in the park – with the sculpture – in yorkshire

Through the glass of YSP (Yorkshire Sculpture Park) visitor centre – a very decent building by Fielden Clegg Bradley – tree canopies abound. Elements of the original parkland estate remain.

Yorkshire is synonymous with dry stone walls. This level of craftsmanship doesn’t appear often enough in counties to the south. The only person I know of who can select, cut and place stone well is Mr Swatton. He’d enjoy these modest but well built retaining walls . . .

. . . the major exhibition is a survey of the work by Ursula von Rydingsvard – she works with wood – mostly Red Cedar – bronze, polyurethane resin and other more organic materials. Is she crafts person or  an artist? Or both? If I could, I be there to listen to her.

In the Camellia House, her work sits well within the singular architecture.

A little history as provided by Pevsner The Buildings of England 1967: ‘Camellia House circa 1812 by Jeffrey Wyatt for Col. Thomas Richard and Diana Beaumont. Materials are ashlar stone and glass. A symmetrical composition of 7  x 1 bays plus a diagonal projecting bay at each corner. Square panelled piers to the front supporting the entablature . . . . full height glazing. Large round-arched windows  . . . framed by engaged Tuscan columns. Hipped glass roofs, separate over the projecting bays . . . Interior: niche at left and right. Scrolled iron brackets support the iron gutter and similar arched braces to roof apex. Iron tie rods to 2 intermediated trusses clasped by pairs of slender ion columns‘. It is a little gem.

Traditional furnishings alongside a strong masculine head by Frink . . . .

. . and a Pye water feature.

The Cascade Bridge spans the Lower and Upper Lake and connects the gardenesque part of the estate with the pasture and woodland. A gentle and quite mesmerizing feature . . .

. . . lost in thought here too.

David Nash made the Seventy-one Steps – amongst other site-specific works in 2010 along the walking route to Longside Gallery. This path runs along by some modest estate workers cottages and the quarry and the old well below. 

Another David Nash, Black Mound,  in a lovely setting. And a piece of Goldsworthy called Outclosure.

Ai Weiwei has taken over the Chapel both inside and out. Ming + Qing dynasty chairs fill the interior and a rather ugly ‘tree’ sits outside.

Walk over recognition to all those who have contributed financially and with their time and effort – on leaving or arriving. Much appreciated, thank you.

A stranger here
Strange things doth meet, strange glories see;
Strange treasures lodged in this fair world appear,
Strange all and new to me;
But that they mine should be, who nothing was,
That strangest is of all, yet brought to pass.    Thomas Traherne   The Salutation

When I wake the rains falling
and I think, as always, its for the best.
I remember how much I love rain,
the weakest and strongest of us all;

as I listen to its yeses and nos,
I think how many men and women

would, if they could,
against all sense and nature,

tax the rain for its privileges;

make it pay for soaking our earth
and splashing all over our leaves;

pay for muddying our grass
and amusing itself with our roots.

Let rain be taxed, they say
for riding on our rivers
and drenching our sleeves;

for loitering in our lakes
and reservoirs. Make rain pay its way.

make it pay for lying full length
in the long straight sedate green waters

of our city canals
and for working its way through processes

of dreamy complexity
until this too- long untaxed rain comes indoors,

and touches our lips,
bringing assuagement- for rain comes

to slake all our thirsts, spurting
brusque and thrilling in hot needles,

showering on to anyone naked;
or blaming our skins in the shape of scented baths.

Yes, they are many whod like to tax the rain;
even now, they whisper, it can be done, it must be done.      Penelope Shuttle     Taxing the Rain

memory park – ‘to create memory is to construct the future’

Parque de la Memoria ( Memory Park) is unique in symbolism and unique among the eclectic mix of parks and green spaces in Buenos Aires. Carlos Thays planned most of the 19 – 20 C parks during the initial growth of this city as the capital of a large country facing industrialisation. In recent years, more contemporary open spaces have been slotted into post industrial developments such as Puerto Madero, along the Plata underlining the growth in the economy and changes in social requirements. Many of the new parks and urban spaces integrate abstract sculptures – this park has eight visually powerful pieces conceived and created within a broad collective theme of  Human Rights. This is not only a park but also a monument to the tens of thousands of Argentines that disappeared during the military dictatorships that spanned 14 years. It’s fitting that the site chosen is by the river believed to be the final resting place of many of the disappeared and also that it is adjacent to the University that many victims were associated with.

The main access is uncompromising in its bleakness  – an immediate wake up call to the rationale behind the design – but transforms itself well into a user friendly open classroom when the young inhabit the park . . . .

