Although I am relatively new to Planned Illusion, it has been a few years now since I embarked on this journalistic endeavour. I say endeavour, but I, admittedly, never set out to achieve much with it. It has been mostly self-preservation, mixed in with glimpses of hope that my words would reach even one single soul. Somewhat a message in a bottle that could, possibly, wash up somewhere, someday, even if decades were to pass, or, never to reach the shores at all. I have always loved to write but I never thought that I would be writing with the intention of getting a point across to someone. Those who know me well, will tell you that I simply cannot answer a question directly! I guess this is why I prefer opinion pieces over essays…but this is information warfare after all (amongst other natures of warfare of course), and it has been relentless. We are living in very interesting times. This summer though, despite still working my soul-sucking job, and upon realising that I was craving some real soul food, I made it my mission to embark on a slightly different journey to that of my investigating the difficult truths. One seeking beauty.
Politics have become tiresome to me, and the state of things in Parliament are uninspiring to say the least, so that part of my brain went into standby for a while. I didn’t miss much, and the time I spent away; mentally, physically and spiritually, was as much a necessity as the air in my lungs. Living in London, there sadly isn’t much beauty to find nowadays so I had to branch out to the British moors for the idyll I was seeking. One can surely find it In London, if you look hard enough, but I prefer nature so I tend to travel outwards, rather than into the shady seize of tall buildings. I will write a piece on how dire London is nowadays, but it sickens me to the core, and saddens me too, so I haven’t yet composed what would otherwise be a rant if I don’t plan that one! My writing is fuelled mostly by instinct…and coffee.
On my adventures to find beauty, I came across much of it. This is England, after all, a magical land. I found beauty amongst the fields I roamed, the souls I met, the animals I watched in utter awe of how the Lord really does just provide, and not to forget, the books I read. There was, however, one particular outing that met me with a rather unique tenderness. It came by surprise, and should’ve startled me, but instead invited me with open arms into a world I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of visiting. I found It immersed in art, and it was actually in London! It wasn’t just any art though.Those arms opened wide and I walked into an exhibition humbly called “The Exhibition” that was filled with works by some incredibly talented dissidents. It felt unfamiliar, and as if it were somehow historical, but it was contemporary art. My excitement upon walking into The Fitzrovia Gallery was mostly due to my realisation that the depth I felt there, what should be more prominent, what should’ve been screamed from the rooftops, and what I doubted even existed, instead sat there, in a small gallery drowning in the waves of a very stormy city. When I was there I remember thinking that only the lucky ones find such beautiful corners...but as I write this now, I realise that it found me.
There were intricately woven tapestries, accompanied by paintings, sketches, sculptures and poems. One of the tapestries had the Three Lions on it, and was bordered with a tribal-like pattern of green and blue. Looking up at it (and thinking about how great it would match my bedroom decor), I pondered the bravery, strength and valour of both the artist and my forefathers. Often feeling that there’s no such thing as a good bit of British nationalism anymore (most people probably thought of England’s football team when I mentioned the three lions), I couldn’t help but wonder how many NPCs would be offended by such an exultantly British tapestry. I got lost in the thought of the valour, the glory and even the history which, outside that of my own family, I have always thought a bore! The works were by various artist and the poetry was in a class of its own. Not all of the pieces were what we would describe as ‘pretty’, but they were other-worldly. The beauty of some pieces gave me much to aspire to, and the dystopian vibe of others screamed for me to look, but with warning, as if to say “don’t end up here.” I don’t know much about the arts, nor do I pretend to know how to analyse the pieces, but instead treat such experiences as a therapeutic opportunity. Art should make you feel something, and there is, without a doubt, a lack of that these days.
The display that I was most pleased to see, and what I felt most profoundly, was an array of depictions of St George slaying the dragon…/demonic creatures (its depicted in various ways). I couldn’t tell you what they were or how they were made, but they were very macabre. I have always been fascinated with this 10th century representation of St George slaying the dragon because it reminds me that this spiritual battle has been going on since our creation! It isn’t always a consolation, but it does remind me that it is written, that there is a divine plan and that there is a promise…
“The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.” Ecclesiastes 1:9
All in all, my awe wasn’t just that the works were objectively good, nor was it because it was a patriotic theme (because it wasn’t); it was the fact that the message was consistently profound throughout every piece that hung on those walls. I actually forgot, for the duration of my visit, that I was in the middle of Central London. It was also the biggest middle finger to the National Gallery, and the accompanying government-allied organisations that are corrupting the true meaning of art…I am irked by the left’s sloppy artivism as much as I am by any person (feeding the delusion) who claims to be an artist after splattering whatever-coloured blobs on a canvas and claiming it represents their deepest emotions. Maybe there is a lack of brain cells there, and therefore could actually be true, but that doesn’t mean it should be considered art.
The art that surrounded me for those 45 minutes was triumphantly marking its presence not only in the art scene, but in the world, in opposition to this ever-growing power grab over our freedoms to share, own or create anything truly beautiful. Considering British patriotism usually consists of nothing more than bunting flags during a royal event, it could only restore in me a hope, and with that a sense of peace, that there are other Britons who see what I see, and feel what I feel. I have this distant yearning for a kingdom I know we could possess, and successfully govern, as sovereign individuals of our land, as The Lord wills. Seeing such artistic capabilities, and getting a glimpse of the mindsets of the artists was proof that what I yearn for can be obtained. It does exist, it’s just hard to find amongst the rubble. We all have our reasons for taking up this fight, but God, family and country is the most noble in my opinion. If there is anything to fight for, It Is the beauty that this land birthed and will continue to spawn, as long as we strive for it.
I will reminisce the feeling I had walking into The Fitzrovia Gallery that humid Saturday afternoon, as much as I will invite the nostalgia of the art itself, for years to come. I hope to join those dissidents for any future exhibitions that they hold, and can only pray others stumble on such beautiful corners, because they do still exist. In the midst of my despair, it reminded me that beauty can still be found, and there is much of it in the soils of this land and in the hearts of the people who roam it.
Awesome @Amber ..
Great to see you back again😊