jane eyre at the bristol old vic

I’ve never read the book but, like most people (I suspect), I knew its general scenario and the main characters. With son-in-law Felix playing the role of Rochester, I suppose I should have made an effort to read the book before seeing Sally Cookson’s outstanding, magical, two-part production… but I didn’t. In the event, I absolutely didn’t need to… the production, the wonderful set design, the stunning music and the hugely impressive cast TOLD the story of the book.

Quite brilliantly.
The play was devised over an eight week period by the company - an accomplishment I find pretty impressive in itself. I’ve seen a number of productions by Sally Cookson and each one has been extraordinary. I therefore went along to the Old Vic filled with a sense of both expectation and confidence, KNOWING that I wasn’t going to be disappointed… and yet, also knowing that I was going to be surprised and challenged (in a good way!).
As Cookson wrote in her programme notes: “I didn’t want loads of authentic set and period costume to suffocate the story so that it became a dinosaur of a piece, killing the magic of the story”.
Well, she certainly didn’t!
I won’t even begin to describe Michael Vale’s set (because, if you’re intending to see the production, I don’t want to spoil things for you), but it was quite breathtaking… visually remarkable and yet also practical and logical at the same time. And, if I had told you beforehand that music would be a crucially important part of the play, it might have put you off completely and convinced you to sell your tickets (“Jane Eyre, The Musical”? Really?). But, again, I’ve seen (and heard) a number of shows featuring Benji Bower as the composer and musical director and, so, just KNEW it was going to be ok. This proved to be an understatement – the music and, in particular, the exceptional voice of Melanie Marshall (as Bertha Mason) was simply magical.
The production emphasises the telling of a “life story” rather than “just a love story” – charting Jane’s childhood and her development into adulthood before we ever confront Edward Rochester. Identity is a key element and Jane comes across as a strong, unapologetic and determined woman.  
Madeleine Worrall gives a breathtaking, mesmerising performance as Jane and, I might be a little biased (OF COURSE I’m a little biased!!), I thought Felix’s Rochester was just wonderful – dry, cutting, grumpy and vulnerable.
A truly remarkable production. As the Old Vic’s Theatre Director, Tom Morris, says of Sally Cookson in his programme notes (addressing prospective members of the audience): “You are in the company of a unique theatre-making talent, and we should be proud that she is reaching the height of her powers here in Bristol”.
Indeed!
Photo (courtesy Bristol Old Vic website): Felix Hayes as Rochester and Madeleine Worrall as Jane.
PS: Moira+I saw Part 1 on 12 March and Part2 on 18 March.  

bristol pilgrimage

Not long after I returned from my two months of volunteering with the Iona Community in 2012, I undertook a day of “quiet contemplation” walking around my adopted city of Bristol using Jane Bentley+Neil Paynter’s excellent book “Around a Thin Place – an Iona pilgrimage guide” as a resource for my “journey”. Well, after some months of finding myself back(!) in something of a “spiritual wilderness” (and with the prospect of a beautiful, sunny Spring day), I decided to repeat the experience yesterday.

With my ongoing hip+knee issues, I decided to limit my walk around the city to just eight sections or stops (the last time I undertook this “pilgrimage”, I used twelve).
As before, I related my stopping points with pilgrimage stops on Iona:
St Martin’s Cross/setting out on the road was Vauxhall Bridge; The Nunnery was the old railway bridge over the Avon (near the Create Centre); Crossroads was the bench in Rownham Hill Wood overlooking the Avon and the busy Hotwell Road in the distance; High Point was, somewhat predictably, the Clifton Suspension Bridge; Columba’s Bay was the Green between West Mall+Caledonia Place (where I picked up two stones); the Machair was the excellent Farm Café, King’s Road in Clifton; the Hermit’s Cell was the graveyard/site of St Andrew’s church (destroyed in the Blitz) off Birdcage Walk; and St Oran’s Chapel was a harbourside bench (between The Cottage pub and Bristol Marina).
It proved another rewarding and thought-provoking time… and I KNOW I’ll be doing this again (choosing a completely different part of Bristol) over the coming months/years.
Photo: some photographs I took during the course of my walk.

tony benn 1925-2014

Everyone will have an opinion of Tony Benn.

Over the years, I’d become a great admirer of him. Yes, there were occasions when his ideas seemed so extreme that it was difficult to take him seriously and, clearly at times, the political “establishment” in both the Labour Party and Parliament did their utmost to shout him down. But I’ve certainly found myself agreeing with many of his views over recent years and have felt saddened that he seemed to be a lone voice of political reason on occasions. During the course of the past 24 hours, much has been said about how Benn had become to be seen as a “national treasure”. I think that’s absolutely right. Although Tony Benn was, to my mind, an exceptional figure, I think it’s fascinating just how many politicians (or ex-politicians) seem to talk palpable sense once they’re out of office or no longer regarded as a political threat… with a few “honourable” exceptions, of course (Nigel Lawson, Norman Tebbit and Tony Blair spring to mind)!
I’ve just checked out some of my blog posts which included a mention of Tony Benn:
1.       He was certainly in my “Dream Team” of February 2008!
2.       He and I shared similar “Railway Children” experiences. He wrote this in October 2008: “I always sob at the end of the film The Railway Children, when the father comes back from prison and the steam clears on the railway platform and his daughter runs towards him. Both sadness and great happiness bring out uncontrollable tears in me. My children tease me about these “Railway Children” moments. But I think people’s emotions should come out”. Me too!
3.       I wrote about his lovely book “Letters to my Grandchildren” in October 2012.
A kind, encouraging, thought-provoking, inspirational man… who loved his family.

