The Angel of History

I have registered with a locum agency . My hiatus from work will end in February .

I am contemplating going to an exhibition at Tate Modern. It is pricey but it is Paul Klee and I admire his work . Klee was a German-Swiss painter who produced art in the years between the world wars of the 20th century.His work was expressionistic, sometimes childlike and funny. He said that drawing is taking a line for a walk.

A Klee painting from 1920 is called the Angel of History. It was acquired by the cultural critic Walter Benjamin. Benjamin was known for literary criticism and the book " The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" .

Every historian and politician involved in education should look at the painting and read Benjamin's commentary.He said the following in his essay " On the Concept of History" :

"A Klee painting named Angelus Novus shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth hangs open, his wings are spread. This is how the angel of history must look. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one catastrophe, which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage hurling it before his feet.The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead,and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence the angel can no longer close them. This storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned,while the pile of debris before him grows skyward.

This storm is what we call progress."

The government minister Mr Gove seems to view British history as a narrative of a largely benign empire. Progress indeed.

Walter Benjamin took his own life in 1940 on the French-Spanish border trying to escape the Nazis.The photo is from the Jewish memorial in Berlin.

 

 

Pontiff

Pope Francis is an interesting figure.

I am not Catholic but some of his pronouncements on taking office have been admirable. He has criticised the brutality of modern commerce and eschewed the ornate trappings of office. His living arrangements are humble and he is driven around in a small Ford. You judge public figures by their critics . The American Christian right have expressed alarm at his liberalism on social issues and his sympathy for the poor and unemployed.

The Catholic Church has suffered a series of self inflicted catastrophes. From incessant meddling in private lives and a perceived failure to deal with child sex abuse it has been a disappointment to its followers. The new Pontiff seems to be practising what he preaches which in today's affairs is revolutionary.

It is surprising given his background. From accounts he was a conservative figure who underwent a Pauline conversion in his fifties. Given apostolic succession his road to Damascus is fitting.

It would be an irony if Pope Francis became a vanguard against the desiccation of modern economics..

 

The ongoing moment

As someone who practices photography I have watched the proliferation of digital images with interest.

Digital imagery has changed the practice of taking photos. With 36 frames of 35 mm film you took time considering an image. Film was deemed expensive and the exposures finite. With digital the initial outlay on the camera and memory card was the sole expense .

I bought my first digital camera ten years ago. My Fuji compact seemed extraordinary at the time.You could change ISO and save over 100 exposures on a card. You could shoot colour or black and white simultaneously and manipulate the images on a computer. It was a new world.

Shortly after I purchased a Canon DSLR which presented greater possibilities. I soon built up a hard drive of pixels from my travels and my attempts at fine art.Three years ago I traded in my Canon for a professional grade DSLR. With the lens it cost as much as a second hand car. The images it produced were technically brilliant - colour rendition, sharpness and resolution were a revelation. You could produce poster size prints with no loss of detail.

But the camera felt remote and technical . I was conscious I held a computer with a lens attached. At the same time I bought an old professional film camera on e bay - they were very cheap with the move from film to digital. Along with the digital SLR I continued to shoot B & W film.

There are technical boring reasons why B & W film is superior to digital cameras . Another unexpected reason is cost - shooting film can be cheaper than digital. This at first seems counter intuitive but the depreciation on professional digital cameras is vertiginous . Practitioners are endlessly seduced by the siren song of the camera manufacturers to upgrade . They lose money on every upgrade. When you upgrade a film camera you simply purchase a different film stock.

I have digressed. I was considering the proliferation of digital images on Facebook, Flickr et all. The critic John Berger said that photography took its power from capturing or crystallising a moment. When digital images become ubiquitous, almost continuous and random have they any meaning?.In part maybe that is the attraction of film - you have to consider an exposure before pressing the shutter. You cannot look at the picture then and there (a practice in digital imaging called chimping) and take another.

I am not a Luddite - modern digital cameras are amazing . For colour, sport and street photography they are superior to a film camera. But I cannot say I love them. I love Ilford Delta film.

 

The Scottish Borders

I had arranged to meet a friend and former work colleague after my flight from the bothy.

My friend's wife had secured a good job near Berwick upon Tweed. They had moved from Greater London to start a new life in the north. Though they living in Scotland his wife crossed the border every day to England in her short drive to work.

They had retained their house near Watford and were renting an old farmhouse near Berwick . My friend was originally from Sri Lanka . Though metropolitan he and his wife had fallen in love with country life. They feed the neighbours horses in the morning and took long country walks.They hoped to raise a family.

We talked about the past and discussed the vagaries of work in the law. He and his wife are practising Buddhists. I found his company calming and our discussion constructive. He is a good man and had brought his widowed mother from Sri Lanka to live with him. I admired his observance of duty.

I left my friend to attend to his work and went for a walk. The countryside was wonderful and the weather mild for winter. The plantation of Ulster drew souls from the surrounding area. My forebears may have walked similar paths.

I made my farewells on my return from my walk and set off on the A1. I passed Newcastle, the Angel of the North and other signposts on the way to the South. The North of England can be very beautiful . I vowed to return with my wife to visit the Lakes and Yorkshire.

