Areopagus Volume XIX

Welcome one and all to the nineteenth volume of Areopagus. This week I want to start by mentioning Write of Passage. It is because of them that I can bring the Areopagus to you for free.

My relationship with Write of Passage isn't a typical sponsorship. I'm under no obligation to thank or talk about them. Rather, like how Torquato Tasso was patronised by the Duke of Ferrara in the 1570s, they simply want me to be able to write and share my work with as many people as possible. They firmly believe in the importance and the possibilities of writing online, and that's why they support me. It's remarkable, and I'm deeply grateful.

And so now, thanks to the support of Write of Passage... on with the show!

I - Classical Music

Miserere Mei, Deus

Gregorio Allegri (1630s)

Why this piece?

There are few works of music (or art full stop!) so incredibly transportative as Allegri's masterpiece. It is mysterious, totally captivating, teeming with feelings of profound power, and utterly, painfully, overwhelmingly beautiful. It is, in a single word, sublime.

For Catholics or otherwise, for those religious or those decidedly not, I think the Miserere is no less meaningful or powerful. The mark of all great art, whatever its original purpose, is seemingly to touch on something universal about the human condition. An understanding of context always serves to enhance art, but the very best goes far beyond that and into a different realm altogether. The Miserere, whose full title translates as "Have mercy on me, Lord" does this. From the very first note I find myself leaving the details of the 21st century behind. Daily life melts away and I am invited into a different mode of being.

What style is it?

Although composed in the 1630s, when the Baroque Era had already emerged, the Miserere is really a work of Renaissance Music, what with its glorious vocal polyphony - multiple voices singing different melodies at the same time. This also harks back to the Gregorian chanting of Medieval Music, which was non-instrumental and purely vocal. Indeed, we cannot divorce the style of the Miserere from its religious context and heritage. This is liturgical music, intended for performance as part of an act of worship.

And so we can understand Allegri's Miserere as the culmination of centuries of slowly developing religious choral music, all the way from the Dark Ages through to the Renaissance.

Who was Gregorio Allegri and why did he write the Miserere?

The Miserere was written by Gregorio Allegri (1582-1652) specifically for use during Holy Week in the Sistine Chapel. And it was forbidden to transcribe the Miserere: the Vatican kept this beautiful music as a closely guarded secret. One could only hear it during Holy Week, performed in the Sistine Chapel, amidst the candles of the Tenebrae and surrounded by the majesty and wonder of Michelangelo's legendary frescoes. Its splendour and power was surely enhanced by that specific context. No wonder this composition has captured the imagination of so many, for so long.

But there's a famous story about how the Miserere finally escaped the Sistine Chapel, over a century after its composition. When a fourteen year old Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was visiting Rome during Holy Week he attended a service in the Vatican. And, so we are told, he went home later that day and wrote out the whole piece from memory. From the teenage Mozart it then spread across Europe. But he was not punished; rather, Mozart was called back to Rome and awarded the Chivalric Order of the Golden Spur by Pope Clement XIV!

II - Historical Figure

Filippo Brunelleschi

The Father of the Renaissance

Who was he?

Filippo Brunelleschi (1377-1446) was born in Florence and soon became a central figure in the story of the fateful 15th century and its Renaissance. He initially trained as a goldsmith and, through that, became close friends with the famous sculptor Donatello. But Brunelleschi's ultimate calling was architecture, not metalworking. Now, interest in the ruins of Roman buildings had been growing. But it was more of a talking point than a coherent movement. The study of the Classical World had been largely limited to scholars and poets, like Dante and Petrarch, rather than architects.

So Brunelleschi took those conversations one step further. He studied the Roman ruins of Italy in great depth. He paid attention to their underlying principles of design and proportion, their structural features, their motifs, and decided to adopt this architectural style. His decision would prove monumental. The days of the great Gothic churches and cathedrals were, once Brunelleschi's imagination was fired with a new architectural vision for Europe, numbered.

Why is he interesting?

