An English Haunting part two



St Michael & the Devil by Jacob Epstein (born Nov. 10, 1880, New York, N.Y., U.S.—died Aug. 21, 1959, London, Eng.)
Commissioned by Coventry Cathedral Reconstruction Committee
Unveiled 1960
Cast in bronze by Morris Singer Art Founders
The cathedral church of St Michael stands alongside the ruins of the earlier St Michael's cathedral which was largely destroyed by bombing during WW2. Built by John Laing Construction Co. Ltd. to a design by Sir Basil Spence, it was consecrated in 1962. Sandstone faced. A grade I listed building.

SAINT MICHAEL—ARCHANGEL
Feast: September 29
St. Michael, who ranks among the seven archangels, is also one of the three angels mentioned by name in the Scriptures, the others being St. Raphael and St. Gabriel. St. Michael is spoken of twice in the Old Testament, and twice in the New. The first reference occurs in the Book of Daniel (chapter 10), where Michael comes to comfort Daniel after he has had a vision, and promises to be his helper in all things. In Daniel 12, Michael is called "the great prince who standeth for the children of Thy people." In these references Michael is represented as Israel's great support during the seventy years of the Babylonian captivity. Daniel, wise and holy leader that he was, wanted his people to understand that God had not forgotten them, and that, even though enslaved, they had a royal champion. In the New Testament (Jude 9), we are told that Michael disputed with the devil over the body of Moses; this episode is not mentioned elsewhere in the Bible.

In the Apocalypse (chapter 12) we find the most dramatic reference to St. Michael. Here John recounts the great battle in Heaven, when the wicked angels under Lucifer revolt against God, and how Michael, leading the faithful angels, defeats the hosts of evil and drives them out. In this role he has been painted by many artists, and the poet Milton, in book vi of Paradise Lost, recounts the famous struggle. Because of this victory, St. Michael is revered in Western tradition and liturgy as the protector of the Church, as once he was regarded as the protector of the Israelites. In the Eastern Church, as well as among many theologians in the West, St Michael is placed over all the angels, as prince of the Seraphim. He is the special patron of sick people, mariners, and grocers; in Asia Minor many curative springs were dedicated to him. His cult has also been popular in Egypt, Rome, France, and Germany. His emblems are a banner, a sword, a dragon, and scales. The name Michael is a variation of Micah, meaning in Hebrew, "Who is like God?"

Saint Michael, Archangel. Scriptural Saint. Celebration of Feast Day is September 29.
Taken from "Lives of Saints



Coventry Cathedral was bombed 12th November 1940.

There existed an apocryphal story that two of the original beams from the 1033 construction had fallen in the shape of a cross. The cathedral stonemason, Jock Forbes, saw two wooden beams lying in the shape of a cross and tied them together. A replica of the wooden cross built in 1964 has replaced the original in the ruins of the old cathedral on an altar of rubble. The original is now kept on the stairs linking the Cathedral with St. Michael's Hall below.
A symbol of righteousness in a holy war against a satanic enemy. For a people who were damaged & disspirited by Nazi blitzkrieg it is difficult to believe that this story would have been discouraged. This is the same kind of propaganda that the Nazis were using under Ernst Kraft. Marx was right when he said that religion was the opiate of the masses. Whether they believed it or not both sides used religion as part of their psychological armoury.


The will to resurrect the cathedral that prompted Epsteins commission has its roots in this kind of myth building. It has been reported that there were initially reservations about the choice of Epstein among the members of the reconstruction committee that were allayed by Basil Spence, the architect of the new cathedral.
There are several factors that combine to make this piece resonant.
The religious symbology of the figure of St Michael, the need to regenerate the will of the industrial heart of England, the juxtaposition of the heroic & the personal.
As a displaced Polish Jew Epstein would have been aware of some of what was happening to the first ally, Poland under Nazi occupation. His interpretation of the story of St. Michael & the Devil takes this struggle & places it within the shattered heart of Englands industry as a message of hope. Polands situation was an indicator for the rest of the world, trapped between Soviet & Nazi aggression.
In the initial stages of the war England was alone in its battle against Nazi Germany & can be viewed as the sole protector of freedom during those years. St Michaels role as protector of children is more important than his role as simply patron protector of the church & more crucial as it represents triumph over adversity with a rich & relevant personal imagery that has resonances plucked from the same source as the apocrypha of random pieces of firewood making secret signs, cathedromancy.
What Eptein could not have known was that St. Michael was mortally wounded & was to limp away to lick his wounds under the wreckage of Europe after the rain. England was broken beyond repair in those years & it was clear by the time of the conference at Yalta that her position was drastically reduced. Where now the protector of children?
While England tried to assist the risings against the Nazis across Europe it was clear that Stalin was in a race against the other allies to annexe as much territory as possible & that there was little that the other parties could do for fear of inflaming the great Russian bear, so badly needed in the struggle against Nazi Germany. Poland still weeps for her children.
America had no agreement with Poland so her situation was entirely in the hands of the exiled government in London through English representation & beaurocracy, already beleagured with its own siege position.
When England & America tried to drop supplies to the Warsaw rising the Red Army attacked the formations & refused to allow refuelling in Russian held territories forcing 60% losses on the few sorties that were actually sanctioned out of England & Italy.

It is a sweet & beautiful mistake to portray England as St Michael. There is something of the zealotry of the immigrant in it. By 1954 when the sculpture was made the strongest part of Soviet grip on Europe was passing, Stalin was dead & England was only just out of rationing. As if waking from a bad dream there was still a memory of the war ever present. The proselytising spirit of those days when local rumour turned to holy war superstition exists in this sculpture. It is hope in bleak times. Summoning magic of the basest kind. Superstitious & ignorant & sentimental.
It is also generous, grateful, vaultingly beautiful. A wish & a hope that yearns in its intent.
The symbolic aquires its relevance by way of the personal & suffering is at the heart of the power of this work.
Epsteins children Theo & Esther died in 1954. Theo whilst being restrained in the back of an ambulance on the way to a mental institution, Esther was reportedly so traumatised that she attempted suicide twice in that year succeeding on the second attempt in November.

Theo Garman


Esther Garman


Esther Garman, Mark Joffe, Kathleen Garman, Jacob Epstein

I prefer the bronze of Lucifer from my days in the mueseum in Birmingham that echoes the faces of all his children. It has the face of Kathleen as did all of his children & St Michael.

Lucifer by Jacob Epstein
Birmingham Mueseum & Art Gallery

Damaged & petulant, this is a truer representation of the personal aspects of attaching the flood of despair that the war exercised upon Coventry, upon Poland, upon Europe though devoid of the rage that fires aggression. Aggression is surely the androcratic impulse that is closest to a personification of Lucifer & the aspect that along with pride distinguishes him from god & is responsible for his situation? The impulse that fires the belly of the beast & drives the war machines that were used to such devastating effect during the second world war?
I find no violence in Epsteins works of this period. Considering the subject of St Michael & the devil this is surprising. The prone figure of Satan is more reposed than vanquished, it is not even a beatific interlude but disassociated. In the following work by Diane Powers the figure of Satan is even contemplative.
The artist is the world's scapegoat, but does that mean that the artist is without anger? From whichever point of view, St Michaels or the devils, it is strange that it should be absent here.

Diane Powers Angels & Demons

It was in conversation with Diane that the germ of this post came about. I was struggling to find an atmosphere in the previous post An English Haunting to use in a painting with Title at Dudley Wood. This was an attempt to find new methods of drawing & to document the process of thought that results in a painting. I was stuck as to where the meaning would arise, Title was already finished on the wall & I had begun with the Abigail resting canvas, been out with Kal Ahmed to Key Hill Cemetary to photograph atmospheres but was still not conneting with the wall. When Diane mentioned her time in Coventry Cathedral the echoes of the past, the war, Epsteins sculpture, the fate of Poland, the disjointed aspect of the absence of violence all formed instantly into the figure of St Michael crawling under the wreckage of Europe to die slowly sfter a noble struggle against the Nazis.
This is the true nature of the sword of perception, when the whispers of the past form a single voice & speak. Ghosts do exist & everything that we do is informed by the intents & choices made generations ago, we can read them in the architecture & the absences that surround us daily or in our DNA.
Independently of this Diane produced Angels & Demons from shots taken at Coventry & caught the essence of Epsteins figures so eloquently & added an entire layer of meaning that I had glimpsed but could not articulate adequately.
Today I am returning to the wall to continue through the wind & the rain to try to capture something..........

An English Haunting




Autumn


Worm Witch


Lady Lazarus

I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it--
A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot
A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?--
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me
And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot-- The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident.
The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut
As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout:
'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart-- It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash-- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--
A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

Sylvia Path
23-29 October 1962


Daphnarcissus

Cris d'aveugle

L'oeil tué n'est pas mort
Un coin le fend encor
Encloué je suis sans cercueil
On m'a planté le clou dans l'oeil
L'oeil cloué n'est pas mort
Et le coin entre encor

Deus misericors
Deus misericors
Le marteau bat ma tête en bois
Le marteau qui ferra la croix
Deus misericors
Deus misericors

Les oiseaux croque-morts
Ont donc peur à mon corps
Mon Golgotha n'est pas fini
Lamma lamna sabacthani
Colombes de la Mort
Soiffez après mon corps

Rouge comme un sabord
La plaie est sur le bord
Comme la gencive bavant
D'une vieille qui rit sans dent
La plaie est sur le bord
Rouge comme un sabord

Je vois des cercles d'or
Le soleil blanc me mord
J'ai deux trous percés par un fer
Rougi dans la forge d'enfer
Je vois un cercle d'or
Le feu d'en haut me mord

Dans la moelle se tord
Une larme qui sort
Je vois dedans le paradis
Miserere, De profundis
Dans mon crâne se tord
Du soufre en pleur qui sort

Bienheureux le bon mort
Le mort sauvé qui dort
Heureux les martyrs, les élus
Avec la Vierge et son Jésus
O bienheureux le mort
Le mort jugé qui dort

Un Chevalier dehors
Repose sans remords
Dans le cimetière bénit
Dans sa sieste de granit

L'homme en pierre dehors
A deux yeux sans remords

Ho je vous sens encor
Landes jaunes d'Armor
Je sens mon rosaire à mes doigts
Et le Christ en os sur le bois
A toi je baye encor
O ciel défunt d'Armor

Pardon de prier fort
Seigneur si c'est le sort
Mes yeux, deux bénitiers ardents
Le diable a mis ses doigts dedans
Pardon de crier fort
Seigneur contre le sort

J'entends le vent du nord
Qui bugle comme un cor
C'est l'hallali des trépassés
J'aboie après mon tour assez
J'entends le vent du nord
J'entends le glas du cor

Tristan Corbiere
1873





Don't think that this is over! It is never over! We are surrounded by ghosts every day & we are the bacteria that grow on them.
Ozymandias
I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear -- "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.' Percy Bysshe Shelley

More progress shots


Justyna profile in progress


Moonchild in stages


William Walton drawing progress


Abigail resting
Since this I have changed the figure entirely knowing that I shall attempt this on a large scale collaboration with Title.

Virginia Woolf Granite & Rainbow - anatomy of a painting


granite & rainbow 4
Granite & Rainbow.
Portrait of Virginia Woolf

Virginia Woolf died on March 28, 1941 near Rodmell, Sussex, England. She left a note for her husband, Leonard, and for her sister, Vanessa. Then, Virginia walked to the River Ouse, put a large stone in her pocket, and drowned herself. Children found her body 18 days later.

(Virginia Woolf's suicide note to her husband Leonard)

TO: LEONARD WOOLF
Tuesday (18th March 1941)
'Dearest, I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that - everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.
V.'

granite & rainbow sketch build up
Stages 1 - 3

I managed to begin this painting on the anniversary of her suicide prior to reading the Bloomsbury group letters recently on display regarding her disappearance. I began by sketching roughly in acrylics giving the orange halo at a very early stage knowing that I wanted to attempt a beatification in the final stages. With a slight revision to the features & some light washes to even the tones a little I can begin to introduce some chaotic elements by dripping, pooling & marblising paint quickly over the face.It is possible to wipe some areas of this out while it is still wet & retain some of the work done on the earlier stages.If I obliterate all trace of what excites me about a painting at this stage it is possible to lose direction.
granite & rainbow detail stages
Stages 4 - 6

It may not appear so in these shots but more time is spent between stages 3&4 than at any other stage as I tend to stare very intently & try to dream into the painting & pull ideas from the random marks & realise them onto the canvas.This is the most productive & rewarding stage as fragments of ideas may become fully realised here or more tantalisingly the spectres of other ideas may flit through my imagination that cannot be realised here but may prove fruitful later.Here I have reduced the orange tone to a more neutral yellow & brown to allow myself to think. During the process of modelling the face the features have become slightly distorted ( albeit in a pleasing manner ) if I hadn't become fascinated by reading "The Death of a Moth" I may have left the face at that & continued in the way suggested here.

granite & rainbow

The Death of the Moth - an essay
Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy-blossom which the commonest yellow-underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow hay-coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, mid–September, mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer months. The plough was already scoring the field opposite the window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the eyes strictly turned upon the book. The rooks too were keeping one of their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it. Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the air again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting experience.

The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and even, it seemed, the lean bare-backed downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window-pane. One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a queer feeling of pity for him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth’s part in life, and a day moth’s at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far-off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life.

Yet, because he was so small, and so simple a form of the energy that was rolling in at the open window and driving its way through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as well as pathetic about him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zig-zagging to show us the true nature of life. Thus displayed one could not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing it humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to move with the greatest circumspection and dignity. Again, the thought of all that life might have been had he been born in any other shape caused one to view his simple activities with a kind of pity.

After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him. Then, looking up, my eye was caught by him. He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the window-pane; and when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of its failure. After perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden ledge and fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window sill. The helplessness of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he was in difficulties; he could no longer raise himself; his legs struggled vainly. But, as I stretched out a pencil, meaning to help him to right himself, it came over me that the failure and awkwardness were the approach of death. I laid the pencil down again.

The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the fields had stopped. Stillness and quiet had replaced the previous animation. The birds had taken themselves off to feed in the brooks. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all the same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little hay-coloured moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings; nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a pause of exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this last protest, and so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself. One’s sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life. Also, when there was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic effort on the part of an insignificant little moth, against a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange. The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.
Virginia Woolf

"The Death of a Moth" resonated very strongly with me in its description of the futility of existence & the terror at the enormity of the universe.This is the core of a sensitivity that can often only logically end in suicide & it is here that I wanted to concentrate.Also her style of writing in the three greatest novels has always reminded me of light shimmering on water, metaphor upon metaphor dappled with potent memories & even more distant & potent feelings.

granite & rainbow 2
I have softened the features & begun to tie the lace of her blouse to the crashing waves & dragged a hard impasto in the sky area.The colour of this may change as I progress but at this point I am concerned with the texture alone & often use random marks to introduce new elements. I wanted to obtain a push-pull effect in the peripheral vision so that there is a blurring of close & distant space with regard to the water.As if there had always been a calling to the water since adolescence when the spectre of her sensitivity raised itself.

granite & rainbow 4
Now begins the softening of the whole. A white wash over the impasto provides a base for a graded blue wash to remove the hardness of the impasto in the sky & to bring the water more in tune with the rest of the background there is a light yellow/brown through the turquoise. The are a mating pair of deaths head moths in her hair as an echo of her bruised innocence & talisman of fate.These were suggested by the random marks at eye level behind her hair & my reading material.

granite & rainbow gallery view

Exhibition view

As a footnote to this image I painted over this shortly after removing it from the exhibition. I miss the painting but it was necessary to destroy it to cleanse myself of the politics of dealing with galleries & agents & other parasites. I will quite possibly never hang another painting publicly & certainly will not deal with openings or the attendant bullshit in the popularity contest of galleries & shows plus I have to charge twice as much as I would like to pay for someone elses rent & a couple of bottles of wine. Times have changed.


Virginia Woolf - watercolour sketch

Works in progress


Here is a small selection of the canvases in progress in the batcave.


Goat transforming into a cathedral.First pass.
Self portrait with asymmetric cathedral frontis. As an echo of my years painting grafitti the rose window contains lettering based on tracery from some of my favorite gothic masterpieces.


Antelope 2


Sviatoslav Richter



Alice
This was for a victorian project that was cancelled. I have made many versions of the classic Lewis Carrol tale as it has been a favorite of mine since childhood. The Tenniel illustrations are still a touchstone for so many & although I can never approach his joyful richness it is still rewarding to riff on the subtext.
afterwards
Afterwards

the yellow wallpaper
The Yellow Wallpaper

for her light sketch
For Her Light sketch

for her light 2
For Her Light - Second version