Touching

Five days ago, before the real heat began, I drove to Chichester with a veggie lunch at Café Paradiso in mind. I always look forward to lunching there. It's at the top end of North Street and it's such a nice place. I've been an occasional customer since 2002. They have a back garden, if you like to eat al fresco, but I always stay inside in the shade. Most often I have their impeccable vegetable lasagne with four salad items, plus an Americano. This time I chose rocket, mixed beans, wheat berry and tomatoes.

This consumed, what next? I had bought three hours' parking time. It wasn't too hot to wander through the Priory Park and on to a section of the old Town Wall, then along East Street to the Market Cross, then south a bit and into the Cathedral Precinct via an arched side entrance. The grass in Priory Park looked very parched:

Odd how the trees continued to look green. But then I suppose their roots went down further, into soil still cool and moist. It was tedious mounting the steps to the Wall one by one - this was before my recent leg improvement - but I got up there eventually and walked along easily enough. This was the north-east section of the Town Wall. The best sections are the north-west and south-west. But this part was nevertheless pleasant - and quite shady - with plenty to peer down at on either side.

I was deliberately looking for things to shoot with LXV. People - buildings - and things seen in shop windows that might make a picture, such as this:

A camera shop - that rarest of beasts nowadays - had a good display of classic second-hand film SLRs, complete with standard lenses: 

I'd owned Olympus OM-1N and OM-10 cameras. I still had my favourite OM-1N, with a 50mm f/1.4 lens attached. In the window was an OM-1 with the slower 50mm f/1.8 lens. The asking price was £199.99. Wow - only £200 for a top-notch film camera! That was so affordable. They'd probably be asking £250 for the OM-1 plus the f/1.4 lens - still very reasonable. That didn't mean of course that my OM-1N was worth £250 to sell. I'd be lucky to get £50 for it. 

In the past, Chichester has surprised me with the sudden appearance of a man in Edwardian costume, pedalling a penny-farthing. Not today. But there was this display of panama hats outside one shop in South Street:

Perfect for gents wishing to look the part, when sipping their planter's punch. 

I cut through to the Cathedral Precinct. The masonry of the Cathedral needs constant attention, and in recent years it has been swathed in scaffolding. But now a lot of that had gone, leaving the cleaned-up and repaired stonework in full view against the blue sky. 

The coolness of the cloisters beckoned. And it seemed that a ceramic exhibition was on. Artistically-formed pots and bowls are always worth a look. Meanwhile I switched LXV into black-and-white mode, just for some stark shots of the cloister windows. 

There were people in the quadrangle, studying various pieces of sculpture there. Moving along, I saw that there were some pieces under cover too.

I rather hoped the letters written on the interior surface of the globe would offer a clue as to meaning; but if they did, it was beyond rapid comprehension. I suspected a tongue-in-cheek code or cipher. Next, the pieces in the quadrangle. I especially liked this sinuous form, reminiscent of a woman's torso twisting around:

And these podded forms on stalks, presumably male and female:

Although not a work of sculpture, this sequence of images, showing a man grappling with despair and eventually mastering himself, must have struck a chord with many visitors. Who hasn't had to overcome bad news, grief and distress in recent years?

He had his painting trousers on - might this be then the anguish of an artist who couldn't get what he felt down on canvas? Painter's block, in other words?

Ah, at last. A general clue to the common thrust of these works.

On I went, and then saw around a corner I saw two elongated sculptures. Each seemed to be a straightforward collection of dismembered body parts, artistically arranged. But a closer look revealed something different. I think the artist had made plaster casts of two different naked middle-aged couples caressing each other sexually. Then she had carefully split the casts up into significant pieces, joining them together again to create a composition that drew attention not only to the pleasure of sensual enjoyment, but to the most tender aspects of lovemaking, enhanced all the more by the participants' obvious seniority. At the same time, these works were celebrating the fact that age alone does not preclude, nor deny, the full expression of physical love.  

I'll let the pictures I took make my interpretation clear.

These hand-claspings were an important feature.

Not to everyone's taste of course. For me it was an uneasy challenge. Never in my entire life had I become used to extensive body-touching and caressing. I could give it to other people, but not accept it for myself. It was too intimate, too much an overload of whatever made me shy away from it. And I hadn't changed as I grew older. I remained averse to such physical closeness, and the surrender necessary for it. This was why I felt vexed and impatient with any suggestion that I must be hungry for sex. If only the people who thought that knew how it really was with me! 

But I made myself take those pictures, perhaps to face up to something I was fearful of. I can readily appreciate the artistic merit of the pieces. But I can't imagine myself entwined with someone else in such a way. Nor do I want the capacity to experience this kind of desire. I know what the emotional consequences might be. I want to remain serene and in control. 

Many will say that I'm missing out, that I'm wrong to be frightened of further emotional damage. And that in an uncertain world, the best thing is to take love and affection and physical experiences whenever they are offered. I see the point they make. But I haven't built up my defences for nothing. I have achieved some security, and feel safe behind my high walls, and intend to stay that way.  

But I do also understand the price I am paying for peace, stability and immunity from upsets. It might eventually prove too high. 

I looked in on the ceramic exhibition, and got into conversation with the physiotherapist who advised me on my walking stick (see the last post). Then I walked back to Fiona, passing this statue of St Richard, to whom the Cathedral is especially dedicated. 

I am not religious, as readers will know well; but I thought he gave me a blessing as I passed. I promised him I would look at my life and make changes if I could.