Madonna and Child with the infant St John the Baptist

 St Sylvester, 31st December, 2023

     It is the final day of the Octave of Christmas, what in Orthodoxy is termed the Apodosis - the 'Leave Taking'; and I thought I'd conclude this little sequence of paintings with this arresting image: 'The Madonna & Child with the infant St John the Baptist' attributed to the Renaissance Florentine Master Sandro Botticelli, (14415-1510).  It currently resides in the Barber Institute in Birmingham.  Sadly the Institute, unlike the Fitzwilliam Museum, does not list provenance online.

    The painting depicts the meeting of the infant Christ with St John the Baptist, a subject that seems to have been continuously popular with artists in the Middle Ages and beyond. It is however an event that is apocryphal but not impossible.  There is a near identical painting that, according to Wiki, is in the Palazzo Pitti collection, though it is not listed in the online gallery collection.  It is the mirror image of the painting in the Barber.  The colour of the Barber painting however seems, to judge by a comparison of photographs on the internet, to be the more sombre.  Both paintings seem a long way from the usual 'sweetness and light' Botticelli style. The extraordinary element lies in the composition which seems to echo depictions of the adult Christ's Deposition from the Cross.  Christ appears as one dead. 

Madonna and Child with Bird

 

      Something rather different today.  A sculpture, 139x95cms, undertaken in glazed terracotta in Renaissance Florence.  It is the creation of the workshop of Giovanni della Robia,(1469-1529), son of the much better know Andrea della Robbia.  Today it is on display in the foyer of the Barber Institute (part of the University of Birmingham) but it was originally made for a monastery (and I have no idea which) located in Castellina nr Florence. I took the photograph way back in 2017 when I made my first visit to the Institute.

     The sculpture is in the form of an aedicule (from the Latin meaning 'little house'), essentially a small shrine.  It is an example of those ways in which Classical Antiquity was adopted and adapted to fit a Christian context.  The term 'tabernacle' might be used today.  The aedicule is of the Corinthian order supported by a winged cherub's head flanked by two cornucopia profusely sprouting foliage, fruit and pine cones.  The profusion is repeated in the sunk panels of the Corinthian pilasters and cornucopia replace the volutes, the 'helices', in the capitals. Indeed the whole 'architecture' of the aedicule is highly decorated, most particularly the frieze of the entablature which echoes the ornamentation of the support with alternating cherub heads and foliage. The cornice is itself is a little simplified, omitting the brackets/modillions (for technical reasons?).

     The visual and devotional heart of the aedicule is a relief sculpture of the Theotokos and the Christ child contained in a thin arch decorated with 'egg and dart'. She placed centrally, Christ to her left. Both are standing - the Virgin Mary is three quarter length, Christ full length.  Both the figures occupy slightly different positions in the 'picture' plain - Christ, who is standing on the 'sill' of the arch is in the foreground, his mother slightly behind, her lower half partially hidden by the architecture. Christ's right hand is raised in blessing, his left hand, which is held above his heart is holding a small bird.

     The work of the della Robbia family has an immediate appeal to the viewer.  I particularly love the tondi, which are used so successfully to decorate the exterior of so many Renaissance buildings in the city and also the dazzling ceiling of the Chapel of the Cardinal of Portugal attached to the north aisle of San Miniato del Monte also in Florence. In the Madonna and Child with Bird, which is so scaled as to suggest a devotional use, I love the freedom with which the Classical language of architecture is handled. 

    Is the bird in the infant Christ's hand, I wonder, a reference to the legend of the infant Jesus making birds from clay and then giving them life?  The story occurs in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas.  The legend later occurs in the Quran and in Medieval Jewish writing.  Although entirely apocryphal it was, like stories from the Proto-Evangelium of James, a very popular subject for Medieval artists.  If it is then it some sort of comment on the work of della Robbia as a sculptor in clay and by extension to work of all artists.

The Virgin of Humility

 

     Today something far removed from yesterday's towering painting. We are back to the Fitzwilliam collection and back in the pre-modern and the Gothic.  That slightly strange, to Northern eyes at least, Gothic of the Italian peninsular, where the Gothic north blends with strong and persistent Classical, Romanesque and, most important in the discussion of this painting, Byzantine traditions.

