It’s a very complex balancing act obviously. Everyone wants their particular sphere of life to be returned to normal with immediate affect although nobody seems clear on what will now constitute normal. But nobody, it’s plain to say. wants to provoke a return to hundreds of deaths a day and a living hell in our hospitals.
So it’s all a bit step by step and, though there has been nothing specific for the church community for a few weeks, there’s been an announcement which has lifted my spirits quite a bit. The doors of or art galleries are being gradually opened and the treasures within made accessible once more.
Religion and art art closely linked, as are religion and music but the latter’s return in a performance context may take a few months yet. I have long been as much a devotee of wandering the galleries as I have of gazing in rapture at the inside of cathedrals. There’s a similarity in the two I understand, and I have missed both much more than I ever imagined I would while they’ve been off-limits.
The first real sign that Coronavirus and the lockdown were real came back at the start of the crisis when it became apparent that the ticket I’d bought to see the Titian exhibition at the National Gallery was not going to be used and I had to cross the long-awaited date from my diary. I did take up the offer of of the TV guided tour with the splendid Mary Beard, but, joyous though it was, it was not like actually being there in front of these masterworks.
The exhibition has now been extended but when you factor in using public transport, having to wear a mask for a prolonged period and being ushered round a one-way system to view the paintings it’s a long way from the leisurely hours of rapt contemplation I had planned for myself.
Perhaps I shall wait until another few steps back toward less controlled normality have been taken. Then I’ll be able to stand for a long time, as I always do, in front of my favourite painting - Carlo Crivelli’s splendid depiction of the annunciation, the exact moment the Almighty changed forever the life of ordinary housewife Mary.
I love it for its style and detail and the fact that it’s a riot of colour, but I always pick on two things that grab me most. One is the fabulous bolt of pure gold coming out of the clouds, sneaking through the tiniest aperture in the outer wall of Mary’s room before smacking the (un)fortunate woman straight on the head. For those of us who spent our younger years drawing football pictures or reading football comics, it’s the long-range shot to cap them all. Nowadays it would be a wonder even in the pinpoint world of Hawkeye.
The second noteworthy element of Crivelli’s canvas is the fact that this inspired bolt from the blue is witnessed by two people - one a man shielding his eyes from the brilliance, the other a young girl who just happened to be there. As someone who has served 32 years in local newspapers, I can’t help but ponder the eye-witness interviews I could have scooped to go with on-the-spot reports (we would have had to wait a lot longer that 32 years for the paint to dry on the picture obviously).
The days of being at liberty to gaze on pictures or wonder at the construction of galleries and cathedrals still seem a way off. But each small step taken brings them a tiny bit closer and that is sometimes enough to keep us going.
