WHERE DID EASTERTIDE GO?

INADVERTENT POLYCHROMY

St Mary Magdalene’s is a famous example of “structural polychromy”, the art of making buildings colourful by the materials you use, in our case red brick and creamy Bath stone. Yesterday on a walk I discovered a striking example of inadvertent structural polychromy, at Holy Trinity, Brompton Road. This famous church is not a particularly distinguished building, a Commissioners’ church of 1826-9, built in Suffolk brick, which was originally off-white in colour. It was extended to the east by Blomfield in 1879-82, and had a south-west porch added in 1913, and a north-west porch and chapel in 1920-24, and finally a new northern entrance in the last twenty years. When each of these extensions were built, the original building will have been blackened by pollution, and I imagine that the successive architects will have assumed that their additions would tone in, to form part of a coherent whole, but the church has recently been ruthlessly cleaned, and now presents a very odd appearance indeed, because it is a patchwork of different bricks. The nave is the original Suffolk bricks, pale grey after cleaning, but Blomfield’s chancel is pink, and then the two western extensions are bright yellow, while the modern porch is dark brown, which no doubt seemed like a good idea when the rest of the church was dirty, but looks foolish now. I suppose it’s nice for the architectural historian to be able to see the various stages of building laid out like this, but it is hardly aesthetic.

LOCKDOWN

We introverts have rather enjoyed lockdown; it was very strange, but once one established a routine, it wasn’t too bad. I said my prayers and said Mass every day, and read and wrote, and prepared services and sent stuff out to the parishioners, material to help them with prayer and their spiritual lives. There have been funerals to prepare and take, but not the feared  avalanche. It all seemed as though one was actually being liberated to concentrate on the most important parts of one’s ministry. I was terrified by the idea of live-streaming at first, but it became enjoyable. I even filmed myself reading “The Dream of the Rood” as a special Passiontide treat. And, astonishingly, people actually enjoyed it. The challenge now will be to find a way of continuing to live-stream after we resume normal worship. The best period of lockdown was when everyone was paralysed, and there were no meetings going on, but that didn’t last. I was amused to find that I was more familiar with Zoom, thanks to clergy colleagues, than some of my secular co-workers. The thing that has been difficult to understand is why we all feel so tired, when it seems that we are doing less. Perhaps we aren’t in fact doing less, just fewer peripheral things. I also made time during lockdown for getting out on the bike regularly, and I decided that in the absence of real sport I would relive the last two years, so I have been reading the bike race reports from the appropriate day. We’re still in the latter stages of last year’s Giro d’Italia, but Froomey has already won the 2018 edition.  It doesn’t help me forget that I was meant to have spent a few days in Rimini a couple of weeks ago watching this year’s Giro, but reminds me why I love the sport.

LEADERSHIP

Of course, the most striking feature of lockdown for us in the trade has been the Church of England’s failure of leadership. It is quite clear that Cardinal Vincent Nicholls is now the spokesman for English Christianity. The government task force on reopening places of worship came about after the Cardinal’s pressure, and this weekend the Cardinal has publicised his frustration at its work being thwarted by government or civil service. From the Church of England bishops we have heard nothing. In fact, neither the Church of England centrally, not the Diocese of London, chose to inform the clergy that the task force even existed. The bishops caused us great pain by banning us from streaming from our churches for no coherent reason, and personally I can testify to how worthless that made me feel when I had imagined that I had been doing something that was worthwhile in the service of the Gospel. In Holy Week that was a significant psychological burden to have to carry, and it was not how we might have expected our bishops to treat us. The bishops have chosen to act as autocrats and order their clergy to act in particular ways, which is in fact unlawful, but what is really bizarre is the silence that has prevailed over resuming worship. It appears that our bishops do not actually regard worship as important, or the spiritual health of the nation as any concern of theirs. It will be difficult for trust to be regained.  

