Of Episode 3, my thoughts, after the filming, returned inevitably to the conversion in Park Circus. Park Circus – it was built at a time when Glasgow, evidently was exhibiting a degree of confidence arguably not seen since – and that confidence both predominates and persists: when approaching the townhouse on Park Terrace one couldn’t help but feel awed by the quality and scale of the sandstone facade, curving elegantly away, whilst forever maintaining a watchful gaze, securely outwards and unashamedly proud over Kelvingrove Park and beyond, towards the silhouetted University crowning the hill opposite.
Searching for a suitable adjective, stolidity impressed itself upon me – for of all the adjectives one might employ, stolidity surely is the one most applicable, as regards the external impression of this most magnificent architectural undertaking. Stolidity…..inferring a reassuring sense of permanence. The sandstone seemed hardly aged, the lifestyle within surely as potent, befitting the grandeur of the exterior: purposeful, and as pertinent?
But – on entering, I was struck by an overriding impression: that I had entered a tomb…..
The entrance hallway, though as grand as one might expect, and indeed as awe inspiring as implied by the outside, was nevertheless hollow. It was made dark, seemingly as if light had absented itself, failing to find any empathic reason to linger; and the hall echoed as cathedrals echo, imposing on one a weight of intangible origin. On its wall, friezes impressed, by the very fact of their existence – but though stirring, were faded and as indistinct as shadows can be, despite the warmth of their tones and subject matter. They exerted a characteristic that predominated, for altogether, the hallway reeked of desolation: because clearly, at one time this place must have been heartily fulsome – yet now, it was not. Apparently abandoned, it felt cold, and as unnaturally so as death can be.
The interpretation made of external façade dissolved, abruptly. Evidently, it had been nothing more than that; an interpretation, mistakenly made – for it was a pretence, and a desperate pretence at that. I wondered, and it might be fancy yet, if I had espied more cracks in that elegant facade than I had cared to notice, so complicit was I in the buildings effort to appear as resolute.
For suddenly, that reassurance was suspect; that permanence, a dubious claim – and if that permanence implicitly implied by the grandeur of the outside, and reinforced by the voluminous proportions of the interior hall; if that rationale, and all that confidence, suitably grounded, that had engineered the creation of this magnificent architectural undertaking; if all that security subsequently established by and within the correct order of things so manifested; if all this worthiness was so suddenly revealed to be reduced to nothing more tangible than a mute, fading memory, how then could this be a home, anymore? For is not that true that home must above all things persist, beyond and before us?
If so, would it not be better that this building be reduced to rubble than to stand in such falsity, demeaning to its inherent grace? If this home is voided of its purpose, then surely it should buried in dignity than left to crumble, and it’s worth, so abandoned to be disclosed inevitably as might a guilty secret unseemly discovered and displayed for consumption in garish tabloid manner?
Such was the pathos riddled sadness that filled those short, dusky coloured moments, as I loitered in the entrance hall; wherein I might have withered had it not been for the gift of knowledge, of what might yet come. I feigned delight; moving forwards, I settled momentarily beneath the once proud centrepiece of this townhouse: the stairs – and by their lingering elegance, hope flickered, hopefully…..and then burst bright and golden, from the first the moment of entering the flat conversion…..
Nothing is devoid of association, and in turn, if true, all things must make an impression, whether delightful through to critical, and ultimately dismissal…..the cacophony is endless, of thoughts derived from what one sees around oneself. How many such thoughts draped themselves upon me in that instant of entering I could not say – but there were hardly few. Things, abounded, each demanding its place; so, so many, many things. I have seen such things before, accoutrements of life, and so gathered, one impinging upon the other; I’ve been assaulted by abundance. But this was an abundant abundance – and I could not say: over-abundant, because, unlike the stacked junk shop, or the cluttered unused backrooms, or nearly filled attic, this building could accommodate such an outpouring. It was like entering an Aladdin’s cave, like discovering the hidden treasure, finally, and despite the cynicism of detractors of quest. It literally, took one’s breath away, so richly hued was the abundance, of things……
But as I reflect now upon it, I realise that there was some further abundance than that so transparently on display. There was a blessing being made, within this conversion, and it was a blessing for this townhouse as a whole, to have been gifted within its walls, and be party to such a level of heartfelt investment. From the hall it was clear that the life that had once imbued this townhouse was gone; long gone. That the townhouse had been sub-divided into apartments (and so brutally executed) only confirmed this bitter understanding: that its glory days were over…..and yet, here within this converted flat, an oasis had been created. A paradise, paraded in the form of furnishings, pictures, and objects, objet, relics, and ornaments, each tempered exotic…..but, what of these, things? So what, if a room is filled so?
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Though they delighted, it was not these things which impacted upon me, as much as the golden sculpted embellishments which proliferated, on the cornices. Inevitably the height of the rooms drew the eye, upwards, and so satisfactorily so, to witness such investment. Gratifying, indeed: for to fill ones home, abundantly is one thing; to impart abundance by the patient and tenacious application of one’s own hand – and at such height, and in acceptance of and with due diligence to the incredible intricacies of cornices (being conspicuously intransigent elements of the original building) – that inferred an abundance beyond, that not only embellished, but restored.
And I recalled that I had seen glance of such golden embellishments restoring high in the entrance hall…..
What strikes me now, is that factor which exemplifies this property more so than any other: not the investment made within the confines of the owners property, but rather that investment permeated out, to infer new life into the whole townhouse. Tentatively for sure, but nonetheless, one could not help but be both impressed and inspired by the efforts of an individual to breathe life back into a building teetering on the brink of extinction; and more so: to notice that this was indeed the case – to see behind the proud stoic facade and take note where others may not: that care was, despite appearances, so desperately needed here…..not just for ones own domain, as might be determined by legality and conveyance, but applied as and where the demand exists, even if without ones grounds.
To care so….literally, out-with one’s comfort zone….
These reflections provoke thoughts, not entirely rounded, nor concluded, and drift into meanderings that require time to settle. So – if these reflections do not quite rally, then it is only because this home invited considerations of matters that remain, even now, in germination. To end then with beginnings: if home does not allow one the opportunity to reveal ones deepest vulnerabilities in safety, then that surely is not truly a home…… and ones capacity to express care, so openly, and leaving one so exposed and yet, so secure, as is the case here….how would one measure this home?
And, more so, if a home allows one to discover care, again, the ability to care, where there was once, only loss; to become a place of iterative restoration, is that not a home, truly, a home, tested, and found not to be wanting in that most profound capacity: to be stolid, by provision of solace?
They say, home is where the heart is – it’s some home, that has made that heart, silenced, beat again.
Michael Angus (Nov 2020)