Filippo Brunelleschi is one of the most important architects of all time. His most famous work is the dome of Florence Cathedral, a glorious thing in its own right:

But it's his first two architectural commissions, for The Foundling Hospital in 1419 and the Basilica of San Lorenzo in 1421, that I want to mention. You will remember that Gothic architecture was defined by the pointed arch, flamboyant decoration, great verticality, and a lack of any cohesive proportional system. Brunelleschi's early work flew in the face of that great Gothic tradition.

His Hospital (top) and Basilica (bottom) used rounded arches and pediments, as the Romans had done, along with Corinthian columns instead of clustered pillars, and stuck to very strict proportional rules. Furthermore, their overall design was far simpler, more sober and subdued, than typical Gothic buildings. One can imagine the stir they caused once completed and unveiled in Florence!

And, if you aren't already convinced of Brunelleschi's brilliance and founding role in the Renaissance, simply look at the art from that time. You'll remember that many Renaissance paintings feature architecture in the background. What you may not have noticed is that many of the buildings they depict are, in fact, in the style of our friend Pippo, as he was affectionately called. But nor should we forget his influence on the actual science of painting. For it was Brunelleschi who first described a proper system of linear perspective; an explanation of why objects seem smaller as they get further away and, crucially, the way in which they do so.

And so, with his revival of classical architecture - a trend which has continued unabated into the 21st century - and codification of linear perspective - which has shaped art ever since - we can firmly say that Filippo Brunelleschi is one of the most important architects who ever lived.

III - Painting

Ajanta Caves Murals

Maharashtra State, India

What are the Ajanta Caves?

The Ajanta Caves are really a series of twenty nine Buddhist monasteries and temples carved from the rock of the Aurangabad hills between 200 BC and 600 AD. India has a long and wonderful tradition of rock-cut monuments, such as those of Ellora, but within the Ajanta Caves we find something extraordinary: a vast array of carefully painted, ancient murals.

Why these paintings?

The Ajanta Caves and their murals are one of the masterpieces of Buddhist art. That's saying something, given the almost uncatalogable depth of Buddhism's artistic heritage, but I think they are in many ways comparable to Michelangelo's aforementioned frescoes in the Sistine Chapel, and to the icons of Orthodox churches.

Just like them, the Ajanta Cave paintings tell a story. They depict everything from the life of the Buddha himself to visits by foreign emissaries, scenes of daily life, of royal life, of merriment, of marriage, the stories of the famous bodhisattvas, and the vagaries of Buddhist cosmology. There's some historical importance here, too, as we see what life might have looked like in India all those centuries ago.

What's especially striking about these murals is the expressiveness of their figures and faces. We see a range of emotions on display, from almost hedonistic joy through to rigorous self-interrogation and a serene, worldly peace of mind. These artists were obviously very talented: their buildings and human forms possess some very impressive depth and weight, with some proper linear perspective too.

And yet linear perspective wasn't too important for these artists: we see people sort of "floating" like they do in Gothic art, where we can't quite tell whether a room is being depicted from above or from the side. But that doesn't matter. As stated, the point of these murals was to tell a story, to convey the crucial moments in the life of the Buddha and his followers, and they do this successfully. "Realism" can sometimes get in the way of this sort of pure storytelling, as it forces artists to deal with problems of perspective and form which are, in fact, irrelevant to the religious and socio-cultural messages of the art.

The Ajanta Caves Murals are too numerous and vast to cover in any real depth here. But, as I hope you can see, they are surely one of the world's greatest artistic treasures, a masterpiece of ancient Indian art and of Buddhist scripture, and an important reminder that so-called "realism" often has little to do with great art.

IV - Architectural Masterpiece

Itamaraty Palace

Brutalist Brilliance

Fact-File

Itamaraty Palace was built in 1970 for the Brazilian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which still occupies the building. It was designed by Oscar Niemeyer, probably Brazil's most famous architect and indeed one of the world's foremost Modern architects. He was tasked with designing many of the civic buildings of Brasília, which became Brazil's capital in 1960. Brasília was a planned city. And so, unlike most settlements, which have older origins and expanded organically with little oversight, Brasília was planned out from the very start. It makes sense, then, that a great Modern style like that of Niemeyer would be sought for its architecture. Such was the case with Itamaraty Palace.

