Bad forecast so I elected to stay local and “do” Tate St Ives.
This was a bit disappointing – it is really quite small although the exhibition was interesting but my enjoyment was mostly dimmed by the very loud 3 year old who screamed most of the way round the gallery in a way that would no doubt have made Jake Chapman bang his gavel even louder.
I’m afraid despite enjoying taking the borrowed children into Tate Modern I judged, one child should not be allowed to disturb the enjoyment of so many paying punters by inconsiderate middle class parents delighted in their child’s precocity.
In a grump I had a cake and retreated to the Barbara Hepworth house but en route I stumbled on the cemetery where I had read that Alfred Wallis was buried in a grave marked with Bernard Leach tiles, unsurprisingly I went those if I could find it and was rewarded. It is simple but beautiful.
The Hepworth house is. A strange dichotomy of place (or should that be Place) and content. The placement of her works in her garden was moving and special. Thereafter I retreated to the hotel for an afternoon of knitting. The weather was foul.