Masterfully directed by Tran Anh Hung, it follows the life of a Vietnamese servant girl in 1950s Saigon. The characters are subtly contrasted — male with female, young with old, decadent with diligent, selfish with satisfied, exposing the wide gamut of human experience.

This film heightens the senses — the attention to detail is exquisite. The photography is a feast in itself, like visual poetry, and with not a word wasted. Each sound is carefully placed, whether evoking the refinement of eastern culture or the simple elegance of nature.

It thus invokes my reverence for nature and my empathy for humanity. It awakens me to the flow of life and to my surroundings, however simple — after all, the whole set of the film is little more than a few rooms.

These ingredients are more than enough for me to return to the feast again and again, but what I love most is its message, like a constant heartbeat throughout: that duty is at once strong and beautiful, that humility and service win happiness, and that all we need is already within us.

She was small even for a Miniature Dachshund, and her recent illness made her slighter still, but I cried myself to sleep last night to think I would never see that little bundle of fur again, chuckling intermittently at memories of our 14-year friendship as they bubbled into mind.

It seems strange to call her a pet, as she declared herself a family member at every opportunity. She had the stature of a young piglet, but either she did not realise the fact, or did not think it relevant. To her I’m sure she was not even a dog, but just a being like anyone else, it’s just that beings happen to come in all sorts of (immaterial) shapes and sizes.

When invited to play, by any species, she offered a look of acute disdain. Even in her childhood, games were far too puerile for her. There seemed always a lot to do in that little head, as if she bore a great responsibility, or yearned to solve an equation but only lacked the hands with which to hold chalk to a board. Often she would stare piercingly into one’s eyes and start to yowl, increasing in scale and fervour, almost shaping her lips into words, then growing gruff and exasperated that we did not understand the thing she urgently needed to explain.

Her stoicism championed her good qualities. She bore all pain silently, and recovered from even the severest peril immediately. She came back from so many scrapes and illnesses, we often thought she would outlive us all. Her leaving us at last is thus quite astonishing; one final reminder to us that she will do just as she pleases, and not what we dare to expect of her.

Her most famous recovery was when another dog chased her off a 300-foot Devonshire cliff. Hours later the coast guard went down on a rope. There she was amongst the rocks by the incoming tide, unconscious, assumed dead. Back at the top he opened the little bag with its limp cargo, but she duly thrust out her head, yelling and clamouring as if she had been robbed. We conjectured that she was in fact some sort of barking cat. That would account for her size and her nonchalance, as well as the nine or more lives she seemed to have spent up to that point.

To be fair she was a little wary of larger dogs (perhaps more so after the Cliff Incident), but would not let them get away without a reminder of exactly with whom they were sharing the road. She would brace her head down and trot past, often ducking behind our lumbering Retriever, then when the larger dog had passed (and most were larger), she would let out a steady stream of expletives in its direction. The target would gape back, completely disarmed, seemingly stunned out of its senses that such bravado could be delivered from so close to the ground.

I first saw her over the garden gate. There she was in the middle of the lawn, the size of a guinea pig, but with the presence and command of a grown Doberman. She was all puffed out chest, stocky shoulders, ears akimbo (and curled out at the ends like a 60s bob), liquid black eyes, marching up to me with not an inch of submissiveness or eagerness to please, but only “Behold. I am Rosie.” For me that first glimpse summed up her whole adorably outrageous existence, and that’s how I’ll remember her.

I am forever, forever thankful for the laughs she brought and the affection she showed. One had to learn her language to know what counted for affection (a sharp nip on the nose with a blast of camel breath, for example), but once her respect was earned, affection always followed, as did her loyalty.

More on my love of dogs at SriChinmoyCentre.org:

• Inspirational Dogs
• Savernake
• The Guide Dog and her Man
]]> http://www.sumangali.org/the-dog-with-9-lives/feed/ 12 http://www.sumangali.org/digging-for-victory-sky-farmers-and-guerrilla-gardeners/ http://www.sumangali.org/digging-for-victory-sky-farmers-and-guerrilla-gardeners/#comments Sun, 01 Jun 2008 09:13:37 +0000 Sumangali Morhall supportive gardening the intrepid richard reynolds a resident of elephant castle ticket unimaginable kudos the urban farmer take fritz haeg south london last year prime minister gordon brown admitted “we reading the guerrilla gardening offical gardening growing vegetables pigs fly for toronto scientist gordon graff the guerrilla gardener the british government an inner city council estate http://www.sumangali.org/?p=74 Old News: Gardening is In

Once again in the UK it has been suggested that we are behind the eco-friendly times, now caught red-faced and red-handed with basket-full of imported vegetables.

