Monday was a Bank Holiday in the UK and, as tradition dictates, it was a cold, although unusually, dry day. Lunch in the garden had to be re-scheduled in the kitchen.
Chips Channon will be the death of me. His diaries are on the top shelf and I struggle to reach them while teetering on the library steps. It wasn’t worth the effort either as he never mentions Anthony Biddle.
I don’t want to patronise you but, as I knew nothing about Bonnard, you might like the basics: born 1867, died 1947, French. Tate Modern, a right dump, has an exceptional exhibition of his work that you can see until 6th May.
Doreen Fletcher has been recording the architectural history of the East End since the mid 1980s. She did this for her own pleasure and has only recently been “discovered”.
At least my ninth visit to Venice but my first in January. Among the advantages at this time of year are clear skies and a low sun, creating a coruscating light show on the canals, and the absence of crowds.
This homage to The Italian Job was part of the New Year’s Day Parade yesterday. But I was on my way to the Austrian job executed by Gustav Klimt and Egon Schiele at the Royal Academy.
The concept is that the Lost Treasures of Strawberry Hill have been temporarily returned for a once-in-a-lifetime experience but like the curate’s egg it is only good in parts.
Tomorrow I’m going to Strawberry Hill where some of Horace Walpole’s collection, dispersed at a sale in 1842, has come home from America. Yesterday I saw an exhibition not seen since 1919.