by Michael Angus | Dec 7, 2020 | Blog
Who might testify – and with conviction, testify – that (one of) their fondest memories would (willingly) include those memories from childhood, of hearing fairy-tales? I know I would.
Like the tales themselves, though originating from long, long ago, I delight that these memories despite being distant, resonate deeply yet, and, more so, positively – for they are embedded in such magical times, not least because fairy tales then were categorically assured of certain guaranteed facts: that dreams could come true – as they so truly were, in those fairy-tales as told – and, that everyone would live happily ever after……
Both facts were true, then, and once upon a time – but time passed, and at some point, doubt pervaded, and of such persuasion borne of life-experience as to cast a pall on such gorgeous reminiscing, and to sully the memory: that maybe even then, as it is now, it was but a dream, and that any fairly-tale was only that, a tale; it was not real, nor was it ever – and everyone would not always live, happily ever after…….
But quietly nestled behind an innocuous rough stone facade, a home exists as strident antidote to that insidious doubt – for it has made the dream real……and, as is the case with fairy-tales, it has been made from unlikely sources, fashioned from little more than pots of paint and a passion for junk shops, mixed together with a heady and vibrant imagination.
From the outside one would never guess of the exotic secret kept within. Two doors brightly coloured, one pink, one warm blue, indicate frivolity…..but still, by being two, the secret is safe: for if one had been uncoloured and left ‘normal’, then undue attention would have been drawn to the remaining coloured one. It would have been too much, and would have inferred, and obviously so, its internal intention (for this was hardly a place that warranted nor endorsed outward displays of exuberant colour…say for example that one door had been pink, it would not be hard to imagine the opening line of a fairy-tale: ‘Once upon a time there was a little town, made of buildings dull and stark – except for one, which though as predominantly banal and bereft of passion as any other, exhibited something unique to it alone: colour – in the form of a front door painted a peculiar pink of shocking prettiness…..’ )
But by two doors being so coloured, no such interpretation could be made – an impression reinforced by a bike and a bench, so distinct from each other, being disposed on either side and lacking that self-same sense of collaborative composition indicated by the coloured doors. No – there was nothing further to see. This was just two houses ‘having a moment’. Within would persist as within should, as indicative of the town as a whole: nothing fancy……
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This however all transpired to be a complicit ruse – for one house was in fact wondrous within, and more so really than any home has any right to be. For the inside was indeed, a fairy tale ….
The emblems were everywhere, as soon as one passed through the threshold….roses in particular, that doubtless if touched, their thorns would prick and render the injured to sleep forever until such time as a charming prince would come to the rescue. One could almost see the Disney-esque cartoons skipping through the rooms; one would not have been surprised if the furniture talked; and all the ornaments, the fabrics, and pictures and mirrors – doubtless all come alive when the house is empty…..and inevitably, a castle was also present – for it was pointed out that this home was known to have links to the castle …… but what castle? No actual castle was evident. One can only assume it was an invented castle, a castle that shadows so many fairy tales wherein dragons loiter in the basement, and princesses sleeping or possessing the longest pleated fair hair are imprisoned seemingly hopelessly in spikey turrets silhouetted high and inaccessible against stormy dark and troubling skies. There were enough hints in the darkened living room to make convincing argument that this was indeed the case ….and even if the basement were only perceived to host such dungeon-esque qualities, unquestionably as one moved up through the house, the colours lightened, as if one were stepping into some sort of heavenly ascendance….implying, surely, that this tale will indeed end happily….
It may not be true, this interpretation of this home as a manifest fairy-tale – but this interpretation is mine, and true to me. It is my dream…… it is quite something therefore, to know that a house truly exists wherein dreams do come true……and I do not think it such a stretch to imagine it as such; I would even wish it so, for how remarkable it is to have visited a home, wherein even such an interpretation could even be considered. That in and of itself is a worthy dream……
Michael Angus (Nov 2020)
by Michael Angus | Nov 30, 2020 | Blog
Of Episode 3, my thoughts, after the filming, returned inevitably to the conversion in Park Circus. Park Circus – it was built at a time when Glasgow, evidently was exhibiting a degree of confidence arguably not seen since – and that confidence both predominates and persists: when approaching the townhouse on Park Terrace one couldn’t help but feel awed by the quality and scale of the sandstone facade, curving elegantly away, whilst forever maintaining a watchful gaze, securely outwards and unashamedly proud over Kelvingrove Park and beyond, towards the silhouetted University crowning the hill opposite.