AFTER THE TRIDUUM

Triduum

As it turned out, the Triduum went pretty well in my dining room. We didn't do anything that involved movement, other than carrying the paschal candle from one side of the altar to the other, and bringing forward the crucifix, which really could not be avoided. On Maundy Thursday there was obviously no footwashing (it's optional anyway) but nor did we receive the newly consecrated oils, because we had no newly-consecrated oils, as bishops hadn't consecrated them. Nor did we have a procession of the Sacrament at the end, as we do not have an aumbry in the dining room (or permission from the Bishop to reserve the Sacrament in the vicarage). Nor did we strip the altar (which is deprecated in the modern rite, anyway) as the effect would be very limited at that camera angle. On Good Friday I did not prostrate myself before the altar; the effect would have been very comical, but there wasn't enough room anyway.  Obviously only I venerated the cross (though since Fiona is the congregation I cannot think that any new cross-contamination would have occurred that hasn't occurred already, but such are the rules). We did not receive Communion, as we could not reserve the Sacrament there overnight. Instead I preached, which I would not normally do. Then on Holy Saturday we did the Vigil in the traditional way, but simply kindling the new fire, not making a bonfire, and not actually going anywhere. I at least got to sit down for the readings, which was a mercy. Poor Fiona had to listen to me singing the Exsultet, which was a final penitential observance for her before the Easter joy. In fact I sang quite a bit on Saturday night, most of it not quite as badly as that. Lesley had picked some dwarf daffodils from her garden which we used to decorate the altar, having picked them up from her doorstep (I was passing, it wasn't a special journey).

The dark red walls of the dining room worked quite well for Passiontide, but I had to make some sort of  change for Easter, so we brought back from the sacristy the painting of Mary Magdalene meeting the risen Lord outside the tomb. This fits neatly into the space between the bookcases in the dining room, and is a good size for visibility. My friend John painted this as a gift for the church a few years ago, after we had let him have an exhibition of his pictures in the Undercroft, and it is a re-imagining of Rembrandt's painting of the subject (which is in the royal collection) but rather in the style of Van Gogh, who John much admires. In the background, the view of the skyline of Jerusalem includes the profile of St Mary Magdalene's, which is nice.


Blessed are the Cheesemakers

We seem to get lots of fancy cheese in the Felix Project deliveries at the moment, so I have just turned cheesemonger, and cut up a six-pound semi-hard cheese into family-size portions. This was a Witheridge cheese, very fine. Soft cheeses are more difficult to parcel out, and you have to look for big families, or people who just like cheese a lot. The cheese packed for supermarkets usually comes to us at the end of its life, but sometimes the whole cheeses for catering have more life in them, which is a real joy for some of our people. We had a couple of officials from Kensington and Chelsea Council visit us today, as we are feeding people from their territory, so Jacqui was negotiating to get the use of a building in Ladbroke Grove, so that we can distribute food from there as well, to prevent their people coming over here, because at the moment we seem almost to be attracting custom, which is not the idea at all.


On the Road

I was shouted at on my bike the other day, as I didn't stop at a zebra crossing, but what had happened was that I had made eye contact with the person who was actually going to cross, and so we understood what we were doing and both proceeded perfectly safely.  The observer at the roadside just saw me failing to stop and so shouted self-righteously. Never mind. I was hooted by a van when I was passing a group of cyclists (a family, I have to assume) presumably because he thought I was part of a big group, or possibly just because I had to go quite wide to get round them. No problem. Why exactly was he on the road? I was getting my exercise.

The Harrow Road is not a lot less busy than normal, with long queues outside Co-Op and Iceland, not terribly well distanced, and making the pavement rather congested. Most of the shops seem to be open. Some of the usual drunks are still around. People are parked just as randomly as ever.

The drugs industry seems to be continuing to operate, as the couriers on their mopeds continue to come and go. One had taken to parking his moped on my forecourt, so I have started to close the gates; We are content to allow parking for Grand Junction, and occasionally let other residents park, but I'm not inclined to support this particular enterprise.    

One of the more curious parked vehicles is outside Lord's Cricket Ground, on a loading bay. This is a medium-sized dark green horsebox, which has been there for three weeks or so. I observed a couple of parking wardens on St John's Wood Road today, so perhaps they may have booked it.