the grand budapest hotel

“The Grand Budapest Hotel” is the first Wes Anderson-directed film I’ve seen.

Moira+I went along to the Watershed this afternoon - no, I’ve not even seen “Fantastic Mr Fox” or “The Royal Tenenbaums” (actually, my lovely daughters have just given me “The Darjeeling Limited” on DVD, so within the next few days I will have watched two of his films).
Well, I think I’ve now become a firm fan.
I absolutely loved “The Grand Budapest Hotel”. It’s almost theatrical in the way it’s staged… you get the sense that EVERY shot has been given very detailed consideration; composition is crucial – with a huge emphasis on symmetry and front-on shots (as opposed to “angled”) – as are colour, detail and style. With my somewhat limited ability to recall films, at times it felt as if I was watching a combination of “Amelie” and “Moulin Rouge” (but without the music!).
The other huge and, for me, quite surprising bonus was the performance of Ralph Fiennes as Monsieur Gustave (“a concierge at a pastel pink, wedding cake-like hotel” as the Watershed blurb describes him). I haven't always enjoyed his performances in the past, but he really was quite, quite brilliant in this rare comic role.
A very pleasurable experience and a film I think you should definitely see.

 

a few recent coincidences…

For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved the paintings of the Pre-Raphaelites.

Growing up in Birmingham, I was very fortunate that the city’s art gallery had an outstanding collection of Pre-Raphaelite work (perhaps that’s why I became a fan?).
Over the past few months, I’ve visited Birmingham Art Gallery on a number of occasions and always make straight for the rooms featuring the works of Holman Hunt, Rossetti, Madox Brown, Burne-Jones and Millais and others.
On my last two visits to the gallery, I’d be particularly drawn to two pictures in particular: “Sigismonda Drinking the Poison” (1898-99) and “The Sleeping Beauty” (1903) – see above.
Joseph Edward Southall (1861-1944) was the artist.
I knew virtually nothing about Southall, apart from the fact that he was one of the “Birmingham Group” of artists.
Well, over recent days, I decided to look out for other examples of Southall’s work and was particularly drawn to two paintings he undertook much later in his life (when he was approaching 70 years of age): “The Botanists” (1928) and “The Return” (1930) – again, see above!
At the end of January, I posted a photograph I’d taken of a fresco at the Birmingham Art Gallery as my facebook “cover picture” (entitled “Corporation Street, Birmingham” and dated March 1914). I didn’t know the name of the artist at the time, but very much liked the image – see above. Two days ago, after “researching” online, I discovered the name of the artist… it was, surprise, surprise:
Joseph Edward Southall.
I’ve subsequently looked into Southall’s background. He was born in Nottingham in 1861, but moved to Birmingham at a very early age. He was educated at Quaker schools in York but returned to Birmingham in 1878 and was actually articled as a trainee with the leading local architects' practice Martin & Chamberlain, while studying painting part-time at the Birmingham School of Art (at Margaret Street, I think).
I’ve just completed an elevational drawing of Vittoria Junior School of Arts+Crafts, Birmingham - the secondary school my father attended from the age of 13 (now Birmingham School of Jewellery). The Birmingham School of Jewellery and Silversmithing was established in 1890 in a converted goldsmith's factory as a branch of the School of Art The building incorporated a school for educating subsequent generations of silversmiths and jewellers. The architects for conversion project were Martin+Chamberlain – to whom, you might recall (if you’ve been paying attention) was articled a certain individual by the name of:
Joseph Edward Southall.

Small world!
Photo: top (L>R): “The Sleeping Beauty” (1903) and “Sigismonda Drinking the Poison” (1898-99); middle (L>R): “The Botanist (1928) and “The Return” (1930); bottom: Corporation Street, Birmingham (1914).
PS: Yes, I appreciate that Pre-Raphaelite art isn’t to everyone’s taste (and, frankly, I personally prefer Southall’s later work). I came across this quote from artist/art critic Roger Fry, who described Southall as "a little slightly disgruntled and dyspeptic Quaker artist who does incredible tempera sham Quattrocentro modern sentimental things with a terrible kind of meticulous skill". That’s telling him!

vittoria junior school of arts and crafts, birmingham

I’ve just completed the last of three elevational drawings for my brother Alan (and his wife Lesley!). The first two were of Queen Square in Bristol, but the final one ended up being of Vittoria Junior School of Arts+Crafts, Birmingham (now Birmingham School of Jewellery). A slightly strange choice you might think – although I just love Brum’s Jewellery Quarter. In fact, this was our father’s school from the age of 13 until (we think) he was apprenticed to Dams and Lock (printers) at the age of 16. The new school had been opened in the (then) factory building at 84 Vittoria Street in 1890 as a school for the jewellery and silverware industry - housing up to 460 boys from the age of twelve and a half years.

