All images arising at the moment result from an art programme I’m undertaking. Last week’s course module dealt with balancing colour values using a palette limited to black, white, dark cadmium red and yellow ochre. This is my second year with the programme and I didn’t get anywhere with this exercise last year. Attempting it this year has been much easier, despite that I have less time to spend on the programme as I’m at the same time doing another course, unrelated to art. Well, not entirely.
The above exercise amounted to a couple of hours work and I feel that I’ve achieved, in that time, good colour balance. I really enjoyed it, too. I love this particular limited palette, and plan to work entirely from now-on with limited palettes.
So, I’m making progress with my return to painting. I have not abandoned textile, natural dyeing and eco-printing work. But I need a 48-hour day and an extra (preferably more youthful) body.
On my playlist right now are Richard Strauss’ Four Last Songs (Vier letzte Lieder). I should write still on my playlist as I was learning these last year as an online workshop to sing with The Choir of the Earth. It was originally called The Self-Isolation Choir, as it arose as a result of the Covid-19 lockdown.
Strauss wrote these songs for soprano and orchestra. Three of the four, composed in 1948, when Strauss was 84, comprise his final complete works. Strauss died in 1949 and his friend Ernst Roth had these works published in 1950 after Strauss’ death. It was Roth who coined the title Four Last Songs.
The four songs are Frühling (Spring);September; Beim Schlafengehen [de] (When Falling Asleep); and Im Abendrot (At Sunset).
I was lucky when opportunities came – even though late in life – to have classical voice training and I still sit down sometimes and sing through the entire Vaccai Method, just for the hell of it. Four Last Songs are very difficult to sing but if you’re going to do anything in the arts, you have to do it full-on, or not at all. I’ve long had an interest in the connections found between musical notation and visual art.
Anyway, here’s the fabulous Renée Fleming singing Strauss’ Four Last Songs. I love her voice, it’s like honey and was able to hear her perform Strauss’ Daphne a few years back in The Royal Albert Hall.
The premiere of Four Last Songs took placein the Royal Albert Hall in London on 22 May 1950 and was performed by the wonderful Wagnerian soprano Kirsten Flagstad.
Here’s an English translation for Frühling (Spring):
In shadowy crypts I dreamt long of your trees and blue skies, of your fragrance and birdsong.
Now you appear in all your finery, drenched in light like a miracle before me.
You recognize me, you entice me tenderly. All my limbs tremble at your blessed presence!
I am sickened [it read] by the spectacle of your obstinately closed door. It indicates that a new aristocracy has been created, transcending classes—one that finds ordinary people not worthy of notice. What do you care that I am starving as a poet? But you are wrong, because no matter how great a creative genius you may be, you cannot prevent posterity from classifying you as the symbol of an age in which man has revealed himself incapable of making judgments on a moral basis. (A generation has the artists it deserves.) Ours is the age of the hyena and the jackal…. Monsieur Picasso, you are walled off within your citadel…. Outside is the street and the street is tomorrow…. I find you enormously gifted, but what a mess you leave for those who follow!
The Atlantic Magazine: Picasso Speaking: Carlton Lake, Paris critic for The Christian Science Monitor recounts a visit with Pablo Picasso at his home.
The it in the above, is the content of a poster. Several copies had been stuck to the railings of Picasso’s residence (situated on a slope rising from Cannes) and almost torn off, rendering them unintelligible. This one, unmutilated, had been stuck to a neighbour’s fence.
Picasso achieved immense fame in his lifetime. His artistic innovations still cast their shadows over the art world. Art would not be what it is today without the Picasso inheritance. When I did my fine art degree in the 1980s, I chose to write my dissertation on Picasso’s pivotal 1907-08 work: Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, so that I could lay his ghost. I was actually trying to find out where my work stood historically in relation to his, though sadly, I didn’t know this at the time.
In order to do his work, Picasso created his own solitude which nobody suspects. I don’t think this references a place in space and time. His residences and studios besieged by starving poets and others wanting to touch his cloak, I think he found places from which to create that were not plotted on any map. I think these were his thin places.