     What we are looking at here is essentially an icon set within a tabernacle - everything we see is constructed of gessoed, painted and gilded wood.  According to the Fitzwilliam museum it dates from after 1440; the work of Paolo Schiavo.  It is Florentine, but at some point the tabernacle turned up in Pisa.  By 1883 it is known to have been in the collection of the Pisan Giuseppe Tuscanelli.  The tabernacle is a devotional object, but not for personal, private use, but for the use of a lay devotional community - in this case a group of flagellants. In one sense it is a variant of the 'Madonna enthroned' I talked about on Wednesday; the Theotokos and the Christ child are still surrounded by a heavenly court - there are angels in the soffit of the arch, and saints on the piers 'supporting' the arch, four in all. The variation is simply that the Theotokos is seated on the ground; hence the title 'The Virgin of Humility'.  A fitting subject for such a confraternity, which is depicted in the panel below the main panel performing the funeral rite of one of its members. 

     Finally I suppose I ought to say something about these flagellants.  All we need to know is that in the Middle Ages confraternities were very popular, loci of popular lay devotion.  Some very famous Medieval paintings, such as the Rucellai Madonna* by Duccio were commissioned by such confraternities.  The flagellants were simply a more 'extreme' example of such devotional life. They seem to have been a product of the Later, post Black Death, Middle Ages.

* The Rucellai Madonna was commission by the Laudesi confraternity.  They met within the 's' transept of Dominican church of Santa Maria Novella, where they had a chapel.  It has often been said that the painting - tempera on wood - was an altarpiece. I don't think that that is accepted these days. The image - which is extremely large and is essentially, like 'The Virgin of Humility' an icon, though of the 'Panakranta' type - may either have stood in the confraternity's chapel or outside in the transept. After the completion of the nave it may have been moved there, to stand either against one of the piers or upon the rood beam, what in the Italian peninsular was then referred to as the 'Iconostasis' (see: 'The Art and Science of the Church Screen in Medieval Europe', Eds: Spike Bucklow, Richard Marks, & Lucy Wrapson).  The Iconostasis in the Upper Church at Assisi not only supported (centrally) a Crucifix, but icons of St Michael and the Virgin Mary & Christ child of the 'Panakranta' type - the beam is depicted in Giotto's fresco 'The Verification of the Stigmata'.

     When Vasari ruthlessly remodelled the interior of Santa Maria Novella during the Counter-Reformation (the amount of destruction was quite the equal to that done by Protestants) the image was placed in the Rucellai chapel off the 's' transept. Hence its current name.  It was moved out of the church in 1937 and on to display in Uffizi in 1948 (wiki says it was moved to the Uffizi in the 19th century), and denuded of its power thereby. (image from wiki Commons)

Adoration of the Shepherds

 The Holy Innocents, 28th December, 2023

     Just over a hundred years separates today's image - 'The Adoration of the Shepherds', by Philippe de Champaigne (1602-74) in London's Wallace Collection - from yesterday's; and, although perhaps not a fair comparison for they are not of the same genre, the contrast in style and technique could not be greater: lucidity to mystery, hieratic to fluid drama, from an even light to the theatrical disposition of light and darkness. It is, paradoxically, both a maximalist and minimalist work - by minimalist I mean the ruthless expurging of extraneous detail. As in all Baroque art, all is subsumed into a whole that is designed to elicit, to excite, an emotional response in the viewer. While in yesterday's painting the subjects were either deep in contemplation or addressing the viewer, here the figures are completely oblivious to the observer being entirely caught up in the communal moment when the shepherds are brought into the divine presence.

     According to The Wallace Collection website The Adoration was painted c1645. It is a large work, some 260x160cms, commissioned, perhaps, for Abbey of Notre Dame de Quincy, where it is tempting to think it formed part of an altarpiece.

