Calm away from the Cold...

The desire to hibernate has got the better of me this year, and I cannot wait to get back to the warmth and calm of home - or my favourite haunts offering those creature comforts and above all the essential element in the mix; actual creatures in the form of cats!

When I travel, cats are somewhat rather few and far between - certainly in the winter months - so I turn to coffee shops to give me an alternative fix - typically of cafeine and coziness.

This time, the beautiful flowers of Spring in the café windows in Penzance were the perfect antidote to the bitter cold outside and just looking at them even now makes me feel calm, though the fact that I have returned home to my cats does help towards that general feeling of well-being!

Butterflies and Beauty from your Fingertips...

Walking home last night, the fading light behind the strangely pollarded trees outlined the spidery boughs with the silhouettes of their spear-like branches and forceful buds, fighting against the cold in order to burst out for Spring. This reminded me again of the painted fairy-tale scene that my aunt had worked on about 70 years ago. While the image itself is quite intriguing, with its eerie atmosphere as the delicate dancer performs her arabesque - her features so similar to a Aubrey Beardsley drawing - the volume of her gown mesmerizes and draws you in as the lustrous crumpled satin catches the light and makes it glow.

That magical iridescence is of course from the butterfly-wing background that creates a mesmerizing effect unlike any other. Although I would not wish to endorse the trade in mounted butterflies and insects, I did recently acquire a beautiful framed Morpho 'Menelaus' at a local antique market using the flawed reasoning that as I did not buy this specimen first-hand from a shop, my act is not quite as condemnable. Its bright blue wings, bordered in black like the framed picture, catch all and any light, giving a strange metalic sheen and density to their papery substance in a almost contradictory way.

Meanwhile, my aunt recently showed me some of her other work that pre-dates the butterfly piece, when she was just 18; watercolour and oil paint miniatures set in a gold pendant and a brooch.

One is a Pompadour courtesan in her flowery finery - with features quite like those of the butterfly dancer - and then the other, based on a Gainsborough lady, dressed in her flowing dress as a dog prances at her feet in the English countryside. Even after all these years, the delicate paintings are still intact, even though the watercolour has flaked a little. These reminded me of the Elizabethan portrait miniatures, one of which can be seen on this beautiful painting that I happened to see this weekend at the Tate gallery in London.

And so what has my aunt been doing over the decades? Well, she has continued to produce beautiful art that has been exhibited in galleries in Birmingham and London, although perhaps her moment of glory was shortly before her 90th birthday... Her version of Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring - Bubby the dog - led to her acceptance in the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy. Just goes to show, there is no age for creating beauty - it is in the eyes and fingertips!

Tightrope Tales from Brum and Beyond....

In 1992 the statue of a famous character was erected on the busy Ladywood ring road in Birmingham, England. Having passed by this figure many times, I just assumed it was a quirky but obscure reference to Cervantes’ Don Quixote but never quite understood what the eccentric Spaniard, complete with lance but minus his side-kick, Sancho Panza had to do with Brum.

Well, following a recent walk around the nearby Edgbaston Reservoir I finally discovered that Don Quixote had never actually tilted at windmills in the Midlands at all, and therefore the odd figure balanced between the lines of relentless rush-hour traffic is someone entirely different, albeit unique in his own way too.

It is Charles Blondin, the infamous tightrope artist, who tiptoes above the traffic at Ladywood, to mark a momentous crossing he had made across the reservoir waters in 1873, 150 years past. Little did I know this, however, as I stepped along the Reservoir’s grassy expanses surrounding the water in search of snowdrops and crocuses!

Almost two hundred years ago in February 1824, a certain Jean-François Gravelet was born into a family of acrobats in the Pas de Calais region of Northern France with performance skills in his very blood. By the time he was orphaned at the age of 10, he had already earned the stage names Le Petit Prodige and La Petite Merveille, having been enrolled in the Ecole de Gymnase in Lyon at 6 years old.

