Modern Art

On my day off I went to London to the Tate Modern and a number of things struck me. Perhaps the biggest surprise was that art is no different to anything else - the excellent stands head and shoulders above the good. I had assumed - not being an art afficionado - that good artists painted good pictures - and for all I know the experts might agree - but my observation was that even good artists paint lesser pieces. I would perhaps compare it to sport where there are certain performers who can raise their sport to a different level. So for example I enjoy watching good quality rugby (shame I'm an England supporter right now) but even Premiership games leave me unmoved. And sometimes there are performers who will take a sport that no one watches and make it unmissable, Torvill and Dean perhaps?
Then there was the appearance of some of these lesser pieces. Some looked to me no better than things that I have seen in schools. That set me thinking about the difference between modern art and older art. Some of the modern art had little physical skill in its production - anyone could have produced it (one of the pieces was reproduced each installation by staff following the artists instructions) whereas the Old Masters appear to me to require considerable techincal ability to produce. So what is it that makes something art? Is it the technical ability required to produce it, or is it the emotional reaction that it generates? What I found interesting was that there were some pieces which generated an emotional reaction without looking like "art".
And that made me think about how that relates to religion. Worship is about giving praise to God, and prayer about communicating with God - but these can happen in a variety of ways - the important thing is that they happen - not the format in which they happen.

Oh, and the picture... One of the surprises of the day. Although no art afficionado I know that Jackson Pollock dripped paint onto canvas, what I didn't know was that he also painted pictures!

Funeral Thoughts

My dad died 4 weeks ago today - the first close bereavement that I have suffered. The time since has been one of conflicting emotions and experiences, and it seemed good to reflect on them here.



I wrote the tribute, with the help of my brothers and an old CV we found, and read it at his funeral. This is something that I know many clergy encourage - and I don't believe just for selfish reasons. Indeed I was going to follow suit as I thought it seemed a good idea. However, having done it I am less certain. There is a lot to be said for the writing of it, after all who better to get the facts right and to say what they want to say than the family, although we can also be blinkered in how we see those close to us (the vicar encouraged short vignettes from others as well as the tribute and it was amazing what we learnt about dad). It was also helpful in thinking through what we felt and thought about dad. But... when it came to the funeral itself I found it a distraction - knowing that I had the tribute to deliver meant that for a good deal of time I was focussed on that - and hence on suppressing emotions that would otherwise have been released - emotions which then took another 10 days to finally break out. I can't be sure that I wouldn't have suppressed them anyway - but it has given me serious cause for thought.

The other thing which hit me was the power of music. Four days after my dad's funeral I attended the funeral of a member of the congregation. I sat in the pews, having agreed that this was the most sensible thing for me to do. As the service progressed I thought I was OK - no real flashbacks - and then it hit me - we sang "Thine be the Glory", the final hymn at dad's funeral - the repressed emotions broke through - though not completely - that took another week and the help of a good friend. This is a well known occurrence - whilst training we had a weekend on death and dying and various pieces of music were played and someone had to run out when a particular piece - which had been played at a recent funeral - was heard. An explanation of this can be found here - after all what stronger emotion can there be than grief at a death - and music can be evocative at the best of times. This opens up for me a question to which I don't have the answer! Does that make it sensible or not to have treasured music played at a funeral?

• Pros
• It works in reverse and the music brings back happy memories
• The linking of the music to the feelings of grief will facilitate the grieving process after the funeral

• Con
• A good piece of music spoilt!

• Question
• Will the linkage work for ever, or will the impact be lessened as the process of grieving progresses?

Do let me know your thoughts - after all, I shall be helping others through this for a few years yet, and the more information I have the better I shall be able to do it.

Celebrity Lives - Know and be known?

It may not be an original thought - but the other day I caught sight of the front page of the Sun http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/showbiz/tv/article2195808.ece detailing Jade Goody's cancer. This set me thinking about the role of celebrities and celebrity gossip. Village life, even today as my friends in villages tell me, is a place where everyone knows everybody else, and no one can have any secrets, yet in big towns and cities this is not the case. There are theories about why this is (why can you never Google something when you want it?) - noting that in large towns people avoid looking at others - you only need to travel on the tube to see this in action - and yet perhaps there is something there - we long to know and be known - and yet we are also drawn towards anonymity.