The production and transportation of food is responsible for 23% of our carbon footprint; above home energy, personal travel, and running shared services like hospitals and schools. [source]

China, Japan and Cuba are way ahead of us in their responsible actions, but being a tiny, densely populated island with horrible weather is no excuse, according to the more heroic amongst gardeners.

No, gardening, especially growing vegetables, is not just for your granddad, a left-over habit from the War. It’s possibly the coolest pastime of now. To be caught with compost under your fingernails and a faint whiff of Brussels sprouts, rather than an air-freighted fistful of Zimbabwean mangetout, may be your ticket to unimaginable kudos.

The Urban Farmer

Take Fritz Haeg for example. The architect and design academic, with exhibitions at the Tate Modern in London and Whitney Museum of American Art under his belt, chooses to spend his time on an inner-city council estate in south London with a trowel.

Last year Prime Minister Gordon Brown admitted “We need to make great changes in the way we organise food production in the next few years.” In his book Edible Estates, Haeg paves the way, urging you to dig up your front lawn for an “edible landscape”. Last year the Tate challenged him to make a permanent “edible estate” in the concrete metropolis known as Elephant and Castle.

The grass plot, previously used as a playground for drunks and dogs, was transformed into a paradise of fruit trees, tomato plants, aubergines, squashes, green vegetables, herbs and edible flowers. With a design based on ornate flower beds at Buckingham Palace, it not only looks beautiful, but no doubt smells a lot better than it used to.

Amazingly, although the plot is accessible to the public, no theft or vandalism has been witnessed. It’s not just venerable pensioners who are turning out to help; most of the volunteers are children and teens. Carole Wright, who manages the garden designed by Haeg, notes the project’s social benefits:

“People who have not spoken for five years are suddenly chatting again, discussing what they’ve grown. And it brings together people from different cultures too – they lean over the fence and reminisce about the vegetables they grew in their countries as children – okra, bananas, yams, sweet potatoes.”

[source]

The Guerrilla Gardener

The British government is not always so supportive of gardening. The intrepid Richard Reynolds (a resident of… Elephant & Castle) just grows ever stealthier in his undercover missions to bring blossoming beauty to public areas neglected by the council.

The council says it’s against the rules, the police say it’s committing criminal damage, and warrants arrest, but the Guerrilla Gardener is undeterred. Relying on donations of overgrown house-plants, seeds in the post, and whatever he can appropriate from his mum’s garden, Reynolds is on a crusade: not to feed the world so much as make it more beautiful.

And that’s a crime?

“I’d rather the council did things I can’t do, like fix the lifts. I’d rather do the gardening myself. I’m not an eco-warrior, I just like nice gardens and want to be left alone to garden peacefully. There’s no sadder sight than a paved-over front garden.

“Why spend so much effort cultivating your back garden when no one but you can see it? So many people live in big cities and don’t have land of their own, but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be able to garden.

[source]

Pigs May Fly

For Toronto Scientist Gordon Graff, urban gardening is not just pie in the sky. His 58-floor SkyFarm concept is designed to provide food for 35,000 people per day.

The trouble with growing crops on the roof (well, the main one at least) is the weight of the soil used in traditional methods. The plan here is to use a “hydroponic” irrigation system, where nutrient-rich water is recycled through the building. One added bonus is that a lot of diseases thrive on soil, so without it chemical pesticides are no longer needed.

There are rumours that a similar building in Las Vegas would also house not only crops, but pigs. I’m sure much stranger things have happened in Vegas, so I’m ready to believe it. [source]

Further Reading

• The Guerrilla Gardening offical website: see how you can fight the filth in your area… if you dare.
• For all the latest gen on gardening check out Gardenerstips.co.uk
  (“What a great logo!” I hear you cry, “They surely must have got it from Pure Web Designs!” )
]]> http://www.sumangali.org/digging-for-victory-sky-farmers-and-guerrilla-gardeners/feed/ 11 http://www.sumangali.org/cowfish-out-of-water/ http://www.sumangali.org/cowfish-out-of-water/#comments Sat, 03 May 2008 16:18:18 +0000 Sumangali Morhall http://www.sumangali.org/?p=68 I was in the sea, snorkeling I think, or maybe diving. It was a long time ago. The sun heaved magnificent light into an already magnificent ocean, and all was bathed in lucid unearthly beauty below.

