Alice Mason Artist

A Guelder Rose, a variety of Viburnum.

Painting  is entitled Morning Sun.

Tara and I discovered cove beaches and sat in beach bars and lay in the sun, which is not at all ‘me’ but I did it to accompany my friend as there is nothing she loves more.  After the third beach day, of sunbathing and swimming, and after which we had inadvertently  ‘kidnapped’ a handsome German and drove him into the night mountains, where every bar was shut as it was a Sunday,  (we dropped him off and gave a sort of apology about the timing of things,)  I had had enough, and needed the mountains more than ever.  To drive as high towards the skies as possible and immerse myself in the mystery and ancient vibration of an isolated village.

I craved my relative isolation and contemplation.  I contacted my friend J as he has a special connection to the village of Castaras, which I wanted to revisit, and off we flew.  Castaras is one of the sacred type villages, where I feel the vibration change, and it becomes otherworldly.  There were extraordinary viburnum plants with huge white snowball flowers, which I have learned is called a Guelder rose.  The shape and form and backdrop of the huge primal scupltural rocks which frame and form the place, and J pointed out the Curandero’s house, with a row of ‘waiting room’ seats outdoors; their red having faded to pink in the sun.  At one point I discovered I had lost my car keys, having placed them somewhere to take a photo.  I retraced my steps back to the curandero’s, and noted on the door mat was a graphic of all different types of keys.  The universe mirroring back my thoughts.  I found them on the wall of a house, where we had stopped to talk to an old lady.

After our adventures, as we drove around the mountains via Trevelez, where J regaled me with stories of his former love life, (many stories I had heard before, which change slightly each time, but with J, they don’t get old; his lilting Teeside accent and fascination for detail intrigue me.)  I drove back to pick up T from the beach, who had finally had enough of beaches,  and she declared she wanted to discover more of the Alpujarra with me.  One thing I had not banked on was her absolute fear of heights, (and i am a very careful driver.)  Getting to Ferreirola again was for me, fine, but for her the worst thing ever, due to the heights and precipitous drops, and by the time we got there I was exhausted having been so concerned about her.  Next time, I just want to come back on my own.  I only have certain amounts of time I can be here, so to compromise on what I feel I need to see is not really an option any more, although we have had a lovely time.

I joined an artists’ collective here, with whom I was exhibiting at the old town hall in Orgiva. I met some lovely people.

We returned from our high-driving and looking last night, quite late and there was a man and his son and friend playing Leonard Cohen all night in the apartment next door, until they went to bed,  The first song we returned home to was ‘Take this Longing’, which is ‘my’ song.  He is still playing LC today.   I have always associated Leonard with these kinds of places, as my first introduction to his music was years ago in Greece where my friend Ghysllaine had been the subject of his desire a few years before on Hydra.

This morning I played Bill Evans while painting and looking at the Med.  These are the magic moments.

Painting and music. My greatest soul passions. Playing Joy by my friends Hexagonal and written by Bheki Mseleku.

Quite a contrast.  The most visually rich and exquisitely elaborate of towns, juxtaposed with the communist revolutionary murals of Marinaleda.

I took my student to London for the day, and we walked about ten miles.  I felt energised and excited to show her what I loved.  She wants to be an artist and is fifteen.  We only had a day and had to be back for early evening, so I marched her up The Mall,  which I don’t particularly love at all, but she wanted to see ‘where  the Queen  lived’.    When we finally arrived at the destination I love, the South Bank, I felt relieved to show her the South Bank Centre and the Tate.  She loved the Gerhard Richter.  As I was taking a photo of a picture,  she was staring at the texture of the concrete of the wall.  She reached out and touched the wall.  I saw myself in her.

For me the South Bank centre with its Brutalist concrete architecture is a place full of resonance.  Each one of those buildings feels like home to me.  Each one contains intriguing and mystic urban soundscapes.  Music, orchestras rehearsing, conversations, echoes, sounds of secrets divulged between friends.  Coffee cups clinking.  The building which intrigues and soothes me the most is the National Theatre.  Memories of my Dad, who took me to see a couple of plays there, and a drama club I attended a couple of times.  There you can hide.  Walk up the dark purple carpeted stair case, peer around corners, look up, geometric sculpted concrete ceilings; brutalist, but far from brutal.  The lighting soft.  The light appearing through doors leading to hidden mysterious spaces.  Around each corner, behind each giant supporting structure or staircase, appears a newly revealed space.  There is a feeling of being held in a liminal space; of being protected in safety within such a vast, monolithic yet nurturing cultural structure.  The interstitial spaces, non-places, or places between places, are very felt; considered.

When I am in London, it doesn’t matter what the weather is doing.  If it’s raining it’s still atmospheric,  Lights reflected in puddles, cars glistening.  The smell of diesel, train brakes on the bridges, the sounds of a myriad of languages, people of all nationalities and cultures.  People standing in reverence in front of a Rothko or a Richter.  In cafes I look at people and wonder about them.  Often they don’t notice, as they are staring at screens, down the rabbit hole,  especially in the South Bank centre, as they are municipal buildings which people use as a sanctuary.  Working in the hushed privacy, hidden away in a corner of the vastness of the buildings, the scent of coffee emanating from the various cafes.

I saw a Picasso I had never seen before at the National Gallery.  When I am in London, I really miss it.  Funny how, when i lived there I barely went into the centre.  Perhaps it’s better that I don’t live there, but in Brexit Britain, it feels like a haven away from the polarisation, and parochial small-mindedness.   It’s a breath of fresh air.