Wimbledon’s
on the telly again. It seems to have come around very quickly since last
season. Is time compressing as I get older? Certainly the days no longer seem,
as they used to, endless and ready to be filled with whatever adventures come
my way; the weeks are pitilessly brief, leaving no time for idle frittering;
the end of the month seems to loom as soon as it begins; and years feel
rationed, inducing the onset of a certain anxiety to get things done before
time runs out. All of which might explain a late-flowering of interest in subjects
which, in my younger days, would have been peripheral to my consciousness.
Time is
limited but subject matter is limitless – this is a formula which induces mild
panic attacks, causing me to hop from one subject to another. This last week,
for example, I saw a show of Jackson Pollock’s Black Paintings, an exhibition
of Ancient Mayan artefacts, a contemporary dance production called The Tree of Codes, a documentary film
about Scientology and the first 15 minutes of Shaun the Sheep. I also visited Vindolanda and took a short walk
along a section of Hadrian’s Wall. But I have not been watching Wimbledon: you have to draw a line somewhere.
It’s nothing
more than coincidence, but I did have pollock for dinner on the day I went to
Jackson Pollock’s show and, while I haven’t found time to research whether the
names have a common origin, I did read that the artist was (understandably)
displeased by his nickname “Jack the Dripper”. Beyond that - and the wonderful
paintings - the thing that struck me was that he died suddenly, at the age of
44 which, in my experience, is too young to get a real sense of time running
short.
At the Mayan
exhibition I studied a time-chart which showed the beginnings of Mayan
civilisation coinciding with the building of Stonehenge at around 3000 BC. A
few days previously I had been at Hadrian’s Wall, built by the Roman Army in
the AD 120s when the Mayan civilisation still had another 1400 years to run before
it was smashed by the Spanish colonisers. Dominant civilisations lasted for
millennia back in the days before intercontinental travel became possible: they
were able to develop and mature slowly and in relative isolation from each
other. The contemplation of such long time-spans can be quite unsettling when
you’re anxious about your own fleeting span.
I saw a lot
of stonework, the tangible, durable legacy of these ancient civilisations. I
haven’t been to Mexico to touch the ruined Mayan temples but I did lay a
tentative finger on a large fragment of sculpture in the museum; I have stroked
Stonehenge - back in the days before it was fenced off; and I patted the face
of Hadrian’s Wall when I stopped for lunch last Thursday. I was attempting, in
each case, to connect viscerally with the past by way of what remains. It’s a
form of time-travelling which helps me to appreciate how people lived in
ancient times, and it leaves me in awe at how hard they must have worked to
construct their temples, walls and palaces.
Ancient
civilisations pushed at the limits of what it was possible to build without the
benefits of mechanisation and, in doing so, left us with impressive monuments,
valuable information - and something else: objects were made by hand, generally
according to the stylised pattern-books of the day, but every now and then we
see the individual touches of the maker which reveal our common human traits. Their
lives were different - more rigidly controlled and less free - despite which they
found time for artistic expression. Perhaps mine is a quintessentially modern,
first-world dilemma.
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