(My apologies for the lack of photographs. I am having difficulties downloading pictures from the tablet.)
On Friday afternoon, June 19th, a bevy of naked women surrounded me.
On Saturday afternoon, June 20th, a woman with a foreign accent was murdered thirty feet from me.
On Sunday morning, June 21st, a platoon of angels sang so sweetly to me that my heart melted.
There. Did that grab your attention?
On Friday afternoon, June 19th, a bevy of naked women surrounded me.
On Saturday afternoon, June 20th, a woman with a foreign accent was murdered thirty feet from me.
On Sunday morning, June 21st, a platoon of angels sang so sweetly to me that my heart melted.
There. Did that grab your attention?
The women, of course, were in the paintings at the National Gallery. (How drastically our image of female beauty has changed in the last three hundred, even one hundred, years. Here were full-figured women depicted as Greek and Roman goddesses, and every one of them looked like a goddess, too!). Though I enjoyed many of the paintings, my favorite was Zurbaran’s St. Francis. Here is an online article that described why this painting haunted me (It nearly produced tears, but I didn’t want to frighten the younger people in the gallery).
http://www.theguardian.com/culture/2001/jul/21/art.
A long study of this painting created in me an awareness of my own sins and faults. The painting did for me what great art does: it stirred my emotions and drew me, at least temporarily, to thoughts beyond the mundane.
The murder occurred on the stage of the Criterion Theater in Piccadilly Circus. Here I watched The Thirty-nine Steps, a comedy based on John Buchan’s book by the same title. The book wasn’t a comedy—some of you students may remember reading this one in class—but these guys made it work while following the story. Four actors played over one hundred parts, with delightful and chaotic fun.
(Message to Tom Rennard: you encouraged me to see a play because of the talent and the intimacy of the theater. This old theater was as warm and cozy as grandma’s quilt. The play was a delight, and the old theater made the experience perfect).
The angels? At Westminster Cathedral on Sunday morning I attended the 10:30 High Sung Mass. A choir of men and boys brought sublime music to a gloomy London morning. Though most of the Mass was in English, this celestial choir sang in Latin.
The Mass was heavily attended, as was the Mass almost immediately afterwards at noon.
What also astounded me about this cathedral were the hours for confession. Priests hear confessions for eight hours daily Monday through Saturday and for four hours, I think, on Sunday. The confessional line when I left the church was about twenty deep.
In this cathedral lies the glass-encased body of St. Robert Southwell. A Jesuit priest who reentered England to keep the Catholic Faith alive, Southwell was eventually arrested, convicted for his connection to the papacy, and was then hung, drawn, and quartered. (He was so beloved by the people for his good works that not one of them cried the traditional “Traitor” on his death). The Catholic ambassador from Spain bought Southwell’s body parts for forty pounds, had them embalmed, and stitched back together. After lying in other churches, the martyr’s earthly remains now lie here. A gold mask covers whatever remains of his face; gold gloves cover his hands.
Then came another of those moments when a thought punches me in the head. If a man can give his life for his faith, if a man can undergo such a horrific death instead of recanting, why am I so weak? In The Power and the Glory, Graham Green wrote: “He knew now that at the end there was only one thing that counted - to be a saint.” Note to self: make the attempt, moron.
Other news: Jessica Harvey, one of my students, spent the weekend here in London. We wandered all over the City, taking in whatever sights she wished. Having some company was wonderful, and I did some work when she toured sites I had already visited. Two fine impressions: the Thames at dusk and the British Library, where I saw manuscripts ranging from Shakespeare’s First Folio to songs written by John Lennon. Particularly impressive were the psalters and Bibles from the Middle Ages, with their curvilinear art and decorative painting.
Now off to pack. Tomorrow it’s off to Italy.
http://www.theguardian.com/culture/2001/jul/21/art.
A long study of this painting created in me an awareness of my own sins and faults. The painting did for me what great art does: it stirred my emotions and drew me, at least temporarily, to thoughts beyond the mundane.
The murder occurred on the stage of the Criterion Theater in Piccadilly Circus. Here I watched The Thirty-nine Steps, a comedy based on John Buchan’s book by the same title. The book wasn’t a comedy—some of you students may remember reading this one in class—but these guys made it work while following the story. Four actors played over one hundred parts, with delightful and chaotic fun.
(Message to Tom Rennard: you encouraged me to see a play because of the talent and the intimacy of the theater. This old theater was as warm and cozy as grandma’s quilt. The play was a delight, and the old theater made the experience perfect).
The angels? At Westminster Cathedral on Sunday morning I attended the 10:30 High Sung Mass. A choir of men and boys brought sublime music to a gloomy London morning. Though most of the Mass was in English, this celestial choir sang in Latin.
The Mass was heavily attended, as was the Mass almost immediately afterwards at noon.
What also astounded me about this cathedral were the hours for confession. Priests hear confessions for eight hours daily Monday through Saturday and for four hours, I think, on Sunday. The confessional line when I left the church was about twenty deep.
In this cathedral lies the glass-encased body of St. Robert Southwell. A Jesuit priest who reentered England to keep the Catholic Faith alive, Southwell was eventually arrested, convicted for his connection to the papacy, and was then hung, drawn, and quartered. (He was so beloved by the people for his good works that not one of them cried the traditional “Traitor” on his death). The Catholic ambassador from Spain bought Southwell’s body parts for forty pounds, had them embalmed, and stitched back together. After lying in other churches, the martyr’s earthly remains now lie here. A gold mask covers whatever remains of his face; gold gloves cover his hands.
Then came another of those moments when a thought punches me in the head. If a man can give his life for his faith, if a man can undergo such a horrific death instead of recanting, why am I so weak? In The Power and the Glory, Graham Green wrote: “He knew now that at the end there was only one thing that counted - to be a saint.” Note to self: make the attempt, moron.
Other news: Jessica Harvey, one of my students, spent the weekend here in London. We wandered all over the City, taking in whatever sights she wished. Having some company was wonderful, and I did some work when she toured sites I had already visited. Two fine impressions: the Thames at dusk and the British Library, where I saw manuscripts ranging from Shakespeare’s First Folio to songs written by John Lennon. Particularly impressive were the psalters and Bibles from the Middle Ages, with their curvilinear art and decorative painting.
Now off to pack. Tomorrow it’s off to Italy.