Art / Life

Tim and I were invited to a private view of an exhibition of paintings and sketches by Jules George, the brother of one of the “regular” crew of Coh Karek—you may remember me mentioning Dominic. The exhibition, at Bonhams (a somewhat well-known art auctioneer that has been in existence since 1793), is called ‘Into the Valley’ (Scenes of an Afghan Conflict). Jules went to Helmand Providence in February of 2010 and from that experience created over 150 pieces of art that are now on display at Bonham’s New Bond street location in London.

What struck me first as we walked into a very crowded gallery was the colour of the sky in Jules’ paintings—it is a beautiful, soft blue that is not quite bright but blends effortlessly with the sand below to create a muted, pleasant landscape. These are not all pictures of war per se—many of the paintings and sketches do have soldiers and helicopters, but there are also landscapes, and Afghans dressed in traditional garb who live in the midst of the war. Those where soldiers are depicted show a mix of emotions on their faces that Jules captured wonderfully--I saw tiredness, sadness, slight exasperation.

Tim and I met Corporal Ross because Tim wanted to know what the significance of a blue band around the helmet of one group of soldiers in one of the larger paintings meant—perhaps they were in a particular infantry, for example.  Corporal Ross—I didn’t catch his first name—is handsome and young—early 20s—and has a wife and two children under the age of three at home in London. He is on leave, but is ready and seemed to me anxiously awaiting his fourth stint in Afghanistan. He is related to Betsy Ross, and recognised me as a Yank immediately (likely by my accent). He is animated, talkative, and knows quite a bit about guns and ammunition, as you might expect.

We chat; I am listening to him talk about uniforms, food, having to carry pounds of gear, in the desert. I am not listening that carefully because, in my mind, I’m thinking four tours of duty? Of course I didn’t say it aloud, but I was a bit shocked—he didn’t seem quite old enough to have been there and back three times, for one thing. Maybe I was even a little disappointed that he has a young family at home and should simply stay there and take care of them. He is in the line of fire, I gathered from the conversation, constantly.  He talks about it matter-of-factly; of course he is in a war, and that comes with the territory. I am thinking I am judging him harshly in my mind while being amiable on the surface.

I realise he, and all of the troops, are protecting us. I recognise, too, that for families who have a military history, as Corporal Ross’ family does, that being part of the armed forces is what you do, and he is very proud of his heritage, and happy to do his part to serve. We need soldiers, and what soldier doesn't have loved ones left behind? Very few, I imagine.

There was also a bit of sobriety amid the champagne and canapes when we are reminded that 100,000 veterans are suffering psychological trauma as a result of their service. Jules, to his credit, is giving a percentage of his sales to the organisation Combat Stress. That doesn't surprise me, and not because I know Jules--we met only briefly. I think he saw anguish--and aptly depicted it--and found a way to help through his work.

I left the exhibition happy to have met the artist and congratulate him for his work. I was glad to have had an opportunity to talk with a soldier—it wasn't something I'd planned, though in hindsight it did make the conflict seem more real, even more than Jules’ work could.

I also left thinking, quite morbidly, that now that I have a face to the name that I hope I never hear of Corporal Ross on the radio or read his name in the paper. It is the slightest of bonds, I know; but it is there.

The First Seven Days

This time last Saturday I’d just been married, sipping champagne and chatting with family and friends. What a difference a week makes! I am home alone in London, just back from a lovely lunch in Earlsfield to celebrate Taron’s birthday. Some of the wedding guests attended—Claire, Kelly, and of course Taron. Taron’s mother is also in town and it was nice to see her again—she was in London for Taron’s wedding back in March.

Mirepoix is a stroke away; Tim on the other hand is miles away in Yarmouth, racing his Contessa this weekend. Of course I miss him; I always did even before being married. Having said that, I’m not the least upset that the first weekend of married life we are apart. In fact we will have dinner together on Sunday and will have lots to talk about when we’re together again. I remember reading a response by a famous rock musician about how he kept his twenty-year marriage together—his response was “touring.” Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder. The time away gave me a chance to organise photos from the wedding and, of course, write this post.

So what did the first week of wedded bliss hold? Well, you probably would prefer hearing about the wedding first . . .