I was very fond of cowfish. They were like cartoons, little horns like raised eyebrows, boxy bodies puffing happily in and out as in a fit of laughter, big dark eyes, two arms fluttering—seemingly too small to do for anything but decoration. They always looked young, with childlike curiosity, as if so sure their own cuteness would keep them out of danger.

Their colours varied like all things in the sea, wearing different shades even when a cloud passed overhead. They were always brilliant, as if generating their own light, and always in such complex detail as if embroidered with a very fine needle and silk.

Someone caught one in one hand. The hand broke the surface and there she lay on the broad of the palm, in the raw blades of the sun, with no significant fins or tail to flip her back to safety. Her body looked instantly starved, the skin now dry in mottled greys stretched over a tiny twitching skeleton, eyes like dull flakes of flint, mouth and gills straining and sucking for a life she might never feel again.

I, like the cowfish, did not know the intentions of the human hand. For all we knew she’d breathed her last of the ocean, in the homely gardens of a coral maze. I held my breath with her, unable to speak or act in a daze of horror. The hand closed around her again

and let her go.

She puffed downwards as if squirted from the bulb of a pipette, her colours instantly proud and resplendent in the sun, now through its proper lens of sea. And she was gone.

I was told that it was all for me—so I may have a closer look at her when she was still. Still, I thought. But it was not her at all. Fish are colour and movement. I saw only the shrouds of death closing around her. Ridiculous. How can she be herself when she is in the air. I remained silent for a long time.

If it is true that fish have short memories then she would have been unchanged by the trauma, but I carry it with me everywhere. I glimpse her when I feel coerced by others—even when their intentions are innocent—to be something other than myself. True, I am in no mortal danger, but I am reminded that what is comfortable for others may be harmful for me. She reminds me to allow others their freedom too; to let them be as God made them, in their own proper environment. Only then may we each laugh and let our colours shine as He intended. I still have a way to go, but the shock of the cowfish makes me try.

“Accept God’s Will
Happily,
Rejoice in God’s Will
Proudly,
And move on with God’s Will
Speedily.”
—Sri Chinmoy
Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, 25101

]]> http://www.sumangali.org/cowfish-out-of-water/feed/ 5 http://www.sumangali.org/dolphin-saves-the-whales/ http://www.sumangali.org/dolphin-saves-the-whales/#comments Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:20:33 +0000 Sumangali Morhall dolphin sagacity dolphin advanced sagacity denies consciousness borders the extremity my dolphin inferiority to forest animals you man feel http://www.sumangali.org/dolphin-saves-the-whales/ While I’m on the subject of life-saving miracles, the BBC reported this week that it’s not just humans who take an interest in whale conservation. A bottlenose dolphin, known in her local neighbourhood as Moko, is taking it as seriously as any dolphin can.

Mr Smith and his team of humans were getting nowhere fast in their attempt to save a pair of beached whales from the north east coast of New Zealand. Moko sped to the rescue just in time (maybe in a waterproof cape), uttered a few carefully chosen instructions to the whales (maybe in a Whalish accent), and they made it safely home in time for tea (or maybe a krill tisane).

“I don’t speak whale and I don’t speak dolphin,” Mr Smith told the BBC, “but there was obviously something that went on because the two whales changed their attitude from being quite distressed to following the dolphin quite willingly and directly along the beach and straight out to sea.”

He added: “The dolphin did what we had failed to do. It was all over in a matter of minutes.” [original article]

Tales of dolphins saving humans go back to ancient Greece. It was Plutarch, the Greek moralist and biographer, who said, “To the dolphin alone, beyond all other, nature has granted what the best philosophers seek: friendship for no advantage.” [source]

The best-known dolphin legends feature them forming a ring to protect surfers from sharks, or guiding stray swimmers back to shore. Incredibly dolphins extend their instinct for self-preservation to just about any species (except sharks), and seem to employ it with effortless brilliance.

