Summarize this content to 2000 words in 6 paragraphs in Arabic Stay informed with free updatesSimply sign up to the Life & Arts myFT Digest — delivered directly to your inbox.Over the last couple of weeks, as I have watched the handover of presidential power in the US, and how dominant figures in other sectors, including the tech industry, have responded, I have been thinking a lot about the responsibilities of leadership. How do people in positions of power reach decisions and do they fully consider the consequences of these decisions? In questioning how someone chooses to lead, I’m also asking how that individual navigates the possible courses of action, and what kind of compass is being used to guide them. It has made me think about how any of us choose to navigate our way through life and where we look for a sense of direction. I wonder what we might change about the choices we make if we were more reflective about what serves as a compass in our lives.“The Invention of the Compass” is attributed to an anonymous painter of the late 16th century, although there exists a roughly contemporaneous plate of the same title, and of an almost identical image, engraved by the Dutch artist Jan Collaert the Elder. In the original painting an old man with a long white beard, and dressed in a voluminous red and brown cloak, sits behind a large table in the centre of a room. As well as a canopied bed and another desk spread with books and scientific instruments, there is a model, or vision perhaps, of a carrack sailing ship hanging from the ceiling. There is also a large round compass device that sits heavy on the floor on the left foreground of the canvas. And next to it is a dog who is curled up on the floor. The man himself is focused on an open book, and he points the finger of his left hand towards the lines of a page while raising his right hand in the air as if he’s having a “eureka” moment. Where we choose to direct our gaze to some extent can determine how we permit our lives to be guidedThis painting is of an Italian scholar known as Flavio Gioia, who was thought to have been born between the 13th and 14th century in Amalfi, Italy and was later widely, though erroneously, believed to have invented the magnetic compass. This breakthrough is now credited to inventors during the Han dynasty in China, though their instruments were used more for divination than geographical accuracy. I was drawn to the image for a few reasons. Outside the arched window in the background we can see a mountain and the faint outline of boats on water. The world carries on and we imagine people trying their best to meet the demands of life, likely pulled in multiple directions without having the time or means to figure out how best to stay on course. This scene is juxtaposed by the painter’s focus on Gioia, seemingly the only individual seeking to understand his alignment in the world. I like the fact that Gioia is depicted as an old man. It makes me consider that perhaps we never outgrow the possibility of wanting to, and maybe even needing to, ensure we are going in the right direction. I tend to think it is part of being human to lose and find our way several times throughout our lives. Certainly, our sense of direction can shift and change as we get older or have different experiences.In 1607, the Italian painter Caravaggio finished “The Seven Works of Mercy”, a painting commissioned by an influential 17th-century charity, for their church, Pio Monte della Misericordia, in Naples, where it still hangs today. Caravaggio’s “works” or “acts” are largely based on the Gospel of Matthew 25:35-36, a section of the New Testament that speaks to meeting the humanitarian needs of those in our midst. Though there are six in the gospel text, seven acts are depicted in this painting, and they are bathed to some degree in light. The woman on the right who presents her breast to a man behind bars represents care for the hungry and imprisoned. The man at the centre of the image is ripping his maroon cloak in half to give to the sick man lying naked on the ground. Above we see two angels and the figures of Mary and Jesus looking down on humanity. One angel’s hand is outstretched as if blessing the acts, or perhaps enabling them. I have selected this image because in imagining it as a painting that people would see regularly when they visited the church or the charity I suspect part of its role, like many works of religious art, was to suggest a way for people to live. It is as if this painting was intended to serve as a compass, helping to move our steps and actions in the direction of caring for others. This is a powerful idea, and it suggests that all images contain that potential to influence how we live. Where we choose to direct and keep our gaze to some extent can determine how we permit our lives to be guided, if not in a physical sense then towards a value system that can end up having an impact on the way we engage with the wider world. The 1837 painting “The Old Shepherd’s Chief Mourner”, is by Edwin Landseer, an English artist renowned for his depictions of animals, which included portraits of Queen Victoria’s pets as well as designing the lions that rest at the base of Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square. “The Old Shepherd’s Chief Mourner” is housed at the Victoria and Albert Museum. In a dimly lit room full of humble belongings, a sorrowful dog rests itself against the simple wooden coffin of its owner. The dog’s grief is almost palpable and if you stare at the painting long enough you might find yourself moved to deep emotion. Part of the power of this painting is how it reminds us that dogs can feel deeply lost without their owners. It is as if they lose their sense of direction and end up returning again and again to the familiar places their owner used to frequent. It is a beautiful thing, the ways in which dogs rely on their humans as a guiding point in life. It seems natural to them, to be so devoted. Yet this painting also reminds me of the limits and dangers of blind devotion. As people, relying too much on others to provide our compass we can find ourselves unwittingly, or even willingly, being guided to places that do a disservice to larger communities, and by turn, to ourselves. In friendships, relationships, private or public life, it can be easier than we think to get swept up in the momentum of those around us without stopping to develop, solidify or stand behind our own set of values. Every now and then, but especially during times of social and political upheaval, it can be helpful to pause and ask ourselves a range of questions: are these the ideals we want to live by? Is this the part we want to play in this unfolding story? Does the destination reflect our [email protected] out about our latest stories first — follow FT Weekend on Instagram and X, and sign up to receive the FT Weekend newsletter every Saturday morning