Celebrities - particularly those who are primarily famous for being famous - sacrifice their anonymity in return for money - and yet there is nothing mutual about it - for although they are known they do not know.

Is this good? At least people will know someone. Or is it bad because it allows us to know without being known? I will opt for bad - I think that it is actually the being known - and accepted for what we are - that matters. If celebrities and soap operas allow us to get our "fix" of "knowing" without having to be known then we are the poorer for it.


St Benedict saidsomething similar (far more concisely) "The fifth step of humility is that we do not conceal from the abbot or prioress any sinful thoughts entering our hearts, or any wrongs committed in secret, but rather confess them humbly." Joan Chittister in her commentary on this says "The struggles we hide, psychologists tell us, are the struggles that consume us. Benedict's instruction, centuries before an entire body of research arose to confirm it, is that we must cease to wear our masks, stop pretending to be perfect and accept the graces of growth that can come to us from the wise and gentle hearts of people of quality around us." (The book is serialised here http://www.eriebenedictines.org/Pages/INSPIRATION/insights.html over 4 months and the passage above can be seen in roughly February, June and October).
If we avoid being known then we are free to maitain those masks - both to others and to ourselves - which prevent us from growing.

Clothes and Happiness

I saw two contrasting things today - the first was an advert for a conference on happiness http://www.scimednet.org/conference_pages/09_Happiness_conference.htm. This contained the information that "the First World has more depression, more alcoholism and more crime than fifty years ago".
Then a little later it was contrasted by an article saying that a significant proportion of clothes bought are never worn - around 50% if my quick scan of the numbers is accurate - and that in Cardiff 2/3 of respondents had thrown catalogue clothes away unworn.

The question that this prompts in me is what contribution this makes towards happiness. Is it the act of shopping that generates the happiness - regardless of the outcome, or are the people unhappy about this, but for some reason don't return the goods? Given that we seem to be coming more like America in our attitude towards our rights I suspect that it is the former, and that people are seeking happiness in shopping - Tesco ergo sum as I have heard it described.

However it doesn't work - or is there someone out there who can tell me otherwise? As soon as happiness depends on acquisition there is always one more thing to buy, one more thing to make your life better - and yet it never does. True happiness is found not by looking for it, but by serving others - For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.

Bullfighting and Boxing

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/video/2009/jan/27/mexico-bullfighter

What do you make of bullfighting and boxing? Instinctively I am against them, and the video above, showing an 11 year old fighting bull calves, would be an easy thing to avoid on principle. And yet when they are done well there is something compelling about them. I watched the video expecting to be repelled, and yet found myself drawn into the artistry and skill that the boy showed - this is not to ignore the cruelty to the bulls - and for me the same is true of boxing - not that I watch an awful lot - but I remember when I was younger watching Muhammad Ali (OK, much younger) and thinking that he had taken the sport to another level.

If we ban the sports the artistry goes with them - and yet there is so much wrong with both sports.

The artistry of bull fighting does not (surely) require the kiling of the bull, and yet in searching the web I wasn't able to find any information on bull fights where the bull isn't killed. Similarly with boxing it would be possible to display the artistry while protecting the boxers more - wearing helmets like the amateurs would remove a lot of the risk - but it doesn't happen.

So what is the draw of the two? Is it the artistry, or is it the blood lust? I fear it is the latter and on those grounds would support a banning of both - after all, there would be other opportunities for the individuals artistry to shine through.

Who wants to be a millionaire?

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/jan/16/zimbabwe-hyper-inflation-mugabe-tsvangirai

The above article talks about the creation of a Z$100 trillion note - worth about £22 on the black market - so you can be a Zimbabwean dollar millionaire for about 2p. Somehow not quite what I suspect most people have in mind if they want to be a millionaire. And yet things aren't so far removed in this country - when I was younger my parents bought a house for £4,000 it is now worth somewhere close to 100 times that - so on that basis a millionaire has 100 times less money than 40 years ago. And yet is money all it is cracked up to be?

Most people seem to assume that more money spent on themselves leads to happiness - and yet the research shows otherwise. http://www.livescience.com/health/080320-happiness-money.html

And it is hardly as if this is news, 2000 years ago someone said both:

‘Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? Therefore do not worry, saying, “What will we eat?” or “What will we drink?” or “What will we wear?”
http://bible.oremus.org/?ql=99124719

and

Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.
http://bible.oremus.org/?ql=99125058

This latter quote speaks to me in the same terms as the research - that the secret to happiness is not to seek it, but instead to seek for the happiness of others - and in doing so we will find our own happiness.

