On the beach

Finally got back to Dungeness last weekend. It is a place from my childhood. At least, I have memories of paddling in an unusually warm sea (there or somewhere) near a nuclear power station. As you do.

Dungeness is a cultural destination for Derek Jarman fans. 
 His wooden abode there has been well documented. But I was as much if not more excited to see the sea. Although one is a good excuse for the other. And his garden demonstrates an unlikely bloody-minded beauty in that bleak landscape.

It was a wonderfully windy day. The sort where you expect the wind to push you off up into the sky - like a rather large version of the Red Balloon.

The deserted beach was littered with flotsam, large and small. The large: old husks of dry boat, dark creosoted huts with their backs to the wind, rusting iron remnants of a past gravel industry. The small: discarded but rather smart plimsolls, skeletons of fishy things, string, rope, iron chain, crisp packets. I photographed some of those.

And so many - too many - pebbles to choose from. I wanted to bring back the lot. The colours of the stones - huge undulating waves of them going down toward the beach - were just so good to look at. Set against a backdrop of a luminous grey and heaving sea – it would be hard to find a better way to spend an hour.

The tube

I went to Paris for a long weekend with a friend, a little while back. Nice to be there when the weather was clement and sitting out drinking coffee was the thing to do. I have often found myself there in mid-winter, blue and shivering in finger-snapping cold.

It was Paris fashion week, by coincidence. Great people watching. Lots of grown men in too-small skinny grey jeans. Also, by coincidence, it was Nuit Blanche, an art all-nighter. An emotive showing of Mark Wallinger’s video Threshold to the Kingdom in a huge, atmospheric, dark Saint-Eustache church. And the largest mirror-ball ever hung - over Jardin du Luxembourg. This we didn’t manage to get up close and personal with. There were near riot conditions, with thousands of people vying to get into the park, one by one, at half past midnight. As the police started to take their batons out, it seemed time to leave.

Anyway. I always imagine buying my way around Paris. Coming back with an armful of bulging tasteful carrier bags. But in reality the world has become a smaller place. And brands have become a bigger proposition. So. Many things seem to be sold in many places.

But, in a traditional art shop I fell for a very beautifully formed and functional cardboard tube. Bright red anodised aluminium ends, dark grey card outside, orange card interior. Great graphics, super name: TUBECA.

The shop assistant (in a lovely white lab coat) wanted to know what I was going to put in it? I didn’t have the French to say ‘Nothing. It’s perfect as it is.’