Dona Nobis Pacem

On our return to England on 13 November, we were privileged to hear a performance of Britten's War Requiem sung in Coventry Cathedral.  Coventry's medieval cathedral was bombed into a ruin on the night of 14 November, 1940.  The magnificent new building, set among the ruins of the old, was completed in 1963, and Britten's requiem was commissioned for its opening.  My sister sang in the chorus this November.  Near her stood a woman who had also sung in the work, with Britten conducting, in 1963.  In the audience were people who lived through the night of 14 November, 1940.

Britten set the requiem mass in Latin, but between the standard movements he set poems by Wilfred Owen, poems written during and about Owen's experiences as a soldier during the first world war.  The work is stark and grand and heartrending.   I sang in this piece when the Minnesota Orchestra and Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra performed it in 2007.  It's beyond me how anyone, having heard this music and text, could contemplate making war.

Britten sets the words dona nobis pacem as a cry in the wilderness.  Before the third Agnus Dei the tenor sings the verse of Owen:

The scribes on all the people shove
And bawl allegiance to the state,
But they who love the greater love
Lay down their life; they do not hate.

After the chorus mutters the agnus, the dona nobis pacem is sung by the tenor: the first five notes of the F# major scale followed by the first five notes of the c minor scale dropping back again to f#.  Dona nobis is major moving up, pacem is minor, also climbing, but twisted somehow and as painful as beautiful. Takes your breath away.  Listen to it.

Last night, we were privileged again to hear, in the York Minster Chapter House, a concert of renaissance English choral music performed by Stile Antico, a group of 13 splendid young singers.  The program was centered on a mass by Thomas Tallis (1505-1585).  Tallis, and the other composers on the program (William Byrd, Robert White, John Taverner, John Sheppard) lived at a time when official religious practice in England was going back and forth between Catholicism and Anglican protestantism.  Up until the 1530s, you got burned for owning the gospels translated into English.  In 1585, Margaret Clitherow, who lived in the Shambles in York, was publicly crushed to death for her part in hiding a Jesuit priest.

So when these guys, who were in many cases writing their Latin settings in secret for secret celebrations, set the words dona nobis pacem they must have really been feeling it.  Tallis's setting,  in rich seven part harmony, lacks the agony of Britten's but is equally quiet.  It's scored low in the singers ranges, undulating, and you feel like you're listening to hearts rather than voices.

York, Minnesota.

Ever since Thanksgiving, it has been snowing, and we've now accumulated about 10 inches.  It's very early for snow here in York where, during a bad winter, they expect less than a month of snowy weather.  So people were a bit glum about it when it started.  But now there has been so much of it that people are getting quite excited.  Every store in Yorkshire has sold out of sledges and Wellington boots, and all day long the youth are climbing up and sliding down the embankments below the walls.

The Ouse from Ousebridge on our walk home

Bus services were curtailed and trains across the county cancelled today as of noon.  The public library (where we spent the morning working)  shut down, the Minster was empty, the streets devoid of the usual crowds of shoppers and tourists.   A good day for a browse in a bookshop, a walk home along the river, and a hot apple crisp for dinner dessert.

Thanksgiving on South Bank

Just a quick post to let people at home know that we had a festive time of it on Scott Street.  A "loose bird" turkey, stuffing sent by Jessica's mom from the states, Gabby's mashed potatoes, parsnips, Brussels sprouts, various juices, various pies, and eight pints of draft cider were consumed.  All over York today, in the picture postcard snow, Yorkshire men and women wished us a happy Thanksgiving, but having Thanksgiving with such a lovely group of people was the real blessing.

Sloe Time in Yorkshire

Looking for a break, and needing to visit the library on campus, I took a modest bike ride out into the country southwest of York yesterday.  The weather was grey, cool and misty but not actually wet.  I thought I could ride out as far as Sutton on Derwent (about 7 miles from York) and then loop around to the bike path coming in from Selby, directly south of the city.  Along the way, I could visit a few old monuments, and I could let the information my computer has been spitting at me soak in a bit, maybe to the point of making sense.

