Tuesday, 16 June 2009

on specs


I am much too casual with my specs, given that they are such an important part of my life... I was reminded of this yet again last night as I was staring at a six-pack of baked beans in Tesco, wondering how much of a bargain they were, and Katie said, "Why are you looking at dog food?"

Driving home, we saw a great turmoil of dramatic clouds over in the direction of Wales, so as soon as we were inside, I scrambled up onto the roof to get a better look. There's been a lot of weather around lately, some of it involving cumulonimbus clouds, which are always nice to watch... from a distance.

And there, on the roof, were my missing specs, which I'd just resigned myself to having lost irrevocably. I must have put them down on the parapet while photographing balloons on Saturday morning.

It is very happy making, being reunited. It puts things into focus. Here is a haiku I wrote when I once got some new spectacles.

How finely woven
This spider's web by my head.
Thank you, nice new specs!




Here are some shots I took yesterday, spec-less obviously, for publicity stuff for a reading that Richard and I are doing later in the year. If you would like to express a preference for either or neither, I should be glad to hear your opinion...



Monday, 15 June 2009

hegemony, hegemony, they've all got it hegemony

I think there's some art over here

The Arnolfini gallery (or 'Anal phoney' for short) has been doing its stuff in Bristol since 1975. It had my favouritest ever exhibition back in the 80s, with the Ruralists; lots of Peter Blake and David Inshaw. My kind of art. I usually call in when I'm passing; and I once sort-of-participated in an event called New Barbarians. It closed for a couple of years not long ago, and transformed into a much posher place than it used to be. Gone was the cheery cafe with the informal refectory seating, to be replaced by little tables, uniformed staff, and gloomy and oppressive 'designer' decor by Bruce Oldfield. Oh, and lots more gallery space.


At the moment, that gallery space is host to something called 'Lapdogs of the Bourgeoisie'. I wandered around it the other day; it was easy to see, because I was the only visitor on that particular afternoon, and it was just me and the invigilators. So I didn't take pictures of the installations, as they get sniffy about that sort of thing. But I took a picture of the mission statement, because I thought it was the most interesting piece there.

If you don't like squinting at my photo, here it is

To what extent does class play a role in the production and dissemination of contemporary art? Lapdogs of the Bourgeoisie investigates the latent issue of class underlying the field of contemporary visual art. The project is an open question, an invitation to a discussion long overdue, and does not offer foregone conclusions or rigid hypotheses other than the relevance of the conversation itself.

Lapdogs of the Bourgeoisie will present a collaborative project with a number of practitioners that scrutinise their own positions, bias and gaze within the hierarchy of cultural production. It will seek to identify the impact class has in the field - from artists, through to curators, institutions, audiences and decision makers in mainstream art. The exhibition will contain work in various media, including photography, texts, performance, video and sculpture.

See how the people whose stuff is hanging on the wall here describe themselves as practitioners, and I am apparently an audience. So visual art is performative, apparently. I find this notion a little alien, though, thinking about it, I suppose that it's what Richard Long does. Though I 'get' Richard Long, while I found the stuff in the Arnie incomprehensible. As a general rule, I realised long ago that you're on a hiding to nothing if you find yourself in company with someone who uses words like 'hegemony'. I recall first encountering it in my early student days, when I shared a flat with Jon Charnley, leading light of the new wave band that changed its name for every gig before settling on Beam Me Up Scottie and having a single (Coffee Table Cheese Plant Anglepoise Lamp, a sort-of-love-song for Julia Platt, our other flatmate), that John Peel played for a while. In Jon's room, late at night, people (well, some people) would say things like 'hegemony' and 'Gramsci'. It was heady stuff for a post-teenager in the 80s.

The description of themselves as lapdogs of the bourgeoisie seems to indicate a dissatisfaction with the status accorded them. And describing the targeted consumer of their product as 'bourgeois' seems a little ungrateful, even if it is true. People, perhaps especially bourgeois people, do like something a bit 'edgy' to hang over their mantelpiece, as long as there is a consensus about its edginess and artiness... There is, though, a species of hegemony going on (just had to look that word up again to remind me of what it actually means. This is a sure way of knowing whether or not I should really be using a word...). And that is the hegemony of the Real Artist.

I had a neighbour (she's moved now) who is a Real Artist. I have illustrated books, though I describe myself, if pushed, as an illustrator, or as someone who draws pictures. Slobodana would purse her lips in a dismissively Balkan way when she looked at my pictures. She was too polite to say outright that they were not art. But I knew that's what she meant. I can live with that.

Bristol is very excited at the moment because it woke up on Friday to find that the City Museum, which had been closed for two days, had been transformed into a Banksy exhibition.
A couple of art critics on BBC Radio 4 talk about it here . My favourite bit is Rachel Johnson, art critic for the Times, saying "there's absolutely nothing wrong with this show". It's that Slobodana sneer again...

