from all walks of life can be found eating at the Wong Kei- it stays open straight into the early morning too so ideal for inebriated partygoers falling out of the nearby clubs. I shared my table today with a nurse heading home after a marathon 18 hour shift. She ate her bowl of noodles and soup without wanting to really chat. Some things never change- the Wong Kei resolutely refuses to be hip, fashionable or remotely special. It has steadfastly remained an old-style eating house with no frills. And remember- cash only.

London's Soho at dusk and The Wong Kei.
Photos copyright SvD.

Pierre Chalory Exhibition on 06th December

Here's the sign outside the hotel. Many thanks to my diligent photographer, Gill Bustamante, who offers service with a smile, always!

Mirror, mirror....

A maple leaf becomes an impromptu bowl filled with rainwater reflecting the woods and the sky. On my walk this morning.

Photo copyright SvD.

The evil that men do

 

The news this week has been awash with the most sordid of crimes allegedly committed by a hitherto  well-educated young man from a good home who benefitted from all that money can buy- a public school education etc. and suddenly he is in the news for murder while under the influence of drugs. By all accounts, he had supposedly grown stressed and exhausted in an ultra-demanding job and despite the trappings that came with a high-flying career, he slid lower and lower into oblivion.

A former boyfriend of mine used to smoke an awful lot of pot. Friends and family rallied around and warned him that he was becoming psychotic- too detached and unaware of how the seemingly 'cool' drug was affecting or perhaps more precisely, addling his brain. By persistent encouragement he agreed to give up the weed and hey presto, he was able to return to the world of work and relationships. We met soon after he went clean. Although in theory he seemed fine, there were times when his reluctance to conform could have been a worry. By some strange irony, replacing drugs with alcohol resulted in him being able to remain on an even keel, as it were. Another former boyfriend had been a heroin user as a teenager and during his military service in France, was thrown into solitary confinement where he spent the better part of six months. At the end of it, he was effectively a former addict (no softly, softly approach there or dithering about human rights) but the lasting damage to his brain and body were apparent. He experienced major lapses where he would exhibit alarming behaviour and suddenly would appear devoid of a moral compass and without remorse or regret. His own father once remarked to me that he was terrified of the cold, unfeeling, ruthless individual his son had become. Needless to say that once I discovered my boyfriend's narcotic past, I hotfooted it out of that relationship before he (or I) could say "vaya con dios".  (I'm not very good at wanting to save people from themselves.)

For all those liberals lobbying for the legalisation of hard drugs, perhaps they have never seen how drugs destroy lives. It struck me the other day that rich and successful actors (the biggest exponents of the legalise-drugs brigade) who smoke pot for example, can actually indulge themselves. The soft cushion and safety net that loads of cash brings means that they experience less of the every day worries, which can crush frailer egos.  However drugs can easily destroy others who are less confident or successful especially when there is so much more that is seemingly wrong with their lives. Drugs are rampant in the all-or-nothing environment of high stakes professions where the risk is to lose everything or to win big. Stories of traders going in to work and before they can reach for their latte and a croissant are shown the door, abound in the City of London. Ruthlessness and expendability are the way things are in that world. Everyone recites the exact same explanation for staying- they plan to make as much money as they can and then leave because physically, no one can keep up the pace demanded for more than a few years. Ever.

The worse tragedy in the Hong Kong story is the young women who debased themselves for money. The promise of a better life at all costs. Somewhere a good-natured girl who wanted to change her destiny became a whore. No woman can possibly enjoy having a strange man crawling over her and handing her a wad of bills at the end of it (regardless of what has been written by a former escort girl who shall remain nameless but whose best-selling book was made into a TV series). Nothing in fact could be more heartbreaking than having to revert to prostitution- lost dreams, compromised reality, the horror of what should have been and never will be. How does one even think like a prostitute? Sex is a ridiculously personal thing unless one is completely blotto which unfortunately is how many children are conceived (and regretted) these days.

The alleged murderer was off his head and lost in a psychotic vice where right and wrong are indistinguishable and instead there is an urgent need to do bad, terrible things. Drugs seem to unleash the monster that lurks within a once primal spirit but which has been concealed and civilised over centuries. These frequent episodes of men, always young men, committing atrocious acts when drugged up to the eyeballs is a dreadful indictment of our society. Am I my brother's keeper? Yes. Is there an ounce of compassion in us to forgive such acts? That is the hardest question of all. The act of forgiveness requires magnanimity of spirit that is almost holy- a devotion to goodness and an acknowledgement that generosity of self is more important than anything else. I would argue that it is not possible to forgive the criminal who shows no remorse. That to me is like throwing a bag full of much-needed cash onto a bonfire- wasteful and stupid.

