A Sunday for me can often be a combination of aimlessness and solitude; the former cam, in it's own way, be peculiarly attractive, the chance of an odd find, a strange discovery, serendipity, whereas the latter state although I am a lone wolf by nature too often leads to the inner pathway of regret and ruefulness. Too many of the if only, but, and what if statements fill my head in those instances just as they did today.

Still, that's only one side to my Sunday, there is aimlessness to describe. Where did that take me? To the maelstrom of the recently opened Gauguin exhibition at the Tate Modern. Hideously busy with enough room to glimpse fragments of canvasses through a thicket of heads and bodies. Probably too many works to absorb sensibly in one go, I did feel weary towards the end.

Nevertheless it is full of gems, and not just the works either; amongst the contextual material was this statement written by Gauguin "I love Brittany. I find the wild and the primitive here. When my clogs resonate on the granite ground I hear the muffled, powerful thud that I'm looking for in painting"

I've heard that thud myself in many places where instinctively I've felt alive, at home, energised, and at peace: New York City every time I've been there, Barcelona the moment I stepped off the plane; Paris, Buenos Aires in spite of being held up at knife point on my first visit, the madhouse that is Tokyo, and last, but never least, this dear old city I call home.