Saturday Edition on BBC Radio 5 Live: A complete waste of space

The programme took a good three hours to tell us why commercial space travel has been nothing but a disappointment.

Saturday Edition
BBC Radio 5 Live

A humans-in-space special (22 June, 7pm) devoted three hours to previewing what it will be like for travellers on the first commercial flights into the void between celestial bodies next year. Thus far, it was roundly agreed, things have been a bit duff. “We were promised space stations,” grumbled someone from the Jodrell Bank Observatory. “We were promised jet-packed lunar whatsits.”

The star of the show was an Italian astronaut, Paolo Nespoli, speaking down the line from Planet Earth, although the connection was very bad. Nobody thought to explain why – it was as if all phone calls from astronauts, whatever their location, necessarily sound this crackly. Paolo trained for ten years for a spacewalk that “never happened”, because there was “never any emergency to deal with”, and spent much of his 12 months up at the International Space Station taking 26,000 photographs of the Great Wall of China.

“Speak English good . . . Health status Superman,” communicated Paolo, mysteriously. “Hmm, hmm,” keened Chris Warburton in the studio. Did Paolo ever get a migraine? “Pretty good . . . Pharmacy on-board,” crackled Paolo. Now you’re talking. But immediately it switches to Richard Branson yelling, “To be perfectly honest, I think it would be sad for someone to not want to go to space!” in an advert for Virgin Galactic. Six hundred people have already bought tickets at $250,000 each. For this, they will train for three days and then take “the slow walk over the tarmac” towards the craft.

This branch of tourism is entirely dependent on this one image: the slo-mo stride in white suits. However, those still hoping for space stations are doomed to further disappointment. With engines so powerful that the jets can eject from pretty much anywhere, travellers will presumably be leaving from Heathrow. The flight lasts two hours – four minutes to reach space, five minutes experiencing weightlessness and oodles of time to take photos of the Great Wall. Never has the banality of the project been so baldly put. Nobody pointed out that surely space travel will become less successful the more people do it. Once you are the third oligarch around the dinner table parading your photos of the pyramids, the price will come crashing down. Eventually, the whole thing will die away out of sheer tedium.

"The star of the show was Paolo Nespoli, speaking down the line from Planet Earth, although the connection was very bad." Photograph: Getty Images.

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 01 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Brazil erupts

SAMUEL COURTAULD TRUST
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The monochrome set

In Pieter Bruegel’s hands, even black and white paintings can be full of colour.

Grisailles – monochrome images usually painted in shades of grey and white – have a long tradition. Early examples appeared in the 14th century as miniatures or manuscript illuminations and then later on the outside of the folding panels of altarpieces, where they imitated sepulchre statues and offered a stark contrast to the bright colour of the paintings inside. With their minimal palette, grisailles also offered painters a chance both to show off their skill and to add their bit to the age-old artistic debate about paragone: which was superior – sculpture, with its ability to show a figure in three dimensions, or painting, with its powers of illusion? By pretending to be sculpture, grisailles could better it.

The first artist to paint grisailles as independent works for private enjoyment and contemplation was the Netherlander Pieter Bruegel the Elder (circa 1525-69), whose folk scenes of peasants carousing or of hunters in a snowy landscape have long been staples of art’s quotidian, earthy strand. Only about 40 works by him are now known and of those, just three are grisailles (not a term he would have recognised; he referred to the pictures simply as “painted in black and white”). This trio of survivors has been reunited for the first time, at the Courtauld Gallery, with an accompanying selection of copies and engravings – a mere ten pictures in all – for a fascinating one-room exhibition.

The grisailles show a deeper and more intellectual artist than the sometimes slapstick figure who would dress as a peasant in order to gatecrash weddings in the Brabant countryside and record the drunken and playful goings-on in his pictures. They reflect the position of the Low Countries in Bruegel’s time, caught between the Catholicism of their Spanish overlords and the emerging Protestantism that had been sparked by Martin Luther only eight years before Bruegel’s birth. These tensions soon erupted in the Eighty Years War.

Of the three paintings, two show religious subjects – The Death of the Virgin (1562-65) and Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery (1565) – and one is a scene that would have been familiar in the streets around him, Three Soldiers (1568). This last, lent by the Frick Collection in New York, shows a drummer, a piper and a standard-bearer in the elaborately slashed uniforms of German Landsknechte mercenaries. Such groupings featured often in German prints and Bruegel’s small picture is a clever visual game: painting could imitate not only sculpture, but prints, too. What’s more, the gorgeously coloured uniforms (mercenaries were exempt from the sumptuary laws that restricted clothing to sedate colours) could be shown to be just as arresting even in black and white.

If this is a painting about painting, the ­religious works have, it seems, added layers of meaning – although it is always difficult with Bruegel to work out what that meaning is and how personal it might be. The Courtauld’s Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery shows Jesus stooping in front of the Pharisees and saving the accused woman from stoning by writing in the dust, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.” That he spells out the words in Dutch rather than Hebrew, which was more usual in other images of the scene (and which he uses on the tunic of one of the learned men observing the mute play), suggests that this picture – a plea for clemency – was intended to serve as a call for religious tolerance amid mounting sectarian antagonism. While the gaping faces of the onlookers recall those of Hieronymus Bosch, the flickering calligraphic touches and passages of great delicacy are all his own.

The picture stayed with Bruegel until his death, so it had a personal meaning for him; more than 20 copies were subsequently made. Included in the exhibition are the copies painted by his sons, Jan and Pieter the Younger (a coloured version), as well as the earliest known print after it, from 1579, by Pieter Perret, which shows some of the detail in the crowd around the central figures that has been lost in the discoloured panel.

If the sombre tones of grisaille are suited to the pared-down faith advocated by Luther, the death of the Virgin was a familiar topic in Catholic and Orthodox iconography. Bruegel’s picture, from Upton House in Warwickshire, depicts an episode that doesn’t actually appear in the Bible. A group of Apostles and mourners has gathered around the Virgin’s bed, the scene lit by the heavenly light emanating from the dying woman and the five flames from the candles and the hearth that correspond to the five wounds suffered by her son on the cross. Domestic items litter the room – a slice of orange, slippers, a dozing cat – and there is a sleeping attendant, unaware of the miracle of Assumption that will shortly unfold. Here is a moving nocturne in which the mysteries of religion emerge from and disappear back into the shadows.

While Bruegel’s peasant works display a delight in physical pleasure, these three bravura works, painted for humanist connoisseurs and for himself, portray the sober, spiritual concerns that come to the fore once the last drop has been drunk. 

The exhibition runs until 8 May. For more details, go to: courtauld.ac.uk

Michael Prodger is an Assistant Editor at the New Statesman. He is an art historian, Senior Research Fellow at the University of Buckingham, and a former literary editor.

This article first appeared in the 11 January 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The legacy of Europe's worst battle