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John Phillips lighting up the walls at Beverley Minster.
“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”
— W.B. Yeats
John, you’re not so good, so I’m travelling over to see you. It’s the most beautiful of autumnal days and - with a little time to spare - I make my way in the van, over the Pennines, along the M62 to our meeting.
I mean this journey to be a little toddy for you.
Before I get to you, I spot the magnificent tower at Howden from the slow moving hump-backed Ouse bridge and, like a magnet, it pulls me in.
I remember you telling me of the times you’ve been transfixed, mesmerised by a church or an earthwork in the landscape. I’m becoming you today - seeing things through your eyes.
The light here is a blessing, John - the magnificent and ruinous east end is rising above the rooftops.
The angels are waiting for their moment in the light..
as well as the angles that tell a story of waxing and waning..
and then I see the gate that I've photographed so many times - the presence of absence.
and the presence of microscopic worlds..
And, of course, it was how we first met (must be 20 years ago) - over the microscopic.
I walked into the nave at Beverley looking for the epic and the awesome and you showed me another world in the constellation of marks made upon the floors and walls and in the roof timbers.
Instead of the giddy heights of the clerestory, you took me to the muddy patina of a jaundiced rafter, and told me it was a sapling during the reign of King Æthelstan.
And it's with that kind of observation, through your eyes that I'm feeling Howden today.
But, force of habit draws me into the epic..
..until I remember the things that you told me - to look for layers of history in the most unlikely places...
...and never forget that places are all about people.
Inside Howden Minster the light is magnificent..
but, if you were here, you would be showing me the mice at play..
After taking more photographs...
I sit and have a coffee and sketch the unlikely place..
Then, I walk back to the van until I'm stopped by an Aurora Arborealis, slowly moving towards me. In the park at the Ashes, I see a tree— a tree of such fair and uniform making, caught in the light, that it takes my breath away. I see the grand floribunda of the tree in contre-jour - a universe in the particular.
I put ‘John’s lens’ on again and move into the detail, slowly this time, watching the nuance of diaphanous light moving between the leaves. And closer I go—into the intricate network of veins—and I can see the cells, translucent, shimmering.
I’m reminded when we drove out in Woody, and then walked out to Huggate Dykes, caught up in conversation, amidst the lumps and bumps of the chalky wolds.
It wasn’t until we put up the bird that we saw our part in all of this, in this vast landscape of time, where the bumps turned into lines that broke through the fields, like the veins on the leaves at the Ashes in Howden.
Nothing is as it seems - a sentiment captured by the astronomer Maria Mitchell: “we have a hunger of the mind which asks for knowledge of all around us, and the more we gain, the more is our desire,” and yet “we reach forth and strain every nerve, but we seize only a bit of the curtain that hides the infinite from us.”*
Back at the Ashes, whilst I photograph the tree, I listen to a mum and toddler talk about Harvest Festival, and then about the tree. She tells her that the leaves are dying—that their sugars are being absorbed back into the mother tree—but they’ll be back, resurrected in the spring.
Mum and toddler move on, curious about everything they come across, stopping on the path, intermittently until they turn into the park.
I put my camera away and take in the tree, then glance back at the Minster’s oolitic east end. The lines are there too.
I think of the vast landscape at Huggate, and then return to the tree and all that it contains. When I look at this tree, it’s difficult to see where the beginning is, or even the end. In fact, there is no beginning, and there is no end.
I get back into the van, a little anxious about our meeting. I don’t want to be late, or early, or somewhere in-between. As I drive into your town, lost in thought as usual, I pull the van over to gather myself. I reach for my bag with my sketchbooks, checking that your greeting card is still there, and place it in the folds of my sketchbook between the unlikely place and the chatty ladies at Badger and Bean.
I remove a jumper, clean the dash, and in that moment of mundanity, something shifts.
Beyond the dash, I glimpse a bird gliding effortlessly through the canal. For a second, it feels like the world has thinned—like I’m seeing into a place where time bends, where past and present mingle.
And as the bird moves with ease through the space between, I can’t help but think of you, John: of the leaves, the tree, the landscape, and everything that holds us.
*Thanks to The Marginalian
Thirty Six Views of Beverley Minster.
From the archives and especially for John.
In the hope that they help others unburden and renew as much as they have for me it gives me the greatest pleasure to present - in the spirit of Hokusai - my Thirty Six Views of Beverley Minster.
I put my heart and soul into the Genius Loci Digest and it takes a day a week to produce. With your support, I’m able to keep this digest free and public facing. 📸🏛🚐
John and Woody
John shows the ease of lifting the counter-weighted font cover at Beverley Minster.
John places the tower crossing boss back at Beverley Minster.
Light Sculpting at Beverley Minster
I work with patience and knowing. The years of failure have steadied my resolve and, as I weave through the gorse with my camera and tripod, my mind threads between the past and the present.
Members can see more interactive media of Howden and Beverley below:
Howden
Beverley
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Photographs and words by Andy Marshall (unless otherwise stated). Most photographs are taken with Iphone 14 Pro and DJI Mini 3 Pro.
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