We don’t really know how or why Ron (as a working class youngster) attended this school, but it might be linked to the fact that his father Fred had been a “jewellery worker” (according to the 1911 census). The Birmingham Jewellery and Silversmiths Association had been keen to set up a school for the industry and so perhaps they had encouraged attendance by boys (yes, just boys at that time!) of their own workers?
Who knows?
Photo: a poor quality image, I'm afraid, of the completed drawing (too big to scan!)
Background: The Birmingham School of Jewellery and Silversmithing was established in 1890 as a branch of the School of Art when Martin+Chamberlain converted a goldsmith's factory, built in 1865 to a design by J. G. Bland. The top storey was added in 1906 by Cossins, Peacock & Bewlay who also designed the south extension in 1911. The school was acquired by Birmingham Polytechnic (now Birmingham City University) in 1989, along with an adjoining site.
The university commissioned Associated Architects who designed a further south extension which was constructed between 1992 and 1993. They also redesigned much of the interior, creating a full-height atrium with gallery access to workshops. The reception area can also be used as exhibition space. The project won the 1995 RIBA Architecture Award and the 1996 Civic Trust Award.

february 2014 books

More book stuff:

The Razor’s Edge (W Somerset Maugham): I’d never read anything by Somerset Maugham until the end of last year and, after this book (first published in 1944), I think I’ve become a bit of a fan. It’s the story of an American pilot, traumatised by his experiences in WW1, and his rejection of a conventional life and search for meaningful experience allows him to thrive while his more materialistic friends and acquaintances suffer reversals of fortune. I found it fascinating from a number of a viewpoints – comparing the circumstances/attitudes following the 1929 stock market crash with the 2008 financial crisis and also the main character’s search for life’s meaning through Eastern philosophy (well before the Beatles made such exploration popular!). I really liked Maugham’s writing style and his role in the book as a minor character (a writer who drifts in and out of the lives of the book’s key individuals). Really enjoyable.
Behind The Scenes At The Museum (Kate Atkinson): Yes, I realise I’m a bit late getting round to reading my first novel by Kate Atkinson (some 18 years after it was published). It’s narrated by Ruby (born in 1952) and tells the story of her family from the end of the nineteenth century up to the mid-1990s… and constitutes a repressed-memory story. It’s both poignant and funny, and death and the bizarre never seem far away. Ruby’s not far off my own age and so it was good to be reminded of things from my own youth. Although I struggled at times trying to remember various family members (Ruby’s own current story is interlaced with tales of her family from the end of the nineteenth century/first+second world wars), I found it a very worthwhile read – confidently and skillfully written.
The Life And Death Of St Kilda (Tom Steel): St Kilda is the remotest of Britain’s offshore islands – lying some 40 miles west of Scotland’s Outer Hebrides in the North Atlantic Ocean. People have lived there for over 2,000 years (but the population has never exceeded 200), cut off from the rest of the world. The book tells the moving story of the last St Kildans. In August 1930, the remaining 36 inhabitants were finally persuaded to evacuate the island by the British Government – a decision the community reluctantly accepted due to sickness and the lack of enough able-bodied men to continue working on the land. A truly fascinating and humbling story.
Empires Of The Dead (David Crane): You might think that a book about war graves would be pretty boring… but, actually, you’d be SO wrong! The book tells the extraordinary (and forgotten) story behind the building of the British+Commonwealth war cemeteries – largely due to the efforts of one visionary, 44 year-old, volunteer ambulance commander called Fabian Ware. He’d been horrified by the ignominious treatment of the dead in 1914 and began to record the identity and position of each grave. From arbitrary and adhoc (and purely voluntary) beginnings, Ware was able to become a driving force in the origins of the Imperial War Graves Commission. I have to admit that, whilst I’ve always been impressed and rather humbled by the images of immaculately-kept war cemeteries, I hadn’t actually given any thought to how they came about. But then you (suddenly, in my case) realise that, of course, there were thousands of soldiers dying and someone had to organise things in a proper and appropriate manner (in the event, there were over 580,000 British dead and the Commission had more than 23,000 burial sites under its control!). A brilliant book.
Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes (Billy Collins): I really adored this book of poetry… we’d had it on the bookshelves for some time, but I just hadn’t got round to looking at it (Moira had loved it and recently suggested that I might like it too). It’s absolutely beautiful, funny, poignant, stimulating… all the boxes are ticked as far as I’m concerned. Michael Donaghy has described Collins’s work as “a rare amalgam of accessibility and intelligence. I’d follow this man’s mind anywhere. Expect to be surprised”. Yes. Indeed.

war graves… yes, war graves

I’ve just finished reading a book about war graves of WW1.

