Tuesday, 18 February 2020

Hammer time: Kate Arnold's 'Rota Fortunae I'

Back in December, I put together my usual post rounding up my recorded highlights of the year. While it mostly consisted of full albums and recordings, I felt unable to leave out a single track that had crept onto YouTube and absolutely knocked me sideways: 'For Barely One in a Thousand (The Practice of Lights)' by the brilliant Kate Arnold.

That song was a taster for the newly-released EP, 'Rota Fortunae I'. ('Rota Fortunae II' will hopefully be with us later in the year. Since proceeds from the first part will help with further recordings, it's extremely important that you, and everyone you know, buy this EP as soon as possible!)


In case you missed that video first time round, here it is:


I think I have played that song pretty much daily since I first heard it. It lifts my spirits and fills any euphoria-shaped gap in my mindset.

I discovered Kate Arnold's music relatively recently, after seeing her play live amid line-ups featuring what I would call 'kindred spirit' musicians. I'm thinking of artists like Jo Quail and Sieben - both familiar to regular Specs readers (thank you, darlings, thank you) - who use various classical or acoustic instruments, combined with modern looping/electronic techniques to build up their own soundworlds. KA's weapons of choice are hammered dulcimer, violin, drum - and vocals.

Although an EP is, by definition, an all-too-brief experience, one of the great characteristics of 'Rota Fortunae I' is how it carefully, deliberately sets out Arnold's stall as an artist. On your first few plays, it will be enough to appreciate the gorgeous tunes, beautifully played and sung. However, if one of your chief joys when listening to a record longer-term is to focus intensely on various elements of the arrangement and production, marvelling at the precision with which it's been assembled - these 20 minutes are going to reward you for months, then years. 

The opener, 'Skeleton Key' hardly features KA's voice at all. But as an introduction, it's perfect, as the near-instrumental really does provide a skeletal framework, using just the dulcimer to set up a series of percussive rattles, then gradually placing flesh on the bones with keening strings, layers of chiming melody, and - something of a trademark, this - a sudden 'shift' in the harmonies late on that pushes those euphoria buttons I alluded to earlier. In 'Skeleton Key', the single vocal line includes a soft hum that seems to come out of nowhere at first; then, as it reappears near the end, the full picture is revealed as it slots perfectly into the massed, looped chords.

We next hear the EP's only cover version, the comfortably out-of-copyright 'The Wind and I Must Sing', a composition from around 1180 by the troubadour Beatriz de Dia. Sung in Occitan (medieval French is another string to KA's crossbow), the otherworldly strains that open the track really do suggest that the tune has drifted down to us through the centuries. But seconds later, the song feels suddenly, thrillingly modern, with an insistent bassline cutting through the fractured swirls, and most important of all, an arresting and forthright vocal performance. KA makes Beatriz feel like an immediate, present personality, and you're conscious of how even something so stately and chant-like contains seeds of mélodie and chanson.


(Photography for CD inlay by Scott Brimley)

Hit single (in my universe anyway) 'For Barely One in a Thousand' follows, and brings together features from the previous two tracks - a pulsing bass note, with dulcimer and violin dancing round it, maintaining the tension through the first two verses. But the devil is in the detail - for example:

  • The way the ascending violin line (starting around 0:40) keeps going behind the second verse (1:02 onwards);
  • The layers of strings building to a two-chord mini-climax, celebrated with the first pound of the drum (2:04);
  • 'Drop by drop', answered by a tiny cascade on the dulcimer (2:30);
  • 2:37 to 2:47 - ten of the most impressive seconds of music I've heard in a long time; another of those shifts where the setting is 're-cast' so that each note of the verse line gets to 'resolve' one by one in a warm chord progression that somehow cycles back to the climax from the previous instrumental break.
Like I said, I've spent a long time listening to this tune. Not a wasted moment.