I haven't visited the exhibition yet, not least because it's too bloody crowded. Look, here was the queue yesterday.


The city council is quite pleased at this evidence of their hipness.

Just down the hill in Stokes Croft there is a boarded-up shop. Until three weeks ago it had a rather good bit of painting by local graf artists Cheo and 3dom. But I can't show you a picture of it now because, although the painting was done with the permission of the owners, the council painted over it. Just over the road is one of Banksy's earlier pieces, Mild Mild West, which was recently restored after someone splashed red paint over it. Authority? Establishment? Iconoclast? Artist? Who?

Thursday, 11 June 2009

hiraeth, or the past isn't what it used to be

a photo from last year, because I didn't take one this year...

We were up in Skenfrith, in Monmouthshire, to swim in the River Monnow. The river was warm and full of life; mayflies were hatching out and bobbing up and down on the air, and I watched one that had just hatched out, standing on the water surface waiting for its wings to be ready to fly before launching itself up...

It was a good day to be there.

On the way back, I headed across country in a roughly southward direction, because it was shorter than going through Monmouth, and it was a more interesting route.

Of course we ended up going much further and taking far longer than we would have done had we taken the main road. But we were never entirely lost. Well, hardly ever.

The lanes got smaller and windier. We meandered down into a valley, then jinked up a hill and into a cool green wood, and suddenly came upon this church.

It's at Llanvihangel Ystern Llewern, which translates more or less as "St Michael's church on the bend of the river where the foxes live". I thought it looked familiar, and I was right, because the Offa's Dyke path passes through the churchyard, having ascended the slope from the banks of the Trothy below. I had to stop.

I had a little reminisce while Katie and her friend chatted together in the back of the car.

The first time I walked along here I was in my early twenties. I've been this way on foot four times now. Once on my own, thinking how nice it would be to share the experience with someone; I wonder how many people are happy with complete solitude? Once with Duncan and Roz. That was a lovely walk; we'd taken the bus to Abergavenny and camped the night before on a hill looking over to the Skirrid at Llangattock Lingoed, before spending the day walking across to Monmouth. And then once with Richard, getting wetter and wetter on our way to Llanthony; by the time we got there, our feet were so blistered that we hobbled into Hay and abandoned the walk. Not one of the happier trips, but definitely memorable, lying in the tent counting the seconds between the flash and the thunder...

...and the last time, two years ago, when Richard and I sat by a bend in the Trothy and ate our lunchtime pasties under the watchful eyes of a woodpecker guarding its nest.

Some of the older memories are imperfectly remembered or confused, and some are fixed so vividly in my memory that I can smell them. Like that evening at Llangattock Lingoed, drinking Felinfoel beer with Duncan and Roz, and sitting out in the stillness of a summer evening, happy in each others' company. Hard to evoke quite why they are so vivid; but they are. And now Duncan is dead, things are changed, thirty years have passed. And one day I shall have forgotten everything.

But not just yet, thank goodness.

Wordsworth's been there too, I think:
There are in our existence spots of time,
That with distinct pre-eminence retain
A renovating virtue, whence-depressed
By false opinion and contentious thought,
Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight,
In trivial occupations, and the round
Of ordinary intercourse-our minds
Are nourished and invisibly repaired;
A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced,
That penetrates, enables us to mount,
When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen.

...those are his words rather than mine. I'm just fumbling to try to express my own feelings. Or even just to put a name to them. This is what I wrote in 2003:


We went off to the Black Mountains again yesterday. The mountains were beautiful, and it was a gloriously hot day, and the children splashed around in the stream below a waterfall, although it was fairly well dried up.

...and then I had to leave early to rendezvous with P---- in a motorway service station. AS we descended the mountain I thought of what Catherine had been saying, as we lounged around munching the food and drinking champagne, about how it doesn't get better than this. What she meant encompassed the children's memories of the day at a future time, as well as our present felicity. She was mildly berated by Charlie, who said that she was setting limits on what is otherwise unquantifiable. But there is some truth in it. It's funny, actually BEING in the moment, and at the same time putting it in an historical context. And it's how I felt as Katie and I descended to the car together, down a long path through pastures where the sheep were sheltering as best they could from the heat, under bracken and bushes. And it was very still and quiet, only the occasional cry of a buzzard, and Katie was scuffing the dust up from the path to make clouds and the sound was very striking in the stillness, and her blue dress stood out vividly against the mountains and she was very happy and I was both sharing the moment and storing it to sustain me during the times in the future when we'll be apart... and I guess maybe she was doing the same, although she was more in the moment and didn't realise it.

