I am supposed to be teaching woodwork to two boys (not mine!) in our home schooling group and figured it would be fun to introduce them to the lathe. But, hang on, shouldn't the teacher have some hands-on experience first? Hence Bowl One and Bowl Two. The First Bowl was from a solid block of well seasoned beech from a tree on our own property. The Last Bowl (I know that sounds a bit final but it was a lot of work and just now I can't countenance doing it again. Maybe, like after eating a big meal, the passage of time might change my mind) was more challenging. It was loosely inspired by this Youtube clip. Click here for some more examples of what the maestros achieve.
Here's some of my progress in pictures...
First plan your work, then work your plan!
After thicknessing my timber stock (ash and sapele) to a constant thickness of ~ 18mm, and then ripping the planks to widths per my plan, cutting the segments had to be done very precisely and our saw bench rose to the challenge, although some of my joints are not as tight as I would have liked. I regret I didn't think of making a photo record until I was past this stage.
Each piece cross cut at 18 degrees either end, then assembled and clamped. The completed first and second ring in foreground.
A large hose-clip binds the pieces together
The ten pieces held together on adhesive tape
The rings then stacked, glued and clamped
All glued, big steps inside to smooth out!
The outside - with some of the tape remaining
Sacrificial MDF glued on top to hold the face plate, and how I lined the plate with the bowl centre
On the lathe at last!
Many stops and starts to re-position the tool rest
Smoothing 80, 120, 180, 320 finally 600 grit paper
The outside completed, and re-positioning the face plate
Did I already mention that in my childhood I had the use of part of my father's workshop in the "top garden"? Here I decimated old radios and TV sets and salvaged their parts and, over a period of years, constructed various projects including an oscilloscope, an audio sine-wave generator and an X-Y plotter. And I had a gramophone with an electric pickup that played only 78's and which used steel needles. I got my first 78 records from a second-hand shop "The Rocking Horse" just up the road from where we lived. And thus I was introduced to and got to love Rossini's overture to Guillaume Tell with its amazing portrayal of the storm. I also had a record of a man singing Caesar Franck's Panis Angelicus which tune has lurked at the back of my head and haunted me ever since, albeit mostly stifled because it was RC and my parents were ever so anti-RC. That was long before I discovered that my blog's namesake was a very devout RC.
Angelica is something quite different. My mother used it to decorate cakes so I got to taste it. It tastes like stalks steeped in sugar. A kind of sweet version of celery. Why would you put that on cakes?
Continuing with my recent theme of child musicians I came across Michael Verschuere. Quite a different cup of tea from Aksel Rykkvin but nevertheless I was moved by his rendition of Panis Angelicus. But even richer than his singing is his expression when it was over - the joy in his face:
Michael Verschuere's joy having just sung Panis Angelicus
Bless all the dear children In Thy tender care And fit them for heaven To live with Thee there
Everyone now-a-days has a cell-phone. We sit down to dinner, are together in the lounge or in church, and out come the cell-phones. Never mind talking - it's easier to chat even when in the same room. I have a Pixel-2 and I love it. I can video chat with my daughter in Australia or son in Alaska. It is my watch, calendar, camera, GPS enabled map, music and video player and recorder, calculator, internet browser - and then there are apps and games. No need for an encyclopedia - hardly any need of prayer for guidance - Google does it all! It does so much more than being a portable 'phone. And I take great care of it. But of course you know all this because you, too, have a cell-phone. Even if you think yourself computer-illiterate. You probably pay for data too - and by the time you add up the cost of the phone and the service charges you are likely paying out a considerable sum per year for the privilege.
Not only that, I've been to Africa where many folk are poor, living in one room hovels, rarely able to afford more than beans and rice to eat. And yet they all have cell-phones.
Hand in hand with the internet, the ubiquitous cell-phone is an unprecedented invention, a miracle of modern technology, a paradigm changer. And yet most folk are very hum-drum about it and seemingly take the whole show for granted, indeed communication with friends and access to the internet has more or less become a universal inalienable right. We soon complain when we lose connectivity for any reason. A big truck took down our overhead fibre feed a couple of days back and it hasn't been fixed yet (it is Easter weekend) - but J has kindly jerry-rigged a feed from a property we own up the road to keep our insatiable appetite fed.