Why is it a masterpiece?

Oscar Niemeyer's style was not, strictly speaking, the pure Brutalism of Britain. He took much from the vastly influential Le Corbusier and, later, carved out his own sub-genre of the whole Modernist-Brutalist school. I think this is linked to his native land, Brazil. Niemeyer once said that his abstract shapes were inspired by the "mountains of my country, in the sinuousness of its rivers, in the waves of the ocean."

And, related to that, I think Brazil's climate has something to do with the success of Itamaraty Palace. See, the total effect of the contrast between these massive grey shapes and the verdant greenery of the Brazilian landscape brings out a thoroughly different atmosphere than what residents of, say, the United Kingdom are used to, where grey Brutalism but matches the grey skies.

I am also very fond of the colonnade of concrete columns which runs around the edge of Itamaraty. The Ancient Greeks would have called this a peristasis, and it does draw us to think of those great Classical buildings like the Parthenon. Here we see a thoroughly modern, concrete-and-steel-and-glass interpretation of that ancient motif. Altogether I rather like Brutalism. Unlike the sort of modern architecture which is increasingly common, the sort which simply fades into the background, is boring, and feels altogether thoughtless, the Itamaraty Palace is - whether you love or hate it - certainly trying to say something.

V - Rhetoric

Aporia

This word has two meanings in two separate but related fields. To the philosopher aporia means that state of absolute uncertainty reached when it turns out you don't actually understand something you thought you did, a sort of perplexion or deep intellectual uncertainty. That, in itself, is a remarkably helpful term. I often find myself in an aporetic state.

To a rhetorician aporia is the expression of doubt (whether genuine or feigned) by a speaker or writer about one's views or what action to take. The most famous example comes to us (as often it does) from Shakespeare:

And so you can see that the speaker, using aporia, often phrases their uncertainty as a question, thus inviting the audience to consider it with them. And there, at once, you see the power of aporia. It is deeply, deeply engaging.

Aporia is different to procatalepsis, which is where the speaker pre-empts a possible criticism of their argument and responds to it, thus pulling out the rug from under his or her opponent's speech. That's an effective and highly recommended practice in its own right. But it's rather mechanical: a useful technique with a clear purpose. Aporia lacks that definitive character. The audience wonders why a speaker will simply cast doubt on themselves. It is unusual. We are intrigued.

The impression of aporia is that the speaker is thinking out loud, figuring out what they actually believe right in front of our eyes. So we are no longer being exposed to a pre-prepared speech. We are in the thick of it, part of some intellectual, emotional, or spiritual process. This is what draws us to Hamlet, after all. But aporia isn't just for literature; it can be used in everything from marketing to politics.

And so aporia works, whether genuine or not, because it is an act of humility and vulnerability. The audience is compelled by our uncertainty. They feel that the outcome is unpredictable and they want to see where we will end up, and whether we will resolve this intellectual knot.

VI - Writing

Proustian Genius

To be a good writer you need not have lived an interesting life. That runs contrary to much popular theory. But being able to write well really has nothing to do with the ostensible qualities of your experiences, nor even what you’re writing about. Marcel Proust (1871-1922) is a case in point. Though regarded as one of the finest and most influential novelists of the 20th century, he didn’t leave his parents’ house until after they had both died and so disliked work that he obtained sick-leave sufficient to last several years up to the point that he was essentially discharged. The man was a lazy layabout, a failed social-climber, and a shameless home bird. How, then, did Proust achieve such literary brilliance?

Here is a short excerpt from the second part of In Search of Lost Time, called Within a Budding Grove, where

I think Proust is right. The real mark of a great writer lies not in their ability to tell extraordinary tales, but in their capacity to convey anything at all, however mundane, with that spark of vividness which makes it meaningful. So here is a small challenge for any budding writer. Forget about the most interesting parts of your life or the most interesting ideas you have. Put them aside for a moment. Write instead about something totally and furiously ordinary. About breakfast, say, or brushing your teeth. Take that moment and write about it.