It was brilliant.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking: “sad café man hits all time low in his quest to find new interests”.
Actually, you’d be SO wrong!
In this centenary year since the start of WW1, I’d already done a fair amount of research into my grandfather’s war experiences and so this book provided wonderful, fresh insights into the devastated and grief-stricken world of that time.
My grandfather Frank Walker was just 17 when joined the King’s Royal Rifle Corps in April 1914 (the minimum qualifying age was 19). He transferred to the Royal Field Artillery on 1 July and entered the “Theatre of War” in France/Belgium on 19 August as one of the first members of the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) – just a fortnight after Britain had declared war on Germany.
He survived.
The book (“Empires of the Dead” by David Crane) tells the extraordinary (and forgotten) story behind the building of the British+Commonwealth war cemeteries – largely due to the efforts of one visionary, 44 year-old, volunteer ambulance commander called Fabian Ware. He had been horrified by the ignominious treatment of the dead in 1914 and began to record the identity and position of each grave.
He was born in Clifton, Bristol (there’s a coincidence!). He was “a social radical in conservative clothing”; for five turbulent years he’d been the “erratically brilliant, ‘warmongering’ editor of the right-wing, imperialist Morning Post”.
I’m not so sure I’d have liked him (mild understatement)!
From arbitrary and adhoc (and purely voluntary) beginnings, Ware was able to become a driving force in the origins of the Imperial War Graves Commission. I have to admit that, whilst I’ve always been impressed and rather humbled by the images of immaculately-kept war cemeteries, I hadn’t actually given any thought to how they came about. But then you (suddenly, in my case) realise that, of course, there were thousands of soldiers dying and someone had to organise things in a proper and appropriate manner (in the event, there were over 580,000 British dead and the Commission had more than 23,000 burial sites under its control!).
Ware was a truly remarkable man. The book describes him thus: “For a fierce idealist and visionary, he was an unusually skilled politician; for a born autocrat, he was a smooth performer in committees… and a natural leader”.
Although I’ve seen a number of war memorials (in this country), I’ve never visited any of the numerous cemeteries in France and/or Belgium. After reading this book, I feel I need to do just that.
It’s hard to think of more potent advocates of peace and futility of war than the existence of the hundreds of thousands of massed graves of those who didn’t survive.
The author, Davis Crane, is an eloquent and very gifted writer (and passionate about the subject) and, at times, I found the story incredibly moving. The book contains some parliamentary extracts of the time (when politicians were arguing about policies for burying the war dead) and from various letters written by soldiers or grieving parents/wives.
I’ll end with this powerful extract from a letter sent home by soldier Roland Leighton, Vera Brittain’s fiancé:
“Let him who thinks War is a glorious, golden thing, who loves to roll forth stirring words of exhortation, invoking Honour and Praise and Valour and Love of Country with as thoughtless and fervid faith as inspired the priest of Baal to call on their own slumbering deity, let him but look at a little pile of sodden grey rags that cover half a skull and a shin bone and what might have been his ribs, or at this skeleton lying on its side, resting, half crouching, as it fell, perfect but that it is headless… and let him think how grand and glorious a thing it is to have distilled all Youth and Joy and Life into foetid heap of hideous putrescence”.
Roland Leighton, himself, was dead by Christmas 1914.
Photo: Tyne Cot Cemetery, Ypres

joelle tuerlinckx exhibition at the arnolfini…

I have a problem with most of the exhibitions at the Arnolfini, here in Bristol.

Frequently, I find them obscure and impenetrable.
I feel very sad about this… because it’s a wonderful gallery space and somewhere I pass several times each week.
Now, I appreciate that this view is not shared universally – BUT it IS the opinion of a large number of talented, open-minded, perceptive arty friends whose opinions I respect.  
Even the name of her exhibition: “WOR(L)D(K) IN PROGRESS?” is a bit puzzling. To me anyway (I know what it means, but it’s contrived to say the least).

Joelle Tuerlinckx was born in Brussels in 1958 and her work has been shown widely on an international level.

If you haven’t already seen the exhibition, this blurb from the Arnolfini’s website will hopefully provide you with a flavour:
“Her work is distinguished by a unique sensual and transient approach and a precise use of materials, colours, and abstract shapes, culminating in expansive, complex installations. Film projections, video, drawings, collages, photographs and found objects are often combined with subtle alterations to the spaces and gestures that highlight the time and space of the viewing experience”.

Before today, I’d seen the exhibition twice. Well, I tried… really I did, but I’m afraid most of it just went over my head. To me, it really did feel like the “Emperor’s New Clothes”. So today, I went along to one of their exhibition tours (every Saturday at 2pm)… in the hope that someone REALLY would be able to make the “scales fall from my eyes”.

