House hunting in London

We were going to start our 'real life' search for a new home in North London by going to an open house viewing of a flat nearby. But when we are about to leave we realise there's no house number on the ad. Husband phones the estate agent. Our first mistake: the guy at the other end is so obnoxious that Husband ends the conversation well before it even begins. 'Don't bother,' he says. (He doesn't suffer fools gladly.)

We decide to wander off towards the area where we might want to live instead, only to be distracted by the unmistakeable smell of a BBQ coming from a nice-looking pub. After a delicious lunch with a glass of wine we're more willing to see a few spotty estate agents.

Surprise, surprise: What we are looking for is exactly what everyone else wants too. It seems demand in our corner of the market far outstrips supply.

And I naively thought the housing market was in a recession.

'Not in this part of London,' says a person in a pinstripe suit. (Dark suit in this heat?)

'Right.' I try to avoid looking at Husband. We decide to leave the hunt for a home for another week.

Where are Kirstie and Phil when you need them?

A town I'm not going to miss

A few years ago when a book called Crap Towns: the 50 Worst Places to Live in the UK was published I'm not sure if the closest city to us ever featured in it. Probably not since the book was very much tongue in cheek whereas the town we live outside of is truly crap. During the last twenty years or so no notable improvements have been made to it. I feel a little like the angry woman from Bolton who told David Cameron during the election campaign that his Tory party council had ruined the town.

Though, as far as I can see, 'our' town has always been awful. Plans for a cinema have been just that - plans - for the best part of 30 years.

The only building work going on is for supermarkets; the 'new' shopping centre, ten-year-old Shires (or as it's known in our household, 'The Shiters') has Asda as its star turn. The M&S Only Food lasted less than a year. Now there seem to be more shops empty than occupied.

The town itself is littered with unfinished and dilapidated buildings.

The 'River Walk' isn't so inviting with supermarket trollies and rubbish lying in the water. I've never taken the children there and am sure it would not be healthy, or safe.

The town park is a dull carpet of lawn with dying flower beds. Perhaps the council either has no money to spend on it or just doesn't care. The sign on the Tourist Bureau is faded and its painting chipped.

If Mary Queen of Shops came to this town she'd swiftly turn on her heels having decided not one local shop would survive here.

Yet, the town is flanked by well-to-do villages. It's close to Bath and Bradford-on-Avon, both desirable addresses in the UK (Although Bath did feature in the 50 Crap Places to Live in, but for other reasons, if I'd take a guess). Our town used to be a beautiful mill town with an industrial heritage from the Victorians any town would be proud of. But the civic authorities didn't like the old buildings. In the seventies several beautiful mills were pulled down to make way to the ugliest multi storey car parks, shopping centres and low-slung concrete office buildings you can imagine.

Since we've lived here the various councils have tried to develop the city, but all they've managed is to put up mock toy town structures, strange towers (the Millennium project below) and those endless supermarkets.

I've written many posts recently about the things I'm going to miss in London. Not having to go into this town (which shall remain nameless) I'm going to positively relish.

Shall I count the ways?

As the weeks march on, I try hard not to think negatively about how our lives are going to change. I keep telling myself that this is what I want, to live in a city, to be close to everything, not to have to get into my car every time I need as much as a pint of milk. I crave the presence of other people, of culture, of going to the cinema on the spur of the moment, without having to plan things hours before, or to just sit by the window and see some kind of human life pass by, not just cows munching on grass or dogs running around chasing their tails.
 
I do not want to be beholden to this house with its quirky little problems, its garden which needs our full time attention, especially now at the height of summer, the seemingly constant need for upkeep, whether it's renewing the gutters, or trimming the hedges. Not being able to leave the house for one weekend in the fear that all the painstakingly cared for plants will die if they're not watered.

And yet, there are so many things I will miss. The crop of various lettuce leaves, straight from the ground to our plates; the fresh dill which this year seeded itself and has been the best ever; home-grown new potatoes and onions; fresh herbs pretty much all year around. And then later on the year the apples, pears, Victoria plums, greengages and crab apples (which make the most delicious jelly) from the orchard. Only having to step outside the house to find the most fantastic undisturbed walk over the fields; being able to play music as loud as you like, not ever having to consider the neighbours (what neighbours?). I will miss the space, the quiet, the privacy; the stars on a clear night; the moon as it was last night illuminating the garden as if someone had left the lights on inside.