I’ve just recently written about thin places. Having just recently come across the expression, in the form of the Irish Gaelic: Caol ait or Ait Caol, I realised that these are the places I go for solitude, so that I can do my work and that these are places that can only be mapped poetically. That is, they are not in the concrete world. I think they can be accessed via certain known physical places – google thin places to find these – but also via places particular to each individual.
Ignoring the gruesome grammar (left) for it would be impossible to write about a dream I do not remember, I am today prompted to write about a dream.
This is an account of a dream that sent me on a pilgrimage from northern to southern France.
I have kept a dream diary for over three decades. There have been phases of my life when I’ve dreamt whole series of dreams, sometimes as several dreams a night. One of these series began before I moved to France – and before I even knew I was to move to France. The series continued after the relocation, persuading me to journey to a place in the South of France which had turned up in these dreams. I’m not a Roman Catholic, but I see it as a sort-of pilgrimage, especially as it concerned three saints; and the route, for my journey took me from Paris to Conques, in the Occitan region of southern France and following one of the French pilgrim routes to Compostelle (Compostela) in northwestern Spain, where is the shrine of St Jacques/Santiago/St James.
My pilgrimage was to see, in Conques, the relics of Ste Foy, which are kept in the church of the Abbaye de Conques.
Ste Foy translates to St Faith. It is not the saint’s real name, which is not known. She is said to have been martyred in the fourth century at the age of nine for refusing to renounce the Christian faith, resisting even the pleas of her own mother.
Out of my series of dreams concerning Ste Foy I recall most vividly one that was very short, comprising a single vivid image and an equally short but precise message. This dream occurred after I had moved to France, had discovered the connection between Ste Foy and the Church of the Abbey at Conques, for the image in the dream was of what I came to know as the western entrance, which has a tympanum over the door depicting The Last Judgment.
In the dream, a woman was standing in front of the door, beneath the tympanum. It was sunny. The woman’s face was not a generic image; it was very clear and very individual. She was smiling at me, broadly. I recall her as being in her forties, but younger-looking. Her most striking feature was her jet-black hair, which was bobbed and very straight. And she said to me, “Look up Ste Foy and Ste Marguerite.” That was all. And that was the entirety of the dream.
This was a new direction for me to take in this series of dreams. It was the first mention of a Ste Marguerite. What connection could there be between a Ste Foy and a Ste Marguerite? Was there one, even, or was I just dreaming?
I was not just dreaming. There was most certainly a connection between Ste Foy and a Ste Marguerite. The bridge between the two is in the word Canada. But that’s another story.
I made my sort-of pilgrimage and stood in front of the relics of Ste Foy. And in front of that tympanum. The journey down into the valley wherein sits the abbey is spectacular. So was the abbey. So were the relics of the Saint. I was sad that Conques was too far from Paris to visit on a regular basis.
Shortly after, my husband and I began looking for a house to buy that would be within commuting distance of Paris. We drew a circle on a map and started house-hunting. And I came across the name Conches-en-Ouche. Intrigued by the similarity between Conches and Conques I found to my astonishment, that there was in the town, an Eglise Ste Foy. One Raoul III, returning from a pilgrimage to Spain, had stopped off at Conques and saw there the relics of Ste Foy. Raoul must have been impressed for the saint was made patroness of the church he constructed in Conches-en-Ouche.
We did go to see a house for sale in Conches-En-Ouche. While we were there we visited the church. Everything in the church was about the parallels between Conches-en-Ouche and Conques. There was the story of the martyrdom of Ste Foy, her relics in Conques and there were pilgrimages arranged between Conches and Conques. And the house we eventually bought was within driving distance of Conches-En-Ouche.
Leaving Conches, we drove back to Paris in passing through some villages surrounding the town. One of them was called Ste Marguerite.