I am reminded of the little maiden's globe in Phantastes. This book is a bit like the Bible in that the imagery is vivid and beautiful but often hard to interpret. Indeed I am not at all sure that an exact interpretation is intended.
She came along singing and dancing, happy as a child, though she seemed almost a woman. In her hands--now in one, now in another--she carried a small globe, bright and clear as the purest crystal. This seemed at once her plaything and her greatest treasure. At one moment, you would have thought her utterly careless of it, and at another, overwhelmed with anxiety for its safety. But I believe she was taking care of it all the time, perhaps not least when least occupied about it.
The protagonist Anodos narrates... I put out both my hands and laid hold of it. It began to sound as before. The sound rapidly increased, till it grew a low tempest of harmony, and the globe trembled, and quivered, and throbbed between my hands. I had not the heart to pull it away from the maiden, though I held it in spite of her attempts to take it from me; yes, I shame to say, in spite of her prayers, and, at last, her tears. The music went on growing in, intensity and complication of tones, and the globe vibrated and heaved; till at last it burst in our hands, and a black vapour broke upwards from out of it; then turned, as if blown sideways, and enveloped the maiden, hiding even the shadow in its blackness. She held fast the fragments, which I abandoned, and fled from me into the forest in the direction whence she had come, wailing like a child, and crying, 'You have broken my globe; my globe is broken--my globe is broken!'
Then much later in the book he meets the little maiden again, and she recounts:
You broke my globe. Yet I thank you. Perhaps I owe you many thanks for breaking it. I took the pieces, all black, and wet with crying over them, to the Fairy Queen. There was no music and no light in them now. But she took them from me, and laid them aside; and made me go to sleep in a great hall of white, with black pillars, and many red curtains. When I woke in the morning, I went to her, hoping to have my globe again, whole and sound; but she sent me away without it, and I have not seen it since. Nor do I care for it now. I have something so much better. I do not need the globe to play to me; for I can sing. I could not sing at all before. Now I go about everywhere through Fairy Land, singing till my heart is like to break, just like my globe, for very joy at my own songs. And wherever I go, my songs do good, and deliver people. And now I have delivered you, and I am so happy.
Perhaps if there was an EMP, like the solar storm of 1859, that put out all telecommunications and rendered cell-phone virtually useless, we might learn to sing. And, singing, put the world to rights.
When there is unresolved disagreement with an otherwise respected colleague, when there is estrangement from a loved one, when there is imagined ostracisation, when one person believes that "God has said" and another opposes it - what does it take to reconcile them, to restore trust and relationship? When God seems distant and irrelevant, when strong prayers go unanswered for years, when pleas for God to reveal himself hit brazen heavens, what does it take to convince us
that truly He heals all our diseases? Although I will not give up asking.
In a post of many years previous I described my relationship with my father, he being of few but memorable words. I always respected him and many of my principles by which I live are founded on his input. But then I did this community thing, and he after my mother died did his thing, and we drifted apart. I in Northern Ireland with very little liberty to travel having given all for the common. He, having moved in and become part of another family in an arrangement that I may never comprehend but one in which he also had given all for another common. We met once. Somehow I had managed a trip to the UK. I knocked on this family's front door in Old Alresford. It was clear that I was not welcome but I forced my way in and was able to sit with my father for a little while. His love for me was evident although stifled and he gave me some money, but the whole episode was strangely surreal. He died not long after and to my shame to this day I do not know the details of how and why. In his will he left me the contents of his workshop and I still treasure the little I was able to redeem from this. He had already given away the rest of his estate. What would it have taken to completely restore our relationship with him to what it was when I was a child?
What does it take, or what will it take, for those powerful words "Well done, good and faithful servant" to apply to me? To stand secure on that Rock? To know no shadow of doubt, to know the warmth of His presence, to know total shalom peace? What does it take for any man to say "my Lord and my God"?