It's funny being nostalgic for something even while it's happening. But I also remember long-past picnics and outings with my parents, and how it felt then, and how things have gone since then...

Tuesday, 9 June 2009

wrens and balloons

(this picture may seem familiar if you look at the previous post)

Here's an excerpt from Geraldine Taylor's The Coffee Thrush, the pictures for which I am doing at the mo


I witnessed a David and Goliath demonstration of bird alarm in Leigh Woods.

A hot air balloon was descending, its basket brushing the treetops. Dozens of birds united against the giant intruder, their oaths and war cries audible above the hiss of the balloon burner. Suddenly the balloon found the lift to clear the trees and continue its journey. The birds went quietly about the business of the woods: job done.




Sunday, 7 June 2009

Dialect Radio interview



On air. As it were.

So I went to the BCFM (Bristol community radio) studio and did an interview with John Peters-Coleman of Dialect Radio. We talked about attitudes to transsexual people, media portrayal, Tribunals, and "Becoming Drusilla."

The Dialect Radio show goes out on BCFM on Saturday and Sunday evenings.

The programme can be heard here

...and here are the programme details:


Dialect - 06 June 2009


Download: http://www.radio4all.net/responder.php/download/33755/38702/55230/?url=http://www.radio4all.net:8080/files/anonymous@.../16-1-dialect_20090606.mp3
Listen on air: 93.2 FM (BCFM), Saturday 9:00 PM & Sunday 9:00pm

Features this week [Time in brackets index to the featured item in the
mp3 file]:

(01:53) Interview with Toni regarding the book "Becoming Drusilla" by Richard Beard
(06:10) Interview Drusilla
(14:36) Song - True Speaker by Katey Brooks
(18:07) Feature from Tony Gosling - Interview with David Haplin
(26:56) Studio Performance from the band Sons of Sunday
(34:07) The Innkeeper's diary - part 6
(42:19) Feature from Anthea Page - Interview with Anne Campbell regarding Australian Aborigines
(53:09) Jeff Sparks music roundup
(53:44) Pride and Joy - Track of the week by Stevie Ray Vaughn
(59:04) Credits

60:00 Minutes Total

Producer : Anthea Page
Presenter: John Peters-Coleman
Reporters: Anthea Page & Tony Gosling
The Innkeeper's Diary: Malcolm Grieve
Studio Engineer: Alistair Grant

rats






I'm OK with a mouse that's wild and free. Questing voles passing feather-footed through the plashy fen? -they get my vote every time.

But I was never that keen on the sort of rodents you mostly get in houses.

In 1969 or so, I bought a copy of a book called "Ratman's Notebooks" in Woolworths (I think it cost me a shilling). The narrator describes how he trains a pack of rats to do horrible things to his enemies, but then they turn on him, and the book ends in a "O no they're scratching at the door" sort of way. I read it, horrified, in the attic room I inhabited in a Welsh house where the scrabbling sounds of mice came from above, below, and the sides.

And then there was the night that father and his new intended went out for the evening, leaving us children alone in a (to me) unfamiliar and unpleasant-smelling house in Preston, Lancashire. We watched a horror film on telly, and my troubled sleep was later broken by snuffling sounds in the dark. In the morning, I found a mouse caught in a trap in the kitchen and gravely wounded, snuffling through its own blood.

And then there was the farmhouse I was working on in Devon, when I popped up to Bristol for the weekend, and returned to find that rats had found their way into the house and started chewing through anything that took their fancy. Right bloody mess it was too. I chased them out with a stick, and slept the night in my car rather than stay in the house that night.

Katie, on the other hand, very much wanted a pet with a bit more in the upstairs department than Twinkle the hamster. Twinkle is OK, but she's hardly the shiniest apple in the bowl. Katie wants an animal who can share adventures and return her love.



So here is Yuki. "Are you sure it's all right?" asked Katie for the thousandth time as we walked to the pet shop. I made reassuring noises.

We let Yuki settle into her new cage undisturbed for a day, then Katie started handling her gently. Yuki took up residence on Katie's shoulder, occasionally releiveing herself there. The pile of washing mounted higher.

Yuki looked very lonely in her cage though, and it seemed cruel to have so sociable an animal in solitary confinement.

So now she has been joined by Pookie.

Picture no doubt to follow.





Tuesday, 2 June 2009

ten years

I'm trying to cobble together some thoughts of a recherche du temps perdu description. Or harking on about the bloody past again, depending on how you look at it. So while I'm sucking the end of my pen and getting distracted by the blackbirds in the garden, here's a couple of pictures I found the other day and thought, "Blimey! Ten years?"

This is the sort of thing I used to get up to on MV Havelet in Weymouth, when it was just sat there for ages and I was sort of looking after it. In between riding my bicycle along the Promenade and fishing for mackerel to barbeque on the top deck.