St George's Day

Happy St George's Day, especially to all Syrians and Palestinians, whose patron he is too. We use a prayer calendar provided by USPG (Anglican mission agency) and find that it marks extraordinarily obscure secular observances. We had Earth Day, and a day for people with autism, and any number of observances to do with slavery, but we find that St George's Day is not marked. Curious. Anyway, we commemorated him at Mass today, and I shall be ringing the bell this evening and will think of the soldier-martyr as I do.

PASCHAL FULL MOON

We'll Meet Again

As Her Majesty said on Sunday, we will meet again. Her generation display remarkable stoicism, as witness my hundred-year-old aunt. We received our first delivery of mail for a fortnight yesterday, and on top of the pile was an Easter card from Aunt June. I suspect that this may be the only one we shall receive, from the only centenarian I know. Extraordinary that she is sufficiently organised to have bought Easter cards and sent them to her dozy nephews. She included a note apologising for not having had us over for lunch, but she had had a couple of problems, "AND NOW THIS!" So, hats off to Aunt June, and her generation.


Chapeau

And hats off as well to the caterers ("chapeau" is what bike racers say). I had worried that our efforts to feed people would be starved of supplies, but I was wrong. Last week the Felix Project asked if we could take more than usual, and when the delivery arrived it was full  of useful stuff, like ready meals and roasting chickens. Much of this came from the restaurant empire of Richard Caring, so our clients were eating The Ivy's famous shepherd's pie (complete with beautifully-piped potato on top), and chili from Sexy Fish (in Berkeley Square) and pea and watercress soup from Bill's. The chickens, and kale and asparagus, were not branded, but I suspect they had come from Caring's suppliers, as they seemed very good quality. There was also a mountain of little chocolate things from "Deliciously Ella". I see that Richard Caring has a charitable foundation, and clearly he is keeping some of his catering staff busy with producing these excellent ready meals for charitable purposes in this crisis, which seems to me to be a brilliant example for people to follow. I notice that Urban Caprice, the outside catering arm of Le Caprice, are working in their kitchen (just round the corner) again, so I imagine they are part of the effort, because they too are part of his empire. So, credit where it's due. It is very pleasing to think of some of our vulnerable, troubled, and damaged denizens of the Harrow Road dining on The Ivy shepherd's pie.


No More Rebellion

I have bowed the knee. We have been specifically instructed by the Bishop of London not to stream from church, as apparently some people have interpreted that as encouraging people to want to be in church, and to travel in spite of regulations. It is said that some people are using the streaming of services as an argument that churches should be reopened. We are accused of cynically ignoring the archbishops' guidelines or of pushing their boundaries, which doesn't seem entirely fair. I don't think anyone is acting cynically in this, but I do think the leadership of the Church of England have a very inflated idea of how much notice everybody else pays to what we do. So, I am currently trying to make my dining room look as churchy as possible (which does involve moving a lot of bottles). Ironically, while the conservation works were going on in church, and the whole building was technically a building site, most of the more fragile contents of the building migrated to my house, and most of them were in the dining room, but it didn't look like a church, more like an antique shop. So yesterday's Mass came from the Vicarage, and I am now working out how to do the Triduum Sacrum without moving from one spot so as to remain in camera shot.


Resurrection

When we came across from church with arms full of the necessities for the service yesterday teatime we were astonished to find a parakeet lying on its back in our drive. The more astonished since we had only been in church for about three minutes, and it hadn't been there when we set out. It looked dead, but we noticed its little chest was heaving, so we assumed it was mortally injured. "Poor thing," we both said, and left it. It made no reaction to our presence. I did another journey back and forth, with vestments, and though it was still alive, I thought its chest was moving more weakly, and its eyes were shut. About ten minutes later, Fiona came with me to get a last load of stuff, and as she came out of the front door the parakeet suddenly rolled over and flew away.

