Areopagus Volume XII

Welcome one and all to the twelfth volume of Areopagus. A number of you have requested that I move the classical music section to the beginning of the newsletter so you can listen as you read. I think that's a marvellous suggestion - so that's what I've done this week.

And, with that change of structure duly noted, let's make this Friday a little more interesting, useful, and beautiful...

I - Classical Music

In the Steppes of Central Asia

Alexander Borodin (1880)

Why this piece?

Given that I have moved this section to the start of Areopagus, and knowing that some of you will be listening as you read, I thought something atmospheric would be most appropriate. In the Steppes of Central Asia is exactly that. Borodin's wonderful piece transports you to the vastness and beauty of the Mongolian steppe. And, more than that, you feel as though are you are journeying over those great plains, encountering other travellers along the way and watching them recede into the distance beneath the colossal skies of the steppe.

What is it?

In the Steppes of Central Asia is a symphonic poem. This was a novel musical form born in the Romantic Age and true to its principles of emotion and human spirit. As music slowly moved away from the rigorous compositional rules of the Classical Era, composers experimented with new ideas from non-musical sources. The symphonic poem was unlike the symphonies and sonatas of the past because it was not about following a specific musical pattern. Rather, it aimed purely at evoking the atmosphere and emotion of a particular place, story, mood, poem, or theme.

Who was Alexander Borodin?

Alexander Borodin (1833-1887) was a Russian composer of Georgian heritage. He was part of a group known as The Five, which included Modest Mussorgsky and Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. They were all prominent 19th century composers who worked together to create a uniquely Russian style of classical music. However, Borodin considered composing music to be something of a hobby or side-interest. He was professional chemist who made several major contributions to the field, and for Borodin chemistry was his true calling. Indeed, he helped to found the School of Medicine for Women in St. Petersburg.

II - Historical Figure

Epaminondas

A great and forgotten Greek.

Why is he interesting?

Epaminondas (419-362 B.C.) was regarded by the French philosopher Michel de Montaigne as one of three greatest men who ever lived, while Cicero considered him the "first man of Greece." Epaminondas is no longer as famous as he once was, and this might have something to do with our pro-Athenian bias. Ancient Greece was a loose collection of city-states, remember, not a single united kingdom. And many of the most famous Greeks, such as Aristotle, Sophocles, and Pericles, were all Athenian. But Epaminondas was from Thebes, which was long inferior to the other, more powerful cities in Greece.

Epaminondas changed everything. After Sparta defeated Athens in the Peloponnesian War in 404 B.C. it became the foremost power in Greece. This hegemony was broken by Epaminondas and his Thebans at the Battle of Leuctra in 371 B.C., which was such a surprising and decisive victory that the long-held belief in Spartan military supremacy was shattered forever. The Messenians, who had been oppressed and enslaved by Sparta for over two centuries, were liberated by Epaminondas, and Thebes established itself as the new power-broker in Greece.

But he wasn't just a general. Epaminondas was also a skilled statesman, a shrewd politician, and an inspiring leader. Before his challenge to Spartan supremacy, Epaminondas launched a military coup in Thebes and replaced its oligarchy with a democracy. The historian Polybius would later write that the brief era in which Thebes dominated Ancient Greek politics had nothing to do with the city itself; Epaminondas alone was responsible for its sudden success. Fittingly, he died on the battlefield. But soon after his death Theban dominance declined, and a little less than thirty years later his city would be totally destroyed by Alexander the Great.

However, his legacy survived as the pre-eminent example of what a single, brave, prudent, and virtuous person can achieve. The best place to read about Epaminondas is in Xenophon's Hellenica, a history of Greece from 411 to 362 B.C.

III - Painting

The Harvesters

Pieter Bruegel the Elder (1565)

Why this painting?

I have always loved this painting. For me, the wheat is the star of the show. Its richness of colour and texture is strangely captivating: a vision of rural, agrarian, but unsentimental beauty. And there's a strange cohesion in The Harvesters. Bruegel's landscape is both stylised and realistic, simple and complex, mundane and arresting.

