Danish

 Last night I watched an episode of Andrew Graham-Dixon's The Art of Scandinavia. The subject was Danish art, so I was expecting good stuff. Alas, I was disappointed: for one thing, this was more a potted cultural history of Denmark, from Christian IV and the Frederiksborg Palace to the original Legoland, by way of Hans Christian Andersen (no Kierkegaard). But more importantly, the coverage of actual Danish art was at best patchy. Plenty of  Thorvald's heroic neo-classical sculpture (a little of which goes a long way), and more than enough of Eckersberg's unalluring nudes – after which it was straight on to Hammershoi's pallid interiors. So, no sighting of the greatest of the Golden Age painters, Cristen Koebke, no Golden Age landscapes (that's one of Købke's above), and nothing of Krøyer and the Skagen painters – in other words, all the most beautiful and enjoyable Danish art was missing. 
   Though I can't say I like him, I know Graham-Dixon has made some excellent TV programmes, many of which I've enjoyed – but this certainly wasn't one of them. He's also written a big fat book about Vermeer, which everyone is raving about (just as they were about Laura Cumming's recent book on Dutch art, Thunderclap, which I found disappointing). I don't think I'll be reading it – life seems too short.

Britain's Favourite Butterfly – and Mine

I see that the charity Butterfly Conservation is running a poll to find Britain's Favourite Butterfly. At present, the Peacock is leading the vote, unsurprisingly, and in second place I'm delighted to see the Orange Tip, ahead of the Red Admiral. Has anyone voted for the Dingy Skipper, Britain's dullest butterfly, I wondered? They have – it's there at number 37 (of 60 eligible species). So what is at number 60, the bottom of the poll? Incredibly, it's the Silver-Spotted Skipper, a beautiful little butterfly that gladdened my heart on many a late-summer walk in the Surrey Hills. Of my own favourites, I was also startled to see the lovely Dark Green Fritillary way down the chart at number 49. But Nige, I hear you ask – if you were to vote, what would it be? Readers of this book need hardly ask – yes, it would have to be the White Admiral (currently at number 26). The special magic of this butterfly is as much in its flight as in its beautiful wing markings. Jeremy Thomas writes that 'No account can do justice to the White Admiral's dainty movements, or convey the character of a creature so ideally suited to gliding in and out of dappled shade among the branches of mature woodlands.' Indeed. 
  This video gives some idea of the beauty of Limenitis camilla...

Dark

 And here, by way of counterweight to the International Day of Light, is a poem by Edward Thomas. As with the Donald Justice, it is one of his last and most beautiful (and untitled), written on his last Christmas at home with his family. A few months later, on Easter Monday 1917, Thomas was killed in action at Arras, shot through the chest. 

Out in the dark over the snow

The fallow fawns invisible go

With the fallow doe ;

And the winds blow

Fast as the stars are slow.

Stealthily the dark haunts round

And, when the lamp goes, without sound

At a swifter bound

Than the swiftest hound,

Arrives, and all else is drowned ;

And star and I and wind and deer,

Are in the dark together, – near,

Yet far, – and fear

Drums on my ear

In that sage company drear.

How weak and little is the light,

All the universe of sight,

Love and delight,

Before the might,

If you love it not, of night.

Light

  I'm sure it can't have escaped your attention that today is International Day of Light. I must admit it was passing me by until it got a mention on the radio this morning. I've no clear idea what it is – some kind of Unesco invention, it seems – but it gives me the perfect pretext to post again one of my favourite poems – one of the last, and most beautiful, written by Donald Justice. Three six-line stanzas, rhyming by repetition, the last stanza directly paraphrasing Chekhov's Uncle Vanya – that's all there is to it, and yet it creates something far bigger than the sum of its parts. I find it intensely moving, and I rate it among the great short poems of the twentieth century...

1 
There is a gold light in certain old paintings
That represents a diffusion of sunlight.
It is like happiness, when we are happy.
It comes from everywhere and nowhere at once, this light,
  And the poor soldiers sprawled at the foot of the cross
  Share in its charity equally with the cross.

2
Orpheus hesitated beside the black river.
With so much to look forward to he looked back.
We think he sang then, but the song is lost.
At least he had seen once more the beloved back.
  I say the song went this way: O prolong
  Now the sorrow if that is all there is to prolong.

3
The world is very dusty, uncle. Let us work.
One day the sickness shall pass from the earth for good.
The orchard will bloom; someone will play the guitar.
Our work will be seen as strong and clean and good.
  And all that we suffered through having existed
  Shall be forgotten as though it had never existed.

West Wind

 The mid-May weather here has been unseasonally cold, with sudden violent showers of rain and hail. The swifts have withdrawn to await better things; only the doughtiest butterflies – holly blues (amazingly abundant this year) and speckled woods – are showing themselves, in the rare moments of relative warmth; and me, I'm back in my herringbone tweed jacket. The worst of it is the relentless, hard-blowing West wind. I'm no fan of strong winds, from whatever quarter, but the West is undoubtedly the worst, scrambling my brain in a way no other wind does. If I were to write an Ode to the West Wind, it would consist of three words: Cease And Desist. Or I might adapt the ancient lyric, with apologies to Anon: 
Westron wind, when wilt tha cease?
Thy blowing drives me mad.
All I ask is a little peace
And the quiet I once had.