This was immensely cheering, because it was horrible to see a beautiful creature apparently dying outside your own front door, but it was also utterly mystifying. I think it had probably flown into our bathroom window, fooled by reflections, and been stunned, though how it came to fall where it did, in the middle of the drive, rather than on the flat roof under the window, I can't fathom. The added strangeness is that we hardly ever see parakeets on the Green, despite their being very common in the Park and elsewhere locally. If it had remained (apparently unconscious) on the drive much longer it would surely have been found either by the crows who have taken up residence on the Green, or by Bad Cat (Casimir's enemy) and I wouldn't have fancied its chances, but perhaps our comings and goings kept other things away, so it had time to recover, which it emphatically did. After that it seemed right to go out and admire the Paschal full moon later on.    

INTO THE STRANGE LAND

Pigeons

Last time, I reported the escalation in the pigeon war, but not the detail. My notice asking people not to feed the pigeons had been annotated, "Would you feel the same if this said, 'Please do not feed the homeless'?" and "One love", "Please feed everyone". Perhaps the author was not aware that we do feed the homeless? Or perhaps he was, and genuinely feels that there is no moral difference between pigeons and people? Certainly, it would be disgusting if language about vermin were applied to human beings, the homeless for instance, because all human beings are of intrinsic moral worth, but it is simply nonsense to pretend that there is a moral equivalence between pigeons and people. One love? What does that mean? I know it was a song, years ago (Bob Marley?) but what's it supposed to mean in this context? There was also a long disquisition on a laminated sheet, which referred to pinning and stapling things to trees as evidence of my contempt for nature, so that was attached to the tree by a large strap, which also secured a stuffed Minion to the treetrunk, a cruel and unusual punishment, in my view. I'm glad to say that someone else removed all that, and we seem to have reached a truce. After all, going out to feed the pigeons would be an unnecessary journey.

Meanwhile, Morgan Sindall continue to occupy parking spaces, but lots of people seem to think that parking regulations have become advisory for the duration. I don't think the Council has that view.


A Strange Land

I hope we didn't all catch the virus in those first few days when the supermarkets were packed with people buying loo paper. I was baffled by the sudden emptiness of the fresh vegetable shelves; how can you stockpile broccoli? The trouble was that it was all a bit wild west, and it was impossible to keep your distance, and the supermarkets seemed to have no mechanism for imposing order. Now it's all a bit better, but it can still be confusing; I encountered a queue outside Tesco at the weekend that appeared longer than it was because of a woman waiting for her husband to come out of the shop, and a beggar, both hanging around the line. Interestingly, most of the beggars have vanished, though there is often still one in front of the cash machine at the Chippenham.

Having a wife who used to be a ballet dancer has its moments. Fiona has discovered that Tamara Rojo, the director of English National Ballet, has started to live-stream company class (that's the session that all the dancers in the company do before they go off to their various rehearsals). This started with a number of dancers in a proper ballet studio, but now we are down to Tamara on her own in her kitchen. The first morning, I remarked that it did have the look of a kitchen where all the clutter had just been hidden away, not one that was naturally clinical. Fiona wondered whether Tamara had deliberately had the worktops fitted precisely at barre height, as ours are not quite the right height. Still, she found that you can hang onto the edge of the sink quite effectively, but it's a good thing we haven't got one of those trendy island units, as you could never do class then. 

At St Peter's, we continue to try to feed people. No more sit-down meals, though the first time we tried to do that some of the regulars got in via the side door. The problem is that our clientele are not always easily impressed by rational argument, and the desire of some of them to be helpful can be overwhelming. So, we have had to be strict. Food banks are encouraged to continue, and that's what we have become. We are still getting deliveries from the Felix Project, and are parcelling food up and giving it out. If people have to line up they have to do so outside, two arms' lengths apart, and we're delivering some meals to people. At first I feared that Felix would have nothing, since they distribute stuff that the supermarkets can't sell, and as panic-buying was emptying the supermarkets I was afraid that would mean we would get nothing, but deliveries have continued, if a little eccentrically. Quail, anyone?

