Gone fishing..

Back soon I hope.
Miss Mali...

Past Pursuits

When it is all over, never let it be said that my life was not varied at least..

It is hardly possible to imagine a realm further removed from the sands of Timbuktu or from Djenne’s ancient world of mud and magic than today’s pursuit:  a day at the V&A  guiding a group of students from the London College of Style, studying the mastery of the great Cristobal Balenciaga.

 I had to pick up an old hat-as it were- that  I wore many years ago, when I used to teach fashion at various art colleges in and around London. Now, fashion is not something that has been on my mind for years. I never considered Malimali, my textile and clothing studio in Djenne to be fashion as such. But perhaps Style, yes, hopefully that! Malimali (www.malimali.org) is still just about running – or should I say limping- in Djenne with Dembele at the helm, dear Dembele, the first person I ever knew in Djenne.

This is perhaps an opportunity to delve a little deeper into the possibilities for MaliMali: I do not want it to be lost. It should be possible to keep it going,  but I need help with trying to find a way forward with marketing – all that stuff that has to be done with Instagram and FB and Twitter etc. Now, all these girls- and one boy- are enthusiastic manipulators of all that business. Hmmm... perhaps one of them could help us? Or perhaps I could try and see if we can make it a little college project? A challenge not just on paper but in real life? Let’s see... watch this space..

The Plains and Rivers of Heaven

Grey skies and indeterminate weather this New Year ’s Day 2018 in the small town of Bollnas, somewhere half way up towards the north of Sweden.  Neither cold enough to freeze and give us those crisp, exhilarating winter days I had been hoping for when the snow makes that squeaky sound under the boots  nor quite warm enough for the snow to melt. But perfect for staying in and reading.

I have been meaning to read a novel written by an  old friend for a few weeks: Anthony Gardner’s first novel ‘The Rivers of Heaven’ is an unusual medley that moves between a gritty contemporary tale about a single mother and her baby Kit on a council estate and a lyrical and apocalyptic vision of heaven. It is an original contribution to that  allegorical writing tradition where one finds the  'Pilgrim’s Progress’ and CS Lewis’ ‘The Great Divorce’ but it is also in the sublime company of  Paradise Lost and Dante’s Divine Comedy.
(And of course, when it comes to painting, no one can paint the Plains of Heaven like John Martin, above... )

Maybe these  visions of heaven are a good way to start the new year?

“...he feels no fear in this celestial garden, where suns bloom and fade like flowers against blackness- his heart is filled with the joy of endless possibility, of perpetual change within an ordered frame, of the meeting of actuality and desire.”

....

“’What do you remember?’ Kit asks her silently as they lie side by side, searching each others eyes. ‘Do you remember the fields?’

‘ Yes’ she says,’I remember the fields. I remember the thick grass, greener than anything here, wet and gleaming with dew.....’And I loved the cliffs of heaven- those great cliffs rising above the strand, white against blue, like pillars of the firmament....and from the summit, how far you could gaze, out across shining tracts of ocean, knowing that nothing there was beyond one’s reach, but nothing was circumscribed: that all one sought was found; that yearning and its fulfilment remained in dynamic tension, with the sweetness of anticipation forever undiminished by attainment.”

...

“’These are the borders of heaven’, says his great-grandfather.’Few of its inhabitants walk this way. It is a place of arrival, not departure.This is the Bridge of Relief’.

Kit looks more closely at the structure and sees that the wood from which it is made-slats, handrails, trellis-work- is of an unfamiliar kind, strong, dark and richly polished. Crouching, he runs his fingers over it and asks his grand father what it is.

‘ It is like nothing you know, for it is made of many things together: the touch of the farmer’s hand, patting his horse’s neck as he stands on a cold morning and surveys the pastures where a flood has receded; the sound of wheels on a runway as an aeroplane comes in to land; the dust on two travellers’ feet as they  find the path which will lead them down to the valley; the narrowing of a thirsty labourer’s eyes as he takes a draught from his glass of beer; the first rays of morning light above a sick man’s rumpled bed; the relaxing of the impala’s ears as the lion’s roar dies; the clenching of a defendant’s hand as the jury declares him not guilty; the disbelief on a sentinel’s face  as he glimpses a faraway banner moving towards his besieged city; a housewife’s  silent prayer as her hand closes on a lost key; the hiss of a final flame doused by a fireman’s hose; a schoolboy’s gaze as he learns from a notice–board that he has passed his final exams; the sinking of tired limbs into a hot bath; the waking of drought-stricken villagers to the sound of heavy rain; the trembling of a lover who finds the courage to declare himself.

‘All these things grow together in a single tree; and that tree grows in a forest where many fugitives have found shelter, fugitives from cruelty and injustice and despair; and this bridge is made from the wood of that tree’.

Anthony Gardner, The Rivers of Heaven, 2009