The Big Poem

I pass this on for two reasons: (a) It is very funny. (b) Doesn't that guy look uncannily like Ed Balls? Not that Broon's lot would ever fund such a visionary project...

Motion Blocked

Andrew Motion has been suffering from writer's block, he says. How could he tell? As a poet, he's been blocked his entire career.

Sorry?

As the Church of England issues an apology to Charles Darwin, it's hard to know whether to laugh or cry. More usefully, perhaps, we might apply the Lenin question, Who? Whom? Who is apologisingg here, and to whom? Apparently a self-appointed representative of the modern C of E is making the apology, with official sanction - not the persons who caused the alleged offence. This is very much 'on behalf of' those long dead people - and the apology is issued to a man 126 years dead, who apparently has no representatives to accept or reject the apology.
And what exactly is being apologised for? The statement is notably vague about this. Perhaps some ancestral memory of the clash between Thomas Huxley and 'Soapy Sam' Wilberforce is at work here - but, as many have made clear (e.g. A.N. Wilson in God's Funeral), that occasion has been mythologised until it barely resembles what actually occurred. It would be more appropriate, surely, for Punch magazine to issue an apology for all those unkind cartoons of Darwin as an ape. Punch no longer exists, of course - but in the crazy world of postdated apologies, that shouldn't make any difference at all.

An Outbreak of Paganism in Carshalton

So there I was, walking along the high street, minding my own business, when I became aware of the sound of music - well, the banging of drums, the tootling of pipes and the squeezing of squeeze boxes - drawing near. I waited on a corner and into view hoved a walking haystack, followed by a procession dressed in various faux medieval and faux celtic motleys, with leaves in their hair. One character, stripped to the waist and painted, was prancing about making mischief, while the rest marched on with an apparent sense of purpose. Shaggy grey beards were, of course, de rigueur (at least for the men). Several of the processants were playing instruments, banging on things, and giving the occasional excited cry. Such shows of enthusiasm, as Hardy observes somewhere, are sure signs of a faked or resurrected tradition - observers of a genuine living tradition invariably evince total boredom. Whatever this 'tradition' was, it was a new one on me.
On closer inspection, the walking haystack appeared to be a walking oversized stook of corn, so presumably this was some kind of harvest home, celebrating the safe gathering in of the abundant corn from Carshalton's fields (hem hem). This was disappointing, as I had of course beeen hoping it was a local variant of the wicker man ceremony, and a huge pyre was waiting in Carshalton Park.
Anyway, as bemused onlookers scratched their heads, the procession made its way to the other side of the street, with the prancer prancing merrily about in the stalled traffic (in a fine display of forbrearance, nobody ran him over). Outside the motorbike shop, the Corn Man became stuck - to amusing effect - between a lamp post and a parked motorbike, and had to be maneouvred for several minutes to get him going again. The procession then passed on, who knows whither - I wasn't going to follow, as it was clear no human sacrifice was on offer.
I suppose this was an outbreak of respectable suburban 'paganism' - it's alarmingly popular, I gather, in the affluent suburbs, where the disaffected bourgeoisie like to kid themselves they are in touch with elemental forces. I remember the 'new' rector, back in the 90s when he arrived here, saying that he'd concluded he was among tree worshippers. It seems he had a point...

A Cezanne

Sorry, this blog seems to be turning into an art gallery - but don't worry, it won't last. It's just that yesterday I went to see the Courtauld Cezannes, and I couldn't let that pass. One of the critics has described this exhibition as 'a condensed miracle of masterpieces' - and that is just what it is. All the Cezannes the Courtauld owns - the best collection in England - in one room, with some rarely seen drawings and watercolours, and a few letters, in Cezanne's dashing hand, thrown in. The letters include thoughts on art, and on old age, which the artist faces defiantly, determining to paint to the last. The captioning of the pictures is brief and to the point, usefully illuminating Cezanne's technique; the hang is pretty well perfect; the crowds are well below blockbuster levels; and there is time and peace to look properly at everything on show. With barely more than 20 pictures on display, this exhibition is, it seems to me, on precisely the scale at which proper attention is possible (as so few exhibitions, in these days of the corporate-sponsored blockbuster, are). For a concentrated aesthetic hit - a blast of pure painterly joy - there's nothing in London at present to match the Courtauld Cezannes.

A Sickert

Since this blog is now The Illustrated Nige, here's a Sickert that caught my eye the other day in Tate Britain. I think it must have been hung quite recently, as I'd never spotted it before. The reproduction here (to go by what's on my screen) is too blue. On the canvas, it's a stunning picture to see, with that off-centre composition, the masterly brushwork, and the bittersweet evocation of the indignity of old age still forlornly in thrall to the pleasures of youth. The Latin epigraph is from Ovid, its gist being that love, like war, is a young man's game. Sickert was 70 when he painted it. What a painter - and it's good to see his critical stock is steadily rising now.

What My Cravat Drinks

It looks as if my cravat is beginning to choose my drinks for me. Yesterday I found myself strangely attracted to the faded charm (and fine French artwork) of a bottle of Dubonnet. It is, I rediscover, a very fine aperitif - up there in the Camapri or Amaro class, but robust and Gallic - and Wikipedia is unduly harsh in comparing Dubonnet to Buckfast Tonic Wine, of all things, the preferred tipple of the Lanarkshire underclass (ten per cent of world production heads straight for that county). Dubonnet is not easily confused with the 'commotion lotion' or 'wreck the hoose juice' - it is a cravat drink, not a string vest drink. If it has fallen off your alcohol radar too, give it another try. You might well be pleasantly surprised.
(By the way, this is my first attempt to add an image to a post. Here's hoping it's worked...)