G & G at a Gallery near you

Catch it if you can, a chance to see Gilbert & George at the de Young Museum in San Francisco until May 18th, then on to Milwaukee and Brooklyn.

 

For those that were first introduced to Wyndham Lewis through this blog, trust me, you must see G & G. They are outstanding image makers of our sad, sick society. Forget whether they are fake or fakery; look at the quantity, look at the quality, look at the novelty.

 

OK, I'm biased. I don't own a G & G but I as good as do. It all started in the mid 1990s. In sunny Norfolk. In August. I was walking my dog at lunch time (oh I do miss him, so much - if you've been paying attention you will know he passed away over a year ago). When along came these incredible looking two guys in smart suits and ties in sweltering August and I just knew it was: Gilbert & George. So I rushed back to my bookshop, rearranged all the windows to show books about them (what a tart I am), called the publican at the local pub and told him to photograph the most photographed artists in the world ("never heard of them" "just do as I say you old bastard"). It worked, they got pictured and they popped into my bookshop/gallery on the way back to civilisation.

 

Well, not only were they so charming, but they actually spent loads of money on my books and invited us to the private view of their next show (which, of course, we attended). So we've seen this retrospective and it is brilliant and so are they and if I was William Draper the third I'd buy one right now.

 

To know more, go here:

 

http://gilbertandgeorge.famsf.org/

 

Apart from which: I have been rattling the cages of my past work and found some of the stuff quite interesting, but that could just be egoistic in a bloggy sort of way. So, I've decided to tempt you with a bit of artistic foreplay. Just to see how you respond.

 

OK, so I start by setting the scene for the seduction: it is a stage. But not just any stage, here's what I said some twenty years ago:  A play where the characters never touch the floor. Netting, or mesh 'floors', at different levels, make-up the set.

 

The play should try to leave the audience with a feeling of 'unease', or questioning. They may even think the play never existed. Certainly the 'meaning' of the production will be difficult to understand, indeed it is better if it is not understood, ever.

 

The characters speak through voice-boxes so we never know who they are. This small group of actors should change clothes between each other as often as possible, and similarly swop make-up and props, to confuse their identity. Three females, three males make-up the cast. Because they will merge together, they, by definition, become ageless.

 

The set is lit with shafts of light that change throughout the play, like Venetian blinds casting light and shade. The positioning and movement of the characters is key to the success of the play, rather like ballet or chess. The characters are nameless, but numbered.

 

Got the picture? Touch of the Theatre of the Absurd with John Gage and Michael Clark thrown in for good measure. But I am a dialogist (if there is such a person) as well. And there I think it suffers a bit, but see what you think:

 

ONE     (Enters at the highest level from the left)

 

              I only have today.

 

TWO    (Enters mid-level from right)

 

             May day. May day.

 

            (Both characters quickly depart and come in again at each other's entry point)

 

ONE    What did you say?

 

TWO    No, what did you say?

 

            (Shafts of light change, ONE and TWO freeze)

 

THREE (enters rolling a hula-hoop)

 

             I still have this to roll. Are you rolling?

 

ONE     No flying.

 

TWO    Where to?

 

THREE  (Moving across the stage)

 

             This way.

 

(ONE and TWO move from their positions to join THREE, placing their hands on the hula-hoop and all face the audience in a mannequin style)

 

ONE, TWO, THREE

 

             In a fashion we are alone. But you are there. On this hoop. And it rolls. (pause) If we push it. (They push it and walk, in unison, off the stage. As they leave the other three enter from the other side              of the stage, dressed the same, with the same hula-hoop)

   

 

So, am I hitting the spot? Probably not. But at least a mobile of G & G hangs over me as I type, one side glowing, one sided faded to nothing: much like life really.

Memories of Andi Emerson

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This week a dear friend of ours passed away in New York. See:

http://www.dmnews.com/DM-industry-reflects-on-Caples-queen-contributions/article/105288/
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> http://directmag.com/news/andi_emerson_0214/
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> http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=%22Andi+Emerson%22&btnG=Google+Search


She was compared to Audrey Hepburn to look at and her voice and delivery was on a par with Elaine Stritch.

I first met her back in the 1970s in London, where I had an ad agency. Andi came over from New York to find a partner agency. We clicked right away and a family friendship ensured with us and, latterly, with our son Dominic and his wife Kathy. See: www.katson.blogspot.com

Here are some interesting quotes from the many letters Andi sent to us:

Meanwhile, the rest of the world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket.