A map does not just chart, it unlocks and formulates meaning; it forms bridges between here and there, between disparate ideas that we did not know were previously connected. …
Reif Larsen: The Selected Works of T S Spivet
I experienced a little thrill when I first read the above, for it defined me precisely.
It’s no coincidence that I call my blog ‘Poetic Mapping: Walking into Art’. Thoughts come as I work and walk (as artist and writer) that seemingly have no connection. When these thoughts arrive, I know I’m at the start of a Great Walk by the conclusion of which I’ll have bridged the disparate ideas, and arrived at an epiphany. It could be said that my life is a map of epiphanies.
Here’s an example: some years ago my cat killed a bird in the garden. He hunted; it was his nature and I could do nothing to stop him; but I was devastated on this occasion, more so than usual, especially because on examination I had discovered something extraordinary about the bird, a young finch. And I began to think of my late brother and how as a little boy he used to make crude ‘machines’ from off-cuts of wood and nails scavenged from our Granda’s shed. And I knew there was a connection between my late brother’s little machines and the little impossible dead bird. And that I was to traverse the terrain between the two ideas until they converged. Make a bridge between them.
Oh, and I’ve been interrupted while writing this. My husband came in from the garden just now and told me there was a bird trapped in a hedge that bounds one side of our property. It was a ringed-necked dove and had somehow got itself between two layers of wire netting erected by our neighbour. I was able to free the bird and it flew off, protesting loudly at its saviour!
Was this compensation for the bird I couldn’t save? I’m going to believe so.
P S I bought the book of course. And there’s a film; it’s called: The Young and Prodigious T.S. Spivet and stars Helena Bonham-Carter as the mother of T S.
The idea of Bloganuary is to post a blog every day, in response to a prompt. Today, the prompt is asking me: if I could travel through time, which year would I choose to travel to and why.
My immediate response to the question was: What do you mean, if I COULD travel through time?
Bloganuary is a WordPress blogging initiative. I’ve missed most of Bloganuary because WordPress didn’t invite me to take part until today, 21 January. Oh, well. Time travelling gone wrong.
H G Wells’ novella The Time Machine was first published in 1895. The Time Traveller, though he travels to various destinations far into the future and back again, spending some time at each destination – especially the first – is yet not presented as being any older on his returns than on his departures. And the time he spent in future times, is far longer than perceived, after his return. This is explained in Einstein’s Theory of Special Relativity – E=MC². Einstein’s Theory however was published in 1905; The Time Machine, was published in 1895, some 10 years earlier.
The prompt, arriving today, coincided with a subject I’d been pondering, earlier today. It was about the different kinds of dreams we have. And I found it difficult to arrive at any way of organising them into classes. A big reason for this is that the word dream isn’t specific enough. What exactly is a dream? One dictionary definition is: a series of thoughts, images, and sensations occurring in a person’s mind during sleep. Which gives rise to the question: what is sleep? Definitions generally agree that sleep is a state of mind and body, is a time of altered consciousness during which muscular activity is reduced and there is little to no interaction with the physical environment. Which gives rise to he question: what is consciousness?
There are kinds of dreams that suggest travelling through time as a possible explanation for their contents. Three of these types of dreams come to mind. All three I have experienced.
Lucid Dreams are dreams during which we become aware we are dreaming. From my experience, a number of scenarios follow: I continue to dream knowing I’m dreaming; I do that and sometimes also have the ability to control the further narrative of the dream; I awaken once I’m aware I’m dreaming, whereupon the dream continues in the form of a movie (film) strip in front of my closed eyes; the latter happens and I also have the ability to manipulate the narrative of the dream – this happens when I’m not happy with the nature and content of the dream: I want to change it, so I do. My lucid dreams have always taken place in a ‘scape of some kind and I’d conjecture therefore that this kind of dream may occasion time travel.
Distant Or Remote Viewing dreams are those during which we are able to acquire spatially and temporally remote information. From my own experience, two occasions come to mind where, in dreams, I accessed specific information that in one case, I discovered to be accurate afterwards and in a second, made specific research that verified the information presented in the dream. I’d suggest that this kind of dream may involve time travel.