So now I have a You Tube channel (do subscribe). With the very considerable assistance of a Lunch Club volunteer I discovered how easy it is to live-stream. I was fussed about getting a decent webcam and so hurtled over to John Lewis (when you still could) only to discover that they had sold out, including online. Enquiries revealed that there seemed to be none to be had anywhere in the south of England. A very kind friend then retrieved her webcam from her mother and sent it to me by post (which was being delivered then) but by the time it arrived I had already done it once using the camera and microphone built into my laptop, and found the results acceptable. After all, who wants to see me in HD? Having got it to work once means that my fear of the technology is a strong disincentive from changing anything now, though I'm sure it can be improved. We shall see. Someone else asked me how to do it, and I had to admit that I couldn't explain because it was really very easy and I didn't remember what I clicked and when. That doesn't stop me doing things wrong, and yesterday we lost transmission halfway through Mass, which wasn't my fault (as far as I know). But, technical glitches aside, we are successfully broadcasting a Sunday Mass, and other services as well, and the feedback is tremendous. I am moved and heartened by the messages that I am receiving back, and I have to say that this is the most positive feedback I've ever received in more than thirty years of ministry. Being able to use the beauty and resources of St Mary Magdalene's is a great benefit in this. It's not the same as normal Sunday worship, because we have no music, and I can't move about, and it's only me with Fiona answering, but we can offer spiritual resources, and an experience of worship that people can share. We even managed to do Stations of the Cross, with me carrying an iPad around the church, which was jolly hard work, and a bit wobbly, but worked. The only cloud on the horizon is that the Archbishops think that this is a bad thing, and that we should only be streaming from our homes. My own inner turmoil when receiving that pronouncement was acute, as I am not a natural rebel, but I am quite clear that my going into church to do this can do no harm, while the good that the services are doing is immense (and much greater than if they came from my dining room). So, yesterday (like many others) I rebelled, for the sake of my people's spiritual lives.

SIGNS OF SPRING

Before the Beak

Regular readers will remember Angry Woman with Dog, who appears from time to time, despite no longer living particularly close; at the moment she is Angry Woman without Dog. The dog was seized by the police last July, when there was an incident with a neighbour, and she has been distraught ever since. Finally, in January, she received a letter charging her with having a dangerous dog out of control and causing injury, and with owning a fighting dog (namely a pit bull) and calling her to court at the start of February. She brought this letter round, not understanding it fully, and her GP and I swung into action. He wrote a letter stating that she was unfit to appear, which I emailed to the court, having had a helpful conversation with someone at the courts service, who told me what we could do. There was no prospect of getting a solicitor in time for that appearance, and so I asked for an adjournment. As the person at the courts service had warned, we heard nothing about the result of that until she received a letter summoning her to the magistrates' court in March, but at least that gave us a chance to get her a solicitor. So, a few weeks ago I walked her to the solicitors' offices, where thanks to her claustrophobia we had to conduct business in a foyer (where the Bishop of Kensington walked past, among others). Blessedly, legal aid was obtained, and so she has representation.

So, the week before last, I took her to court, in the car. Why did I do this? Well, I really couldn't avoid it. I am involved, I am concerned that she gets a fair trial, and she is quite unable to help herself. To do the journey by public transport would be really complicated, and for someone who reads as poorly as she does, that would be a real challenge. One of my most basic observations about all this is how opaque the criminal justice system is, so unless you are familiar with it you may well find it very hard to work out what is going on, and even to follow instructions. It must be a complete nightmare if you are not eligible for legal aid, and frankly finding a legal aid solicitor is not easy. If you don't read well, the paperwork is pretty daunting, and just really unhelpful. No indication of where the court actually was, for instance. So, had I not taken her, she wouldn't have got there at all. We arrived early, to give us time to talk to the solicitor, who was then delayed, so we had plenty of time to inspect the waiting areas. Not encouraging. All very grubby, and despite the building not being very old, the decor looked very tired. It was not a nice place to spend several hours. I was struck by the fact that Angry Woman seemed to be the only native English speaker among the various defendants, which again raises questions about the access to justice.