It's also a master of composition. The golden fields are weighed against the cool white-blue of the sky, while the off-centre tree and the diagonal slope of the hill form subtle, natural quadrants. Your attention is at first drawn to the peasants luncheoning in the foreground, and after that to the labourers working on the hill and field in the immediate vicinity. Then your eye follows the wheat down the hill to the village - and beyond: to the valley and sea and ships in the distance. Finally, moving clockwise, you discover the church in the centre-right of the painting, partially obscured by trees, then back down over the sheaves of harvested wheat and to the peasants where you started.

The Harvesters is one of five remaining works from Bruegel the Elder's six- or twelve-part series (we're not sure!) based on the months of the year. It is remarkable that a commonplace scene of little drama and no obvious beauty can be rendered so enchantingly. That's the magic of The Harvesters. Stylistically, it is best described as a work of Dutch and Flemish Renaissance.

Who was Pieter Bruegel the Elder?

Pieter Bruegel the Elder (1525-1569) so called because of his son, Pieter Bruegel the Younger, was a hugely important Dutch painter who pioneered new artistic genres and styles which would wield a lasting influence over several generations of later Dutch painters. Bruegel the Elder was an early exponent of landscape paintings, which became a common theme of the Dutch Golden Age (1600-1672). And Bruegel took an unusual interest in the lives of ordinary people. His many depictions of villagers and peasants were a far cry from the Biblical and Classical themes of other Renaissance and Medieval art. Again, this influenced the work of Dutch Golden Age masters like Vermeer and Rembrandt.

IV - Architectural Masterpiece

Palacio de Bellas Artes, Mexico City

The Cathedral of Art

Fact-File

The Palacio de Bellas Artes, which translates to the Palace of Fine Arts, was commissioned in 1900 to mark the centenary of the Mexican War of Independence in 1910. An Italian architect called Adamo Boari, who worked in a mix of neoclassical and Art Nouveau styles, was appointed to design it, but construction was delayed because of the soft soil on which the Palacio was to be built. Then came the Mexican Revolution, which lasted from 1910 to 1920. The Palacio was left unfinished for two decades until construction restarted in 1932 according to Art Deco design principles and completed in 1934.

The interior of the Palacio de Bellas Artes features murals by many of Mexico's greatest painters: Diego Rivera, Jorge González Camarena, José Clemente Orozco, and David Alfaro Siqueiros. Other artists were commissioned to work on the Palacio too, such as the Italian Symbolist sculptor Leonardo Bistolfi and the Hungarian craftsman Géza Maróti. It houses art exhibitions and theatrical productions, including ballet and opera.

Why is it a masterpiece?

The Palacio de Bellas Artes is a very literal wonderland of architecture and design. Its complicated history has produced a sui generis fusion of different and ostensibly conflicting styles. Just like the great churches of the Italian Renaissance, which exhibited the very best of its architects, painters, and sculptors, the Palacio de Bellas Artes feels like a tribute to the artistic movements of the early 20th century in Mexico.

From outside you are treated to a neoclassical structure of Romanesque arches and Greek columns, though one whose florid, ornate, delicate details are thoroughly Art Nouveau. And then, inside, you are shocked by the rich colours and futuristic, streamlined luxury of Art Deco: marble, bronze, stained glass, and lacquer. Not to forgot the colossal, visually arresting paintings of the great Mexican Mural tradition.

The fact that Neoclassicism, Art Nouveau, and Art Deco all seamlessly integrate within one another is a testament to the continuous nature of architectural styles. Even if Art Deco was a direct response to and reaction against Art Nouveau, it nonetheless shared certain core aesthetic principles. And together they form a genuinely unique cathedral of art.

V - Rhetoric

Polyptoton

Polyptoton is the repeated use of words which share the same root, such as destroy, destroyer, destroyed, and destruction. The impact of polyptoton is varied. On the one hand it's a form of word-play which can have a rather witty effect:

And on the other it has a rhythmic, aesthetic value which makes your words more memorable and elegant. Consider this layered use of polyptoton in Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida:

It also emphasises the root word of choice, placing it firmly at the centre of your sentence's meaning:

Or it can allow you to coin a highly memorable turn of phrase:

Polyptoton is yet another beautiful example not just of language's complexity, but of how rigorously its many subtleties have been studied and catalogued. An awareness of rhetorical devices like polyptoton will imbue your use of language with much greater textural depth. For the audience - whether reading or listening, that is - your words will only become more engaging, enjoyable, and memorable through the use of such linguistic tools.

