This blog tells the story of a recent episode in which I managed to escape from the gloom of a miserable afternoon by day-dreaming. My gloom arose after we saw a retrospective exhibition of the works of Mark Rothko at the Louis Vuitton Gallery in Paris. The day dream recalled a visit Rohan and I made in 1998 to have tea with the painter Patrick Heron at his home – Eagles Nest – in Zennor, Cornwall.

First to my Paris gloom, omens of which started as we walked towards the the gallery building – the Fondation Louis Vuitton. It is a building I dislike intensely. I deplore the fact that the building so vulgarly ‘trespasses’ on the greenery of the Bois de Boulogne. I also see its boat shape as inappropriate for its site and its over-large, sail-shaped roof as showy and excessive. Here is the very same bling and extravagance with which Louis Vuitton’s luxury fashion and accessories business made its fortune! With these concerns in mind, I worried that by going inside the gallery I was actually endorsing the building. Believing that the exhibition would be good I did go in, but being very aware of my reservations, I entered with feelings of sadness and regret.  

As well as my abhorrence of the building, on that afternoon there was a second problem with which I had to contend. I started the day with aches in my legs – both knees, one ankle – and these all worsened on my way to the exhibition as I climbed up and down the umpteen stairs of the Paris Metro. By the time I reached the gallery, walking and standing were painful but if the exhibition was good, bearing the pain would have been worthwhile.  

The works of Rothko were a great disappointment and it was this outcome, together with the hurts in my joints and my regret for being in the building that combined to make for a real sense of gloom. It was in that gloom that I started day-dreaming about Eagles Nest and Patrick Heron. 

Heron and Rothko were contemporaries and in many instances their colour arrangements were similar. However, whereas Rothko offered me no warmth, posed no questions and left me detached, with Heron’s work, which I adore, I feel in touch, even amused – it lightens my day. In these circumstances, metaphorically escaping that day to Eagles Nest to be with Patrick Heron was an obvious move.

Now something about Patrick Heron. Around forty years ago I spent a week with my close friend Rob in his home in Sydney. Amongst other things he introduced me to the works of Heron which I have loved ever since. And Rob’s enthusiasm had a very special dimension – he told me how when Heron was living in Australia the two became friends. Indeed, they often talked together about art over tea on Rob’s veranda. 

Later, and thanks to Robs introduction, Patrick agreed to let me use details of some of his paintings for the covers of six booklets I had written. Our meeting in Zennor was as a result of that ‘collaboration’ as, after the booklets were published, he invited me down for a Cornish tea. When Rohan and I arrived he showed us around his magical house and garden and then sat us down for tea and Cornish saffron cake. Being with such a wonderful man was a real treat although at times – he was then 78 – he did get a little muddled and forgetful.

Throughout our visit Patrick kept staring, almost longingly at Rohan. Then, when we were saying our goodbyes he accompanied us to the door where he was obviously keen to give Rohan a kiss goodbye and with it a gentle hug. There was something puzzling Patrick, he seemed to recognise something special in her.

Over the next days, Rohan and I mulled over Patrick’s behaviour but it was not until we were in the bookshop in Tate St Ives that we realised what was happening. Twenty years earlier aged fifty nine, Delia, Patrick’s wife, suddenly died. They had been childhood friends, had married young and throughout their marriage they remained very close. When she died he was devastated and for months completely stopped painting; it is said that he missed her for the rest of his life. 

As Rohan was thumbing through a book about Patrick she saw a photo of Delia (see the illustration) and was struck by the similarities between Delia and herself. Suddenly, all was explained; Patrick must have seen memories of his beloved Delia in her. Rohan’s interpretation felt right and the new insight made his behaviour very endearing.

Thanks to a wretched moment at the Fondation Louis Vuitton, I was able to re-live a wonderful event that took place twenty five years earlier. How very creative is the mind!

The illustration show a photo of Delia and Patrick Heron on a beach in Cornwall in July 1959.

For helping me write this blog, I would like to thank Patrick, Gemma, Rohan and Vivien.