After a long delay, we were ushered down to a different courtroom from the one we were scheduled for, with space. I found myself sitting behind a large window, the frame of which was much decorated with chewing gum. I presume the magistrates could see me, and my presence perhaps registered with them. Angry Woman's claustrophobia meant she didn't want to go into the dock (which is of course enclosed), but they were quite tolerant about that. We are due in court again in June. Meanwhile the dog is still in kennels somewhere. I suppose it is possible that the dog might be learning better behaviour, but I somehow doubt it. I can see this will run and run.


Decorative Surfaces

The day after going to court I spent with the Institute of Conservation's gilding and decorative surfaces group, at a symposium on the conservation of devotional objects. In the breaks I was able to write a sermon, so my time was used efficiently, and they were very kind about my talk. I tried to be honest about some of the pitfalls we had encountered with our big conservation project, which, to be fair, was not really involving devotional objects, but I made some observations about devotional objects anyway. The room full of conservators and professionals seemed to regard a client as quite a curiosity to have among them, so that was quite fun. They were talking about the ethical issues involved with devotional objects in collections, and seeking to inform or consult the original users, but I pointed out that this was full of difficulties, because there may be plenty of people who claim ownership or use of an object who are not at all the same people as created it (see Stonehenge for an example). I dare say that some Roman Catholics might take the view that they know better than us how some of our devotional objects should be used, whereas I would say that our practice has its own integrity (and has been going on for a hundred and fifty years in this building). There are some interesting discussions to be had.


A Group Visit

Amid all the panic, we had a visit from a local branch of Open Age this morning. I had supposed they would be down on numbers, but not at all. They had a successful visit to the church, and then we did them a deal in the cafe, who were pleased to have the custom. There was one gentleman present who had relations who had grown up in the old slums, so I was glad I hadn't emphasised their criminality. He tested me by asking which world boxing champion grew up here, and I think I impressed him by knowing it was Terry Downes, who was baptised at St Mary Mags. They were a cheerful and responsive group.


Bird Life

On the canal, one of the Egyptian geese had vanished, and the remaining one was wandering around disconsolately, but now a second one has appeared, so happiness is restored. They were mating enthusiastically a couple of weeks ago, so who knows, we might get some goslings.

Meanwhile, at St Peter's, my discouragement of people feeding the pigeons has provoked a reaction. First my notice asking people not to do it was taken down, and then when I replaced it, someone spread breadcrumbs in front of our steps. I confess that I have taken to kicking the larger bread rolls into the road, which gives a trivial satisfaction, but isn't far enough away to achieve anything (since they won't actually get run over). Now someone has attached a large notice to the tree berating me for not valuing nature. Oh dear. . . .  .

HAMILTON AND FREUD

Contractors

Regular readers will remember that I was struck, a month or so ago, by the rash of Morgan Sindall vans that were parked around St Peter's; the reason soon became clear. There was an estate agent's office in Goldney Road (about fifty yards away) which was vacated not so long ago, and this has now become an office for Morgan Sindall Property Services. They have a nice yard, where you can park half a dozen vehicles, but that is clearly not enough, and there are always vans parked on the single yellow lines at all hours of the day, together with others in residents' bays or on the double yellow from time to time. Now they each have a permit in the windscreen from Westminster Housing, but it is not clear what this actually permits. I would suppose it would enable them to park on the estate roads of Hallfield or Churchill Gardens, where parking is usually forbidden, and where Westminster Housing is the landowner, but does it give them a privileged status on the public highway? In the end, it is the City Council that administers street parking, and so it is perfectly able to permit its contractors to park in contravention of all normal regulations, but has it really decided to do that? And if it has, might it not be a good idea to think of the consequences, and perhaps ask for the views of the residents whose spaces are being occupied, not to mention the pedestrians and cyclists who are put at risk by dangerous parking?


