The Flowers Gallery at the Fitzwilliam Museum (currently closed, alas, because of COVID-19) is one of my favourite places – I can’t get enough of the botanical paintings, the glorious jumble of blooms which you would never find (even in these ‘fly-in-your-flowers-from-around-the-world’ times) flowering at the same time in nature. I’ve just come across a new name (for me, which of course counts for nothing) in the gallery: the sadly short-lived Abraham Mignon (1640–79). Continue reading
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Being very definitely an on-trend kind of person, I am self-isolating at home at the moment. This is mostly because my friends and colleagues are none too keen on meeting up with my coughing, snivelling, snotty self. No, I don’t have a fever, or difficulty breathing, merely(!) the only cold I’ve caught so far this season. I blame London in general, though specific vectors may have been the Tube,
One of the perks of my part-time employment is that my job description includes an injunction to open the mail, which regularly contains interesting Stuff, not least the beautifully designed and printed catalogues of auction houses trying to tempt us with their wares. (Other perks include trying to pretend I am trotting purposefully (as opposed to walking slowly and self-indulgently) through gallery after gallery of the most wonderful art imaginable, outside visitor hours …)
Him Indoors and I are partial to
Looking back, I discover that I have never written a ‘Plant of the Month’ piece about clematis, which is very odd, given that they are my favourite plants and by far my worst botanical extravagance. At the present count, I have twenty-two in my garden (which is very small, in spite of the way I go on about it) and three of them are currently flowering their heads off.
I had for some time been meaning to find out more about Sir Thomas Gresham, but, when embarking on this quest, was diverted almost immediately by the discovery that the first substantial biography of him was written by John William Burgon (1813–88), of whom you may have heard (even if you weren’t aware of it) in the context of his two memorable lines: ‘Match me such marvel, save in eastern clime, /
What is the oldest published work of science fiction? This is not a question to put to me, as science fiction is a genre to which I am not greatly drawn. There’s H.G. Wells and Ray Bradbury, and that other guy who, it turns out, shares my birthday, and John Wyndham, who I used quite to like in my youth, and some others …
I have long been attracted by the above-named beast, which I came across for the first time
Richard Chandler Alexander Prior (1809–1902) does not (yet) appear in the pages of the ODNB, though his day may come. He knew and corresponded with many of the great scientists of the nineteenth century; he was a physician whose health did not allow him to practice, but who was fit enough to undertake long and probably uncomfortable journeys in pursuit of botany; in mid-life
… is the subtitle of the current exhibition at the