Heatwave

Salt, and the path to the sea....

I have seen you looking up, burning in your loneliness

Arthur Miller

The Crucible

A moth on my glass door.  The wings extended in an attempt to ventilate and cool.  The creature perplexed  by the glass.  Where to go?  How to deal with this infernal heat?

Another Moth was caught in the heat of publicity this week, the moth that trod the salt path, treading the ups and downs of the south coast path, beating back the illness that threatened his life, chasing away a nightmare, hoping for a dream.....  The heat is on.

Hollyhock

The heat has been getting to me, too.  Everything is dry, including me.  Heat has never been my summer favourite - winter, OK, yes.  A log fire and thick clothing, the glow of burning oak logs and the warmth of wool - these are the stuff of luxury.  But the actinic singe of the highest of suns blazing down on an unprotected pale skin is not for me.  

Don't misunderstand.  I love the sunshine.  I love time on a beach, with a loved one, dipping in and out of the refreshing waters, then taking a while in the shade while the waves scrawl across the sands, just a shell or two away.  That's fine with me.  

But unrelenting ultraviolet baking is too much.  When the land is cracked and even the nettles are dying.  This is no fun.

It is seen in nature too. The colours have bleached a little and the structure of the plants is more straggly. Here rosebay willow herb reaches up to an ambiguous blue sky:

And here the mischievous ragwort mimics the sun and shines like fool's gold for a week or so, before it recedes into a downy nothingness in the fields, the cinnabar moths having taken flight:

As the creeping thistles have already begun to spread their whispy seeds:

The sun is boiling high, while a few clouds tease out shadows but offer no respite.

The river Ingol is but a trickle:

These are the dog days, associated since ancient times with the period in which the Dog Star, Sirius, a star twice the size of our sun and twenty-five times more luminous, can be seen in the morning sky.

And in these hot, dry days, the freshness of spring has evaporated, and we are left with the tough, straggling plants that do their darndest to attract flying insects to their blooms, like viper's bugloss:

And this is, (I think) common cat's ear, (though it could be rough hawkbit?)

The ox-eye daisies are exhausted,

As are the poppies, pale and frayed, their petals bruised by the wind:

Crane's-bill, or wild geranium, tangles with the withered grasses,

While the brambles struggle to remain in flower long enough to attract the bees:

The trees, also, despite their deeper root systems, are working hard to ensure their survival.  The black alder coned seed pods are already browning and desiccated:

An ash tree has vast bunches of keys, perhaps desperate that at least some may grow, and grow without die-back:

And in the woods, the floor is strewn with sweet chestnut catkins, too early, methinks.  Will there be fruit this year?  Perhaps, because 2024 was a mast year, when the trees produced far more fruit than the pigs, squirrels and jays etc could consume, they were already going to conserve their energies this year?  Anyway, I think the drought has taken its toll:

Anyway, it's hot - too hot - and I don't need Martha Reeves and the Vandellas to tell me about a Heatwave.....  Suffice it to say it's cooler by the sea, so I take my own pinch-of-salt path [It's all true!  Ed] past the parched grasslands and unusually short crops:

Down to the sea, the cool grey sea, shining like burnished pewter in the evening sun:

Or the posterised sea:

Or the solarised sea:

Nothing, perhaps, is quite how it seems, or how we want it to be, but there's nothing quite like bathing in cool salty waves when the sun is hot.  My salt path is between me and the sea, and that's how it will remain.

But in the still cool of the night, I may share it with my moth - if he's still there....

 

Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines

Shakespeare

Sonnet 18

Shadow on a beech

Somewhat stoned

Losing my Marbles

Preface:

Recondite

 

You know how, when under pressure, sometimes things go a bit blank?  Or, if asked a question out of the blue, you may say the first thing that comes into your head?  I would be useless on one of those TV quiz programmes.  I am pretty useless in pub quizzes.  [Come to think of it, you’re verging on the useless anyway.... Ed]

 