Eight of us joined the tour, given by an art lecturer at UWE.
She spoke for ten minutes or so about what was meant by the term “conceptual art” (actually, she read out most of it from her notes… which, for me, seemed only to suggest that perhaps she didn’t really understand Tuerlinckx’s work either!).
Actually, that’s unfair, but that IS how it made me feel.
We were then given 20-25 minutes to look round the exhibition and then to meet in the Reading Room for a general discussion.
In the event, only two other people turned up - in addition to the tour guide and me.
During the course of our discussion, I acknowledged that I found the work very difficult to appreciate. This was received sympathetically by my tour colleagues (although in a rather “we-feel-sorry-for-you” kind of way - they were both young artists and I THINK one of them was going to be a guide at another exhibition in Bristol)… effectively, I was told that “this IS what art is about these days”.
That may be so… but, if it is, then I think art is in great danger of becoming far too arrogant for its own good. I try to visit every exhibition at the Arnolfini but, sadly, most of them leave me feeling frustrated and irritated by this absolute concentration on art’s conceptual form (and, remember, this exhibition is on for more than THREE months – it finishes 16 March)
Is the Arnolfini trying to educate us into appreciating this type of art?
If so, I think it’s failing.
I suggested that they survey everyone who visited the exhibition (I would feel reasonably confident that less than 5% would say they appreciated or understood the work), but I know they won’t.

Guardian’s art critic Adrian Searle’s review of the exhibition (December 2012) included this: “I am considering writing this in the style of Joelle Tuerlinckx whose work has been baffling me for more than a decade. Attempting to describe the Belgian artist's work, I'll have to keep all the words I've crossed out and put them in a pile to use later, along with all the commas, colons, semicolons and full stops I've dropped. Currently they're all under my desk, sprinkled among the pencil shavings and bottles that litter the floor. What's that length of rope doing there? I must have accidentally carted it home from Tuerlinckx's show at the Arnolfini…

At some point I'll have to paint my desk with white emulsion, then invert my laptop and shake out all the dead skin, hair, biscuit crumbs and dried tears I've somehow shed over the keyboard. All this stuff must mean something, possibly more than the things I commit to the page… Keep going like this and I might become an artist, but probably not, nor will I ever be Tuerlinckx.
I had to have a lie-down on the floor for a bit. Why has she stained a wall upstairs with tea, and prematurely aged some of her own catalogues and posters and gallery hand-outs? Is it to show what things look like when they age? Or that when they age in a museum, they do so differently? Tuerlinckx does such odd things, though there is a logic to them all, even if it is her logic rather than ours. Art that is only a puzzle is boring: solve it and it's over. Tuerlinckx continues to tease because her works resist solution. Mystery remains”.
For me, mystery certainly remains.

Photo: Gallery 1 at the Arnolfini.

PS: the video on the Arnolfini website is quite useful (enthusiastic… and informative to a degree).
PPS: I blogged about the Matti Braun exhibition at the Arnolfini (October 2012) and made similar comments about “inaccessible art”… their response was interesting (see the comment at the end of my October post).
Footnote: As a retired architect and someone who has had a life-long interest in art and design , I’d like to think that I’m NOT a philistine when it comes to art appreciation but I accept that my art preferences might be a little on the conservative side – they would certainly include work by the likes of David Hockney, Peter Blake, JMW Turner, Charles Rennie Mackintosh, Andre Derain, Antony Gormley, Stanley Spencer, Henri Cartier Bresson, Paul Cezanne, Grayson Perry, Dorothea Lange, Alberto Giacometti, Henri Matisse, John Everett Millais, Amedeo Modigliani, Marc Chagall, Katsushika Hokusai, Balthus, Grant Wood, Richard Long, Michelangelo and Rafael to mention just a few.

st kilda… and some more scottish coincidences

Last summer, I posted a blog about a book I’d been reading (“Sea Room” by Adam Nicholson) while on holiday at Drimnin, Scotland. There had been a number of slightly spooky connections/coincidences, including the fact that its author, Adam Nicholson, is married to Sarah Raven (gardener, writer, television presenter). Her brother Andrew Raven had studied with my architectural partner Matthew and later became “factor” of the Ardtornish Estate, Lochaline – just down the road from Drimnin and where (ie. Garden Flat at Ardtornish House) Moira+I plus daughters Ruth, Hannah+Alice had stayed back in the Easter of 1990(!).

