Article
Advent
Awe and wonder
Creed
Wildness
4 min read

Why does snowfall still awe us?

We long for snow this time of year because longing is all there is to do.

Josh is a curate in London, and is completing a PhD in theology.

Snow falling pixilates the view from a hill towards Durham Cathedral.
Durham Cathedral.
Jeffrey Zhang on Unsplash.

Why are we so drawn to snow? And what does it say about us that we are? The German theorist Hartmut Rosa begins his wonderfully titled book The Uncontrollability of the World with these words:  

"Do you still remember the first snowfall on a late autumn or winter day, when you were a child? It was like the intrusion of a new reality. Something shy and strange that had come to visit us, falling down upon and transforming the world around us, without our having to do anything. An unexpected gift. Falling snow is perhaps the purest manifestation of uncontrollability. We cannot manufacture it, force it, or even confidently predict it." 

Rosa argues that we find greatest meaning in that which remains uncontrollable, beyond our grasp. We long for snow this time of year because longing is all there is to do. Artificial snow will always disappoint. We cannot manufacture our own awe. 

Rosa warns that modernity is built around "the idea, the hope and desire that we can make the world controllable." At a certain point more influence over something results in that thing being reduced to a mere instrument capable only of frustrating our desires.  

I sit down to watch a film that's finally streaming. It gets a bit slow 20 minutes in. I start watching something else. I wonder if I should have seen the film in the cinema.  

I catch up with the podcast of the event I decided not to go to. I speed it up as I put the washing in. I couldn't tell you what they discussed.  

I turn to social media as one might turn to a snow globe. In its careful curation, all I feel is the ache for the real thing.  

In each of these cases, technology has, at least on one level, given me greater control and allowed me to shape my environment in greater accordance with my desires. Rosa identifies that all desire is “driven by a longing to bring something as yet unreachable within our reach.” And yet, in each case, that which I desired—the experience of watching a great film, participation in a stimulating conversation, meaningful human connection—is jeopardised by this supposed improvement.   

So, it makes sense that we are on the lookout for snow at this time of year. Something in each of us is still looking to be caught up in something beyond us.

What we think of as a drive to increase choice is often really about control. Putting it in these terms does not invalidate the drive but it should make us more alert to the cost. Greater choice for me means greater control over something or someone. 

At the same time, greater control over the environment can also mean less self-control. I am a bundle of contradictory desires, and the more I am empowered and encouraged to pursue all of them, the more I am empowered to pursue none of them consistently. (I still haven't finished Inside Out 2) 

The self-frustrating desire that Rosa identifies sits at the heart of so many of the most important debates from artificial intelligence to assisted dying. Control can be conflated with dignity or fulfilment. As uncontrollability is marginalised so too do we risk marginalising that which makes life worth living. 

In the season of Advent, Christians remember the birth of Jesus, but its primary purpose was and is to direct our gaze to the end of the world. We might be able to sentimentalise and sanitise the Christmas story, but Advent's apocalyptic summons will always resist our desire for control. It proclaims that we are going to die, that the world will end, and that we will all be judged. You are not in control.  

No matter how exhaustive and efficient we believe our control to be, Advent reveals it to be a pretence. There will always be things beyond our grip, and we spend a great deal of time distracting ourselves from them, pretending that it is otherwise.  

Advent assures us that we can face this reality because we do not so alone. The God who came as a baby and was executed, experiencing the extremes of human vulnerability, is with us now. It is that God who comes at the end. It is that God whose love gives us comfort and courage.  

So, it makes sense that we are on the lookout for snow at this time of year. Something in each of us is still looking to be caught up in something beyond us, something that no technology or system can organise or tame. Snow then acts as an echo of that more profound sense of vulnerability that we are each tempted to avoid. It stirs up our longing to be confronted with something genuinely awe-inspiring.  

In the wildness of Advent, we find the promise of what we have longed for: a God who will come and restore all things, an uncontrollable God who comes like snow. Advent calls us to put down the manmade slush and prepare for the coming blizzard. Doing so might help us see where this new reality already intrudes. 

Review
Art
Awe and wonder
Culture
5 min read

This gallery refresh adds drama to the story of art

Rehanging the Sainsbury Wing revives the emotion of great art

Jonathan is Team Rector for Wickford and Runwell. He is co-author of The Secret Chord, and writes on the arts.

An art gallery arch reveals a suspended crucifix and other paintings in a distant room
The Sainsbury Wing interior.

The Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery has recently reopened after closure for two years for building works. There was controversy over the designs for the Sainsbury Wing in the planning stage but its use, once built, to tell the story of the early stages in the development of Western art was widely welcomed and appreciated.  

