Malene Reynolds Laugesen (b.1969)

Malene Reynolds Laugesen, born in Denmark in 1969, is a Danish illustrator and painter. She studied life drawing at Glyptoteket in Copenhagen and later worked in animation before attending the Danish School of Design. In 1991 and 1992, she collaborated with Danish artist Svend Wiig Hansen. For about sixteen years, Laugesen illustrated children's books for both Danish and American markets. In 2008, she moved to Christchurch, New Zealand. Following the 2011 earthquake, she resumed painting, drawing inspiration from fairy tales and children's stories to explore themes of dreams and the subconscious.

References

https://apaletteofpoetry.wordpress.com/the-artists-2/malene-reynolds-laugesen/?utm_source=chatgpt.com  

Fraukirch Pilgrimage Church, Thür

 The Fraukirch pilgrimage church, located around 3 km southeast of Thür in Rhineland-Palatinate, has a rich history that spans nearly a thousand years. The site likely held religious significance long before the current structure existed, possibly as a smaller chapel or early sacred place. The church we see today largely dates back to the 12th century, with its earliest surviving architectural features reflecting the Romanesque style. Over the centuries, it was expanded and modified, incorporating some Gothic elements during the 14th and 15th centuries.

Throughout the Middle Ages, Fraukirch became a well-known pilgrimage site dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Pilgrims from the surrounding region and further afield traveled to the church seeking blessings and healing, particularly during times of disease or hardship. The name itself — Fraukirch — translates to "Church of Our Lady," emphasizing its Marian devotion. Though it was always a relatively modest rural church, its reputation as a place of spiritual refuge gave it considerable importance in the area.

Architecturally, Fraukirch reflects the evolving styles of its long history. Its Romanesque foundations are evident in the thick walls and small, rounded windows typical of the period, while later Gothic updates introduced pointed windows, more delicate tracery, and subtle decorative touches. Inside, the design remains simple and functional, in keeping with its rural character. The small bell tower would have been visible to pilgrims approaching from the surrounding fields, acting as a beacon for travelers making their way to the shrine.

Fraukirch is also steeped in local folklore. According to legend, its origins may be tied to a miraculous appearance of the Virgin Mary or a healing event that took place on the site, though no written record confirms this. As with many rural pilgrimage sites, its reputation spread through oral tradition. Pilgrims believed that prayers offered here could bring healing from fevers or plague and that the church offered protection against evil forces. Some traditions even linked Fraukirch to agricultural blessings, with local farmers visiting to pray for healthy crops and livestock. It was also particularly associated with fertility blessings and prayers for safe childbirth.

Although Fraukirch no longer draws the large pilgrim crowds of its medieval heyday, it remains an important cultural and historical landmark for the region. It still hosts occasional pilgrimage events, especially on Marian feast days, and is valued by locals for its historical significance and peaceful atmosphere. Whether visited for its spiritual heritage or its architectural charm, Fraukirch continues to stand as a reminder of the deep religious traditions that have shaped the region for centuries.

Margaret Fuller: Until My Wings Be Grown (1839)

"I love the stern Titanic part, I love the crag, even the Drachenfels of life - I love its roaring sea that dashes against the crag - I love its sounding cataract, its lava rush, its whirlwind, its rivers generating the lotus and the crocodile, its hot sands with their white bones, patient camels, and majestic columns toppling to the sky in all the might of dust. I love its dens and silvery gleaming caverns, its gnomes, its serpents, and the tigers sudden spring. Nay! I would not be without what I know better, its ghostly northern firs, haggard with ice, its solitary tarns, tearful eyes of the lone forest, its trembling lizards and its wounded snakes dragging to secretest recesses their slow length along.

Who can know these and, other myriad children of Chaos and old night, who can know the awe the horror and the majesty of earth, yet be content with the blue sky alone. Not I for one. I love the love lit dome above, I cannot live without mine own particular star; but my foot is on the earth and I wish to walk over it until my wings be grown. I will use my microscope as well as my telescope. And oh ye flowers, ye fruits, and, nearer kindred yet, stones with your veins so worn by fire and water, and here and there disclosing streaks of golden awe, let us know one another before we part. Tell me your secret, tell me mine. To be human is also something?"

From a letter to Caroline Sturgis, Jan 27th 1839. 
Highland, Chris (Ed) (2007). Meditations of Margaret Fuller: The Inner Stream. Self Published.

