Chichester Cathedral
Survived is a word often used in cathedrals — these windows survived the Reformation, this carving survived the Civil War, this tomb survived the Victorians. Chichester feels like a whole building which is defined by survival; that it is still here at all feels a little incredible. The city, and church, have been through surprisingly grim deprivations for such a pretty party of England over the centuries, imbuing this structure with an air of near-defiance in the face of mighty forces raised against it.
In the course of the free guided tour (conducted with an assurance, dry humour, and pacing that frankly every guided tour should be conducted with), we were informed of tales of violent fire, structural collapse, desperate shortage of money, bomb damage, and the usual unholy diarchy of Henry VIII and Oliver Cromwell as all having malign impact on the building around us. Various forces, and people, have either tried to stamp Chichester out — or at the very least, neglect it into collapse. In spite of this persistently hostile set of circumstances, what survives here is rather beautiful — and, as a consequence of its story, feels rather fragile.
Chichester has its unusual features, as all English cathedrals do, particularly the (mostly) double-aisled nave, whose enormous inner Norman walls and tightly clustered columns mean it doesn’t feel as big as it is. Indeed, the whole thing reflects the nature of its construction — in bits, as meagre resources allowed, and in spite of malign events, especially a major medieval fire and the collapse of the central tower in Victorian days. There’s also some very small, and very varied, chapels clustered like barnacles around the place, hidden in corners, piggy-backing on this bashed up cathedral.
Like all medieval churches, Chichester bows and warps and bends; arches are not perfectly round, walls not perfectly vertical, columns not perfectly aligned. Here, coupled with the scars of its foes and the thinness of its support base, it compounds the fragility of the place. The chapels feel like barnacles because they have to cling tightly to a building that feels like it is trembling on the edge of disappearing. The carved heads look fretful and concerned as they peek out from under the edges of the vaults.
The cathedral’s greatest treasure shows this fear as well. The 12th Century carving of Christ rising Lazarus from the dead is haunting; Christ’s face is not soft and radiant like some doughy, ghastly Victorian window. It is gaunt, lined with a terrible awe at the power he poses, channelled through the body of a mere man. The enormous effort to keep Chichester here at all, never mind in good order, is humbling to contemplate as well.
And it is, after all, in good order. Modern art in churches is not something that is often done well — it is often too sudden and too individual to fit in with all the heavy Victoriana that surrounds here. But here, tiny and impoverished Chichester had space to allow a slew of post-war art in, and much of it was very worth having. The tapestry on the rear of the altar, over looking the site of the shrine (St Richard); the painting of Christ and St John in the baptistry, and the altarpiece in the chapel of John the Baptist are all particular successes — all very different, but all very worth the seeing in their own right. With so much here, not all will succeed, but these pieces give the cathedral a vital energy it desperately needs.
Indeed, without them, it might feel rather like a particularly sickly pensioner, shrivelled, retreated into its chair, grasping the arms more tightly each day. As it is, despite being so fragile, it has worn bright new clothes, freshened its hair, and welcomes visitors with a smile. The volunteers here are polite and plentiful. They are sadly bereft of a good guide book to sell to visitors, but they are overflowing with a welcome that gives the cathedral a bright, breezy welcome. And so Chichester draws you in, and invites you to gaze upon its wounds and its scars, and leaves you feeling glad that, through Luftwaffe near-misses and medieval fires, Chichester has survived to our time, for new generations to discover.