Finally, 'Fortune's Wheel' is perhaps the track where the versatility of KA's voice is shown to best effect, multiple Kates soaring above the minimum instrumentation, just about keeping them tethered. We almost hear lead and rhythm vocals, as chants and near-spoken rounds punctuate the sky-high longer melodies. Despite being a brand new work, it actually makes a perfect companion to 'The Wind and I Must Sing', blending a similar stateliness with confident, intimate vocals.

This is magical, magnificent, meticulous music, feeding the head while filling the heart.

Support the artist by buying the EP through Bandcamp here.


Sunday, 9 February 2020

2 x 2: Elsa Dreisig & Jonathan Ware; Ermonela Jaho & Steven Maughan at Wigmore Hall

I was lucky enough to spend most of last weekend at Wigmore Hall, which had absolutely packed out its schedule with several concerts on each day. However, it's the Sunday in particular I want to write about here. I attended two song recitals: in the afternoon, soprano Elsa Dreisig with Jonathan Ware on the piano; then, in the evening, soprano Ermonela Jaho with Steven Maughan on piano.


(Elsa Dreisig, photographed by Ólafur Steinar Gestsson)

I had a great time at both - but in such different ways, and for such different reasons, that it set me off on two distinct trains of thought: one, the infinite possibilities that even that most pared-down of formats, voice and piano, can offer; and two, what I look for in a recital (whether I know it or not), and how the variations in performance style affect both my critical faculties and emotions - my head and my heart, if you like.

I'm going to look at the second concert first. This was an event that understandably had a real buzz surrounding it, and no wonder. Now, by any reckoning, one of opera's global superstars, Jaho is particularly acclaimed for pushing at the edges of emotion - both her own, and that of her audiences. Many opera singers, of course, can rightly claim that they aim for a transformational approach: a total commitment to absorption in the role. But there is also the extent to which they let the role become them: if I had to try and describe the occasions I've seen Jaho at her most powerful, it's as if her stance, even her shape changes - let alone her sound - in line with the character. After a recent ROH 'Traviata', I could've sworn she'd actually lost half her body weight over the course of the opera.

So, as well as being excited, I was desperately curious to see how this would translate to a recital hall (this was EJ's Wigmore debut). The concert was billed 'An Evening with Rosina Storchio' - a soprano who flourished as the 19th century moved into the 20th; star of several world premieres, including 'La Boheme' and 'Madama Butterfly', and greatly admired by Puccini and his peers. Clearly Jaho feels a strong affinity with Storchio, also reviving her predecessor's title role in Opera Rara's recording of Leoncavallo's 'Zazà'. Opera Rara promoted this concert, ahead of releasing Jaho's companion recital disc this coming September... and so it all fits together.

The programme for the evening mainly - though not exclusively - combined arias from 'rescued' or obscure operas (along similar lines to 'Zazà' and, of course, Opera Rara's stock in trade) with stand-alone songs by the same composers. It was a thrill and a privilege to be this close to Jaho, and her voice: while her fearsome reserves of power could pin you to your seat, the more intimate space brought home her dynamic range, the softness of her delivery in the tenderest of moments still reaching us near the back of the hall but drawing us helplessly in. And of course, there are no other distractions: no staging, no fellow actors, concert dress, meaning that every mood swing, every dramatic twist and turn came from EJ herself and her all-consuming approach.


(Ermonela Jaho, photographed by Fadil Barisha)

I wouldn't have missed this for the world: she is such an exciting and inspiring performer. However, I did have some minor reservations about the event itself. Piano man that I am, I felt a little for Stephen Maughan, who played beautifully but, it seemed to me, was only given a few opportunities to shine. In many cases, I assume he would of course have been playing from piano reductions of full scores. When an actual art song appeared - in particular, a fabulous performance of Gounod's mélodie 'Sérénade' - it was as if he could suddenly take flight, an equal partner. Jaho's ability to almost regenerate into one operatic heroine after another, culminating in a heartstopping Mascagni death scene, was truly magnificent; but inevitably it slightly unbalanced the 'whole'.