Searching for a suitable adjective, stolidity impressed itself upon me – for of all the adjectives one might employ, stolidity surely is the one most applicable, as regards the external impression of this most magnificent architectural undertaking. Stolidity…..inferring a reassuring sense of permanence. The sandstone seemed hardly aged, the lifestyle within surely as potent, befitting the grandeur of the exterior: purposeful, and as pertinent?
But – on entering, I was struck by an overriding impression: that I had entered a tomb…..
The entrance hallway, though as grand as one might expect, and indeed as awe inspiring as implied by the outside, was nevertheless hollow. It was made dark, seemingly as if light had absented itself, failing to find any empathic reason to linger; and the hall echoed as cathedrals echo, imposing on one a weight of intangible origin. On its wall, friezes impressed, by the very fact of their existence – but though stirring, were faded and as indistinct as shadows can be, despite the warmth of their tones and subject matter. They exerted a characteristic that predominated, for altogether, the hallway reeked of desolation: because clearly, at one time this place must have been heartily fulsome – yet now, it was not. Apparently abandoned, it felt cold, and as unnaturally so as death can be.
The interpretation made of external façade dissolved, abruptly. Evidently, it had been nothing more than that; an interpretation, mistakenly made – for it was a pretence, and a desperate pretence at that. I wondered, and it might be fancy yet, if I had espied more cracks in that elegant facade than I had cared to notice, so complicit was I in the buildings effort to appear as resolute.
For suddenly, that reassurance was suspect; that permanence, a dubious claim – and if that permanence implicitly implied by the grandeur of the outside, and reinforced by the voluminous proportions of the interior hall; if that rationale, and all that confidence, suitably grounded, that had engineered the creation of this magnificent architectural undertaking; if all that security subsequently established by and within the correct order of things so manifested; if all this worthiness was so suddenly revealed to be reduced to nothing more tangible than a mute, fading memory, how then could this be a home, anymore? For is not that true that home must above all things persist, beyond and before us?
If so, would it not be better that this building be reduced to rubble than to stand in such falsity, demeaning to its inherent grace? If this home is voided of its purpose, then surely it should buried in dignity than left to crumble, and it’s worth, so abandoned to be disclosed inevitably as might a guilty secret unseemly discovered and displayed for consumption in garish tabloid manner?
Such was the pathos riddled sadness that filled those short, dusky coloured moments, as I loitered in the entrance hall; wherein I might have withered had it not been for the gift of knowledge, of what might yet come. I feigned delight; moving forwards, I settled momentarily beneath the once proud centrepiece of this townhouse: the stairs – and by their lingering elegance, hope flickered, hopefully…..and then burst bright and golden, from the first the moment of entering the flat conversion…..
Nothing is devoid of association, and in turn, if true, all things must make an impression, whether delightful through to critical, and ultimately dismissal…..the cacophony is endless, of thoughts derived from what one sees around oneself. How many such thoughts draped themselves upon me in that instant of entering I could not say – but there were hardly few. Things, abounded, each demanding its place; so, so many, many things. I have seen such things before, accoutrements of life, and so gathered, one impinging upon the other; I’ve been assaulted by abundance. But this was an abundant abundance – and I could not say: over-abundant, because, unlike the stacked junk shop, or the cluttered unused backrooms, or nearly filled attic, this building could accommodate such an outpouring. It was like entering an Aladdin’s cave, like discovering the hidden treasure, finally, and despite the cynicism of detractors of quest. It literally, took one’s breath away, so richly hued was the abundance, of things……
But as I reflect now upon it, I realise that there was some further abundance than that so transparently on display. There was a blessing being made, within this conversion, and it was a blessing for this townhouse as a whole, to have been gifted within its walls, and be party to such a level of heartfelt investment. From the hall it was clear that the life that had once imbued this townhouse was gone; long gone. That the townhouse had been sub-divided into apartments (and so brutally executed) only confirmed this bitter understanding: that its glory days were over…..and yet, here within this converted flat, an oasis had been created. A paradise, paraded in the form of furnishings, pictures, and objects, objet, relics, and ornaments, each tempered exotic…..but, what of these, things? So what, if a room is filled so?
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Though they delighted, it was not these things which impacted upon me, as much as the golden sculpted embellishments which proliferated, on the cornices. Inevitably the height of the rooms drew the eye, upwards, and so satisfactorily so, to witness such investment. Gratifying, indeed: for to fill ones home, abundantly is one thing; to impart abundance by the patient and tenacious application of one’s own hand – and at such height, and in acceptance of and with due diligence to the incredible intricacies of cornices (being conspicuously intransigent elements of the original building) – that inferred an abundance beyond, that not only embellished, but restored.