Needing to support himself, he commenced work as a performer – an aerialist acrobat, specializing in the tight rope skills - and made his way around provincial France. Travelling to the New World, he hoped to find new opportunities in mid-century America and at one point he even performed in New York City as part of Phineas Taylor Barnum’s Greatest Show on Earth. He went on to tour the States with the Ravel acrobat troupe, shortly after adopting his stage name ‘Charles Blondin’, partially due to his golden hair.

During one tour in 1858, he was stunned by the natural wonder of Niagara Falls and so was born his obsession to cross this vast abyss as a hitherto-never-performed stunt. Despite opposition from officials, duly concerned by the safety practicalities (non-existant), Blondin performed his legendary walk the following year. Although it had taken 5 months to prepare the rope and guy lines, Blondin made his way across the treacherous falls in less than 20 minutes and then retraced his light-footed steps back in under 10! Thousands of spectators watched on in disbelief and with bated breath as the diminutive Blondin became a living legend.

Eager to prove that he was no one-trick pony, he then upped his public display by incorporating other stunts into his performance, wherever he went and relished the opportunity to do so. Thus, he would walk blindfolded, on stilts, pushing a wheelbarrow, taking photographs, cooking an omelette mid-course, generally having transported the cumbersome equipment on his back… and of course carrying his manager likewise!

The Great Blondin had naturally gained international acclaim overnight as The Daredevel Wire Walker yet often the tightrope used was made of Manila hemp, hence giving him another rather exotic title as the Prince of Manila. Due to the vast earnings garnered by his unparalleled feats, Blondin set up home near London in an Ealing home fittingly named Niagara Villa.

For all his financial ease, Blondin manifestly thrived on dares and adrenalin and continued to perform across England. The Prince of Wales requested that he carry out a dramatic stunt at the Crystal Palace in 1861 and Blondin duly obeyed, adding to his already breath-taking act by pushing his young daughter along the highwire in a wheelbarrow as she dropped rose petals on the mesmerized crowds below. Such was the shock and outrage caused that Blondin had to desist using this particular touch on order from the Home secretary.

Charles Dickens rightly and wrily observed that "Half of London is here eager for some dreadful accident." On another occasion in Liverpool, the audience almost got what they most dreaded and desired in equal measure when a wheelbarrow transporting a lion (live, needless to say), entangled itself in a guy rope. Incredibly, the beast and Blondin survived this exploit and he went on to perform many others – such as high-wire somersaults and a bicycle ride stunt. Even with age, it seems that little deterred this old dog from learning new tricks, leading him to deliver acts well into his sixties. He died of a diabetes-related illness in February 1897, with his last performance at 72, the previous year…

A Boar's Maw...

One curious image that I had kept of a piece of art seen in my childhood, but retained only as an unidentified haze in my mind, finally turned out to be that of a Medieval illumination. Delighted to come across the intriguing picture again - some fifty years after initially seeing it a child – I was able to learn of its significance in the Middle Ages. It is an odd scene – I recalled staring at the dark boar with its powerful jaws bearing down on the trunk of a tree whilst a curious character perches at the very top, his funny claw-toed feet pointing down. Looking at it today, this unsettling mix of menace and melodrama creates an almost sinister effect, albeit a little comic.

In fact, this was one of the illuminated pages from the 14th century treatise on hunting Le livre du Roy Modus et de la Royne Racio (1354–1376), attributed to Henri de Ferrières. King Modus (referring to ‘good practice’) enters into discussion with various individuals about the nature of animals and the manner in which they should be hunted whilst Queen Ratio (‘reason’) explains how animals behave. Such was the importance of hunting in Medieval times that studies were devoted to its art so that its rituals could be observed and honoured in the correct manner. The precise terminology, and rich symbolism and ceremony of the hunt were expounded in Le Livre de Roy Modus which often acted as the reference to subsequent works such as Livre de Chasse (1387–1389) by Gaston III Phėbus, Comte de Foix.

