Sunday culture
It’s been a weird old week and I’ve come to the end of it fully drained. For it is January, tarred with the ‘shittest month’ moniker and in most places the weather is leaning in to that.
In 1900, the art collector Henry Vaughan felt this profoundly and gave an incredible gift to the National Gallery in Scotland- a bequest of 38 watercolours and drawings by J M Turner. He gifted them with the stipulations only that they are free to view and that they are to be exhibited in January, when the light (and our collective mood) is at its lowest. What a gift.
https://www.nationalgalleries.org/exhibition/turner-in-january
I lucked out in visiting the Turners this week, going early enough in the morning shortly after gallery opening when the crowds are thinner. I’ve never been the biggest fan of watercolour as a medium, having thought it a bit meek or wet. But my gosh, Turner’s use of it is something to behold. He’s known for his stormy landscapes and skies; I get an incredible sense of peace looking up close at his paintings despite the tumult of the scenes. If you’re able to, go and see them. A bit of light in our bleakest month.
What I’m watching
Heated Rivalry has finally landed on our shores. The ice hockey rivalry steamy romance drama has taken the pop culture by storm and I can’t wait to dive in. A pal in Australia is on a rewatch before it’s even released here, a pub in Edinburgh is doing a watch party today (it’s sold out). Can it really be that good? I do love when something captures the moment like this.
I’ve also binged the entirety of Banjo and Ro’s Grand Island Hotel. It is gorgeous, charting their progress in (majorly) renovating an abandoned house on the island off an island of Ulva.
What I’m listening to
Robyn is back. creator of the Greatest Pop Song Ever Written (okay two of them, Dancing On My Own and With Every Heartbeat). She’s released two tracks from her upcoming album and, ngl, Sexistential is a BOP. She talk sings over a beat about being a single mum, being horny on IVF, using dating apps, Adam Driver. It’s like the sequel to ‘Don’t tell me what to fucking do’. Get it in my veins. Sure, it’s reminiscent of brat, but Robyn was doing this shit 20 years ago and owing it then. Pop dance bliss.
Take care of yourselves in the week ahead.
Deirdre x