And I recalled that I had seen glance of such golden embellishments restoring high in the entrance hall…..
What strikes me now, is that factor which exemplifies this property more so than any other: not the investment made within the confines of the owners property, but rather that investment permeated out, to infer new life into the whole townhouse. Tentatively for sure, but nonetheless, one could not help but be both impressed and inspired by the efforts of an individual to breathe life back into a building teetering on the brink of extinction; and more so: to notice that this was indeed the case – to see behind the proud stoic facade and take note where others may not: that care was, despite appearances, so desperately needed here…..not just for ones own domain, as might be determined by legality and conveyance, but applied as and where the demand exists, even if without ones grounds.
To care so….literally, out-with one’s comfort zone….
These reflections provoke thoughts, not entirely rounded, nor concluded, and drift into meanderings that require time to settle. So – if these reflections do not quite rally, then it is only because this home invited considerations of matters that remain, even now, in germination. To end then with beginnings: if home does not allow one the opportunity to reveal ones deepest vulnerabilities in safety, then that surely is not truly a home…… and ones capacity to express care, so openly, and leaving one so exposed and yet, so secure, as is the case here….how would one measure this home?
And, more so, if a home allows one to discover care, again, the ability to care, where there was once, only loss; to become a place of iterative restoration, is that not a home, truly, a home, tested, and found not to be wanting in that most profound capacity: to be stolid, by provision of solace?
They say, home is where the heart is – it’s some home, that has made that heart, silenced, beat again.
Michael Angus (Nov 2020)
by Michael Angus | Nov 24, 2020 | Blog
I’ve swithered, and to be honest, prevaricated somewhat, on what the focus should be of this second SHOTY reflection, basically as to whether the attention should be on the winning finalist, the Manse …..not because I was in a huff (!) – there are astounding aspects to this finalist, it’s decor most of all – rather, because the specific circumstances provoking the need for judgement of the draw, invite further reflection more so on the on the debate than the outcome, and the actual winner.
The winner – is a rather difficult term, when associated with the programmes process, generally, for it implies a hierarchical evaluation; and we, the team, and the three judges, have from the outset acknowledged that all the homes submitted are already winners. Nevertheless, the debate in this episode demanded that one be selected, of the two tied; and somehow, the debate highlighted some objective peculiarities which ultimately might help the discernment of exactly why some homes are in fact, better than others, beyond the subjective.
So – speaking of the subjective – my personal preference was the Church conversion. Not because it was objectively better than the Manse, but because the Manse was, in my opinion, worse – and this was all down to personal taste: I could not live with the over-exuberant décor. Although I could appreciate the intention, and the quality by which the interior had been executed it was to me cacophony none the less. I would have had to completely re-decorate and re-furnish – to do so, I would have to strip everything away, and I’d be left then with a shell of a Manse. A challenge, admittedly – but hadn’t the Church conversion had taken on challenges considerably greater? By even just the obvious practicalities, the remoteness of its location, by the absence of services; the buildings condition? Credit due, therefore: the Church conversion already, more meritorious than the Manse conversion, on account of the difficulty of initial circumstances.
Unfortunately, however, if I had lived in the Church, once converted, I would have had to do the same as with the Manse: I would have to re-decorate and re-furnish……for its décor and furnishings were, once again in my subjective opinion, by comparison not cacophonous enough. The space created demanded more……
So – either way therefore, I would be left with a shell, and an inherited one at that – and therein lies perhaps the troubling heart of the debate: the question of value, once purpose has been served; and too, the ability to appropriately appropriate.
Of those two inherited shells, both would forever resonate, though hardly equitably. The Manse was always a home; it is not difficult to imagine that it could continue to be a home still – but, as for the Church? Could one ever truly live in a building so immutably created for a purpose otherwise, and especially one so imbued: a house of ‘God’, as opposed to a home for ‘Man’? One could of course remove the iconography that identifies the Church, as Church. But what then the point, and then there’s the issue of respect: the conversion of Church demands, somehow, that the trappings that make it so are retained (in this case specifically the lancet windows, and the voluminous centre). Conundrum compounds conundrum – for by doing so, this respect due to the built fabric constrains from the outset the making of a home, to be so constricted by both form and fenestration; not to mention the endless echoes that would forever permeate: doubtless, the prayers previously intoned would continually seep out of the walls and flavour the living, whether welcome or not.
