RA's Abstract Expressionism show leaves me confused, but reflective

I had a Damascene moment of revelation at the Royal Academy's Abstract Expressionists show. I suddenly understood, and had complete empathy for, the anti-establishment frustration of the "heartland" Trump voter.

Here I was, working hard to appreciate a show full of canvasses from a tiny, exclusive group of New Yorkers. I was there because, as a supporter of the arts and a lover of London's museums, I thought I should be. I knew that Abstract Expressionism was considered one of the United States' greatest contributions to the history of art. But the rooms of acknowledged masterpieces left me unimpressed. This little circle of urban bohemians seemed completely engrossed in themselves, and completely unconcerned about the preferences and desires of their audience. 

There was an audio guide with commentary from worthy intellectuals spinning lots of erudite interpretations in a faintly condescending tone that implied that if I didn't "get" this stuff, I was either uneducated, a country bumpkin or a cultural philistine. (I am none of those.) An example: "Clyfford Still wanted his viewers to have a direct experience with the work, without being encumbered by illustration or storytelling." Guess what, Miss Establishment, I LIKE being told a story! In fact, it's one of the primary things I look to art to do. And by stripping it out, you've destroyed the art that I love.

Kick these bums out! Let's go back to the good old days! MAKE ART GREAT AGAIN! I won't push the politics any further, but you get the point.

That's not to say I didn't enjoy elements of this show. There are beautiful things here. Many succeed in the stated objective of the movement: they got me to feel emotion (that's the expression part) without resorting to the depiction of recognisable figures (that's the abstract). The audio guide helped me to understand the skill and craftsmanship behind the canvasses. No, Jackson Pollock did NOT just fling paint around. There's an exquisite method to his madness. There were even several things in this show I'd happily live with, most notably Lee Krasner's Untitled 1948 (above) and De Kooning's cheerful blocks of blue, yellow and green in Villa Borghese. Although the problem with most of these canvasses is that, unless you live in a massive home with vast stretches of stark walls, they're impractical. This is art meant for vast white galleries, not homes.

As wandered through the show I became increasingly perplexed as to where the line was between great art, graphic design and interior decoration. Jackson Pollack's mural (above), commissioned for Peggy Guggenheim's entrance hall in 1948, is a vast and beautiful thing with beguiling colours that seem to dance across the canvas. Rothko's big, fuzzy squares of floating colour do indeed bring on the "serene sense of calm and balance" described on the audio guide. I actually found the abstract sculpture, inserted into the middle of most galleries almost as an afterthought, to be my favourite part of the show and wished the guide would have spent more time on them. Barnett Newman's tall bronze poles with their irregular surfaces made a dramatic statement, for example, in front of his tall canvases with blocks of colour.

They all worked for me as design. They triggered fond memories of the bright plastic modernism of my youth (seen in a very different context earlier this year at Las Vegas' Neon Museum), and reminded me just how good the Mad Men producers were at set dressing. If someone hired me to create a striking public space in a modern hotel lobby, or to do a memorable lobby in a corporate office, this would be "go to" stuff. Striking scene setting, but memorable on its own as art? I am still skeptical. Intellectually, I probably would have been much happier with this show at the Victoria and Albert, where they would have explored the wider design movement.

Not everything struck a pleasant chord. The problem with abstraction is that, if it doesn't provoke emotion, it can be spectacularly boring. I walked past a lot of stuff that I just couldn't summon enough interest in for thoughtful contemplation. Frustrating in a show that costs a whopping £17 to enter. And not all of those expressive emotions are pleasant. With the exception of the aforementioned Villa Borghese and one other, similar canvas, De Kooning's paintings are like angry, paranoid mental disorders trapped in a frame. There's the kernel of a frightening Doctor Who episode here. There was plenty more rage at the establishment throughout. And then there's just the preposterous. I am never going to see Ad Reinhardt's all black paintings as anything but the beginning of the triumph of marketing spin over skill in the world of art.

For me, the real value of going to this show was a personal one. My mother was at Washington University studying art ... specialising in graphic design ... from 1958 to 1962. Abstract Expressionism would have been the dominant trend at that time. This show injected me inside my mother's university experience. I suddenly understood her earlier work, all the stuff that had never made sense to me. I understood why she ... passionate about watercolour, landscapes and the classics ... really didn't care much for art school. And why she was never really happy as an artist until she rejected what she learned and went back to watercolouring the peaceful, figurative scenes she loved. So even though I'm never going to get hugely excited about the abstract expressionists, it was worth going to the show just to get that additional insight into my mother's world.

Subtle nuances separate a Michelin star and a local treasure

REVIEW:
La Trompette, Chiswick, and Thompson, St. Albans

It's a rare and profligate treat when you sit down to two gourmet tasting menus in less than a week. With matching wine flights. I blame the American elections. I needed distraction.

One was La Trompette, a well-known Michelin-starred French restaurant in Chiswick with a long-established reputation amongst London foodies (past review here). The other was a popular local restaurant in St. Albans called Thompson with just two AA rosettes and little reputation beyond its immediate area. It's not even, quite remarkably, in Trip Advisor's top 10 restaurants for the town. And yet, there wasn't that much difference between the Hertfordshire unknown and the Chiswick giant.

With two fine dining extravaganzas so close together, this seems a fine opportunity to consider what makes a Michelin star, and to compare and contrast the fine dining aspirant to the established giant.

Both places delivered beautiful meals, each a procession of highly-styled plates with small portions carefully arranged on showy china in squares, dots, smears and crumbles. Both had attentive and knowledgeable service, with Trompette's being primarily French and Thompson's fielding a more global team. The sommeliers at both made confident pairing choices and could talk about them in depth.

The menus followed the same general progression from light to full-bodied, each preceded by showy amuse bouche at the start and delivering an exotic pre-desert towards the end to cleanse the palate before the final firework. At Thompson: smoked and lightly pickled sea trout; chicken liver parfait with roasted fig and red wine jelly (above, top photo); poached fillet of halibut with girolles; slow-roasted local beef; tropical sorbets with roasted coconut; Black Forest dacquoise (below, bottom photo). At La Trompette: raw bream with an Asian pickle; roast scallop with confit ginger; roast foie gras with gingerbread (above, bottom photo); wild turbot with spatzle; citrus mousse; bitter chocolate with peanut, caramel and lime (below, top photo). Both restaurants offered a choice between two main courses, at La Trompette you also got to choose between desserts.

Both dining rooms are tasteful, uncluttered and modern. La Trompette's is brighter and decorated with lighter colours, while Thompson is darker and cosy with rich reds, browns and blacks.

The prices, surprisingly, aren't as different as you'd think. The Chiswick-based Michelin experience will put you back £70 per person for the food, with an additional £55 for the wines. Up in Hertfordshire, you'll pay £59.50 for dinner and £35 for the wines.

Other than distance from central London and £30.50, what differentiates the Michelin starred restaurant? Though uncompromisingly French, La Trompette's menu had a few more elements of the exotic: bonito, shimeji, miyagawa. The flavours were a bit more distinct and powerful across the board, as if everything had been distilled down a bit further. The sauces were slightly glossier and richer. The sommelier was more playful, offering us the usual descriptions or a blind tasting with descriptions after the course (we guessed, of course) and his pairings were more unusual. That included wines from surprising countries ... we only drank one French and one of the best was an American from Oregon ... and one of those tasting menu dramas where the wine's not that palatable until the food comes, and then they transform each other. (Although Thompson scores bonus points for matching their dacquoise with a coffee martini rather than a standard pudding wine.)

But these are tiny nuances. Of the two restaurants, La Trompette delivered to expection. The newsworthy discovery is in St. Albans. I fantasise about a restaurant like this in our bit of the English provinces. The people of Hertfordshire are very lucky. If you every find yourself up that way, be sure to book in with Thompson.

Mozart at his sublime best in original setting

Mozart's Requiem Mass is an astonishingly beautiful piece of music. I've heard it several times in concert halls, and most notably as a critical part of the soundtrack to the film Amadeus. (It was his last work, and in the film a ghostly patron is haunting him into his grave as he writes it.) But I'd never experienced it as it was meant to be encountered: set within a formal mass.

Last night's All Souls' Day service took care of that, and became one of my life's most emotionally powerful experiences. You don't need to be religious to appreciate it ... though it certainly helps. But if you love Mozart then, at some point in your life, try to get to the requiem in a liturgical setting.