Far more than a mere bawdy and boorish sport, hunting was thought to represent idealized noble virtues that it brought to the fore. In times of peace, the hunt not only enabled knights to practice and perfect their martial skills to fight for king and country, it also presented royalty and nobility alike with an honourable passtime of sophistication, skill and great finery. In some respects, it was almost on a par with the ceremonial acts of worship, with the chase and kill seen as rituals of redemption and purification, offering the huntsman the tantalizing promise of paradise. Hunting was likewise associated with courtly love – fin amor – expressed in the troubadours’ poetic music that developed the notion of chilvaric romance in 12th century southern France before spreading far further afield. Indeed, love and courtship followed the same stages as hunting – pursuit, struggle and conquest – with purity and virtue reflected in the deeds of the Medieval knights of valour just as they were in the mythological figure of Diana the huntress, goddess of the moon.

Through Medieval bestiaries most creatures were given symbolic importance, often representing religious sins, vices or virtues, and hence hunting could be seen as an act of faith. Deer-hunting was the most noble form of the art as the stag – preferably a white hart –lauded as a symbol of Christ Himself, pitted against the Satanic serpent that it would readily track down and trample. As the stag represented the words of Jesus and heralded Christian virtues, you might well wonder why it would then be deemed appropriate to slay it, but bloodshed was indeed an essential rite in the proceedings. A perhaps more ‘suitable’ quarry, on polar opposites to the virtuous stag was the beastly boar which fell into the same category as other ‘beste noire’ creatures of ‘stinking feet’; the bear, wolf and otter, according to Queen Ratio in de Ferrières’ treatise,. The good queen indeed listed a number of the boar’s base characteristics; black and bristly, raging and rampant, proud and petulant, low and lawless, fearless and ferocious. At best, it was a brutish yet brave beast, ready to stand its ground and defend it to the last with its dagger-like tusks and formidable force. At the worst, the boar was taken to be an anti-Christ, or at least its mouthpiece, spewing evil words to exhort sin, so much so that after death, its tongue had to be pierced with a sword and its heart and entrails burnt rather buried or fed to the hounds.

Unlike the noble stag that could be pursued and shot at with arrows before being dealt a final blow to the neck, the boar had to be charged at head on, if possible. Rather than immobilizing the boar with a lance wielded like a jousting weapon, from a height (horseback) or hurled from a safe distance, it had to be struck with a special sword, thus demonstrating great mastery and even greater courage. The boar would thrash and thrust at hounds, huntsmen and horse alike, its tusks fully capable of killing pursuers and tormentors in the ensuing struggle of literally epic proportion until finally incapacitated. The poor much-maligned boar – not much has changed over the centuries! At least what passed for the defiant ‘pride’ of the unrepentant boar in Medieval times had been lauded as commendable bravery in early Anglo-Saxon culture where pagan gods and spirits were worshipped. The image or form of a bellicose boar would often feature on helmets or battle weapons, offering sacred protection to warriors such as Beowulf, leading them to hold their ground and fight to the end…

On my illuminated boar, the usually voracious, ferocious gaping mouth – known as the maw – appears slightly comic as it casually closes around the spindly trunk of sapling tree bearing a rather underwhelming anti-Christ. The latter looks on, the whites of his widened eyes glinting in contrast to the dark, stark talons on his hands and feet and the spikes on his crown. Although unable to understand his full role here, I am quite content just to have tracked down this particular beast after all these years. What did the illuminator intend centuries ago, I wonder? Why was the anti-Christ boar trying to dislodge this hapless Anti-Christ?

Just by chance I happened to see a boar attack in the 1994 film, La Reine Margot by Patrice Chéreau whilst trying to track down scenes filmed in l'Ancien Collège des Jésuites in Reims (today Sciences Po)... This was an adaptation of the novel of the same name by Alexandre Dumas père, dealing with the life of Marguerite de Valois, entwined with the French Wars of Religion, leading to the Massacre de la Saint-Barthélemy of 1572 with the slaughter of the Huguenots (French Calvinist Protestants). In both novel and film, king Charles IX is turned on by a boar during the Royal hunt...