You can try to make it interesting, or perhaps you will render it boring. Either way, by writing about something which has no obviously engaging qualities in and of itself, you will be forced to do two things. The first is to make your writing itself better, because there's nothing to hide behind here. And, secondly, you will be forced to search for the meaning and interest in ordinary details, those universal truths hidden in the least likely of places.

VII - Recommendations

Poetry: Virgil's Georgics

Virgil is most famous for his Aeneid, the epic story of Aeneas' flight from Troy and his establishment of the royal house that would lead to the founding of Rome. His Georgics are far more modest in scale: they are four poems about pastoral life. And they are glorious.

Ostensibly they take the form of advice for shepherds, farmers, and beekeepers. He talks about the passing of the seasons and the right time for planting or harvesting various crops, the right soil for growing olive trees, and the right way to rear horses. This much is interesting in itself. Our recent ancestors were once in tune with such things; indeed, our whole society was once agrarian. And so I recommend them for that alone, nevermind the glory of Virgil's actual poetry, his language, and his capacity to find life lessons in the behaviour of bees.

Prose: Le Grand Meaulnes by Alain-Fournier

This is the ultimate novel of youth, written in 1913 by a young Frenchman called Alain-Fournier. It was his only novel - he died a year later in the First World War. And so, without wishing to say too much about this book, I highly recommend it to readers both young and old. It certainly left a strong impression on me as a teenager, what with its intoxicating mixture of the hopes, despairs, fatalism, and strong emotions of youth. It doesn't have the overt self-consciousness of many such novels. Rather, it is written with a fitting urgency, mystery, and naivity. One wonders what other great works Alain-Fournier might have produced. But that, in itself, is part of the wonder of Le Grand Meaulnes.

Non-fiction: Pevsner's Architectural Guides

Nikolaus Pevsner was a German-born British architectural historian who set himself the unenviable challenge of visiting every single town and village in the entire United Kingdom to catalogue their architecture. He started in the 1940s and, in 2016, thanks to others who followed in Pevsner's footsteps, this project was completed.

The result is a magnificent collection known as Pevsners Architectural Guides; there's one for each county in the country. These may be more interesting for those from the British Isles, since you can buy a copy of the guide for your county and read about the architecture of every notable building in every last settlement of your homeland. I have done so, and it taught me a hundred thousand things I didn't know about the place I live. For anybody who ever visits Britain, I think a copy of Pevsner is the best tour guide you could possibly hope for.

Miscellaneous: Code of Ur-nammu

The Code of Ur-nammu is the oldest legal text in the world. It was created in about 2100 B.C. by the king of Ur, an ancient Mesopotamian city state, and is written in the Sumerian language. You can find a copy online. It is very short and will only take a few minutes to read.

This is a vital document not only for its obvious historical importance, but also because it sheds a light on the progress (or lack of?) that we have made as a society. To read the Code of Ur-nammu, with its focus on problem both and familiar, its emphasis on agricultural regulation, its talk of sorcerers and slaves, its mix of brutality and fairness, does two things. It brings our ancestors to life like little else can, because it shows what they felt to be important and tells us what problems they faced. It also shines a new light on our own, modern laws.

Question of the Week

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

Is there such a thing as fate?

Your answers were wonderful. I particularly enjoyed how they varied from physics to theology to neuroscience to pure logic.

Here was Tom C's rather marvellous, scientifically-informed answer:

While Blanka W took a more sociological approach:

And Bryan O, with real philosophical deftness, argued that fate is a choice:

Here is Jordan A's fascinating musation on the matter:

And Gerhard G wins the prize for this week's most laconic response, with an answer worthy of the Delphic oracle:

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

Are human rights just the invention of lawyers and politicians, or do they exist in a deeper way?

And that's all

Apologies for the lateness of this volume of Areopagus. I suppose, for many of you, this is now more of a Saturday than a Friday edition. Nonetheless, I hope it finds you well. Until next week! Adieu, adieu.

Yours,

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