Red

Red is the colour of blood.
Red is the colour of pain. 
Red is the colour of violence. 
Red is the colour of danger. 
Red is the colour of shame. 
Red is the colour of jealousy. 
Red is the colour of grudges. 
Red is the colour of blame.

The words of French artist Louise Bourgeois, quoted in an exhibition of her work, as an explanation of why so much of her painting features red. The exhibition created an impression of an unhappy woman whose early life was traumatised by her mother's death and her father's infidelity. It presented her art as primarily a way of channeling and dealing with her pain. This quote feeds into that narrative. I'm suspicious of the simplicity of this analysis. She is perhaps best known as a sculptor, particularly for her giant metal spiders, which I find strong, protective and nurturing, full of positive energy, with not a spot of red in sight

As we may be about to discover, I think French culture often has a way of expressing itself in dramatic extremes, and Louise's quote may well be in that tradition. I don't usually get too excited about an Olympic opening ceremony, but I find myself looking forward to tomorrow, anticipating some drama. The many reds of late summer and autumn are about fulfillment and plenty and moving confidently forward. I doubt that a sensitive artist, who passed her childhood in a riverside garden, where I'm sure there must have been cuckoo pint, was ignorant of those positive associations

Most years, these berries disappear as soon as they are ripe. There are many more than usual this year, along with a bounty of windfall apples. The usual culprit (extra) is spoiled for choice and has a taste for apples. It took him most of the afternoon to pluck up courage and trust that I was so distracted by scraping bee equipment that he could emerge from the hedge. He still kept a very cautious eye on me between pecks. On red alert