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The question remains then, whether it is ever appropriate to re-inhabit a building, devoid of its original use, a concern which applies when any building typology is re-inhabited. One would balk at the prospect of storing wine in a coffee pot, whilst pouring coffee from a wine bottle; what difference a building? Even the re-inhabiting a building of the same typology can provoke subtle troubling concerns, in the same way as one might shudder at wearing clothes of the departed. But here, we have a situation that demands the question: is it appropriate, to so undermine the intentions of a building, designed, created, and maintained in the service of one unique activity, by adapting it to suit another, an alternate, and as unique, activity?
The conclusion is perhaps unavoidable: that it is not appropriate – and furthermore, the outcome of the debate, and the outcome too, of which one of these two finalists is a winner, is pre-determined, and inevitable: it is the Manse, it has to be – for there is in fact no debate: the Manse was once a home, and therefore can continue to act so (despite the inevitable, though minimal seepage). The Church, on the other hand, was a Church – and always will be a Church, no matter how hard one might try to convert it otherwise. Its faith is simply too strong; it is too imbedded, and too demanding to be heard – and no amount of wallpaper could ever silence, though gentle, its persistent cacophony.
It is categorically worth re-iterating, that had no debate been warranted, the Manse, independently, displayed characteristics in which it excelled, as home, inside and out. It was stunning, memorable, and of innumerable merits which in their own right welcome due acknowledgment and inspire consideration as much as this debate might.
As for the debate itself ……that’s just a matter of my opinion……
Michael Angus (Nov 2020)
by Michael Angus | May 7, 2018 | Blog
The topic for this weeks Sunday Post has been eluding me – not because there’s nothing to say; rather because there’s too much …. it seems to be coming true, the expectation, that once the posting got started again, it would not stop …. fitting really, I suppose, as metaphorical reiteration of the commonly misunderstood fact/s re grief: that one ‘gets over’ it, that one ‘moves on’, that one ‘heals’ ….. I can’t speak for ‘natural’ grief, but as for the ‘un-natural’, both experience and research is confirming the inaccuracy of such perceptions. I’m not ‘moving on’, I’m learning to live with my grief, adapting and growing – I was about to say: ‘within its constrictions’, but I am discovering that though there are definitely limiters, there are also stimuli which are effecting a surprising and therefore curious sense of release and freedom…. it’s called ‘hope’, I think; hope, unbridled, which is proving to be a rather heady tonic.
I didn’t see that coming …..but then again, why would I? No-one preps you for this….
This week I was invited to be panellist on the BBC Radio Scotland Steven Jardine Show to share experience of ‘bereavement and the workplace.’ The invite came hard upon another event recently attended: a conference organised by the ‘Scottish partnership for palliative care’ (Good Life/Good Grief/Good Grief)’.
Both events were focussed on differing aspects of loss – nevertheless I could not help but feel heartened by the very fact of their occurrence. Within both events the (increasingly familiar) point was made, that bereavement will affect everyone, but it is a misunderstood phenomenon, extensively and both culturally and individually.
This ignorance, iteratively enhanced, only breeds additional distress, to which I can most certainly attest – which I suppose is one reason why I write. There is an implicit desire to explain all of this; though it may be cathartic there is an increasing sense of responsibility, to inform ….
When I was at the conference I was explaining to a delegate, about the circumstances of Christopher’s death and the subsequent support, or lack of rather – and I was kindly asked: ‘what would have helped?’ This question is provoking a considerable amount of reflection, but critically, there’s one thing above all else that comes to the fore: ‘knowledge’.
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I’d been wondering this week what to write about – but I don’t suppose I need ever wonder. I’m writing about grief …….contributing, I hope, to an ever expanding body of knowledge, for though this may not be a particularly pleasant topic, ignorance of it is not in this case, bliss.
Song for the moment: ‘Blinded by the Light’ by Manfred Mann’s Earth Band.
Love to all,
Mx
by Michael Angus | May 7, 2018 | Blog
Training for Grand Canyon Trek in April has picked up dramatically. Doubled in fact, from the previous month – to 14,900 steps (that’s 74.5 miles by my simplified reckoning….)
The single greatest contributor was the (Glasgow) Kiltwalk, 23 miles in a day …. funny the things one gets disappointed about, I’d thought it was 26 miles, I was hoping to break my record (and finally complete a marathon…) – that challenge shall have to wait, therefore.
It was nevertheless, a remarkable day – to be walking alongside 10,000 people all out earning blisters for charity. I wasn’t in the best of moods on the day itself, but there’s not much I can do about the blues invasion – so it certainly didn’t hurt, to push the blues down into a shameful hole. Feeling modestly proud therefore (if such a feeling is possible) to have kiltwalked and to have covered significantly more ground this month, even without the Kiltwalk.
