The Transfiguration Window

What does a window do? It keeps us warm. It lets us see. It shows us what would otherwise be hidden. It lets in the light.

I’m not religious, but even to me the sacred metaphors seem to echo pretty loudly. And I also know that the stained glass of churches and cathedrals are some of the most beautiful windows around, mesmerising creations in glowing colours. Think of the breathtaking medieval glass at King’s Chapel in Cambridge, the Rose window in Notre Dame. Or, my new favourite, the stunning arch window in Durham Cathedral unveiled just over a year and a half ago, made by Thomas Denny.

The first thing that hits you is a bright burst of white light, a brilliant strip that runs down the centre of the window. Glass in orangey amber hues edges it, with purple-blue at the edges. Peer a bit closer, and you see people. Small figures with delicately edged faces populate the window, scenes from the Bible played out in flickering light.

Like Van Gogh's paintings, The Transfiguration Window has a compelling power that comes into its own when you're standing there in front of it – it's a piece of art that's full of vivid life. Perhaps it's because the confluence of religious meaning and artistic means couldn't be more apt. This window depicts Christ becoming radiant; it quite literally transfigures the light.

Park Street, Bristol

The Artist

*Smiles*, *waves*, *winks*. *Thumbs up* for The Artist!

The Birthday Boys

Where and when is it set? The chilly climes of Antarctica, 1910-12.
Who is in it? The five main characters are the real men who lost their lives on the fateful expedition to the South Pole: Petty Officer Edgar (Taff) Evans; Dr Edward (Uncle Bill) Wilson; The Owner: Capt. Robert Falcon (Con) Scott; Lt. Henry Robertson (Birdie) Bowers; Capt. Lawrence Edward (Titus) Oates
What happens? You already know the ending:  the trek was doomed, the Norwegians beat the Brits to it, Oates goes outside 'and may be some time'. The magic of this book lies in the telling.
So how is it told? Five narratives, each from a different perspective, each compelling in its own way. We don't know which is the most accurate, but then when do we in life?
What are the best bits? Apart from its wonderful blend of fact and fiction (the imagining of the 'truth' behind some of the famous photographs from the voyage, for example), it is Bainbridge's gift for description, and her metaphors that are captivating.
Here's a touching, vivid moment, amid the slog of a three-man, 19-day trek to Cape Crozier. Undernourished, frostbitten, weary, the explorers still found time to appreciate the surroundings, writes Birdie:
'It wasn't all misery. On one of our halts we lay spread-eagled on the ice and stared up at a sky blazing with the glory of the most wonderful aurora I'd ever witnessed. I groaned beneath the splendour of those silken curtains, yellow, green, and orange, billowing at the window of the heavens.'

The soul of a city

At the heart of Bristol lies the harbour. I know this because a sign on the side of one of the hideously bland new blocks of flats that flank the waterside tells me so. A sign that claims this historic area for its own, and, even more grandly, says these abodes are helping to create a 'soul' in the centre of the city. Well, they've got the right place, but – I'm sorry – the harbourside doesn't need the help of these architectural soggy tissues to enrich its personality. This city already has that. Take a look at the signposts on the otherside of the walkway for a hint of what really makes Bristol tick. Porto Quay, Bordeaux Quay, Hanover Quay. Yes, voyages. Ships, sailors, foreign countries. The port has formed Bristol’s soul. And like any soul, there is both dark and light within it. That spark of adventure, spirit of daring is there – it was from this West Country city that John Cabot sailed to America (thinking it was Asia); but there’s also the other side – Bristol was one of the homes of the slave trade, this dirty money providing the means to build mansion-like houses for wealthy owners, as well as – more problematically for us now – fund schools, almshouses, and aid hospitals and churches. Bristol’s history is bound to the water. Of course, that's not true now. The harbour no longer welcomes trading ships, no longer has that buzz and exchange of goods, languages and tales. But Bristol is still a city of creativity and exploration. It's home to the BBC's Natural History Unit, the crucible for Concorde, the backdrop to countless hot air balloons. That's why I get infuriated every time I walk past that marketing board, and smile when I read the quay names. Yes, they're named after Bristol's twin cities rather than the places which boats set sail for on a regular basis, but they point to one of its most valuable qualities.

A Rose Window on Bach

We can compare Bach’s chorales and arias to the rose windows of cathedrals, in which reflections continually change from brilliant major to somber minor. These rose windows are the soul of the cathedrals and they speak to the innermost part of human beings. So too do Bach’s chorales and arias. They constitute the romantic element of his immense output and they speak to us like no other romanticism. (Walter Rummel: Credo d’un artiste [1950])

Rather a beautiful quote by the Romantic French pianist Walter Rummel, who transcribed parts of JS Bach's Cantatas for piano

Lincoln lights

The Lincoln Center: New York's home to dance, opera, theatre and music - and lots of lights.

Halloween, a la New York

Berio's 'Aldo'

The dynamic, inventive Aurora Orchestra hit Bristol this Halloween weekend. Their evening of what might be best described as 'concert theatre', called Thriller: Automatic Writing, was a great idea – intersperse music for varying numbers of chamber musicians with excerpts by a top horror writer to create an evening of spooky unease. I'm not sure it quite hung together – more of which later – but one of the musical gems included was Luciano Berio's 'Aldo' from Duets for Two Violins. Its hushed whisperings speak with a poignant simplicity. This is one of the only videos of it I could dig out from YouTube - the Aurora's players conjured a bit more magic - but it gives you a sense of it:

Voici que la saison décline

Voici que la saison décline,
L'ombre grandit, l'azur décroît,
Le vent fraîchit sur la colline,
L'oiseau frissonne, l'herbe a froid.

Août contre septembre lutte ;
L'océan n'a plus d'alcyon ;
Chaque jour perd une minute,
Chaque aurore pleure un rayon.

La mouche, comme prise au piège,
Est immobile à mon plafond ;
Et comme un blanc flocon de neige,
Petit à petit, l'été fond.

Victor Hugo

Last night in my French class, we read a beautiful poem by Victor Hugo. I can't find a translation online but, even if you don't speak French, just read it out loud. Each word has a wonderful sound, each line a telling rhythm, which come across irrespective of meaning. It's a three-verse gem full of evocative images: the shadows (l'ombre) are getting longer, the grass (l'herbe) feels the cold. A particularly well-crafted line, as another in my lesson pointed out, opens the second stanza: 'Août contre septembre lutte'. The lutte – struggle – is encapsulated by a line that's tricky to say, that rushes towards the word 'septembre', itself full of sonorous stiles to climb over.

Options

On the London tube yesterday, I looked down a row of seated passengers. Four of them, all next to each other. One was playing Solitaire on his phone; one was reading on a Sony eBook reader; another had their head in a free Metro newspaper; the final one had a paperback book. All enthralled by the written word (ignore the Solitaire), all choosing different mediums. Which would you go for?

Gorilla invasion

Bristol has been invaded by gorillas. All around the city, there are primates – lurking, guarding buildings, looking across the river, acting as bridge sentries. You name it, they've got it covered. They're chunky, powerful and pretty tall.

Perhaps I should point out at this point, if you hadn't already guessed, that these gorillas are statues. Decorated in a variety of colours and gaudy designs, the West Country gorillas – no relation to Liverpool's lambananas – are here to celebrate the 175th anniversary of Bristol zoo.

But, suddenly, after seeing Project NIm – the film about a misguided 1970s experiment to find out whether chimps could learn language and communicate with human beings (conclusion: yes, they can sign language; no, they can't say a lot more than 'I want berries', 'I want to drink', 'I want to play') – their presence here has taken on a slightly more ominous hue. I'd better not watch Rise of the Planet of the Apes then…