The Fourth Plinth, and Other Tales

My latest project is a book review blog, The Lighthouse at Alexandria. It is my job now, and it is at least a part-time job as far as the time and effort spent in reading the books, finding links, and writing the reviews themselves are concerned. So that has kept me busy for the past three days. (c: On Saturdays the plan is to review my favourite articles among the ones that have appeared in newspapers and magazines over the past week. Last evening I started exploring, but so many articles were delightful that I decided to do a riff on the New York Times bestseller lists there, and write about the articles here, instead.

One of my minor obsessions is the Fourth Plinth, which is a stone block at the corner of London's Trafalgar Square whereupon a statue of William IV was supposed to be raised but never was, and which is now host to a rotating exhibition of contemporary art. That I am obsessed with it is odd considering that not all of the art on it is exactly to my taste. I did like the effects of Bill Woodrow's "Regardless of History," a tangle of bronze tree with a book engulfed in the roots and a man's head crushed underneath, and Thomas Schütte's "Hotel for the Birds," a colourful, strong, and bright statement in layered red, yellow and blue glass amid the gloomy grey.

Lately there was a competition for a new design. None of the finalists truly thrilled me, but I did like Tracey Emin's meerkats. They remind me of people standing on the end of a sinking boat. That is not cheerful but thoughtful and mournful, and still it's nice, as the meerkats are standing there together, unmoved. I like meerkats in themselves, too — their dignity and agility, their ability to kill snakes, and their quiet vigilance as they stand guard at the entrances of their burrows. Yinka Shonibare's ship in a bottle (I am very fond of wooden sailing ships, whether they are four inches high and in a bottle, or forty yards high and on the sea) is attractive, too. But Antony Gormley's concept, the upturned transparent collar and the idea of having one member of the public standing on top of the plinth at a time, does not speak to me. Probably my likes and dislikes are boringly conservative, but everyone has their own sensitivities, and I guess that it's fine.

The Guardian has written extensively on this weighty matter. In January there was a nice article on Mr. Schütte and his design. On August 8th there was an amusing blog about the rumour that Boris Johnson has backed down from his intention to change the use of the plinth, as he was informed that it's "being kept warm" for an equestrian statue of Elizabeth II, "to be commissioned after her death." It must be unnerving to know that a whole industry is waiting to blossom upon one's demise. But in a way it's funny, too. Generally I support the idea of an open plinth, where the art changes. It is a fine source of income for the artist community, and it also freshens a historical square with a nice breeze of modernity, and if one of the artworks is truly dreadful one has the consolation of knowing that it will be replaced. On the other hand, I hope that less well-established artists are actively encouraged to submit their ideas, too.

* * *

The most delightful articles were about architecture, a field that greatly interests me but that I know very little.

As J. will go to Barcelona in September, I was especially interested in a photo gallery of Antoni Gaudí's Sagrada Familia church. In one sentence, I'd describe it as a crown of spires, intricate and fanciful, with a futuristic, extraterrestrial vibe. Among the photos, there is an excellently observed one that depicts a bird's-eye view of a spiralling interior staircase; it exactly resembles the cross-section of a snail's shell and the broad steps even look like the shell segments. I like the church, but there are many aspects of it I don't like. First of all, it is outlandish and disproportionate to everything around it. Secondly, it is a paean to a very beautiful and complex aesthetic; despite countless details which it takes from ecclesiastical architecture, I think it is scarcely religious, except in this artistic sense. Thirdly, it is tremendously expensive and complicated, and it is an exponent of a personal whim and not an outreach to the community. So I think, but I may be wrong.

THEN there was a photo series on observatories. I took these notes:

1. Kielder observatory: Ikea ("karg" setting)
2. Telescope: Star Wars ship gun
3. Greenwich observatory: hill
4. Jaipur observatory: paper cut-outs
5. Very Large Array: Very Stupid Name (also, moon-flowers)
6. WM Keck observatory, Hawaii
7. Parkes observatory: black latticed fan with a windmill base

The note on the Greenwich observatory is meant to remind me that our aunt L. took T. and me to see it when we were in London. I stayed at the foot of the hill, reading Jane Austen's Love and Freindship, but L. and T. courageously strove up the steep slope to the observatory itself. What fascinated me about the hill is its visual effect. As the people who streamed up and down the slopes were so high and far away, and tiny, I had the odd feeling of seeing a miniature world laid out before me. It now reminds me of an old New England embroidery or painting, of people flocking up a hill that is its own little ideal realm. And that reminds me of the famous passage in the 1630 sermon of the Puritan John Winthrop:

For we must consider that we shall be as a city upon a hill. The eyes of all people are upon us. So that if we shall deal falsely with our God in this work we have undertaken, and so cause Him to withdraw His present help from us, we shall be made a story and a by-word through the world.

By "moon-flowers" I mean that there are enormous white satellite dishes that are reposing in isolation on a darkened field, and pointing expectantly toward the sky, as sunflowers point expectantly toward the sun. As for the Hawaiian observatory, I wrote no notes because I wanted to check if it is among the ones on top of Mauna Kea. It is, so I can proudly say that I have seen it in person (though at a distance which made it seem infinitesimal), gleaming on the vast mound beyond the red lunar landscape of Mauna Kea's flanks.

THEN there was a droll article on the "Cheesegrater" (thus nicknamed for its tapering rectangular shape), a 235-metre-tall, 47-floor building, which is to stand beside the Gherkin in London. Sadly its date of completion has been moved ahead into 2012 due to the financial situation. The "Shard" finds itself in a like predicament. Two of the finest passages in the article:

The previous building at 122 Leadenhall Street, a 1960s office block, is being destroyed from the ground up around its central concrete core. For some time it resembled an ice-lolly, but now the floors have gone and only the "stick" remains on the site.

and

A sign pinned to the barriers that prevent office workers and shoppers from toppling into the huge hole left by the excavation promised "57,000 square metres of the highest quality office space".