‘And did the countenance divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among those dark Satanic mills?”
That’s quite a mosaic of madness there, comprising a tapestry of transcendent terror, from the deathly pall of a blossoming mushroom cloud through Rubens beefy original sin, by way of Jattault’s lord of the flies, to the gnarled toes of Grunewald’s Corpus Christi and the feeding trough in Jonestown. It’s all there, a visual totem that could redouble as a mood board for the nations psyche, but actually depicts all my artistic preoccupations for a year that has been creatively fulfilling and parochially foreboding.
Welcome relief then, as I prepare myself to return to Old Blighty for the holidays.
Of the many gifts my life has been blessed with this year, the greatest of them all will be meeting my beautiful grandson -Atticus for the first time. Because any legacy I could hope to leave, shrinks in the great shadow of that one.
As it should.
Which just leaves me with the wish that your Solstice be filled to the brim with love and libation, and the hope that along with prosperity and health, the coming year brings lucidity and accord.