Talking about agonisingly beautiful I was reminded of the amazing sculpture "The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa". It is almost too beautiful, too perfect, for perfection and beauty go hand in hand. Teresa of Ávila lived in the 1500's and the sculpture by Gian Lorenzo Bernini is meant to represent her experience of religious ecstasy in her encounter with the angel and she described it as follows:
I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron's point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it. The soul is satisfied now with nothing less than God. The pain is not bodily, but spiritual; though the body has its share in it. It is a caressing of love so sweet which now takes place between the soul and God, that I pray God of His goodness to make him experience it who may think that I am lying.
I suppose it was a vision. I do not think I have ever had a vision unless the angel on the chimney stack beyond my childhood bedroom window counts. I do have dreams, some very vivid. But what was its source? She and doubtless my Catholic friends claim it was God. Fundamentalist Christians might say it was the devil. Or was it a very fertile imagination fueled by her closeted lifestyle and possibly too much cheese the night before.
We have very little understanding of the human brain. The E&T magazine quotes theoretical physicist Dr Michio Kaku as saying the human brain has 100 billion neurons, each neuron connected to 10,000 other neurons. Sitting on your shoulders is the most complicated object in the known universe. Some say that religious experiences (and dreams) are 'only' an artefact of the brain's inner workings, a sort of side effect.
Pain accentuates beauty. Rather like basking in a hot shower after returning from a long, arduous and cold run. Pain and its resulting suffering and endurance, then, are too oft despised gifts without which we would become wimps.
These coronavirus restrictions are a bit painful. We will not be overcome by evil, but will overcome evil with good.
Some while ago our tractor was used to heap up a pile of wood and got a puncture in the front offside tire. It's a small tractor and not 4-wheel-drive, so the front wheels are not that large, but still larger than a car's. Using my bottle-jack I raised the front axle, put it on blocks and removed the wheel-nuts using a 1/2" socket wrench extended with some 1" square section steel I found in the barn. The intention was from someone to take the wheel to the tire shop in Blessington, but then the latest coronavirus restrictions put a stop to that. Which meant no tractor for however long...
I could have given into the rule of the virus at this point, but that's no way to act in an apocalypse. So this afternoon I set to work. I filled a large tub with water and verified that there was indeed a puncture - air was coming out around the valve which suggested there was an inner tube. And, bicycler that I am, I had the means to repair an inner tube. But I couldn't shift the outer tire. The internet reminded me that the outer gets stuck to the rim so I fixed up a 4"x2" lever and with that and a lump-hammer I managed to break the seal. It took an amazing amount of force. This had to be done both sides.
Next I needed tire levers. At the barn I found a 3' length of 2" x 1/2" steel bar which looked promising. First I ground the square-cut end to round off the sharp edges. I wanted to bend the last couple of inches - so I lit the Turboburn boiler a with a pile of dry hardwood chunks and had the fan at maximum, waited till yellow-hot embers, and stuck the bar in. After a while it came out red-hot and bent easily under lump hammer blows. I also had a couple of pry bars as secondary tire levers.
Starting with the valve uppermost, and on the opposite side to the valve, I needed the full 3' length to get enough leverage to prise the rubber over the rim, but eventually I did it. Taking care not to hurt the inner tube.
With a couple of offcuts of 4"x4" timber under the tire to lift it above the rim, I extracted the inner tube. I found the puncture with my tub of water, and did the repair using a large patch about 1.5" diameter. Testing proved it was sound and there were no other leaks.
Now to push the inner into the outer with valve stem poking through the hole, and getting the outer tire back on again. Once again I needed the 3' bar in addition to my larger pry bar, but it went on and after filling with air (we have a compressor) I took it to the barn to reunite with the tractor. No problems there. Then I rode the tractor in triumph down to the woodshop to top up the air pressure and Bob's your uncle. Tomorrow I shall go see if the tire has kept its pressure.
Which only goes to show that all manner of things one once thought were only for the professionals are actually possible with a bit of brain and a lot of grunt. And the internet for encouragement.
We shall not give into the virus.
Though he slay me, I will hope in him; yet I will argue my ways to his face.
My Australian daughter K has finally produced. It had to be a C-section but both mother and baby girl are fine. Hitherto we have referred to her as "Joey" and as of yet we have no official name, so you can see the tag merely says BAILEY. We were to visit sometime in May but the coronavirus has put a stop to that.
