This is the name of a fascinating exhibit at Tate Britain. I love that it brings together surprising works, ones you might never see side by side. They are by different artists, produced at different times, sometimes different centuries, using a range of materials and techniques. What brings them together (well, aside from the curator, obviously) is that they are all an artist's interpretation of the landscape. Works are grouped together in pairs that share a common vision - something about the framing and composition that is similar and that affects the viewer and the view in a similar way. The exhibit notes describe 'surprising coincidences and remarkable affinities' and say it offers 'insights into the ways in which a viewer is engaged in the process of looking'.

My favourite pairing is really a trio not a pair, of what I call 'sky' paintings - Arnesby Brown's The Line of the Plough, an oil painting from 1919; JMW Turner's Hill Town on the Edge of the Campagna, an oil from 1828; and Lisa Milroy's Sky, a lithographic monoprint from 1997. They're very different in feel and style but the treatment of the sky, which takes up the majority of the painting in each is exquisite and emotive.

Looking at the View is at Tate Britain until 2 June 2013 (no charge).

"Sew unto others as you would have them sew unto you."

Yesterday my sister Susan flew into London for a visit and a week of sewing together. She arrived at 8am and by noon, after breakfast and a walk in the neighbourhood, we'd found ourselves a sewing machine. It was on the pavement, with a couple of boxes of other stuff. Someone was looking out for us. It was clearly left out to be taken. But at first I had that strange worry: Can this really be free? Has somebody just left this on the pavement for us?

We don't trust good fortune, most of the time. No such thing as a free lunch and so on. In the city, we rarely trust strangers, and we know not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Or a gift sewing machine.

I know all that, but my experience tells me that we find good fortune all the time in the places we live. Especially in a city, where we're crammed together on tight spaces, in our flats and on the tube, we help each other out, we put up with each other's smells and noise, we make space. It doesn't always happen that way - we snap and snipe at each other too - but most of daily life as it's lived on the street shows the good in us, not the bad.

When I moved back to the city I had to give away my antique sewing machine; it was a lovely thing but I had no space so I gave it to a local charity shop. The manager was pleased to have it, both for the window and as a piece to sell. My regret at giving it away was assuaged by the thought that it might make someone else very happy.

I like to think the person who gave this machine away also has that satisfaction. What I'd say to that person is, "Thank you for this wonderful machine, which means that my sister and I can sew together while she's here." And I'd like to point out what a fabulous sewing machine it is - fittingly called 'New Home', it's probably from the 1970s, metal, with a motor and fan belt. It weighs a ton and is a workhorse, able to handle very thick fabrics without whining. We've already put it to work on Bledsoe items. Here's a picture of it on the deck: