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Tate St. Ives and Barbara Hepworth



Today it was off to Tate St. Ives, the most picturesque gallery every - a circular art deco building situated on Porthmeor Beach. The current exhibition is The Dark Monarch - Magic and Modernity in Modern Art. As soon as you enter there stands a glass case of coloured water in which stands a dead animal. Damien Hirst, then. I wasn't as enamoured with the collection as much as I had expected to be, however, I was glad to see Gillian Carnegie's Black Square, bought by the Tate last year, and something I was struck by on a visit to Tate Britain a few months ago - seemed strange seeing it on Millbank and then all the way down here. I love it. Earthy, woody, pagan, mysterious. Anyway, after we had a spot of lunch in the top floor cafe, Tanya gave up and left me alone whilst she went to buy some Vivienne Westwood shoes in St. Ives, insisting that there was no way she would could be bothered with Barbara Hepworth, which is where I went next. I was interested in her, coming from Yorkshire, and ending up in the Henry Moore et al set in the fifties. The sculpture garden was lovely - and whilst I didn't rate all of the pieces I couldn't help but feel the work and effort that must have been invested into every piece. I could have sat there for ages. But didn't. Because a group of teenage boys were being given a guided tour by an overly enthusiastic, yet serious teacher. Over to the Morrab library tomorrow, and then to walk the causeway at tide out to see the castle at St. Michael's Mount. I love Cornwall. Tomorrow early evening it's back to London, to squeeze more writing into the five hour journey back, and thereafter the few hours I have after the day job and everything else.

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And in memory of my parents:
Thomas Valentine and Joan Theresa
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