Photo Credit: FrankyFromGermany via Pixabay

Keith Jarrett: The Köln Concert (1975)

I recently listened to the BBC Radio 4 Artworks programme on "50 Years of the Köln Concert" which had the subtitle: "Fifty years after Keith Jarrett's Köln Concert enthralled a sellout crowd, Kevin le Gendre explores the album's enduring appeal and how a gig nearly cancelled led to a new sound world." I hadn't heard the Köln Concert for such a long time, many years ago, so it was good to catch up!

Keith Jarrett’s The Köln Concert is one of those rare recordings that feels almost mythical, not just because of the music but because of the story behind it. It wasn’t supposed to happen the way it did. In fact, it almost didn’t happen at all.

On January 24, 1975, Jarrett arrived at the Cologne Opera House exhausted, sleep-deprived, and suffering from back pain. To make matters worse, the piano provided for him was completely wrong—a small, poorly maintained instrument with weak bass notes and uneven tuning. It wasn’t the concert grand he was expecting, and for a pianist like Jarrett, who thrives on the full expressive range of the instrument, it was a disaster. He nearly walked away.

But something made him stay. Maybe it was the insistence of the young concert promoter, Vera Brandes, who had worked so hard to organize the event. Maybe it was sheer determination, or maybe it was that strange magic that sometimes happens when artists are forced to work within limitations. Whatever the reason, Jarrett sat down at that inadequate piano and started to play.

What came out was unlike anything else. Because he couldn’t rely on the deep resonance of a proper concert grand, he leaned into rolling left-hand patterns, hypnotic rhythms, and shimmering, gospel-like harmonies that made the most of the piano’s midrange. The result was a performance that felt intimate yet expansive, structured yet free, deeply personal yet somehow universal. There are moments of quiet reflection, moments of soaring joy, and stretches where you can hear him losing himself in the music with libidinal grunts and groans. The result is a powerfully spiritual, transcendent and life-affirming performance. 

The recording went on to become the best-selling solo piano album of all time, a landmark not just in jazz but in improvised music as a whole. And yet, when you listen to it, none of that history really matters. What matters is the sound of an artist surrendering to the moment, finding beauty in imperfection, and turning what could have been a disaster into something timeless.

Lets see how long this Youtube remains active until it is pulled by copyright (Answer: 14 days, so I have replaced it with this sterile album cover):

A Winter Walk to Shutlingsloe

On a bright February afternoon, with the sun shining and a crisp breeze in the air, I set off from Trentabank car park in Macclesfield Forest, heading towards Shutlingsloe, Cheshire’s distinctive, pointed hill. The car park sits beside the reservoir, surrounded by tall pine trees, quite the tallest I have ever seen, and the forest is full of life even in winter. Sunlight filters through the branches, casting shifting patterns on the path, and now and then, a rustle in the undergrowth suggests deer moving between the trees. Their presence was evidenced by the strips of bark from trees on the steeper slopes. The whole reserve is home to a variety of birds, and although I did not spot one of the peregrine falcons known to nest nearby, I did see a heron at close quarters on the reservoir, and a meadow pipit on the moor, as well as hearing the solitary cry of (I think) a lapwing. 

The trail begins with a steady climb through the forest, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Despite recent rain, the path is firm underfoot, with only a few patches of mud where the shade has kept the ground soft. Gradually, the trees start to thin, and the landscape changes. Leaving the shelter of the woodland, I step onto open moorland, and ahead, the unmistakable peak of Shutlingsloe rises starkly against the blue sky. Often called the ‘Cheshire Matterhorn’ for its sharp, pyramidal shape, it isn’t the tallest hill in the area, but its dramatic outline makes it stand out against the surrounding countryside like a wizard's hat.

Crossing the moor, the views begin to widen. Looking back, I can see the dark green canopy of Macclesfield Forest stretching down towards the reservoirs, their bare branches catching the sunlight and resonating in vivid algal green. The ground here is dry, at 4 degrees, the last frost of winter perhaps lingering in shaded hollows, and the undying wind hints at an earthy scent of heather. The final approach to the summit is the steepest part of the walk, a series of stone steps winding up towards the trig point. With each step, the view expands, until finally, reaching the top, I’m greeted with a stunning 360-degree panorama.