The countryside around York is slightly rolling to flat and at this time of year it is green with winter wheat or other cover crops contrasting with the dark browns of soil, wet leafless hedges and tree trunks.  The architecture of the villages is shown to particular advantage in wet misty weather, the darkened brick and stone setting off delightfully the brightly painted wood trim.

"Class II historic structure"  An elegant bridge over the Derwent

Approaching Sutton upon Derwent, I crossed the river on an ancient single lane stone bridge.  There aren't a lot of bridges across the Derwent in this part of Yorkshire, so I suspect that this was an important one in days gone by.   The bridge is first recorded there in 1396; earlier than that, there's mention of a ferry.

Sutton upon Derwent, Saint Michael's Church.  Three distinct
architectural styles are represented here.

From the bridge, through the mists, I could make out the Saxon style tower of the church in Sutton which surprised me because I hadn't noticed a church recorded on my OS map.  But there is indeed a very fine church, set on a hill overlooking the river, with architectural elements dating from Norman (13th c) and perpendicular (15th c) periods.  The various periods are blended here as they are in so many English parish churches resulting in an architecture, harmonious in itself, that could never be built in one time alone.  The aging, the age, the ages are essential.

Sloes

Back on the road home, I came across some hedgerows lush with sloes, a tiny variety of plum.  They're too astringent to eat directly off their thorny branches, but the English have learned  over the centuries to pick them after the first frost and soak them along with sugar in gin or vodka for six to twelve months, producing a sweet concoction called sloe gin.  So I stopped and picked a saddlebag full.  They're now resting comfortably at the bottom of a jar, relinquishing, I hope, whatever of the landscape and summer of 2010 they were able to capture, into a liter of vodka.  But I'll have to wait.  You can't hurry sloe gin any more than you can hurry the building of an English parish church.

I returned home tired and refreshed.  I'd ridden about 25 miles in two and a half hours.  I'd had a few ideas about my work that I never could have had sitting in front of the laptop, and I had the beginnings of next summer's sloe gin.  My computer had, in the meantime, performed many billions of calculations.  Good for an afternoon of analysis and reflection.  Slow time.

Artist's Copy: Jana Anderson

A small digital image on the internet!

Picasso once said that, “Bad artists copy. Good artists steal.” While I agree with the intent of this statement that a true artist is inspired by the work of others and makes it their own, making copies after famous artists has been a common practice throughout the history of art. I have done this in the Minneapolis Institute of Art, but being in these European museums I feel closer to the history, culture, and landscape that inspired many of the artists.

The works of art I’ve studied and admire are right here in front of me at places such as the Tate Modern, Tate Britain, and National Gallery. Actually sitting before pieces of art by famous artists such as Blake, Turner, Constable, and Picasso, I feel like I can get to know them in more detail – how the artist worked, what the color palette looks like in person, and I can actually experience the size and power of each piece. Some of the paintings are provocative and ever changing in ways one could never discover by viewing a small digital image on the Internet. They were meant to be experienced. They were meant to be looked at. I could spend days in these London museums and keep discovering new things about these works of art. They grow and change with the viewer, and I feel privileged to be one of the thousands of visitors to pass through and take the time to truly look.

Since I'm visiting these museums as a tourist, I feel obligated to experience everything.  Taking it all in at an appropriate pace is impossible, but I find myself rushing through to see as much as I can. When I did take a little extra time to sit in front of some of these works of art and make copies, both my eyes and mind slowed down and I was able to more carefully observe holistically.  Although I felt like a rushed tourist in London, I did make a copy of a Turner drawing and one of a Picasso painting.  It would probably be stimulating to take more than half an hour to do this, but even with the quick sketches I did, I feel like I've begun to really know these works of art. I think art history is half reading history and half looking at and taking in the power of an image. At times, observation might be worth even more than half. It allows for an understanding of art through the eyes of the artist, not the eyes of the art historian or researcher.

