RP: Building the Church Who: Brandon Stark (with mentions of his father Ned) When: 23rd July 2013; midday Where: Seated outside Methodist Central Hall, City of Westminster, London Status: Complete Word Count: 1,019
Baroque architecture, though extremely popular on the European continent, had only a brief flowering in England. Perhaps this was due to an inbred inclination towards understatement by the English, or to isolation from continental ideals.
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Situated in the long shadow of Edward the Confessor's great abbey of Westminster, Central Hall was a true gem of English Baroque stylings. Built in left-handed contrast to famous neighbor, its outline against London's overcast sky accentuated squat, bulldoggish appearance. An early example of the use of reinforced concrete frames for a building in Britain, little of the dramatic 16th century Renaissance razzle-dazzle had been compromised in its more modern construction.
The same execution of bold, aesthetically appealing lines; the same desire to blend new with old and make it completely different; breathe life and seamlessly incorporate nature into a setting was what intrigued Brandon the most. When a box wasn’t just a box. Arches were no longer merely a way support a structure but a means to draw the eye toward heaven. Domes that defied all the laws of gravity, pushing up and up and up. Towers poking holes in the clouds and declaring to the gods above that man was no longer earthbound; no longer just upright apes banging rocks together.
Family trip to the Mediterranean the summer before had helped spark his imagination. Given him an outlet to focus blossoming talents that hadn’t quite settled on a proper direction yet. All those counterintuitive bulges and theatrical use of light and shadow by Francesco Borromini and his rival and artistic equal Gianlorenzo Bernini had set a young boy's imagination on fire. Working from the higher geometry to create sensual, intensely 3-dimensional structures appealed to Brandon like nothing else. This was to be his future, he'd decided upon seeing, up close, all those cathedrals, basilicas and Bernini's masterstrokes - the baldachin - a twisty, bronze columned canopy over the high altar of St. Peter's Basilica and grandiose Piazza San Pietro in Vatican City.
Simply put, Bran had fallen head over heels for everything and anything Italiana. Embracing the arts, music, language, cuisine, the grape- and olive-covered hills awash in warm, earthy tones that mimicked the setting Tuscan sun. So many great minds had gotten their start in Italy, cultivated on Renaissance enlightenment the world at large had truly been their proving ground for nearly 300 years.
‘Bran the Builder’ his father had begun calling him after that, a moniker never failing to bring about rarest of smiles. Jon, Sansa and their sire might have hit perfect stride plucking strings of various instruments but for young Stark heir the music was just a foundation upon which to construct his dreams.
Today called for Vivaldi; and lots of it cranked through Sennheiser headphones just a step down from the kind picky elder brother sometimes wore around his neck. Sure to dampen out all the busy street noises so not a single precious note was neither lost or distorted.
Once ear cups were comfortably seated in dark nest of curls, Bran tapped Smartphone screen, cueing from favorites list Concerto No. 2 in G minor, "L'estate". Father had agreed to let him sketch for 30 minutes before they moved from Westminster and back into London proper, continuing full day of educational sightseeing. Just long enough for Lord Stark to enjoy a caffeinated pick-me-up while Bran busily scratched away, covering page after page in his sketchbook with drawings he would take back to California. Every last detail noted in the corner margins he would pore over at night, filling in whatever bits of information gleaned from Father or Uncle Benjen (Jon, too, once he arrived in Jolly Olde). Vast storehouses of firsthand knowledge of a land nothing at all like Italy but its very lifeblood nonetheless coursing through his veins.
Britannia the Romans had called it: A land worth conquering. Rich in timber, fauna, and pearls as grey as the sea that surrounded the lonely island and so plentiful the natives tossed them aside like so much unwanted, watery flotsam.
Funny then how the two very different countries were forever linked; just as Bran - all the Starks for that matter - were a part of the tapestry weaving Caesar’s Republic with Carolingian Empire. Iron Crown of Lombardy had once graced forefathers’ heads, back when illustrious family tree was still firmly rooted in northern Rhineland. Before the lure of conquered Saxon lands across narrow channel beckoned them westward. Frankish, then English they’d become over time; still strong, still proud, still determined as ever to cling onto remnants of long-ago Düren ancestry, despite passing of the centuries, and unavoidably fickle political and social tides.
And now we’re American, Bran slowly tapped pencil against his chin. Waiting for the very moment when violins hit their peak like a rolling summer thunderstorm he would count out note and time changes, mind syncing as creative juices began to flow. No composer of lyrical classics was he but Brandon was a decent artist and an even better draftsman for his age.
Glancing at his father, dressed in classic summer worsted with nose buried deep in city broadsheet, he quickly amended his thought. Some of us, at least.
One day he would truly have to manage the estate and all its holdings. Don similar sedate worsteds for business and Wellingtons for tromping through the mud and muck. All while trying to please the country folk of Yorkshire village and shire despite very West coast sun-sand-surf accent singling him out like runt piglet born in prized litter. No safety net or running back to Laguna Beach with his tail between his legs allowed, no siree!
Until then, Bran would need to soak up - through father, uncle, half-brother, even colorful and quirky (and some cockney!) Londoners - the very essence of what it meant to be truly British.