Where did you go?
Who did you speak to?
What if you lost your self in a theatre of mind, body and breath?
An empty stage set, thus I have heard…
TerraPin 6×6, ACROS 100, RO9(1.100)
Photo taken with a Chamonix 045F1 View Camera, using a Nikkor-SW 90mm f/8 lens, on Shanghai 100 film, and developed in a mix of Xtol and Rodinal.
Is touched by love
Both knowing and unknowing, and neither knowing nor unknowing,
Each beat is felt on the shore of life.
The heart is not empty
Nor is it vacant, unoccupied, loveless, or a lifeless form,
But each flutter flows leaving a palimpsest of moments
Left behind, like fear, anger and desire, when compassion takes us to the other shore.
[Instructions for contemplation: Santideva observed “How can there be real existence in something factitious like a reflection, which is only seen in conjunction with something else and not seen in its absence?”
May you shine with diamond exploding radiance,
May your heart be open beneath a clear blue sky.]
one zero one
zero one two
left right left
right true false true false true false
four five six seven eight
one two three four five six seven eight
one two three four five six no
no eight no nine
(Instructions: two legs walk stepping out a pace, attach a body, then a head, eyes, ears, consciousness – float forward in space. Landing is difficult.)
Near a small brook in Wiltshire, an oak grows adjacent to the path leading upwards through fields of wheat in summer to the West Kennett Long Barrow. Hanging from its branches druids tie ribbons in thanks for good fortune or to celebrate a blessing.
Climbing the hill I fell into a reverie recalling a favourite oak that I would climb which grew in a local park near the playground as a child. It was shady in summer, and bare in winter, after losing its leaves and acorns in autumn. How I loved to fill my pockets with the acorns as a boy, and, even as a teenager collect them on my way to school to carve tiny faces in them with my pen knife. One day I discovered that nails had been driven into the playground oak to make it easier to climb. I recollect feeling wounded for the tree, and saddened by the harm inflicted into its bark.
On reaching the barrow, I returned from these reminisces to enter the ancient tomb. Inside flowers had been left and a few coins by druidic visitors. As you do, and hoping it would not be found, I left a coin on a high shelf in a dark corner in thanks for the blessings of being alive, having a wonderful partner and children, visiting the long barrow and neolithic henges, and for the wonder of oak trees and acorns.
All photographs taken using a Holga PC 120 on Ektar 100 film.
You are full of grace…
The street has its own message. Sometimes the shadowy silences hidden in alleyways and alcoves is punctuated by the voice of art. Elsewhere the bustle of crowds, and sounds of the city are erased by a message left on a wall from an often anonymous artist, that briefly brings moments of hope, joy, whimsy or insight, delivering us from our angst.
I wonder if the crowds queuing in Barcelona’s old city to enter the museums of famous artists such as Picasso view the messages gracing the streets with appreciative eyes. Visitors rush from one museum to another, hustle through the markets, or ramble down the famous boulevards with their hawkers, yet in the Ciutat Vella I felt myself slowly surrendering to its embrace.
In other hours, I reminisce now from afar of the homeless men who would greet me as I walked past Sant Pere de les Puelles with their dog lying on the steps of the basilica, the toy maker sitting on the curb, the art class quietly painting in the Plaça de Sant Agustí Vell, or a canto being sung by a busker advertising opera classes. From early in the morning to late at night, each hour brought its own mood and memory.
Glancing at the pavement, covers for the water mains have their own artistry, as do the embellishments of door knockers, street lamps, water troughs, and the reminder of workers on a cathedral door.
A city is more than its landmarks. It is its people. It is the quiet dignity that graces the street in unconditional love through the celebration of art. Each world has its own eternity to be graffitoed breaking down the walls that bound us, liberate, and remind us we are filled with grace.
Llenas eres de gracia – you are full of grace.
After visiting Socrates at the British Museum an idea took flight, perhaps it was a divine madness, I don’t know, but I pondered on his welfare wondering whether this ancient soul was happy, eudaimonic, located among his philosopher companions Antisthenes, Chrysippos and Epikouros , or grown tired of their company and would prefer to spend time elsewhere.
Given his preference for city life, being a lover of knowledge and having quipped that “landscapes and trees have nothing to teach me, only people do”, I contemplated whether he might have been better placed near the Parthenon Sculptures. At least he would be in the midst of onlookers and admirers, and could look forward to becoming mired in controversial discussion whether these famous marbles should be in London or Athens. He would I knew enjoy the rhetoric, the oratory aimed at different people and audiences.