Copy or Thievery?

In London I made copies after famous works of art, but I think the act of study and observation that comes from this is valuable despite Picasso’s harsh words. However, my experience of these works of art were brand new to me, and ultimately, I view the sketches that came out of this as recording my own experience of the work as opposed to copying it. Upon coming back to York after this exhilarating weekend, I’ve continued working on drawings of the Minster, and I’ve found that while drawing this building I take a similar approach of observation and careful study as when doing copies of Picasso or Turner. The careful observation that occurs when taking in a masterpiece is the same approach whether the masterpiece is a work of art, architecture, or an existing landscape or figure from life. In every genre I am trying to record what I see and how I experience the world. Picasso may classify this is stealing, but whatever you want to call it, I do agree that this defines true art. Pure copying doesn’t require thought or reflection, but “stealing” or in other words, inspiration, combines observation, reflection, and personal experience to produce something truly creative. The “copies” I did fit the definition of an artist’s impression of a visual experience. So by this idea, even my quickly done sketch after Picasso was an original record of an experience as opposed to a direct copy. In this way, maybe my “copies” don’t make me a bad artist by Picasso’s standards, but rather one artist inspired by another’s work.

More observations and reflections on the York experience by Jana are available on her own blog, found here.

York in November

Taken at 3pm GMT.

At noon yesterday, our shadows stretched almost out of sight down the street in the weak sunshine.  The sun at that time was 16 degrees above the horizon.  At the solstice, the sun at noon will be less than 12 degrees above the horizon.  This makes for very beautiful light, rare light, light imbued with atmosphere. Today, walking around York was like walking around inside a late painting by Turner.

Inside the Top of the Chapter House

Chapterhouse Roof Walkway

 The first tour of the York Minster consisted of examining the inside of the church including the nave, choir room, windows, architecture, and crypt. The second tour of the Minster was mainly focused on learning about window conservation by visiting the glazier’s studio. Both tours were excellent, and what I learned from them truly helped me appreciate all that I learned on the third. This tour was fascinating: we saw the Stoneyard and carver’s studio, and, most impressively, we  got to go up inside the unique roof of the Chapter House. 
 To get to the roof, we had to ascend a narrow spiral staircase.  At the top of this, we passed through the world’s tiniest door and emerged onto the ledge of the chapter house roof. It was raining, the fence around the roof only came up to about knee height, and the wind was blowing strongly, yet despite all that, being on the roof was more magnificent than frightening.  Carefully, we made our way inside where we were met by a labyrinth of wooden beams stretching higher up than we could see. Honestly, the beams didn’t appear to be in any particular order or place, just a mess of wood jutting in different directions, and it seemed only by sheer luck that the roof was holding together. 

600 year old oak trusswork: looking straight up!

 Our tour guides explained to us that this was not the case; the placement of the beams, their angles, thickness, etc. was incredibly strategic and displayed incredible engineering fortitude on the part of its medieval designers. Seeing this complicated engineering amazed me, it wouldn’t seem possible without today’s technology to erect such a huge and complex structure, but here it was, standing for centuries, created without computers, without cranes, without even nails, and I think it is that fact that made the roof such a marvel. The chapter house roof is truly a tribute to man’s ingenuity, even with little, we are able to do so much. To be able to see the original design of the roof in all its glory, up close and personal, as opposed to just seeing a recreation of a statue or a window from afar, is remarkable. It is for these reasons that the third tour of the Minster really did take my breath away.  


--Jessica Churchill

Chapter House from outside. Scaffold levels are
at least 10 feet apart.  We went inside the roof.

From the inside looking up.  We were above this.

