Tuesday 19 August 2008

John O'Donohue at Glenstal Abbey


Reflection

We have spectacular landscapes here in the West of Ireland. Everywhere, dark mountains preside. It is also a landscape singularly unburdened by California-style sunshine. We enjoy generous endowments of rain, fog and mist. Sometimes, when the fog comes down, the mountains disappear completely. More interesting is when you awaken on a day when the fog has come halfway down the mountain, making the top of the mountain invisible and rendering the stem of the mountain strong and lucent. It is fascinating to stand under the mountain then, and experience the summit as absent. Though you know it is still there near you, you can no longer claim it with the eye. I always find this to be a thrilling experience of the power of the imagination. Like the mountains around every life, huge adjacencies preside, presences that remain invisible to the eye.

You have never seen your own face. You cannot see your thoughts, which shape your mind and world, and you have never seen the inner world hidden behind the faces of those closest to you. You cannot see the future that is already claiming you and you cannot see the divine, so the invisible world holds our deepest treasures and it is only through the gift of the imagination that we can sense these adjacent worlds and cross over their thresholds. The imagination is the great friend of possibility. For the alert and awakened imagination, possibilities always beckon towards new pathways of creativity, belonging and love. Each of us has been created by the Divine Artist, made in the image and likeness of the Divine Imagination. When we become creative, we approach holiness. The imagination knows that it is at these thresholds that new worlds rise into view. At last, we abandon the repetitive safety of the predictable and risk ourselves into the adventure of the unknown.

There is a sublime wildness in God that calls us to risk becoming who we dream and have long been dreamed to be. The Divine Imagination has no time for the closed and the finished. To each of us is given an unfinished, open-ended world and spirituality is the adventure of attention, to which its secret and sacred forms begin to emerge. More often that not, the language of religion falsifies the subtlety of Divine Presence and Imagination, and labels and names mislead us into the bland territories of the obvious. Often, when you wake in the middle of the night, unprotected, uncertainty finds you. The role an name you wear during the day, the things you do, what you have achieved, who others hold you to be, all of that seems so far away now. You feel alone, a stranger in the world. Though disturbing, such moments of dangerous knowing draw us deeper into who we really are and why it is that we are here. It helps us become aware of the subtle, but secret, order of Divine Providence that guides our ways and our days. This helps us realise even in dark times how light is kept alive in the world. It awakens us to the beauty of goodness.

Around us all the time is the invisible presence of the unknown saints, people who bring goodness alive. We will never know their names, for they live far from the world of image and headlines, yet through the dignity of their kindness, they keep the humane tissue of a culture alive and vital. Each day we awaken, unknown kindness supports and shelters us. These are the gifts we never see directly, yet their presence makes life bearable. Their endurance prevents the house of the mind from becoming a haunted ruin.

The great Irish poet and philosopher John O'Donohue, who died suddenly earlier this year. Transscribed from a BBC programme

Wednesday 13 August 2008

Vilhelm Hammershoi at the Royal Academy



I knew nothing about Vilhelm Hammershoi - a marvellous Danish painter -until recently, when the Royal Academy held an exhibition of his work

Click the heading for some more examples

Monday 4 August 2008

The Best Hotel in the World?




Cliveden is sometimes described as the best hotel in the world. I don't know enough places which might fall into that category to judge, but it's certainly the finest I've ever visited. The glorious Italianate facade which greets you at the end of the magnificent drive is spectacular, but intimate - and indeed Cliveden still feels like a large country house rather than an hotel. An additional wing overlooking the famous swimming pool adds a number of more standard-sized rooms, but if you stay, take one of the rooms in the main house with their beautiful views across the front garden down towards the Thames.

You enter through the main hall - a marvellous panelled room dominated by a huge fireplace and hung with tapestries - and the original portrait of Nancy Astor. It's a perfect place for tea - or drinks before dinner.


You can have dinner in the Terrace dining room overlooking the garden, and it’s now done up like a pudding in an overrich terracotta but still lacks intimacy. Moreover, the chef still seems to think that the type of nouvelle cuisine where you need a golf trolley to find your way to disparate scraps of food on a vast plate is 'le mode’.. The 'haute cuisine' restaurant Waldo's in the cellars is more interesting and there are some fascinating portraits and photographs in the corridors - including a fine one of Christine Keeler. Breakfast can also be taken communally at a huge table in a magnificent room at the end of the house, just as it was when a private home - but now, only if you book for a large party.

