Why Do Robins Sing in November?

I love the song, ‘I know why (and so do you),’ by the Glenn Miller Orchestra. I loved it, again, when Manhattan Transfer re-recorded it. It was very uncool to love Manhattan Transfer but love them I did.  I could never get the words right, though.
It is: Why do Robins sing in December?
         Long before the springtime is due?
         And even though it’s snowing, violets are growing,
         I know why and so do you.
I always muddled the month. As long as the month ends in ‘ber’ then there’s no reason to think that you have sung it wrong. True, it’s unlikely to be snowing in September but stubbornly that is frequently what my brain chose to sing, whenever I saw a Robin.

It was also a song that my parents liked (Dad more than Mum, I think). I remember having a conversation with my Dad about it when I was about nine or ten. It was December and it was snowing. We were walking back from Lake Meadows Park with our tea trays, red faced with exhaustion. My sister was about 4, in her cute little round, naughty phase. She was wearing a pink and white furry coat that had become soaked through as snow had stuck in clumps to it when she rolled down the hill. The hood was up, making her face seem even rounder, like some exotic bear that had been plucked from its tropical environment to spend winter in a British zoo. She had begun to grizzle. I was glad to go home, as I could feel my throbbing chilblains within my wellies. As we walked, we seemed to be serenaded by robins, sitting on bare beaches and Dad joined them in song.
I never quite grew out of my annoying ‘why phase’ and so I asked, “But why do they? They song says I know why and so do you but I don’t.”
Dad explained that Robins don’t migrate like other birds and are really sociable, loving to chat to people all year round.
“But,” he went on to say, “It’s a song about love. They sing because of love. All songs are about love.”

Grief is a thing with feathers, as Max Porter wrote and even when you think you are not actively grieving anymore, something can fly up out of the blue and make you catch your breath.
The jumper department of Marks and Spencer at Christmas, a song on the radio, walking past someone wearing your descended loved one’s perfume. Today, it was a Robin.

Before my parents died I was a firm believer in no afterlife.
“When you’re dead, you’re dead,” I would say harshly, “a belief in an afterlife is just for those who can’t accept death.”
Then when Mum died and I went a bit bonkers I had this thing about birds. If you’ve been reading my blogs before, you will remember the bird series. I started to think that psychopomps were a real thing and that the Greek myth of spirits coming back, as birds to guide people towards death might be true. We felt that my dad had chosen to be a very noisy, slightly angry Robin. As I trudged around the streets and footpaths in my traumatised state I spotted birds everywhere and wrote about them here.

I have been clearing my Mum’s art studio and put aside a couple of empty sketch pads to give to one of my pupils who loves art. An hour or two after she had left, her mum sent me some photos of her using the books already. Her first picture. A Robin.

Why do robins sing in November? I know why and so do you.

But You Didn't

The Long Suffering Husband is feeling better and has been able to play golf again, which means that we are back to ticking things off our FOMO list and we had a day in London, eating in nice restaurants, seeing Waitress the musical and visiting the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition.

I haven't been to the Summer Exhibition as an adult and the LSH has never been.  It's quite a middle class artsy thing to do.  My mum was an artist and I grew up thinking that I couldn't do art; that I took after my dad, who couldn't draw a stick cat.  I always enjoyed an exhibition, though and I was quite good at what Mum always called, 'Art Bollocks'.  This is where you say things about the art that is totally made up that makes it seem as though the art is more than it actually is. I'm good at making up stories and even better at taking a grain of truth and twisting it into something more.  It's what transforms three square blocks of colour on a canvas into something that represents the artist's inner angst; a juxtaposition between the primary emotions of anger and sadness with the more complex guilt.

The Summer Exhibition is quite special because there are works by great artists alongside beginners and amateurs. The work is then available to be purchased.  When you visit the exhibition you get a little book that lists all the works with their prices.

Going to this exhibition made me think of my mum.  She had something shortlisted many years ago.  It wasn't in the final selection and she was very disappointed.  I thought it was quite an achievement to be shortlisted.  She took me to see the exhibition and I was an awful, grumpy teenager.  I didn't really look at anything properly and I kept saying things like, "I could do better!"  "£9000! I could do it for you for £9!"  When I think about it now, these comments must have been heartbreaking for her.  These pieces were chosen over hers and I was dissing every one of them.  She wasn't impressed with all of them, either.  She would quietly tut and mutter something about perspective or light.

In this year's exhibition, these two small pieces reminded me of my childhood visits to galleries with Mum.

One of my favourite things about looking at modern art is other people's reactions.  I love listening to people have the conversations about how much something costs, or how they don't understand it, or their interpretations of the piece.  For example when someone touches a sculpture and says, "I just love how it feels so....elemental..." and then looks surprised at their own reaction, or a child lies on the floor to start a tantrum and then catches sight of a print of a dog high on the wall and suddenly smiles and shouts, "doggy!", or when the LSH gets upset that I made him throw away the windows that have been in our garage since they were replaced last year (and yes, the company would have taken them but he thought they might 'come in useful').

To really appreciate such a full exhibition you really need to sit and contemplate the art for a while.  Most of my favourite pieces were not actually for sale, which is lucky because I'm a cheapskate and rarely buy anything.  I'm glad people do, though.  The red dots are proof that they do.  The price reflects the time the artist has spent deciding exactly how it should be, the years they tried to have something selected and failed, the money spent on art equipment, the hours sat in a cold shed trying to muster up some form of creativity.  It's easy to look at those prices and think, "I'm in the wrong game," but that would be like looking at the CEO of Marks and Spencer and thinking, "I really should work in a shop."

Let me take you back to 1979.  There's a woman standing in the middle of the exhibition with a skinny teenage girl.  The woman is wearing a summer dress and a pair of sandals one size too small.  Her big toe is bleeding, where she tripped on the steps into the building.  The girl is wearing purple chord flares and a yellow shirt with an extra long collar, with embroidered purple flowers. Unfortunately, the two purples don't quite match.  The girl has a smirk on her face, her arms are crossed and she says, loudly, "I could have done that."
The woman looks at her and says, quietly, "Yes, but you didn't!"
The girl is stopped in her tracks.  She didn't. It's true.  She still hasn't.

Some of my favourites