What is church?

There is an organisation called Spirited Exchanges which is for those who ... perhaps it is best if you look it up on their web site - I will struggle to summarise it. However, they have a newsletter which is not currently available on the web (work in progress) and the following article was in the last edition and I thought that it was worth sharing more widely and commenting on. Although perhaps the only comment that I can add is that for me this enacts more of God and Jesus than much I see in church. The willing powerlessness of the protestors, the acceptance that they are going to be beaten, the sharing together.

AMONG BELIEVERS

It was about 5.30 in the morning when the shout awoke me, and the moment we were waiting for announced its arrival. My sleep-weakened hands struggled to pull on my boots – we had all been sleeping fully clothed for days, in readiness – so by the time I struggled from my tent in to the grey light of morning, just a few seconds later, my partner and many others were by then disappearing across the field. The summer sun was already high, but obscured behind the mist that rose off the tidal river at the bottom of the grassy hill and still hung damp in the air. At that moment, everything seemed hazy. It would have been beautiful, had I had time to stop and gaze, but my heart was beating fast and my feet were running faster to join the crowd that was growing along with the day.

As I emerged from the village of recently-emptied tents and started up the far side of the valley, I could see that the sun had managed to struggle through the fading mist. Its light was bouncing off the helmets and shields of the ranks of men ahead of me, armed with sticks and gas, and off the windscreens of the speeding vehicles rushing in reinforcements behind them. I saw my partner a field ahead of me as he disappeared into the crowd that was forming in front of them – the next time I would see him would be 30 hours later, injured, behind a screen in a court room. A few seconds later, I was in the midst of it all - the shouting, cheering, laughing, chanting, struggling, spinning mass, trying simply to keep my feet on the floor. "Stay at the back" I said to myself. "Observe what goes on, help those who need it, add your support" I intone. But then, placing my feet firmly on the ground, I looked up, as the sun shone its early light on what was to be a very unusual Sunday morning, and found myself at the very front, face to face with the riot police.

This was Climate Camp 2008. Not, as it may have seemed at that moment, a frontier in a police state, at least, allegedly not. Nor, as certain authorities were trying to convince the media, was this a full scale terrorist attack that threatened the underlying fabric of our society, flawed and threadbare as that fabric may be. Rather, this was maybe 1500 eco-types – community workers, ecologists, scientists, activists, journalists, concerned citizens – come together for a week of courses, contacts, conversation, compost loos and couc-cous in Kent. At the end of which was planned a peaceful march to the gates of Kingsnorth Power Station, the proposed site for the first of the "New Generation" of coal fired power stations, for a bit of family flag waving, banner hanging, bad drumming, and admittedly, perhaps the odd touch of fence snipping. Our intention was to highlight the catastrophe that such "progress" could cause: How can we continue to base our energy systems on carbon and "capture" technology that simply doesn't exist in the face of the imperative to reduce our emissions by at least 80% (if not 95), and our economy on fossil fuels which are all but exhausted? Our aim was humanitarian and environmental, our commitment non-violent.

Bizarre as this scene was, in the face of the weeks events, it was nothing less than I had expected. Over the previous four days of set-up, I had been searched by police maybe a dozen or more times. Everyone had been subject to this blatant intimidation - on two occasions I witnessed police search inside babies’ nappies for weapons. A black man was arrested because he was unable to produce his passport and so accused of being here illegally. Items "intended for criminal damage" and therefore confiscated included water piping, felt tip pens, board games, playing cards, wood for building compost loos, food, clothes pegs, spoons, parts of marquees, string, even an elderly lady's crutches. A few tools had been seized - clearly intended for the site build - but very few. Throughout the whole camp stories and eye-witness accounts were rife. For further details there is ample footage available on Indymedia and the Climate Camp website.

Whilst the land owner had not known in advance that we were coming, once we arrived and stated our aims he gave his full and happy permission, provided we obeyed a few rules regarding the welfare of his sheep, which of course we were happy to do.