English, Again

While in London, we watched from the Globe's pit the story, delivered in Shakespearean English, of Henry IV, his son Hal and cousin Hotspur. The language was coming to us from across five centuries,
but, with well acted drama to back it up, it arrived in our ears with much of the power and nuance it had when it was written. In Richard II, the preceding history play, Thomas Mowbray and Henry Bolingbroke (who became Henry IV) are both banished from England, Mowbray for life. He reacts with these heartbreaking words:

The language I have learn'd these forty years,
My native English, now I must forego:
And now my tongue's use is to me no more
Than an unstringed viol or a harp,
Or like a cunning instrument cased up,
Or, being open, put into his hands
That knows no touch to tune the harmony:
Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue,
Doubly portcullis'd with my teeth and lips;
And dull unfeeling barren ignorance
Is made my gaoler to attend on me.

Notice that he doesn't worry about missing the food or the weather!  Mowbray died in Venice of the plague, presumably unable to speak Italian to his doctor, the following year.

This quote always comes back to me when, as now, I'm in France, trying to carry on in French with people I admire and love.  It's as if I'm playing an out of tune piano, or a piano where the keys correspond to different notes from what I'm used to.  Not that there isn't plenty of music in French; I just have trouble playing it.  I'm not terrible at it; short automatic phrases come easily and new ones can be learned with practice, but to think and reveal new thoughts through speech at the same time, well, that's currently beyond me, and thus I seem, in darker moments, condemned to "dull unfeeling barren ignorance."  On the bright side, I'm made aware of what a gift it is to have a native language that I can use to express my thoughts as I think them, in the English speaking world, despite the many dialectical variations therein.

French, or Old French, washed over the British Isles in 1066, stretching and enriching, with time, the languages that were spoken there before into the Middle English we know from Chaucer and the York Plays, the common root of the various Englishes we speak today.  Thus the Old French was subsumed by Old English and visa versa.  In any case French went its way and English went its way and, though you can hear each in the other, you can't understand one purely on the strength of knowing the other.

While William the Conqueror was bringing his language to England, there was another language spoken here in Montpellier: Occitan, Langue D'Oc, the western tongue.  In fact, there were six major dialects of Occitan, the local one being "languedocian."  Languedocian has a vast literature, but it's known and studied less and less since it's one of several local heritage languages for the French, and it's more remote from the current language than Shakespearean English is remote from what we speak.

On the Saint-Chenian label to the left, an Occitan phrase meaning, as well as one of our friends here can make out, "here's hoping that tomorrow we'll all be here."  When we're back in York next week, and let's hope we will be, we'll be together and speaking our own tongue.  We'll miss the magic of the French, but welcome the comfort of the English.  When, in two months, we're back in Minnesota, we'll be missing the magic of English English with its blokes and lorries, but welcoming the comforts of Minnesotan English where pants are pants.  Esper deman serem aqui!  

The English Language

A few weeks ago, Zach wrote, as the first of “Three Things I Have Learned:”

1) Americans speak English better than the English.

I must immediately add a qualifier. We speak English more correctly than some of the English, specifically those from Northern England.

I came here prepared to concede that since it was English, the English had it right and we did not. But after a month of being unable to decipher what bus drivers and waitresses are saying, I have concluded that they are actually speaking it wrong.

I intentionally used the word “better” in the heading in case some of my new English friends wished to disagree. Go ahead, say “better.” Ah ha! Where is the rule that says the double ts are silent? “Be'er.” Listen to people from the Yorkshire talk. If there is a hard consonant in the middle of a word, they often leave it out. Also, I haven't been able to figure out a rule yet, but they seem to drop prepositions from sentences. “Let's go to the cinema” becomes “Let's go cinema.” Besides these things, we simply enunciate better.

Sarah Lewis had a different perspective:

Speaking English

Just because I know how to speak English, it doesn’t mean I know what anyone is saying in England. I have come across a variety of terms, and compiled a few of them here.

First there is the word mingy, or minger. Mingy is used to describe something basically unpleasant or nasty as in the phrase “Brown sauce is Mingy”. Another way to describe something unpleasant is the word rubbish. Rubbish basically means trashy. The trashcan however is called the “bin”.

