I was a teacher of the arts for forty years. I have two particular and poignant memories of St Martin-in-the-Fields, both centring on artworks there. I used one for a reflective service at my own church in Cambridge, where I looked at the many widely differing ways that Christ is portrayed through visual art. I showed many examples, but ended with the moment when my partner and I, wandering in London on a day trip, walked up the steps to take a look at St. Martin’s. We were puzzled by a large block of marble at the top of the steps, with wording on it. To what did it relate? we wondered. Walking round, we discovered a small step, which silently invited us to use it. We stood on it, looked at the top of the block – and there it was. Whatever we were expecting, it was not this. And yet what else would be there? We stood silent, an unforgettable moment of deepest admiration and humbleness.
Years later, I bought tickets to hear the Gesualdo Six as Christmas present for my partner. I was a huge fan; he had never heard them. I did not tell him what the tickets were for. We sat on the front row and were immediately intrigued by the suspended egg shape in the window. It looked like a grey oval caught in a net. But then, very gradually, it began to get dark outside. If you have never experienced the opening notes from the Gesualdo Six, accompanied by the miraculous sight of the suspended egg beginning to glow blue like a moonstone, I can only hope that maybe one day you will. It was like being part of a developing mystery or miracle. The searing music and the glowing blueness intensified, and our eyes leaked. I don’t think we breathed.
St Martin-in-the-Fields