2020/12/11

Roger Scruton on evil – from Wagner's Parsifal

I have never published anyonelse's words here verbatim before; but this seems to have a lapidary clarity that deserves to shared.

"As Wagner was aware, we distinguish people who are evil from those who are merely bad. Bad people are like you or me, only worse. They belong in the community, even if they behave badly towards it. We can reason with them, improve them, come to terms with them and sometimes accept them. Even if they wreak destruction, like Siegfried, it tends to be because, through deception or manipulation, matters have slipped from their control. But evil people are not like that. They do not belong in the community, even when residing within its territory. Their bad behaviour may be too secret and subversive to be noticeable, and any dialogue with them will be, on their part, a pretence. There is, in them, no scope for improvement, no path to acceptance, and their faults are not of the normal, remediable human variety, but have another and more metaphysical origin. They are visitors from another sphere, incarnations of the Devil. Even their charm - and it is a recognized fact that evil people are often charming - is only further proof of their Otherness. They are, in some sense, the negation of humanity, wholly and unnaturally at ease with the thing that they seek to destroy. Their presence in the community involves a mingling of elements that do not belong together, and their charm is sorcery: they are, indeed, the most potent form of pollution. 

That characterization of evil is summarized in the famous line that Goethe gives to Mephistopheles:
Ich bin der Geist der stets verneint
[I am the spirit that for ever negates] 

Whereas the bad person is guided by self-interest, to the point of ignoring or overriding the others who stand in his path, the evil person is profoundly interested in others, has almost selfless designs on them. His aim is not to use them, as Faust uses Gretchen, but to rob them of themselves. Mephistopheles hopes to steal and destroy Faust's soul and, en route to that end, to destroy the soul of Gretchen. Nowadays we might use the word 'self' instead of 'soul'. But this word is only another name for the same metaphysical mystery around which our lives are built –- the mystery of the 'I', which is the centre of consciousness and the origin of choice. Evil people are not necessarily threats to the body; but they are threats to the self. They open the deepest spiritual wounds in order to fill them with poison. Such is Klingsor in his abuse of Kundry. His failure to belong to the community does not lead to resignation or despair. It lead s to an insightful, almost intimate destruction of the woman whom he tortures, and through whom he also brings destruction to those who have enjoyed the blessedness that he vainly longs for. The world of the evil person is a loveless world, in which intimacy takes the form of domination. To be close to an evil person is to be in his power, since he tolerates no other relationship; hence every intimacy that he achieves merely reinforces his utter loneliness, the metaphysical vacuum of the I that has never said 'thou'. To live without the I/Thou relationship is to lose the benefit of love: it is to relate to others by spells and sorcery, thus by-passing their humanity for the sake of a purely self-centred control. 

Encountering evil of the Klingsor kind we sense the existence of a contest between being and nothingness, creation and destruction, and that we are involved in that contest and are saved or jeopardized by our own behaviour. Seen as part of this contest our faults can weigh us down: we seek exoneration, without knowing the human person to whom an appeal for forgiveness can be made. We exist as though suspended above a chasm, ready at any moment to fall. This is what is meant by original sin, and indeed Schopenhauer rewrote the idea of original sin so that it became 'the crime of existence itself – ‘die Schuld des Daseins,’ the guilt of existing as an individual, in free relations with our kind. 

Such feelings prompt the great yearning that finds a voice in tragic art and which engages with our most urgent loves and fears in this world: the yearning for the blessing that relieves us of our guilt- guilt that is the inevitable result of our free dealings with others. Glimpses of this blessing are afforded by such liminal experiences as falling in love, recovering from illness, becoming a parent, and encountering in awe the sublime works of nature. At these moments we stand at the threshold of the transcendent, reaching out to what cannot be attained or known. And that to which we reach must be understood in personal terms, since only then does it offer an answer to the unspoken question of our being: the question why? It is the soul of the world, which smiles from the meadows at Monsalvat on Good Friday." 

2020/05/12

janmot

Poème de l'Âme  - Louis Janmot

Introduction

Freely translated and adapted from
Poème de l’âme – un œuvre intempestive

(Poem of the Soul – a timeless work) by Patrice Beghan


Poème de l’âme is a cycle of painting and poetry that is unique in French art. It tells the story of the earthly tribulations of a soul, embodied in an androgynous young man, confronting and evading the forces of evil. Amidst ‘a permanent rustle of wings the soul and its guardian angel undertake the human journey in diaphanous clothing surrounded as-it-were by celestial music within the serene and familiar landscapes around Lyon illuminated in a supernatural light which caresses the pastel whites, saffron, oranges, purples and emeralds. Taking the figure from the safety of home as far as the “wrong turning,” where the menacing figures of a dark nightmare await pilgrims. Thence one pathway, the “Golden Ladder” of arts and sciences, ascends to God; whereas the other descends to a tomb.’