So when this morning I picked the first crop of strawberries I tried not to think, 'This is the last time I'll be doing this'. Or when last night I walked down to the bottom of the moonlit garden and picked large bunch of tarragon for a BBQ chicken marinade, I tried not to think, 'I'll really miss this'.

Instead I curse the cows when they delay me in the lane, then again on the road outside and a third time when passing through the nearest village. ( I once got caught by 4 sets of cows going for milking when driving to work in the morning). I complain when husband is away and I have to do the watering on my own, dragging out the hose, rolled over two old, badly designed and non-functioning reels, only to have to recoil them back again afterwards. I look at the weeds pushing up around the roses as fast as you can pull them out and think, 'That's not going to be my problem for much longer.'

I book theatre tickets for the autumn in London; I arrange a book club; I organise to give up my car; I study maps and bus routes to see how I'm going to get myself around in the city; I plan which galleries and museums I'm going to become a friend of. I remind myself that this - living in London - has been my dream ever since I moved to England, and that the life here in the country was never one that I chose or had planned to have.

Sometimes, though, what you most desire and wish for can be the most frightening thing ever.

I leave you with some images from the garden as it was a few moments ago.

Orange blossom with a scent like wild strawberries.

The pond where lilies fight for survival with the weeds.

One of my favourite roses which I can see from the kitchen window while washing up.

The cabbages - largely ignored but yet doing well!

The lavender hedge we planted along the path to the sauna cottage is just about to come into full bloom.

Strawberries under netting - the birds love them too.

My pride & joy - the purple honeysuckle.

Another rose, this time by the (unused) lawn tennis court. Again much ignored but still flowering.

Abandoned roller - we used this a lot during the first summer in the house when we actually played some tennis.

Bridge over the pond; I can still see small son and daughter hanging from the rails while I tried to stop them falling in.

Life can be hard...

Sometimes it attacks us all: desperation. You cannot but ask yourself, 'why me?'. The answer could lie in the words of some great woman or man,


'You deserve the life you've got.' Or,
'If it's not working out, do something about it.'

But change is difficult, and even if part of that change is positive, there are things that are hard to get used to, and some things that seem impossible. And it's scary.

I'm talking about our move, as usual. Through this whole process of our migration from the country to a city, which became inevitable six months ago, I've never doubted that it's the right thing to do. Not really. I know it had to happen and I'm ready for it.

Still, there are days like today when all I want to do is lie down on the kitchen floor, bang my fists against the lovely oak planks, and cry my eyes out.

But instead I'll pull my socks up and go to the Babington book club. I'll discuss The Russian Dreambook of Colour and Flight by Gina Oschner with my fellow book lovers and we'll delve into the much less charming world that Oschner paints, where the dead won't stay quiet, apartment blocks have no sanitation and sink into the mud, workers aren't paid and the children go feral. And I'll realise that things aren't that bad after all.

I must have been dreaming...

During our flat-hunting weekend up in Hampstead we had the good fortune to see another play at the Donmar Warehouse on Saturday. This time it was the turn of Simon Gray's The Late Middle Classes with Helen McCrory, Peter Sullivan, Eleanor Bron and Robert Glenister. I have to admit to an initial disappointment that the cast did not include that other, to me rather more dishy Glenister, Philip, who Husband had promised I'd get a close look at. He feebly admitted his mistake in the foyer when faced with overwhelming evidence that it indeed was not the chain smoking, whisky swinging cop from Ashes to Ashes who was to take the lead in that night's play. I was gutted.

But having recovered from that blow, I settled down to watch the play, a story of a talented boy's coming of age in 1950's, post-war England. Unlike Christopher Hart in today's Sunday Times, I didn't think that the story of the boy was a sub plot. The first act started with a confrontation with the now grown up Holly, and his old music teacher, the rather lecherous Mr Brownlow played by Mr (wrong) Glenister. The play ended with the same scene and in between we witnessed the momentous events that unfolded in the year before Holly started senior school. To me this signifies only one thing: the play was indeed all about the boy, Holly, and what happened to him.

I also don't agree with Mr Hart in that the play was dull. Far from it. Without giving too much away, all I can say is that the small sexual gestures and subtle innuendoes made by Mr Brownlow sent shivers down the spine of our party, making us very much engage with the play, and wonder throughout: did he or didn't he?.