It got me thinking that, although the programme and presentation were clearly scaled down with the Wigmore in mind, that the ideal environment would in fact have been bigger. A larger auditorium. Greater forces (I think it's significant that the forthcoming album is with orchestra rather than piano). And for that matter, I wonder if Jaho has ever considered longer 'recital' works - I wonder what her take would be on 'La voix humaine', for example?

This is what I meant when I said, at the top of this post, that these two recitals made me think harder than normal about how I react to them and why. I feel that with EJ and SM, I experienced a musical version of visiting an exhibition where I'm magnetically drawn to each individual artwork but less persuaded by the 'hang'. I can't wait for the CD to come out, though - to put my headphones on, crank it up and just abandon myself to it.

Rewind, then, to the afternoon, and a more modestly proportioned gig. Elsa Dreisig and Jonathan Ware's recital fitted into the classic Wigmore non-evening format of roughly an hour, no interval. The concert was also linked to a CD: the duo's new recording 'Morgen' - thankfully already out, so no wait necessary! The programme's concept (Dreisig describes it as an 'inner journey') added further layers of interest as selections from three composers were 'shuffled': we heard several Duparc mélodies, R Strauss's 'Four Last Songs' and selections from Rachmaninov's final cycle 'Six poems for voice and piano', but separated, scattered and dovetailing around each other so that Duparc's opening invitation really was the start of a metaphorical musical voyage.

ED also gave a short, poetic introduction, and made a point of telling us at the start that, while there might be a few silences, the sequence was meant to be unbroken (that is, no subsets of songs, or applause breaks). House rules established, the pair began building their own type of atmosphere.

Dreisig has a voice of bright clarity and affecting gentleness, capable of heartstopping volume and soft poignancy. It is, fittingly for the subject of this recital, truly inviting - and this quality is enhanced by the stage presentation. One song is delivered seated on a stool by the piano - another, advancing from the back of the stage, slow-paced, towards the front. This will sound totally contradictory, but her movements are 'still': careful, deliberate, circling the piano, almost spectral at times. Slightly unexpected reference points kept popping up in my mind, not from the classical world - such as Kate Bush, or the folk/black metal artist Myrkyr - other women whose onstage presence captures a sense of controlled power.


(Jonathan Ware, photographed by Kaupo Kikkas)

The programme was democratic enough that each composer was also represented by a solo piano piece. This introduced some further variation, for sure, but also drew one's attention to Jonathan Ware's spectacular, charismatic playing, a feat of some stamina (the entire programme with virtually no pauses) as well as sensitivity. Rather than leave the stage, Dreisig continued a scaled-down version of her patrol, or paused to watch and listen, audience temporarily forgotten; as part of the performance as when she was singing.

I think this is worth drawing out, because everything about the recital underlined that they were a team, and that the intensity and chemistry was being generated by them both. Ware's distinctive touch enabled the three composing styles to meld successfully into a flowing narrative, and allowed Dreisig the storyteller to find the poetry's heartbeat. When 'Morgen!' itself arrived - perhaps an inevitable encore but no less welcome for that - the euphoria was as much ours as theirs.

*

This is the promotional video for the 'Morgen' album, featuring Elsa Dreisig and Jonathan Ware performing Rachmaninov's 'Dream', from 6 Romances, Op. 38.


Sunday, 26 January 2020

Series, parallels: ENO's Orpheus season and more besides

Across the last few months of 2019, English National Opera ran a 'season within a season': four operas all based on the Orpheus myth. Niche, you might think, but arguably ENO were spoilt for choice: a quick scan of the oracle (Delphipedia?) turns up a list of over 70 operas on the subject.

Obviously, it's taken me longer than I would've liked to get round to writing this. To prolific opera-goers, the productions probably now feel as ancient as the myth itself. But I confess that even at the time, I deliberately held back from writing about the performances as they went along because, to my mind, they were a kind of 'whole', and I was attracted to the idea of considering them together.

