Miss Dudin Brown Lives On

My father and I visited north London in 2008 to check out what King's College London's accommodation was like – the two cheapest options being the halls in Hampstead and near Denmark Hill in the south.  You'd be surprised by the difference in location.  Hampstead is a leafy suburb in the north of London with opulent houses and a rich history of chattering artists, politicians, actors, musicians and intelligentsia, while Denmark Hill, in the south, is surrounded by some areas which would send a shiver down your spine.  Naturally, I settled on Hampstead. 

Just like the north-south divide in the city, the halls had a similar divide.  On the northern side are the beautiful Victorian red-brick buildings, while on the southern side there are some cheaply-made travesties which most probably date back to the 70s.  The northern side's edifices were created in 1882 and were used to prepare young ladies for education at London universities – in a similar style to those at Oxbridge – although the College had a particularly evangelical edge.  This was all due to its 'foundress', Ann Dudin Brown (a Victorian miniature, right). 

I only found this out as my building in halls was named after the missioner and evangelist.  She inherited a great wealth from her parents and wished to share this with those who shared her beliefs.  The story makes exciting reading, as many of her female students became missionaries and served the church.  Even Brown didn't fail to note its success, writing that 'of all my enterprises, Westfield has proved the most satisfactory'.  She never married and never bought a house, choosing instead to devote her life and wealth to others – a wonderful example of how God doesn't expect everyone to get married and how he can use single people in remarkable ways. 

Let's flash forward to the twenty-first century.  The buildings are now in the hands of King's College, London and there is no real Christian ethos left in the halls of residence, other than the church which lies next door.  I was surprised one morning, while sitting on the loo at church, to find a familiar name inscribed in the stone wall – Ann Dudin Brown.  It turns out that the church that I have been attending for the last two years was the church which she had helped to build.  I'm not sure whether St Luke's (left) has been 'evangelical' for the last century, but she was an evangelical Anglican, and so I'm sure she'd be happy that the church continues to love the good news.  No doubt, the students which attended her college attended this church, and the tradition (in some sorts) continues to this day.  Brown's funeral was held at St Luke's in 1917 and she was buried in Hampstead cemetery. 

St Luke's is carrying her educative mantle in the present day.  It's exciting to know that buildings which she founded will be used for education once more, as St Luke's has proposed to create one of England's first free schools (the rest of Britain has not adopted the policy).  If the school gets the go-ahead, then it will be for people with a faith or none.  It will be exciting for the church to be involved in the creation of a new school with a distinctive Christian ethos. 

Seeds sown a century ago, can be used by God today. 

To read more about St Luke's free school plans, you can read an article at the BBC News web site.  If you'd like to find out more about Ann Dudin Brown, then you can find a short biography at the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (although you will need to have a subscription or Athens password). 

The Tale About the One-Eyed Sculptor

Scrap that, I meant to say the two-eyed sculptor.  He has one eye in the mind of my neighbour Agnes.

I now live in a flat on Finchley Road, situated opposite a Sainsbury's, Wetherspoons and a VUE Cinema.  One of the finer qualities is our Hungarian neighbour, Agnes, who could be described with a shedload of different superlatives.  We usually see her when the music's playing too loud and she wants to complain about the noise, but we also have the odd bit of banter – about my eye.

In case you didn't know, I have an eye condition called glaucoma, which means that there is a risk of increased pressure in my eyes.  If the pressure isn't kept at a certain level then there is risk of sight loss – as it is, the sight in my right eye is not great.  On first impression, many hazard a guess as to how much I can actually see in the "bad" eye, and they're often surprised to find that I have enough sight to enjoy a 3D film without me thinking it's in 2D – but Agnes is surprised to find out that it's not made of glass.  She still believes that it's not organic and that the original one is in a tip, as if I'm deliberately trying to deceive her.

This week, she kindly invited me to go along to a sculptor's exhibit at the Air Gallery, which is close to Buckingham Palace.  She teaches children and adults ear training in a similar manner to that of Béla Bartók, and so has a wide variety of arty friends who invite her to different events.  David Begbie, a world-class sculptor, kindly invited Agnes and a guest to attend an opening of a new exhibition, and as he only has one eye, she thought it would be great inspiration for me to come along and meet him.

I tumbled in off the street in a suit to be greeted by rich pursuers of new art, sipping on expensive wine and snacking on nibbles being paraded around the room.  I managed to bumble my way through to Agnes who was chatting to a smartly-dressed lady.  The lady had clearly had a little too much to drink as she couldn't button her mouth – for around five minutes I couldn't get a word in.  She admitted that Agnes gave her a knowing smile and approached her as though she'd known her all her life, even though she'd never met her.  When I let loose that I was a musician, I received a five-minute pleasant speech on how wonderful it is to follow one's hobby for a living.  Eventually, she was led out of the Gallery by her husband, to attend another event.