Such is the value of putting things in the diary – keeps the motivation motivated…it’s been a good month, getting things moving again. Got the delightful achy leg feeling back …. muscles being tested, and stretched, but the real plus is: that the mind can’t help but go along for the ride. The endorphins cannot and never do hurt…..
Next month, plan is to keep the training rate at least in the 1000 steps bracket, prep for next training Trek in June: Hadrian’s Wall.
All for a good cause: Glasgow Children’s Hospital Charity.
If you wish to donate you can do so securely at: https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/michael-angus2
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All funds raised go to the Christopher Angus Fund, supporting initiatives in the cardiology unit of the Royal Hospital for Children.
Training song for the month: ‘5.15’ by The Who (training…gettit?)
Love to all,
Mx
by Michael Angus | May 7, 2018 | Blog
Lately I’ve been rather consumed (even more so than usual…..) with a piece of music that changed my life: ‘Tommy’ by The Who.
This consumption has been provoked by (finally) getting an opportunity to play it live, and in its entirety – with a sterling bunch of fellow Who fans, in our band: ‘The Substitutes’.
It’s actually harder to play than expected, much harder than it is to listen to (- so often the case!): to remember the length of bars, the structure, the changes…… it’s getting there though; and it’s definitely getting me fitter in the process: trying to play like Keith Moon for hours at a time is unquestionably, a workout.
I suppose I could sit back, and coast – but that’s never been my musical nature, I never learnt the art of compromise in playing music, not in drumming. It’s an anathema in rock music anyway, coasting, and most decidedly when playing the Who – the ‘all or nothing’ rule applies; if no passion, no point – and there’s scope for performing with a passion totally unfettered when playing ‘Tommy’.
It’s seriously powerful stuff………musically, emotionally, and personally …..
Something about the central themes of ‘Tommy’ resonated from the very first time of hearing it – the ‘inner search’, the isolation from others, the appeal for understanding, the revelation of vulnerability, the desire to connect, the discovery of unquestionable truth….. I could never have predicted that such themes should become a tangible reality in my own life.
The premise of the narrative for those that don’t know, is that a child is traumatised, and as such becomes emotionally distanced from real life, manifested physically by becoming (apparently) deaf, dumb and blind – but ‘his eyes can see, his ears can hear, his lips, speak’, there is in fact no actual loss of sensory capability, there is only withdrawal – until such time as an act of rage shatters the illusion; the mirror is broken provoking, dramatically, a sudden release and re-birth….but then folly ensues. Though well meaning, misguided appropriation of the newly found knowledge, as means to enlighten others, leads to dissent, revolution – and ultimately, redemption: from the ruination comes a re-affirmation of the core truth…..
Your fairly typical late 60’s pop album then….we’ll, maybe not. It’s hardly a lightweight in its overarching thematic aspirations – and delves into topics that would most likely be stalled contemporarily, of abuse, physically and psychologically ….but what I now find so remarkable, is how accurately trauma is portrayed. I could never have appreciated this accuracy had trauma not featured so recently in my life …. it’s capacity to isolate, and to disable sense and reason.
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I know in the year succeeding Christopher’s death I walked and talked, slept and ate, went to work and applied myself; I functioned basically – but I have virtually no recollection of any of this …. this period of time is all a blur. What I can remember are only snapshots, surreal and fleeting memories as if from a dream. I have no sense of hearing, seeing, or feeling, other than a crippling sense of compression and distance.
Tommys release from such a state is effected by a deliberate and enforced act … my shifts of comprehension have been effected much less dramatically, my mirrors smashed as of in slow motion – but the realisation of more profound truths no less of an epiphany, the re-birthing, as astounding and total….and the subsequent search for meaning, so prevalent at the albums centre, undeniably paralleled.
I can only be grateful to the author – to have scribed such a piece of work; but more so, to have presented so openly, what are obviously deeply, deeply felt concerns, and feelings which are in fact staggeringly raw – and seem ever more so now, witnessed as they are through eyes and ears subjected since to the worst of life circumstance.
Such it seems to me, is the value of words…. and put to such music…. but words, more than anything, derived and arranged so as to reveal, and by doing so, explain the inexplicable….and thereby, comfort. If we none of us shared, our isolation would be both enhanced and consolidated – and as mentioned previously, isolation is the last thing I need, (especially not if effected by duress…. as it was, with Tommy.)
I’m tempted therefore to cite ‘1921’ as the song for the week, in acknowledgement of the undue and negative influence of others….but I think not. Going to go with ‘I Can’t Explain’, by The Who of course ….. where it all began.
The Substitutes set starts with this song …..we’re described as a tribute act, but it’s definitely no act…..
Love to all,
Mx