     Altarpiece, or not, the whole thing, I think, can be read as an allegory of the Eucharist, or rather the Eucharist as it was understood in the Western catholic church in the early years of the seventeenth century.  The shepherds, who can be thought of as the Faithful, have brought a lamb, a bound lamb pointing to Christ's passion and death, as an offering to the infant Christ. It lies upon the floor of the cave.  Christ is the Lamb of God. The Virgin Mary stands as a 'type' of the church presenting to the faithful the incarnate God for adoration, just as the church, in the person of the priest, in the elevation of the consecrated species, presents the faithful the risen body & blood for adoration.  It was at that moment of adoration that the altarpiece and the liturgical action below it became one and time was collapsed.

Virgin and Child between St John the Baptist and St Onufrius

 St John the Divine, 27th December, 2023

      During what remains of the Octave of the Nativity I thought I'd post some images of paintings that have caught my eye and are relevant to the season.  

     Today, on the feast of St John the Divine, I thought I'd share with you another photo I took on my last visit to the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge at the end of November: 'Virgin and Child between St John the Baptist and St Onufrius'.  It measures approx 150x130cms which suggests to me, at least, that it was intended for a liturgical use and setting (such as an altarpiece within a church or chapel) rather than for domestic, devotional use - an object to exist in the public, or semi-public realm not the private one, but all of this is merely supposition, for we actually know very little about this object. The name of the artist is itself unknown to us at present, though at one time it was attributed to one Cristoforo Scacco. Perhaps the identity of the artist will never now be known. The painting, which I presume is painted on wood, is attributed vaguely to the 'Neopolitan School' - that is it was painted, c1507, in Southern Italy, in what was then part of the Spanish Empire.  The Fitzwilliam Museum website gives its provenance - a sort of secular equivalent to a 'catena patrum'. The earliest entry dates from c 1821, when the painting was purchased for the Museo Reale in Naples from an unknown source in Gaeta, a city north of Naples in Lazio.  What stylistic or technical reasons for a 'Neopolitan' attribution are, I don't know.

     The influence of Florentine art, however, is obvious; the figures of the Theotokos and the Christ child in particular remind me of the work of Sandro Botticelli (1445-1510).  There is perhaps, also a Northern Gothic influence at play.  A balance between naturalism and the graphic, between nascent Modernity and the pre-Modern as exemplified by the twisting ribbon at the head of St John the Baptist's staff. 

    The composition, however, has origins that are much older. Right back to Late Antiquity and the formation of Christian Art.  It follows a type usually referred to as the 'Panakranta' or 'Madonna Enthroned', which must, I feel, owe something to Imperial iconography. One of the earliest examples of this type or genre, comes from an icon (done in encaustic) from St Catherine's monastery in the Sinai, in which the Theotokos is sat enthroned like a Late Roman Empress, with the Christ child placed upon her lap. They are surrounded as it were by her court officials - here saints and angels.  The positions of the two saints - St John the Baptist and the Egyptian Desert Hermit St Onufrius - echoes (in a less hieratic manner) the positions of the original saint attendants (St George & St Theodore).  I'm not at all sure this qualifies as a sacra conversazione as the dramatis personae seem caught up in their own thoughts, in addition St John the Baptist looks out of the picture to his right (our left) while pointing with is right hand to the infant Christ. It is as though he is addressing an unseen spectator. I cannot but speculate that St John's pose is related to the position of the painting in the space it was intended to occupy.

Seasons Greetings

St Stephen, 26th December, 2023

 Wishing you all

where ever you may be

a

very

 Merry Christmas

and a

 prosperous and peaceful

 New Year

God bless us everyone!

Nativity attributed to Domenico Ghirlandaio in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

Two Exhibitions

     Thursday was spent in London, in Mayfair and St James's.  I took in two exhibitions; one a planned visit and the second a happy happenstance. 