Is it intelligence or just a natural benevolence? According to Douglas Adams in his Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, they are much wiser than we are… but then he also insisted mice are secretly ruling the world. Even when I was hooked on the series at age 10, I wasn’t entirely convinced by that. Let’s see what the Ultimate Guide to Dolphins has to say instead:

Dolphins have large brains for their bodies — in fact, a bottlenose dolphin is second only to humans in the ratio of brain size to body size. Researchers have also pointed to the parallels in the organization of dolphin and primate brains as more evidence of high intelligence in dolphins. Some have gone so far as to suggest that dolphins actually have a language that humans simply cannot comprehend.

But others say that in our enthusiasm to anthropomorphize dolphins, we give them powers they just don’t possess. A closer look suggests that much of the dolphin’s large brain is taken up with echolocation and handling acoustical information — processes at which they excel. But dolphins tend to rank at about the level of elephants in “intelligence” tests and haven’t shown any unusual talent at problem solving.

So what is that unique quality that fascinates and charms us, if we cannot truly call it intelligence? In his book The Animal Kingdom, Sri Chinmoy calls it sagacity.

Dolphin : Sagacity
Dolphin, my dolphin,
Your advanced sagacity
Denies your inferiority
To forest animals.
You make man feel that your consciousness
Borders upon the extremity of human life
With ceaseless strife.

—Sri Chinmoy
From The Animal Kingdom

sagacity (su’gasitee)
1. [n] the trait of forming opinions by distinguishing and evaluating
2. [n] the ability to make good judgments

The names of the two saved whales are not known, and Moko’s instructions have not been translated, but whatever she said, it seemed to the whales a very good judgment indeed.

]]> http://www.sumangali.org/dolphin-saves-the-whales/feed/ 12 http://www.sumangali.org/mouse-mortality-a-small-poem-on-being-small/ http://www.sumangali.org/mouse-mortality-a-small-poem-on-being-small/#comments Sun, 30 Sep 2007 21:01:22 +0000 Sumangali Morhall afford beneath rooty rooms she paced and sighed imagined dooms pressing auburn curls like closely clustered giddy girls chattering quarry peers twitching grey and tufted ears taunt tracks soil etched the tiny traveler damp and grey with silver the roots in my heart a shudder shoots a tiny child purpose goal and reached the safe and sandy hole did pose and tease whispering jokes mania in a squirrel scent arcadia while http://www.sumangali.org/blog/mouse-mortality-a-small-poem-on-being-small/ Beeches shook their auburn curls
like closely clustered giddy girls
chattering to pose and tease
whispering jokes into the breeze

Peaceably beneath I trod
an early dark and dewy sod
wondering that all was good
deeply in the wandering wood

A fungus there, a cobweb here
a brown birdsong above my ear
every sense at once obedient
yet drunk on every sweet ingredient

The dog a dizzy blur of mania
in a squirrel-scent arcadia
while above her quarry peers
twitching grey and tufted ears

Taunt her more, nut-loving friends!
On your guile a life depends!
A patch of silver in the roots!
In my heart a shudder shoots!

A tiny child in velveteen
by all others yet unseen
much too young to be abroad
a loss a mother can’t afford!

Beneath perhaps in rooty rooms
she paced and sighed imagined dooms
pressing to his empty nest
as if to hold him to her breast

Above he clawed and clutched and stretched
his little tracks in soil etched
the tiny traveler damp and grey
with what eyes knew he his way?

Somnambulant or still birth-blind
yet no pause to turn behind
he clung with purpose to his goal
and reached the safe and sandy hole

Did he trace his mother’s love?
Then let me do the same above
wandering asleep or blind
the stark morass we call the mind!

God forget me not on earth!
Breath of life that gave me birth
draw this little child of Yours
safely to Your Heart Indoors!

]]> http://www.sumangali.org/mouse-mortality-a-small-poem-on-being-small/feed/ 2 http://www.sumangali.org/the-smallness-and-greatness-of-ants-2/ http://www.sumangali.org/the-smallness-and-greatness-of-ants-2/#comments Tue, 29 May 2007 19:15:00 +0000 Sumangali Morhall carries an appropriately sized ant plugs the hole ” the ants acting 2 10mm bristol university biologist dr scott powell noticed “when the ants bump ants researchers planks the a dozing ox ”—lao tzu “even kings and emperors the ants varied army ants heaps wealth and vast dominion http://www.sumangali.org/blog/the-smallness-and-greatness-of-ants-2/ I am no stranger to the inspirations of nature. The loyalty of dogs, the industry of bees, the humility of grass; do they not far surpass our own?

