Hanging Miro's Cat

So here I was, leaving Curlew Farm near Lyme Regis on 20th July.

My new painting was stowed away in the caravan wardrobe, bubble-wrapped and inside a large plastic bag which was hung from the rail:

This was actually the view after I'd taken my clothes into the house once home again. You have to imagine that while travelling the painting had been gently but firmly pressed into position by my clothes, so that it couldn't swing about.

Here it was in my lounge. I took off the bubble-wrap and considered carefully where it should be hung.

So the artist, Gerrard Lindley, lived in Appledore? I knew exactly where Bude Street was. Maybe then he had used an Appledore cat as his inspiration? However, a quick Internet search brought forth the interesting information that there had been a Spanish (or rather, Catalan) Surrealist painter, sculptor and ceramic artist called Joan Miró i Ferrà, who died aged ninety in 1983. He was an influential figure, and his paintings sell for many millions nowadays. Miro's Cat - so far as I could judge - was very much in the style of his later work in the 1970s. 

Putting it another way, if Miró himself had created a cat picture in this later style, it would probably have looked a lot like Gerrard Lindley's. Very clever of Mr Lindley, I thought. So in effect I had secured for myself a 'Miró' at one millionth of what I might have had to pay for the real thing. But this said, I liked Mr Lindley's painting very much, and it stood up as an excellent original artwork in its own right. 

The only thing left was to select the right place to hang it. My lounge gets plenty of light, and this painting needed to be well-lit, and not hung in shadow.

One side of my lounge was taken up by the trio of big Jo Pryor paintings. Similarly Miro's Cat needed a large patch of wall space. It couldn't be squeezed into a small area, however brilliantly lit. A still life painting was where Miro's Cat would have to go. This one:

Hmm. I thought highly of that still life, bought in Petworth in 2019. Oh well, it would just have to be re-hung on the other side of the big mirror on this wall, in a similar-sized area, though not in such good natural light. And to do that, three framed photographs of mine would have to go elsewhere. (More on that in a moment) 

So, by the late afternoon Miro's Cat was up on the wall, where the still life had been. I watched the daylight fade, and observed how the lamplight affected the colours, making them very warm. But the painting retained its effect.

Next day I saw how both paintings fared in the early-morning light.

Ah, that wasn't too bad. The still life was well-enough lit by the morning light hitting it from my bedroom and study, across the hall, and from light bouncing in from my porch. Miro's Cat was a colourful addition to the lounge. Its redness was powerful, but balanced somewhat by little Teddy Tinkoes' red jumper, down there on the Parker Knoll bed-settee.

The three framed photographs now bumped other pictures from where they had been. The smaller two ended up near each other, one in the hall, one in the kitchen:

These had been the last inkjet prints I made using the venerable Epson printer bought in 2007, now gummed up and unusable, and awaiting disposal at the tip. A KitKat apparently suspended in mid-air; and myself, apparently stepping into the void.

The large framed print now found a home in my bedroom, displacing my friend Valerie's painting of two hares boxing. Here it is. It's me, in the stairwell of The Baltic in Newcastle, in June 2017:

It was taken with my previous phone, an excellent device with a very good camera, although it did tend to over-beautify faces. In 2017 I was aged sixty-five, and the phone has therefore lied about my complexion. I am quite sure it wasn't so flawless. That's partly why I switched back to using 'proper' cameras, to get an honest rendition, even if sometimes it make me look rough. Whereas this Baltic shot was flattery beyond reason. Nevertheless, a striking picture, surely.

Valerie's boxing hares were now here, between the welsh dresser and the little side window in my lounge:

Her painting now had the large hare figurine for company. It had in turn displaced a mixed-media picture of two Chinese birds, which I shifted to my hall, hanging it so that it caught the light from my front porch:

The picture that used to be here - of rabbits in various poses - migrated to my study, which already contained various paintings of birds and animals.

So Miro's Cat set in motion quite a cascade of fresh hangings. All to the good. I am unlikely to indulge in DIY redecoration, but moving my pictures around is not a bad substitute!

My bedroom is now the only room in my house that has much left in the way of empty wall space. But I don't want a big heavy canvas hung above where I sleep, in case the string breaks and the thing brains me. Although I've never heard of anybody being killed by a picture falling on them. Another point: some paintings work on the imagination a bit too much. Do I really want one of these where I sleep, vaguely visible in the dark? Two horror stories come to mind: The Mezzotint, by M R James; and (even more sinister) The Room in the Tower by E F Benson. Both about pictures that come to life. 

But I can't see that Miro's Cat is anything but a bright and cheerful addition to my home, very Spanish (or Catalan), and a picture I look forward to seeing every day.

FOOTNOTE ON 16th AUGUST 2022

It now occurs to me that Miro's Cat may in fact be a portrait of the painter Miró, but as if he were a cat. Just a thought.