Head down, James Constable charges

‘It was to this workman that the strong barytone belonged which was heard above the sound of plane and hammer singing –

‘Awake, my soul, and with the sun
Thy daily stage of duty run;
Shake off dull sloth ...’’

- Adam Bede

The afternoon was cold, the cut of freezing air bit as James Constable looked round the pitch, dappled in dying afternoon sun, the Altrincham players preparing to face the goal kick. Close-cropped hair suggested a man for whom labour came before appearance, his face lean to his bones. While his brow was somewhat furrowed, the intent gaze betrayed concentration, not puzzlement.

A release of breathy steam formed in front of him as he paused: a moment of measurement required. For James Constable, a football match was not a work of art, but one of labour. It was to be worked at, the defence tested, gradually worn down. The defence was to be respected - its nature must guide the craftsman, direct his efforts; but, unstinting, he must bend the material at hand to his will.

It is only by working at the opposition that the craftsman starts to feel its knots and grains; where it will hold, where it is weak; where to apply the plane, and where the chisel. The ball must be chased to the corners, the goalkeeper’s claims contested, the centre halves' strength tested, the full back’s resolve checked. Gradually the shape of the task in hand becomes clear, and the finishing touches can be applied, before the craftsman can stand back to survey his work, wipe the sweat from his brow and the dirt from his body, and leave for his evening’s rest.

Perhaps there is such a thing as an artist; perhaps instinct can create something beautiful in a moment; perhaps inspiration can see what no one has seen before. Perhaps. But for the vast bulk of mankind, we are told one from the other by our endeavour, honesty, and toil.

James Constable stood back to survey the progress of his work so far. Great drops of sweat fell like blood from his shaved head as he shifted his weight back slightly. Heaving the fierce-sharpening air into his lungs once more, he watched the ball begin its driven flight forward to the opposition defence one more time. He picks the point at which to work, and dropping his head, pushes himself into a run once more. Head down, James Constable charges.

[Picture credits: Millet's L'homme à la houe and The Wood Sawyers courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons; Images of James Constable from Steve Daniels/Rage Online, reproduced here with permission; Youtube video courtesy of 'Deddington Steve'.]