Perhaps because I'm foreign, the portrayal of the middle-class English couple trying to solve their marital problems rang very true indeed, as did the way the Father could not discuss sex with his son. And the observation of Mrs Brownlow, the music teacher's Austrian mother, of how the English are 'Always so very nice but not often so very kind,' could not have hit the nail more on the head.

Seeing The Late Middle Classes at Donmar was a great pleasure, as was a meal afterwards at Hix, where I had the best asparagus with Hollandaise sauce I've ever tasted. This was in stark contrast to our digs during the two days in Hampstead. We had the unfortunate luck to stay in the most shabby, uncomfortable, overpriced B&B I've ever come across. The room, which hardly fitted the four-poster bed was dirty, hot and badly kitted out. The bed was so hard a 1950's camp bed would have been more comfortable. The TV was new, but the small desk, the rattan chair (who has rattan chairs any more?) and the bathroom had seen better days. I'm not sure what has happened since 2003 when La Gaffe won a price for best value in the Which guide. Were the gold plated taps, plastic bath with a jacuzzi and a film-star mirror lights (one bulb of which wasn't working and the rest were mismatched) less worn out then? And one would assume that the crack in the basin occurred some time after 2003. But worse than the shabbiness of the room was the inclusive breakfast. At £125 per night one would expect more than a self-service meal of  sliced bread (to be toasted by the customer), a few slices of suspect-looking and tasting cheese and ham, over-cooked cold eggs plus some cereal stored in plastic containers and a pot or two of warm yoghurt. The coffee was the only redeeming feature, the only item bought to the table. I felt most sorry for a German couple who meekly asked if there was a chance of some fried eggs. 'No,' was the short reply. Surely in London the least a tourist could expect is an English breakfast?

I was left wondering why there is so little choice of good hotels and B&B's in NW3. And even though we were left less than happy by our 'gaff' at least we didn't this time have to stay in the 'Suicide Towers', otherwise known as Hampstead Britannia Hotel...And the surprise bottle of champagne our good friends left for us went along way to make up for our poor lodgings.

Roll on the summer's Big Move when hopefully we can sleep in our own Gaffe in London.

In a spin over plates

When I sit down at a table in a restaurant and the first course is served on a oblong, square, or half-moon shaped plate, or even worse on a piece of slate or wood, my heart sinks. I may be dull and old-fashioned but I like my coffee in a cup and my food on a round plate. When it's anything else, I know that the restaurant places more importance on how the food looks than how it tastes. This I believe is true in 99 percent of the cases - I've carried out extensive empirical studies.


Last night, because it was the start of yet another flat hunting weekend around Hampstead in London, and because our wedding anniversary had been in the week when we really couldn't celebrate it, we decided to try out an Italian place we'd been to many years ago. Villa Bianca is a traditional restaurant, with white-coated waiters milling around, piano being played upstairs and an all-seeing Maitre'D at the helm, conducting the proceedings.

Walking into the place you feel as if you'd stepped back in time,and I guess that's its charm, and the reason the restaurant is still there.

But when my starter of asparagus en croute arrived on an oblong plate, the alarm bells started ringing. Now it may be that this theory of mine where food suffers when placed on anything but a round plate may be a self-fulling prophesy. In the case of both our starters, I was almost proven wrong. The asparagus was perfectly cooked and the pastry was thin and soft as it should be. It was all served on a bed of delicious hollandaise sauce, so I had no complaints. Husbands fishy pasta was equally satisfying. It wasn't the most fantastic food we'd ever eaten, but it wasn't bad.

But then the main courses arrived, on square plates, too large for our round table, forcing our sweet waitress to shuffle glasses and other table furniture to make room for them. We'd both opted for veal, partly because in England it hasn't been very popular until now, and partly because it made the wine choice easier. Husband's veal chop was well cooked but tasteless. My veal escalopes were covered in buttery sauce with capers. The whole dish looked as it had been hanging around for a while - perhaps it was a left over from lunch? The vegetables we'd opted for were new potatoes and broccoli, again both dishes were tasteless and unimaginative.

