Areopagus Volume LXI

Welcome one and all to the sixty first volume of the Areopagus. Given the extraordinary patience which you have shown in dealing with, over the last fortnight, not only one but two atypical and extended instalments of the Areopagus, I have decided that today we really must get back to basics. So, for your brief enjoyment but lasting interest and use, my Gentle Readers, I present an abbreviated edition of the Areopagus. Concision is the buzzword today.

But first, to open our minds and hearts, we turn to that great mystic poet of the 13th century: Jalāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī. Usually, of course, simply known as Rumi:

"To turn with laughter on our phantom griefs" An image — an idea! — of such power and solicitude. Duly brought to our higher faculties by the endless and ever so briefly stated wisdom of Rumi, then, let the seven short lessons commence...

I - Classical Music

Canon and Gigue in D Minor

Johann Pachelbel (late 17th/early 18th century)

Performed by Henk Bouman, Reinhard Goebel, & Musica Antiqua Köln
​Entry of the Venetian Ambassador to London by Luca Carlevarijs (1707)

Here are some things you perhaps did not know about what might be the world's most popular piece of classical music. First of all — we don't know exactly when it was composed, because there is no surviving original manuscript or any relevant records. And, secondly, like so much great music, it endured a centuries-long sleep. The Canon in D Minor was only published for the first time in 1919 and its initial recording came in 1940. In 1968 it was recorded again by Jean-François Paillard. This, though a version rather different from Pachelbel's actual music, skyrocketed the piece to international fame. Now, as the old joke goes, one cannot attend a wedding without hearing Pachelbel's Canon, not to mention the myriad ways in which it even shaped pop music during the 20th century.

But what you are listening to here is a version recorded with Baroque instruments and, crucially, played according to Pachelbel's faster original tempo, rather than the slower one to which we have become accustomed. Which do you prefer? By way of conclusion it's worth asking what a "canon" or "gigue" actually are. The canon is a musical genre with Medieval origins in which an opening melody is repeated after a specified time interval, perhaps with different instruments or a different pitch — or not! Listen to Pachelbel's Canon and you will hear these melodies building up atop one another. No wonder it appealed to the imagination of Baroque Era composers like Pachelbel and Bach, what with its mathematical precision and clockwork-like unfolding of a single tune into a larger piece of music. The gigue, meanwhile, was a form of dance popular in the 17th century. That's the lively section we hear at the end of this piece.

Oh, and Pachelbel was born exactly 370 years ago today — Alles Gute zum Geburtstag, Johann!

Interlude

We interrupt your programme, as they used to say in broadcast television, for a quick aside. I simply wish to remind you that next week, on the 6th September, I'll be doing a live workshop with David Perell from Write of Passage about building an audience and writing online. I will share all that I have learned in the last year of writing on X (formerly Twitter) and in curating this newsletter. This should be both interesting and, primarily, useful for anybody who is already doing or wants to do something similar. You can sign up here.​

Oh, and if you have any specific questions you'd like me to answer, email me and I'll make sure to address them in the workshop!

II - Historical Figure

Gaius Appuleius Diocles

Roman Ronaldo

Last month the electrifying French footballer Kylian Mbappé was offered an eye-watering $1 billion to play for the Saudi Arabian team Al-Hilal for just one year. Has football gone mad? Is it right for athletes to earn such exorbitant wages? We shall leave the politics of that question to one side and simply observe that, as with so much else, there are historical precedents — and one in particular: Gaius Appuleius Diocles.

Gaius was born to a middle class family in the province of Lusitania, modern-day Portugal, in 104 AD. That's where many charioteers came from — not just those who raced in Rome itself, but in the stadia all across the empire — because it was where the fastest racehorses on the continent were bred. And such was the career that Gaius pursued; he made his racing debut in Rome, which then had a population of well over one million and was the richest and largest city on earth, at the age of just 18.

There were four factiones, sort of like teams, in Ancient Roman chariot-racing: Green, Red, White, and Blue. Each had their own stables, managers, breeders, and racers. These were large, professional organisations with hordes of fans and fierce rivalries. Gaius won his first race after two years and stayed with the Whites for another four. Then he moved to the Greens, where he had a torrid run of poor performances and a serious injury, followed three years later by a move to the Reds. There he remained for fifteen years, winning over one thousand races, before retiring at the age of 42 to a lovely little town called Praeneste.

