Sculptors - Miro & Hepworth

This week has been a busy one. Wednesday found me in Wakefield at the Hepworth Gallery. A beautiful building, (I have no idea how they got the funds together to create such a thing), and the super-modern setting for Barbara Hepworth, and other artists' work. Turns out she's not really my cup of char, but I am delighted to have been, and seen. Richard Long's exhibits also made me smile ironically. Too much of  The Emperor's clothes for me. His photograph of 'a footpath' did spark my interest,  and I believe, when the light is right, I may be able to capture 'a horse path' in a photograph. Inspired eh! So, thanks for that Mr Long!

I visited my cousin, who lives 10 miles from the Hepworth and Yorkshire Sculpture Park, and made my way later to YSP. Once again, my unlucky day. The Bothy gallery was inexplicably closed to all comers, and I did, dearly, wish to see the fascinating sculptures of Hemali Bhuta. Sadly, not possible. I scooted around Miro, a monumental sculptor of renown, and found that once again, his vision does not appeal to me. His obsessive fascination with genitalia repels me somewhat. I am glad I have seen his really extensive collection, and don't need to see it again!

Yesterday found me in Sheffield, collecting the biggest rug I have ever seen for the dining room. Stuck on the A1 for nearly an hour behind an overturned touring caravan did make me question whether possession of the rug was worth the journey. It probably was. Upon my return home it was apparent that harvest was about to begin, the presence of a gigantic combine harvester in the yard more or less gave the game away.

The yellow monster began its whirring progress, with tractors and trailers buzzing around like bees circling a honeypot. The resulting grain, however, has proved a bitter pill to swallow. Owing to the long-term inclement weather half of the grains in the ears have rotted, and the remaining grains are not plump and lush, but shrivelled and bone dry.  Bushel weight is dismal, and tonnage heartily disappointing.

Nevertheless, harvest continues, and we hope that other fields, and perhaps the barley, may bring a slightly better result. The grain trader tells us that there is a great swathe of land between Boston and Skegness which has produced this miserable result, however the growers on the limestone land also have poor harvests for different reasons. All in all, not wonderful for any of us.

The Baby boy raced at Peterborough Regatta last weekend on behalf of Boston Rowing Club in a coxed 4. They were a disparate foursome, coxed by a lovely young lady they had not met previously, and as a 4 had only rowed together once. They were therefore quite satisfied to be knocked out in the semi-final stage. It was a gloriously hot, still day and I was burned a rich reddish brown by 3pm. I forgot my hat. Oops.

The Farmer and the big boy now set fair to be carting grain for the next few days, provided the threatening storm holds off or passes over. Baby boy beavering away on behalf of Butlins gift-shops and I am trying to make some inroads into a body of work to begin my new term at skool. Yellow horse has new shoes and a zest for work, dogs all well and grass-seed free for now.

Last night some scrotes searched the Farmer's barns and helped themselves to a good angle grinder and the best drill. The Big Boy will be seeing them off in his own inimitable way,  if they return. You read it here first. *sigh*.

My pencils are calling me to the sketchbook, so adieu for now. X