The story that it told is essentially the story of Christian art and so the reopening of the Sainsbury Wing together with the rehanging of the National Gallery’s collection provides an opportunity to review that story. As a result of the completed work over 1,000 works of art - a larger proportion of the collection than has been previously displayed - trace the development of painting in the Western European tradition from the 13th to the 20th centuries from beloved favourites to paintings never previously seen in the National Gallery.  

The Sainsbury Wing features works from the medieval and Renaissance periods. Painting came of age during this time. It moved from manuscript illumination to images on panel and canvas, overtaking metalwork, tapestry and sculpture as the most popular and prestigious art form in Europe.  

An opening room contains works from the 14th to the 16th centuries, including The Wilton Diptych and Leonardo Da Vinci’s The Virgin of the Rocks, which together ask visitors to consider the full spectrum of what painting can do. This introductory room gives a sense of what these paintings were for and how they were used. Painting’s rise in status was due to all the things it can do such as tell complex stories, convey human emotions, fool the eye, capture a likeness, make viewers laugh, weep, pray and think. This room provides a sample of those achievements and the various functions painting fulfilled.  

Throughout the Sainsbury Wing, new display cases are used to show paintings as objects viewed from all sides, not simply as flat panels on walls. Medieval altarpieces often had winged panels that could be opened or closed depending on the season or occasion. An example is included here to show how such hinged panels were used. 

From this introductory room spanning the period, visitors can follow either a Northern European route or Italian route around the space, enabling influences between both to be highlighted. The key change explored on both routes is that artists in this period began to create a convincing illusion of reality in their paintings.  

The earliest paintings in the National Gallery Collection were made in central Italy nearly 800 years ago. These naturalistic and intimate images of love, grief and suffering responded to a new interest in the humanity of Christ. A chapel-like space is entirely dedicated to Piero della Francesca whose work, with its cool colour palette and keen sense of space and light, possesses a dignified solemnity. Another room focuses on the spiritual power of gold-ground scenes of devotion, exploring the way gold in paintings was used to evoke the timeless, spiritual significance of Christ, the Virgin and saints, and set these holy figures apart from our world. 

The galleries in the Sainsbury Wing were designed to evoke, for visitors, a Renaissance Basilica. Its architectural features make it possible to display paintings in a similar way to how they would have originally been encountered. The central galleries form the nave of the basilica and all the altarpieces displayed are now there. These galleries are devoted to works made in Florence, Venice, and Siena. The early Florentine room represents the principal point of departure for this new art. In the Venetian room we see the development of perspective, while the Siena room resembles a side chapel in the basilica.  

An altarpiece made for the church of San Pier Maggiore in Florence by Jacopo di Cione and his workshop has been reconstructed and sits on an altar-like plinth to evoke the view of it originally seen by worshippers. Predella panels by Fra Angelico are displayed in a case in front of this altarpiece giving an indication of the way in which predellas interacted with a larger, grander altarpiece. The positioning of these two works also illustrates the movement in terms of realism found in the paintings of this period. The Ascension scene on the altarpiece depicts a statue-like ascended Christ while Fra Angelico’s resurrected Christ in the predella is more realistically floating in the air. 

In a first for the National Gallery, Segna di Bonaventura’s Crucifix is visible down the central spine of the Sainsbury Wing, suspended from the ceiling. This enables today’s audiences to view the work in the way it would have been seen in the 14th century. Painted crucifixes were common in 13th- and 14th-century Italian churches, often displayed high-up like this one. Rood screens on which such crucifixes were originally placed were often destroyed in the Counter Reformation, which led to crucifix’s then being hung from the ceiling, as is the case here. 

The rehang also presents several works back on display after long-term conservation projects. The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian by Antonio del Pollaiuolo and Piero del Pollaiuolo is back on show after nearly three years of conservation and scientific examination. 

The rehang of The Sainsbury Wing brings to life the way artists forged a new way of painting, painting with a drama that no one had seen before.

Despite the religious and political upheaval caused by the Reformation, the arts also flourished in Northern Europe during this time. Prints transformed the exchange of artistic ideas. Christians were encouraged to use images as a focus for meditation on the lives of Christ and the saints and paintings that were meant to be handled and examined close-up were created for the private devotion of members of religious orders and laypeople. Albrecht Dürer and Lucas Cranach were key figures, with Dürer’s prints, portraits, altarpieces and non-religious subjects transforming painting both in the Holy Roman Empire and beyond. 

Christianity became the predominant power shaping European culture after classical antiquity, inspiring artists and patrons to evoke the nature of sacred mysteries in visual terms. The rehang of The Sainsbury Wing brings to life the way artists forged a new way of painting, painting with a drama that no one had seen before and with stories flowing across panels in colourful scenes. These displays also promote a greater understanding of how works of art were, and still are, used as models of moral behaviour, as celebrations of the deeds of holy figures or as a plea for one’s hopes, both in this life and in the afterlife. 

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