What, you might well ask, has all this got to do with St Kilda?
Well, I’ve just read “The Life and Death of St Kilda” by Tom Steel. St Kilda is the remotest of Britain’s offshore islands – lying some 40 miles or so west of Scotland’s Outer Hebrides in the North Atlantic Ocean. People have lived there for over 2,000 years (but the population has never exceeded 200), cut off from the rest of the world. The book tells the moving story of the last St Kildans. In August 1930, the remaining 36 inhabitants were finally persuaded to evacuate the island by the British Government – a decision the community reluctantly accepted due to sickness and the lack of enough able-bodied men to continue working on the land.
When these last islanders, and their few belongings, were transported to the mainland, twenty-seven of them disembarked at Lochaline – having accepted offers of employment on the estate at Ardtornish, Argyll.
Photo: typical men’s morning business “meeting”, St Kilda, 1886.
PS: Up until the mid-1800s, St Kilda’s inhabitants couldn’t read or write; they spoke only Gaelic; they had no knowledge of what was happening beyond their tiny islands; they didn’t know what a tree was (the islands were essentially a small group of towering rocks); the weather was unforgiving; communication with the outside world was virtually non-existent; they had some sheep, dogs and a few cows; although they were surrounded by the ocean, their main staple food is not fish (the waters are often too violent for fishing when they only had fairly primitive boats); they relied on the thriving birdlife for the bulk of their food… they were perhaps the only bird-eating community the world has ever had.
PPS: The irony is that the island’s lack of sustainability only came about after sporadic communications with the mainland had been established in the late nineteenth century/early years of the twentieth century… with occasional visits from tourists and the tentative beginnings of the postal service opened some people’s eyes to what they saw as “opportunities” to leave. Soon, it seemed they had only two choices: leave and survive or remain and perish from hunger, sickness and for lack of enough able-bodied men to continue working on the land, harvest the birds, mend the boats and do other chores “only men can do”. Many of them left willingly, some wanted to remain…

the man who saved bristol harbourside…

You almost certainly won’t have heard of Jerry Hicks.

He died, aged 86, earlier this month but, if you live in Bristol (or are just enthusiastic about the city’s many charms), I thought you might like to know that this man, along with his wife Anne, effectively saved the city’s floating harbour in 1969.
The docks were no longer economically viable and the City Docks Parliamentary Act proposed taking up of large areas by roads crossing the harbour (including an extension of the M32 into the city and, ultimately, linking with the M5), the construction of three bridges to carry motorways and the decking or filling in of parts of the docks themselves so that these could be given over to other uses.
When this became public knowledge, there was an outcry and the Bristol City Docks Group, of which Jerry Hicks was a leading member (he was also an executive member of Bristol Civic Society), was formed to fight the ratification of the Parliamentary act in order to maintain the use of the docks both by smaller vessels – yachts, dinghies and launches – and by tall ships coming up the river and tying-up in the centre of the city.
Strangely, I became aware of the motorway proposals during my last year as an architectural student in 1972/73 – when I was using Bristol as the geographical focus for my final-year thesis. I came across initial plans showing the proposed new motorway routes through the city centre and remember feeling absolutely horrified by what I saw. It was only a week or so later that I realised that these plans had in fact been rejected – thanks to a passionate and vociferous fight by a local campaign group (which obviously included Jerry Hicks).
To many people at the time, the road scheme no doubt made sense – an opportunity to purchase substantial tracks of land at relatively low prices. It was, after all, largely run-down industrial properties and land associated with the docks plus the large sections covered by water (which, of course no one would ever want again!).
I’m afraid it was another case of a city being re-planned by highway engineers (my own home city of Birmingham was another case in point in the 1960s).
These days, I occasionally take sixth form groups of budding urban designers/planners/architects/geographers around the city and highlight how the city has evolved during the course of its history and, particularly, since the final demise of the docks in the early 1970s. Needless to say, as we wander along the vibrant harbourside and try to imagine what MIGHT have been, it seems almost unreal that people could have been so short-sighted.
Thank goodness for visionaries like Jerry Hicks.
Photo: Jerry Hicks on Bristol Harbourside (acknowledgement: The Bristol Post).

dallas buyers club

I went to the Watershed this afternoon to see Jean-Marc Vallee’s film “Dallas Buyers Club” – based on the true story of accidental AIDS activist and homophobe, Ron Woodroof (no doubt with the occasional embellishments from the writers!). Set in 1986, in the early, very scary, days of the AIDS epidemic, the main character (quite brilliantly played by Matthew McConaughey) ends up in hospital following a work accident and discovers he’s HIV positive and that he has 30 days to live. He ends up “researching” alternative treatments (completely against the law and much to the annoyance of the authorities!) with his unlikely, transgender woman business partner Rayon (again, impressively portrayed by Jared Leto) and sets up a club where $400 membership comes with a month’s supply of medication. Needless to say, Woodroof didn’t cram all this activity into his final 30 days - he did manage to extend his life for a little longer…

It’s a brilliant, powerful, brutally-funny, sad, yet beautiful film and I think you should definitely see it if you can… one of the best films I’ve seen over the past six months or so.

inside llewyn davis

I went to the Watershed this afternoon to see the Coen brothers’ latest film “Inside Llewyn Davis”.

