Friday, 16 October 2009
Transylvania In London
The right conditions can render very ordinary buildings Gothic. I have known a number of Liberals I've been rather wary of, but a few days ago the sky and lighting transformed the National Liberal Club on the Embankment into something from Hammer's golden era:
Saturday, 10 October 2009
The Green Set
On the last Sunday in September I introduced Swanvale Halt to my old green vestments. I got these from a French seller via eBay a couple of years ago. They were clearly faded from their former glory, and came decorated down the orphreys, and on the stole and maniple, with exceptionally nasty needlepoint motifs, as in the following photo:
And here is how the vestments appear now. I took off the needlepoint, and the horrible old lace protectors along the stole and maniple, and added a cream brocade to the orphreys topped with a Chi-Rho cartouche motif in the middle of the back. I rather wish I'd gone for a dark green (which was the second choice) instead of the cream, and when there's time I'll certainly replace the gold crosses I added to the stole and maniple. But it's very acceptable for the time being.
And here is how the vestments appear now. I took off the needlepoint, and the horrible old lace protectors along the stole and maniple, and added a cream brocade to the orphreys topped with a Chi-Rho cartouche motif in the middle of the back. I rather wish I'd gone for a dark green (which was the second choice) instead of the cream, and when there's time I'll certainly replace the gold crosses I added to the stole and maniple. But it's very acceptable for the time being.
The Muse Alights
Not far away from Swanvale Halt is a vast emporium of garden ornaments where, before I started work, I planned to buy a bust or two to decorate my rolling acres. However, wandering around the convoluted paths I came across a pair of statues, vaguely Grecian ladies one of whom was holding a grinning mask, the other a grimacing one. If one statue was labelled Thalia, who I knew was the Muse of Comedy, that meant the other must be Melpomene, her sister devoted to the patronage of Tragedy. How could I simply leave her there? She isn't the finest-modelled piece, but sits very pleasingly on her plinth at the top of the vista along the side path next to the garden wall. 
This prompted me to look for other images of Melpomene. Most are naturally Classical or Classically-inspired, like this one at Vilnius University.
This Melpomene has some Classical flavour but transforms it into something haunting and strange:
Timothy Lantz's image, one of a series on the Nine Muses, turns the personification of Tragedy into an image not only of drama but of decay, doom and sensuality.
But what I found most interesting was the modern artists who seem instinctively to think of Melpomene as a Goth girl. I wonder why ...
This prompted me to look for other images of Melpomene. Most are naturally Classical or Classically-inspired, like this one at Vilnius University. This Melpomene has some Classical flavour but transforms it into something haunting and strange:Timothy Lantz's image, one of a series on the Nine Muses, turns the personification of Tragedy into an image not only of drama but of decay, doom and sensuality. But what I found most interesting was the modern artists who seem instinctively to think of Melpomene as a Goth girl. I wonder why ...
Thin Ice for Harvest
The infants' school began assembling for their harvest celebration about twenty-five to nine on Wednesday. I had an order of service, which had my name prominently next to the bits I was doing. I wasn't doing the 'talk - God's Harvest Gifts', obviously, because that didn't have my name next to it.
In troop the children and assorted teachers, parents, grandparents and tiny siblings. All goes wonderfully as they present their gifts and do their little turns. Then comes the 'talk'. The headmistress beams expectantly at me. Ah.
I then go into five minutes of complete insanity tearing round the church asking the children about their favourite foods. They rather suspiciously all seem to like vegetables although one says pasta. I realise that I am starting to descend into lunacy as my discussion of trout becomes far too detailed and curtail the madness.
Do anything in church with enough authority and you can get away with it. But it's not a habit one should get into, I suspect.
In troop the children and assorted teachers, parents, grandparents and tiny siblings. All goes wonderfully as they present their gifts and do their little turns. Then comes the 'talk'. The headmistress beams expectantly at me. Ah.
I then go into five minutes of complete insanity tearing round the church asking the children about their favourite foods. They rather suspiciously all seem to like vegetables although one says pasta. I realise that I am starting to descend into lunacy as my discussion of trout becomes far too detailed and curtail the madness.
Do anything in church with enough authority and you can get away with it. But it's not a habit one should get into, I suspect.
Monday, 5 October 2009
Deacon Your Priesthood, My Boy ...
... was apparently the advice of Eric Abbott to somebody. Or it may have been someone else entirely. Anyway, on Sunday evening, after the chaos of the Harvest Festival in the morning, I acted as deacon for the evening eucharist we share, in theory, with the folk of Hornington parish. The president came from an evangelical background and so wasn't completely familiar with how the roles are normally divided between the ministers, but what a wonderful thing it was to be able to be deacon of the Mass for the first time in months. To serve at the Lord's Table, and not to preside, brings home the wonderful nature of God's choosing us weak vessels for his service.
Ev'nin' All, And Take That
At After-School Club last week the children were played music and had to run about the hall. When the music stopped they had to adopt postures or mime actions they associated with a nurse, a firefighter, or a policeman. 'Police!' rang out the instruction the first time. Instantly the lot of 5, 6 and 7-year-olds started to mime beating unseen people about the head with a truncheon. At least they're learning how the world works.
Learning Curve
I'm not yet used to telling people what to do. On the way to Morning Prayer at Hornington the other day the curate suggested to me that we ought to have a 'staff meeting', so that 'people don't feel left out'. I was completely floored. Does that mean people do feel left out? And they'd sooner talk to the curate? Only three weeks into the job at Swanvale Halt and am I already an unapproachable tyrant trampling the sensibility of my underlings, sorry, brothers and sisters in Christ? (one can but dream). My mind flies back to a previous job in which one of my roles was to monitor the seething resentment of my colleagues at the uncommunicativeness of the curator until it reached such levels that I then had to toddle round to his office and suggest that a 'staff meeting' might be a good idea. It's disturbing to imagine myself in the same position.
I'm not convinced churches with only two paid staff benefit from 'staff meetings' as though we were a private company. At Lamford what we were pleased to call 'staff meetings' consisted of me, Il Rettore, the organist and the secretary quaffing coffee in the comfy seats in the café along the street while the parish's assorted layabouts swapped jokes in the opposite corner. The closest I can get in Swanvale Halt is to take the curate to the coffee stall at the railway station and sit on a bench. At least that got us away from the church! And I'm not sure there's much to talk about. I don't have a Grand Plan as yet, apart from celebrating the liturgy in a dignified way and personal engagement.
The latter is where I mustn't fall down. So for the time being I will stick to individual meetings with various people, and see how it goes. But discovering I could conceivably be the cause of frustration is humbling.
I'm not convinced churches with only two paid staff benefit from 'staff meetings' as though we were a private company. At Lamford what we were pleased to call 'staff meetings' consisted of me, Il Rettore, the organist and the secretary quaffing coffee in the comfy seats in the café along the street while the parish's assorted layabouts swapped jokes in the opposite corner. The closest I can get in Swanvale Halt is to take the curate to the coffee stall at the railway station and sit on a bench. At least that got us away from the church! And I'm not sure there's much to talk about. I don't have a Grand Plan as yet, apart from celebrating the liturgy in a dignified way and personal engagement.
The latter is where I mustn't fall down. So for the time being I will stick to individual meetings with various people, and see how it goes. But discovering I could conceivably be the cause of frustration is humbling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