In the Mediterranean world, away from the rude Atlantic blast, the West wind is regarded as a welcome visitor, a soft, warm breeze,  personified as Zephyr. (Even Chaucer talks of Zephyrus with his sweet breath – really? In England?). Here is a glorious madrigal by Claudio Monteverdi (baptised on this day in 1567, fact fans) in which 'Zephyr returns, and with gentle words warms the air and sets the waters free, and whispering among the verdant boughs, makes the field flowers dance to his glad sound'. If only. 

 

Wartime in Wool

 Yesterday my old friend Bryan (Appleyard) paid a visit to Lichfield. We met, as usual, in the cathedral, which, on his last visit, was hosting an exhibition of Peter Marlow's wonderful photographs of English cathedrals. This time, by way of contrast, much of the cathedral was given over to a vast exhibition, The Longest Yarn 2, which tells the story of wartime Britain in a series of eighty 'wool art' tableaux composed entirely of, er, knitting wool. Above, for example, is VE Day at Buckingham Palace. 
   What can I say? This was clearly a labour of love, created by an army of volunteers over who knows how many man/woman-hours. It covers the whole duration of the war, from Chamberlain's broadcast to VJ Day, taking in the Blitz, rationing, the Battle of Britain, evacuees, bomber raids, D-Day, street parties, the lot. The trouble is that knitting wool has, shall we say, limited expressive possibilities, and knitted figures inevitably look like something from vintage children's television, with their round faces, button noses and vacuous expressions. Despite this, I understand that many people are finding the exhibition moving and impressive – and it is certainly attracting large numbers of visitors: the cathedral was heaving. It is, in its very English way, sweet, charming, and quite bonkers. Perhaps, if I hadn't watched the seriously moving BBC documentary Children of the Blitz the night before, The Longest Yarn 2 might have done more for me...
   Then we walked round Stowe Pool, dropped into St Chad's church, enjoyed an excessively liquid lunch, and had a look around the Samuel Johnson Birthplace Museum, where, in the bookshop, I bought a copy of Piers Brendon's Eminent Edwardians, and a facsimile of a letter from Boswell to Johnson. 

Donovan and Fred

 Today, the singer-songwriter Donovan, a man not given to understating his contribution to popular music, celebrates his 80th birthday. A while back, on the occasion of another Donovan birthday, I wrote this: 
'Today is the 67th birthday of that titan of troubadours, Donovan. Singer-songwriter, poet, mystic, visionary, man of letters, musical and psychedelic pioneer, Donovan was the most influential figure of his time, entirely changing the course of music history. Without him, the Beatles would have been just another beat combo, California's Summer of Love would never have happened, jazz, psychedelia and world music would probably not exist, and no one would ever have heard of Jeff Beck or Bob Dylan.

You might recall the 1965 meeting between Dylan and Donovan captured in D.A. Pennebaker's film Don't Look Back. The director later recalled that
'Of course, when Donovan met him he was very excited and decided to play something for him. Dylan said he liked 'Catch The Wind', but Donovan said, I've written a new song I wanna play for you. So he played a song called 'My Darling Tangerine Eyes'. And it was to the tune of 'Mr Tambourine Man'! And Dylan was sitting there with this funny look on his face, listening to 'Mr Tambourine Man' with these really weird words, trying to keep a straight face. Then Dylan says, Well, you know, that tune ... I have to admit that I haven't written all the tunes I'm credited with, but that happens to be one that I did write! I'm sure Donovan never played the song again.'
   Back in the Sixties, music fandom was intensely tribal, especially in the school playground, but often in the music press as well - Cliff v Elvis, Beatles v Stones (even, briefly, Beatles v Dave Clark Five), and of course Dylan v Donovan, which now looks rather like Beatles v Dave Clark Five. But let's be fair, Donovan - at least in the years when he was managed by Mickie Most - did produce a string of agreeable, even classic, singles. These, and indeed his early albums, were part of the soundtrack of my misspent youth, though A Gift from a Flower to a Garden finished it for me (Dear Flower - Thanks but No Thanks). But then there was the strangely wonderful 'children's album' HMS Donovan, which I remember (with a blush) being played worryingly often in my rooms at university...'

Nothing to add, really – except Happy Birthday, old chap!

As it happens,  Fred Astaire (né Austerlitz) was also born on this day, in 1899. No one could dance like him (especially when he was dancing with Ginger Rogers), and no one could put across a song as effectively as him – no wonder he was the songwriters' favourite. Here is a clip of classic Fred and Ginger – Irving Berlin's 'Cheek to Cheek', from Top Hat (1935). Enjoy...