Anyway, when asked the other day what the word recondite meant, the first thing that came to mind was that it is a term to describe reconditioned dolomite, which is a sedimentary carbonate rock found particularly in the Dolomite Mountains of NE Italy.  The reconditioning occurs when waste rock from land slips is engineered for garden paving etc.  This may, or may not, be likened to the recent biotic synthetic experiment which claimed to have precipitated ordered dolomite when anoxygenic photosynthesis proceeded in the presence of manganese, or perhaps a still perplexing example of an organogenic origin [was] that of the reported formation of dolomite in the urinary bladder of a Dalmatian dog, possibly as the result of an illness or infection(Wikipedia).....  No?  [WTF?  Ed]

 

Well, as might perhaps already be apparent, this is not what recondite means...... as its origin lies in the past participle of the Latin verb recondere, which means to put away, or hide, hence the 1652 usage for deep, profound or abstruse (though in 1817 it was used to refer to obscure or little-known writers.... [Like you?  Ed])

 

Interface

So there we have it, which by a stumbling sidestep takes me to Palladian Houghton Hall, not far from my own palatial home in Norfolk, where (Houghton - not my home) the recondite British sculptor Stephen Cox is presenting -  across the park, gardens and interiors of the Hall - the largest and most comprehensive group of works the artist has ever shown. Spanning over 40 years, it includes work conceived and produced all over the world from India to Egypt, Italy and the UK.  [Does he work in reconditioned Dolomite?  Ed]

 

The exhibition, entitled Myth, consists of around 20 sculptures in marble and stone that have been placed in the landscape, while smaller works are installed in the State Rooms on the first floor of the house, where William Kent’s exuberant decorative scheme has hardly changed since it was created in the early 18th century.....

 

As the Houghton Hall website (https://www.houghtonhall.com/whats-on/stephen-cox-exhibition) has it, Stephen Cox is one of the most acclaimed British artists of his generation, best known for his monumental works in stone. His work is known worldwide with celebrated exhibitions include MOMA, New York and the National Gallery and Tate Britain, London. Using traditional techniques, he has carved marble, alabaster and porphyry, and was the first artist for many centuries to gain access to the Imperial Porphyry Quarries in the Eastern Mountains of Egypt. His works are in many private and public collections around the world, with government and corporate commissions in India and Egypt as well as in Britain. He was elected a Royal Academician in 2006.  

It is to my chagrin (or perhaps just due to my ignorance?) that I regret never having heard of him heretofore.....

 

The grounds of Houghton Hall are in themselves something of a work of art – a whole village was relocated to improve the views – with ancient trees and designed avenues populated by white fallow deer (originally bred by the 5th Marquess of Cholmondeley in the late 19th century, these deer, once considered a Victorian indulgence, now contribute significantly to the park's ecosystem). 

Last year, the misty mornings were the setting for one hundred life-size three-dimensional rusty selfies of Anthony Gormley.  

Now the tone is more recondite [Don’t you mean erudite?  Ed] with, among other pieces, sculptures of eleven female figures (Yoginis – 2000-2010), human forms with animal heads, derived from a tantric cult, carved out of black Indian stone and set in an inward-facing circle. 

 

Yoginis 2000-2010
Charnockite (basalt) 
each sculpture is approximately 200 cm x 55 cm x 40 cm

 

Lord Cholmondeley, owner of Houghton Hall, explains why these sculptures work so well in this setting. The title of Stephen Cox’s exhibition at Houghton seems particularly fitting as so much of his work as an artist references the mythology and religions of ancient civilisations – especially Egypt and the Indian subcontinent – with their allegorical fables and anthropomorphic deities.

 

An alchemy of enrichment seems to have occurred between Cox’s sculptures and William Kent’s sumptuous interiors, with their variegated marble tables and entablature, a subtle connection across the centuries that both Kent and his patron, Sir Robert Walpole, would surely have approved of.

 

A visit to Houghton Hall at any time is a treat. The park stretches out, a curated expanse of Norfolk at its best, with the intricate walled garden to one side and a wooded area to the other, which is home to some of the permanent exhibits of the Houghton art collection – Scottish artist Anya Gallaccio’s wonderful Sybil Hedge which is based on the signature of the Marquis Cholmondeley’s grandmother, Sybil Sassoon.  This is a three-metre-tall copper-beech hedge planted in lines mirroring Sybil's signature.  And then across the way is (82-year-old American artist) James Turrell’s Skyspace: Seldom Seen, 

one of many constructions he has created across the world designed as places of contemplative thought:  You are looking at you looking. What is important to me [Turrell] is to create an experience of wordless thought....