When calling someone your friend, you have a few options. Mate is one way. Bloke, which I thought English people didn’t actually use, is also used a lot. You can also call someone a lad or lass, depending on the gender. Women are referred to as “birds”. If you’re a female you can also be a duck as in “ducky” or a hen. I have also learned some slang to describe what my generation would call a young male who is generally an ass. Here, these boys are called “Chavs”. You can spot a chav because he is wearing an Addidas sweat suit, has large headphones, and a hat on backwards or to the side. Avoid Chavs at all costs. They are also called scoobies.

Cars also cause some language barriers. They are not turn signals they are indicator lights. If you’re talking about loading up a truck, people will just look at you like your crazy. Instead it’s a boot. Gasoline or Gas doesn’t exist either. Petroleum or Petrol is the proper term.

The words used for clothing is also very entertaining. Tennis shoes are not tennis shoes, they are trainers. It makes sense, because you don’t necessarily use them just while playing tennis. Sweat shirts or long sleeved shirts are “Jumpers”. This makes me giggle because it reminds me of nasty one piece overalls that women in the 80’s wear. Trousers are worn instead of pants, because pants are used to describe underpants. Use caution while talking about a stain on your pants.

So, there is a basic crash “module” in how to speak ENGLISH English. In all honesty it’s best to comply; after all they spoke it first. You may have to ask them to repete themselves twice or five times, but most people don’t mind. Its an interesting and imaginative language, and overall, pretty entertaining.

As is true of Minnesotans loving the Minnesotan accent (even while they make fun of it), people of Yorkshire love to caricature the way they talk, or the way their countrymen, especially rural countrymen, talk.  You'll find below a few of the words Sarah talked about in her piece, as well as the happy disregard for basic enunciation Zach mentioned.  So it's not a caricature, really.  "Os" has all sorts of meanings depending on how it's pronounced.

From http://www.yorkshire-dialect.org/humour/yorkshire_humour.htm

An Os

From Paul Thornton

I was walking down the street t'other day when ah met me mate.

"Hows tha bin"? he asked.

"I feel like an 'os" ses I

"An 'os" ses he

"Aye lad, Champion".

One that I was told back in the day spoke of Scottish butcher standing in his shop with his back to the roaring fire.  A customer comes in and asks: "Is that your Ayreshire bacon?" to which he answers, "No, I'm just a warmin of me hands."

Frank Walks to Work

Due to various issues including the requirements of Hamline and the immigration authorities of the United Kindom, we are now in Montpellier, France, collaborating with colleagues at Universite de Montpellier 2.  We spent a sabbatical year here in 2002-3, so we're pretty familiar with the place.  It's beautiful, and are hearts are singing.

Historic center of Montpellier

Today, in order to deal with a regime that allows for too little exercise in general and to ameliorate the aftereffects of last night's rather luscious bottle of Les Quartz, Domaine du Caillou Chateauneuf-du-Pape mille neuf cent quatrevingt dixneuf, I walked the two miles or so to UM2.   The walk took me through the "centre historique," out onto the broad boulevards to the north of the city, through the somewhat tatty but vibrant suburban neighborhood of le boutonnet and finally to the "fac," the sprawling campus.

Montpellier has a lot in common with York.  It's great days were in medieval times, and the city center presents itself much as it must have done then.  It's filled with achingly beautiful lanes and passageways, many of them too narrow for cars or designated now for pedestrians only.  Walking down them is very pleasant because the only sounds are from human voices and human footfalls, and there is much to see on the walls and in the faces of the passersby.

What's different from York is that Montpellier is built much taller, being in fact built on a huge rock.  I suppose the stone for the building, all a luminous yellow limestone, was quarried nearby,  and it was possible to stack it four stories up without adverse foundational consequence.  Also, in the Mediterranean climate Montpellier enjoys, a passageway resembling a cave is well enough lit in the winter and pleasantly cool in the summer.