On the other hand recalling Phaedrus, would he be tempted to leave the bounds of the museum to reside near Eros in the West End, or even visit Trafalgar Square with its famous column and economy of signs and significations.
While the plinth and thumb might serve as commentary on Brexit and a rejection of the world beyond, it occurred to me that in these columns Lacan had a point in his explication of The Meaning of the Phallus, “For it is to this signified that it is given to designate as a whole the effect of there being a signified, insamuch as it conditions any such effect by its presence as signifier.” Of course London has almost a surfeit of plinths, pillars and towers reaching upwards, celebrating fame and glory in the realm, creating a discourse which leads one to ask what is being elucidated here? Within the British Museum, an Egyptian antiquity depicts pharoanic authority and power through cartouches listing every dynasty that preceded a particular ruler, so are these relics, pillars, plinths, statues, columns and towers accoutrements signifying instead empire, the glory of monarchical rule, and through its enduring presence gives it legitimacy. Are we therefore cut off from the meaning in our own lives by the constant presence of regal significations across history and time, an imperium, which leave us to traffic memories of our own ordinariness in bondage.
Did I desire rather that the Antipodean tall poppy syndrome might be brought to bear? It is not that I am uncomfortable with fame, and the celebration of established artists, thinkers, scientists or warriors, and their contribution to civilisation, but there seems to be little acknowledgement in London of ordinary working men and women, of discontents and toilers who worked anonymously to make the city, and nation great. Although these heroes should be an inspiration, are these edifices just an indication that fame, elites and power serve to generate loyalty to the crown, and a government which is always in its service.
These musings might seem far from Socrates, yet I found it to be quite ironic that he was housed so close to the Rosetta Stone given his commentary on writing, and the discovery of letters which “will create forgetfulness in their learners’ souls because they will not use their memories; they will trust to external written characters and not remember of themselves. … As for wisdom, it is the reputation, not the reality, that you have to offer to those who learn from you; they will have heard many things and yet have received no teaching; they will appear to be omniscient and will generally know nothing, they will be tiresome company, having not acquired wisdom but the the show of wisdom.”
In fact he goes on to declare: “I cannot help feeling, Phaedrus, that writing has one grave fault in common with painting; for the creations of the painter have the attitude of life, and yet if you ask them a question they preserve a solemn silence. And the same may be said of books. You would imagine that they had intelligence, but if you require an explanation of something that has been said, they preserve one unvarying meaning.” And this seems to be the real problem, I can imagine for example, Bertrand Russell, who lived around the corner from the British Museum in Bloomsbury popping in to contemplate the problems of philosophy and deciding that since there was no explanation to be found in response from Plato, and because Socrates is silent, then perhaps their ideas and forms can instead determined to be universal. The idea has no defence. It is silent except for the unvarying meaning given in a book.
The spoken word however is graven on the soul of the learner who sits with the philosopher to learn and whose mind is thus given wings, whereas the “written word is properly no more than an image.” Can there any defence against the alleged omniscience of book derived knowledge, or the shows of wisdom that the celebration of fame in statuary represents, except other than to aspire to tread the path of acquiring the living word of knowledge, rather than being in the grip of ruminations or creating literary amusements as “memorials to be treasured against the forgetfulness of old age”!
I meditate on the bust of Socrates and know there can be no answers to my questions. He left no written works nor intended seemingly any to be left. Perhaps he might return 3,000 years after taking the hemlock on the chariot of reincarnation, only 500 years hence, but I will be long gone. Still, for the love of philosophy, a museum that claims to present human history to the world public in the context of global cultural identities, rather than just being a local museum in justification of retaining the Parthenon Sculptures, also has a responsibility to curate its artefacts according to universal ideas and philosophy, not just to classify exhibits according to regions or epochs along a timeline.
I look at the Parthenon Sculptures, the bust of Socrates, and think over this memoir to my own forgetfulness, and ask: What are we doing here?
All photos taken with an Olympus OM-2, using a Zuiko f/1.4 50mm lens, on Fuji Superia 400 and Kodak Colorplus 200. See also Phaedrus in the The Dialogues of Plato Volume 2 translated by Benjamin Jowett.