Walking back from work in the mid-afternoon, there's a filtered golden haze on the few leaves left.
I recently read Jun'Ichiro Tanazaki's essay In Praise of shadows, a thought-provoking, at times surprising study of aesthetics which was a lament for a lost world even when it first appeared in 1933. An amusing mix of the sacred and profane, Tanazaki circles obsessively round the subject of light. One central thesis is that one's appreciation of beauty is formed by circumstance, and as such the traditional Japanese homes of the time, with their paper walls and muted colours are to him more aesthetically pleasing than western ideas of beauty. As traditional homes admitted little light, he describes the beauty inherent in dim lighting, the flecks of gold in lacquerware bowls, the indistinct charm of traditional scrolls in unlit alcoves. He argues that the development of Japanese aesthetics springs from the low eaves of their houses, the interiors designed to make the most of what little light penetrates, he decries the advent of electric lighting as sluicing subtlety from the world: too harsh, too detailed.
This plea for the indistinct is, of course, overplayed, but Tanazaki's point is that beauty is where you find it, and I was reflecting on that this afternoon as I walked to pick my children up from school, the late autumn sun has a mellow richness to it which is particularly pleasing, slanting obliquely across the framework of trees, washing their colours into and almost ludicrously beautiful picture. You can, at this time of year, almost disbelieve what you're seeing, it's laughably gorgeous, and in this age of Instagram filters it's hard to believe that actual real life can trump any of them so effortlessly. The gentle afternoon sun is one of autumn's best gifts
The colours of existence change at this time of year, a walk yesterday was in full, piercing sunshine at midday, but drained of its heat it becomes brittle, fracturing around the stark lines created by clear skies. It's a harbinger of the almost cruel clarity of full midwinter sun, which seems to sharpen any angle it hits. The autumn sun at midday is a radically different beast from that soother of the afternoons.
Another reason to cherish it is, of course, its rarity. we like to dream of sun-struck autumns, but the reality is generally more leaden. Not so much mists and mellow fruitfulness as spiteful gobbets of rain and sudden, filleting winds. We're also reeling from the clocks going back, evenings suddenly being plunged into darkness. Set against this, it's only natural to grasp at any respite, which makes the relief all the better.
Anthony Bourdain once perceptively wrote that what marks out good chefs is the ability to work with cheap, unlovely cuts and transform them into a feast. Any idiot can cook a steak, the skill lies in turning a piece of shin beef into something transcendent. Likewise, it's easy to enjoy the sun at the height of summer, when its blowsy, obvious charms are playing on a mind already narcotized by heat and long daylight, you're pre-disposed to like it. the autumn light, fugitive and lovely, is something else altogether.
I recently read Jun'Ichiro Tanazaki's essay In Praise of shadows, a thought-provoking, at times surprising study of aesthetics which was a lament for a lost world even when it first appeared in 1933. An amusing mix of the sacred and profane, Tanazaki circles obsessively round the subject of light. One central thesis is that one's appreciation of beauty is formed by circumstance, and as such the traditional Japanese homes of the time, with their paper walls and muted colours are to him more aesthetically pleasing than western ideas of beauty. As traditional homes admitted little light, he describes the beauty inherent in dim lighting, the flecks of gold in lacquerware bowls, the indistinct charm of traditional scrolls in unlit alcoves. He argues that the development of Japanese aesthetics springs from the low eaves of their houses, the interiors designed to make the most of what little light penetrates, he decries the advent of electric lighting as sluicing subtlety from the world: too harsh, too detailed.
This plea for the indistinct is, of course, overplayed, but Tanazaki's point is that beauty is where you find it, and I was reflecting on that this afternoon as I walked to pick my children up from school, the late autumn sun has a mellow richness to it which is particularly pleasing, slanting obliquely across the framework of trees, washing their colours into and almost ludicrously beautiful picture. You can, at this time of year, almost disbelieve what you're seeing, it's laughably gorgeous, and in this age of Instagram filters it's hard to believe that actual real life can trump any of them so effortlessly. The gentle afternoon sun is one of autumn's best gifts
The colours of existence change at this time of year, a walk yesterday was in full, piercing sunshine at midday, but drained of its heat it becomes brittle, fracturing around the stark lines created by clear skies. It's a harbinger of the almost cruel clarity of full midwinter sun, which seems to sharpen any angle it hits. The autumn sun at midday is a radically different beast from that soother of the afternoons.
Another reason to cherish it is, of course, its rarity. we like to dream of sun-struck autumns, but the reality is generally more leaden. Not so much mists and mellow fruitfulness as spiteful gobbets of rain and sudden, filleting winds. We're also reeling from the clocks going back, evenings suddenly being plunged into darkness. Set against this, it's only natural to grasp at any respite, which makes the relief all the better.
Anthony Bourdain once perceptively wrote that what marks out good chefs is the ability to work with cheap, unlovely cuts and transform them into a feast. Any idiot can cook a steak, the skill lies in turning a piece of shin beef into something transcendent. Likewise, it's easy to enjoy the sun at the height of summer, when its blowsy, obvious charms are playing on a mind already narcotized by heat and long daylight, you're pre-disposed to like it. the autumn light, fugitive and lovely, is something else altogether.
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