I like that:  wordless thought - so much better than thoughtless words....

 

And then some way from the house in the main avenue is 80 year old Bristolian Turner Prize winning Sir Richard Long’s Full Moon Circle. 

There’s enough art here to make you fall headlong into the Ha Ha.....

 

Anyway we are here for Stephen Cox and his sculptures, and we are not disappointed.  Beginning in the appropriately named Stone Hall there are two large pieces sculpted from Imperial Porphyry, the hardest stone in the world.  One of these, Dreadnought: Problems of History, Search for the Hidden Stone, 

Dreadnought:
Problems of History, the Search for the Hidden Stone,
2003 - ongoing

has rough carving carried out by Roman workers.  The other piece, Chrysalis, a monolith amongst monoliths, was fashioned by Cox at his studio in Egypt, employing carvers from Luxor and Aswan.

Chrysalis, 1989–91

Porphyry 92 cm x 285 cm x 100 cm

Brecciated Imperial porphyry, 1 m x 2.7 m x 0.85 m

Neatly tucked away amongst the opulence of the state rooms of Houghton there are other pieces by Cox, including a small model of St Lawrence’s gridiron in the Library, and alabaster and other stone figures and objects perching on the tables and desks around the rooms.

Cycladic Gemini with Altar, 2018

Hand-carved alabaster with gold leaf details 

set on an alabaster base

53cm x 50cm x 25.5cm

Lancia Figures

Egyptian Alabaster 2009

 

In the park there are great sarcophagi, or interior spaces, their walls and roofs sawn from massive boulders and then polished to reflecting surfaces.  These impressive boxes stand empty, their presence the result of some of the most ingenious flat-packing of recent times.....

Yatra represents simple outrigger fishing boats tossed on a granite sea, as Cox witnessed at Mahabalipuram on the south-east coast of India.  I visited Mahabalipuram many years ago, and although I did not notice granite columns sticking out of the sandy beach, I can vouch for the verisimilitude of the crafts atop the waves.....

Granite Catamarans on a Granite Wave, 1993-4

Black and white Indian granite ( dolerite/basalt and diorite )

350 x 1400 x 700 cm

and there are various sculpted pieces of rock - some single pieces, but many designed as twins hewn from the same piece of stone, exquisitely polished on one face, but rough and untouched on the other:

Gemini III , 2012 - 2016

Carved Egyptian breccia

then we find eleven intriguing feminine figures facing each other in a glade in the woods.  These are the Yoginis, as seen above, fashioned to represent the mythical merging of human and animal characteristics, each one a different creature, but harmonious in the circle.

 

Postscript

At the end of the day, we are left wondering.  The overall impression (which is confirmed by looking through Cox’s catalogue) is of an enormous amount of work, tons of stone, colossal imagination, recondite (?) research and a feeling for time and space that drives lesser concerns away.  We don’t ask what does this mean?  We admire.  We wonder.  Then we wander off, somehow changed by the experience.  Somehow richer for the stimuli.....  

Am I mything something?  I don’t believe so.

 

But, from a forest of stones, the geology of art confuses me.  Is alabaster stone? Has recondite been reconditioned? Do you make stone anchors from anchorite? Is dynamite a stone that explodes? Is cordite what you make stone trousers from? Is hermaphrodite a rare self-fertilising stone? Can you sculpt quickly with expedite? Is endite the last stone you will ever see?

 

Am I losing my marbles?

[Of course all this is based on the premise that the suffix -ite indicates some lapidary feature (though rhyolite, bauxite and trachite are examples of rocks ending in -ite, so am I on dodgy ground?) whereas perhaps -ith might be more convincing..... 

In which case does Mith (or rather Myth) stand for one thousand stones?] 

Arrest my case…..  [Time to call it a day.  Ed]

 

Thank you, Stephen Cox.  Thank you, David Cholmondeley.  Thank you my friend for taking me.

 

I now need to lie on the beach and watch the green flash as the liquid sun melds into the night.