Louis Janmot himself is all but unknown today, but he was part of an authentic Lyonnais culture that remains as alive and independent of Parisian fashion as it ever was. Born to devout parents in 1814, Anne-François-Louis Janmot was profoundly affected by the childhood deaths of his siblings – an experience that probably lies at the heart of this cycle of paintings to which he devoted much of his life. Another influence was a life-long friendship with his fellow student at the Collège Royale in Lyon Antoine-Frédéric Ozanam, who was to found a lay religious order—initially Le Conférence de Charité, later La Société de St. Vincent de Paul— whose role in French Catholicism was ultimately recognised with his beatification by Pope John-Paul II in 1997. 

In 1831 Janmot entered the École des Beaux-Arts de Lyon, winning its highest honour, the Golden Laurel, before going as part a cohort to study in Paris with Ingres and Victor Orsel. 

Two years later, after graduation, many of the Lyonnais cohort joined Ozanam’s newly founded Conférence and went on pilgrimage to Rome, where they were to meet fellow Lyonnais, Hippolyte Flandrin, a Prix de Rome scholar a few years their senior and another student of Ingres, renowned for his elegant and precise execution.
Following his return to Lyon in 1836 Janmot began to attract the notice of Parisian critics with large paintings on religious themes exhibited at the Salon in 1839/40. Five years later his work was praised by Baudelaire, and the influential Théophile Gautier was impressed by his portrait of Lacordaire – whose æsthetic is evidently a precursor of the Pre-Raphælite Brotherhood.
Janmot had begun Poème de l’âme in Rome, and between other commissions he occupied himself with the first series of 18 paintings over the next decade. After the work was exhibited in Lyon in 1854 the reaction encouraged Janmot to take it to Paris in May 1855 during the Exposition Universelle in hope that some official recognition might lead to commissions. 

“So, it takes or it doesn’t? Who knows? But this is not the end, either way" Janmot wrote to Ozanam. Alas when exhibited at Exposition Universelle the result was not what he hoped for; yet several critics noticed the Poème, among them Gautier who concluded a favourable article saluting Janmot’s ‘rare courage’ and linking him to the contemporary Viennese Lukasbund or ‘Nazarene’ movement. Baudelaire visited too, and while being skeptical about the verse, wrote: ‘it must be acknowledged that as pure art the composition of these scenes and their restrained colours has infinite charm, difficult to describe, but something of the sweetness and solitude of the sacristy or cloister – an unconscious, childlike mysticism.’
The following year an intervention by Eugène Delacroix, then at the height of his fame, saw Poème de l’Âme presented along with Janmot’s new Fleur des Champs at a temporary Palais des Beaux-Arts on Avenue Montaigne. Unfortunately, as the critic from La Revue du Lyonnais records, the 18 paintings were ‘perched at a height where no one could be expected to see them.’ Once again, Janmot’s intimate œuvre did not appear to advantage amid retrospectives of the large-scale paintings of his master lngres, Delacroix himself and Alexandre Decamps.
Nevertheless Delacroix confided this perceptive judgment to his journal after their first meeting which Janmot had requested: ‘this really interesting personality may be drowned out by the vulgar chic that dominates everything here. […] There is a remarkable Dantesque fragrance to Janmot that makes me see the famous Florentine’s angels in the purgatory. I love the green dresses like meadow grass in May, and the heads, inspired or dreamt, like memories of another world. I fear we will not give this naïf the justice which is his due. His primitive style places him beyond convention, for he speaks his own language—perhaps it is does not even count as a language—since we must view his ideas through the confusion and the primitive naivety of his expressive technique. Nevertheless a very singular talent is presently among us.’

In December of that year Janmot married Leonie Saint-Paulet of a noble family in Carpentras. Several fresco commissions followed including the new Lyon town hall, and he was appointed professor at the École des Beaux-Arts.

In 1861 Janmot decided to move his family to Paris having been promised a religious fresco; but after three years the project had failed to materialise. Finding himself in dire straits, he was forced to take a teaching post at the Dominican School of Arcueil. The family settled in Bagneux, and here he made many beautiful portraits of them, of which only photographs exist in the public domain. He now extended Poème de l’Âme with a second series of eight large charcoal drawings, enhanced by white gouache, representing the torments of a soul who has cast aside hir guardian angel. This was followed by a third and final series in 1868.