« Les dogues ! cria Charles, les dogues !... » A ce cri, le piqueur ouvrit les porte-mousquetons des laisses, et les deux molosses se ruèrent au milieu du carnage, renversant tout, écartant tout, se frayant avec leurs cottes de fer un chemin jusqu'à l'animal, qu'ils saisirent chacun par une oreille. Le sanglier, se sentant coiffé, fit claquer ses dents à la fois de rage et de douleur. « Bravo ! Duredent ! bravo ! Risquetout ! cria Charles. Courage, les chiens ! Un épieu ! un épieu ! - Vous ne voulez pas mon arquebuse ? dit le duc d'Alençon. - Non, cria le roi, non, on ne sent pas entrer la balle ; il n'y a pas de plaisir ; tandis qu'on sent entrer l'épieu. Un épieu ! un épieu ! » on présenta au roi un épieu de chasse durci au feu et armé d'une pointe de fer. « Mon frère, prenez garde ! cria Marguerite. - Sus ! sus ! cria la duchesse de Nevers. Ne le manquez pas, Sire ! Un bon coup à ce parpaillot ! - Soyez tranquille, duchesse ! » dit Charles. Et, mettant son épieu en arrêt, il fondit sur le sanglier, qui, tenu par les deux chiens, ne put éviter le coup. Cependant, à la vue de l'épieu luisant, il fit un mouvement de côté, et l'arme, au lieu de pénétrer dans la poitrine, glissa sur l'épaule et alla s'émousser sur la roche contre laquelle l'animal était acculé. « Mille noms d'un diable ! cria le roi, je l'ai manqué... Un épieu ! un épieu ! » Et, se reculant comme faisaient les chevaliers lorsqu'ils prenaient du champ, il jeta à dix pas de lui son épieu hors de service. Un piqueur s'avança pour lui en offrir un autre. Mais au même moment, comme s'il eût prévu le sort qui l'attendait et qu'il eût voulu s'y soustraire, le sanglier, par un violent effort, arracha aux dents des molosses ses deux oreilles déchirées, et, les yeux sanglants, hérissé, hideux, l'haleine bruyante comme un soufflet de forge, faisant claquer ses dents l'une contre l'autre, il s'élança la tête basse, vers le cheval du roi.

Sunrise and Sea...

Whenever 'home', I instinctively know that whatever the weather, the view over Mount's Bay will be so spectacular that I am beauty-bound to walk along the path over to Marazion to see St Michael's Mount, or at least the Causeway leading across...

And indeed, just as these incredible atmospheric seascapes never fail, nor do the extremes in weather! Blustery wind of varying force, from playful gusts to the tyrannical gales, mean that any umbrella will be snatched away, upturned and ineffectual against any rain.

However, on this latest visit, the sun was out at the very start of this new year and the light flooded across the bay and beach, just as the waves gently washed over the beautiful old granite slabs that make up that incredible causeway.

And as the tide went out, and the sun rose further, the shadows shifted, stretching and spreading, sending out ghostly silhouettes which somehow seemed appropriate as once I had left 'home' again, to return to where I now live, the whole trip seemed like a dream!

Song of the Flower...

I am a kind word uttered and repeated by the voice of Nature; I am a star fallen from the blue tent upon the green carpet. I am the daughter of the elements with whom Winter conceived; to whom Spring gave birth; I was reared in the lap of Summer and I slept in the bed of Autumn.

At dawn I unite with the breeze to announce the coming of light; at eventide I join the birds in bidding the light farewell.

The plains are decorated with my beautiful colours, and the air is scented with my fragrance.

As I embrace Slumber the eyes of night watch over me, and as I awaken I stare at the sun, which is the only eye of the day.

I drink dew for wine, and hearken to the voices of the birds, and dance to the rhythmic swaying of the grass.

I am the lover's gift; I am the wedding wreath; I am the memory of a moment of happiness; I am the last gift of the living to the dead; I am a part of joy and a part of sorrow.

But I look up high to see only the light, and never look down to see my shadow. This is wisdom which man must learn.

Song of the Flower (XXIII) by Kahlil Gibran

Counting the Hours...