VI - Writing

What's in a (pen) name?

Whether we call it a pen name, a nom de plume, or even a nom de guerre, writers down the centuries have made abundant use of names other than that with which they born. But why?

The most common reasons for adopting a pseudonym are privacy and success. If nobody knows a writer's real name it allows them to live unimpinged by the consequences of fame or notoriety. And it allows them to remain anonymous among the people about whom they are writing. This is especially useful for those who wish to publish an exposé.

Alternatively, a writer may feel their name is simply not memorable enough or perhaps doesn't quite capture their artistic identity. Eric Arthur Blair became George Orwell, Samuel Clemens became Mark Twain, Theodor Geisel became Dr. Seuss, and Charles Dodgson became Lewis Carroll. There is also a long tradition of female authors using male names to ward off prejudice, the most famous example perhaps being Mary Ann Evans, who published her novels as George Eliot.

However, there are plenty of other reasons for adopting a pseudonym. James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, and John Jay wrote The Federalist Papers under the collective pseudonym Publius. This was a direct reference to Ancient Rome, from which they drew many of their political principles, and also allowed them to present a united, anonymous, authoritative front.

The legendary Portuguese writer Fernando Pessoa is famous for using pseudonyms. But he didn't just have a couple; he had more than seventy. They were as varied as Chevalier de Pas, Alexander Search, Alberto Caeiro, and Álvaro de Campos. For Pessoa this was about inhabiting a whole different identity, whether a part of himself or indeed of somebody else. And, as such, Pessoa's pseudonyms are better-called heteronyms. This refers to an imagined character with a unique identity rather than a simple change of name.

Why not try writing under a heteronym? This isn't even about publishing or sharing anything. Rather, it's about writing something as if you were somebody else, with a different personality, history, and view of the world. It can be a useful way of seeing yourself and your own writing style more clearly.

VII - Historical Anecdote

A Short History of Football Trouble

Football fans (or soccer, if you prefer that term) have a reputation for being troublesome. Regardless of the fact that their vilification is often unfair, it's worth noting that this is hardly a recent accusation. Football has been around for a long time in one form or another. While the game as we know it today was established in the latter half of the 19th century, its roots as a popular, people's sport are much older than that.

And so while 14th century football was a far cry from its modern equivalent, I don't think that rules out comparison. And what's interesting is that football was considered a source of rowdiness even then. It was banned under King Edward II in 1314, the justification being as follows:

This was but the first of many attempts to suppress football throughout English history. Edward IV tried to ban football in 1477 for reasons of national security!

In the days of Puritan rule, during the 1650s, there was a highly specific - and rather amusing - crime for breaking a church window while playing football. Prosecutions under this law were met with raucous disapproval, however. And much more recently the British Highway Act 1835 forbade people from playing football on public highways because of the "annoyance" it caused travellers. The punishment for doing so was a fine of up to forty shillings.

I don't know about you, but I think there's something admirable in football's long history of passionate recalcitrance. For those who are less fond of the beautiful game, however, I am sure Edward II's 1314 law will sound like one worthy of reintroduction.

Question of the Week

Last week's question to test your critical thinking was:

Is it ever right to disobey the law?

This was the first time I've asked a question which received a unanimous answer. In this case it was a resounding yes. Here's how some different people justified that, starting with Logan F:

While David made the rather wry observation that laws can sometimes be impractical:

However, Andrés S took a scientific view of things:

And here was a wonderfully considered answer from Tom W:

For this week's question to test your critical thinking:

Is love just a chemical reaction?

And that's all

Perhaps some of you are reading these very words as In the Steppes of Central Asia comes to a close. I can only hope reading Areopagus represents a similarly enjoyable journey, though cultural rather than symphonic in this case.

Yours,

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