Lowry’s ‘The Fever Van.’ For source of image see link.
Well, I know that Stockport is hardly next door to Liverpool, but I sensed the same warmth of familiarity as if I were in my home town. And much more than that as well.
As I stood in front of Lowry’s The Fever Van in the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool and allowed its evocative image to sink in, memories came flooding back. I have known of Lowry’s paintings all my life and the back streets of my home town were just like this. Fever reminds me of my sister’s death in 1939. This was before I was born but the grief my parents suffered over-shadowed my childhood. Our road may have been slightly wider with the factories down a nearby lane and out of sight, but the community was connected just as this one clearly was, our lives were tightly intertwined.
Other more recent memories mingled with these.
In Shanghai last year we saw the same juxtaposition as we see in Lowry’s painting – shrines to the sacred and to the commercial rubbing shoulders. In Shanghai it was shopping malls lowering down on temples; in the North, churches were dwarfed by factories.
The pollution hung in the air in the same way too.
China was recently building a coal-fired power station every week and killing nearly a million people a year from pollution-related diseases as the price for industrial development. I don’t think it has improved that much recently.
Our numbers were smaller in my smog-shrouded childhood but the basic effect was the same and our industrial revolution, fuelled from the Nineteenth Century most extremely in the Midlands and the North of England, was bought at a similar price. I remember waiting for the bus to school unable to see even its headlights until it was only yards away. Not surprisingly bronchitis was rife.
The upside to the trip far outweighed all this.
For example, Liverpool has an area, St George’s Quarter, where three Georgian buildings hold many treasures of the Lowry kind. Whereas all too often pride and wealth combine to create ever shinier and taller shopping malls and commercial centres, Liverpool has chosen to celebrate books, paintings, sculptures and many other artefacts from diverse cultures rather than brand names and multinationals.
My peak experience came when we stepped into Liverpool Central Library.
Level upon breath-taking level spiraled upwards. We didn’t have a clue where to start. The uniform in the entrance hall explained with a smile that it was best to start on the first floor and work up – at least, I think he said ‘work’ but it might have been ‘walk.’ His accent delighted me and defeated my wife, so I quietly translated as we stood on the escalator.
At first, the book stacks distracted us but I caught sight of the word ‘Hornby’ in big blue letters just down a corridor. I hesitated for a moment with the associations of toy railways distracting me, then I remembered that the uniform had mentioned it as a definite place to visit. I whispered to my wife I was off on a mission. I hadn’t realised I was heading for Aladdin’s cave.
Medieval Chained Book in the Hornby Library
In addition to thousands upon thousands of books on two levels on the shelves, there were priceless items in cases all around.
Until I encountered the King’s Seal above along with its explanation, I’d never stopped to think how Liverpool started. Yes, I knew it had made its money out of slaves long before cotton made it even richer, but as to how it all began I hadn’t a clue. Apparently King John needed a northern port but Chester was not an option due to its powerful and uncooperative Earl. So, at no cost to Liverpool because it was in his interests, he transformed the small hamlet into an important port. And the rest is history.
At this point I went back to the book stacks to drag my wife into the early 13th Century. We marveled for ages over the delights of this room, at how Edward Lear took up seven volumes with the sketches of his tours – he could really have used an iPhone . . .
An Edward Lear Print
. . . and if only Charles Dickens could have used email he wouldn’t have needed to fire off irritated letters about misdirected correspondance. He’d never have received it in the first place.
I realise I am in danger of inducing terminal boredom so I’ll switch into whirlwind tour mode.
We moved down a short corridor into the Oak Room. From one treasure trove to another basically.
This was full of quirky delights among the books stacked on its shelves. I have never seen a book glaring at me before, for example.
And it will probably never happen again.
Moving on we found the Picton Reading Room.
If it wasn’t for my wife, I’d be there still, no more moving on – ever.
On higher levels still we found areas set aside for those who wanted to research their family histories.
And higher still there were meeting rooms. The place was plainly being used and of priceless benefit to the local community. Liverpool deserves congratulations for spending precious time and money refurbishing the building to such a high and culturally enriching standard.
And then there was a real opportunity to get on top of all that reading.
Naturally we made the most of it. Our ghosts still linger there as you can see.
All good things must sadly come to an end. We had to descend, but not before capturing the entrance from a different angle.
One day, hopefully, I will return to this book lover’s paradise. Till then a composite set of pictures of the Reading Room will have to suffice me. I put these together as none of them came out as I wished but I thought the impression they conveyed was still worth sharing.
Everybody Means Something 