The alleged murderer's education alone cost the earth, and a privileged life has come to nought or rather, the wrong kind of notoriety. We in the west are specialists at abusing our luck and good fortune. We spend a lot of our precious time obsessed with the wrong things. In our hyper materialistic world, we refer to 'me', 'myself' and 'I' instead of 'my fellow human beings'. Our needs are paramount, our desires more important than anyone else's. Our ego is voracious and always wants to be the centre of attention. Why repeat how important it is to love yourself? It means little to have self-love when a man dying of thirst would rather a glass of water. Perhaps all those wishing to decriminalize hard drugs should consider that and the events in Hong Kong.

 Photo copyright SvD.

Surrealist artist to exhibit in the UK for the first time

Renowned French Surrealist painter, Pierre Chalory, will be exhibiting for the first time in the UK for one day only on 06th December 2014 at The Brambletye Hotel, Forest Row, East Sussex. Mr. Chalory is considered a master of surrealism, an art movement that has its roots in the early 20th century and his art is held in private collections around the world. One of Mr. Chalory’s paintings, Twin Towers, is held on permanent display at the 9/11 memorial in New York- the artist first exhibited a series of paintings in 1998 depicting the Twin Towers damaged and burning- this prophetic vision, long before the actual events of 2001, established Mr. Chalory’s reputation throughout the world.

The Brambletye Hotel, The Square, Forest Row, RH18 5EZ
Free parking
Free admission to the exhibition
For further information, please contact the artist’s agent only, Samantha van Dalen. Tel: 01 883 341 646 Email: samantha@artsouffle.co.uk


For more information on Pierre Chalory and to browse images of his work, please go here: Pierre Chalory

Why I charge artists to promote them

Just to clarify one thing: I get asked a lot to represent artists and I'm happy to do so if 1) The artist has a substantial body of work to their name, not just a handful of paintings, I like their work and think it will sell 2) they are willing to pay for me to promote them and their work. Of course, I can hear the very loud gasp of derision but before you do so, please look me up on google and see the many things that I do. I frequently work 13 hours a day straight. In order to get an artist a sale, a tremendous amount of time and effort has to go into promotion on social media, endless networking and frankly, badgering the press to feature photos and stories. You may have noticed as well that setting up exhibitions and the one day gallery costs a lot of money, sourcing sponsorship and the like. I do appreciate that paying to be promoted goes against the grain of wanting to be acknowledged on the basis of merit alone. Of course! I agree. But consider this- there are a lot of artists vying for the attention of buyers and a bit like finding a needle in a haystack unless that artist has preferably slept with someone famous and can get plastered all over the press, they are facing an uphill struggle. Furthermore artists need a track record and gravitas- a list of public and private collectors to their name, residencies, group and solo exhibitions and a a CV that proves that they have put in the years required to be taken seriously and have honed their craft. What I can do and have done is get an artist a good dose of visibility for their work. And the buyers will come. And while I'm doing all that, the artist gets to paint. A famous agent to the stars used to charge a huge monthly retainer. If anyone ever asked him for a discount or begged and pleaded poverty, that agent simply refused. How was he after all, meant to do the best job for his clients if they didn't want to pay him in the first place? So unless you're planning on sleeping with a footballer and selling your story to the press.....

 Photo copyright SvD.

My amazing stupidity

The hound and I were returning from the woods today and I spied a young squirrel in some distress on the side of the road. He had his head between his paws, was laying on his stomach and was breathing with difficulty. As I neared him, I saw that he was covered in flies- usually a sign that the animal is already dead. The squirrel was breathing though. The hound decided to be an opportunist and nudged the squirrel with his nose at which point the squirrel, as if by magic, ran away. I realised the squirrel was indeed seriously hurt as he stopped halfway across the road, unable to move an inch. The flies returned to nest all over the poor thing and I felt compelled to do something. I searched out the gardener I know nearby and asked to borrow his spade. My intention was to put the squirrel out of his misery. The thought of being devoured alive by flies seemed a fate worse than death, after all. As the squirrel saw me coming with the spade in hand, he mustered all his strength and ran as fast as he could, disappearing for good into the woods. I decided to abandon my murderous task. On my way home, I encountered another neighbour who asked what I had been up to. I told him the story of the squirrel. He began to laugh heartily. "Of course the squirrel ran away, you silly moo! He saw you coming with the spade of death. I'm dying of cancer, should I put be put out my misery too?"

There you are, dear readers, more proof that I know absolutely nothing.

This photo is not of the said squirrel but one that met an untimely end in a car crash several moons ago.

 Photo copyright SvD.