There can be few positives extractable from this current
global tragedy. One of them is the friendship, kindness, generosity and
altruism of neighbours and strangers alike, qualities which so often lay
dormant until activated by disaster. It’s good to know that they still exist.
Still the same old country.
The second benefit, although in a normal sense hardly
desirable, is the enormous reduction in activity in almost everything.
Suddenly, the world is a quieter place. Environmentally this is good, and it
would be even better if some degree of it could be sustained when normality
returns. If this terrible episode doesn’t conclusively define and condemn what
a disaster so-called globalisation has been, and lead to a fundamental change
in how we manage our world, then we’re all stuffed. Already over the last few days the sky looks
bluer - probably just a meteorological coincidence - with the Spring flowers at
their best.
People are naturally gregarious, and enforced separation is
distressing for many, as it is for me, grumpy introvert though I am. But when I
see on the TV news images of commuters on the Tube, squashed together, noses in
armpits, breathing in each other’s diseases, my reactions are a combination of
nausea and relief that I’m not involved, although at many times in my life,
normal times, I’ve been happy to endure and even to enjoy such conditions myself.
There are sensory and psychological pleasures in congestion and busyness; they
are among the appeals of a great city, expressions of life at its most intense
and, some would say, most civilised.
While urban vitality is important, conversely, there’s
something to be said for emptiness and quiet among the bustle. In London, the
many parks, squares and commons cater for this need, and contribute their
particular loveliness to this greatest of cities, throughout the seasons. Many
other British towns and cities are similarly blessed; many aren’t, and finding
a pleasant spot, quiet but safe, may not always be so easy. But for now the
streets are empty too, and that is unusual and unnatural.
As an older person, rapidly approaching the official
threshold of coronavirus vulnerability, I remember years with much lower
population densities, little vehicular traffic, and tourist destinations which
could be enjoyed in relative peace. When I think back to my suburban childhood
the essential quality I recall is that of peace and quiet. You could actually
hear how quiet it was; just a kind of distant gentle hum. Not much traffic, no unwanted intrusions of
other people’s electronics (except for “The Archers” theme tune wafting across
from the old ladies round the corner - dumpty dumpty dumpty dump etc), just the
occasional Vulcan bomber which was tremendously
noisy and made your ribs rattle if it flew low. Today, scarcely a couple of
miles away from where I grew up, as I draft this blog, the only sound I hear is
lawnmowers and, bizarrely, the jingle of a cruising ice cream van. Though the
ultimate reasons for this state of acoustic affairs are appalling, purely as
background, as ambient sound, it makes me happy, reminding me as it does of
more satisfactory times.
Cities are primarily about people, but as architectural and
geographical entities they have other roles to play, including visual and
spiritual ones. As someone who likes to draw and paint cityscapes I know I’m
not the only one who has preferred to exclude people and / or traffic from the painted
scene. Artists far better than I have exploited the same instincts for urban
visual emptiness, whether they were trying to portray alienation and
loneliness, a mood of noir, desolation
ecstasy, a sensation of space, an architectural peculiarity, a time of day, or
otherwise. In my case this habit has been enforced partly because of painterly incompetence, but
also because I love the paradoxical quiet sometimes to be found in the heart of
a major city. It’s a state of mind I like to experience and to express as best
I can on paper or canvas. It’s the sound of early Sunday morning.
Now, it seems, in the last few days, we have had this
quietude thrust back upon us, unasked for - the empty streets and parks, empty
squares, empty cities. Not so much a month of Sundays, as an unknown number of
them to come.
Sensible advice therefore would be, for someone like me, to enjoy
the sight while it lasts, to make the most if it. Much more sensibly, the
advice is, not to. So I can’t, even if I wanted to. I have to imagine it
instead. All the same, artistically, aesthetically, selfishly, I can’t help
thinking that it’s a kind of missed opportunity.
Meanwhile I’d happily exchange this nightmare for a chance to inhale some armpits on the Tube. Armpits aren’t great, but in a normal world they’re rarely lethal. Stay safe.
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