We are now told to stay at home - except shopping for food or brief exercise but no further than 2km. This we suppose is a radius not total distance. I've had to modify by usual run to comply, and longer weekend excursions are no longer possible.
We are not allowed to visit another dwelling, so we get to see our grandchildren or their parents only occasionally and outside at a suitable distance, which is kind of weird.
Our sub-group in the "courtyard", which is a dwelling joined to but separate from the main house where we are, has three children who leave their bikes and play things in the outside area common to our and their group, so one needs to keep a mental note of what belongs to which group for fear of accidentally touching it.
And yet no-one in any our four sub-groups have virus symptoms so all these precautions are probably technically unnecessary. We have food and drink, and warmth, and a roof over our heads, for all of this we are very thankful knowing that there are many worldwide that are deprived, for example as in India at the moment.
So far there are oodles of small maintenance jobs on our property to keep me from idleness.
They said these stricter restrictions will be until Easter but it's looking like it might be longer. As to when long haul flights and entry into Australia become possible, who can say?
Yesterday, as a community we decided to isolate our four dwelling places with immediate effect. There were of course many practical issues to sort out as hitherto we were used to sharing resources.
This morning I woke to a strange feeling. The world has become an emptier, quieter place. And my daughter and son and their families, though living just down the road, have become isolated from each other and from us. No more grandpa stories of Sally-Anne and Smokey the dragon.
Even stranger, cognisant of the very sensible advice to wash hands often and thoroughly, I happened this morning to read from Mark chapter 7. Was this just coincidental?
...the Pharisees... saw that some of his disciples ate with hands that were defiled, that is, unwashed. (For the Pharisees and all the Jews do not eat unless they wash their hands properly, holding to the tradition of the elders, and when they come from the marketplace, they do not eat unless they wash. And there are many other traditions that they observe, such as the washing of cups and pots and copper vessels and dining couches.) And the Pharisees and the scribes asked him, "Why do your disciples not walk according to the tradition of the elders, but eat with defiled hands?" ... And he said to them, "Then are you also without understanding? Do you not see that whatever goes into a person from outside cannot defile him, since it enters not his heart but his stomach, and is expelled?" (Thus he declared all foods clean.) And he said, "What comes out of a person is what defiles him.
As I gaze out of the window: a lovely day, blue sky and warm enough in the sun, it seems like three disparate realms are meeting in my head. The wonder of nature, the elusive spiritual world of faith and hoped for miracles, and what the news is throwing at us. And somewhere in all three realms the COVID-19 virus is lurking.
It's not that I am afraid. But I'd like a better understanding. For example we had a time of prayer after our evening meal and one person asked God to help the researchers find a vaccine quickly. And, critical as ever, I thought - why not ask Him to simply end this plague?
The governments of the world are at their wits end, employers are dismissing staff, many shops are closed, there are limited transport options, food shortages and general instability. We are daily bombarded with coronavirus news casts. Conspiracy theories abound and it is sometimes hard to know what or who to believe. Although on the plus side there are encouraging stories of altruism like Donegal chefs providing free meals for the elderly.
And yet I look up and see birds still flying. The sun is still shining. The mountains are still beckoning me. And life goes on, albeit restricted in certain areas. So far we are still healthy. I'm still barefoot running. And so I did - my first foray this year to Church Mountain
My track: 15 miles, 822m height gain
I met a number of groups and a few single folk - more that I would normally expect even for a sunny Sunday afternoon. Lots of traffic on the Wicklow gap road. You'll see in my photos three groups in the cairn on the top. And the Gardai had to close Glendalough because there were two many tourists flouting the distance rule.
And the future... who knows? Some say the world will never be the same. And we have to believe that God is in control.
I've been at the barn the last couple of days preparing a space for 50 or so chickens we plan to get "at point of lay". Coming back to the house after the day's work it came over me - such a strange feeling - like, what is the point of the chicken programme - maybe we won't be there to benefit from the eggs. Indeed, what is the point of anything?
Today the UK announced that GCSE and A-levels have been cancelled for this year. They are talking about cocooning folk over 70. We are already being advised not to travel or socialise and to keep 2m away from other folk. Many shops and businesses have closed their doors. We cannot visit Ali's mum in the UK, or our daughter and her new-born in Australia as planned - thankfully Singapore Air have allowed us to rebook up to a year ahead for no extra charge. Thankfully we can at least communicate by 'phone or internet.