     First then off to the RA and, having braved the rather officious woman at the desk, the 'Impressionists on Paper: Degas to Toulouse-Lautrec' exhibition.  This, it has to be said, a slightly misleading title as the hanging did not begin and end with either.  It ended, if I remember rightly, with the Symbolists, or was it perhaps Cezanne? I can't rightly remember. Maybe it was the chest infection that I was incubating, but to be truthful there was a lot of work on display that has completely eluded my recollection. And here I have to confess that Impressionism does not do much for me. I mean it's pleasant enough, the oil paintings and all that, but 'is that all there is?' I always go to this sort of exhibition in the hope that I'll get it, and this particularly exhibition - which in this week's Speccie is described as a 'once-in-a-lifetime show' - sadly, did little to alter my opinion. It really must be me then.
     So what do I remember actually remember? Well, there were a number of studies of dancers by Degas - obligatory, really - some rather brooding studies by Seurat and a couple of fine portraits; a Renoir - rather sugary, perhaps, but a wonderful lesson in the use of pastel and one, all piss and vinegar, by Toulouse-Lautrec.
     And, oh, there were also a couple of watercolours by Pissarro. Alas. I've encountered his watercolours before at the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge way back in 2015. I'm never quite sure why they're ever displayed as they really are quite dreadful.  His talents obviously lay elsewhere.  Cezanne's 'Flowerpots on the Terrace of the Artist's Studio at Les Lauves' is a watercolour on a completely different level.
     Afterwards I went to the RA Grand Cafe, which is a space I rather love. Designed by the great Richard Norman Shaw (1831-1912), it still appears fresh and original today. In addition room is decorated with large paintings by RA members.

     I then had a wander around that net work of streets behind the RA, popping into Messums on Cork St. where there were some wonderful ceramics by Makoto Kagoshima were on display. I crossed Piccadilly for shopping and quite by accident found 'One Hundred Drawings and Watercolours from the eighteenth to the 21st centuries' curated by Freya Mitton, Guy Peppiatt and Harry Moore-Gwyn. Much more to my liking than the RA exhibition what with work by Mark Hearld, John Sell Cotman, John Nash, John Piper, Charles Rennie Mackintosh, Keith Vaughan, Barbara Jones, Barnett Freedman, Robert Taverner and Edward Bawden. My cup did overflow.

Cambridge

      A welcome return, on Wednesday, to one of my favourite cities, Cambridge in East Anglia, that area of England I feel most at home. And what a cold day it was - brilliant winter sunshine, fields grey with frost and pavements slippery underfoot in the city. How I missed it all.  It had been two years since I visited the city last and some six years since I set foot in that eminently civilised space, the Fitzwilliam Museum.  It was a slightly emotional day. Be that as it may here are some photos I took on my peregrinations.

     Lunch at 'Yo! Sushi', which I was quite looking forward to, was a terrible disappointment.

     Back in London it was the Christmas Shopping Event in Lamb's Conduit St.  I was good and stayed my hand.  Tempted though I was by the wonderful things for sale in the current pop-up shop at Pentreath and Hall, 'The Willow Man' - aka Bruce Sansom - 'basket maker based in the Scottish Borders'.  His work is delightful - baskets for shopping, laundry, fishing and logs - all very architectural and beautifully made. You can find his website here, and it is well worth a perusal. 

     Pentreath and Hall have been busy themselves.  The original shop in Rugby St has pupped and a new branch has opened just around the corner in Lamb's Conduit St.

London

Kanst du das Land, wo zitronen bluhn,
Im dunklen laub die goldorangen gluhn,

Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen himmel weht, 

Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer stedt?

     To London last week and a busy schedule; two parties, a couple of exhibitions and a trip to Cambridge - but more of that in a later post. And all the time, unfortunately incubating a chest infection.

     I was actually in London for the Traditional Architecture Group Awards, held, as usual, at the Art Workers Guild in Bloomsbury. Two speeches were made that evening that were both a bit above the ordinary; the first from Ben Pentreath and the other by the winner of the Life Time Achievement Award, Craig Hamilton.  
     Ben made a tangential reference to our current cultural difficulties by reference, correctly, to Mao's Cultural Revolution.  Mention was made of the 'Four Olds' that were the  targets of the revolutionary mobs - old ideas, old culture, old customs, old habits. He acknowledged that the older he grew the greater his attachment to the the four olds grew. It was both a warning of things to come in the short term and a rallying point & call to action. A more optimistic speech, perhaps, than my brief description suggests.