It may be half-term in London, and we noticed that Hampstead in particular seemed almost quiet, but all the same on a Friday night Villa Bianca was less than half full. Could this be because the food had suffered from an attack of funny shaped plates? Or is it that on a sunny evening the last thing people want to do is eat Italian food? I don't know. But I do wish that the friendly and attentive staff would have better food to bring to their customers. Not only because I love Italian food and would like nothing more than make this restaurant my local Italian.   

Round and round in circles

I am beginning to annoy myself. I bet I'm also annoying you my lovely readers, for which I apologise.

But, as the Big Move date draws still closer we haven't decided where we're moving to. One day I think I've made up my mind and then the next I'm totally undecided. Naturally the location of our new life depends on many practical matters as well as where we'd like to be. There are so many factors to consider sometimes I think my head is about to explode. But I know that if I had a burning desire to be in one place, that would steer the decision-making and the other practical matters would solve themselves. Or even if Husband and I violently disagreed about where we'd like to be, we could argue our corner and have done with it. But no, there are so many cities we'd both like to live in.

It's not as if the decision to leave the country and move to a city hasn't been on our minds for a while. I've been talking about moving for at least the five years, possibly more.  But then there were always the children's schools to consider, or else the business kept us here. Now we don't have either of those big restrictions we are freer to decide.

And I think this is the crux of the problem. In theory we could be anywhere. With modern communications we can work from several places in the UK, as long as it's a fair driving distance from London. Or we could even pave a new life for ourselves in Stockholm or Helsinki.

When anyone asks where we are moving to, Husband says, 'Wherever my Wife was last weekend.' As if it was all down to me. In a way, I know this is my time to decide; after all I've spent all of our married life following him around the UK from Scotland, to Portsmouth to Plymouth to the sticks.

If only I knew where I'd like to live the most.

Perhaps this is a Blonde problem, perhaps if I coloured my hair I'd suddenly become a much more decisive person.  Nah, that's too radical.

I've written so many lists with the pros and cons on the various locations I'm running out of paper. (Not really, that's a lie; or rather use of the artistic license). The 'What If' -scenarios are getting so fantastical that I could write a novel about our future life in each of the cities we're considering. (That's actually true and I may yet do this). The bottles of wine we're consuming discussing our future is keeping the local supermarket happy and the recycling boxes full. I have permanent bags under my eyes from the lack of sleep. And I'm putting on weight. You see how I'm getting to be quite fed up with myself?

Here I'm demonstrating how I am now larger than a European car. Next will be a front door, a small cottage and so on....

Whilst I'm praying for a vision to be shown to me by a higher power during the few hours of sleep that I manage each night, I try to remember that this move is what I have been wanting for a long time, and it is wholly a good thing.  I know we're lucky, because we do have a choice. I know there are lot of people who'd like to move but cannot. I was one myself for many years. So I'll try to remember that and try to make a decision soon. I promise. And I try not to go on about it too much longer. That's a promise too.

Scary is not the word for it...and what I wore.

Over the weekend, half of which I spent in sunny NW London, we got the news that our move from the 'country paradise' (called that by the local rag in their 'The House of the Week' -feature) is more imminent than we anticipated. This, I keep telling myself, is wholly good news and not at all scary.

But there are things I'm going to miss, like this view (above).

I've written before about how strange it is to move from a house where for the past 15 years you've watched your children grow. A time which seemed to have flown by; yet so much happened during it. When we moved here, away from it all, I felt this house was a little bit of Finland for me. Here we built ourselves a Finnish sauna cottage ('Nordic log cabin' according to the paper), here I could watch the stars at night surrounded by total silence. Here in the garden I planted a Finnish midsummer rose - a gift from a very good friend. Here I could organise loud crayfish parties, accompanied by drinking songs, without any complaints from the neighbours about noise or stray crayfish shells and claws on the lawn. Here I could grow proper dill and pickling cucumbers to create almost Finnish type salt gherkins. Here the occasional snowfall rendered the fields almost ski-friendly. Here I could celebrate Christmas Eve in the Finnish way, quietly, pretending the last minute shopping for presents wasn't going on all around me, teaching the children that Christmas is about family, good food and peace.

As I begin to realise the enormity of the physical and practical task of moving (we seem to have twice as many items of everything from beds to sofas to fridges we'll need in our new down-sized life) I try to contain my emotions. On Saturday, when we got the news while driving down the M4, I first wanted to cry, then laugh, then cry again. I controlled myself until Son, on hearing the news said, 'It's OK Mum, we're not exactly children any more.' It was that simple statement that made me finally crack. His words made me realise that there was no going back. That in spite of me, time marches on and there's nothing any of us can do but to get used to it. I have to embrace change, embrace our new life. And it's not as if I haven't wanted to move out of the country and into the city for years. But while a part of me is elated, the other part is heart-broken.

