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f4f3This one is probably be long enough to go behind a cut...
Well that was a weekend and a half... I was off on Ireland, to the Vogler festival at Drumcliffe Church, under Ben Bulban. W.B. Yeats is buried in the churchyard, and there's a lovely statue in the grounds, not of him, but of his poem "He Wishes for Clothes of Heaven", a poem that's meant a lot to me, on and off over the years:
"HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."
It's a lovely statue, capturing the spirit of the poem, totally wonderful in it's setting and execution, in the perfect setting, and possibly the least inspiring piece of culture I came in contact with this weekend.
The festival is devoted to chamber music, and curated for the past ten years by the Vogler Quartet, who came out, blinking, from East Germany in the 90's, and have apparently grown alongside the festival they established.
I can't really speak much about the range of music played this weekend both by them and their invited guest artists. For one thing, it covered a span of 200 years. I'm used to commenting about how derivative the Arctic Monkeys are of the Cure - I don't think I'm qualified to talk about how much Stockhausen learned from Motzart, and pieces by both were on the programme this weekend. Best, perhaps, to speak of cameos, side-long impressions gained over eight concerts in three days.
One, if you want an atmosphere of solemnity, you can't beat a church. I was lucky enough to be there withunblinkered and her mum, who are charter members - there was some joking about them producing a 10th anniversary t-shirt for next year - and they hustled me up to the best seats, in the choir loft.
Two, you can tell when musicians are enjoying themselves - not only during their own performance, but hanging around to watch the others. The Canadian pianist with seemingly teleporting fingers squeezed into a pew next to me to watch the Irish pianist who's keyboard seemed to be delivering electric shocks to his fingers not only to listen, but to watch his hands on the keyboard.
Chamber music, classical music in general, is a huge lacunae for me. I don't respond emotionally to it, yet, which is a sign that the language is beyond me, still. A couple of times this weekend, though, I heard things which pointed me in that direction.
I'm looking forward to the exploration.
The hospitality over the weekend was superb too. Not just from unblinkered's mum, but from their friends. I was totally enchanted by one of their chums, the Heath Robinson house she and her inventor husband keep, and their son, who's a heart-breaker in training. I loved the interplay of artist and audience, too, and the warmth that spread through Drumcliffe, every bit as real as the three days of perfect weather.
Also discovered this weekend, Clive James' "Cultural Amnesia", a big, challenging, initially inchoate book, which I won't say anything more about until I've finished. I got 200 pages in to it this weekend, though, which, given how much else I was up to, is saying something. I gave my copy away, and fully intend to buy copies for as many people as I can get away with.
Went off to fencing tonight, and am now getting a feeling for just how hard it will be to become competent. Still loving it, and still only just managing to refrain from buying my own sword.
"HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."
It's a lovely statue, capturing the spirit of the poem, totally wonderful in it's setting and execution, in the perfect setting, and possibly the least inspiring piece of culture I came in contact with this weekend.
The festival is devoted to chamber music, and curated for the past ten years by the Vogler Quartet, who came out, blinking, from East Germany in the 90's, and have apparently grown alongside the festival they established.
I can't really speak much about the range of music played this weekend both by them and their invited guest artists. For one thing, it covered a span of 200 years. I'm used to commenting about how derivative the Arctic Monkeys are of the Cure - I don't think I'm qualified to talk about how much Stockhausen learned from Motzart, and pieces by both were on the programme this weekend. Best, perhaps, to speak of cameos, side-long impressions gained over eight concerts in three days.
One, if you want an atmosphere of solemnity, you can't beat a church. I was lucky enough to be there with
unblinkered and her mum, who are charter members - there was some joking about them producing a 10th anniversary t-shirt for next year - and they hustled me up to the best seats, in the choir loft. Two, you can tell when musicians are enjoying themselves - not only during their own performance, but hanging around to watch the others. The Canadian pianist with seemingly teleporting fingers squeezed into a pew next to me to watch the Irish pianist who's keyboard seemed to be delivering electric shocks to his fingers not only to listen, but to watch his hands on the keyboard.
Chamber music, classical music in general, is a huge lacunae for me. I don't respond emotionally to it, yet, which is a sign that the language is beyond me, still. A couple of times this weekend, though, I heard things which pointed me in that direction.
I'm looking forward to the exploration.
The hospitality over the weekend was superb too. Not just from unblinkered's mum, but from their friends. I was totally enchanted by one of their chums, the Heath Robinson house she and her inventor husband keep, and their son, who's a heart-breaker in training. I loved the interplay of artist and audience, too, and the warmth that spread through Drumcliffe, every bit as real as the three days of perfect weather.
Also discovered this weekend, Clive James' "Cultural Amnesia", a big, challenging, initially inchoate book, which I won't say anything more about until I've finished. I got 200 pages in to it this weekend, though, which, given how much else I was up to, is saying something. I gave my copy away, and fully intend to buy copies for as many people as I can get away with.
Went off to fencing tonight, and am now getting a feeling for just how hard it will be to become competent. Still loving it, and still only just managing to refrain from buying my own sword.