Most of the coverage seemed to be opera by opera, understandably so: the critics have to report back to the public there and then. Also, while they share the root source, the operas chosen are completely unconnected works: in chronological order (of composition and opening night), Gluck's 'Orpheus and Eurydice', Offenbach's 'Orpheus in the Underworld', Birtwhistle's 'The Mask of Orpheus' and Glass's 'Orphée'.


I was still mildly surprised in the aftermath of the series that I only came across one response that brought the four together. (Even in that instance, it was four separate reviews stitched together into a somewhat mean-spirited whole. I feel that, however critical a piece, it is always possible to tell if the writer is fundamentally kind or unkind, and whether or not they derive more satisfaction from the artform itself, or from using their keyboard as a weapon. If you're desperate to seek the feature out, I daresay you'll find it.)

*

I understand the series was the brainchild of ENO's soon-to-be-former artistic director, Daniel Kramer (which, let's face it, will have put some commentators off from the outset). Drawn as I am to these kinds of sequences and connections, I can see the idea's logic and appeal. There's a single hook but almost infinite possibilities. The 'original' myth is about a poet-singer-storyteller of almost supernatural gifts, yet it has no fixed or definitive version. At the most crucial moment of his life, as his resurrected wife begs for an explanation of his behaviour, the words Orpheus needs are denied him. No wonder so many composers have dusted the couple down and revisited their story. There's a satisfying symmetry to the way that the root myth is so imperfectly told and re-told, alongside four utterly different operatic interpretations that make further play with storytelling in themselves.

Another, possibly controversial, layer was added by Kramer's decisions about who should tell these stories. He decided to direct the Birtwhistle revival, arguably the biggest headline-grabber of the group, himself. As for the rest - I think it's safe to say that none of these people would have delivered anything vaguely resembling a 'traditional' or straightforward adaptation. Two are from altogether different disciplines: choreographer Wayne McGregor directed the Gluck and theatre director Emma Rice tackled the Offenbach. Netia Jones, in charge of the Glass, is steeped in opera and classical music, but with a signature style involving video projection and various cinematic techniques. (Her staging of Zender's 'Winterreise' arrangement with Ian Bostridge and Britten Sinfonia, 'The Dark Mirror', was an astonishing achievement.)

Personally, I didn't have any problems with this approach (reservations about one of the productions notwithstanding - see below) as it enhanced another level of symmetry/unity in the series. In the same way that the Orpheus story is concerned with how two worlds - gods & heaven versus humans & earth - do or do not interact, suspending Eurydice between two planes of existence... so we had treatments that suspended us between live opera and these other worlds of ballet, modern dance / cabaret, drama and cinema. I felt this made each evening exciting and unpredictable, erasing the risk of potential audience fatigue with returning to the same plot.

As I said, I think one of the pieces ultimately misfired. In Offenbach's operetta 'Orpheus in the Underworld', O & E are an unhappy couple, both on their worst behaviour and desperate to be rid of each other. Whatever one thinks of her eventual fate (priestess to Bacchus on Jupiter's orders), Eurydice as a character drives much of the action, a full-on (anti-?)heroine, finding the men and gods around her tedious and frustrating. Rice adds a tragic backstory during the overture for the couple (the loss of their child, acted in dumb show) to provide a psychological grounding for the failure of the marriage. Then - after a more conventionally riotous first half - delivers on the ominous opening by ramping up the sexual objectification of Eurydice as the gods' plaything and suggesting that a reunion between O & E is thwarted through E essentially being kidnapped as an underworld slave.