I arrived back in London. Despite the misfire of the hiking I felt relaxed and invigorated.

 

A Wood in the Cairngorms

We purchased supplies in Aviemore.

I should have spoken to my companion then and voiced my concerns. My contribution to the fiasco was keeping quiet. I went to Tesco and bought a half bottle of whiskey. If I was to perish from exposure I would have an anaesthetic.

We drove ten miles outside Aviemore. I had made my telephone calls - there was no mobile phone reception in the hills and forests near the bothy. We parked the car and set off. My task on this occasion was to carry a saw for firewood.

Relations were strained . My companion had the right equipment and ruck sack for the hike. I didn't and fell behind. After a three and half mile hike we were deep in the woods. There was a river running to our right . My companion got tired of the hills and took a short cut down to the river. I followed keeping my eyes on my footing. When I finally reached the river I looked up and my companion was gone.

He could have taken three possible pathways . At first I was annoyed . I stayed where I was and waited 10 minutes or so for him to return. I thought I saw a figure in the distance but when I looked again it had disappeared.

My annoyance gave way to concern. I did not know where the bothy was and there was one hour of daylight left. I shouted out for him. He told me later that my shouts didn't carry and he was the figure in the distance. He had sat down for a cigarette.

I struck out for the car. Keeping the river to my left I was able to find my way back to the trail and walked back the way I came. I was angry but my companion could look out for himself. He knew the terrain. I made good time and was confident I would reach the car by dark. If my companion did not return to the car I would leave a note and walk back down the road. I had seen a sign for a youth hostel on our journey from Aviemore.

On my way back I saw something extraordinary. A stag reindeer came up from the river and stood blocking my path. It would have been 100 feet from where I stood. I stopped and stared at it. It stood looking at the writer. It was bigger than the deer in the picture.The stag had lost one antler and did not seem concerned by my presence.There was some fear - I had heard of a woman recently gored by a deer in Scotland. I stood waiting until it turned and retraced its steps back to the river

I reached the car. My phone reception had returned and I left a voicemail for my companion. As I set off for the youth hostel I heard him approaching. There was a frank angry exchange of words. When things had calmed we had the conversation we should have had ad initio. We had different expectations for the trip.

I would consider a bothy trip again but never in the winter. There is an elemental thrill unmatched by tourist fare. You have to be in the mood. On this occasion I did not want to play Grizzly Adams.

We returned to my car in Edinburgh. He kindly put me up for the night. In the morning I resumed my journey.

 

Bothy

I took my planned trip to Scotland .

A Scots friend put forward a plan to visit an edifice known as a bothy.I had expressed a preference for a youth hostel and a walk on the banks of Loch Lomond. I was overruled by the Scotsman - he wanted to introduce me to the delights of bothy culture and the Cairngorms.

I knew little of bothys and had not been appraised of the practical considerations . After my eight hour drive from London my car was deposited in a park and ride car park beside the Forth Road Bridge in Edinburgh. We set off in my companions car . It was getting dark and I had a mounting feeling of dread as snow fell on our journey north.

Bothys are described by Wikipedia as " a basic shelter, usually left unlocked and available for anyone to use free of charge". On the journey to our first port of call there was the realisation- I was not prepared for a night in sub zero temperatures in a shed . My sleeping bag was not the mountaineering variety that my companion possessed.

The car was deposited in a farm track near Aviemore. The track was like ice and treacherous underfoot. We had a mile walk in the dark to the bothy. I was delegated to carry the coal.

By the time we reached the bothy my temper was frayed. I had not wanted an outward bound course . I wanted a relaxing walking trip . Refreshed I would return to London ready for a new challenge.

As I contemplated the deathly cold of the bothy I knew this would be a long night. I did not have a sleeping mat and the floor was freezing. The fire was hopeless and I was not in the mood to drink or sing Robbie Burns songs. I slept in a chair beside the dying embers in the fireplace. Fully clothed in my sleeping bag I wondered if I would sleep at all. The fire died out at 2am. The merciful dawn came at 7.30am. I may have slept 2 hours.

There was no toilet but thankfully a micturition was my only requirement. We set off back to the car. We would call at Aviemore to get some supplies. I heard my companion consider our next destination. He elected on a bothy deep in the heart of the Cairngorms. It was colder still and a four mile trek through hills and forests.

This would not end well

 

Canterbury Tales

My employment in Canterbury has ended.

For now I have little to say about about my time working in the cathedral city. I have even less to say about our year living in Faversham. I think of London as my home .When I am away from the dirty old town I miss it. I will have Canterbury tales to tell but they won't involve Pardoners and Millers. They will involve middle England and harsh office politics.

I have formed friendships and experienced life in rural England. All experiences have their merits. I have just read (for the first time) the Wikipedia entry for Canterbury .Its name is old English for "Kent peoples stronghold".

.Mmm. Stronghold is correct.

I could exhibit a mood picture of a rain soaked Canterbury street at night. But a teddy bear hiding under a table is more apt. Canterbury has a Paddington Bear museum after all.