Cathedrals of industry

I took this double-exposure image on a recent visit to an exhibition in the roof space at Salts Mill. The vast spaces up there always inspire me as much as whatever event I've gone to see. The roof trusses remind me of the arches in cathedrals. This one, made of wood and iron, was leaking a rust stain down the stone wall. I've overlaid it with a rather battered and random piece of metal gridwork I found, screwed to the wall and fashioned as though it were small shelves or a rack, though for what purpose I have no idea.  

It got me thinking that, in their own way, our northern textile mills, these relics of the Industrial Revolution, were truly 'the cathedrals of industry'. I'm glad that some, like Salts Mill, are able to be preserved and appreciated for their scale and the quality of the work that went into the buildings themselves, not to mention the craftmanship of the machinery (like spinning machines and looms) that filled them - and the fine fabrics they ultimately produced in large quantities.

'And no bobbins and spindles and shuttles are left

Where weavers once tended the warp and the weft

To fettle to fabric with fine-spun thin threads

But axes have fallen and silenced the sheds.'       C Richard Miles

'A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.'   Antoine de Saint-Exupery

(For 'rock pile', please read 'textile mill'.) 

'I went and looked at one of these great cathedrals one day, and I was blown away by it. From there I became interested in how cathedrals were built, and from there I became interested in the society that built the medieval cathedral. It occurred to me at some point that the story of the building of a cathedral could be a great popular novel.'    Ken Follett

The story of the building of Sir Titus Salt's great mill and his village of Saltaire is told many times in many books - though I don't know of a novel yet. And what a story it is; what a legacy he left us!

'Beauty is not generic, bland, and clinical. It isn't all things to all people. The Cathedral of Notre Dame in its endlessly intricate detail was beautiful. Modern office buildings are not.'   Michael J. Knowles

One of the aspects of Salts Mill that continually blows my mind is the elaborate detail that adorns it. The Victorians were never interested in utilitarian architecture. These buildings were statements about their founders, in a way that our bland modern office blocks are not. 

'For me, the reason why people go to a mountaintop or go to the edge of the ocean is to look at something larger than themselves. That feeling of awe, of going to a cathedral, it's all about feeling lost in something bigger than oneself. To me, that's the definition of spectacle.'  Diane Paulus

'But the first step inside, and a silent gasp -

it's bigger inside than outside...

and the sound of your steps soars to the high

indescribably glorious roof like a

small bird looking for an escape....

and you feel an intruder into the space of history

waiting for you to find your place.'   Michael Shepherd

Broody!

My Facebook feed throws up all sorts of enticing things (as well as stuff that I would never be interested in - and some things where I can't even begin to imagine what they are!) Today it excelled, with a whole piece about a company closing down and getting rid of its stock of Waldorf dolls. Now, I'm sad that so many small businesses seem to be closing (and don't get me going on a political rant!) But all these dolls needing homes.... 😢 Aww. I almost ordered up the whole lot! 

I have to confess I'm a sucker for dolls and always have been. I still have two or three, that belonged either to me or to my daughter. I have of course, as an involved gran, supplied a number of dolls to both my granddaughters at various times, one of which happened to be a Waldorf doll. (They have minimal features and natural materials and are supposed to be designed so that a child can project their imagination onto them.)  Perhaps strangely, the girls never really seemed to 'take' to dolls for very long. The cuddly toys that have had lasting impact for them have always been of an animal kind - dogs, cats, even monkeys and sloths have been carted around until their fabric has worn thin. Even my daughter favoured a large stuffed Eeyore character that one of my friends made for her when she was born. I think it is still just about 'alive and kicking' in their house somewhere. 

So, no more dolls, though I was truly tempted by these adorable munchkins. (That little moppet in the blue hat, with the rabbit... 😍😍😍)

Out of the mouths of babes

When I was in my early twenties, I went to dinner at some friend's house and we ate from a delightful assortment of mismatched blue and white china. I thought it was really cool and decided that 'one day' I'd have the same. Given that we'd just been gifted a matching service of fine china as a wedding present, needless to say, I never even started a collection. Nevertheless the dream persisted in the back of my mind. Fast forward nearly fifty years to when I retired... I was idly reviewing my 'life goals' (as you do!), and I was reminded that this dream still wasn't a reality, though in the scheme of things it seemed eminently achievable. So I went off to Boundary Mills, which has a wonderful department chock full of all makes of china. I bought myself a small selection of Spode 'Blue Italian' plates and mugs and some blue and white bowls and plates from other manufacturers. Since then, I've added a few more pieces, including a rather lovely Japanese bowl. So, at last, my little private dream has come true, at least when I'm dining alone. (There isn't enough to spread around several guests.) In some small way, it gives me a great deal of pleasure. 

Or at least, it did.... My granddaughters came to visit and, now they are fairly well grown, they have graduated from the IKEA plastic dishes and plates that they used to use. So they were given food on a couple of my Spode plates. Having polished off her meal, my eldest grandgirl was studying the picture on the plate. Suddenly, she exclaimed, with horror in her voice: 'There is a picture of a man beating a woman!' Could this be true? How had I not seen this? On close inspection of the pattern, I can see exactly what she means. I had, I suppose, assumed (inasmuch as I'd ever really thought about it) that the couple were chasing the cattle or whatever the animals are that appear to have strayed into the water. Now she has put the domestic abuse scenario into my head, I can't really shake the notion off. It would be a lie to say this has completely spoiled my little, personal, long-held dream but it certainly gave it a knock! 