Today I read an article in The Independent about the incredible selflessness of ants.

Researchers put planks of wood along the feeding route of a colony of army ants, with different sized holes drilled at intervals. The sizes of the ants varied from 2-10mm. Bristol University biologist Dr Scott Powell noticed:

“When the ants bump into a hole they cannot cross, they edge their way around it and then spread their legs and wobble back and forth to check their fit… If they are too big, then they carry on and another ant will come along and measure itself in the same way. This carries on until an appropriately sized ant plugs the hole.”

The ants acting as living plugs may stay in place for hours at a time while thousands of their teammates walk across their backs to fetch food.

If that’s not amazing then I don’t know what is.

Spiritual Ant Quotes:

“An ant on the move does more than a dozing ox.”
—Lao Tzu

“Even Kings and emperors with heaps of wealth and vast dominion cannot compare with an ant filled with the love of God.”
—Guru Nanak

“Go to the ant, thou sluggard, consider her ways, and be wise; Which having no guide, overseer, or ruler, Provideth her meat in the summer, and gathereth her food in the harvest.”
—The Bible, Proverbs 6:6-8

“Ant, my ant,
In you my heart beholds
The glory of the Supreme.
Tiniest in size, you house the dream
Of the Omnipotent.
To me you are extremely important,
Because you represent
One extremity of God,
His message of smallness;
In another word, His greatness.”
—Sri Chinmoy

]]> http://www.sumangali.org/the-smallness-and-greatness-of-ants-2/feed/ 10 http://www.sumangali.org/truly-nothings-small/ http://www.sumangali.org/truly-nothings-small/#comments Tue, 01 May 2007 20:38:00 +0000 Sumangali Morhall anute renute today maureen clasped a tiny fragile petal it reminds carry not ”—ralph waldo emerson food flickr com an exquisite shot one maureen symbolic the entire sun aurora leigh which reminds chaffinch implies the cherubim takes shoes ”—elizabeth barrett browningfrom book http://www.sumangali.org/blog/truly-nothings-small/ I found this image yesterday on Flickr.com. Not only is it an exquisite shot (one of many exquisite shots by Maureen F), but I find it symbolic. The entire sun is clasped by a tiny fragile petal.

It reminds me of one of my favourite pieces of poetry:

“And truly, I reiterate, . . nothing’s small!
No lily-muffled hum of a summer-bee,
But finds some coupling with the spinning stars;
No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere;
No chaffinch, but implies the cherubim:
And,–glancing on my own thin, veined wrist,–
In such a little tremour of the blood
The whole strong clamour of a vehement soul
Doth utter itself distinct. Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God:
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes…”
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning
From Book Seven of Aurora Leigh

…which reminds me that God is everywhere, equally in the tiniest, most fragile detail, as in the mightiest force. Somehow that is greatly comforting, although it means He is really all alone… but somehow that’s comforting too… which reminds me of a song by my meditation teacher:

“In atom and in pollen and in human frames
my life abides.
All beauty am I, immutable am I.
I drink my ambrosia all alone.“
—Sri Chinmoy
Translation of Anute Renute

Today Maureen F has put a caption to her latest masterpiece:

“Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Food for thought…

]]> http://www.sumangali.org/truly-nothings-small/feed/ 9 http://www.sumangali.org/meadow-revival/ http://www.sumangali.org/meadow-revival/#comments Mon, 05 Mar 2007 22:01:00 +0000 Sumangali Morhall intimations immortality meadowy metaphors fertile layers the charity dedicated 5 acres weeds a 20th century problem the problem initiatives aimed bringing wildflowers land a national wildflower centre write future years rae spencer jones describes the environmental charity landlife guardian budding wordsworths http://www.sumangali.org/blog/meadow-revival/

“There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;–
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.”
William Wordsworth
From Ode on Intimations of Immortality

Meadowy metaphors used to be rife in English poetry. Wordworth’s were the days when wildflowers pranced on any land not trodden on or nibbled at for more than a season. His inability to see meadows as they “hath been of yore” was no doubt metaphysical, and not because they had all been ravaged by weeds. No, that’s more a 20th Century problem.

The problem is mainly that wildflowers thrive on unfertile soil, whereas weeds thrive on fertile soil. The increased use of fertilisers has made the remaining scraps of disused land home to aggressive, weedy tenants rather than poetic, meadow flowers.