Barricaded gate to protest proposed retirement plans.

Anyway, as in York, threading my way through these streets makes me happy.  I can hardly contain myself.  I can't imagine it doesn't contribute to the good naturedness of everyone I pass along the way.  I arrive ready for a productive day in front of my laptop simulating stressed populations.  But what's this?  The back gate, our habitual entrance, is blockaded with cartons and wooden shipping flats.  In fact, in this week of protest against the government's proposal to raise the minimum retirement age, there have been many blockades and people filling the streets enthusiastically beating trashcans with sticks.  I walk back around and find a delivery gate open and enter there.  All's normal inside, if a little quiet.  Au bulot! as they say: to work!

big body of water...

Class has started for all of us and i bet many of us are running all over the place to catch classes and get cheep sweat-shirts. We are also all probably hating the fact that we have a big body of water in the middle of campus making our trek that much longer. But i would like to point out that it looks pretty too (as seen in photo) and i think if you got some time you should sit by it and see that there are some areas by the water that have a pretty spectacular view.

Anyway hope we all do well in classes. Wouldn't hurt if you liked them too. I think i will be thoroughly enjoying my Social Psychology class. Hey i might be even more active and look into joining the Fencing Club.

Cheers All!!

Twins Last Stand

Yesterday, through the mail slot,  came our first snail-mail envelope from home.  Sent by our son who currently lives in Texas, it contained an official Minnesota Twins Home Run Hankie.  At the time the envelope came through our door, the Twins had just suffered their second loss at home to the Yankees.

But now there are fans in York equipped with a Hankie and we're not afraid to use it.  Go Twins!

Mouse and Minster

Here are Rhya Haugan's observations on the small and large of the Minster tour, September 10.

The Minster writ large over the rooftops of York.  BBC Photo.

Today we visited the York Minster, the renowned cathedral of northern England, known not only for being the largest Cathedral in northern Europe, but also for having the largest medieval stained glass window in the world. However, although the word cathedral may be Latin for “throne”, in the end it is not the size of the church, nor the magnitude of anything that truly measures its greatness. It is instead the small, almost unnoticed details that make these places truly special.

Robert Thompson's signature
mouse, from the Wikipedia
article on the carver.

The obvious elements like the crockets on the spires or the filigree on the windows can be noticed immediately, but often it takes an insider touch, like a knowledgeable tour guide, to point out the finer details. We cannot see it now, but every statue used to be painted, and every window and sculpture has its own story. If you look closely at the stained glass, even the uppermost pictures have full range of expression and shadow etched onto the pane. Even the tile attests to the abundance of line and pattern, while in the same room, tiny faces line the wall, and not all with pleasant expressions. Perhaps my favorite details are the little mice carved onto the bottom of every pew and wooden fixture. If you were to sit there at evensong you might notice one, or perhaps if a friend pointed it out, but otherwise it would be invisible.

The great open spaces and the glory of the architecture may inspire awe, but this only scratches the surface of what a cathedral is. Cathedrals are the home of God, and just as God is more than brute power and glory, his cathedrals are more than vaults and towers. The love and attention should be the same, the richness of detail should be the same, and the almost unattainable knowledge of it all should be the same, and with these details our Minster almost reaches it. For without this range of power and beauty, this range of grandeur and detail, these thrones to God would not sing as strong to His glory.

Gabby on the Stairway to the Minster Tower

Minster Tower Drawn by Jana Anderson

On 10 September, we toured the Minster and then, after lunch, climbed to the top of the Lantern Tower.  283 spiraling steps up a cylindrical shaft inside the tower's south east pillar.  The following account is by Gabby Nordstrom.