Amid the Storm

We hosted a fundraiser for The Avenues Youth Project last Sunday at St Mary Mags, in the middle of the storm. Incidentally, was I the only person to be baffled and then irritated by the fact that what they were calling "Storm Kiera" was spelled "Storm Ciara"?  That's not a name, in the first place, and in whose language is it pronounced that way? Not English, certainly! Anyway, the storm wrought chaos, by preventing some of the promised artists from appearing, as they could not reach us. One side effect of that was that the musical director whose train was cancelled was bringing the music with him that he was meant to play, accompanying a singer, so a student pianist (from Guildhall) was asked to accompany, and the music was sent electronically to me, and I then downloaded it and printed it out at home, on my cheap printer where I never bother to correct the alignment after I've changed the ink. I was anxious about that, but the pianist then had to sight-read this Stevie Wonder number and familiarise herself enough with it in about twenty minutes to accompany a West End star. I discovered that the tall, polite young man in a hat who forwarded me the music was Jamael Westman, who was the original West End "Hamilton". He sang nicely, and his two colleagues from the show performed really impressively. It was a great thing for the young people from The Avenues to be rubbing shoulders with these genuinely top-drawer performers, who were also quite charming and unaffected. We also had three young performers from Guildhall, who played and sang really well. Their rendition of "La ci darem la mano" was absolutely charming, and the meaning was perfectly clear without anyone needing a second language or surtitles.

The trouble with being the custodian of an ancient building is that you do have extra worries during extreme weather events. I sat there being entertained, but listening out for any sounds of damage. I noted that the dormer shutters were clattering, which they don't normally do, but didn't hear anything much else. We used the glass sliding doors in the extension rather than the Victorian church door because the gale kept on catching the old door and was making it unmanageable, so that was a useful experiment. I think the logic is that we shall do that as a matter of course, though when the glass porch over the north entrance is built then that will probably become our main door (though not for me).


Strange Lives

Yesterday we had an event I had long been anticipating. Years ago, when Will Stephens was our artist-in-residence (studio in the old sacristy) he introduced me to William Feaver, who had been art critic for the Observer, and was a tutor at the Royal Drawing School (where Will studied). Last year when Bill published the first volume of his monumental biography of Lucian Freud I saw a possibility for a Grand Junction event, and got Will to put us in touch, which he did. So Bill very generously came last night to talk to an audience of over a hundred about Lucian Freud in Paddington, because from 1944 to 1977 Freud had studios in, successively,  Delamere Terrace, Clarendon Crescent, and Gloucester Terrace, and was evidently full of stories of the old  Paddington.

The mere question of Bill's biographical method is interesting in itself, because Lucian Freud simply liked talking to him, and would constantly phone him up, quite apart from letting himself be interviewed. So, Bill soon started taking notes, and recorded lots of their conversations, which Freud was fine with, as he conceived the idea of Bill writing "the first funny art book", Then he read the first two chapters (which Bill had spent considerable time writing) and took fright, forbidding the enterprise in his lifetime, though clearly accepting that it would eventually appear. The volume of material was obviously vast, and Bill Feaver has compounded matters by being a most assiduous researcher, following up the most obscure and tangential figures in the story, which makes it a very big book, but fantastically interesting, and thoroughly gossipy. It is also genuinely funny, as the extraordinary life of Lucian Freud takes shape.

I was asked whether I thought it entirely appropriate for a priest to be discussing such a reprehensible life (in church) and I pondered that one. I think it's fair to respond that I certainly wasn't endorsing Freud's lifestyle, but neither was Bill, but that it's not necessary to be judgemental. Freud's behaviour was contrary to almost anyone's standards of morality, let alone Christian ones, and you can just let it stand for itself, and leave the observer to make their own judgements. Reading the biography, one is constantly struck by the remarkable lack of ill-will shown by most of the women whom Freud had wronged, and actually a sense of the artist's vulnerability. When we saw the show of his self-portraits at the RA recently that is not something that was evident at all; rather we felt the overbearing presence of the domineering artist, but one is just reminded that art and life are not the same. Of course, it's the Wagner question, whether the behaviour (or views) of the artist devalues the art, and Bill and I discussed that a little last night, but there's more that can be said, of course.