Where did Gaius race? At the Circus Maximus, now a ruin but once a racing stadium which could hold more than 150,000 spectators. One can scarcely imagine the atmosphere, the thundering of the horses, the baying of the crowds... all captured rather well in this 19th century painting by Jean Léon Gérôme.

We know all of this because of two monuments erected in his honour after his retirement. They also include the rather impressive statistics of his racing career — 4,257 starts and 1,463 victories — and the prize money he won: a grand total of 35,863,120 sesterces. His earnings are estimated to have been, in modern terms, about $15 billion, which would make him the richest athlete in history. But this is not merely an interesting factoid. I ask: what does it tell us about Ancient Roman society during the Empire that regular people had enough time, and that there was enough money in the system, to support such a wealthy sporting scene? A fascinating subject of enquiry. In any case, Kylian Mbappé has a long way to go yet...

III - Painter

Hasui Kawase

Master of Light

Who was the greatest artist of the 20th century? There can never be a single answer, of course, but there are a few famous names who inevitably hoover up all the discussion. Many others one might add to the conversation — here, then, is an offering of mine.

The Japanese artist Hasui Kawase was born in 1883 and died in 1957. As a boy he wanted to become an artist, and by the end of his life he had been named a "Living National Treasure" in Japan. See, Kawase became a master of ukiyo-e, the time-honoured method of Japanese woodblock printing of which Hiroshige and Hokusai are the most famous artists. But Hasui did not only cleave to tradition; he also embraced the modern world, bringing the best of past to bear on the living present. His style, then, with its rather Western sense of perspective, depth, and modelling, is strikingly 20th century. But the use of colour, the choice of subject, the composition, the tone — this is much more traditionally Japanese. Kawase was, perhaps, the last great master of the ukiyo-e.

But beyond that I shall leave Kawase's history and the nature of ukiyo-e alone. Now, there are many things one might say about his art, but given the brevity of this volume I shall point your attention to merely one thing: Kawase's mastery of light and atmosphere — by which I mean actual, meteorological atmosphere.

Each of the five prints I have included are taken from Selected View of Japan or Twelve Scenes of Tokyo, two print series he published in the 1920s. I ask you to take a few moments and look at each of them carefully. Why? Because we always immediately overlook what is most masterfully and subtly done, precisely because of its brilliance. A rainstorm, the bright light and stark shadows of noon, a blizzard, a moonlit night, the diffused light of dawn — Kawase captures all of these times of day and types of weather effortlessly. We know, instantly upon seeing these prints, the conditions under which our landscape is seen. I shall pursue this point no further, and leave you to (hopefully!) marvel at Kawase's use of colour and tone to convey his atmosphere and light; rarely, if ever, have I seen at an artist so capable in this regard.

IV - Architecture

Anatomy of a Bavarian Street

Today's architectural chapter is a little different. Rather than a building, what I have chosen to share with you here is a street. And instead of talking about its history and the style of its architecture — though that is incredibly tempting — I thought you might find it interesting and useful if, instead, we considered what makes it so bloody charming. See, when we visit cities like Nuremberg and so many others like it, we are too often inclined to award its aesthetic delights to some sort ineffible character peculiar to that place, a sort of Parisian or Florentine or — in this case — Bavarian magic. Not so. Here are ten very specific reasons why this street in Nuremberg seems beautiful to us, and which can also be applied to any other city or street in the world.

***

1. Cobbles

When are cobbled streets not a good thing? They add texture and detail — every stone is slightly different, and so they create a wonderful, subtle interplay of light and shadow across the ground. It also feels more natural than flat and monotonous tarmac, since natural landscapes are usually varied in a similar way to cobbles. We don't want cobbled highways, of course, but when it comes to narrow urban streets they are almost always an improvement. I should add that these cobbles in Nuremberg are technically "setts", since they are squared blocks of dressed stone rather than rounded rocks.

2. No Adverts

Sometimes adverts can be aesthetically pleasing, but many streets would be improved by getting rid of billboards and posters which are literally designed to distract us, co-opt our attention, and influence our behaviour. Any street is inevitably more peaceful to the mind and to the eye without adverts all over the place.

