Waitrose to Bastiani

Saturday morning, a fleeting visit to Waitrose, where references to Valentine's day were imposible to avoid, was in order. In one of the aisles we met Jane, the wife of Shaun who is the minister of Helen's church; jane mentioned that Shaun had pointed out that the date was also the feast of St. Methodius (albeit only in the Roman Catholic church). The reference to Methodius intrigued me so, on returning home, I went online to find out a little more about Methodius and, the first image I was greeted with was the celebrated icon of Cyril and Methodius holding the Glagolitic scroll.

 Mind you, this is something of a diversion from the main topic of this posting but, it was the starting point for a little process of rediscovery. As I viewed the icon, I wondered if I could possibly find a reproduction of a painting which has gently haunted me for several years. The painting I had always thought to be attributed to Giovanni Bellini but, on referencing the artist and the collection in which this picture could be found I was delighted to discover an illustration ( http://nicepaintings.org/works/85156) of this wonderful painting attributed to Lazzaro Bastiani (who had evidently worked, at times, with both Giovanni and Gentile Bellini).

I first became fully aware of this painting, of the Madonna and Child, in the days when I occasionally attended exhibition previews and Open House at the beginning of the season for Harewood House. Those who attended these openings with me invariably knew that, regardless of the purported preview I was attending, they would be likely to find me enraptured by this painting. The image is very simple and direct, a flush-cheeked teenage mother cloaked and hooded in a dark blue garment holding a child, apparently somewhere between two and four years of age. The mother has a rather dolorous expression, her eyes conveying a deep sense of foreboding, a touching vulnerabilty. Her hands have a somewhat tentative gentle hold on the robustly healthy child, almost as if they yield to the knowledge that all too quickly she'll have to let him go his own way. The infant in this painting is definitely a child, rather than the miniature adult so frequently portrayed in paintings of this period.

I've saved a copy of the image to my computer, cropping it from the elaborate frame, and printed a small copy from which I find it difficult to avert my gaze. As someone whose primary area of art historical interest is American and British painting of the mid-twentieth century, it seems rather strange that this simple image could hold me in such thrall.

tempus fugit - carpe diem

Doesn’t time fly by when one has nothing to do? Maybe I should correct that; one can usually find plenty to do but, time is always too short, especially when one has no fixed agenda.

There was a song, “Who Knows Where The Time Goes”, to which I always wanted to respond, “don’t ask me; it’s one of life’s little mysteries!” Mind you, there have been occasions when time seemed to hang like a leaden pendulum, especially when working as an accounts manager and we suddenly changed from old fashioned double entry book-keeping to a purpose built computerized system. Whereas on the one hand it was a much quicker process, much time was spent twiddling the thumbs, whilst we awaited the snail-mail delivery of our weekly printouts from the mainframe situated some ninety miles away.

Where once a simple glance at the ledger would show where any discrepancy had occurred, thanks to new technology, we now had to trawl through sheaths of lined paper filled with endless repetitions. Don’t get me wrong, accounts work was never mine by choice but rather a means of sustaining me whilst I got on with the important things in life. In those days, the only time that flew by was those hours outside of the office ones!

Later employment, working for the museums and art gallery service, both front and back of house, proved much more rewarding (even if somewhat less lucrative). Once the opportunity arose, not infrequently, to get on ones hobby-horse, time passed as if it had a rocket assisted launch. Even my last paid employment as a caretaker/steward at a thriving parish church, where I frequently toiled well beyond the appointed hours, saw the hours float away!

Nothing to do? I’ve been thinking about that, as my digits stray across the keyboard on auto-pilot: there’s always too much to do, especially the tasks for which I possess neither the necessary physical or emotional stamina! Stamina and intermittent brain-fog permitting, I can get on with my writing, watercolour painting, amateur website building etc, tending to the aquarium and pond inhabitants needs (sometimes not as frequently as I ought to – a missed filter clean/change here and there seems to occur due to lack of time and focus) and general pottering around in the garden.

I even manage to fit in the occasional socializing visit to ‘Open Church’ or ‘Café Culture’, events which health reasons had deprived me of for a rather prolonged period of time. One of these days, I may regain sufficient stamina to go to a gig or concert which was at one time a fairly regular part of my life.

I am extremely grateful for all that I can manage although still succumbing to bouts of frustration regarding the many things that I can no longer manage. Fortunately, “pacing” imposes itself on me when otherwise I would be tempted to return to the old boom and bust cycle. It’s almost as if my self-discipline now disciplines me.

Who knows where the time goes? I don’t really care, we only have one life and we’d better make the most of it!

Easter Day

By malcolme at 2008-03-22

Random Ramblings on Time and Perspective

Strange, the tricks of light and perspective; the history of art has a lot to answer for. I’m stood by the backdoor and, a good three hundred or more metres away, there are giants working on the roof trusses of a house under construction. I see these figures, each around 5’10” to 6’0” in height, at much the same height as they would appear if they were standing next to me. Were I to paint, or draw, the scene I’m witnessing, it would be expected that these figures would appear quite miniscule, positioned well on the way towards the vanishing point. Why, for the sake of convention am I expected to diminish their stature; our observation is always subjective, we always interpret the scene laid out before us so, why did anyone ever to take the trouble to lay down rules as to the way we are to portray it? Is it supposed to bring some sort of objectivity to the interpreted world?

I suppose there is a degree of importance to quantifying time and space, to enable us to more easily modify our environment for the sake of efficiency in our daily routines but, it has got me wondering about whether art comes under the category of work or play.

Mind you, I’m not wondering all that seriously, it’s more a case of letting ideas fly off the top of my head (and being bald, I suppose it makes for a smooth take-off as these random thoughts take flight).

Suddenly, I find time has become a greater issue than space, as I await the arrival of the workmen who are going to be renovating our downstairs loo; as I wait each minute seems like a quarter of an hour and, once the appointed time for their arrival has passed the moments seem to stretch out even further. It’s strange how the waiting process plays havoc with temporal values! Where once patience was a virtue I could uphold to a considerable degree, the past few years have swung the pendulum the other way; patience is now a quality which seems to belong to a dim and distant past life. Somehow, whilst anticipating an impending event, I find it impossible to apply my mind to any other task; it only seems possible to concentrate on one thing at a time and, even then, the quality of concentration ain’t what it used to be.

At least these random jottings have helped the time pass more quickly and, I’m relieved to hear the doorbell ring. Meantime, I’ll get on with a little bit more net surfing, before my physio arrives to administer the magic needles once more.