From those first dolorous, dramatic notes, as the priests in their black cassocks of mourning processed in through a haze of incense, it was high drama. As the music soared heavenward, the actions of the priests became not just the steps of a ceremony, but a carefully choreographed dance. The orchestra made the celebrants' actions more significant, while the priests in turn added meaning to the music.

Though I've heard this piece many times before, it was only within the rhythm of a church service that I understood the journey the composer is taking you on. You start with grief. It is the music of death, lamentation and loss. Then comes the fear of hellfire and damnation. These two sections are arguably the best bits musically, and likely to be the ones you know. But then, having taken you down into the pit, Mozart brings you out and up. The music gets more cheerful as you approach the climactic moment of the ceremony ... positively joyful as you finally become a participant yourself, heading up to communion to celebrate the fact that death isn't death, but a new life.

It's the emotional journey that any good funeral tries to enact, from a worthy religious service to a secular drinking session. Mourn. But move on. Remember the joy and hope for more. Let the departed's life inspire you to greater things in his or her memory. Mozart's requiem in its proper setting does this all, with a drama that rips your soul to shreds, then rebuilds you and takes you to a higher place.

I can't offer enough thanks to the musicians and singers of St. Mary's, and their colleagues drafted in to the expand the numbers, for this extraordinary evening. It was, quite literally, an experience money can't buy. Musical perfection for the cost of a prayer.

While St. Mary's Bourne Street rarely brings in a full orchestra for masses, it's known for its church music. Most Sunday masses (11 am) have a full choir, a professional organist and the quality and lyricism of a top concert. Holidays often add violins If you're at all into liturgical music, do check it out.

From the glorious Yeatman to a curious club ... places to stay in Porto

The problem with getting an upgrade to the first class cabin is that forever after you feel just a bit disgruntled turning right when you enter that aircraft door. Even though coach had always been perfectly comfortable before your lucky encounter with luxury, and still is.

That's the way it works with luxury hotels, too. On paper, you contemplate their costs and think how could a bed and bathroom for a night be worth that kind of money. Once immersed in their cosseting arms, you start calculating how you could justify a return trip, while that great value and perfectly adequate B&B starts looking far less attractive.

That was my accommodation challenge during my recent trip to Porto. The Oporto Cricket and Lawn Tennis Club ... just say "Cloob Inglaish" to the taxi drivers ... was perhaps my best travel deal of the year at just €45 per night per room. (That's thanks to their reciprocal deal with our club, the Lansdowne). A simple room, clean and tidy, with decor probably last updated in the '80s and a lovely view over the cricket pitch. The small team concentrated on the flow of regular members popping in for sporting activities, as you'd expect, but they were there with food, drink and advice within regular operating hours.

I might have been shouting its praises had I not arrived there after four nights at The Yeatman, one of Europe's great luxury hotels and undoubtably the place to stay for a memorable visit to Porto. Its sprawling location across the heart of the hill that makes up the port district of Vila Nova da Gaia means that every room and public space has stunning views of the river and the historic district of Porto beyond it. Enormous rooms and gracious public spaces are all deeply comfortable and decorated with tasteful elegance. The food is exquisite and the wine lists impressive. The staff abundant, their English flawless, equally cheerful and helpful whether you're hitting the maid up for some extra toiletries or working with the concierge to plan a special event. Prices vary by season and day of the week. Mid-week winter rooms may go for at little as €185, while holidays push into the mid-€500s, but on average a room for two will set you back €280 a night. Which is a lot less than many luxury hotels, but a great deal more than the humble tariff at the Cricket Club.

Still, if I went pack to Porto, I'd be scrimping and saving to return to the Yeatman. What made this place so special?

The views were beguiling both inside and out. The hotel is shaped like a big amphitheatre, lobby at the top with rooms and public spaces stepping down the hillside in an echo of the wine terraces up river. The focal point of the outdoor space is an infinity pool shaped like a wine decanter, overseen by a statue of a mermaid. Too cold to head outdoors? No worries. One of the arcs of that amphitheatre holds a spa and a curving pool behind a stretch of spotless, almost seamless windows. The grand staircase leading down from the lobby has the feel of a French opera house, the main bar channels an English country estate.