3. Greenery

There isn't much here, but it makes a big difference. Those flowers hanging from the windows and gathered in front of the houses and shops add softness and variation to streets which could otherwise be rather angular and stony. Notice too the canopy of a tree peering overhead. Trees invariably improve urban environments for a variety of reasons, from psychological health to temperature control.

4. No Vehicles

A simple but profoundly important detail. Vehicles are not evil, but they do make most places uglier. Imagine if this street was lined with vans and motorcyles and trucks and, of course, cars. Safe to say that it probably wouldn't be quite as charming...

5. Street Lamps

Another minor detail — but that's where the devil is, as they say. They aren't remotely fancy here, but they are rather pretty and essentially unobtrusive; the street lighting is aesthetically coherent with its surroundings. Sometimes aesthetic incoherence works well, adding excitement and vitality to an urban environment. But, if we want to figure out why this particular street is so appealing, the harmony between its architecture and street furniture is a big part of that.

6. Materials

Cobbles (or setts), bricks, stone, iron, timber, and slate. Notice that almost everything we see on this street is made from one of these materials. They are all more detailed, subtly coloured, smaller in scale, and feel more natural than plate glass, stainless steel, tarmac, and plastic. It's hard to go wrong with good materials, used simply.

7. Colour

This street is filled with colour — certainly compared with the grayscale urban environments most of us are used to. The houses themselves have a mixture of white or cream-coloured facing combined with the warm tones of old timbers, though some are painted brightly in orange or scarlet. The masonry is all varied in colour, from rugged grey to rusty gold to weathered ivory, and the flowers add greens and pinks and violets. All of this beneath the dark slates and tiles of the roofline, and above everything the whites and blues of the sky. A kaleidoscope of mellow, colourful delight.

8. Variety

This is a combination of the other factors. Although there is an overall aesthetic cohesion here, no two parts of this street are the same. Every house is slightly different, whether in its size or overall shape, the arrangement or colour of its timbers, and the design of its windows and doors. Even the cobbles, already mentioned, add to this sense of variation. Not to forget the curving shape of the street itself. There's nothing wrong with straight roads, but the way in which the cobbles and houses taper away from us, out of view, clearly adds to its aesthetic character. One doesn't get the impression of an overall, rigidly imposed blueprint or design plan here; this is the opposite of an insipid, cookie-cutter urban environment where everything is identical.

9. Human Scale

The buildings are no more than four or five storeys tall and the street is fairly narrow. The concept of "human scale" has no precise definition, but you know it when you see it. If there are towering, faceless structures hundreds of metres tall on either side of a vast roadway filled with vehicles — that evidently isn't human scale. This street, however, surely is. And therefore it is more innately appealing to us.

10. Time

The most powerful force of all. Time shapes everything, both in terms of how a specific structure changes with the passing years and how, from one generation to another, every building and street is consciously altered and modified. The end result is something which can't quite be created in one go. If you leave a street for long enough it will almost always become more interesting — whether because of the natural process of aging or the restless hands of humanity.

***

For proof that all this is not merely conjecture, imagine the street pictured above without any of the qualities I have outlined: with tarmac instead of cobbles, identical buildings all of one colour, filled with vehicles, billboards and posters on the walls, and so on. It will seem, I think, much less charming with just one — never mind more than one! — of these characteristics missing.

Of course, it's entirely possible that you don't find this particular street appealling at all. Nor is there only way to design a street, and it's not as if these ten characteristics should or even could be applied to every city or town. But, in a world where so many places sorely lack aesthetically pleasing urban environments, there are surely at least a few things we could learn from this charming Nuremberg street.

V - Rhetoric

Auto-Antonyms

Many words have multiple, related meanings. Torch is both a noun (a flashlight) and a verb (to set something on fire). Some words have two apparently unrelated meanings. Run can refer to moving quickly or to managing something. But have you ever noticed that some words have two, completely opposed definitions? Think of dust. If you dust a cake with icing sugar, then you're adding something. But if you were to dust a lampshade, you'd be taking away. This phenomenon has many names, and words with these dual, contrary meanings are called auto-antonyms. Here are some more examples:

• Clip: to chop off or to attach
• Buckle: to collapse under pressure or to make more secure
• Model: the original upon which others are based or a copy
• Oversight: a negligent error or careful scrutiny
• Bound: tied up or heading somewhere
• Finished: completed or no longer of use
• Fine: of the highest quality or of an acceptable standard
• Literally: as a matter of fact or metaphorically
• Sanction: permit or ban
• Strike: acting quickly or refusing to work

