Moomin Xmas

Tags

Holy Family, Moomins, window display, Wise Men

 

Photos by Candia             Sacrilegious, or not?

Christmas Collage

Tags

Baby Jesus, Christmas cards, collage, Holy Family, Robert Rauschenberg

Saw a programme on Robert Rauschenberg and decided to do something with my old Xmas cards!

Epiphany- after Durer

Tags

Durer, epiphany, Hares, Holy Family

A Sestina for Spideog Mhuire

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Brittany, Eucharist, Flight to Egypt, Gloria, Holy Family, miracle, Mozart, Nativity, robin, Sherborne Missal, Spatzenmasse, spideog Mhuire, St Kentigern, St Mungo, St Servanus

Spideog Mhuire means robin of (Virgin) Mary

 

(image from The Sherborne Missal, c1400)

 

At Eucharist a robin, with its song,

drowns out the Gloria and brings to life

a sermon.  The Spatzenmesse, miracle

of Mozart, somehow cannot bless

the congregation more than this small bird,

who had significance in the lives of saints.

 

Kentigern and Servanus were the saints:

the former (Mungo) restored a robin’s song,

after his peers tortured and killed the bird.

The bishop had mourned its loss of life.

Some other holy men had cause to bless

robins.  In Brittany, a miracle

 

occurred when monks needed a miracle;

a robin brought a sheaf of wheat to saints,

who’d ploughed, hoping that Nature would then bless

them with a harvest.  They’d brought no seed. Song

reminded them there would have been no life,

nor church for them, by Autumn, save for that bird.

 

At the Nativity, one little bird

shielded the Christ child, in a miracle,

preserving from immolation His life

and singeing its own breast.  Honoured by saints

for perching on the cross, singing its song,

removing thorns, thus being pierced.  We bless

 

it for blushing in deference.  To bless

The Holy Family’s footsteps, this tiny bird

covered their tracks, filling their Flight with song:

their salvation a kind of miracle.

And when it warbles with the choir, saints

sense affirmation of eternal life.

 

God’s holy men-the robin and wren-give life

to small beginnings; prosper and bless;

cheer in dark days of winter all the saints,

past and present, and the fall of one bird

is known to the Divine.  The miracle

of creation imbues its warbling song.

 

May the miracle of this bird’s song,

chirruping in garden, or in hallowed space, bless

and give life to all dejected saints.

 

 

 

Judge Not That Ye Be Not Judged

Tags

Angelica Kauffman, Anglo-Catholic, Bartolozzi, Borders, Bradford on Avon, Calvin, Calvin Klein, Coolidge, egg tempera, Freudian, Giclee print, Grey Gowrie, High Renaissance, Holy Family, Judge not.., Louis XVI sofa, Magi, magic bullet, Murgatroyd, Pele Tower, Post Tenebris Lux, silver bullet, Snap!, Tam Dalyell, The National Gallery shop, To Kill A Mockingbird, Valentine card, werewolves

Augustus Snodbury had returned to school early, in order to oversee

the logistics of the opening of the new term.  This left Dru and her

mother to have a final girlie weekend in Bradford-on-Avon.

After the Christmas tree needles had been vacuumed and the baubles

and wreaths put away, Diana burned the card from her ex-husband on

the open fire.  She always recognised who its sender was as, apart from

the calligraphic penmanship, the subject was always vaguely Anglo-

Catholic, High Renaissance and probably came from The National

Gallery‘s sale.  The Holy Family or something deeply ironic, given

their own dysfunctionality.

She never returned the compliment.

Was that the one from that odious and oleaginous man who once lived

with us?  Dru asked her mother, over a sloe gin.  I often wonder why

you married him.

I often wonder that myself, but at the time, I didn’t feel that I had many

other options, Diana confessed.

What really happened, Mum? Dru leant forward, picking a pine needle

off the rug.

Well, I only married Murgatroyd on the rebound.  You see, being in a state

of infanticipation, I was very vulnerable.

Why didn’t you marry Dad?

Wounded pride, Dru.  I was mortified that I had sent him a declaration of

love in the form of a Valentine card, and he hadn’t returned one.  It’s like

revealing your hand and no one shouting: Snap!

But we’ve been through that, Dru broke in impatiently.  He had. You

just didn’t get it.  Delivery malfunction.

I know that now, but, at the time I was distraught.

And so how did you become involved with that man?  I’m referring to

the one who has ensconced himself in a converted Pele tower in the

Borders and is trying to live the aesthetic life of Tam Dalyell, or Grey

Gowrie, but sans the brain cells, or political acumen.

As for ‘Grey’- that sounds like a wolf, doesn’t it?

It’s a long story, but I suppose I should have told you ages

ago.  Mind you, you never asked.

I’m asking now.

All right.  The boarding house accommodation was rather bleak and

so I had attended a local mid-week auction on my free afternoon..

You had free afternoons then?  Dru was amazed.

Technically, but it was rare for one to be able to take them.  Anyway,

I bought a self-portrait by Angelica Kauffman, to cheer myself up.  The

one over the mantelshelf in my bedroom.

But it’s only a print, Dru observed.

Yes, but I liked the frame, though it required a bit of restoration.

So you took it to Quarto Street, to Syylk, for re-gilding?

Precisely.  I stood in a short queue, waiting to see the restorer.  I

thought he’d be an elderly gentleman, since it was his name over

the shop. As it was, it turned out to be his son’s business.

I began to feel queasy and faint and he sat me down on a Louis XVI

repro sofa (everything was fake about the man, as I subsequently

discovered) and he gave me a glass of water.

He identified my picture as a Giclee print by Bartolozzi, and said that the

title of the picture was ‘The Angel’, punning on the name of the artist.

He then flattered me by saying how appropriate the picture was for one

so angelic and other nonsense:  ‘A charming image for a heavenly

customer.’

Not Snod’s style then!  He wouldn’t know how to be smarmy.

No.  Syylk was so smooth that, after he had ministered to my

needs.. No, not in that way!  Diana was shocked.  He took me out a

few times in his open top Sports car and the proposal was rapidly

forthcoming.

You accepted to spite Dad?

In a way, but motivation is always more complex than the outsider can

interpret, Diana replied wisely.

Dru had been overseeing her girls’ homework on ‘To Kill A Mockingbird‘,

so she was familiar with the concept.  You have to walk in someone

else’s shoes..

..before you judge them- yes.

I’m not judging you, Mum- except that it was harsh to expect a man to

bring up another guy’s child.

But, he never knew!

Then I am judging you, Mum!  Heavens to Murgatroyd!

Well, I paid the price in an unfortunate marriage. At least Angelica

Kauffman’s husband died in 1795, but my ex persists.

Yes, he hung around too long- like an egg tempera which has gone off,

to use a technical term congruent with his profession. I will admit that.

I suppose that was your penance.

Oh well.  ‘Post Tenebris Lux’, as Calvin said.

Calvin?

The Reformer.

Oh yeah. Not Klein?

Not Klein and not Coolidge, nor a cartoon jungle feline.

What do they teach the teachers nowadays?  Diana sometimes

despaired.  She had tried to warn Drusilla off the teaching profession,

but she would bite the bullet, albeit a not too silvery one.  Come to think

of it, she herself had bitten the silver one, but, thankfully hadn’t needed a

magic one.  Maybe she should have had the one inscribed with the Holy

Family’s names, which was supposed to ward off werewolves such as

Syylk.

She looked down at her hands and realised that she was no longer wearing

her wedding and engagement rings.  It wasn’t just all that washing up over

Christmas.  Something Freudian was going on.