Tragicocomedia

Natatio, Baths of Caracalla, Rome, October 10, 2013

Wrætlic is þes wealstan, wyrde gebræcon;
burgstede burston, brosnað enta geweorc.

“Wondrous is this wall-stead, wasted by fate.

Battlements broken, giant’s work shattered”

– The Ruin, Old English Poem, c. 8th-10th century

It is hardly surprising that across Europe in the early middle ages, many people living in the post-Roman world thought that the earth had once been inhabited by giants. With the collapse of the Western Empire, many of the major metropolises across western Europe suffered vast declines in population – by the late 5^th century Rome’s population had shrunk from over a million to less than 400,000, and by the middle of the 6^th century, after Justinian’s reconquest of Italy, it plummeted to a mere twenty thousand. A combination of disruption of the countryside, the breakdown of trade networks and supply lines, and the effects of ongoing war, famine and repeated cycles of plague, the 6^th century was an age of disappearing cities and towns.

Indeed, in this period, many cities and towns vanished altogether, only to show up later in the archaeological record. The crumbling remains were either entirely abandoned or quarried for materials. In some major cities, the shrinking population abandoned the city centre to live on the fringes, where access to agricultural land was easier. Major edifices were repurposed, making use of the cavernous spaces between pillars, for example, which could be bricked in with a ready-made roof. Amphitheatres were fortified and piled up with houses built upon the rows of seats. In Rome, such was the scale of the city that it broke up into a series of small villages, with shepherds grazing flocks through the abandoned, overgrown streets. It was the world’s first true apocalypse, the first collapse of a “modern” civilization.

This photograph shows the immense brick walls of the Baths of Caracalla. Constructed between AD 211 and 217, they remained in use until the aqueducts were cut in Rome during the devastating Gothic War fought between the Eastern Empire and the Ostrogoths from 535-554. The baths complex covered an area of 25 hectares, with the main building no less than 228 metres long and 116 metres wide, reaching to a height of 38.5 metres. It could accommodate up to 1600 bathers and contained libraries, gymnasiums, restaurants and shops. It required thousands of slaves to maintain and had its own aqueduct built to supply the water. As it lay on the outskirts of the ancient city, it was left almost entirely abandoned for centuries after its water supply was cut. The immense and impressive statuary which adorned the vast complex, such as the Farnese Hercules, was not recovered until the 16^th century, almost a thousand years after it fell into ruin.

This photograph shows a view looking from the frigidarium (cold bath) into the natatio (swimming pool), which was roughly of Olympic length, with dimensions of 54 x 24 metres. The epic scale of the wall dwarfs the human subjects and goes someway towards highlighting just how massive this structure was, and, indeed, still is. An hour-long visit to the bath is a great way to spend a sunny afternoon in Rome.

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“Emergency Window” – Mysore, India, January 2, 2013

There is an engaging sadness in the expression of the main subject; a pre-emptive longing for a friend yet to depart. The lady on the train seems more cheery, as though she is reassuring her friend. It is, after all, saddest for those left behind, who have to go on as before with the acute absence of the departed. Yet while departures can presage adventure and possibility, sufficient to distract from the missing, or a welcome homecoming to familiar comforts, they can also be a sorry return to quotidian drudgery. Either way, it is so often the case that when someone close expresses an unconstrained sorrow, the other is driven to optimism and persuasive reinforcement, which often masks the true sadness that lies beneath.

This train window farewell took place in Mysore, a lovely, tidy and well-run city with by far the most attractive old market I’ve ever come across. Originally I gave it the title of “Emergency Window” as the full composition includes a notice above the opening which seemed neatly to compliment the solace emanating from the passenger. The title stands though this symmetry has been removed. On the subject of symmetry, perhaps it is just their identical facing, yet the two women in focus, looking left of frame, not the moving passer-by, appear similar enough to be related. I’ve always assumed it was mother and daughter, though this is just as likely mere inference.

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Venice, Rialto Bridge, March 9, 2007

During the day the Rialto Bridge in Venice is a very busy place. Whatever the season or weather, the bridge is not merely a tourist magnet, but one of the key central crossing points along the Grand Canal and is thus rarely free of people. This is the case for much of the centre of Venice – being as beautiful as it is, the streets are often packed with both locals and foreigners. Things certainly quieten down in the off-season, but the thinning of the crowds starts from the outside in and the Grand Canal retains its floating population.

