Peter getting out of Nick’s pool
Peter getting out of Nick’s pool, acrylic on canvas, by David Hockney, 1966
(via Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool)
In 1966 Hockney travelled to Los Angeles for the second time. Greatly attracted by the sunny climate and relaxed atmosphere of West Coast America, he began to record the lifestyle there in his work. He went on to produce a series of paintings based on the theme of the swimming pool.
Here, Hockney’s friend Peter Schlesinger is depicted climbing out of the swimming pool of Nick Wilder, a Los Angeles gallery owner. The painting is a composite view. Schlesinger did not actually model in the pool; the pose derives from a snapshot of him leaning against his MG sports car. The white border and square format of the painting are reminiscent of the Polaroid prints Hockney used as studies for the composition. Source.
Sons and mothers
Out tonight for drinks at a wine bar in Leicester Square (not, you’ll be relieved to hear, on the awfully touristy main drag, but just off it) – then dinner at my favourite Chinese. Mother, brother and his rather glamorous Italian / German girlfriend; a family affair.
Heading home. Turns out my mother’s 70 minute train journey home is up the khyber due to problems with the train line so she comes back to my flat instead. Thankfully, I’d tidied the other day so it’s not as much of a dump as I’d thought it might be. A round of G&Ts ends the evening.
I get on well with my mother; always have. Not sure what her personality type is but feel fairly sure she’s also an ENFP. Extrovert, likes being around people, etc.
I no longer have a spare bed in my spare room (I gave that to my ex lodger / university friend who’d lived with me for 3 years who moved out 4 years ago). Luckily, one of the two living room sofas is a surprisingly comfortable sofa-bed (it’s more comfortable as a bed than a sofa) so no problem.
Mother keen to know what I have in the way of moisturising creams, cleansers, etc. Whilst I don’t ‘cleanse’ my skin day to day as I really can’t be bothered, I find some cleanser at the back of my toiletry shelf (which is packed with every type of toiletry, much ransacked from hotels), including toothbrush and other useful items. My mother indulges in a cigarette and then insists on a hot bath. I make up the bed.
My mother lived in London in the early 70s, in Chelsea (in the time when it was bohemian rather than astronomically expensive, as it is now). She lived next door to Adam Faith. One of her first jobs was au paring in Paris. She met my father abroad; in Africa. She’s always been what I would describe as cosmopolitan.
Person under a train
Is it only on the London underground where they say, nonchalantly over the tannoy whilst giving service updates: “there are delays on the X line between Y and Z due to a person under a train“. You know what it reminds me of? “Leaves on the line”. A phrase familiar to all UK residents who use trains in autumn, especially commuter trains that end up delayed at this time of year due to leaves on the track, making it slippery, thus requiring trains to reduce speed. It’s like “the wrong type of snow”. We’ve heard that one too.
It’s how matter-of-factly they announce it in their service update that unnerves me. I don’t know how many ‘persons under a train’ we have in this city, but I have a nasty feeling it’s quite high. The tube network is so large
And as an aside – on my short train journey home, after my tube journey – the middle-aged man sitting opposite me took out from his bag a mini bottle of red wine (like you get on planes) and a small polystyrene cup. Could he not have waited until he got home?! Obviously not. Or perhaps his wife is a die-hard teetotaller who doesn’t let him drink in the house…