I've been mentally planning various free-travel hiking trips for this summer but it is now looking unlikely that these will be possible. At least I have the Wicklow Mountains within running distance!
These events are unprecedented.
Totally unexpected. And they have come upon us so quickly. And all due to a critter that is smaller than the wavelength of light so is invisible except to the electron microscope. How do they come about? Wikipedia not very helpfully admits "the origins of viruses in the evolutionary history of life are unclear".
Our Taoiseach Leo Varadkar addressed the nation in a special broadcast on this Saint Patrick’s Day as Ireland comes to grips with the global Covid-19 pandemic, saying: This is the calm before the storm – before the surge. And when it comes – and it will come – never will so many ask so much of so few.
We are told that all these restrictions are only to "flatten the curve" to give the health departments a chance to prepare for the escalating numbers needing hospital care. And then what? What form will the "storm take? It is now admitted that "return to normal" is months away. It is thought that 60 to 70 percent of the world population will eventually contract the virus. And some say the world will never be the same again.
I have offered to help our home-schoolers next year by teaching "Music Appreciation" once per week. If it goes ahead, four children will attend ages from 9 to 11, of which two are my granddaughters. I wonder at what level to pitch it?
My plan is to first define "music" and then give a very simple explanation of the physics that results in the major scale and harmony; then to introduce the various instruments and discuss musical genres, in each case with examples. There is so much good stuff on Youtube. Overall I want to inspire them, motivate, open their eyes (or ears); encourage them to both enjoy and make music.
In preparation I have been assembling a list of pieces we might listen to. Strange, but it seems that the list mainly comprises pieces I personally like...
My sister drew my attention to this photo, as she is there on our left of Daisy "the fat miss Curtis" who is in the centre of the picture. Dorothy or "the thin miss Curtis" is on the other side of Daisy. My days at that school were a few years earlier and my memories of the two teachers' physique was far more extreme than this photo suggests, which says something about how children view such things. Besides, Daisy dyed her hair orange and, for a kid, that's weird.
One afternoon each week Miss Cobb would come to teach us music. We would sing English folk songs while she played the piano. I can distinctly remember the time when I noticed (for the first time?) that what she was playing was a good deal more than just the tune that we sang, and I liked the added complexity. That was my first memory of the Appreciation of Music.
Fidelity tape recorder
Later in my childhood I saved up and bought a Fidelity reel-to-reel tape recorder. I used to listen to music on the radio and record pieces I liked. A bit like cell-phones and Spotify. I remember one piece that stood out - it was only later that I identified it as the first movement of Bruckner's 7th - and thus started my infatuation with this man and his symphonic music. My friend David also bought a tape recorder - a more expensive one than mine. He was much stricter in his tastes in classical music: for me it was sufficient that I liked what I heard, never mind whether it was high or low brow.
At grammar school I took music O-level and thus repeatedly listened to a few set pieces including Purcell's Dido and Aeneas and Brahms Variations on a theme by Haydn and came to love them, although I failed to understand their structure in the way that the O-level apparently required. Thus, although my music theory was excellent, my overall grade was mediocre. Why are students expected to disassemble beautiful works of art and fawn examiners with accepted explanations against their better judgement?
This morning whilst waiting for the world to wake up I stumbled across this recording of Lascia ch'io pianga from Handel's opera Rinaldo (1711) sung by boy soprano Aksel Rykkvin (age 14). I found it to be agonisingly beautiful, spine chilling. The audience - some listening intently, like I was, others gazing patronisingly and some apparently unmoved. How was that even possible?
In my last post I quoted an admirer of Alexander Malofeev saying "I wish it were possible to be inside him.. in his mind and his heart.. WHO he is... for just 10 seconds...". At time 38:44 in the following video Alexander gives an encore after his performance of Gershwin Piano Concerto in F. Note how the conductor urges him to play, note the resulting joy on Alexander's face. I cannot find any reference to exactly what he was playing so I assume it was his own improvisation. In any event it is intensely beautiful yet so simple in structure. Listening to it is perhaps the closest any of us common mortals will get to being "inside him".