As I discovered in Saturday’s Guardian, budding Wordsworths might still have something to write about in future years. Rae Spencer-Jones describes in Where The Wild Things Are how British motorway embankments are turning into meadowy havens, and abandoned land in built-up areas is winning the hearts of local residents with its new-found beauty.

In conjunction with other organisations like The Woodland Trust, the environmental charity Landlife has a wealth of initiatives aimed bringing wildflowers back to our countryside, including topsoil inversion: turning over the soil to reveal the less fertile layers. The charity dedicated 5 acres of land as a National Wildflower Centre in Court Hey Park, just outside Liverpool. They also supply seeds online for growing such delights as Bats-In-The-Belfry, Corncockle, Musk Mallow and Teasel. Truly irresistible.

Image source: Kedar Misani

]]> http://www.sumangali.org/meadow-revival/feed/ 7 http://www.sumangali.org/homage-to-british-artist-andy-goldsworthy/ http://www.sumangali.org/homage-to-british-artist-andy-goldsworthy/#comments Fri, 23 Feb 2007 12:23:00 +0000 Sumangali Morhall that’s long i’ve admired andy goldsworthy’s approach andy goldsworthy dives enlightenment architecture and modern public buildings the domical form developed gritty ice and stone sculptures us national gallery includes neolithic burial chambers and dwelling cairns the hostile ice enormous jewels transience reasons recurring dome theme it andy it’s http://www.sumangali.org/blog/homage-to-british-artist-andy-goldsworthy/ This post is long overdue—perhaps about 20 years or so, as that’s how long I’ve admired Andy Goldsworthy’s approach to art. Thank God for the humble camera—without it most of his art would melt, blow, or rot back into the elements from whence it came, in the space of time it takes for the winds or tides to change, or the temperature to cheer up.

The sculptor-photographer was born in Cheshire, 1956, but now calls Scotland his home. I was first drawn in by an exhibition that everyone was raving about at art school. It was probably in Leeds City Art Gallery—because that’s about as far as we could ever afford to go from Harrogate—I don’t remember anything about it except the dumbfounded silence it left me with, and some shots of autumn leaves blazing in my mind’s eye.

A bunch of autumn leaves has always been enough to transport me—see God In a Nutshell—but it was the way he celebrated them that blew me away. This is how nature should be revered, I thought: an interaction leaving no lasting mark of interference, more a mute conversation between creator and Creator, or a game, knowing the latter will win in the end, but enjoying the play all the more for it.

When happening upon one of nature’s myriad miracles, rather than saying “That’s nice” and walking on by, Andy Goldsworthy dives right into the colours, patterns, shapes, textures, observes the rules of nature and extends them, enhances them, outlines them. If anyone is not afraid to get their hands dirty it’s him; using not just hands but teeth, feet and nearby natural materials as tools to coax leaves, mud, twigs and ice into new forms. It’s more than “environmentally friendly”; it is “environment,” but the dry leaves are poured on the earth like molten metal, the rough stones are soft giant eggs, the hostile ice enormous jewels.

Transience in art has always been a source of fascination to me, basically because that’s how God works. Man can echo that occupation of enjoying the process of creation, pausing proudly besotted with the product of it to celebrate its perfection, then moving on to a higher perfection. I love that.

“The artist’s long engagement with the dome parallels his interest in the markers of human passage through time—the structure itself follows a trajectory that includes Neolithic burial chambers and dwelling cairns, ancient Roman and Byzantine structures, Enlightenment architecture and modern public buildings.

The domical form developed in the artist’s oeuvre from his desire to give depth to the hole, or void, a device that has occupied Goldsworthy’s attention since early in his career. His decision to construct a dome with oculus on this site owes much to its northern orientation, which allows for a velvety black hole that no light can penetrate.”

US National Gallery of Art on the exhibition pictured below

I know nothing of his reasons for this recurring dome theme, but to me it is a glimpse of Infinity: a reminder of our own transience on the material plane of stone, ice and leaves, and of an eternal existence beyond it.

Andy, it’s not often I feel pride in being British, but right now, revisiting your art, I’m glowing with the stuff.

Links and Credits:

1. Morning Earth: nice tribute and collection of images
2. UK Government Art Collection: fine collection of gritty ice and stone sculptures.
3. US National Gallery: drystone dome exhibition in Washington 2004-5, pictured above

You can read more thoughts on art on my SriChinmoyCentre.org pages

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