I ARRIVED EARLY for a committee meeting of the Anglo-Albanian Association, which was being held in a house in Walham Grove in London’s Fulham district. It was a warm afternoon, and as I did not want to disturb our host by arriving too early, I sat on a bench in the small yard next to the north side of St Johns Church – a rather unexceptional example of early 19th century church architecture.
Soon, I noticed a tree in the middle of the yard. Its trunk was growing at about 30 degrees to the ground, and was supported by a wooden prop. Branches were growing out of the trunk, more or less vertically. There was a small commemorative notice at the base of the tree – where it had been planted originally. It bore the words:
“This mulberry tree was planted by His Worship the Mayor of Fulham Councillor JF Perotti JP on Victory Day June 8 1946”
On that day, celebrations were held in London to commemorate the Allied victory in WW2, the British Commonwealth, and the Empire. The Mayor, Mr Perotti, was a fitter at London Transport’s Lots Road electricity generating station.
In my mind, mulberry trees conjure up visions of silk growing and exotic landscapes of yesteryear. To be honest, until I saw the notice by the tree in the yard in Fulham, I would not have been able to identify a tree as being a mulberry. I stood up and examined it closely. To my great delight, I saw that the tree has berries. They looked like larger than average raspberries. I have read that when they ripen, they become darker in colour and resemble elongated blackberries.
I was curiously excited to find a mulberry tree with its fruit. I had not expected to find one in a busy part of Fulham. Mulberry trees have been grown in Britain since Roman times. One of the oldest surviving examples is in the garden of Canonbury Tower in Islington. It might have survived since the 16th century. There are several other slightly younger mulberry trees in London. So, the leaning example I saw in Fulham is a youngster on the scene.
IT IS THE AMBITION of many Muslims to make a pilgrimage to Mecca. Part of this involves visiting a sacred black stone, the Ka’abah, which is cuboidal in shape. One part of the annual pilgrimage, the Haj, involves pilgrims circling the Ka’abah seven times clockwise – a ceremony known as the ‘Tawaf’.
The artist and physician Ahmed Mater, who was born in Saudi Arabia in 1979, has created artworks based on the pattern created by the pilgrims circling the Ka’abah, as seen from above. Some of these are aerial photographs, but others are based on magnetism. Those who have studied physics even at an elementary level will be familiar with the demonstration of the shapes of magnetic fields that can be achieved by scattering iron filings near a magnet on a sheet of paper. The magnet arranges the filings in a pattern that corresponds to the shape of its magnetic force field.
What Ahmed Mater did was to create a cubic magnet in the shape of the Ka’abah. Then he scattered iron filings around it on a sheet of paper. The filings then arranged themselves according to the magnetic field of the cuboid magnet. Next, the artist gave the magnetic miniature Ka’abah a twist. This caused the filings to rearrange themselves into swirls, which when viewed from above, resemble the pilgrims encircling the sacred stone in Mecca.
This simple artwork demonstrates not only the fascination of magnetism, but also the spiritual magnetism of the Ka’abah, which draws Muslims to Mecca. In discussing this work of art, Tim Mackintosh-Smith makes an interesting point:
“But Ahmed Mater’s magnets and that larger, Meccan lodestone of pilgrimage can also draw us to things beyond the scale of human existence, and in two directions at once – out to the macrocosmic, and in to the subatomic. In the swirl of Ahmed’s magnetized particles and the orbitings of the Mecca pilgrims are intimations of the whirl of planets, the gyre of galaxies.” (www.ahmedmater.com/essays/magnetism-tim-mackintosh-smith).
The artworks based on magnetism and the Tawaf, are just a small selection of the intriguing, beautiful works by Ahmed Mater, which are currently being exhibited at Christies in King Street (London) until the 22nd of August 2024.
IT IS NOT UNCOMMON to find that transport vehicles such as trains, boats, and aeroplanes, are given names. They are often named to honour noteworthy people. While strolling along platform 1 at London’s Paddington station today (21st July 2024), I noticed a train bearing the name ‘Megan Lloyd George CH’. You will, I hope, excuse my ignorance when I tell you that although I have heard of David Lloyd George (1863-1945), a former Prime Minister, Megan Lloyd George was not a name with which I am familiar. I wondered why the Great Western Railway (‘GWR’) had chosen to put her name on one of its trains. When I got home, I found out why.