     Craig Hamilton's speech was brief - one felt that he found public speaking a bit of a task. Modest too, even humble. What he did do however, much to my pleasure, was quote from Goethe - the quotation at the top of this post. It translates as follows:

Do you know the land where the lemon flowers,

In dark leaves the golden oranges glow,

a soft wind blows the from pure blue sky,

The Myrtle still, and the laurel tree high?

     It is a poem of longing for the south and, by extension, the Classical past. It reminds me of the trips south made by the British Gothic Revival architect Sir Ninian Comper. It was, and I can't emphasize this enough, so good to hear a serious writer, or thinker quoted publicly in a speech.  All too often these days, and especially amongst politicians, it is a rare thing.  One wants a bit more heft. Is that really too much to ask for?

St Nicholas, Swansea

     Down to the old docks and the rather charming little church dedicated to St Nicholas, the patron saint of travelers. I walked from the station down High St, Castle Square and Wynd St., before crossing a dual carriageway - the noisome A4067 - to what was once the political and mercantile hub of the city. It is now a backwater.  Wynd St is about the most architecturally interesting street left in the city. It was once the commercial hub of city with any number of banks. It is now the hub of the city's 'night-time economy' and it is looking very down at heal. One building in particular looking ready to shed quantities of cornice down onto the street below. 

     The church was built in 1868 as part of the mission to seamen. The architect was Benjamin Bucknall (1833-95), the architect of the extraordinary, but unfinished, Woodchester Park.  He was also architect of Swansea Grammar School.  It was Benjamin's nephew William who was business partner of Sir John Ninian Comper qv.  St Nicholas's is a simple bi-cameral church in the Neo-Norman style, and I rather like it. Partly because it is so unexpected, like a little village church fell asleep one day, woke up and found itself by a vast, often ugly, city. It is now the 'Mission Gallery'.  The apse, as is fitting, is the best bit.

     The church stands at the end s end of Gloucester Place; on the west side of the street is rather fine but austere terrace. They look as though they've popped over from Ireland. These few streets between the docks and the A4067 (what is now called the Maritime Quarter) are really the only area of the city where any real numbers of Georgian houses are left - though are suspect one or two more are to be found lurking behind later facades on the High St.

Against the 'Crit'

     I see that a new book has recently been published by Future Cities Project and the Machine Press entitled 'Five Critical Essays on the Crit'.  The 'crit' is the current method of evaluating a students work in schools of art and architecture.  It simply consists of a student presenting their work to a selection of tutors and to their fellow students.
     I have to be honest here and say I have an oar in the boat here, so what I have to say is very likely biased.  I have experienced the 'crit' and not only was it an ultimately boring* and futile way to spend time in which nothing is learnt (except conformity), it was for me deeply humiliating. My experience at the then Kingston Polytechnic School of Architecture in the mid to late 80s was at times dreadful. On one occasion a visiting tutor histrionically declared she would never trust another word I said; on another I was called a 'fascist'.  This was because I attempting to design classical buildings. It was all too much like the bullying I suffered at school, except this time it was by the 'adults in the room', the so-called 'professional' class.  I was deeply unhappy, isolated and struggling and  eventually I dropped out. And I am left with the feeling that 'they' got what they wanted.  At times I still feel deeply embittered by this.  It is unlikely that my experience was an isolated phenomena: the 2020 Howlett Brown Report described The Bartlet School of Architecture as 'an environment that seems to have embraced a culture of criticism and degradation of students'.