I was happy to get the chance to go up into the tower of York Minster. Although it was a long climb and it being somewhat claustrophobic in there, it was also exciting to see the town and York Minster from such a vantage point. The walls on either side of the staircase are too close for comfort; one could easily extend both arms and touch each wall. And the design of the staircase, though compact, makes for an exhausting climb. I could imagine people climbing those stairs centuries ago and wondered how they avoided breaking their own necks. With steep uneven steps, sometimes too close together and other times so far apart that if you weren’t looking down you would doubt the next step existed. I believe I would trip if it weren’t for the conveniently placed railing. This stairwell wasn’t designed for beauty, it had a practical purpose.

From opposite side.  The stairwell is
inside the left hand corner pillar.

The stairwell itself only had a few spaced out lights installed and small windows carved through the stone walls. As small as the windows are, they still provide enough light and a good view of what is around us outside. They also happen to be a nice place to sit apparently since I passed one women resting on the ledge in front of a window on my way up.
While I was climbing those steps, the realization of the magnitude of these magnificent buildings really sank in. It hit me how truly amazing it is that in a time so long ago, people could not only imagine masterpieces like these but also could bring them to life, fully actualized. Something like the York Minster took thousands of people to create and centuries to both build and constantly restore. It really is a testament to our persistence and imagination.

A trip to London

We just got back from five days in London, an experience none of us are ever likely to forget.  We'll be posting our individual comments in the next few days.  In the mean time, I'll tell about a walk on Hampstead Heath that Ruth and I took on Sunday morning away from the noise and pressure of the city.

The Heath is arrayed around some hills to the North of the city center.  Somehow it was not developed like the hills surrounding, so the noise of the city gives way to the calls of children, the distant barking of dogs, wind in the trees and birdsong.  A great relief to the Minnesotan ear, I must say.  Somewhere near the summit, we are told, lies the tomb of Boudica (d. 60 AD).

According to Tacitus, Boudica was the daughter of a Celtic king who left his kingdom to her and to Rome jointly in his will (one wonders what he was thinking).  Rome was not particularly inclined to split the kingdom with Boudica, and treated her very badly.  She consequently led a revolt that was so devastating that Nero considered abandoning Britain then and there.  The Romans in Britain, however, eventually defeated Boudica; she died, perhaps by suicide, before she could be captured.

According to Cowper (1782), a bard foresaw her death, and said

Regions Cæsar never knew
  Thy posterity shall sway,   
Where his eagles never flew,
  None invincible as they.’

That rings true as you stand at the top of Hampstead Heath and think about how the city below you controlled much of the world and gathered in its riches.  A stroll through the British Museum or the National Portrait Gallery will confirm it.

I forgot my camera, of course, but you can find plenty of images of London as seen from the top of Hampstead Heath.

First Draft

We've had a first draft of a week here in York.  We didn't experience it off the top of our heads, oh no, but, though it was fairly well planned, it was in fact the first run-though, and I think we all identified ways in which the next draft, the week coming up, will benefit from what we learned in the first.  A second draft should not be a tweaked first, that would be boring, but it should have the first's heart beating inside it.

It's a good heart, and worth preserving.  We walked until our legs and feet were sore.  We stared upwards until our necks were sore.  We squinted in dark corners of churches and shaded our eyes on brightly sunlit walls and towers.

There will soon be several posts (now just through their first drafts) to this blog detailing and commenting on some of these experiences.  I here offer one of my own.

Anne? 

My studies in York, back in the early modern era of the 1970s, were entirely focused on the medieval period.  The churches I admired were all active during the first centuries of the last millennium and have had their current form, more or less, for 600 years.  But in these churches, life has gone on, day by day, births, marriages, deaths, through all those centuries.  About halfway along in that time, in the second half of the 18th century, there lived, in the parish of St Martin cum Gregory, a painter named William Peckitt and his wife Mary, nee Mitley.  William was a famous painter, mostly of glass.  His techniques were those of painting on porcelain, so window paintings look like luminous canvases, very different from their medieval counterparts, where line was lead, and color came from the glass itself instead of from paint on the glass.  Pekitt has magnificent windows in the Minster and in Cambridge Colleges.  He also helped to maintain the Minster glass.