My point being that youngsters do have the ability to deeply appreciate music - from what age may depend on the individual but Mozart started composing at age five! Alexander started piano at the age of five and by seven he became interested in the music of Tchaikovsky, Shostakovich, Mahler, Rachmaninov and Prokofiev. Aksel received voice training when five years old.
In this perilous time of the coronavirus, what an amazing salve is music, and what a gift is Youtube where you can enjoy serious music for free and even watch the body language of the performers
whilst it is being played!
At age 13 he gained international recognition at the 8th International Tchaikovsky Competition for Young Musicians held in Moscow in 2014, where he won first prize and the Gold Medal. And he was 14 when the soloist in Saint-Saens piano concerto No 2...
Now 18 he is already well established as an expert not only in technique but also in expression and interpretation of compositions that, to put it mildly, are complex in form and exceedingly challenging to play. I have now watched a number of Youtube videos of him in concert and am mesmerised by his ability and interpretation. Not that I am qualified to judge other than that I have greatly enjoyed listening to and watching him play.
The following is a comment left by an admirer on Alexander's Facebook page. Whilst a bit OTT in places, it does echo my sentiments because I too want to fathom how one so young can be so profound.
I wish it were possible to be inside him.. in his mind and his heart.. WHO he is... for just 10 seconds, to know how it is for HIM, to have such amazing talent! I know it requires years of hard work, and practice practice practice! But also, there is something special about HIM that gives him this mind and heart for his amazing gift. I will never know this! But we all still enjoy his gift. He Is beautiful. I hope he is also a kind and humble person, away from the piano, along with that extraordinary talent and mesmerizing physical beauty. Thank you, Alexander, for sharing your talent with the world. It is amazing how "mere sound waves" affect our emotional being. Your "sound waves" originating from your heart, through your skilled fingers, are awe inspiring! (posted by Steve Farmer)
Indeed whenever I am "wowed" by any artist I want to know more about them: what makes them tick. Because artist and aesthete meet in the "wow". A bit like Orual and Ansit embracing in Till We Have Faces: "She was weeping; and I... on that desolate island... we were the only two castaways. We spoke a language, so to call it, which no one else in the huge heedless world could understand. Yet it was a language only of sobs".
But all this is very selfish of me... He (Alexander) has a life to live and is in grave danger of his musical fame depriving him of it - it must either fulfil or destroy him.
During our last visit to Willand I attempted the Wellington monument and kind of implied that I would actually get there some other time. And so I did. I started the barefoot running aspect of our visit to Ali's mum with a warm-up along the Exe valley whilst Ali was doing what she likes best: shopping...
...and then a few days later the opportunity came - fair weather, no need for lunch because we had taken Ali's mum to Knightshayes (National Trust) tea shop wherein lieth fruit scones, and so I set off telling myself there was no shame should I fail to make it all the way. And made it there and back. To check out the scaffolding, I told my alter ego (the less adventurous one).
The whole track
The interesting part
I figured I must have run (the term includes some walking) over 20 miles so, on returning and checking my cell phone, I was a bit miffed that I had "only" clocked up 19.55 miles. With elevation gain 620m and average speed moving 5.3 mph.
I used footpaths where feasible and some were exceedingly muddy, but I had my waterproof bare feet on so a quick wash in the river Culm where I left it at Uffculme sorted that.
In case you have not been following my Wellington monument interest, it is currently the subject of a major restoration program and is completely covered in scaffolding. Worth a visit just to see the amount of effort they have expended so far.
The outward route was by road to Black Down Common (home of the Culmstock Beacon) and thence to the monument. Then returning via a very pleasant footpath to within a stone's throw of Hemyock, at least it would have been more pleasant if less muddy, then to Culmstock from which I followed the river footpath via Hunkin Wood to Uffculme. As usual you can click on the images to enlarge them.
This detail is a tunnel to protect pedestrian access to a footpath going North towards the town of Wellington. BTW in my first post I supposed the town got its name from the first duke. In fact the town preceded himself and he was named after it.
The Culm valley looking towards the West
Within a stone's throw
In Hunkin Wood
Me (and the river Culm)
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