I met with Anne Latto, my old Crow this morning. Do you mind being called my old Crow, Anne? She is very inspirational. We sat in her warm conservatory, looking out at the wondrous garden where vibrant plants and scented roses still bloom defiantly in the face of autumn. Like Anne a PhD student at the age of 76, she runs the volunteer workgroup in our ancient local wood, works for Amnesty, directs Shakespeare plays in Reading’s ruins, and plots new artistic ventures with me as if time can be moulded and stretched outside of human recognition. When I talk about creativity and life with such a person, I understand that artists are like the flowers in Anne’s garden. There is the odd Picasso at centre stage and the eye can’t help (almost reluctantly sometimes) returning to it. But it is the mass of cosmos, zinnias, the red hips of the wild rose, the green sculpture of the spurge, the feathery grasses, the almost overlooked yet outrageously lovely blooms of an unknown climber, that create the garden. Every now and again a visitor will intricately appreciate one blossom, exclaiming at its particular beauty, but for the most part each element is embraced as an organism of a greater whole, bringing a sense of wonder and refuge to the rambler. There are plants that are more eye-catching than others, to be sure, but there are no egos in a garden.
I came home and wrote a poem. Not a lyrical number about a symphonic masterpiece of horticulture, but about education in Britain. It ends: ‘Na-na-na-na-na/Stick it up your bum/Mum she calls/You never did The National Curriculum.’
That’s what I love about art. Sublime. Coarse. It’s all part of the same package.