It was an excellent evening, at least I enjoyed myself in the role of interlocutor, which was initially very daunting, but then great fun. So all those evenings watching Graham Norton haven't been wasted! It was certainly more Graham Norton than Andrew Neill, which I hope is what people had come for. Stupidly I didn't suggest to Bill that he should bring a crate of books, because he'd certainly have sold some.     

My only regret was that we didn't spend long enough on the odd, criminal world of Delamere Terrace and Clarendon Crescent in the 1940s and 50s, which comes out very strongly from the book. Kenneth Clark commented, "Strange lives" in reference to the people among whom Lucian Freud was living, and while they must have seemed strange to someone as cultivated (and buttoned-up) as Clark then, they sound like lives from another planet to us today. There's more to learn.

GONE ON PILGRIMAGE

I confess to a certain perverse pride when I was able to put "I am on pilgrimage" on my out-of-office reply. It certainly made an impression on some of my secular colleagues.

Of course, it was only what they call a "clergy familiarisation tour" where the pilgrimage operator (in this case McCabes) take clerics at a reduced rate in the hope that they will then lead their own pilgrimage, inspired by the experience. In fact, I would love to do so, but don't see much prospect of getting up a party from this neighbourhood. We are a small church community, and I don't think we'd ever get the numbers required. People might be interested, but £2000 is beyond most of my folk here. McCabes encourage you to announce it long in advance, so that people can save up for it, and pay in instalments, but that argues a degree of organisation which is not often found on the Harrow Road. Because we were being familiarised, the itinerary was one that took in all the big sites, and quite a few others, crammed into eight days, whereas I can see that you might want to tailor your own tour, and probably go for ten days rather than eight to have a bit more space to think and pray.

When we arrived in Jerusalem it was colder than London, grey and rainy. I remarked that since the city was grey and rainy and had trams it reminded me of Manchester. Early January was probably a good time to go from the point of view of crowds, but it did mean that you had to take lots of clothes. I travelled with a much heavier bag than usual, but the only thing I bought to bring back was a kilo of Palestinian dates.

We stayed in East Jerusalem, in a Christian-owned hotel, overlooking the walls of the Old City, which was an excellent position. From the hotel roof you could see the "Garden Tomb", and in fact the hotel was said to be the place that General Gordon was staying when he got the idea that the quarry wall behind the "Garden Tomb" looked like a skull. Our guide to the Garden Tomb, a jovial Ulsterman, told us that you would be able  to appreciate it better if the bus station were removed from in front of it, as that has raised the level somewhat. I thought the Garden Tomb interesting, but didn't feel anything.

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, on the other hand, I felt much more moving than I expected. To be in there at dawn (on the Sunday) was a very special privilege. I didn't particularly notice the notoriously bad relations between the denominations, though the Copts were a bit brusque in defending their space. It was hugely moving to be at Golgotha, and see the rock, and to enter the sepulchre.

The biggest impression, though, was of the huge contrast between Galilee and Judaea. Why was that nice, gentle, fertile land ruled by that city in those harsh hills? The sense that God was somehow present in Jerusalem, that God had somehow marked the place out, was increased by the incongruity of the fit between the two parts. Of course Galilee enables you to see views that appear unchanged since the time of Jesus, and it is calm and lovely in a way that is never true of Jerusalem, but I won't say I liked it more, because I love those buildings with their layers of history and accumulated faith.

Of the contemporary state of the Land of the Holy One, not much to say. We drove up to the Separation Wall in Bethlehem, which separates Rachel's Tomb from the town, and saw all the Banksy-type paintings and graffiti on it. You could not help feel the crudeness and the brutality of it. We visited a rehabilitation centre in Bethlehem which has had to equip itself as a full-scale hospital, because their local hospital was in Jerusalem, and now Palestinians cannot easily go there (certainly not in an emergency). The settlements creeping over the hills are hideous, and an affront to international law, but you can understand the state of Israel's desire to survive. Someone said to  me afterwards, "So what is the solution, then?" to which I pointed out that better minds than mine have been working on this for years, but I can't feel optimistic, not while so many Palestinians seem determined to nurse a sense of grievance, and while Israelis insist that they are a special case.