When all is said and done, it was perfect. The ceremony was short, simple, and performed beautifully by our registrar, Adam. None of us flubbed a line. The canapés and champagne arrived, chilled and ready for the first glass after we kissed for the first time as husband and wife. The quartet played wonderfully—not exactly to the set I’d asked, but it didn’t matter; it was elegant, warm, and as special as I’d hoped.

Everyone talked with each other—I looked around the room occasionally and was delighted to see conversations among guests who’d only just met—I’d expected to see Sue and Austin chatting with Julia, but was pleasantly surprised to see Amanda and Birgit chatting uni with John J and Sybil and was delighted to see Tim’s mum talking with friends Jyoti and Lucy. I knew Robyn would talk with my dear Leah, one of my first friends here in London, and Jyoti, too—both of them were so happy to meet this sibling whom they’ve heard so much about over the last three years. At times I just closed my eyes and smiled at the thought of having them all together. Those moments were truly special, and I can still see some of them in my mind’s eye; I am happy to have them captured in photographs, too.

Friends told me that they thought it was a delightful affair—just the right length, a perfectly-sized venue, lovely wines and small bites—a really nice day. I couldn’t agree more.

There didn’t seem to be any pre-wedding jitters for either Tim or me—third time lucky, we not only knew the lines but we knew each other, and felt in our hearts that this was a commitment we’d cherish. Funny, Tim asked me the day after if it felt any different, and while I’ve lived with him for two years, there was something just slightly special about sitting across from him on the same couch we’ve shared before. I like seeing a band of gold on his finger, and mine. I am thrilled beyond words that I am his “wifey.” I like being called that and knowing that I can prove it! So, yes, it does feel different in a subtly warm way.

I like that we danced. I like that Tim's wife and brother danced, too, when the quartet played a tango (which I’d planted on the list for just that reason). This wasn’t your traditional wedding with lots of speeches and the first dance, etc, etc, though it had some of the usual touches—Tim’s brother Peter gave a delightful, funny speech, and Tim said a few words to thank our guests for joining us.

There was no official photographer but it didn’t matter—within days I had over 200 photographs in hand from friends and family, and in fact have posted them to Facebook and to Snapfish if you’d like to take a look! We didn’t spend money to decorate the Town Hall Council Chambers, though Tim presented me with a beautiful posy of white roses and blue cornflowers to match my dress—

Photo credit to my dear friend Birgit Schmidt!

I was perhaps most happy that my sister Robyn was there. I always smile when her beau Jimmy recognises that she and I are about to crumple into laughter even before we’ve finished a sentence; we just have this bond. I was thrilled to see her when they arrived on Thursday, when we had a late dinner and catch up, and a little sad to see her go on Monday when we left them at the security gate in Heathrow. But oh what wonderful times we had in between—a wonderful, relaxing, delicious meal at Frederick’s in Islington, a relaxed after-wedding nosh and drink at the lovely St Pancras Hotel, and then a chill-out barbie in the garden, too, to talk about the wedding and just enjoy each other’s company again.

Speaking of the St Pancras, it was not just a post-wedding drinks place but also Tim’s and my wedding night venue. I didn’t want to just come home to our London home and anyway we’d offered it to Tim's brother's family for the night. The hotel only recently reopened and it is such a grand building that I thought I simply must stay there for the night, and Tim obliged and booked us a room. The reception area is small compared to the vastness of the building, which takes up considerable space above Kings Cross station. It is modern, airy, light, and a perfect place for a meet up. The bar was dark and cosy, and the service was lovely. The food—charcuterie, cheese and nuts—was just perfect for the post-wedding nosh.

The room in the Barlow Suite we had was lovely—quiet, modern, and while not spacious it had a lovely comfortable king-sized bed. In the morning we opted to linger over coffee and breakfast and the Pan Quotidien in the St Pancras International station, near the Eurostar; it’s a fascinating place for people-watching and it was a bright, sunny morning so the area was filled with light and travellers hustling by speaking any number of languages.  

I suppose there could be more to say about the wedding, but those are the highlights for me. I loved the day, all of it. When John J said to us at the receptioin that we look really happy, I practically gushed that I was happy. I still shake my head in disbelief at how I am where I am; I’d never have guessed my life would be here in Britain, and with a man who loves me as much as Tim does. Well, my dear friend Wilma would have—did—predict that I’d find a happy ending here; she also predicts I won’t be coming “home” though Tim occasionally talks about taking the NY or CA bar exams!