     For me there are a number of ways in which the crit fails: firstly it is a poor, and lazy, way of improving students' communication skills, and, as so often happens in our society, emboldens the the vulgar, the philistine, those who shout loudest and silences the thoughtful, the shy, the sensitive. 
     Mor importantly the 'crit' prioritises - in fashionable discourse it 'privileges' - the verbal over the visual; failing, thereby, at a fundamental level to understand the creative process (which is often intuitive and unconscious) and the nature of architecture itself.  I would go as far as to argue that this failure of  comprehension, which ultimately is failure of utility and appropriateness, has actually undermined, if not subverted, not only the whole creative process but architecture as a unique art form.  No piece of architecture is ever experienced through the mediation of language.  And it is misleading and dangerous to attempt it.  Architecture is its own language.  It has been likened to frozen music, and this is fitting, for they both exist first and foremost in the worlds of the senses and the spirit.  They exist in the the Seen and the Unseen, and they highlight the limitations of language.
     As I very briefly mentioned above 'crit' is essentially a means of control. A lot is said recently, rightly, about the ideological capture of institutions, but the truth is that for the last seventy years or so the Schools of Architecture in the UK have been 'colonised' by doctrinaire Modernism.  The crit, with its implicit threat of social shaming, is a method of enforcing ideological submission to Modernism - the Soft Modernity version of the Maoist Hard Modernity 'Struggle Session'. After all, who would want to be humiliated in front of their peers? 
      Ultimately the crit is a deeply corrupting process, a blunt instrument, that damages all involved in the process not just those on the receiving end but those with the power. So much so that I don't believe it can be left safely in anybody's hands, especially the back biting world of academics or professional architects with all their jealousies and in-fighting - even if they are on the side of the angels. It is an open door to misuse, to bullying, to the worst of human nature.

     Time it was abolished

* In my experience students tend to drift away during the course of a crit; come the afternoon of the final day there's usually only a handful left. And who can blame them?

Clyne Chapel I

      A little trip out today across the Infernal City to Clyne Chapel and two cancelled buses. The poor woman standing in front of me at the bus stop had had to wait 40 minutes for a bus to finally arrive. Disappointment continued for the chapel itself was locked. 
     The chapel is quite an eccentric little building. It sits all tucked away on what was once the Clyne Castle estate. The castle is now part of the university and the gardens are owned and managed by the city council.  The castle, originally Woodlands Castle and which dates in part to the late 18th century, was added to the portfolio of Vivian buildings in 1860 by William Graham Vivian, 2nd son of John Henry Vivian the industrialist and MP. The Vivians, who were originally from Cornwall, were among the richest of the city's copper magnates.

     W G appears to have fancied himself as a bit of an architect and has been suggested as architect of the chapel, which built in 1907 in a rather mid-Victorian Gothic Revival affair but somewhat spiced up with somewhat willful, if not in places, strange detailing, such as the oversized cresting on the exterior of the chancel.  Some parts of it are better than others, and there is a general heaviness to the design that reminds me of the church architecture of Late Medieval Scotland.  The only interior space I could access was the porch - in one respect pretty conventional except for the details of the capitals flanking the inner door and the eccentric presence of two slightly hermaphrodite looking herms guarding the outer door.  Where are they from, I wonder.  And what is their date? The eccentricity apart what is noticeable throughout is the quality of the workmanship. The Buildings of Wales volume on Glamorgan says that the church was intended to be both parish church and Vivian burial place. To supercede the Vivian Chapel at St Paul, Sketty?

Decolonisation and the Arts

     The response to the utterly horrific events in Israel have, for me, brought into sharp focus the subject of Decolonisation and its troubling  relationship to the arts. 

     Here in Britain in last couple of years we have seen a number of institutions* - collections such as 'The Wellcome Trust' and 'The Pitt Rivers Museum' in Oxford; universities and even the odd Anglican cathedral, for example Chester - embrace 'Decolonialism'.  Only this week 'The British Medical Journal' (aka 'The BMJ') proclaimed on its cover: 'Decolonisation: Why Medicine Needs to be Rebuilt', with the image of  wrecking ball at work. I presume that was meant to unironic, for as Colin Wright tweeted in response:

 

     "Make no mistake, "decolonization" ideology destroys everything it touches. That's the point. In that regard, the wrecking ball imagery is appropriate. However, don't be deluded into believing they have the ability to build anything even remotely functional in its place."