Now I won't say any more about this as it's all still going on and anything strange could yet happen to change the situation. So instead, I'll post a picture of me on our way to the party. As you can see JPG won the day.

  

To say the party lived up to its expectations is the understatement of the year. And the choice of dress was down to the tee. Many thanks for your advice and encouragement, my lovely blogging friends. I will not now dare to attend any fine function without your good opinions. 

Why, you're almost like real friends not just virtual ones!  

Changes

I've just read a post by one of my blogging friends North West London Girl in the Country about moving from the city, a life she knew, to a new lifestyle in the country. As she herself admitted her blog portrays an idyllic life, with beautiful children and a handsome husband. She's making great headways in joining the community life, but changing your life is never easy.

Yesterday we had the first viewing of our house in the country, an event which (hopefully) heralds the beginning, or even the end, of a change of life for me.

The signs that my life was going to change from the whirlwind that has been the daily routine of school runs, work, and family dinners (and everything in between) for the past twenty years or so, came when the first child left home for university four years ago. I cried my eyes out on the drive home from dropping Son off, a routine that was repeated every term for the first years. (By Year Three I'd got used to having to say goodbye to my baby).

I knew at the time that this mourning for the first child's departure was for me a premonition that everything would change, that the future would be different, that the children had now grown up, and that soon they'd not need me any more. During Son's university years, Daughter saved me. The amount of times I blessed their three and a half year age difference, which by no means was planned. It meant that I still had a girl at school, and had time to adjust to a childless house. I don't think I could have coped with having two children leave me one after another any sooner.

This all sounds so dramatic, I know. And I'm aware that all mothers go through this and that many factors could make the situation much worse. Also, I've been far from a perfect or traditional mother. I worked full-time most of the years the children were growing up. Still, it doesn't make these changes in one's life easier to deal with.

And now the final piece of the jigsaw is slotting into place with the sale of this house (Again I must cross my fingers here, in this market one mustn't assume anything). Don't get me wrong,  I am now absolutely dying to get out of here. I will not be sad if I don't ever set eyes on another cow in my life. (And I say this at the time when the fields in these parts are full of sweet young calves suckling on their mothers.) Yet, when driving home from London yesterday, I spotted a marquee in a garden just outside a pretty, Thomas Hardyesque town, and suddenly realised that I'd always planned to have Daughter's wedding in the grounds of our house.  Or even Son's. They would be horrified that I've been planning such a thing, but, I am a mother after all.

I told myself not to be so silly. It's all about being able to let go. A cliché I know, but so very true.

So Dear North West London Girl, even if we don't know the details of your troubles, be assured moving away from the country is as tricky as moving to the country. Especially when you've no idea where you're going yet. I know, I know, I do go on about this....

Oh I do like to be by the seaside, Oh I do like to be beside the sea...

The Southsea factor has once again raised its lovely, sunny head.

Yesterday we drove down to the South Coast after a thrilling afternoon at White Hart Lane when we (Tottenham Hotspur) beat Chelsea 2-1. For those who don't follow English football, Chelsea are another London team like us. But they are at the top of the Premier League and we are trying to get to a 4th position, a gateway to the Champions League in Europe. Yesterday's win means we are now two points clear of Manchester City, the other team desperate to become 4th. Spurs are not often on a winning streak, and this win against the mighty Chelsea came three days after we beat our most bitter London rivals, Arsenal, again 2-1 on Wednesday night.

So hoarse from singing, 'Spurs go marching on', ' It's so easy at the Lane', 'There's only one Michael Dawson', 'C'mon you Spurs', we drove down to Southsea to a friends' party. As husband predicted on the drive down, the first drink didn't touch the sides of the glass, and even though we were in that strange state of exhilarated exhaustion, we had a great time catching up with friends and making new ones.

This morning, when I heard the familiar sounds of seagulls, I was immediately awake, keen to wander down to the seafront to smell the salty air. And what a day for a stroll along the battlements of Old Portsmouth: clear skies, hazy sunshine, volcanic dust from Iceland not withstanding. This time, instead of having the familiar conversation about really, really wanting to move down to Portsmouth, we'd been wise to our own predictable 'Wouldn't it be lovely to...' -mood and had booked some house viewings. More about that later...