Perhaps the most spectacular kind of dream is the pre-cognitive dream, in which events yet to come are revealed to the dreamer. My most profound experience of pre-cognitivity came about not while asleep at night and dreaming, but as an artist, during the day, making art. I have two drawings describing – the first of which I made the week before and the second, only a day before – a major catastrophic event. I have subsequently discovered that artists around the world had the exact same experience in respect of that event. Think: Close Encounters of the Third Kind: the Richard Dreyfuss character! It is my experience, as an artist, that such kind of pre-cognition arrives because artists routinely enter into altered (dream) states of consciousness, some of which may be described as time travel, during the creative process.
Are there ways one can learn of an event yet to come that doesn’t require travelling through space-time? Well, one could be informed of an event yet to come by others who travel through space-time, who want you to know about it. Define others how you will.
And so, my answer to the question of which year would I choose to travel to were I able to travel through time, might be: to whichever year in space and time I am directed. I would certainly choose to travel to space-times in America, to 9/11/2001, to try and prevent the events that happened, at those particular spaces and in that particular time.
I’m repeating this image and this quote from my last blog because it came to me that the quote, while it specifically references photography, can apply equally to other branches of the visual arts. It certainly may apply to certain kinds of collage. There are all sorts of reasons for collage. Here’s a link to an article on the history of collage.
My collage is for a project. While it falls as usual under the canopy of Poetic Mapping, I’ve not been able until recently to name the project satisfactorily to myself (and naming is important). There is nothing to do in this situation but carry on working and wait – and pray if you are so inclined – for the name to turn up. And it did, in the form of Caol Ait: Thin Place. A thin place is where one can walk in two worlds; a place where the veil between two worlds is thin; a place where heaven and earth are close together; a threshold or portal.
The collage consists of images of different kinds of prints on paper of plant matter but predominantly eco prints of leaves gathered from around the periphery of the pond in my garden. This is one of my thin places.
The Roland Barthes quote above speaks of the photograph as an image having the quality of motionlessness, qualifying this further as a non-emergence, as a not-leavingness, as an act of anaesthetising and a fastening-down in the [cruel] manner in which butterflies are killed and pinned. I shouldn’t make the pun – but I will – and write that Barthes seems, in this quote, to be somewhat negative about the positive. Ouch.
I saw how the collage could be described similarly. It could be argued that the eco-print process – consisting of trapping leaves as a sort-of sandwich filling between cloth or paper, rolling this up tightly around a rod into a bundle then subjecting the bundle to extreme heat and steam – is a form of cruelty to leaves, unless the leaves have been gathered dead from the ground. The prints (or other types of collage material) have then been glued to a substrate, at which point they are indeed motionless, non-emerging.
But it came to me that in trapping an image in a collage the artist is preserving an observation of something of wonder to him/her (etc) and presenting it to the larger world to wonder at in its turn.
The image does not need to be a replication of plant matter. It can be an impression, a mark like musical notation that triggers a quickening in the artist that will transfer in turn to the viewer.
It’s possible that much art and perhaps especially art that arises from the contemplation of nature, is saying, “Look here at what I’ve found; it filled me with wonder. Is it not wonderful?”
And I wonder at this. At whether – if you believe in a Fall (however you visualise or otherwise structure that for yourself) – a great deal of what was lost in that immense catastrophe, could be called Wonder. I do believe in a great catastrophe. I can’t explain why. It struck me unexpectedly one day, one moment, like a bolt out of the blue and it’s now buried in my bones.
Adam in his original creation was in spiritual illumination. Spirit breathed into him continually the necessary inspiration and knowledge to give him superior understanding. But he began eating, or appropriating, ideas of two powers–God and not God, or good and evil. The result, so the allegory relates, was that he fell away from spiritual life and all that it involves.
This definition has distinct echoes of Eastern Spirituality, for me. Food for thought, anyway, if you’ll pardon the pun. Another one.