Few buildings in English
provincial cities possess such a massive, dominant, solid, commanding presence
as the Anglican Cathedral that sits atop the considerable incline to the south
east of Liverpool city centre. Generally speaking I am reassured by the presence
of this building, and from time to time I seek it out as a place of refuge and
solace. Inside the Cathedral I feel physically, psychologically and spiritually
safe; protected from the rest of a world in which, increasingly, I don’t.
Together with the railway termini at Paddington and St Pancras, and the De La
Warr Pavilion in Bexhill-on-Sea, Liverpool Cathedral is one of the ‘safest’
buildings that I know and love in this country. From the outside, though, I’m
not so sure.
But – apparently, and to quote one
of Liverpool’s most famous sons - I’m not the only one. In a book called
“Liverpool 8” (Murray, 1982) another John - John Cornelius - wrote amusingly
and with warped Blakean undertones of the aesthetic fright caused by the
Anglican Cathedral, of how it appeared strangely between buildings, sometimes
looking unnaturally close, and how its shape changed when seen from different
angles. "During the day”, he wrote, ”the Cathedral is weird, but fairly
benign. At night? Well, it fairly puts the wind up me, sometimes. I don't mind
telling you. I think it's something to do with the shape of it, like a head
perched on a huge pair of shoulders. Yes: that's it. It's the slavish symmetry,
the fearful symmetry, of the thing that causes the problems. I hate walking
past it at night". He offered a drawing of himself scurrying along Hope
Street, past the Cathedral, with a couple of "eyes" drawn in the
tower. The picture was captioned: "Hurry quickly past, hoping it's not
looking". Shudder.
Because of its immense size, in
certain lights and from certain angles, the building can indeed be perceived as
monstrous and scary, sat there in all its stony solidity on its ridge. You need
a suitable state of mind, of course, to fully appreciate the scariness. Because
of its great height the tower can be seen from many miles around – even from
the Clwydian hills of Flintshire – and naturally it’s also very intrusive into
views closer at hand. Combine massivity with height and mental preparedness and
you have three useful ingredients for constructing an aesthetic fright, to use
Susanne Langer’s term. Add a fourth component, surprise, and you have a
complete recipe. Off you go.
As you walk round the surrounding
area, not just the adjacent Hope Street as per John Cornelius’s description,
but slightly further afield, try and solicit surprise. I know, it’s a bit like
trying to tickle yourself, but areas likely to be rewarding in this respect are
the Ropewalks quarter and the up and coming Baltic Triangle, and more
especially the districts to the south and east, Toxteth, primarily, the area
popularly known by its postcode, Liverpool 8.
Naturally, you will expect to see the Cathedral along the line of sight of suitably aligned streets. There it will be, reliably, in the distance. What you may not expect is when it peers over other buildings at you, when it “sees” you, when it “gets” you. Even on a sunny day, even among today’s cheerful replacements for the dark streets of the old inner city, the effect can be to send a shudder up your spine, to raise the goosebumps, to activate the hairs on the back of your neck. If you are feeling guilty – and you must be guilty of something – you may suspect that it isn’t just the Cathedral that is “looking” at you, but that the Almighty is deploying one of his more spectacular architectural minions to take a closer look at you, to inspect you, perhaps to find you wanting - a theistic extension of the pathetic fallacy, if you like. OK, mad, surreal, but enjoy anyway. And while you’re around those parts, take a trip to the top of the tower; the views are wonderful. Partly, of course, because Liverpool is wonderful and partly, because when you’re up there, on top of it, the Cathedral can’t “get” you.