Rice explains all of this in an interview in the programme for the show, leading to an (intentionally?) comic anecdote where - after making so many cuts and changes to fit her reading - she is asked by Kramer to put some of the actual music back in. I take on board her points about the humour of the time not working now, and modern audiences needing to 'care' about the protagonists. But here I think the decisions derailed the intent. For example, I don't think making Eurydice an angel or a victim gives the character any of her agency back. By acknowledging her wilful, even unlikable traits, the operetta simply takes it as read that she is as much a focus for our attention as Orpheus, and as worthy of whatever barbs the piece can throw at her. She can give as good as she gets, without the need of a tragedy in her background to conveniently explain it away.


(Mary Bevan as Eurydice. No photo credit.)

This attempt to 'retrofit' the Gluck, however, couldn't dampen my enjoyment of the performances. As ever, the ENO Chorus flooded the stage with verve and personality, voices always married to individual acting and movement - whether sheep or show-girls! Mary Bevan was an astonishingly vivid Eurydice, unafraid to bring out and fully embrace the contradictions and complications of the role, and Alex Otterburn owned the stage as a strutting Pluto.

I actually felt the other three operas achieved lift-off. Gluck's 'Orpheus and Eurydice' features only three soloist roles (the couple, plus Love) and chorus. McGregor took the decision to conceal the Chorus, bringing dancers onstage in their place. As the paragraph above implies, I'm normally the first person who wants to see the Chorus doing their thing, so I was particularly struck by how effective I found this approach. In a kind of stasis between opera and ballet, the dancers were able to express what I could hear the Chorus singing, and also provide a framework for the three leads to bring a kind of stylised movement to underpin their emotional expressions. Alice Coote - a superb actor-singer who, in recital, carves three-dimensional characters out of one song after another - gave us a heartrendingly powerful Orpheus, communicating his grief literally from head to toe.

'The Mask of Orpheus' arrives with a built-in, ready-to-eat level of insanity, making the re-telling of Orpheus's myth not just the subject, but also the format of the opera. Not only are the scenes fragmented, the roles are too, with Orpheus, Eurydice and Aristaeus (Eurydice's would-be lover) each represented by three performers (as person, myth and hero). Mixing acoustic and electronic instruments - and needing two conductors - everything about the production screamed sensory overload. Working with costume designer Daniel Lismore, Kramer had the stage, and people on it, explode with colour. There was, unapologetically, too much to look at - just focusing on the rope-dancers alone could take you away from the singers for too long.

I would need to see this more than once to fully make sense of it (and I'm aware I may never get the chance). I think many were nonplussed by it. But given Birtwhistle's aim to try and depict various angles on the myth at once - I suppose a kind of cubist approach to the opera - I think the riot of simultaneous action is true to that aim, in a way that Rice's 'overlay' of her modern response to Offenbach was not. A huge factor for me was the casting of Peter Hoare as the 'human' Orpheus. He's one of my very favourite singers, not least because of his willingness to immerse himself in challenging characters and use the timbre of his tenor as a kind of weapon, salve one minute, scalpel the next.

My favourite of the four was almost certainly 'Orphée' - perhaps no surprise given my love of Philip Glass's music and my sense of anticipation for how Netia Jones would realise the action. As the opera is so closely based on the Jean Cocteau film 'Orphée' (more symmetry), Jones's system of door-like screens - precision-tooled black and white images ranging from filmed backgrounds to real-time alternative viewpoints of the onstage action - builds on the mirror/negative motifs of the film. A sleek, monochrome set and sympathetic, largely monochrome costume design made me feel like I was watching a noir masterpiece come to life visually as well as musically. Here, O & E are almost pawns in a larger game, subject to the manoeuvres of Death's agent - Jennifer France in imperious femme fatale mode - and her driver, Heurtebise, sang movingly by Nicky Spence. But as the supernatural beings' nature is revealed, their entanglement with the central couple becomes as deadly to them as to their human counterparts.


(This and the following image: Jennifer France in 'Orphée'. Photos by Catherine Ashmore.)

*

Each opera could of course be experienced as a stand-alone production, and were no doubt actively intended as such. But by the time I saw 'Orphée', I was fully alive to the cumulative power of the enterprise. As I saw each Orpheus opera, my anticipation was heightened by wondering what the next interpretation would be like.