Family fun

Fun in the park after Hebden Bridge's Handmade Parade. I'm posting some photos of the parade itself on my main blog. These pictures were taken in Calder Holmes Park at the end of the parade, when we met up with family and friends. There were some food stalls and the music/rhythm carried on, with a performance by the Drum Machine collective. Down in the park it was actually quite chilly, with a keen wind, but the children were racing around with their friends and seemed mostly oblivious to the cold. 

When I see how settled and happy they are in Hebden Bridge, I am so thankful that they made the move up from London a few years ago. It's a compact town in a narrow valley and they are surrounded by a close and creative community. The girls go to a small primary school, literally just across the road from where they live. With many of their close friends living within walking distance of their house, it's a supportive and close-knit neighbourhood. They have chance to get involved in activities that are happening in the town, where there is plenty going on. I'm really grateful they have such good friends, with all the enjoyment and support that that provides.  

Cut flowers

As everything increases in price, it feels rather an indulgence to buy myself cut flowers. They feel like a real luxury and hardly something that can be justified. I was, therefore, delighted to receive a large bouquet of alstroemerias the other day from a thoughtful friend. They arrived in bud and looked quite a dark red but with water, light and warmth (not that my sitting room is that warm, it has to be said!) the blooms have unfurled and in the light they are the most vibrant, rich purple. I love how the individual flowers always have a pattern of spots inside, making them look rather exotic. Quite honestly, I think these are one of my favourite cut flowers and, with luck, they should last a decent while, to be enjoyed. Perhaps the pleasure I get from such small, unnecessary purchases justifies the expense? Good coffee, good chocolate, cut flowers and perfume are my cheer-me up extravagances. Oh - and books! 😉😂

Cloud Inversion

I'm thrilled to have this hanging on the wall in my kitchen-diner. It's a hand-finished, limited edition print: 'Cloud Inversion', by the Hebden Bridge-based artist, Kate Lycett. I've admired her work for a long time, and have enjoyed seeing her finding her style over the years and creating work with an increasingly sure touch. She originally trained as a textile designer and you can still see that influence in her work, with soft inks and gouache overlaid by characteristic embellishments and the use of gold thread and gold leaf. You can just about see from my photo how the patches of gold leaf catch the light so that the print shimmers and changes as you move around it. I absolutely love it! I never thought I'd be lucky enough to own one of her larger prints, though I have cards and a beautiful book already. This was a gift for my 70th birthday - print edition 70/150. I am delighted with it.  

On the back it has this note from the artist:

That makes the scene even more special as this place is just across the valley from where my daughter lives. 

In memoriam

I came across this beautiful bouquet of roses on a bench on Shipley Glen, no doubt intended as a memorial to one of the people named on the bench. It struck me as an extravagant gesture and made me wonder about the nature of love and loss. 

One of my early memories is visiting the town's cemetery with my mother, to lay flowers at the grave of her mother, who died just before I was born. I know it was a heart-breaking and life-changing loss for my mother. I don't think she ever really got over it. It may even have been a factor in my parents buying a plot of land right beside the cemetery, where they built their home. The flower-leaving habit gradually diminished and, as far as I recall, other members of the family (including my mother's father) were cremated, though my grandad's name was added to the gravestone where his wife was buried. 

Then my parents were both cremated and the only tangible memorial to them is entries in the Book of Remembrance at the local crematorium. My mother wished to scatter my father's ashes in the crematorium grounds, within sight of our family home - and, out of respect, my sister and I took my mother's ashes to the same spot. My sister then went up there every year for a few years, to mark the anniversary. I (emphatically) did not. To be honest, it wasn't something that really meant anything to me and I sometimes wonder why not? Am I odd or unfeeling? I'm pretty sure I'm not but, despite (or perhaps because of?) professing to be a Christian, I feel sure that after death a person's body doesn't have any meaning. My memories are there in my mind and places are not that significant. 

That doesn't stop me being curious to (re)visit 'family places' or to photograph significant things, and I am hugely enjoying researching our family tree, which activity in itself feels often like honouring those who went before and to whom, collectively, I owe my existence. But I don't feel any sense of loss or of trying consciously to illuminate or heal anything, in doing so. 

Perhaps the greatest loss I feel I've suffered - thus far, and thankfully - was my marriage break-up, a long time ago now. I once read a quote from Madeleine Albright, former US Secretary of State in Clinton's administration. She said: 'Divorce has been catastrophic in my life. It would have been easier if he'd died.' That so sums up my own feelings, though I have largely and successfully worked this through to a place where I am at mostly ease with myself and don't really think a great deal about it (or him) any more. Perhaps if he had died, almost certainly if my child had died, I'd want rituals and flower-leaving to help deal with the loss. I can only hope that whoever left the beautiful yellow roses did feel it helped.