By now the rise of historically-informed religious painting by the Lukasbund or ‘Nazarenes’ in Vienna and the Pre-Raphælite Brotherhood in London gave added focus to the first series of Poème, but no comparable movement arose in France, and interest in Janmot’s two later series seems to have been dissipated by their austere monochrome. As he used colour elsewhere in his paintings of this period we must conclude that he intended the monochrome symbolism of the later series to be an allegory of a soul—and indeed a society—which had cast off its spiritual heredity in favour of industrial materialism.

But in 1870 catastrophe struck. Léonie died after the birth of their seventh child; and Prussian troops menaced Bagneux. Janmot fled to Algiers where he occupied himself with landscape paintings. (Presumably the children were looked after by his wife’s family?) When he returned the following year his house had been wrecked and there was little work to be had. After producing a fresco for a Franciscan chapel, work dried up entirely.
Managing to procure some commissions in Toulon, Janmot moved there to be reunited with children. He was also fortunate to find a patron in the person of Félix Thiollier, an industrialist who financed the publication of the complete painting and poetry of Poème de l’Âme but it did not arouse much interest.

After living in Toulon for 15 years Janmot, now 71, returned to Lyon to marry his former student Antoinette Currat. For the next two years he occupied himself with charcoal drawings on the theme of the After Life, which were in effect a kind of continuation of the Poème. In 1887 a 500-page anthology of his writings Opinion d’un artiste sur l’art was published in Lyon and Paris. He died in 1892 at the age of 78.


In recent decades by the art historian Élisabeth Hardouin-Fugier has written extensively about Janmot, and presents him as a transitional figure between Romanticism and Symbolism, whose work, like Flandrin’s is characterised by an immaculate finish they both learnt from Ingres. While Janmot’s intense mysticism links him stylistically to the Nazarenes and the Pre-Raphaelites, he was, as Delacroix noted, sui generis and without interaction with either movement. The influence of his ideas is evident in later Symbolists like Odilon Redon and Puvis de Chavannes, tho their work exhibits a more universalist spirituality than Janmot’s ardent Catholicism.

After the fairly limited uptake of Thiollier’s publication the paintings entered obscurity, preserved in the painter's family. Selected in 1921 for an exhibition devoted to the pupils of lngres, the artist-critic Maurice Denis described Janmot’s paintings ‘marvels of invention and poetry.’ Later in that decade, Henri Focillon, a director of the Lyon Musée de Beaux Arts, wrote in La Peinture au XIXme Siècle that Janmot's Poème was ‘the most remarkable, coherent, and strangest work that spiritual romanticism gave birth to in Europe.’ Adding ‘In [it] there is a depth of poetry and an expressively enigmatic power which far exceeds Blake and the English Pre-Raphaelites.’

But not until 1950 was the full cycle once again exhibited at the Lyon Beaux-Arts by its director René Jullian, who cited Janmot’s virtues as ‘the feeling of fantasy and the feeling of grace still capable of attracting lovers of symbolism and the catchers of dreams.’ When a total re-hang of the Beaux Arts collection took place in 1968, Philippe Durey decided to devote a complete room in the museum to this remarkable cycle, which it has occupied ever since.

In the year he completed the third series of Poème de l’Âme Janmot wrote “I sometimes find myself, like everyone else, smiling at my obstinacy in completing a work begun 40 years ago: I will be long dead before people discover it. So my work really is quite similar to that of the Chinese who spending part of their lives decorating their own graves.” It was as if throughout his existence Janmot had been preoccupied with erecting for posterity son propre Tombeau.

2020/03/26

Lost Lovesong



How to explain or justify what your unconscious comes up with? As I lay in a lucid state allowing these words to form in my mind I didn’t feel responsible for crafting them into this form. I felt they just emerged of their own volition.

2020/02/14

Poetry - Rhyme & Reason

A question of form.

Since last midsummer I have been reading a Mary Oliver poem a day as part of our daily meditation. They are beautiful, mystical, and a poetic window into the profound truth which truly connecting with nature opens for us. The subject of each is resonant, and the words are elegantly and precisely chiseled — but the question I have with certain pieces is are they actually poetry?

Some are slabs of prose without pretence; and others sentences broken up into lines somewhat arbitrarily. What is the appropriate term for these? Proems? Poetic Writing? The word Prosody would suit, but already has a different meaning.

From the dawn of time—when verse /lyrics /poetry meant the same thing metre—rhythm and rhyme were coterminous :: because that is what assisted oral memory to capture and retain narrative. Poetry is stronger when it arbours of meaning are welded together ny rhyme, which adds an element of form /abstraction that cements the words into one's brain.

Who can forget this couplet of Updike:
    Cherish your work, take pleasure in your task,
    For doing's the one reward a man dare ask.
I read it 30 years ago, and yet it remains fresh because the elegance of craft and symmetry in the form chiseled the words into my mind.

Or Pope‘s acid sketch of Marlborough:
    … Or see him old and sunk in years,
    Lost in unmeaning, unrepenting tears.
A verdict on 'achievement' that has constantly recurred to me since I first read it 55 years ago because of Pope's jeweled phraseology.

But what do I actually remember of any of Mary Oliver’s poetry I’ve spent the better part of a year reading? A beautiful fragrance of thought and the lonely clarity of a wounded healer seeking truth through alignment with nature – but actual turns of phrase? Nothing. This sentence from her poem At Blackwater Pond is typical.

    Every year
    everything
    I have ever learnt
   
    in my life time
    leads back to this: the fires
    and the black rivers of loss
    whose other side

    is salvation,
    whose meaning
    none of us will ever know.

It’s beautiful, resonant and poetic. But is it actually poetry? I had an english teacher who expressed the cynical view that poetry was just prose broken up into lines with the words in the wrong order. And certainly the first part of that observation applies to Mary Oliver, albeit the words are in the right order! I realise of course that MO pared away every unnecessary or careless word to arrive at a perfect distillation of the experience she wished to convey. That is the epitome of her craft and her quiet gift to the world. No doubt she felt that any kind of literary artifice would undermine the authenticity of her direct simplicity. Yet I do regret that she didn’t occasionally engage with form—like her heroine Edna St Vincent Millay, tho it was a different age—as I think that extra energy would’ve come from the wrestling.

---

Later I came upon this piece of Rumi and suddenly understood what Mary Oliver was about.

    What in your life is calling you,
    When all the noise is silenced,
    The meetings adjourned...
    The lists laid aside ––
    And the Wild Iris blooms
    By itself
    In the dark forest... ?
    What is drawing your soul?

I now see that Mary Oliver uses her ‘word camera’ to record /evoke the numinous reality behind the natural world. I also saw a picture of her with Coleman Barks, two old bent figures walking down a street in a fond embrace. This Rumi ‘poem’ does exactly what MO does, walk you through a thought-picture and then twist it so you catch a glimpse of your soul at the end.

So whether it is (/not) called poatry doesn’t matter. Nor can Oliver’s exquisite simplicity be blamed for imitators (and english teachers) who copy her surfaces but never plumb her depths. Yet the irony remains that while wrestling with form is probably seen by such folk as inhibiting and traducing the spontaneity of their inspiration – the irony is that it might well be the mordant that preserves it.

In their disregard of craft it’s as if many contemporary poets are saying there is no Ars Longa, no tradition, there is only Vita Brevis. This is not an accusation that can be laid at MO's door, who is exemplarily conscious of deep time and of perennial meanings.


Is this just old man's talk? A pedantic nostalgia for the aesthetics of a forgotten age? If it is, then it’s because tradition /continuity matter to what Ezra Pound called The Great Bass – by which I think he meant the Low Frequency Oscillation of culture. The persistence of rhyme remained an echo of literature’s primordial past when strophic form was the sharpest arrow in the storyteller’s quiver of oral enchantment, and conferred majesty and magic on poem and bard alike.

Is anyone awed by poetry these days? Performance poets certainly enchant their audience—and it's no accident they use rhyme and metre in the most traditional way—but do they awe them? Nowadays we’re distrustful of both majesty and magic—while we crave them—and it's deeply regretable that so much modern poetry has casually discarded one of the fundamental elements of its own numinous power.

2020/02/08

My Darling Grandchildren

My darling grandchildren: Phœbe, Vincent, Daisy, Lyra

What can I say in this wide-awake night to describe my joy and sense of fulfilment at this picture of them together? If this blog is the record of my searching and some of what I found then this is real-isation of dreams I never dreamt. And the super-blessing is that their parents get on so well & share so much of their lives with us. 

So many families are disfunctional, you read about it all the time, what you don’t read so much about is families that just get on with the everyday business of loving each other and making life work. Oh the joy of normal goodness. 

Ram Dass on loving life

Ram Dass: “All religion is the attempt of the conceptual mind to describe the mystery.” One might add: and what they have in common is ascribing the highest value to loving the mystery of life itself.  

2020/01/20

Thoughts on Love by Rumi

Love’s dance is both light and shadow. 
Yet it has no cause, no beginning and no ending: 
    it is the only one of God's secrets we can never analyse. 
Lover and lovingness are inseparable terms - existing beyond time.
I may try to describe it but as soon as I feel it I am lost for words.

If I write about love I lose my way at the lovely place where lover /loving /loved are one. 
    My pen gives out and the paper disappears - 
    there, where the shadows disappear 
    and the very moment is suddenly made glorious by the light of Love.

Reimagined in english by MMS