Then  it was time to be entertained by some more friends at lunch, and attend an auction of precious drawings produced by two gorgeous, very young artists. On the final drive along the seafront on our way home to Wiltshire, we concluded that instead of dreaming about a move down to the coast, this time it could really, truly become a reality.

Colourful London is the latest choice

OK, the decision's made: We're moving to London.

Just joking.

We still have no idea where our next home is going to be. Last week it was Helsinki, the week before Stockholm, week before that Portsmouth (a curve ball?), then it was Bath and a week before that London. It seems we've now come a full circle. But I'm starting to feel sorry for my friends. I can see it in their eyes: They've lost all confidence that we'll ever move away from the sticks.

But it's so difficult to decide. And every time I go to any of the above places I feel I'd like to live there. Sometimes I think we should just throw all the names in a hat and get on with it.

So this week I'm full of praises for London. It's not difficult to have a good time in London. Especially with the kind of friends I have. The weekend started off with a last minute decision to go up on Friday morning, rather than Saturday. Who needs to stay at home and pay bills and do tax returns when there's a ride in a car up to town on offer? I hastily texted a friend who I don't see often enough and by a miracle or miracles she was free. We had a fantastic lunch, trying to eat between catching up with each other's lives. It's amazing how much you can talk while eating when you want to.

We stayed in a new hotel, Grange St Paul's, near the Cathedral, a beautiful part of the city, and quite a befitting location for a trip up in the Christmas season. The view from our sixth floor window was stunning. I'd stay there again had it not been for the huge queues to check in and check out again. Plus they charged £5 for two tiny bottles of water. I know you pay for your own stupidity (we don't usually touch a hotel minibar just because it seems like a license to print money), but I'd come to believe that there's a unspoken hotelier code, which says the first bottle of water is free. Especially in a heavily air-conditioned room. Obviously I'm wrong. I calculated that we paid about 1£ per mouthful of water. After a night out with Husband's work colleagues, we certainly badly needed hydration, but it was only Evian. Oh well, lesson well learned. And I'm fairly confident the staff were aware of my unhappiness when I expressed it at reception. As were all the other people still queuing up to check out.

To calm down Husband and I had a long brunch. I drank wine as having water somehow didn't seem fitting.

In the afternoon I was taken by another great friend to see 'Artic Blue' exhibition by a young Finnish painter, Alexander Gough. His winter scenes depicting what Finns call the Blue Hour, the time between sunset and darkness, were breathtaking. He'd captured the magical colours of Northern Finland perfectly. The black and blue light of the night reflected up to the trees by the snow, or the faint rainbow shades of the sunset, were so true to life I felt as if I was standing in a Lappish forest somewhere around the Artic Circle. There were also two lighter canvases of the bleak, flat light of the day, with snow heavy on the trees. I'd not heard of the artist or seen his work before, but I would really, truly recommend his beautiful paintings.

The culmination of the weekend was seeing Red at the Donmar. But I didn't. See red, I mean. Because the play was fantastic. Written by John Logan, it describes the latest, troubled, years of Mark Rothko's life, through discussions he has with a new young assistant, played excellently by Eddie Redmayne. Alfred Molina as confident, argumentative, egoistical Rothko is also superb.

The action, which takes place entirely in the artist's studio, centres around a commission Rothko had for the Four Season's Restaurant in New York. His unhappiness in the commercial nature of the work is fuelled by the naivety and purity of his young assistant. The critics have called the play, directed by Michael Grandage, as a 'first-rate production of a second-rate play' (Susannah Clapp in The Observer). I disagree. Even such good direction, set, lighting and acting cannot overcome poor words. Not in the small space that is the Donmar stage, not in a play with just two characters. If the play hadn't been up to it, none of the rest would have mattered. But then perhaps that's just me. I also saw heavy symbolism in the text: Rothko's young assistant I was certain was his younger self. I felt the artist's early life in violent Russia was heavily projected in the assistant's tragic family history, as well as the final dismissal of the young, eager assistant by the older, wiser, disillusioned Rothko, 'Make something new.'

Perhaps we'll too take Rothko's advice and think of a new place to move to?