Another Spectator's Notebook
The egotistical gratifications I get from writing this notebook are immense. Last time the Editor was away — at the end of May — I told the story of how I had gone to see an exhibition of mainly seventeenth century Chinese art at the British Museum. At the time, I complained about the Tutankhamun-directed hordes who impeded my progress towards the delights of China; and argued strongly " that there should be a Chinese exhibition to match the Egyptian." Now, I learn, there is to be such an exhibition. It seems that the Chinese government has agreed to put on show in London a — and on this occasion the word is underrather than overemphatic — priceless collection of Chinese treasures, which may include the 2,000 year old burial suits of a Han dynasty prince and his wife, not to speak of endless treasures in jade work and Chinese Painting. I cannot express at all adequately the joyous anticipation I feel at the Prospect of the cool riches of Chinese art being made available in profusion for our wonder and examination. The really serious question that arises is whether we Will be at all equipped to grasp the significance and quality of what we see. Though I abhor the word ' relevance ' and all its philosophical connotations, I think it Important to stress that whereas, during the life of the Egyptian exhibition, we were looking at something that had vanished — and that fact was one of its powerful attractions — when we go to see the Chinese exhibition we will view something that is living. China is a great power; and Chinese art is still formidable, as well as being intimately connected with the national character that forms the great Power. Let us hope that somebody will be found to write a guide, book, essay or Whatever which can connect the reality of China today with the quality of the art on exhibition. We want, not a parade of scholarship, but an analysis of importance. The only encouraging gesture I have seen In that direction was the fact that the city edition of the Evening Standard on Friday last made the Chinese exhibition story its rnain news story. No other national newspaper would have been likely to show such excellent judgement and — to end on a note irrelevant to China and Chinese art the display of that judgement cl, emonstrates yet again why the Standard Is the most consistently exciting and rewarding national newspaper now available.
Save that pedestrian
s'Dflowing my piece the other week on pedestrian crossings I have had a very Interesting letter from Mr George Short in Manchester. He tells me that, at the corner ,.(3f Oxford Road a few yards before it uecomes Wilmslow Road, there is a Pedestrian crossing specially designed for blind people. Not only, he says, "40 the lights change quickly but there is the sound of ' pips ' when the road is clear." Mr Short adds that the pedestrian "can be served when there is a will." Too true; and how lucky Mr Short is to live in so civilised a part of the country.
How not to run
Watching the Olympics over the weekend — and, more interestingly, reading the reports on Monday — I found myself disturbed by yet another athletic myth which is rapidly gaining ground. That is the myth that there is a distinction between the record-breaker — the man who runs against the clock — and the competitive athlete. According to this myth certain types of runner are very good at breaking records, but not so hot when faced with the direct competition, for medals, of their peers. Thus, it is said, referring to the two most notable recent examples — those of Ron Clarke and David Bedford — that they simply had not got the temperament for the medal races; even though they could go faster than anybody else in the world. There is another explanation for Bedford's failure in Munich, at once simpler and odder.
During Clarke's effective athletic life he was criticised — and the same thing has happened to Bedford since he came to prominence — for his lack of a sprint finish. Both runners then altered their training programmes to develop such a finish; and failed; because they simply did not have the physical wherewithal for such a finish. But the alteration of training programmes also made inroads on their strong points — the capacity, by running hard, to break a field and kill off the sprinters. Apart from one major run over 10,000 metres Bedford has concentrated for the last year or more on shorter races he ran a two mile race in Oslo; and was last seen in this country failing to attempt a mile race, to get under four minutes. It was all useless; and Bedford ignored the development of the power to run killing, metronome-paced fast laps, to try to acquire a power he does not, and will not ever, possess — that showed by the Finn last Sunday to sprint for 600 metres. Clarke, and I believe him, says Bedford is capable of a time twenty seconds better than the new 10,000 metre world record; if he concentrates on where he's got it; and forgets the mythical idea that the man who can run fast over the last lap is somehow intrinsically superior to the man who runs fast early on.
Goodbye Dolly
Nothing is more moving than to see one's sporting heroes reach the top of the hill and begin to descend on the other side. This has happened to three favourites of mine in the last few weeks, the Charlton brothers, and Basil d'Oliveira, the Worcester and England cricketer. I spent a day at the Oval Test, anxiously praying that Dolly was going to have a good innings after an indifferent Test season: I had brought along my twelve-year-old niece to see my third favourite cricketer (the others being the Nawab of Pataudi — now Aly Mansur Khan — and Tom Graveney) hit back. Alas, it was not to be, and when d'Oliveira was not picked for the IndoPakistani tour I felt we have really seen the last of him in Test cricket — though it is worth recalling that Graveney made a comeback when over forty. I recalled, nostalgically, the row ' over his nonselection for the South African tour, and all the occasions on which those powerful forearms pumped out match-saving scores with the minimum of backlift and the maximum of arrogant elegance. His technique was not remarkable, and it is much to be regretted that he did not come early enough to England to develop it; but his temperament was superb, his eye keen, and his instinct for the occasion outstanding. That slow and lazy walk to the wicket, with the early batsmen already gone, and the match in jeopardy, never failed to send a thrill through the ground. Then there was the moment when he cast a contemptuous eye over the field before thumping one or two through the covers. On form he was one of the most exciting batsmen I have seen, and perhaps the best for showing to a newcomer to cricket how the game could be played — the subtlety of such as Graveney often being beyond a beginner's appreciation. I hope, however, that there is another career before him. When he wrote his account of the South African affair for the Sunday Times one suspected it might have been ghosted; but when, for a brief period, he worked, as a commentator on television, one was taken by the crispness and lucidity of his use of language. The sooner we have Dolly writing on and talking about cricket the better. Not only is he a good analyst of the game, but as a personality, with all his hard human experience, he is very much an epitome of what the game itself is supposed to stand for.
PC
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