I see how you might see a ghost.
two pastimes I take great pleasure in on every visit to London and the UK: getting worked up to talk about the weather, and wandering freely in the lush gardens and parks (English ‘countryside’ a fitting place in which to do the former).
When I say weather, what I really mean is the experience of natural light and space with all the senses, though in English we normally parse out only the visual sensation of ‘light’ and likewise rely on sight and object-based analogies to describe the perception of space.
Even then, our language is quite…basic. What is the word for light-fall versus light-shadow (is chiaroscuro enough?)? How do we distinguish different translucencies, transparencies? How can ‘overcast’ encompass [this — bright yet completely white/grey sky] and [this—dark, stormy, seemingly night] and [this—fog bank]? Where is the word for faint sunlight when there is just enough strength of light to cast shadows if you squint, or the word for sunlight flickering with the interference of fast-moving clouds, or the sudden chill in the air as the sun’s direct rays disappear behind a cloud, or the quality of light in a blue sky with cirrus versus altocumulous versus cumulous clouds?
This preoccupation with the weather, and the light, is very British, has been discussed and bantered at length, and of course has been considered through the lens of how it affects and develops Britain’s artists and creatives, how the light builds a culture.
[2016–08 London show at The Getty, Los Angeles > London light. California artists and discussion of light on development, sense of place and ‘home’.]
Weather is a friendly topic, a binding of common experience in a given location regardless of background, language, health, fashion. Perhaps even more important today than before, weather offers to rain all over our augmented reality illusions and pierce the borders of our virtual reality playgrounds, provided we step outside.
We may bring different preferences and approaches to confronting our experience of the weather, but those remain our own — running hot or cold or simply forgetting to pack for chilly nights are recognised as individual quirks, unassailable or sidings not worth converting in contrast to a political or spiritual view.
And the change of the skies is a vocabulary of punctuation, marking time and moods.
So I have found it a soothing path of small talk. Beyond the reinforcing cycle of attention to the weather begetting more attentive observations, I must admit I cannot help but notice the weather particularly because of its frequent, unruly change in patterns. As we highlight our experiences of sunrise, sunset, so we also most notice the transition states, or focus on what something is once it has changed. The steady constants in our lives are there and they guide us: the smooth, angular shadows of Southern California light projecting over a row of pastel carsheds burnt nearly white with overexposure, the misty mirage of a dust swirl at the edge of a desert horizon when the midday heat causes the earth and our eyes to flicker.
Here in England, possessed by the capricious, moody light, I am struck with a flashing insight, as fleeting as the warm flush of sunlight on my shoulders. Then I stand, twenty minutes passing, in front of this green metal wall waiting for the sun to slip behind a cloud, any strong cloud will do (absolutely, I had lost the plot in a way):
Of course Englanders believed in witchcraft, ghosts, stage theatre. How, living a daily drama of the sun and sky casting and obscuring shadow objects, scene by cloud by scene, could you not imagine there might be more energies and light bodies simply hidden from your view?
[video — drama of light in Finsbury Park]
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