Henry Moore

For our last night with the Naylor-Roll family, we had barbecue in the back yard. The warm, sunny day had cooled just enough to make an al fresco meal pleasurable, and we ate skewered chicken, courgettes (zucchini for all you Americans), and fresh vegetables while blackbirds serenaded us from the garden fence. Half way through the meal, Sophie and Owen picked some herbs and placed them over the dying coals. For the rest of the evening, the smoky scent of burnt Rosemary tickled our nostrils.

After some comfortable chatting, we trundled off to bed. While I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, Joshua stayed up late, finishing his book. The next morning, we woke up to our little alarm in time to say goodbye to the kids and David as they left for school. When Rosemary returned, she gave us a ride to the train station, and we took a series of connecting subways, trains, and buses through Stratford Avon, Epping, Harlow, and finally, Sawbridgeworth. Our now streamlined packs (we've stowed our supplies for our biking and India trips in the Naylor-Roll basement) are now pleasant seat-fellows. They're perfect for smashing your face into and taking a proper snooze while the trains sway over the tracks.

In Sawbridgeworth, we disembarked and walked the short distance to Grandma Vivienne's little house where we happily greeted one another. Upon our entry, I was struck with nostalgia. In the hallway, a pin board is layered with photos of the family. Pictures of my siblings and me at various ages sit side by side, and all at once, I can see how our faces thinned and our smiles became more self-aware. From chubby babies to ungainly adolescents, we're all there, smiling into the camera. In the sitting room, the wall hangings are totems in my memory: there's a poster of a painting from Picasso's blue period of an old man cradling his guitar, another poster purchased from the Minneapolis Institute of Arts of Georgia O'Keeffe's black and blue violet, a Merchant of Venice poster with a slightly eerie image of a robbed figure on an ancient pier, and blue bobbles hanging from the ceilings. Every body's favorite, an original painting of a dusky blue sunset through a tissue curtain sits above the sideboard where a gold frame with four sepia photos Grandma's mother in 1916, '17, '19, and '21 rests among more photos of children and grandchildren.

I'm not sure how many times I've been here, but it's more than five and less than ten; still, it is a place of memory. I remember worshiping the little glass figurines in a way that only little children do. I remember loving the blue of Picasso's guitar player, and wishing I were as beautiful as Grandma's mother, Booba Abb. I even remember how the first two stairs creak.

Grandma Vivienne fed us straight away with pineapple, strawberries, spinach, and tabouleh. Over tea, we chatted about what we might like to do and eventually decided to take a walk around the village. Sawbridgeworth is named for a Saw Mill that sat upon a bridge, and the suffix, "worth," stands for a homestead or enclosed place of living (we looked it up). As you can imagine, these sensible Englishmen created a very quaint village, and we wandered narrow streets lined with ancient homes. In Budgens, the local grocer, we picked up another pineapple, and my favorite, elderflower cordial with fizzy water. Before long, we were belly-up to the table again, and we ate our stir-fry dinner with a glass of white whine. If you're wondering, the answer is, "yes:" the English are more civilized than the rest of us.

As the light fell low over Sawbridgeworth, we walked down past pubs and homes to country fields where (in an act of supreme civilization) they have criss-crossed the land in little footpaths that wander through crops, furrows, and woods, over little fences and back again. As we started on the footpath, Joshua told me to be wary of the lethal English fox, said to stalk any moving prey with an uncanny stealth. "Go absolutely still if you see a rustle in the tall grass," he said, "they love the hunt, so if you run, you're toast." "Also," he said, "like any predator, they're known for targeting the hamstring, in order to immobilize their prey."

I looked out at the tall grass with trepidation, and no sooner had I moved, I saw a rustle in the grass. I jumped and let out a little yelp. Joshua laughed until he almost cried, and realizing I'd been had, I trounced off ahead, ignoring his apologies until I rounded a turn and saw a fox.