At night, however, particularly in the colder months, the streets can become surprisingly empty and a welcome quiet descends upon La Serenissima. The freedom to stroll leisurely and alone through the streets, hearing the soft scuff of one’s feet on the flagstones is a rare and beautiful thing. It gives Venice back its subtlety and romance, hidden behind the hubbub of the busy days. It is then that the city’s antiquity and its strange melancholy become most apparent; the precarious decay, the suggestive gloom, the orange of lamps and jade of the luminescent canals seem as genuinely characteristic as the glittering palazzi reflected in the sunlit waters.

This photograph reminds me of the quiet and empty nights I experienced in Venice on my four visits there in various years. Be it March, April, October or November, there were always nights on which the crowds completely dispersed and the streets were free to wander through, unhurried or interrupted by others. This photo is of the stairs leading down the eastern side of the Rialto Bridge of a couple whose dynamic silhouettes captured my attention. I’ve always liked this shot on account of its movement; the setting remains so still, the bridge’s marble polished by millions of visitors, but the couple are wonderfully expressive without meaning to be so. They seem so sexy and alive while around them the city eases into sullen silence.

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Golden Temple, Amritsar, Punjab, April 22, 2010

The Golden Temple of Amritsar in Punjab is truly a wonder, and not simply because of the beautiful and elaborate solid gold upper storeys of the Harmandir Sahid, the structure at the centre of the complex seen here in the background. It is a huge site – a square of gleaming white marble colonnades surrounding a central man-made lake, or tank – and is without a doubt one of the cleanest, most stunning places in the world. The perfection of the architecture and the standard to which it is maintained is immediately apparent. Upon entering through one of the four temple gates (symbolic of the openness of the Sikhs to all who wish to visit, irrespective of religion), the blinding white marble is just as striking as the shining gold.

This was without a doubt one of the highlights of my first visit to India. I flew in first thing in the morning, after an overnight stay in Delhi en route from Darjeeling. I had not had anywhere near enough sleep and felt a little overwrought, which actually heightened my experience, intensifying the emotional response to the magnificence of this site. There was so much to be appreciated here – the chanting and music which played throughout (on without a doubt the best P.A in India), creating a peacefully exotic atmosphere; the spear-wielding, turbaned temple guards; the gorgeous, colourful clothes of the Indian visitors, so luminous against the white backdrop; the dreamy reflections in the water of the lake, and the almost cloying niceness of every single person I met.

Apart from the impressive appearance of the place, I was astonished to learn that the temple feeds up to 40,000 people each day, for free, through the efforts of volunteers. This involves using around 12,000kg of flour a day, and the number of people fed can rise as high 100,000 on religious holidays and weekends. This seemed to coincide with how nice everyone was. I had several locals approach me, all wanting to make friends and talk to me. This is not uncommon in India, but the locals around the temple in Amritsar seemed somehow to be the sweetest people I’d ever met and I actually was left feeling terribly guilty when I finally made excuses and walked away from them.

Originally I intended to stay in the town, but ended up just visiting the temple for four hours before taking a bus north to McLeod Ganj. It was a short, but sweet visit and the temple has left indelible images in both my mind and camera.

This photo is taken from just outside one of the gates, looking back into the temple. I chose this one for its various vignettes – the man inquiring of the temple guard, the cleaner, the woman taking the photograph and the man in the striped shirt who may or not be accompanying the man in the white turban. It reminds me fondly of the different people who visit the temple for different purposes and of the people who look after and maintain the place.

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Hampi, India, January 5, 2013

This shot was taken by the river that flows through Hampi in northern Karnataka in India. There is no bridge across the river at this point and the stairs here lead down to the bank along which the tiny ferry – a small, uncovered boat with outboard motor – collects and unloads passengers. The stairs pictured here were also a popular place for resting in the shade.

These school-children may have been locals, or else they may have come to Hampi on an excursion to see the extensive archaeological ruins, which I have written about elsewhere. As is so often the case in India, they wanted their photo taken and called out to me to do so. Unlike so many other children who asked for their photo to be taken, the young chap in the middle didn’t smile, but rather offered a far more serious and quizzical expression.

Aside from the strong contrast of the sunlit boy against the dark shadows on the stairs, it is his expression and body language that I most like about this photo. Every time I look at his face, I detect an intelligent and discerning personality – he strikes me as a real thinker. There is almost a hint of disapprobation in his look – the frown, which forms a neat triangle at the top of his nose, seems to indicate some frustration or impatient curiosity – or perhaps he is just squinting into the sun. Though their faces can barely be seen in the shadow, the other children are also an interesting mix of expressions, with only the one in the middle smiling unreservedly. Something gave me the impression that the main subject was older than the others, or in some way more mature, and that his friends looked up to him. Of course, one can never be certain in these brief, stolen moments.

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