How did auto-antonyms emerge? It's partially a result of etymology, when originally different words end up being spelled the same way, as with cleave. Another common reason is when nouns become verbs, such as the aforementioned dust — in which case they often end up meaning both to add and remove the original noun. And, finally, it occurs when the meaning of a word starts to change. There comes a point when it is caught between two contrary or at least differing meanings, having neither finally left behind the first nor been fully captured by the second. How on earth do we make sense of all this? Context. A subtle but powerful factor which seems almost too complicated to ever actually explain or understand, and yet which our brains grasp intuitively. The wonders and woes of language never cease to amaze.

VI - Writing

Set Impossibly High Standards — Then Fail To Meet Them

The ancient Roman poet Horace, who lived during the time of Augustus, was a master both of satire and of sweet and lyrical odes. In 19 BC the eldest son of Lucius Calpurnius Piso, a senator and friend of Horace's, asked him for some advice about writing poetry. For this young chap he composed the Ars Poetica. It is partly conversational and rather funny throughout — Horace is clearly having fun here. But there is an undercurrent of seriousness and sincerity, and of tenderness for this would-be poet, along with some timeless words of guidance. Here is one of them:

Horace, as with the most of the Ars Poetica, speaks rather flippantly. But we mustn't think this is only a joke, and nor should we imagine that Horace is saying you shouldn't write poetry unless you are, like him, a poetic genius. Rather, the real purpose of saying that "neither gods nor men nor booksellers will accept mediocre poetry" is to set a high standard for ourselves: we must aim to write poetry that is worthy of gods and men (and booksellers), rather than simply settling for mediocrity.

Think of it this way. When you are setting out to write something (or do anything), how good do you want it to be? If you aim to create something that's 5/10 then it is unlikely you'll fail. But, at best, what you produce will be no better than 5/10 — and if you do fail it will be even worse! However, if you aim to write something that's 10/10 then you shall almost certainly fail. And yet, even if it's only a 7 or 8/10, that's still far better than what you would have written had you aimed lower. Like Quintilian said:

So we must aim to create perfection — and though we will surely fail to reach that high standard we must not think of it as a failure when we fall short, because the quality of what we have done will be greater than if we had not set ourselves a standard beyond our reach. But here is the caveat. Perhaps we must be delusional in thinking that we really can create something great, but we must never think we have actually achieved it. Remember what Leonardo da Vinci wrote in his treatise On Painting, a compendium of advice for young artists:

And there we have it — a brief guide to improving the quality of everything you do, simply by increasing the level you are trying to reach. One needs more than this alone to create something great (or to write respectable poetry; read more of Horace for that), but setting impossibly high standards is a good place to start.

VII - The Seventh Plinth

The Imperfection of Beauty; the Beauty of Imperfection

I was ruminating recently on the nature of imperfection — and how much more beautiful are those things which are not perfectly formed, as though produced by a machine. But then I recalled a passage from The Stones of Venice, written by John Ruskin, and realised that he explained this old truth far more clearly, powerfully, and beautifully than I ever could. And when somebody else has written something better than we can do so ourselves, it would be wrong not to share that in place of our own attempts.

I hope Ruskin can do for you here what he so often does for me, which is to put into sparkling and lucid words the thoughts and feelings I have had before but never been able to accurately explain:

Question of the Week

Last week's question was:

What is your favourite city?

These were your delightful answers:

Jordan W

Josh B

James W

​

Chuck D

Jill M

And for this week's question to test your critical thinking...

Is there any truth to ancient mythology? If so, what is it? And, if not, why did we tell these myths for so long?

And that's all

It is done, then: both this week's instalment of the Areopagus and, more importantly, August. The high months of summer have dwindled and September is upon us, born green and dying gold. Two hundred and four years ago William Wordsworth expressed this strange Septembral duality thusly:

"Unfaded, yet prepared to fade." That is September. So, though we are yet unfaded we must prepare to fade. Let us face September head on, not backing down, teeth bared and swords drawn and sails rigged, open to all the joys and terrors this new month may hold! Adieu, my Gentle Readers, and until next week! I shall see you anon!

Yours,

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