 So what of Married Week One? Well, having seen Robyn and Jimmy off to Heathrow and visited Mum on Monday before she went back to her own home, Tim and I cracked a bottle of rose champagne—our stash from when we went to Reims—and had a lovely barbeque for two in the garden and simply relaxed and chatted about the long weekend that really felt like a mini-holiday. Tuesday was back to work, and dinner as usual at 8. Wednesday was the Middle Temple Garden party where Tim could introduce me to some of his colleagues as his wife, which was nice. The rest of the week was same old, same old, but then again, something just feels slightly different. The affirmation of our love and commitment is still palpable; we’re both, I think, still glowing. We call each other Mr and Mrs Devlin and smile at the newness of it. That will no doubt fade in time, but for now, for this week and the next and probably the next, I will still smile broadly when my husband Tim calls me Mrs Devlin or “wifey.” Ah, life’s simple pleasures.

Do I look happy here? You betcha!

The party begins!

This morning Tim suggested that while he is off to work for an hour that I knock out a T minus 1 blog . . .

What's to say? Everything appears to be in place. Families are starting to gather--Tim's mum arrived by train yesterday and we greeted her at Kings Cross station. How happy she was to see us, a wide smile and dancing eyes as she hugged each of us.  I thought I detected a bit of wistfulness in her face, seeing Tim for perhaps the last time as a bachelor, her pride and joy taking on a new wife. She asked me to take care of him; I said I would. I meant it. She generously offered flowers for the register table; I said no matter. It was a lovely gesture to ask. Small talk on arrival plans, dinner that night (for her, at a Chinese restaurant in Acton, west London, with family), the planned barbeque on Sunday, all this amid the bustle of commuters around us at Platform 2.

It was a brief encounter; they were off to west London in our car so there'd be ample transportation for Saturday, we back to north London via the bus to have dinner and await Robyn and Jimmy's arrival. They landed during our dinner at the local kebab shop, Robyn and me exchanging a flurry of texts about queues and baggage and where the arrivals point for pick up is. We'd arranged a car service to make it a bit easier on all of us, and had a slight snafu when Tim changed the time for pick up to be an hour later owing to a conversation we'd had with James about two-hour queues at passport control--there was a public sector strike on which included the border agency staff. Well, naturally, having changed the time the queues were surprisingly short and Robyn and Jimmy arrived at the meeting point a full hour earlier than the car. Fortunately the wait was just 30 minutes after Tim called them again to get a car there. The traffic was light in London, too, so they quickly arrived at their hotel and Tim and I managed to hop off the bus literally minutes before--I hadn't even sat down yet in the lobby!

Ah, the hug, the warmth, the immediate reconnect. R&J checked in, planted their luggage in their room and headed back down for a bite to eat--Virgin Atlantic's food (beef stew) was hours ago, and it was now just passed 10 pm BST. The pub at the hotel was willing to stay open a little longer to get their food order, and Tim bounded to the bar for drinks all around. We sat, relaxed, and began what was almost two hours of conversation. The flight was mostly uneventful--a few screaming children, but otherwise a swift flight that left Newark minutes early and arrived on time in Heathrow. A few conversations about family matters--Elena fine after minor surgery; Debbie doing well and the cancer-free declaration for her throat a relief. Alyssa's graduation come and gone and now a summer to reflect on what to do next--most certainly a gap year for her before possibly returning to school. Who's coming, who's not, to the wedding. And then, a few strokes before midnight and we depart, Jimmy having said his good night slightly earlier to shower and lie down in a quiet, hopefully comfortable environment compared to the plane! Tim and I hop on the bus back; I am happy (and he is tired).

T minus 1. What's on my agenda? I want to pull the weeds from the front garden. I want to watch Andy Murray's semi-final match. I want to relax . . . drink plenty of water, rest up, and spend the day with Tim just puttering about the house. And we will most certainly see Robyn and Jimmy, too; dinner is planned at a place near Angel called Frederick's. I need to buy a few items at Boots; I can do that on the way or earlier, depending on my mood. I will consider what to pack for our overnight stay at the St Pancras hotel. Oddly enough I've avoided walking into the hotel because the first time I want to go I want it to be special . . . though we are considering dropping our overnight bag there before the wedding. We'll see.

I will smile often at the thought of tomorrow's events; I am truly looking forward to all of it.

It is a beautiful, sunny day; the front garden awaits! I promise photos soon.