Or George Washington’s Boots, Gandalf in the Back Seat, the Wings of Angels and a Workshop in Bristol.
Just finished reading a book entitled “The World through Blunted Sight” by Patrick Trevor-Roper
Despite a rather hokey foray into the symbolism of eyesight (I always thought I wore glasses so I could SEE, but I know now it’s only a shield for my “guiltful or self-conscious soul”…) the book is full of interesting facts about the history of painting , with the focus aptly centred on artists with poor vision.
Did El Greco, astigmatic and possibly colour-blind, really see those cadaverous, ethereal and slanted figures he paints or was it a vue de l’esprit; is our vison of that stocky and stalwart Henry VIII because Holbein had horizontal astigmatism or was Henry just rather fond of mutton? Were a majority of Impressionists myopic (optically, not spiritually, but is a handicap in one not a certain enhancement of the other anyway?) Despite being far more competent ophtalmologically than artistically or historically, the author does raise some fascinating points. I skimmed over the exhaustive list of eye disorders, squirming in discomfort all the while, and found much to my consternation that either the printing of the book is way off or I am totally colour-blind…
There is a great section on the “Myopic personality”, which made better reading than my horoscope ever does without being much more helpful. But the best chapter deals with individuals who were born blind (or lost their sight at an early age) and recovered it through an eye operation. There is a lovely anecdote about a teenager who, unable to remember whether the creature nearby was a dog or a cat, (and being too shy to ask) only remembered which it was when he picked it up. So much is involved in learning to see that we casually overlook it, doing so at an age when we are effortlessly acquiring phenomenal amounts of information, but it does explain why the legendary John de Mandeville encountered a rhinocerous and saw a unicorn…
Seems like humanity is short-sighted.
And wearing glasses is no remedy.
Next time I’ll ask my optician for one of those magic pairs, that lets you see the truth, or the future. Even a clear view of the past would do…
Otherwise, during this last two weeks or so I read:
“The Alphabet” by David Sacks
“A Short History of Progress” by Ronald Wright
“Down Under” by Bill Bryson
“Beowulf and the 7th Century” By Ritchie Girvan
“The Hanged Man” by Robert Bartlett
“Interpretation and Overinterpretation” by Umberto Eco
and last but not least:
“Status Anxiety” by Alain de Botton, which despite a rather predictable and regrettably unprovocative conclusion, is a truly excellent reflexion on what western society is all about and why we are on the runaway train to which we grimly cling.
I only read all these books not because I can barely understand the titles, but they look suitably daunting on the shelf and impress visitors who automatically assume I can actually understand half of what’s in them. (Hardly the case – I read “Kant and the Platyus” – Umberto Eco again, which also has a wonderful chapter or three on how we recognize objects and distinguish between one thing and another – from cover to cover and understood nothing, I re-read Robert Graves’ “The White Goddess” periodically and still can’t see more than a few inches into what I suspect is water deep enough to happily drown in…)
I also read tons of books I don’t admit to reading: detective, sci-fi, even fantasy, though I can’t read the books with my covers on them because the thought of compromising the spine by cracking it open even most cautiously is unbearable. All those books end up in the attic where they just take up space. What a clutter. (Thankfully, you never have to worry about taking such things with you. The next generation will clean out the attic and make a run to the dump.)
The subtitle?
Only to get you reading this far, of course!
A friend lent me a pair of meticulously reconstructed boots for a museum replica of George Washington, so they will look used when they go on the figure. I have yet to become bold enough to wear knee-length high-heeled square-toed black boots into town shopping or to the copy shop, but they are darn comfy for gardening and hiking in the woods.
My son and I took the Gandalf statue to be photographed professionally, which entailed driving through Neuchâtel at 12 mph with the flashers on, with him steadying the statue in the backseat, tailgated and generally honked upon by irate local drivers. (But I forgive them; cars with Swiss plates are treated mercilessly on forays into France, the realm of self-proclaimed driving excellence, who consider vehicles with the telltale CH sticker slowpokes and dullards at the wheel, so any chance to let them vent a little ire on a slower-than-thou car is a valid contribution to pedestrian safety…)
Angels’ wings are a subject that came up three times absolutely simultaneously – I thumbed through a book on Hildegard von Bingen’s most curious paintings, received a wonderfully image-rich and thought-provoking e-mail from someone on the subject of dragons and angels and was offered a possible commission to paint an angel of my choosing, all in the space of about 30 minutes. Too good to be fortuitous. My shoulder blades are itching already, I may soon sprout the metaphorical wings of the fallen angel. I absolutely adore the vibrant serendipity of imagery passing from one culture to another through time – acquiring here wings, there a sword, becoming linked to a certain spring or dell, growing or diminishing in the telling, until we have the image that springs to mind we know not precisely how or why.
And lastly, Alan Lee and I have accepted to do a little workshop at The Return of the Convention in Bristol in late March. More on that here and more information when we finally sort out exactly what we are going to do. ( I have suggested a song and dance routine, given Alan’s subtle barytone and dazzling dance floor performances, but we’ll see.)