      All of this is part of a wider anti-intellectual movement that, usually referred to as 'woke', that includes greater control, greater censorship and greater puritanism that for an artist such as myself who values his independence it is deeply disturbing.  For this ideology has no use for beauty, no use for the sensuality of mark and surface. Everything is reduced ad absurdum to power and its distribution, and in particular with the concept of 'whiteness'.  Art is itself reduced to the utilitarian status of tool, either of oppression or liberation. It is to be allowed to continue, but with no other role but slavery to the political.  Either way, it is denied both its liberty and its life.  And the art that surrounds us must be humiliated, systematically stripped of its emotive power. The consequence for creativity will be disastrous.
     What lies at the very heart of this attitude to the arts, and which wokeism shares with all other forms of authoritarism, is fear.  The fear of its potency; the fear of its essential 'irrationality'.  The fear of its other aspects such as the formal, the spiritual or the sensual, those enemies of the cause.  It is feared because it cannot simply be trusted.  It will lead astray from the path of purity. For art, in all its myriad forms talks to us in a manner that is beyond words, beyond control. And words, for the whole 'woke' thing, are core.  As the American critic and feminist Camille Paglia has argued for years since the advent of Post-Structuralism language has been privileged over other forms of artistic production, and that leaves little or no place for the unconscious and the intuitive, both of which, I would argue, are essential to creativity. It is not how art is produced or, for that matter, experienced; sculptors or dancers, for instance do not mediate their work through written/spoken language.  The sculpture or the dance is the language - and both communicate things that are beyond the power of  the written or spoken word. 

     And that is the great problem the 'woke', particularly in respect to the arts, it un-natures, un-selves us.  It is a form of Gnosticism, yet another attempt to fill the vacuum created by the death of God with a grand theory of everything that times feels like a conspiracy theory than something with any real intellectual heft. But then perhaps it's not much of a leap from believing that that strange double portrait 'The Cholmondeley Ladies' that hangs in Tate Britain is 'secretly' about whiteness to believing, a la Hamas, that Jews 'secretly' control, amongst a myriad of other things, the world's banks, or that (18/12/23) the fashion chain Zara was trolling the Palestinians of the Gaza Strip in their latest fashion campaign.
      

     While these institutions have been busy practising 'Soft Modernity' the hard stuff, brought to us by a marriage of Islamism and the Extreme Left has been available in the aftermath of the terrorist attack of Oct 9th for all to see. (The divorce, when it comes as it inevitably will, is going to be interesting.) If anything good can come from this terrible mess it that the mask is off and 'Decolonism' has been revealed in all its bloody glory.  The following have been taken from 'X' a week after the events of Oct 7th.
     This golden nugget is from Najma Sharif, a Somali/American writer based, apparently, in the digital world, who does a lot of 'centring' and who thought she could limit those who could see her tweet. Well, there are ways round that!

     "what did y'all think decolonization meant? vibes? papers? essays? losers."

     And this from Sana Saeed, she writes for AJ+, I think, and has taken it upon herself to write for the powerless or something heroic like that. She does bother with capitals either. Talk about edgy!

     "decolonization has never and will never happen in the halls of academia - decolonization is this: the ripping down of walls and taking your freedom by any means necessary. hope all ‘decolonial’ academics who feel uneasy today continue to feel that way."

     Ah yes, any means necessary ie. the raping of women (I presume - and one really shouldn't - that Sana considers herself a feminist) and the killing of children. 

     And here is yet another one of these bourgeois revolutionaries. I give you Jairo I Funes-florez, an academic in Houston, Texas:

'Decolonization is about dreaming and fighting for a present and future free of occupied Indigenous territories. It’s about a Free Palestine. It’s about liberation and self-determination. It’s about living with dignity. DECOLONIZATION IS NOT A METAPHOR'

Indeed it is not, as the events of these last few days have shown. Not only is it the attempted immasculation of the arts, but far more worryingly it is the dehumanisation of those groups who do not fit neatly into their grievance structure - and this comes from people who would be loudly opposed to 'othering'. It is the rape of women; the abduction of, amongst others, children; the desecration of the dead, and it is genocidal violence.  This is the reality of Decolonisation.   It is all that is condemned in Colonialism and more, because it is essentially nihilistic.  Born of disenchantment it will not liberate us or re-enchant the world merely further our alienation.  All we will be left with are ashes. And yet our institutions are happy to go along with this shit.

*Not that we should really be that surprised - a lot of this stuff has been floating around academia for decades now. 

Autumn at Aberglasney

     A morning of luminous pallid sunshine here at Aberglasney Gardens, quite beautiful in a quiet slightly melancholic manner, and very northern. So I seized the opportunity to dash around before opening to take some photographs.