APOCALYPSE

John Martin, The great day of His wrath (Tate Britain)

As I had to be at the Tate Britain gallery yesterday (isn't it great to have to be in a museum?), I took advantage of it to see an exhibition that had piqued my curiosity, about the early 19th century British artist John Martin. I go to quite a few art exhibitions every year, some memorable, and some less so; for a few of the latter, I even struggle to remember any of the works on display. But I don't feel this is going to be the case with this exhibition: would you forget easily a series of painting depicting such subjects as the Apocalypse, the destruction of Pompei, the fall of Babylon, the Deluge, Satan presiding at the infernal council, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, all in a style just as dramatic as the piece above?

You would expect a painter who created such works to be one of those stereotypical doomed artists, a tortured soul rejecting the conventions of society and whose depiction of endless catastrophes are just an expression of his inner turmoil. Quite the opposite: John Martin was a conformist, yearning for artistic and social recognition, who deliberately created those dramatic pieces because he knew that the public would respond to them. In fact, he was one of the first artists who understood how to play to a budding mass audience and exploit their taste of the "sublime" (read: the terrible and the awesome) for fame and financial gain. The Salvador Dali or the Tracy Emin of his time!

Interestingly, John's brother Jonathan was a tortured soul, and was even committed after setting fire to York Minster. But if the one drawing of his featured in the exhibition is anything to judge by, Jonathan had nothing like the talent of his brother. Apparently, being unbalanced is not enough to be an artist...

I LIKE THAT GUY

Four hundred and six years ago yesterday, one Guy Fawkes was arrested and brought in front of the then king of England, James I, for his participation in a plot to blow up the Westminster Parliament. A few months later, he and his accomplices were found guilty of high treason and duly hanged, drawn and quartered. Sounds a bit unpleasant as a punishment, doesn't it? Don't worry, it's only an expression. The people thus sentenced were in fact tied behind horses who drew them to their place of execution, hanged almost to the point of death, emasculated, disembowelled, beheaded and then only quartered, which is as you would imagine chopped into four pieces. So they did not really suffer during that last bit (it's bad for the meat).

You'd think that after all that, Guy Fawkes had been punished enough. But every year since then, on November 5^th, adults and children all over the UK have celebrated the "happy ending" by burning him in effigy, as well as organising fireworks displays, and of course lighting lots of firecrackers. There used to be a part about going around in the neighbourhood with the effigy, asking for "a penny for the Guy", but I guess Hallowe'en has now taken over as far as groups of begging children are concerned.

Maybe it's the gruesome execution, maybe it's the fact that a few historians have questioned the reality of the plot, maybe it's because of all the noise made by the revellers, but I had never been too keen on Bonfire Night celebrations. Isn't it a bit inconsistent to celebrate with so many explosions the thwarting of an attempt to blow up parliament? Not to mention that November is a strange time to have so many fireworks, especially in a place where it rains so often...

Recently though, the symbolism of Guy Fawkes has been turned on its head. Ever since the release of the comic book V for Vendetta, where a man disguised as Fawkes fights almost single-handedly a fascist government in the UK and succeeds in blowing up the Palace of Westminster, people have started to identify with Guy Fawkes rather than celebrate his death. Masks like the one above have become anti-greed symbols, and they are selling like hotcakes (yes, there is a bit of irony in that). As a Frenchman, I am bound to feel more sympathy with that point of view: we like to celebrate the toppling of kings and the storming of their fortresses, not their victories.

BE VERY AFRAID!

Are you afraid of things that go bump in the night? No, of course. I am sure you are all rational people for whom Hallowe'en is just a bit of fun, and you don't feel the slightest bit of apprehension about what might happen on this most frightful night of the year. Well, I was like you once. But this year, I am shaking in my shoes: I am hosting a Hallowe'en party tonight - or rather g-hosting, as it said on the invitations. Ahem... - and I expect more than twenty children to come, not to mention the many trick-or-treaters who are going to ring my doorbell all through the evening. Believe me, Satan and all his minions are nothing to that!