The pool area behind a lovely old wall has been converted in to a full spa with a heated indoor pool, but it's still very easy to imagine the the beginnings of the famous Profumo / Keeler scandal there (for those too young to know about such things, there's a brief summary here)

Despite the grandeur of the house and its associations, it's marvellously relaxed and one quickly settles in to the lifestyle. Surrounded by a large park and formal gardens which are beautifully looked after by the National Trust, there is much to see before returning to the comfort of a chair by the fire in the library to contemplate starting some scandals of your own.

Friday 1 August 2008

Favourite Comedy


I've always loved hand puppets since the days of Peter Brough, Shani Lewis, Rod Hull and the like- and the Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre is wonderful!

Wednesday 30 July 2008

The Poison of Bonuses

I worked in the financial services sector of the City for nearly 40 years, and from the 1980s onwards was increasingly astonished at the offering of US-style bonuses for doing an honest day's work. Such bonuses serve to skew individuals' performance towards a particular easily identified course of action - usually involving more risk - but more importantly are likely to erode people's personal values. Our work is performed as our duty to ourselves, our families and our colleagues and we should discharge it to the best of our ability at all times. We should not need the carrot of more money to do a difficult job; we do it because it is our job. Sometimes one just happens to be in the hot seat at the relevant time; if we weren't any good, we wouldn't be there. The chap at Barclays said to be getting additional compensation for finding outside capital is also just doing his job, and should need no more of shareholders' funds than his normal pay for doing it. To offer people large bonuses is to insult peoples' characters.

Saturday 19 July 2008

Favourite Writings - The Lycian Shore


Photo by Kei Lawford. Click to enlarge

As I came down from the causeway through the theatre, a black snake like a shy god slid into the laurel thicket; I stepped over the stones rattled by earthquakes on their foundations, and climbed from terrace to terrace of corn where peasants built shallow walls round the pockets of ancient houses. The full ears, ready for harvest, beat their slight weight against my passing hand, as if they to would spend their weak resistance for the headland's warm and living peace. So remote, so undisturbed was the great hollow, that its own particular divinity seemed to fill it - complete in being as a cup is filled to the brim. There was no judgement here but only the consequence of actions; the good corn filled itself out in deeper places and the bad dwindled among stones, and all things were a part of each other in a soil that someone's building two thousand or more years ago had flattened or spoiled. A fair-haired woman, still beautiful, with green eyes, was reaping. I asked if I might photograph, and she called her husband, who came climbing up and stood beside her, and glanced at her and smiled when I said that she was like the English to look at: they were both pleased by her fairness, and there was a happy friendliness between them. He had the oval face of the Mediterranean, and she the straight northern brows: and the history of the world had washed over Cnidus to produce them both, from the days when their ancestors, in the oldest city of the peninsular, joined in building the Hellenium in Egypt, or sent the first caryatid to Delphi.

Freya Stark-- The Lycian Shore
(I make no excuse for resuing one of my favourite writings, as no one reads back to when this was first posted, least of all me)

Tuesday 8 July 2008

The National Gardens Scheme



I don't know if The National Gardens Scheme is replicated in other coutries, but I do know that nothing epitomises the spirit of the British Isles so well.

The piece below by Paul Johnson in the Spectator says most of what there is to say about gardening in England, though he properly concentrates on the relatively modest gardens that are on show for only a day or two while only alluding to the grander ones - which at the end of the day are equally the expression of one mind's love of nature, but are even more extraordinary in their compass - like the great garden at Athelhampton which we visited last week.

One of the best ways to appreciate gardens is through the eyes of a good photographer - and my personal favourite is Nigel Birkett, who kindly puts his photos on Flick for all to see.

'A gardener must be a philosopher but never an atheist'
There is no more English activity than gardening, and it has been so for over a thousand years. Indeed, there were Anglo-Saxon gardens before: traces remain. Gardens grew under castle walls, and were tended by the wives of men who wore chain mail. They took the place of water lilies when the moats were peaceably drained. The first great English essay, written by Francis Bacon early in the 17th century, is ‘Of Gardens’. I have just reread it. It is long, elegant but detailed and full of ripe knowledge, about nature and our intimate relationship with her.

Bacon is particularly good on the scents and smells of a garden which, stirred by faint breezes, he compares, in its coming and going, to the warbling of music. Thus he gives advice on planting accordingly, to create varying odours all the year round. He distinguishes between passive smells, and those you can arouse. Thus: ‘Those which perfume the air most delightfully, not passed by as the rest, but being trodden upon and crushed, are three: that is, burnet, wild-thyme and watermints. Therefore you are to set whole alleys of them, to have the pleasure when you walk or tread.’ Of course, you say, flowers had much stronger scents in that golden age. Not necessarily so: Bacon complains that some flowers which ought to smell gloriously do not, and instances bays, rosemary and sweet marjoram; and he complains that some flowers, once in bloom, expend their scent quickly: ‘Roses, damask and red, are fast flowers of their smell, so that you may walk by a whole row of them, and find nothing of their sweetness; yea, though it be in a morning’s dew.’ The flower, he says, that ‘yields the sweetest smell in the air, is the violet, especially the white double violet’. As true today as when he wrote.