I also enjoyed the way that, despite representing four very different artistic visions, the series gave you connections if you were inclined to find them. Three examples:

  • The casting of Sarah Tynan as two Eurydices, in the Gluck and Glass: not only did this demonstrate her vocal versatility within such vastly different musical styles, but the only callback was simply realising it was the same person: both exquisitely sensitive portrayals, but at no point in the Glass performance did I think of the Gluck version.
  • I was intrigued by how the McGregor and Jones treatments exploited colour versus black and white to suggest opposing physical or mental states.
  • All four productions shared the same set designer, Lizzie Clachan, who - possibly against all odds - lends the sequence some visual harmony: looking back at the production galleries, you can see the gridlines, careful division of spaces, even boxes and cages, that range from giving 'Orphee' its cool, clinical flair to imposing some kind of order, after a fashion, on 'Mask of Orpheus'.


*

I have no idea how well the Orpheus series ultimately did, and what the detailed stats might be - for example, do ENO have any feedback about how many punters committed to all four operas, or did people just dip in according to the composers they favoured...? I would love to know, as going to see the whole 'quartet' made me think about series, seasons, sequences ... and how effective they can be.

One thing that slightly surprised me was how the Orpheus series was advertised. Of course, there was publicity material and website content about the operas as a group, but I don't ever recall seeing, for example, a poster focusing on the 'set of 4'. By contrast, I do remember seeing ENO's normal season poster in their usual house style, listing all the operas in the season chronologically. This had the slightly surreal effect of placing 'The Mikado' between 'The Mask of Orpheus' and 'Orphée', conjuring up a new version of the G&S crowdpleaser featuring Nanki-Poo heading down into Hades to fetch Yum-Yum.

I'm fascinated by brand / image and graphic design in this sphere, possibly to geek level. Of course, 'brand' means much more than just logos and posters - it's a whole system of how an organisation presents itself - but the in-your-face visuals are very much the entry point for a lot of people. Many opera houses - along with perhaps fewer theatres, but London examples would include The Old Vic and National Theatre - seem to give their house style absolute rule.

I'm struck every time I go up into the amphitheatre corridor at the Royal Opera House, which now displays posters from its archives. It used to be a bespoke design for every single production, it seems, but now every poster 'looks' the same: different images, of course, but uniform typeface throughout. The current style is very elegant, in my view - but it's beauty within, rather than without, restrictions, and part of me pines for the era when they just went with the immediate concept.

But a recent example from Opera North lingers in my memory. I wrote at the time about seeing their mini-season of six short operas, the 'Little Greats'. Opera North have an extremely identifiable house style, too: instantly recognisable logo, and a font that carries through all their posters and programmes. (In a link to the subtle set consistencies in the Orpheus operas, I also feel that Opera North's brand definitely contributes to the onstage aesthetic. Whether through necessity - budget, having to tour productions - or philosophy, Opera North's stagings almost always seem to me uncluttered, quite cinematic, with use of onstage space and darkness to give a self-contained, intense feel. In the recent production of 'The Greek Passion', a slogan quoting from the opera appeared above the chorus; it was in the correct font - as seen in this production still by Tristram Kenton.)



But keeping every single aspect of their style and typography intact, Opera North still called the season 'The Little Greats', at every opportunity. (Theature pic above by me.) Special materials - posters, booklets - all emphasised the 'wholeness' of the series, even though - the inclusion of traditional bedfellows 'Cavelleria rusticana' / 'Pagliacci' notwithstanding - the six operas had nothing to do with each other. That said, again like the Orpheus series, connections were there to be discovered.

*

I think mini-sequences and seasons within seasons have the potential to be a really useful way to keep bringing people to opera, in particular. In an age when certain folk are very quick to talk about 'short attention spans' and 'dumbing down', I'm fascinated by the apparent resurgence - particularly in cinema and TV - of enthusiasm for the epic. People are quite happy to follow event television series over 7 years and 80 episodes, or follow a film franchise over 20 movies. Cue the usual cry: 'But classical music / opera is different!' Well... is it really? Or if it is, does it need to be?