There are thoughtful touches everywhere. Each floor has a different theme, making the hallways mini-museums that you actually want to explore and pay attention to. Founded by the Taylor port company with a specific mission to promote Portuguese wine, there's even a cork museum on the way to the spa. And the lifts have custom-made 360-degree photographs that, once the doors close, immerse you in either a warehouse of port barrels ageing, or the terraced hills of the vineyards up river. Classic jazz fills the hallways, but disappears as soon as you shut your door. Port and cakes wait in your room on arrival.

Hotel rooms are adopted by different wineries; the sponsors then get to decorate them according to their own tastes and themes. Meaning every room is a bit different. Ours was cool and elegant, with a long range of bookshelves showing off a thoughtfully-curated collection of books and some interesting glass and pottery. The bed was deep, firm yet soft, dressed with sheets of the highest thread count and downy pillows. Because it was a special birthday, and we girls are always spectacularly charming when planning our annual trips, they were kind enough to bend their regular rules and allow three of us in the room. Even with the added roll-away bed, we had ample space. Including closets, a separate entry hall and a fairly private balcony with enough room for full length loungers and a table for four. The bathroom was the size of an average hotel room, with an enormous tub, double sinks and a ridiculously over-sized tiled shower room. It was all stocked with Caudalie products, a pricey, high-end French brand that found us collecting samples all week and dividing them like precious booty at the end of the stay.

The breakfast buffet was enormous and presented with far more care than your usual hotel. The hot items were all fresh, the fruit exquisite. Pastries, meats and cheeses all waved the Portuguese flag, bringing local colour to start your day. Choose filter coffee, use the Nespresso machine, pour yourself one of the range of juices or go for the local sparkling wine on offer. Why not? You're on holiday...

As I've mentioned in earlier entries, costs once inside the hotel could be surprisingly reasonable. While spa treatments were roughly the same price as London hotels, a hamburger in the bar was €10 and wines by the glass were as cheap as €4. You can hardly match that in my village local.

Of course, all of this would strike a hollow note were it not for the customer service. Despite the fact that there were hundreds of guests, within half a day of arrival most of the staff seem to recognise you personally. They glow with delight when you return from sightseeing, welcoming you "home" like you actually live there. Whether it's finding just the right table to give you drinks with a view, organising a special day out, getting you those vital WiFi codes or making sure everything you need is on the breakfast buffet, they're eager to please and working hard to anticipate every need. And unlike so many grand hotels in Europe, the overwhelming majority of the staff is from the country you're in. I have no issue with the usual United Nations of hotel teams, but the Yeatman's local staff is brimming with pride in and knowledge of their country. They're not just serving you. They're a promotional team for the food, wine and culture of their home ... which adds immeasurably to your experience.

After all that, how could the Cricket Club possibly compete on anything but price?

While lacking the spectacular panorama of Porto, the Club offers pastoral views of green lawns and a cricket pitch and pavilion, all fringed with mature trees. It's in an affluent suburb, just a five-minute taxi ride from the historic centre but with a totally different feel. People live, take their kids to school and go to corporate jobs here. There's a pleasing rhythm of everyday life that gives you a better chance of feeling a part of the local scene.

It's also a bizarre bit of cultural dissonance that needs to be seen to be believed. It is a cozy clubhouse from the English counties. If you were suddenly dropped into the bar, with its taps to pull pints of English beer, the piles of cricket bats, the British military insignia on the walls, English club rugby playing on Sky Sports, you would have no idea that you were sitting in the middle of a foreign city. Until the staff opens their mouths. Ironically, English proficiency was lower at the "Cloob Inglaish" than anywhere else we visited. So we nodded, smiled and pointed in the morning and, eventually, a friendly, rotund little old lady emerged with a full English breakfast. We'd wanted scrambled rather than fried, but that clearly wasn't in the script. I rather suspect this is like travelling back in time to the glory days of empire.

I'm glad I had both experiences, and if the Yeatman didn't exist, I'd be delighted to return to our clubby, inexpensive bolthole on another visit. As things stand, I'm looking at the ebb and flow of room rates on the Yeatman's web site, dreaming of a weekend break in low season.