Agnes was in high spirits, showing me the models of metallic mesh which were littered throughout the room as shrines to the female form – one male form was in the middle as a rebuttal to any cries of sexism, most likely a self-portrait.  I was told that if David Begbie could pull this kind of stuff out of the hat, then I certainly couldn't complain about the poor lighting on the stairs leading up to the flat again.  His work was most impressive in the detail: the way in which he subtly molds the metal into a convincing human form. 

"Unuud" (2008) is made of steelmesh and costs £23,900.01 (make sure to bring the one pence). 

She introduced me to the artist and pointed out that I also had one eye, to which Begbie responded, 'No, I have two eyes' – he proceeded to tell me how beautiful my eye was.  I offered him the opportunity to sculpt it into wire mesh, but he declined (I didn't actually have the nerve – no pun intended).  He was very pleasant and was more than willing to converse about his work.  My neighbour explained to him about how wonderful it was to know that people with eye conditions could bypass their condition to create wonderful works.  And how right she was – only last week, I was at RNIB (the Royal National Institute of the Blind) Judd Street taking part in a composition course with blind and partially-sighted composers.  It was fascinating to watch blind musicians writing music in braille and dictating their compositions to a sighted person to transform it into written notation for the performers.  Begbie said that it had aided his success, as he was always remembered for his work and for his condition.

The creative arts are scattered with individuals who have worked with their conditions to achieve great success – perhaps the most famous being Beethoven, who wrote some of the greatest music in the Western world, despite gradually becoming deaf during his twenties.  With the invention of braille in the nineteenth century, it's exciting to know that blind musicians (often with keener ears than sighted folk) can now create in a way that they couldn't previously.

You can check out some more of David Begbie's works at the Air Gallery from the 9th of August or visit http://www.davidbegbie.com/index.cfm/main.view/gallerydifferent.  To read more about my kind neighbour, Agnes Kory, and her work, please visit http://www.bbcm.co.uk/.  Please support the wonderful work that the RNIB do with partially-sighted and blind musicians, by visiting their web site at http://www.rnib.org.uk/.  The course I went on was run in partnership with the Handel House Museum. 

Andrews' Kitchen Nightmares

I happen to live in one of the nicest suburbs in London. It's a twenty-minute walk to Hampstead high street (picture on the left) and is surrounded by some of the nicest (or at least, expensive) housing on earth. For a start, Rachel Stevens used to live in a flat opposite my room and the conductor Adrian Boult used to live in the block of apartments situated around the corner. Just to throw around a few more names -- Sting, the ex-king (before he was deposed) of Greece and George Michael all live a couple of streets away. Yes, I'm living in university halls and yet I'm near the epicentre of celebdom.

And yet, the epicentre of the underworld (I'm picturing something out of Buffy the Vampire Slayer at this moment) seems to reside in my campus's kitchen. It seems to be the university rule that the kitchen must be abused in some form or other.

At the halls that I stayed in Cardiff last year, there were enough disasters. Adam's grilled-to-flames pizza accompanied by U-boat shaped baking tray, the permanent marker scrawled all over the kitchen wall ('Wake me up at six in the morning') after a drunken spree and to top it all off my other friend's hunger for cheese on toast at three in the morning resulted in her grilling toast and throwing it at the floor as she was too drunk to contemplate where her mouth was located. Oh, and of course, who could forget the crowning glory, a large traffic cone.

Okay, I admit it -- the kitchen here in Hampstead isn't quite that bad (or as humorous). But it really does smell awful. It's like a smelly bog that must be avoided at all costs. I guess that's what happens when you share a kitchen with twenty-three other students. Imagine the smells of straight vodka, gone-off dairy products, more vodka, super noodles, more vodka, more gone-off dairy products, some eggs and some more vodka all mixed in together to make the worst stench on earth. Thankfully, I'm not as foul-mouthed (not at all, in fact) as temper-tantrum Gordon Ramsay -- but I daresay our kitchen really would be considered a kitchen nightmare. I could envisage him descending like a member of a SWAT team through our kitchen skylight and shotgunning us with expletives ...

On the other hand, not all the kitchens on site seem to have reached the depths of Dudin Brown. A friend's kithcen is too far in the other direction. It's ridiculously clean. So clean that there are sticky notes on each shelf of the fridge indicating which shelf belongs to a certain hall mate, letters explaining the shock at finding the kitchen sink full of plates one day and the appalling situation in which someone had borrowed a piece of cutlery and had left it in the sink. I decided to leave a little letter of my own on the fridge -- explaining that if anyone touches any of my property my (imaginary) polytheistic god will punish them with a lightning bolt. I think they had a kitchen meeting to resolve the dispute ...

Our kitchen has recently experienced several more setbacks. So much so that Emily has named our halls' poltergeist the "Dude in Brown". One of the electricity panels has malfunctioned, our microwave doesn't have its wattage on display (which has infuriated me many a time), three out of four ovens don't work and one of the kitchen sinks is unusable.

The kitchen has henceforth been renamed Room 101. Who needs O' Brien when we have the kitchen of the underworld?