Went with Maddog to see The Adventures of Hamza exhibition at the Victoria and Albert museum. Hamza is a legendary figure and hero of an epic, which I think is partially lost. The illustrations were commissioned by the third Mughal emperor Akbar.
Even though Maddog and me were both feeling ratty we still enjoyed the exhibition.
One of the first things you notice is a nice faintly spicy smell in the air in the exhibition rooms.
The illustrations were fantastic, with a cast of heroes in all kinds of situations. Lots of people getting their heads cut off, and one unfortunate actually being split in half by a single sword blow. But they were incredibly beautiful nevertheless, with landscapes, bizarre animals, "devs" (strange ogre like spirits like the one emerging from water below) foliage and patterns that you could lose yourself in.
The first few pictures were more classically Islamic, with breathtakingly precise patterns and the most minute patterning that I could barely make out with the naked eye. The bulk of the exhibition was the Hamza pictures, which were comparatively looser (although still mind-bogglingly detailed) and more expressive.
After this, off to Strand on the Green to the Bull's Head that was my local pub at one point. Then after a beer on to make bid to free my bicycle from outside the swimming pool with a hydraulic jack. Naturally this failed too and the bicycle saga drags on like that of the boy Hamza.
Then went to the City Barge on the river for the first time in years, and discovered that an old friend Eric Gilchrist was playing saxophone there. He kindly gave me a copy of his CD which I've not yet listened to. MD and me phoned Martin from the Barge and he then joined us. We drank beer and generally caught up, as lots of blokes got to jam in a mild mannered way at the end of the evening. Good fun though.
Inspired by beer and Moguls we went off to eat an Indian meal just before midnight. MD and I then had an inflamatory row about the war. Maddog stormed off for a bit into the night before either of us had forked down a grain of pilau only to return shortly after, and of course we made up. Home later and Bob stayed the night, we played some jazz and I retired to bed and a sleeping Mrs Kenny.
Even though Maddog and me were both feeling ratty we still enjoyed the exhibition.
One of the first things you notice is a nice faintly spicy smell in the air in the exhibition rooms.
The illustrations were fantastic, with a cast of heroes in all kinds of situations. Lots of people getting their heads cut off, and one unfortunate actually being split in half by a single sword blow. But they were incredibly beautiful nevertheless, with landscapes, bizarre animals, "devs" (strange ogre like spirits like the one emerging from water below) foliage and patterns that you could lose yourself in.
The first few pictures were more classically Islamic, with breathtakingly precise patterns and the most minute patterning that I could barely make out with the naked eye. The bulk of the exhibition was the Hamza pictures, which were comparatively looser (although still mind-bogglingly detailed) and more expressive.
After this, off to Strand on the Green to the Bull's Head that was my local pub at one point. Then after a beer on to make bid to free my bicycle from outside the swimming pool with a hydraulic jack. Naturally this failed too and the bicycle saga drags on like that of the boy Hamza.
Then went to the City Barge on the river for the first time in years, and discovered that an old friend Eric Gilchrist was playing saxophone there. He kindly gave me a copy of his CD which I've not yet listened to. MD and me phoned Martin from the Barge and he then joined us. We drank beer and generally caught up, as lots of blokes got to jam in a mild mannered way at the end of the evening. Good fun though.
Inspired by beer and Moguls we went off to eat an Indian meal just before midnight. MD and I then had an inflamatory row about the war. Maddog stormed off for a bit into the night before either of us had forked down a grain of pilau only to return shortly after, and of course we made up. Home later and Bob stayed the night, we played some jazz and I retired to bed and a sleeping Mrs Kenny.
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