Megan Lloyd George (1902-1966) was the youngest child of the Prime Minister David Lloyd George. She was born in Criccieth, Wales. Until she was four years old, she could only speak in Welsh. Between the ages of 8 and 20, she spent much of her life in the Prime Minister’s residence, 10 Downing Street. It is not surprising that the young lady became interested in politics. With some help from her father, Megan became the Liberal party candidate for the Welsh constituency of Anglesey, and in May 1929, she was elected as its Member of Parliament (‘MP’). She became the first woman MP from Wales. She was re-elected in the general elections of 1931 and 1935.
“… on his visit to Hitler in 1936, and opposed the policy of appeasement, urging him to press for Chamberlain’s resignation in May 1940.”
She served in Parliament throughout WW2, and was re-elected in 1945 and 1950, but with greatly reduced majorities. In 1952, she lost her seat.
For various political reasons, Megan and several other members of her party left the Liberal Party and joined the Labour Party in April 1955. In 1957, she became the Labour MP for Carmarthenshire, with a majority of 3000 votes. Always a popular figure, she took Carmarthenshire again in 1966, with a majority of 9000. By then, she was suffering from cancer, and died soon after the election and a few days after having been awarded the Companion of Honour (‘CH’) by Prime Minister Harold Wilson. In 2016, she was nominated as one of the ‘50 Greatest Welsh Men and Women of All Time’ (www.walesonline.co.uk/news/wales-news/50-greatest-welsh-men-women-11431779).
GWR trains run from Paddington to the west of England and parts of Wales including its capital, Cardiff. So, we should not be surprised to find Megan’s name on one of them. Having said that, I am not sure where the train with her name on it was heading as it left platform 1.
EVER SINCE ROMAN times (and probably before), people in Europe yearned for products from Asia. Before 1498, highly prized goods such as spices and precious stones reached Europe from India and places further east via the Indian Ocean, and then overland, passing through places in the Middle East like Egypt and Turkey, before crossing the Mediterranean. Another route used for transporting these wares between India and Europe involved the use of rivers and overland caravan trails that carried them to the Caspian and Black Seas, and thence to Europe. At many points along these routes, the goods attracted taxes, which greatly increased the prices that people in Europe had to pay to purchase them.
In 1498, the Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama (c1460s – 1524) discovered a sea route from Portugal to India via the Cape of Good Hope. This discovery allowed Portuguese vessels to carry the highly prized goods from India to Europe by sea without having to pass through the lands where hitherto they had attracted high taxes and customs duties. Thus, the Portuguese were able to import the spices and other precious goods from the Orient at much lower prices than prior to Vasco’s discovery of the Atlantic route.
However, the Portuguese found that they were not the only traders making use of the Indian Ocean during the 16th century. Their competitors included Gujaratis, Egyptians, Arabs, Turks, and many others. It was not long before the Portuguese instituted measures to stifle competition and monopolise trade in the Indian Ocean. Naturally, this upset the merchants of other nations who traded in this sea. To stifle competition, the Portuguese resorted to harsh measures designed to make it almost impossible for their competitors to trade by sea. Over many years during the 16th century, attempts were made to oppose the monopolistic measures being forcibly imposed by the Portuguese, whose military and naval prowess was very formidable.
In 1508, a man called Khwaja Safar travelled from Egypt to begin trading in the Sultanate of Cambay (now ‘Gujarat’). Born in the south of Italy, his parents were Albanians. Having fought in armies in Europe in his youth, he was well-informed about the latest military techniques of European armies. By 1530, he began offering his services and military advice to the Sultan of Cambay. It was not long before he became involved both with negotiating with the Portuguese in India whilst simultaneously plotting against them. With the military experience he had gained as a young man in Europe, he became the commander of forces that repeatedly attacked the Portuguese, particularly in their important stronghold on the island of Diu – a place from which the Portuguese were able to watch and exert control on shipping to and from India.
My book, “An Albanian in India”, follows Khwaja from his birth in the ‘Heel of Italy’ to Egypt, then to Yemen, from there to Gujarat where he became a man of importance, and then to his untimely end during the attack on a Portuguese fortress on the coast of Gujarat. My book is available from Amazon, e.g.: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0D7HX2B8Q
DESPITE BEING OVERRUN with tourists, the small fishing port of St Ives is one of my favourite places in Cornwall. Since the early 19th century, this picturesque place has attracted artists. With the decline of the pilchard industry in the 1880s, many of the buildings associated with this became vacant, and some of them were occupied by artists who converted them into studios. With the advent of the railway (in 1877), a means for easily transporting large canvases to London became available. It was not long before St Ives became an artists’ ‘colony’. In 1889, the St Ives Arts Club was founded as a place where artists could meet and socialise. It still exists. Its ground floor is used for temporary exhibitions. The upper floor is for members only, but I was lucky enough to have visited it with my friend, the late Michael Jacobs, who was writing his book, “Good and Simple Life: Artist Colonies in Europe and America”.
In 1927, the St Ives Society of Artists was formed. Its aim was (and still is) to raise the artistic standards of the artists’ colony and to exhibit works that they considered to be of significant quality. It was housed in various buildings in the town before 1945, when it moved into its present accommodation, the deconsecrated gothic church of St Nicholas. Exhibitions are held both in the church itself and in the crypt below it. The works of St Ives artists, who were considered avant-garde, such as Barbara Hepworth, Peter Lanyon, and Patrick Heron, were displayed alongside those of the town’s less adventurous artists, but were given less favourable positions in the exhibitions than the conventional creations. In 1946, several of the modernist artists held an exhibition in the crypt. They became members of a newly created Crypt Group. There were a couple more exhibitions by members of the Crypt Group in 1947 and the following year. Following a disagreement at an extraordinary general meeting of the Society in 1948, many of the members resigned including those who were included in the Crypt Group – some of Britain’s leading modern artists of the time.
In 1949, some of the modernist artists in St Ives, including Barbara Hepworth, Ben Nicholson, Peter Lanyon, Bernard Leach, Sven Berlin and Wilhelmina Barns-Graham, founded a new organisation – The Penwith Society. Later members included the sculptor Henry Moore, Terry Frost, and Patrick Heron. Because of its association with Britain’s pioneers of modern art, the Penwith is a tangible, important landmark in 20th century British art history. In 1961, the Penwith occupied a disused pilchard packing factory, and over the years it has expanded into neighbouring buildings. As its website (https://penwithgallery.com/about-us/) explained:
“Today the Penwith offers a year-round programme of exhibitions by Society Members and Associates, as well as those by other artists from Cornwall and further afield. The Penwith continues to be at the forefront of presenting contemporary work of quality.”
Every time we visit St Ives, we visit the Penwith. Of all the numerous (commercial) galleries in St Ives, the Penwith consistently contains artworks of the highest quality and greatest visual interest. The exhibition areas are spacious and well-lit. One area in the gallery is called the ‘Hepworth Room’, which is used for exhibitions, but also contains a fine sculpture by Barbara Hepworth. A small courtyard, used to exhibit sculptures, contains a plaque, which reads:
“This foundation stone was laid by our friend and benefactor Dame Barbara Hepworth 10 January 1973”
It must refer to one of the many extensions made to the place since it was adopted by the Penwith in 1961.
I always enjoy visiting the Penwith. My advice to a visitor, who is short of time, is to forget the Tate St Ives, and instead make a beeline for the Penwith. Having said that, the Barbara Hepworth Sculpture Garden should also not be missed.
BETWEEN 1983 AND 1994, I owned a house in Gillingham, Kent. Number 148 Napier Road was a detached dwelling with a narrow garden that stretched 180 feet behind it. Most of this long stretch was covered with grass. After I first moved into the house, I purchased an electric lawn mower, and regularly trimmed the lawn. All went well at first. However, after a few months and several mowing sessions, I found that when I was cutting the lawn my eyes streamed, and I sneezed uncontrollably. I tried wearing a facemask when mowing, but this did not relieve the symptoms. Eventually, I decided not to bother mowing the lawn.
The grass grew. So did the anger of my immediate neighbours, both of whom were elderly and believed in tidy gardens. One of them said that because my lawn was so unkempt, insects were travelling from it into her garden and destroying her plants. She was so upset by this thought that she did something extremely unwise. One summer evening, I returned home after nightfall, and because the weather was pleasant, I decided to spend a few minutes in my back garden. It was dark. I sniffed, and believed that I could smell burning. I saw no flames, and retired to bed. On the next day, I met my other neighbour – a very practical old gentleman who had built his own house. He told me that during the previous day, he had had to enter my rear garden to extinguish a fire which had been started by the lady, who believed that my garden was infecting hers with pests.
Meanwhile, the grass grew longer. It reached a point where it was so tall that if someone sat down, they became hidden by it. As autumn approached, the tall grass just fell over, and seemed to disappear gradually. It returned without fail every spring, and despite not being mowed, it grew healthily. However, the neighbours were unimpressed by my lawn, the untidiest in Napier Road. I decided that I would have to do something to give the impression that my wild garden was by design, rather than simply the result of neglect. So, what I did was to use the mower to create a sinuous, narrow mowed path that ran along the length of the lawn – I created what might be described as a landscaped lawn. I am not sure that this impressed my neighbours, but I felt that I had ‘done my bit’.
In addition to the lawn, I planted shrubs, which I allowed to grow ‘willy nilly’. My seemingly wild garden was a haven for butterflies. As I walked along the garden, following my sinuous path, clouds of butterflies used to shoot out of the shrubs and other plants. Unwittingly, I had ‘wilded’ or ‘rewilded’ my garden, which in the 1980s and early 1990s was not something that was done. Had I invented what is now known as ‘wilding’, also known as ‘rewilding’? Probably not, but it only began to be adopted as a strategy for reducing loss of biodiversity following work done in the mid-1980s (see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rewilding). I must confess that my pioneering rewilding in Gillingham did not result from a desire to save the natural world, nor from laziness, but to save myself from symptoms of allergy.
In the late 1990s, we put the house up for sale. The garden had become such a veritable jungle that our estate agent described it as being “… in a natural state.” Interestingly, the people who bought the house from me liked it because they were looking forward to taming the garden – there is no accounting for taste!
IT IS OFTEN a pleasure to see an exhibition of works by an artist, whose existence was hitherto unknown to me. In this case, the artist is the Japanese born Minoru Nomata, who was born in 1955 and lives as well as works in Japan. The exhibition of his works, currently at White Cube in Masons Yard (near Piccadilly) until the 24th of August 2024, consists mainly of paintings (acrylic on canvas).
At first sight, his paintings look almost like photographs. However, after a few moments’ contemplation, they can be seen to depict subjects – often structures and aspects of nature – that are at the same time unreal and almost but not quite real. His subject matter is not quite surreal, but is an unusually dreamy interpretation of the real world. None of the paintings on display contained any signs of human presence. The gallery’s website (www.whitecube.com/gallery-exhibitions/minoru-nomata-masons-yard-2024) includes the following:
“According to the artist, ‘construction, repair and demolition’ occur simultaneously in his paintings; they confer, too, upon the simultaneity of past, present and future distinct to Nomata’s work. As he states, he sets out to create worlds that ‘are not “somewhere”, but “nowhere”, in a position that helps [him] find a place to head for’. Devoid of identifiable temporal or geographical markers as they may be, Nomata’s ambivalent landscapes speak directly to humankind’s long-standing existential concerns about what place, if any, it has in the world.”
As I viewed the pictures, which I found aesthetically pleasing, I felt they had the ‘realness’ of images that appear in dreams, yet at the same time they seemed as if they could almost be depictions of reality. In brief, I found them both attractive and intriguing, and can recommend this show to everyone.
METHODISM BECAME SUCCESSFUL in the county of Cornwall. Although I do not pretend to understand this branch of Christianity in any detail, I was curious to know why it had such a great appeal for the Cornish people. Apart from the great number of Methodist chapels one passes when travelling through Cornwall, there were several places associated with Methodism that sparked my interest. I will write about these after discussing why the branch of Christianity, founded by John Wesley (1703-1791), his brother Charles Wesley (1707-1788), and George Whitefield (1714-1770), was so widely accepted by the Cornish.
Most Methodists believe that Jesus Christ died for all of humanity, and that salvation can be achieved by everyone. This is in contrast to the Calvinist belief that God has pre-ordained the salvation of only a select group of people. Whitefield held the Calvinist position, but the Wesley brothers believed that all could be saved. Part of the appeal of Wesleyan Methodism in Cornwall was that it did not select those who could be saved from those who could not – everybody was eligible for salvation.
“The 18th century Anglican Church had greater concern for ensuring the support of wealthy and influential families rather than the poor agricultural labourers and miners that made up the vast majority of the Cornish population.”
Furthermore:
“The running of parishes were often ‘subcontracted out’ to curates and churchwardens with the clergy occupied in the major parishes and centres of religious influence. Some parishes were very large with the people spread thinly, only limited numbers living in the historic churchtowns surrounding the medieval churches. During the 18th century growth in mining, settlements gradually grew up around the sites of major mining activities leading to new villages and small, towns.”
These new settlements were often distant from the established Anglican churches, and travelling about the county was far from easy back in the 18th century. The rise in industrial activity along with the corruption of the Anglican church in Cornwall, and the economic uncertainties caused by the fluctuations in the world’s prices for what was being mined by impoverished Cornish workers with large families, left a spiritual void that preachers like John Wesley helped to fill.