I have put a lot of work into the whole thing. The house looks suitably creepy, with its creaking garden gate (okay, I didn't have to do much for that one), its hanging skeletons, its carved pumkins, and its cobwebs in every corner (believe it or not, I had to add those). And my guests will be able to feast on maggots (small brown shrimps; shelled, they really look the part), worms (gummi ones, and frankfurters split lengthways), brain cupcakes (the buttercream icing looks quite realistic), a very bloody-looking rasperry jelly (as a Frenchman, I am convinced you have to be an actual demon to ingest such a thing as jelly...), and a hellish punch complete with swarming (gummi) snakes and floating icy hands. Ironic that you have to make your house so uninviting to host a good party!

I am a bit disappointed about my costume, though. I had my eye on that lovely number in red above, but apparently I left it too late, and I couldn't get it in time. Granted, it is not what you would call a handsome devil, but he has some presence, don't you think? It looks like I'm going to dress as a werewolf instead. I'm afraid (again) it's bound to cause some friction with the few vampires among my guests...

WE WUZ ROBBED!

© The Daily Telegraph

The last post I published here before I vanished was about rugby, and I thought on my return that if I was to have any claim to entertaining and informing you, I had to mention the most important event on the face of the earth, the Rugby World Cup. For those of my readers who live outside the solar system, the world cup started 6 weeks ago in New Zealand, and finished last Sunday with a victory of the home team, the dreaded All Blacks, over my beloved Bleus (the real ones, France), who happened to be playing in white that day.

Now, it has to be said that the All Blacks had easily been the best team since the beginning of the tournament. Or since the end of the last one 4 years ago. Or since World War I... Not so for France, who up to the final, had probably had their worst world cup ever. It would be difficult for me then to claim that New Zealand lifting the Webb Ellis trophy on Sunday is a huge injustice. And yet...

Inexplicably, but all too familiarily, the French team proceeded on the day to confound every expectations by playing with an intensity, a passion that they had not shown in a long time. My hopes were starting to raise, and even neutrals were saying that the mighty All Blacks had a fight on their hands. Unfortunately, that last category did not seem to include Craig Joubert, who was refereeing the match, and whose patience apparently only extended to New Zealand infringements. In a match so evenly poised, the slightest bias was bound to have an impact on the scoresheet, and it did. In the end, France lost by just 1 point, the smallest losing margin ever in a world cup final.

Incidentally, France also hold the record of the biggest losing margin ever: 23 points in 1999, just after they beat the same All Blacks in a semi-final that is considered by many the best ever match in world cup history. I am telling you, supporting France is not for the faint of heart!

THE PRODIGAL SON

Rembrandt, The prodigal son (Эрмитаж)

The obvious paradox of blogs, is that if you're somebody to whom lots of fascinating things happen, you probably don't have the time to write about it every day. Conversely, if nothing ever happens to you, you have plenty of time to write, but about what? So, does this mean to say, or at least to suggest, that if you haven't heard about me for 2 years, 6 months and 14 days, it's because my life finally got interesting? And consequently, now that it has become boring again, I can't wait to share it with you?

Well, not quite. Certainly, a lot has happened during my time in the wilderness (I might tell you about it some day), but it shouldn't have been enough to keep me off the keyboard so consistently. And paradoxically, I am now busier than I've been in years (I might tell you about that too), and yet I feel the need, and most importantly the energy, to start posting again.

Dear reader, I know all cannot be forgiven in an instant. After all, I left you to live the wild life far from the internet, and I can only imagine how much you have suffered, waiting day after day for a new post. Maybe, Heaven forbid, you have started reading some other blog. I shudder at the thought; how can you be so fickle? But hey, let's not quarrel, today is a day for celebration. Bring out the fatted calf, Abraham is back!