'Ring' cycles seem to me to be increasing in frequency. Seasoned experts will tell me if I'm wrong about this or not, but I feel so spoilt for productions recently that I'm vaguely - vaguely - ok with the fact I'm going to have to sit the next London one out. Surely for fans, the scale is in itself one of the most appealing things about the cycle: not just the gargantuan running time, but also the hooks, the recurrences of the leitmotifs that reward the keen listener who starts at the beginning and keeps on going.

Whether it's the 'collecting' gene, or our inner detectives, or our sense of order and need for systems... I think looking for threads connecting seemingly disparate events has an innate appeal for the vast majority of us. Programming to this could yield fascinating results.

As an amateur and enthusiast who cannot possibly monitor every opera house worldwide, I'm sure many readers would be able to point lots of examples out to me already. Off the top of my head, I can think of the superb ROH production of 'Cav'/'Pag' by Damiano Michieletto which places the events of both operas in the same village. Welsh National Opera staged a Figaro trilogy, performing the Rossini and Mozart classics alongside the brand new 'Figaro Gets a Divorce', by Elena Langer and David Pountney.

And La Monnaie / De Munt, the opera house in Brussels, Belgium, is just about to stage the three Mozart / Da Ponte operas ('Marriage of Figaro', 'Cosi fan tutte' and 'Don Giovanni') as an interdependent trilogy taking place in the same apartment building - how I'd love to see that!

More - literally! - of this sort of thing.

Tuesday, 14 January 2020

Human, nature: David Nash at the Towner Gallery

I am much later posting this than I meant to be, but there are still a couple of weeks left for you to make your way, if you can, to this superb exhibition at the Towner Gallery - located in Eastbourne on the UK's south coast.

(Currently, it is hard to pass by the gallery without spotting it.)



'200 Seasons' is a major retrospective of the wood sculpture of David Nash. I had seen previous exhibitions of his work at Yorkshire Sculpture Park and Kew Gardens, so certain pieces and elements of his style were familiar. What felt instantly different here was the sheer, concentrated intensity of bringing the entire body of work on display indoors. (I remember the Kew show in particular including some gallery pieces, but the 'main event' was of course to display his large scale work in the expanse of the Gardens.)

Nash has created a remarkable - and one assumes, still in progress - visual chronicle of his artistic development, called 'Family Tree'. It features sketches of his key works along interweaving, mind-map style timelines. To me, this seems to chart a journey of art profoundly shaped by nature, morphing into an expression of mankind's desire to shape and controlnature.


Clearly, there are callbacks to earlier structures, but overall the pieces seem to become more rigid, industrial, imposing, with more control, even violence against the materials. It seems timely, then, to contain this wooden universe within a bright, artificial, almost brutalist environment - and fascinating to see how well the two worlds mesh.

To this end, rather than focus my camera on individual pieces, I wanted to give you some idea of the 'hang' - I think the Towner has made brilliant use of its spaces, particularly in the cavernous ground floor area, where Nash's towers feel right at home. Many of the sculptures interact not only with the environment but also each other, echoing shapes and shadows.

I hope you enjoy these photos, and that they'll move as many of you as possible towards catching the exhibition before it closes on 2 February - more details on the Towner website, here.

*
























Thursday, 2 January 2020

Retrospecstive 2019: live


Happy new year!

Following my previous post rounding up my favourite recordings of last year, here is a run-through my 'live' highlights - that is, concerts, operas and exhibitions.

Just for variety, I thought I'd attempt another video entry: so please take a pew and press play if you have a short while to spend with an enthusiastic techno-bumpkin armed with some paper and a hat...

I look forward to sharing and writing about more music and art in 2020 - I hope you'll join me!