It might sound strange — I’m not sure what strange is anymore — but I have been obsessing over this. I am teetering on the brink of spending a lot of money on a beautiful Hand-Made-By-An-Artisan-Armourer Medieval Knights Helmet.
You’re probably thinking, ‘What on earth is he going on about now’ but bear with me.
It’s a very special object, made by one of the best modern armourers in the world. It’s a reproduction of a Frog-mouth Helm, used for jousting tournaments from around 1400 to 1520. It’s the assigned Helm of the Gentleman, or Esquire, in English Heraldry. Aesthetically, it has a smooth and streamlined beauty redolent of a shark. Its steely, late-medieval aesthetic is a perfect evolution, an iterative statement in form, finally and perfectly aligning with function.
My justification for this extravagance has been that it’s a beautiful object, will be a useful reference for my Heraldic Art as it evolves, and will make a lovely, shiny display piece in my home. But I think I’ve figured out exactly what underpins this and why I want one.
When I was a kid, back in the mists of time, my favourite animated show on TV here in England was a delightful show called Mr Benn. The show’s charming premise was simple: it followed the adventures of a man named Mr Benn. Each episode begins with Mr Benn visiting a mysterious costume shop, where a shopkeeper magically appears and offers him a new costume to try on. It could, for example, be an Astronaut, Pirate, or Cowboy outfit. In fact, I now distinctly remember one episode in which he dressed up as a Knight. After changing, he steps through a magic door and is transported to a fantastical world matching his outfit.
Today, I was struck by the comic realisation that my desire for this object was a throwback to my childhood as much as anything else — my subconscious wish to manifest a simple, carefree, child-like state in which I embarked on such adventures myself with trusty steeds, fellow knights, fire-breathing dragons, fair maidens, the whole Medieval shebang.
So much of our creative process is about play, and, in the best possible sense, I would describe many creative people I meet as having a perky and spirited innocence about them and a child-like curiosity about the world. In fact, speaking to world-class artists and designers at conferences, I have occasionally felt like a nine-year-old in a school playground chatting to another nine-year-old. It has been delightful.
Perhaps Picasso was alluding to this when he said, “It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child.” Many of us forget how to play as adults. Our child-like sense of wonder, joy, and authenticity of expression is stifled as we conform to society’s expectations. My conclusion, “Learn to play again; your life will be richer for it.”
Anyway, it might be another emerging mid-life crisis — my eighth, if it were — but I’ve decided as I type this that I will buy the bloody thing.
Update: I bought it! Photos below:
