I’ve posted frequently (but not yet exhaustively) on the metaphorical
significance of walking on new paths and in new directions: the joy of connecting up hitherto separate routes and making random cross country trails to create new perspectives on the familiar.

I do it all the time in Leeds. But it’s been some while since I broke up my regular morning walking and jogging circuits in Paris.

This morning I was seized by a desire to divert from the usual paths. Many years ago, I used to travel a lot for work. The highlight of any working day in a new city was a run to explore the hinterland of the hotel. In this manner, I experienced the seedy suburbs and more attractive bits of towns as far apart as Basle and Tokyo, Chicago and Brussels. And so this morning, with these memories in mind, I opted to do my current 10k training programme on completely unfamiliar roads.

It was great. I am at the crossroads of a few very varied districts variously described as ‘quartiers authentiques‘ or ‘quartiers mixtes‘ or ‘quartiers ouvriers’ depending on your outlook, but in essence it comes down to an extraordinarily disparate urban landscape. My circuit roamed up through the HLM (public housing) quarters of the 10th arrondissement, over and across the parc des Buttes Chaumont and then down to and along the length of the Canal St Martin.

And I connected up two of my normal circuits: the canal run and the park run.

As I jogged, I reflected on the meaning of the French word for fun, divertissement and how the idea of diverting oneself really is entertainment, particularly if you literally follow new paths, new turnings, new options and in so doing refill the well of creativity and joie de vivre.

It’s all about fresh perspectives. And making every hour and every day count towards a fresh take on life.

It is said that History is written by the victors. But I suppose that must mean ‘official’ histories because every person, every culture, has ‘their’ narrative and perspective.

Fortunately for the non-victorious, an empathetic approach to history in postmodern times has allowed for a great deal of rethinking and retelling, especially in terms of cultural history.

It was therefore with increasing surprise and intrigue that I read a short book about the history of tea as I partook of a delightful green leaf Japanese tea in that temple to tealeaves in the heart of Paris, Mariage Frères.

They take their tea very seriously in Mariage Frères. I once asked for a coffee which nearly caused an apoplectic fit on the the part of a waiter. As a sign of serious seriousness, the tealeaves are removed from the pot once the tea is perfectly brewed before it is served. Despite the huge and generous pots, there is no chance of encountering stewed tea by the end.

This perfection approach had always slightly puzzled me. How could the French get it right in Mariage Frères when tea generally in France is insipid and unappetising? (I submit in evidence those yellow packets of Lipton’s English Breakfast Tea). Not just get it right, but get it even better than, say, Betty’s (northern bastion of great tea) or Fortnum’s (southern bastion of tea)?

Surely the English are the tea-nation of the world? Well, we may think we are, but the French got there first. Not as early as the Dutch, but still 14 years before us. 1636, to be precise.

Imagine that. Who would have thought it? I feel quite humbled by this newfound knowledge. It seems there were a fair few East India Companies.

At least I can now put tea in its correct cultural context. It was a worthwhile pitstop.

I have a confession to make. Actually, it’s wrong to describe it as a confession. It’s only in the nature of a confession because it’s about something I feel a little bit guilty about. Most people wouldn’t feel any shame at all; and goodness knows why I do. Perhaps it’s because I dislike superficial judgments and superficial values and deriving pleasure from dressing up on one view is a supremely frivolous activity.

Because it’s all about clothes.The delight of textiles and colour and fabric texture. It has been a passion for me my whole life, although in the last decade and a half, a submerged passion. But now it’s resurrected in all its live glory and I’m glorying in my indulgence.

When I was little, I wanted to be a fashion designer. I spent hours and hours drawing fashion designs for my entire childhood. Of course, I couldn’t possibly be a fashion designer. What a ridiculous notion that was in the academic and cultural environment I grew up in. The top priority was a safe secure career for life. That pretty much excluded every single creative career possibility.

Lack of enthusiasm from others for the world of fashion didn’t stop me daydreaming though. Nor did it stop me making certain important life decisions based on clothing options.

At 11, I chose the Chester City High School for Girls over The Queen’s School because I preferred the royal blue tunic with a royal blue and yellow striped tie (the sort of uniform girls wore in school stories) of the former over the plain dark navy skirt and dark maroon tieless uniform of the latter. From my parents’ perspective, there were no school fees and they persuaded themselves the education was better. So we were all happy.

At 21, a decade later, I chose to become a solicitor rather than a barrister, because the idea of spending my work life dressed in black was simply too appalling a prospect.

In terms of education or career, neither was the right choice but at least I was happy with my clothes.

And I did end up working as a solicitor in Paris for a few years which was total joy from a fashion perspective.

Fast forward then through the last 12 years or so when I gave up law, became an artist, and, er, gained a ton of weight. Quirky style was still on the cards, but I was living quite delusionally if I in any way felt my passion for fashion was being met. And let’s face it: most artists engrossed in making work find it more convenient to live in paint-spattered ancient garb.

I’ve noticed too that artists can be quite judgmental about other artists dressed up to the nines. As though having fun dressing up is incompatible with serious art-making. I once helped out interviewing prospective students on my degree course. One applicant was dismissed as clearly a more suitable candidate for the graphic art course. I asked why? Her portfolio had some nice stuff. The interviewing tutor said it was her clothes; she was obviously concerned with style and appearance. Not a fine art approach at all.

Ouch.

These intellectual snobby hierarchies within the artworld. Given my penchant for figure drawing and narrative content, what sort of label will be slapped on me if I’m caught tripping around the studio in magenta jeans and high-heeled violet suede shoes with suede flower?

But to return to the present: recent weight loss has allowed me to revert to type. I was inspired by a photo of David Hockney oil painting en plein air attired in a three piece suit. And why not, I thought? I have a heap of clothes, vintage power-dressing stuff from the 80s and a whole host of other unearthed fantastic clothing and shoes.

I don’t see the point of keeping stuff for special occasions. If its nice, if I love it, I want to wear it and enjoy it all the time. It seems blindingly obvious now that my choice of career should not impede this love of dressing up. And so I am investing in overalls, and dressing up every day to go to my studio and make a mess.

It’s all very liberating. And fun.

I’m going through a phase of making colour notes using my phone camera. Who would have thought a few years ago that such a thing would be possible?

I’ve always had a great colour memory. It might have been more useful in life to have had a brilliant memory for names or faces or the titles or words to songs or who starred in which film. But no. I was given colour memory, which is much more of a nuisance than you might imagine.

I remember nuance of colour which others can’t even see. This drives me mad occasionally. Having decorated Eldest Daughter’s bedroom in a sort of Anne of Green Gables meets France type style (a very subtle grey-green), I was accompanied by Himself yesterday to find a rug. I could tell with a single sweeping glance of the showrooms we went into that there was nothing suitable. Himself, though, was not inhibited from pointing out strident full force greens and blues and even loud orange and reds as we made cursory tours of the piles on display.

Anyway. My phone colour notes, thanks to the sophistication of the Filterstorm app, are perfect renditions of colour combinations which catch my eye. The three ‘greens’ and two ‘greys’ above are a case in point. I was able to colour correct the viridian, and just the viridian, perfectly. All on my phone.

One of those days when I LOVE technology despite the adverse hold it has on my daily search for quiet and Slow.

After weeks and weeks of decorators in and outside, I now have two clutter free nicely decorated bedrooms which are a joy to walk into.

In fact, I could well move in to either pending Prodigal Son’s and Eldest Daughter’s returns. I love empty rooms. I once lived for 18 months in a bare studio flat in Paris with a piano, two cushions, a duvet and a mini fridge. It was blissful.

Unfortunately, there is a counterpoint to the calm emptiness of the two rooms. The disaster zone on the landing where all books and clothes have been temporarily stored. It looks like an alien invasion.

I have been walking through this mess for the weeks and weeks of decorating activity, quite happy because there was no point feeling overwhelmed by something I could do nothing about. But all that has changed. Now I have to face this chaos, these piles, and get everything back.

Or maybe not. I’m still a Flylady follower. And I like to see the positive in every negative situation. And it’s much easier to take back in only that stuff which should go back in. I feel a bit bad that it’s going to be me making these decisions about what’s to go and what’s to stay. But honestly: will any of it really be missed?

So I will quietly engage on a massive decluttering exercise -yet another one, as far as these rooms are concerned- and try to retain that zen-like calm currently prevailing behind closed doors.

I’ve been doing a bit too much whinging about cold recently. Maybe I think it gives me more of a struggling thus unfairly unrecognised artist aura to mutter about numb fingertips.

Anyway, enough already. I’ve decided a colder-than-usual temperature is good for my health and wellbeing, and is great for tulips.

I love tulips. Perhaps not as much as Anna Pavord who wrote a whole book on them. But enough to keep trying to grow them and buy bunches of them even though they fall over and drop their petals within a matter of days.

Except, that is, when they are kept in arctic conditions. A couple of weeks ago, I bought two bunches of red tulips. One bunch for the kitchen at home, and one for my studio. The kitchen ones ended up in the bin a week ago. The studio ones still stand proud and tall and beautiful. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.

I’m now inspired to invest regularly in floral decor for the studio. Never mind my submerged landscape painter instincts. Maybe I’m secretly a still life painter.

Ah, it’s reading week.

Anyone above a certain age won’t have a clue what I mean unless they’re professionally engaged with Higher Education.

It’s the midterm week all students have these days to, er, read.

It’s funny, really. I thought higher education was all about reading all the time. I understand that some courses are reading-intensive, and it may be easy to fall behind, but in my day that was all part of it, and learning to cope with reading and essays and social life all at the same time was an important life skill.

Of course, it may be that reading requirements have dramatically increased and a week out from lectures and tutorials is absolutely necessary to catch up. But a surprising number of students don’t actually read during Reading Week.

The February week falls conveniently during skiing time, and it’s useful to be able to take a week off. The November week is nicely timed for a visit home to catch up on food and washing and seeing home friends. There isn’t a week during the summer term, but that’s because there isn’t a summer term. Students disappear off after Easter to take exams but then no teaching happens for six months so there’s almost a Reading Half Year if anyone wants it.

I’m not complaining. I love visits home from my student children. But I do find it all just a little strange, a little bit of über-mollycoddling which in my “just get on with it and don’t complain” approach to most things is perhaps unnecessary.

I’m just a dinosaur.

Christine Hohlbaum’s Power of Slow made a deep impression on me at the start of the year, and I have been trying to practice Slow ever since. It’s time for a progress report.

It’s not been easy, but I’m getting there. My main challenge was to increase the length of time I can sit in one place and read one item without checking on my phone or social media updates. I decided this had to happen in a structured way, so after all my other morning routines (morning pages, dog walk, breakfast, laundry, dishwasher, evening meal etc. etc) the next stop for the day is a favourite quiet (because as yet undiscovered by pushchair groups) local café to read in peace for an hour. Sometimes I leave my phone at home, but increasingly I have it with me and discipline myself to not take it out of my bag.

Once I have perfected this skill of absorbed reading, uninterrupted even by the mere thought of checking my phone, I will set myself a new challenge.

Slow progress on slow.

I saw an intriguing and compelling French film last night. L’homme qui voulait vivre sa vie (the man who wanted to live his life) quite literally had me on the edge of my seat. Fortunately I was sitting on the front row of the collapsible tiered seating at Seven in Leeds (our brilliant local arts/culture/social centre) so I could lean forward and almost tip over without disturbing any other film-goers.

The film starts in an ordinary-quotidian-bourgeois sort of fashion. Young family recently moved to stunning country refurbished grande maison with sanded floorboards and Philippe Starck sanitary ware. Hard-working thoughtless husband fails to understand his wife needs more than lifestyle and ungrateful wife fails to understand material comforts don’t appear without hard work and so starts an affair with a prat.

But then a surreal sequence of increasingly unbelievable events start to cascade into thoughtless husband’s life, and the film began to assume a helter-skelter slide down to you-know-not-where. Which is why I found myself on the edge of my seat.

It’s not often I find myself quite literally physically gripped by a film. There’s a sort of sameness, an inevitability, about most action movies or thrillers, and even if you don’t quite guess the outcome, you can guess pretty close.

In this case, though, the plot surprised at every twist and turn, and the increasingly limited options for the “hero” merely served to increase mystery and puzzlement rather than point to any obvious outcome.

I thoroughly enjoyed the film. I think the official translated title of The Big Picture is slightly odd, but maybe not as odd as the original French title, come to think of it.

But I do recommend seeing it if you get the chance.

In one of those very annoying glitches, I’ve just found the post I’d drafted for today with its innumerable links and references (yes, seriously) did not save in my phone.

I sat in my studio feeling as you do when you’ve lost an hour’s work. I reminded myself that quick rewrites after the initial work has been done are usually better: more concise, incisive, etc, etc, etc. As the King of Siam might have said.

But I have no time now to rewrite that particular post with all its links and references.

My eye instead fell upon old work I recently had framed to put in some redecorated bedrooms. Finding something old and seeing it afresh is always interesting.

These portrait studies of Prodigal Son and Eldest Daughter were done at least 12 years ago, I think. I remember well the afternoon in my studio. I promised them they would only have to sit still for ten minutes. I promised them I would not shout if they moved.

I seem to recall I premixed a few colours, positioned the kids, and painted as quickly as I could. Both were unhappy and unwilling models. I think this shows all too clearly in their mardy looks. They look as though they’ve just been charged with crimes.

I never managed to quite finish Eldest Daughter’s right eye. And Prodigal Son looks as though he could do with a good scrub thanks to the slightly uneven tone.

But I like to think when they both return home to the mother ship to their newly redecorated rooms and see these new wall adornments, they will regret their refusal to sit any longer all those years ago and will wish they had assumed a rather more joyful look.

And I will tell them that’s exactly what they were like, sometimes.