Memorial Window Inscription

In the humble and settled little parish church through whose ancient door he and Mary walked with their family in all weathers most every Sunday for 50 years, he has painted a memorial window for two of his daughters who died before their time, Anne as an infant and Charlotte at age 20.  The window shows an adult female figure pointing upward to an infant female figure who in turn is pointing upward to heaven.  I think the infant is Anne.

One window further north is a memorial painted by Mary (though she does not write her name), William's "afflicted" widow, in 1796, a year after William's death.  Mary very clearly was a stained glass artist in her own right, probably working her entire life as a respected member of her husband's studio.  The Peckitt style painting in the central light is impressive enough, but around it are compositions in colored leaded glass, original in design and remarkable in composition, that show her to have been something of a genius, many years ahead of her time.

From Side Light of the William Peckitt memorial window, designed and executed by Mary Peckitt

The photos in this post are from a remarkable collection of glass photographs by Gordon Plumb.

Everything Changes, Again

Today we had our tour of Modern York, the current city.  We spent a lot of time in the walk down to the walls waiting at cross-walks as cars sped by us on the inner ring roads that follow, on the southeast corner of the city, the path of the medieval moat.   In town, where most people are on foot and consequently it's a lot quieter and less dangerous, we met up with Richard, our internship coordinator, and shopped.  First we stopped at the one pound Shambles sandwich shop.  Then phones 4 U where we learned that the I-phone 4 is "changing everything, again."  Phones 4 U occupies 33 Coney Street in space that has probably housed 40 or 50 businesses over the past 1600 years.  It would be interesting to map out the whole history of 33 Coney Street, but right now we're stuck in the present, trying to figure out what our phone numbers are.

Pear Shaped Arrival

The arrival day has arrived and, pretty much on schedule, the arrivals arrived.  One on the 12:06, two on the 1:06 and one on the 2:06 from Manchester airport.  All would have been well, but for a blip in the paperwork at the accommodations office which had only two arriving today and the other six arriving tomorrow.  This, we discovered this morning with all offices shut tight, dark and quiet.  What to do?  The IYHA youth hostel in Clifton fortunately had three of its 180 beds free.  It's the wrong side of town direction-wise, but it's a beautiful walk out there along the river, about a mile from the centre, and will surely be better than trying to sleep a night under the Ouse Bridge.  Two more will stay with us, and three will stay in the two rooms that are ours out at the Uni.

So, just as with the non-bicycled walk on Friday, we've landed on our feet.  Still, I'm hoping that what happens during the next few days is a little more in line with what we're expecting to happen!

Pictured to the right is some of the superb 15th century glass from All Saints North Street.  The photo is by David O'Connor.  Saint Christopher is the patron saint of travelers for obvious reasons.  I think he was looking out for us today.

North York Moors by Bicycle?

The students arrive tomorrow, so Ruth and I figured we would take our Saturday on Friday.  We've not been able to find second hand bikes yet, so we located a shop that rents them in Malton, 20 miles up the rail line to Scarborough, and planned a trip north from there which included pubs, moors and standing stones.

It was an easy trip to Malton, and another in a string of lovely days weather-wise, but the bicycling was not to be.  A group got in before us and hired all but one mountain bike.  So we had a wander around the beautiful town and then settled on a walk down the Derwent river to Kirkham, where there's a ruin of a medieval abbey.

The path was mostly on the "Centenary Way," which weaves in and out of the Yorkshire Wolds.  We strayed from it to only avoid a herd of sharp-horned cows and arrived safely but quite tired at Kirkham Abbey, 6 miles down the Way, about two hours after starting out.  

The quiet was delicious.

Settling In: Eccles Cakes

The Eccles cake is the teacake of choice for me when in York.  I've tried to make them at home with varying levels of success due mostly to not having much control over the flaky pastry that must encase the currant filling.  Betty's of York makes the perfect Eccles cake, and we've had some pretty good ones from other bakers around town.  Pictured here is an Eccles cake in the sunshine.