The air is crisp and clear, perfect for admiring the vast expanse of countryside below. To the north, the rugged ridges of the Peak District roll towards Kinder Scout, while to the south, the Cheshire Plain stretches endlessly towards the horizon. On exceptionally clear days, it’s even possible to make out the distant peaks of Eryri. The wind is brisk at the summit and quickly freezes my fingers, but it’s worth lingering for a while, taking in the sweeping views and the quiet sense of being on top of the world. A cup of green tea in a sheep hollow offers comfort, and an opportunity to linger over the views. 

Heading back down, the steepest sections require a little care, but the descent is easier on the legs. The late afternoon sun casts ever longer shadows across the moorland, adding a golden hue to the heather, and as I re-enter Macclesfield Forest, there’s a sudden stillness in the air. The scent of pine feels stronger now, the ground softer beneath my boots. The reservoirs below gleam in the shifting light, and the whole place has taken on a deeper quiet.

Returning to Trentabank car park, the forest feels even more peaceful than when I set out. The birds are settling, the sun is lower in the sky, and the whole landscape seems to exhale in the evening light. It has been only a few hours, but the walk has felt like an escape; big skies, fresh air, and the satisfaction of a proper climb. On a sunny weekday in February, with barely another soul on the moors, Shutlingsloe feels like a little wilderness of its own, right on the edge of the Peak District.

Somersby to Bag Enderby: Tennyson’s Rural Roots

 A visit to Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s home in Lincolnshire offers a glimpse into the quiet countryside that shaped his early poetry. Born and raised in the Lincolnshire Wolds, a landscape of gentle hills, winding streams, and scattered villages, Tennyson grew up surrounded by the rhythms of rural life. The villages of Somersby and Bag Enderby, where his father served as rector, remain much as they were in his youth, their medieval churches and peaceful surroundings little changed over the centuries.

Somersby, where Tennyson was born in 1809, is a small, tucked-away place, its narrow muddy lanes and old stone houses giving it a sense of timelessness. The rectory where he spent his childhood still stands, though privately owned, and its thatched roof and quiet garden seem to belong to another era. The countryside here is not dramatic, but its rolling fields, wooded copses, and meandering brooks left a lasting impression on him. In The Princess, he describes "a land of quiet meadows and clear streams," a phrase that perfectly captures the gentle beauty of the Lincolnshire Wolds.

A short walk from the rectory is St. Margaret’s Church, a simple medieval building where Tennyson was baptized and where his father preached. The churchyard, with its ancient yew trees and leaning gravestones, recalls lines from In Memoriam, where he speaks of yews grasping at the stones "that name the under-lying dead." It is easy to imagine him as a boy wandering among the headstones, absorbing the quiet weight of history and time that would later emerge in his poetry.

A few miles away lies the even quieter village of Bag Enderby. It is the kind of place that one might pass through in a moment, barely noticing it, yet it was an important part of Tennyson’s early life. Its church, also dedicated to St. Margaret, is larger than the one in Somersby, with a tall 15th-century tower that stands out against the wide Lincolnshire skies. Inside, the pale stone and wooden pews are much as they were in his time, offering a sense of stillness that must have been familiar to him.

The landscape around Bag Enderby is open and unhurried, much like his descriptions in The Lady of Shalott, where "willows whiten, aspens quiver, / Little breezes dusk and shiver." The Wolds do not demand attention with dramatic cliffs or sweeping mountains, but their soft, understated beauty has a quiet persistence. It is easy to see how these surroundings encouraged a reflective mind, one drawn to the passage of time and the pull of distant places.

Tennyson’s connection to these villages was deeply personal. His father’s declining health and financial struggles meant that in 1837, the family had to leave, a loss that left its mark on him. Years later, in Locksley Hall, he wrote of looking forward, of dipping "into the future, far as human eye could see," but much of his poetry looks back, drawn to the places and memories that shaped him. Even when he moved to the Isle of Wight, the influence of Lincolnshire never left him. The ringing of church bells, something he would have heard often in Somersby and Bag Enderby, inspired the famous lines from In Memoriam: "Ring out the old, ring in the new, / Ring, happy bells, across the snow."

Today, Somersby and Bag Enderby remain much as they were in Tennyson’s time. The roads are still narrow, the churches still stand, and the landscape stretches away in quiet, muted tones. Walking here, it is easy to sense the world he knew, the fields and streams that found their way into his poetry. Though the man himself moved on, these villages, with their slow-moving brooks and their long-shadowed yew trees, remain much as he left them—unchanged, unhurried, and waiting, as ever, for the turning of the seasons.