 

Epilogue

....the work of the artist in all its aspects is, of its nature, individual and free, undisciplined, unregimented, uncontrolled. The artist walks where the breath of the spirit blows him. He cannot be told his direction; he does not know it himself. But he leads the rest of us into fresh pastures and teaches us to love and to enjoy what we often begin by rejecting, enlarging our sensibility and purifying our instincts.

John Maynard Keynes

First Chairman of The Committee for Encouragement of Music and the Arts (CEMA) (Which became the Arts Council)

The Listener - 1945

Stephen Cox: Myth
Houghton Hall, King’s Lynn, Norfolk PE31 6UE
Until Sunday 28 September 2025

Back to Nature

Far from the madding crowd....

Sunrise over the North Sea, streaming across the extraordinary poppy fields that this year have coated north Norfolk in waving fields of blood.  

A little while before sun rise I just caught the moon going down, a tiny bright pinprick in the sky:

And then here comes the sun, and I say, "It's alright...."

It all happens so fast.  Daylight like a rising flash, a lightning, I find it all hard to believe, so I ask a passing skylark to take my pic from above:

And then he takes a speckled stutter of spatters without me (can you trust anyone these days?):

And that was last week. 

Yes, life is racing by.  Only a few weeks ago the cowslips were like a delicately quilted coverlet spread across the countryside.  

 

Then they gradually faded, seeping into beige and pale lemony green.  And then we had the poppies, fields and fields of them, filling the air with a dozy haze in the evening air while we walked.

Today I walk from my home to the north coast, some eight and half miles along lanes and footpaths, and the poppies are pale and fringed with age, their petals bruised with the flapping winds we have had in the last few days.....

And now they are being succeeded, by hawkweeds, or hawkbits, or common cat's-ears (please excuse my inexactitude; life is too short....)

So anyway.  I've been in the city.  I've had some slightly startling speedy heartbeats, and I am glad to be back in the fresh air, walking comfortably above the ground, fluttered by butterflies:

Two ringlets exchanging greetings

I am just off the Peddars' Way, only sixteen miles north of Castle Acre,

The landscape tells human stories.  Here a dry cereal crop leads you down to a red stone farm which lies just by the old railway line from Hunstanton to Fakenham.....

Here a shady oak frames a bucolic fold of hills with, though you cannot see it, a red kite trawling for worms.....

Then we have the hedgerows and wildflowers, exchanging their bodily fluids with the insects of the air to enable life, of all sorts, to go on.  Without this, you should know, we are all doomed....  Insect sex is everything we need....

A white-tailed bumblebee on knapweed

A six-spot Burnet moth on Knapweed

A six-spot Burnet moth on field scabious

A small white butterfly on bramble flowers

John Clare wrote:

Though simple to some I delight in the sight

Of such objects that bring unto me

A picture of picturesque joy and delight

Where beauty and harmony be

Oh I love at my heart to be strolling along

Oer the heath a new impulse to find

While I hum to the wind in a ballad or song

Some fancy that starts in the mind

All seems so delightful and bring to the mind

Such quiet and beautiful joys

That the mind when its weary like hermits may find

A retreat from earths folly and noise

The Heath

John Clare

I walk on.  Every day is new.  The shift from yellow to red to brown and so on is all part of the rich weft of colour that our world, when undisturbed, offers to the wanderer.  Seasonal.  Transitional. Always changing; always developing.  I am just perplexed by the rapidity of these changes.  

Don't read anything into these musings.  I breast the hill leading down to the coast and see,  distantly but clearly, Lincolnshire to one side, and a wind farm to the other.  As far as I can see there is life.  And life only.  

The foreground is filled with asparagus ferns, from the young plants that need to mature before they are harvested.  This is where I live, now.  This is beautiful.  I am happy to share it with you.....

Time flies by

In the blink of an eye

When you get paid for having too much fun

Kicking out the foot lights

Living the night life

Like tomorrow ain't never going to come

Wouldn't change much of nothing

About this road we've been running

For of wild times, wild women, and a song

But we would've taken much better care of ourselves

If we would have known we would live this long

Live This Long

Willie Nelson 

Merle Haggard