June 29, 2010

This morning, Joshua and I woke up to repeat our walk with a run. In a little park down the lane, we conducted our exercises to the amusement of the locals, and when we had finished, we showered and dressed for our next adventure. At 1130 AM, Irit, Grandma Vivienne's Rabbi, arrived, and we bundled into the car for Bishop Stortford. For lunch, we ate in building that had once been a pub but more recently had been renovated and taken over by a Thai restaurant. Everything from the artwork on the walls to the wrought-iron chairs and the ready-set tables were perfectly beautiful. We ordered an assortment of starters and entrees, and then we shared each so we could sample everything. Delicate, sweet, and spicy, the chicken sate and subtle curries were flavorful enough to make us want more (and more) but light enough to allows us to exit the restaurant without rolling down the street.

Finished eating, we drove through narrow country lanes to Henry Moore's former residence. The tour took us through his home where his personal collection of art hung on the walls and lined the shelves. In his formal sitting room he had an original Roudin, Courbet, and Renoir. On his bookshelves he had scores of pre-Colombian and Mesopotamian figurines. Through the hall and into the kitchen, we passed the sink and stove where his wife, Irena, would have cooked for family and guests. The office was filled with photographs and odds and ends, and in the dining room, his wife's penchant for antiques and estate sales played out in a hodge-podge of furniture and dinnerware. In the garden, flowers bloomed obediently along brick terraces, and a greenhouse harbored cactus and other warm weather flora. The second part of the tour took us through his many work rooms where his sculptures lay in various stages of completion. Maquettes, plasters, molds, bones, rocks, and flints lay is disarray among his working tools: cheese graters, horse hoof files, and knife sharpeners.

An extensive collection of his bronze sculptures rest in the fields behind the estate, and the bulk of the tour was spent listening to our guide tell stories about the artist and his art work. Although the guide had a gentle manner and told his stories with a combination of respect and levity, a few of his listeners were a bit more disagreeable. At one point, he stood us before a sundial, explained its origin and the location of its copies, but then suggested that it wasn't actually art because it had a function, "and isn't art that which does not have a function?" This statement, of course, raised a few hackles (including my own, to be perfectly honest), and the tour began on uneven footing. Near the statue of the King and Queen, a man in the crowd announced his distaste, saying that he found the realism of the hands and feet dissonant with the abstraction of the torsos and heads. Another man said, "I suppose this means that you don't understand the principles of surrealism." Across the gathering, the man retorted, "what's that?" (In an invitation to verbally lock heads.) The man clarified, "in order for something to be surreal, it must first begin with that which is real!"

I found it pretty entertaining. Joshua and I were the youngest by far, and there were quite a few characters in the mix. One man asked me about my tattoo, and when I explained that it was a Georgia O'Keeffe, he lit up and said, "ahh! The photographer's wife!" Rather than retort with something snotty like, "No, no, Stieglitz is the painter's husband, not the other way around," I said,"yes, Alfred Stieglitz." The man was pleased and impressed by my encyclopedic response (and I'm sure my tact), and shared with me that he had been a photographer with People for 25 years, before it had turned to "rubbish, of course."

I had three favorite sculptures: the first is his Locking Piece which was the only sculpture done in white fiber glass. I loved the simple yet solid form, and I must admit I prefer his bone like sculptures in white. The next is his Spine In Three Pieces which was the largest sculpture that looked like its namesake, albeit a bit crumpled. My final favorite was one that he had placed in a field and then stipulated that only sheep were to graze there. The form is meant to mimic the standing ewe, and the bottom of the massive sculpture is stained by the lanolin of the sheep's wool. Even as a we were watching, nearly a dozen sheep were nestled in the sculpture's shade.

Once the tour had finished, we journeyed back to the house for tea and sticky bread. We spent the rest of the afternoon reading and writing, and for dinner, we ate olives, cheese, cherry tomatoes, dried herring, and strawberries. After we washed up, Joshua and I went for another walk through the footpaths surrounding Sawbridgeworth.

That's all for now, but I promise some photos in the very near future (when the internet speeds a little bit faster).