Category Archives: art

Why Myth? III…

The Silent Eye

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…We do not pretend to be expert in Australian Aboriginal myth.
We have probably in our whole life-time to date read only a handful of their stories.
We have though spent some time in Australia crossing the country bottom to top from Melbourne to Cairns in a, by today’s standards, somewhat dilapidated, ‘chippy-van’.
Had we known previously that height was an effective deterrent against mosquitoes we would surely have utilised such knowledge.
We have the utmost respect for anyone who heads out into that landscape alone and on foot and with only a digging stick for company.
I shudder to think what might have been the outcome of our trip had the ‘chippy-van’ broken down in the out-back.
Thankfully it did not although at the time that possibility barely permeated our consciousness.

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Why do such stories resonate so deeply with us?
They are so far removed from…

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Green grow the rushes O’ II…

France & Vincent

leaf and flame 037

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…If Tee’s study was the hub of intelligence, then Miss Hunnyfludd’s office, which comprised no more than a hastily compromised ante-chamber to its plush superior, was the heart…

Thomas Welch was currently making himself at home in the heart of operations and musing about his latest exploits in the name of service…

‘…hub-ub…hub-ub…hub-ub…’

It was not, upon reflection, the most distinguished of performances from our number one agent.

“They’re already referring to it as The Big Stone Head Affair, Tommy,” said Hunnyfludd disarmingly.

“Oh, they are, are they, Hunnyfludd, and who, precisely, might I ask, are ‘they’?” Welch smiled sardonically and raised a secretly famous eyebrow.

“Why, those in the know, of course, Tommy, those in the know,” smiled back Hunnyfludd, equally sardonically for she enjoyed their little contretemps.

“Then we await with baited breath to see what The Moon will make of it, something infinitely cruder and more…

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Green grow the rushes O’…

France & Vincent

HM15 110

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The Grand-Father Clock, tock…tock…tocked reassuringly in the corner of the oak panelled study.

Through the window to one side the ancient time piece’s Big Brother could be discerned dominating the metropolitan sky-line…

Tee, was wilfully oblivious of the time.

He deliberately shuffled the pile of predominantly red and black images on his large teak writing desk for the third time and shifted uneasily in his racing green, leather upholstered, swivel chair.

Then he snorted…

It was the snort of a man determined to do something, somehow, anyhow, about whatever it was that currently irked him.

Tee snorted again, “Not in this day and age, Carstairs!”

Carstairs hovered about the edges of the large teak writing desk, diligently, attentively, but non the wiser as to the immediate source of Tee’s irritation.

“No, Sir?” he squeaked inquisitively.

One of the predominantly red and black photographic images slid across the writing desk…

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Why Myth?…

The Silent Eye

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‘…history became legend, legend became myth…’

What a pleasant conceit, to suppose that this process produces myth. Whilst undoubtedly true for many legends the process can also work the other way. Many legends for example have produced history. Pre-eminently in this respect, at least for Britain, is ‘King Arthur’ whose story the scholars do indeed now refer to as a mythos.

But what is really going on here?

It is probably more accurate to regard all these forms as stories. We are not supposed to regard History as a story but as ‘recorded fact’ and also ‘true’, but well, really, the clue is in the name. So why do we set such store by stories? The clue is in the question.
The truth of stories lies in a realm other than the literal. And what is ‘the literal’ anyway’?

‘The literal is something that actually happened.’

‘And what do…

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North-easterly VII: A final grace

The Silent Eye

“…Manifest thy light for my regeneration, and let the breadth, height, fullness and crown
of the solar radiance appear, and may the light within shine forth!”

Abbe de Villars, ‘The Comte de Gabalis’

“We’ve just got to the top of the slope by the castle,” said the voice on the phone, in answer to my query. We had been a few minutes late arriving on Holy Island, and our companions had begun to stroll out towards the medieval castle that dominates the island landscape. Having failed to find them in any of the three cafés where we had looked, we had located them by phone and, putting on a bit of a spurt, finally caught up with them. From here we could look back at the beginning of our journey, over the water to Bamburgh Castle, just as the spiritual pilgrim looks back on his inner journey and sees with…

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