Oscar Isaac excellently plays a failing folk singer in 1961 (perhaps a year before Bob Dylan effectively launched a folk revival?) who merely EXISTS by playing at Greenwich Village clubs and sleeping on friends’ sofas. It’s a massively sad (but, at times, also rather funny), beautiful film about Llewyn Davis’s efforts to maintain self-belief and a determination to “succeed” – despite a constant lack of funds, loneliness, any semblance of home or encouragement from people who “count”.
Perhaps “success” was about to come to Llewyn Davis? Who knows…
The film’s theme feels a little like a flagship for all those countless artists, writers, musicians and actors who struggle to make a living… despite their talent.
Hang in there guys… we love you!

three cane whale

I only “discovered” Three Cane Whale a couple of months ago. Last night I attended their concert at the wonderful St George’s in Bristol.

Well, they were stunningly good… their music is quirky, brilliant and simply beautiful.
They’re a multi-instrumental acoustic trio, based in Bristol, with (according to last night’s programme notes) “influences from folk, minimalism and chamber music”.
They’re funny+serious and their music provides a sense of wonder, exuberance and, for me at least(!), a real spiritual quality at times.
I’m their latest, passionate, evangelical fan!
Photo: three cane whale in preparation for their concert last night at St George’s.
PS: please go to their website and listen to a couple of tracks to get a feel for the kind of stuff they play.
PPS: I’ve got their first album (“Three Cane Whale”!) – chosen by Cerys Matthews as one of her “top five modern folk albums” and recorded live in Redland church, Bristol… and I now NEED their second one (“Holts+Hovers”) recorded in a variety of locations in Dorset, Wales, London, Somerset and Bristol – including “churches and chapels, kitchen and hilltops, a greenwood barn and an allotment shed, the top of a Welsh waterfall and the underside of the Cumberland Basin flyover, Bristol”.

january 2014 books

More book stuff (yes, I know... I've obviously got too much time on my hands!):

Fifth Business (Robertson Davies): Our Book Group’s latest book (Moira’s choice): the first book of “The Deptford Trilogy”. It’s the story of the life of the narrator, Dunstan Ramsay and the entire story is told in the form of a letter written by Ramsay on his retirement from teaching and addressed to the school Headmaster (Davies explains that the book's title as a theatrical term, a character essential to the action but not a principal actor). It’s a haunting, magical, closely-woven book… brilliantly conceived and wonderfully written. This was my first Robertson Davies novel and, frankly, it’s taken the book group to make me read this one… and THAT is the beauty of belonging to a book group! Excellent! 
St Ives Artists Companion (Virginia Button): As you probably know, I’m passionate about all things related to St Ives. This excellent short book provides the story of the “St Ives School” – an account of its development through the individual stories of eighteen artists. One of those books that I’ve long wanted to own… thank goodness for Christmas!
Stargazing (Peter Hill): Hill recounts his time when, in 1973, as a nineteen year-old art student-cum-writer/poet, he embarked on a brief career as a lighthouse keeper in the western highlands. It’s a rather beautiful, nostalgic look back to the days of his idealistic youth and a time before all the lighthouses had become automated. This gentle, very funny book gives a powerful insight into the mysterious world of lighthouse keepers – the arduous shifts, endless cups of tea, cooking prowess, dangers, stories and, crucially, the friendships with his fellow keepers.  
After You’d Gone (Maggie O’Farrell): This is only my second Maggie O’Farrell book (it was on our bookshelves… Moira had read it some time ago). I read my first last October as our book group book (Instructions For A Heatwave). This one’s about a love affair and about families; the main character steps into the traffic on a busy London road and is taken to hospital in a coma (that’s not giving anything away – it’s on the book’s cover blurb!). Generally, I’m not a great lover of novels and, frankly, this one can probably be categorised as a “woman’s book”, BUT O’Farrell is a great story-teller and I very much like her writing style. I read it very quickly (the last 150 pages in bed until the early early hours!). The Independent’s reviewer described it as “unputdownable, beautiful written”… and I wouldn’t argue with that.    
The Man From Beijing (Henning Mankell): With “The Killing” and “The Bridge” (not to mention Wallander!) television series, I seem to have become a little obsessed/captivated by Nordic Noir crime stuff recently! I have to say, this book has a chilling, horrific opening – with no less than 19 people brutally murdered in a sleepy Swedish hamlet. It’s about murder and revenge… and seems to be a vehicle for Mankell to voice his concerns about countries (in this case China, but you might apply it elsewhere!) “divided between powerful elites and an underclass locked into its poverty”. Although (proper) critics seem to have been a little harsh, I thought it was a riveting read and I just couldn’t put it down (550 pages or so in 3 days - which, for me, is ridiculous!).

 

12 years a slave

I went along to the Watershed this afternoon to see Steve McQueen’s acclaimed film “12 Years A Slave”. It’s based on a first-hand account of a black, free man (Solomon Northup – brilliantly played by Chiwetel Ejiofor) living in New York in 1841, who was conned, drugged, abducted and sold into slavery in Louisiana. As you might imagine, it’s a powerful, horrendous story of abject cruelty. Even though one is well aware of the evils of slavery of that time, it is nevertheless both embarrassing and shameful to be reminded of the stark, brutal inhumanity that society at large readily accepted. It’s deplorable to think that this was happening only a century before I was born… and that such outrageous instances of man’s appalling treatment of his fellow man has continued… the holocaust, apartheid, the civil rights movement, the battle of the rich against the poor etc etc.

