Bidding room
MANY people tell me that, if they’re in central London, they’ll pop into St James’s (by Piccadilly Circus) or St Pancras Church (by Euston Station) for a bit of peace in a hectic city. In contrast, I find myself seeking the same thing not in a church, but in an auction house — not, usually, at an actual auction, although it still amuses me that the auctioneer at my local, Christie’s, leads the event from a pulpit. But, in between the sales, the artwork is put on display, providing a free look at some unusual objects, with — if you go at the right time — a free coffee thrown in.
I wandered along in the early morning last summer to see the collection from Vivienne Westwood’s studio. Along with the punk designs and Margaret Thatcher T-shirts, I was struck by a tapestry that she’d made: an image of the earth from space. A protest against climate change, the design was based on a monstrance that she’d been inspired by. In my professional capacity, I raise the host as part of the ritual, and sometimes that monstrance-inspired planet comes into view.
Art with a heart
THIS month, an auction of contemporary artists’ work includes a painting of a tin of tomato soup by Banksy, and a print that I’ve become mildly obsessed by: Pink Crucifixion, by Craigie Aitchison. There’s something about the work of this Scottish artist — the pulsating colours, curious shapes, and Lowry-like bodies — that captures my gaze and won’t let it go. This Crucifixion is similarly colourful and full of intrigue.
Soon, it will be sold to someone, and most probably will disappear. I’ve got a lot to say about the art market, and the withdrawal of such beauty from public view. But, for now, I feel happy to know that, from time to time, I can just go in and say hello — and remember Vivienne Westwood’s plea to her audience: “I want you to help me save the world. I can’t do it all on my own.”
By the waters of Babylon
THANK God for YouTube. I am playing the piano at a small memorial service for the mother of one of our congregation who has been in the asylum system in the UK. There are currently 42,000 asylum-seekers in the UK waiting to hear the result of their appeals.
For years, our congregation has included some of those going through the UK’s gruelling process; in accompanying them, I have learned that it’s often the waiting and the inability to work which are so debilitating. But waiting in a foreign land is clearly better than being killed in your own. Uganda has one of the harshest anti-LGBT laws in the world, supported by the Church there.
Our congregant, a dignified and quietly spoken woman, is grieving her mother from far away. So I am sent a YouTube link to a Luganda hymn, and I learn to play a slightly altered version of “Nearer my God to thee”. The strong and tearful voices of the Ugandan congregation undo me, and I hear a contemporary answer to the ancient question of exiles everywhere, “How shall I sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?”
Golden trumpets
WE SING her mother to her rest, although most of those present had never met her — and just before that most complex of folk festivals: Mothering Sunday. Together with Remembrance Sunday, Harvest Festival, and St Valentine’s Day, it is a date that doesn’t get too much lectionary attention or liturgical encouragement from the Church, but is one of those “portal” moments when society’s rituals and religious observances intersect.
Florists and chocolatiers around the country throw their efforts into it. This year, retailers expect that almost 55 per cent of UK consumers will buy at least one item to mark the day; and bunches of flowers will be distributed in many churches. This is great news for the Cornish daffodil industry — the focus of the UK’s production — which, as I write, will be harvesting 900 million cut stems, providing seasonal work for nearly 3000 people.
Penzance feels a long way away from Piccadilly Circus, but thousands of its blooms will find their way here in time for the big day. It was a Wiltshire vicar, George Engleheart, who, in his devotion to the natural world, registered more than 700 varieties of the flower before his death in March 1936; but I like to think of them by their Latin name, Narcissus, bobbing their heads over the water, reminding human beings of our tendency to vanity and hubris, and warning of the dangers hidden there.
Whether we are mothers or not, the vibrant daffodil is a signal to connect with creation without such hubris — even if, on a day that is complicated for many, we may find ourselves wandering lonely as a cloud.
Question of choice
AND so Lent continues, with steadying regularity in unsteady times. On the Sunday that President Zelensky met European leaders after his mauling in the Oval Office, the St James’s congregation gathered for our usual parish eucharist just ten minutes from Lancaster House. As Europe rearmed, and our own Prime Minister described Europe’s position as “at a crossroads in history”, the service that day had a heady feel to it; and there were plenty of visitors in the parish with Ukrainian flags and messages of support.
Times like these make us feel that we should pick a side. Sometimes that’s very clear — and sometimes it’s not. Aitchison knew what that was like as he painted his Crucifixions. In 2004, he said: “Somebody said that painting is a complete and absolute way of having to make up one’s mind. Whether to put two trees instead of one, or to leave it. It’s exhausting trying to make up your mind.”
In these sometimes overwhelming days, I know what he means.
Musical service
AND the opportunity arises too to thank a veteran commissioner of new music for the church. The retirement of Dr Christopher Batchelor from St Pancras Church after 37 years of service was a choral evensong, a both thunderous and moving occasion: thunderous because of the Cecilia McDowall organ voluntary (Sacred and Hallowed Fire) and moving because of the obvious devotion of the assembled glitterati of London’s contemporary liturgical-music scene not only to celebrating exceptional standards of music in church, but to the conductor himself, whose impact will be felt for years.
The London Festival of Contemporary Church Music, founded by Christopher in 2002, has been a catalyst and accelerator for two aspects of church life which might at first seem surprising for an institution as apparently unchanging as choral evensong.
First, the Festival has repeatedly commissioned contemporary composers to set the ancient wisdom of the Church in new ways, and in doing so has reminded congregations that the dissonance, the irregular rhythms, and improvisatory nature of their own spiritual lives can find expression in liturgical music where not every cadence has to resolve and not every melody should be pretty.
And, second, as exemplified by the organ voluntary and the astonishing Magnificat by Kerry Andrews, performed in the service, it has amplified the voice, skill, creativity, and artistic bravery of women. The London Festival of Contemporary Church Music is held every May. Even as Christopher retires, long may it continue to sing.
The Revd Lucy Winkett is the Rector of St James’s, Piccadilly, and Priest-in-Charge of St Pancras Church, Euston Road, in the diocese of London.