But what did John Wesley and Methodism have to offer the Cornish, and to gain them as followers? To start with, Methodism as practised by Wesley did not exclude anyone from gaining salvation. A reasonable sounding explanation for the appeal of Methodism to the Cornish miners and their families was provided by the historian David Luker:
“According to Luker, for the poor Methodism did not principally legitimate ‘respectable’ or middle class values; it legitimated the morality and structures of ‘traditional’ Cornish society. It upheld and validated the cottage as a socio-economic unit in the face of the changes being wreaked by an external modernity. This role is perhaps underlined by the fact that the majority of those who joined early Methodist societies in Cornwall were women. Overall, Methodism appealed to a conservatism of the commons, seemingly justifying a way of life increasingly under pressure from economic change, just as the rituals of the Anglican church appealed to the conservatism of the propertied classes. This is why Methodism grew earliest and fastest in those districts where mining was present, in large parishes, in areas of dispersed settlement out of the reach of a socially enfeebled gentry, and in ‘unimproved’ agricultural districts.” (https://bernarddeacon.com/cornish-methodism-or-methodism-in-cornwall/the-causes-of-methodist-growth/).
Cornwall was one of the counties of England that gave Methodism its greatest acceptance.
John Wesley discovered that the Cornish enjoyed hearing him (and other preachers) in the open-air. I am not sure the reason for this. During a visit to the small Cornish town of Indian Queens, we came across a ‘preaching pit’ (see https://adam-yamey-writes.com/2024/07/03/indian-queens-in-the-heart-of-cornwall/). Because mining activity undermined the land above it, occasionally the surface would collapse causing depressions, rather like quarries, in the landscape. At Indian Queens, one such hollow was remodelled to make it into an outdoor amphitheatre with tiered rows upon which people could stand or sit whilst they listened to a preacher speaking from a stone pulpit. While we were visiting this ‘pit’, a local historian told us about other surviving pits in Cornwall, at: St Newlyn East, Whitemoor, Tregonnig Hill, and Gwennap.
The pit at Gwennap (near Redruth) is one of the most interesting places we have visited in Cornwall. It is an inverted cone with circular tiers of seating cut into its side. Grass grows on the seating and the surface surrounding the pit. Almost perfectly geometrical, it rivals some of the stone stepwells I have seen in India. The present pit was constructed in early 1807, and is still used to hold Methodist services occasionally. What exists today is a remodelling of an earlier depression in the ground which John Wesley described (in September 1766) as being:
“… a round, green hollow, gently shelving down, about fifty feet deep; but I suppose it is two hundred one way, and near three hundred the other.”
He added that he considered it to be the finest natural amphitheatre in England. People gathered within it and around its edges, and because of its shape and acoustics, Wesley’s voice could be heard by the multitudes (often thousands of people) who had come to hear him. John Wesley made 18 visits to Gwennap Pit between 1762 and 1789. He used to stand just below the outer rim of the pit, and could be heard clearly by those within the pit and those around it, even some distance away. In his diary, he noted that on the 27th of August 1780:
“It was supposed twenty thousand people were assembled at the amphitheatre at Gwennap. And yet all, I was informed, could hear me distinctly, in the fair, calm evening”
Although the size of the congregations might not have been estimated accurately, there is no doubt that they were large and because of the acoustics of the pit, they were able to hear Wesley even if they were quite a distance from him.
AT THE EXPRESSIONIST exhibition, currently showing in London’s Tate Modern until the 20th of October 2024, I was suddenly reminded of something that I did in the last three months of 1963. During those months, my father was a visiting academic in the economics department of the University of Chicago. I spent that period as a pupil in the University of Chicago’s Laboratory School. It was in that time that President John F Kennedy was assassinated.
Once a week, we had a lesson during which the teacher played us a recording of classical music – some Beethoven, for example. Each of us students were given a large sheet of white paper and some coloured crayons. While the music was playing, we could draw whatever the music inspired us to do. I cannot recall what I drew, but I do remember these lessons.
Kandinsky and his siblings
Today, the 15th of July 2024, we visited the Expressionist exhibition at the Tate Modern. In one small room, there was music by Arnold Schoenberg playing in the background. There was also a photograph (taken about 1888) of the artist Wassily Kandinsky (1866-1944) playing chamber music with his two siblings. Opposite the photograph, I saw a framed painting created by Wassily Kandinsky in 1911. It is called “Impression III (Concert)”. He painted it after hearing a concert of music by Arnold Schoenberg. This painting was his response to the music.
It was seeing this painting by Kandinsky that reminded me of our music-inspired art sessions in Chicago back in 1963.
yamey 