I was thinking of Bacon the other weekend when I went to an open garden day at one of our finest Somerset villages, Stogumber. There were 15 gardens on display, all within easy walking distance so each could be visited without undue fatigue. It is a noble place, crowded with old houses, kept beautifully painted, and with a pleasing mediaeval church, whose collection of silver vessels was likewise on show. Walking its sleepy lanes, and popping in every few paces to inspect a garden behind its proud cottage, was a rare delight. One sometimes thinks that Old England is gone for good, and looking around parts of London nowadays with its atmosphere of a degraded Levantine bazaar crowded with embittered people, it is hard to deny the malign change. But in West Somerset, on such an occasion, Old England is very much alive: gentle, personal, courteous, smiling, welcoming, anxious to show you what has been created, and explain it.

These small gardens on show at their best time of year are more fun and interesting than the grander affairs. To begin with, each is totally individual, made by one devoted person, or a couple. Then, the creators are there, on the spot, to answer your questions and tell of the experiments, surprises, disappointments and glories of their craft. What is so remarkable is the ingenuity with which each square foot of garden is put to use, to create intensity, variety and contrasts, an air of spaciousness and generosity in an acre or less. I saw nothing repetitive, no horticultural clichés, but on the contrary, originality and imagination, especially in the juxtaposition of colour, shape, size and texture of leaf, as though the gardener was a painter, composing carefully not only for the telling detail but the general effect. And they are quick to tell you of the happy accident, the surprise emergence in due season of an unusual bloom, unexpected but refreshing, and welcome. ‘That was a surprise,’ they say. ‘But then you never know exactly what is going to come up, or what precisely is happening in the winter under the soil.’ Gardening is like raising children, in a way: full of unexpected changes, even shocks; requiring a great deal of patience and love, and willingness to go with nature instead of trying to bend it to your will.

Gardens, especially small ones tended by one person, reflect character, and express aesthetic temperament, even a philosophy of life. I was particularly taken by one delicately composed of pale shades, which put me in mind of Milton’s Lycidas:

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears.

By contrast, there was the blazing border based upon what Bacon calls the ‘French marigold’, but composed of many other fierce orange and yellow blooms, and a few furnace-reds. It sounds a horror but was actually, in its own bold way, a masterpiece of taste and vivacity, as though van Gogh, wisely advised by Fantin-Latour, had designed it in an inspired moment. But as the lady who created it said: ‘Oh, a lot of it was sheer luck, you know. Never happen again, most likely. But then, you don’t want too many repeats in gardening do you? I’m all for changing each year.’

I admired, too, the lady who had created a neat, spruce, serpentine path leading into the heart of her garden, with variegated mosses and plants of many shades of green, punctuating the granite squares — a miniature work of grand art, worthy of Vermeer. Gardens display tidy minds and tempestuous ones, the energies of the adventurous spirit and the cosy conservation of the virtuous one. Odd that Freud took no interest in the gardener’s mind; but then he was a city Herr, all parterres and privets. As well as all kinds of primitive instincts and irrational skills, there is a strong intellectual and spiritual element in raising plants, which both reflects personality and helps to shape it. All gardeners are economists, but of various kinds: expansionists and gradualists, exuberant or cautious. As Keynes said, gardeners can be bulls and bears, too. There is the kind, for instance, who can make perfectionist use of the daisy, recognising the truth of Chaucer’s point in the Prologue to The Legend of Good Women:

That wel by reson men it calle may
The ‘dayesye’ or elles the ‘ye of day’,
The emperice and flour of floures alle.

There is also the kind that makes superb use of contrasting light and dark leaves in shrubs, and multiple shades of green, signs of a subtle, highly observant temperament — what you might call a Dorothy Wordsworth mind.

The Old Testament is full of references to flowers, especially their fragility, their evanescence. Samuel warns: ‘All the increase of thy house shall die in the flower of their age,’ and the Voice in Isaiah says: ‘All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field: The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass.’ Gardeners know this. They perceive that dying is inherent in nature, and so is rebirth and renewal. Gardeners come close to the spirit of life and its creator. They are not wild enthusiasts, but gentle philosophers, and we may be sure that no great gardener is an atheist.'

Paul Johnson - The Spectator