On this Sunday morning, however, the Police response was no friendly walkabout. These were troops of riot police, up to 100 at a time, armed with shields, bullet proof vests, CS gas and batons, vans of dogs and horses. Facing them were a few hundred committed though slightly unwashed people armed with herbal tea and chocolate, guitars and an endless litany of protest songs of questionable musicality.... who says the spirit of ‘69’ is dead???! And neither side were afraid to use their weapons. By the time I left eight hours later, of our small group of ten who I had been with at the gate, one had been arrested, two had been hospitalised, six had been first-aided (including myself - my left arm was out of use for two days and my right leg badly bruised and swollen after baton blows) and only one remained un-injured. However we had also sung ourselves hoarse, made new friends, and defended the entrance from police vehicles by setting up a yurt and throwing a party. During that time, despite much debate as to the purpose of all this, the police had not gained an inch. We had not so much as raised an angry hand against the police, even insults or swearing was shouted down by the group.

Two moments in these hours warrant further description:

The first was early on after half an hour of pushing and shoving, when in a moment of stillness I found myself at the front. I was face to face with the row of riot police, all of whom were standing with their batons raised, gas in hand, waiting the order to attack. Everything seemed to freeze as I realised that things had come to the crunch. This was the moment I had somehow known would come ever since I joined my first protest a few years ago. I had seen others get hit, some injured badly. I had been insulted and jostled. But this was the moment when for the first time in my adult life I was about to get hit. It was no big deal. It had been on the cards all along and all we were talking about was a bit of a battering. But that hypothetical question we all ask now became a reality.... was I prepared to suffer violence for what I believed?

I looked at the armed woman in front of me, younger than me, no longer able to meet my eye and clearly scared, and the older man next to her clearly spoiling for a fight. I knew why they were here. They had been telling us all week. They were getting paid £35 an hour. And I knew why I was here - because I believed wholeheartedly in the purposes of this camp, that it was a small part of a process to prevent the degradation of this planet and the lives of all generations to come. I looked at the young woman, smiled, and quietly said, "Don't be scared, it's ok". And then the order was given, and tentatively at first and then more strongly, she and the man with her, started to hit me.

The second moment came later, after the initial onslaught had died down. Again an order went out, apparently this time to stop hitting people, and the police re-formed themselves into a line. I formed part of another line, sitting on the ground with our backs to their legs. An hour or two passed. Songs were sung, food and jokes shared. And then one of the most beautiful things I've ever experienced occurred. Someone suggested that we share with one another our reasons for being there. Maybe 30 or 40 people took a few minutes each to share their personal motivation, why they believed what they believed, and why they were willing to put themselves on the line for it. I shared about how, when travelling in Asia, I had met poor people, who became my most valued friends. People, whose lives were already devastated by the effects of climate change. The depth of insight and emotion from the whole group was profound to say the least. Many people were moved to tears - including, remarkably, two of the riot police. These were not tears of despair, they were tears of deep solace at being with like-minded people who understood and who together were committed to finding a solution.


As I sat there, in some ways still only half awake, in others more awake than I had ever been, people started passing refreshments around. A kind of late breakfast, as it must now have been ten or eleven o'clock. People camping near by had brought porridge and a few cups of hot coffee. I took a sip of black tea from a dirty mug and passed it to my neighbour. A few moments later a bar of vegan chocolate was passed from hand to hand for people to take a piece and pass it on. And as I took my piece of chocolate I realised, that like thousands of others around the country that Sunday morning sitting in their pews, here in this field in Kent, sitting in front of a line of riot police, I had just shared communion. As the sudden shiver of recognition thrilled through me, chilling me on what was now a roasting hot summers day, in absolute silence yet clearer and more penetrating than the sirens, I heard The Voice say, "Here I am, Miriam, this is where I am”.

Dozens of times, since I left the church six or seven years ago, I've wondered whether I've done the right thing, whether in my attempt to let God be free, I've actually let him go. But equally, several times since I started mixing with activists, slum dwellers, asylum seekers, the homeless and the mentally ill, I have found God in the most unlikely of places (or likely? it all depends where you expect him) , grinning at me toothlessly in the face. And here, yet again, but perhaps even more poignantly than usual, as I sat in the gap between riot police, with all the weight of state and corporation behind them, and a field full of exhausted, stressed, unkempt, colourful, committed and passionate people, with all the lightness of belief behind them, I knew without a shadow of a doubt where God was, and where I wanted to be.
Miriam Hadcocks