It wasn’t really a film I particularly longed to see but, although this was essentially a US story, for me it was important for its connection with Bristol’s own “slave heritage”.
Yes, it was a VERY good film – brilliantly acted and powerfully told, BUT I actually found it somewhat predictable (sorry!) and frequently felt that I was seeing another version of the “Roots” television series of the late 1970s.

ongoing spiritual journey…

I was confirmed in the Anglican Church over 40 years ago. I’ve been a Christian ever since but throughout this time, like so many people, my own spiritual journey has been a long and winding road - often fruitful and compelling, but frequently bumpy or feeling as if I’m in a cul-de-sac.

At present, I feel as if I’ve come to yet another crossroad on the journey.
At various times over the last few years, I’ve blogged about my meanderings.
I think the time that I felt most “connected” spiritually was during our time as part of the mayBe community of friends when we lived in Oxfordshire - not only did it provide a weekly get-together around a midweek meal (and wine!), but it also gave us with a particular kind of food for our spiritual lives. We very much missed mayBe when we moved to Bristol but, initially at least, the friendly, local parish church provided a suitable, albeit relatively brief, alternative. I’m afraid I gradually found that this church a) failed to provide me with sufficient spiritual “food” or intellectual challenge and b) had changed the style of its services – so much so that I regularly used to come away from a service feeling angry and frustrated. Oh dear!
For a couple of years (whilst still attending our local parish church), I also went along to the Sunday evening meetings of an emerging church/alternative worshipgroup. These were useful (and they were a great set of people) but didn’t really satisfy my needs – or was it just that I was lazy and couldn’t be bothered to get myself out on Sunday evenings!?
Since then, I attended another parish church for a couple of years – beautiful church building, high-quality music and (generally) good sermons – but there was something about its rather cliquey nature and its high church culture that I found disquieting.  
However, when the Church of England voted against allowing women bishops in November 2012, I decided that this essentially marked the end of my time worshipping in the Anglican Church and that I was embarking on a “separate, personal, lonely journey”.
For a time after that, my “religious life” comprised pouring over various books. However, for the past year, I did find a temporary spiritual home (or “harbour” as I came to see it) with the local Quakers meeting. It proved to be a fascinating experience – I certainly enjoyed adapting to the prolonged silences of its “meetings for worship” and also found its attitude towards peace and the environment, in particular, hugely refreshing. However, there were a number of other aspects that I found difficult to accept. One particular issue that I struggled to come to terms with was the following: the “Quaker Way” has roots in Christianity and the teachings of Jesus, but also finds meaning and value in other faiths (eg. Buddhists, Muslims and Jews). Essentially, I’m a Christian but I was fully prepared to accept this in principle… until I learnt that the community now also included “...Non-theist Quakers, Pagan Quakers and Humanist Quakers”. Somehow, my own personal faith couldn’t reconcile itself with a faith that seemed to accept any faith’s (or non-faith’s) colours nailed to its mast (note: re-reading that, I’ve perhaps given a very unfair impression of Quakerism by highlighting this one matter – it has MUCH to commend it in very many ways).
So, I’ve decided to move on once more…
The Iona Community, with its simplicity of worship and its connectedness with the earth, peace, sexuality and the environment is perhaps where I’ve felt most at home spiritually (in addition to my time with the mayBe community in Oxford).
I’m not sure where my journey will take me.
Initially, it will involve further private study and simply waiting/listening/discerning what might be right for my next move.
I’m grateful to very many friends and colleagues who have helped at various stages in my somewhat haphazard journey to date… I suspect I’m going to be relying on their support for many years to come!

whitewash

I posted this on my 7 January 2011 blog – immediately after England’s victory in the final Ashes Test match in Sydney: “I know that things will change and, in due course, England will be rubbish at cricket again but, in the meantime, I'm going to enjoy the moment”.

And so it has proved…
Australia completely outclassed a desperately poor England side to win the series 5-0. I listened to quite a lot of overnight radio coverage of all five test matches and at the end of the third match (the Ashes having been lost), Geoff Boycott described the performance in that particular match along the following lines: “well, I thought the team’s performance in the first two matches was awful and didn’t think it could get any worse… but I was wrong”.
After the fourth Test, Michael Vaughan described the performance as “the worst yet”.
Sadly, after today’s debacle (England were bowled out in their second innings for just 166 in under 32 overs to lose the match by 281 runs), Jonathan Agnew reckoned that the fifth test had been the worst performance… “It's so disappointing to have witnessed that. The fight has gone”!  
I love sport.
I completely accept that there are winners and losers but, even listening to the games on the radio, it felt humiliating… it felt as though the England team (with the exception of perhaps a couple of players) had simply thrown in the towel. There was no fight, no spirit… and THAT was what made it all so depressing.
Photo: from England’s victory in Sydney three years ago!