. .  distant horizons are incorporated into the linear framework. The river is wide here but the sense of the opposite shore, Uruguay, is strong although too distant visually –  the seen and the unseen. The personal memorial to those ‘lost’ is a series of concrete walls that vary in angle, height and length and define spaces that are sharply angled and sloping.  The names of those that disappeared during the dictatorships are carved into bricks attached to the walls making a textured surface that contributes to a sense of discomfort, tension and sadness – all suitable.

The planting is chosen to underscore the symbolism as well as compliment the architectural feel of the park. A bosque of red budded Erythrina crista-galli, the national tree, and well able to cope with the harsh river side conditions plus the lack of management, stand in a asymmetrical group.

Areas of grass are left long perhaps to discourage active play – a creeping geranium tinged the sward with a flush of pink similar in tone to the spectacular flowers on the Ceiba speciosa  . . . . .

. . .  one installation that demands attention is the arc of 53 signs. Traffic signs that have become a visual language here display  information as though on a route through Argentina’s recent history of state terrorism (Grupo de Arte Callejero). . . .

. . . and the dreaded Ford Falcon.

The park spreads out into the river in a wide arc enabling immediate connection with the water as well as opportunities to gaze, rest and reflect.

Pablo Miguez disappeared at the age of 14. This sculpture by Claudia Fontes was conceived specifically for this siting in the Rio de la Plata. If Pablo had survived he would be the same age today as the sculptor.

Libre de la memoria y de la esperanza,
ilimitado, abstracto, casi futuro,
el muerto no es un muerto:  es la muerte.
Como el Díos de los místicos
de Quien deben negarse todos los predicados,
el muerto ubicuamente ajeno
no es sino la perdición y ausencia del mundo.
Todo se lo robamos,
no le dejamos ni un color ni una sílaba:
aquí está el patio que ya no comparten sus ojos,
allí la acera donde acechó su esperanza.
Aun lo que pensamos
podría estar pensándolo él;

nos hemos repartido como ladrones

el caudal de las noches y de los días.

Free of memory and of hope,
limitless, abstract, almost future,
the dead man is not a dead man: he is death.
Like the God of the mystics,
of Whom anything that could be said must be denied,
the dead one, alien everywhere,
is but the ruin and absence of the world.
We rob him of everything,
we leave him not so much as a color or syllable:
here, the courtyard which his eyes no longer see,
there, the sidewalk where his hope lay in wait.
Even what we are thinking,
he could be thinking;

we have divvied up like thieves

the booty of nights and days.

Jorge Luis Borges Remordimiento Por Cualquier Muerte

ancienne et moderne – acte 1

This is acte 1 of a double acte post.  At Le Musée Lapidaire where Medieval and Gallo-Roman sculptures of the Calvet Collection are housed, the experience is educational. The ecclesiastical building, a former Collège des Jésuites, sits on the main route into the historic centre of  Avignon. Visitors and locals stream passed to and from the stations probably unaware that a museum lies within. The building retains a confident aura although the use has changed into an environment for stone statues, friezes, funery urns and other ‘finds’ from earlier centuries. These are very beautiful in subject matter  – figures both human and animal – and in the craft of the execution.

The insect world and the botanic world are also treated with a sense of reverence as well as delight . . .

Pure compositions occur whether meant intentionally or just  in the accumulation of storage.

A short step across the street in Rue du Pourtail Bouquier, is another Jesuit building. Once a seminary, and then an officers’ hospital, and then a hospice, and now a hotel and restaurant with eye watering prices. Forgive the sarcasm . . . .

. .  the mature trees and the surrounding built facades are one.

As the sun swings round, a sense of theatricality and memory fills the courtyard. An art installation or is it merely items on their way somewhere? And old crafts, like the laying of pebbles, will never be the same again.

On to Rue Violette and the Collection Lambert . . .

J’ai longtemps habité sous de vastes portiques
Que les soleils marins teignaient de mille feux,
Et que leurs grands piliers, droits et majestueux,
Rendaient pareils, le soir, aux grottes basaltiques.

Les houles, en roulant les images des cieux,
Mêlaient d’une façon solennelle et mystique
Les tout-puissants accords de leur riche musique
Aux couleurs du couchant reflété par mes yeux.

C’est là que j’ai vécu dans les voluptés calmes,
Au milieu de l’azur, des vagues, des splendeurs
Et des esclaves nus, tout imprégnés d’odeurs,

Qui me rafraîchissaient le front avec des palmes,
Et dont l’unique soin était d’approfondir
Le secret douloureux qui me faisait languir.  Charles Baudelaire  La Vie Antérieure