I've been teaching Business to Business Direct Mktg at the New York University, at night, to execs for 6 years. After the last class, 2 weeks ago, I got taken out for champagne. They've formed an Emerson Alumni Assoc and are contacting students from prior years to join. Made me feel better about my teaching ability.

And, today, got a 'thank you' note AND a present from the class. Made me cry!

No thanks on your offer of Maggie. We have Bush, and that's too much.

The homeless in NYC alone now number in the hundreds of thousands, crime is out of control, taxes are on a dizzyingly upward spiral, libraries and museums are drastically curtailing their services and there are no signs of an up tick yet in sight.

With much, much love - as always!

Although our association started on a business footing it soon involved our whole lifestyle which meant, for me, Andi became aware of my obsession with Ezra Pound.

To help that along she sent me a well used copy of The Letters of Ezra Pound with some interesting references to her own family, who crossed the literary lines of EP.

Again, a few quotes will give you a flavour:

Henry Adams - 2nd cousin. George Ade - my Godfather (was my father's commanding officer in World War I and wrote the Commendation that earned my Dad the DSC and his 2-terms at Cambridge).

W.H. Davies - a great friend of Aunt Edith (my painter aunt). Geoffrey Faber - great friend of my Great Uncle George. Rabindranath Tagore - close friend of Aunt Gertrude (my writer aunt). Spent weeks every year at Aunt Gertrude & Uncle Bushi's home in the Himalayas - wrote the forward for Aunt G's book 'Voiceless India'.

We were all enriched by knowing Andi.

There will be a memorial at 2:30PM NY time on Thursday 2/28/08 at Church of the Transfiguration (Episcopal) aka: "The little church around the corner."1 east 29th street between Madison and Fifth avenues New York, NY There will be a reception to follow.

Road to nowhere?

Empty ... only the roads.

Everybody has their road.

Passwords in a singular age.

I once wrote a poem which said:

Let the colours be unsaid

for who knows what red is blood

what sea is blue

what grass is green,

if they all suffer from the same name.

But we all have our own names:

names to answer

pins to open.

But what is really there?

Do you know?

Let's play a game:

a simple game.

Guess what this is?

I could go on ... shall

I go on?

That's where I left last week.

But I did come back.

Ambushed by Anne?

It was good, this week, to brush strokes with our old friend David. He spends much of his time travelling the world, the rest of his time looking after the world through the United Nations.

 

He is more used to sending postcards to us from exotic places, rather than blogging, and when I introduced him to this one he promised to ambush it at some time. Instead Anne popped up promising to supply information on Bertram Lloyd (see an earlier entry on this). But I could not reply to Anne; so if you are out there please email me on Lloyd as I'm keen to know more. I'm assured David is not Anne!

 

None of this is central to what I'm going to share with you; it's more a case of lost and found. I have been thinking a great deal about a short story I wrote many, many years ago. It has taken effort beyond the call of duty to search and find this manuscript. But at last I have it and that will be the main part of this blog. Not all of it, but the beginning, at least. I hope you like it, I'm not sure ... by my feelings are too strong to ignore.

 

S C A R E T T A

 

Music rings in the distance; a bell sends taunt emotion through the limbs of Scaretta. She is standing on a hill-top, it is early evening. To her right a stone hut sheltering amid trees and heather. What she is looking for, or listening to, remains within her aura.

 

Alfred Bregan returns from wood stacking. He carries a jug of milk from the farm. Inside a stone hut the metal stove shines from the reflected sun; careful hands have cleaned its complete design of wrought ivy twists. Upon its heating area are several saucepans, brown enamel on the outside and black within. Alfred enters the door and throws a sack to the floor, he leaves the jug on the stone next to the window. Sun is central in the sky and harvest combines are left in the field; men walk to the local Inn for beer with their food. Alfred takes from the sack a freshly killed rabbit and sitting down on the stool, begins to skin it. His large blackened hands have a gentle experienced manner, and lightly skim the grey fur leaving a red, blood dripping, meat. The stone floor seems to consume each red pool that falls upon its surface; a bright midday sun restores a fine lustre to the grey stone walls. Alfred places the skinned rabbit on the table, from the cupboard he brings home-baked bread and churned butter which are placed on the table along with one plate and knife and fork. His hands are now reddened from the blood and this disturbs him enough to halt any moment of indecision. At the outside water butt he immerses each arm full length into the centre, freely splashing and rinsing away the dirt from the skin on arms and face. The water has controlled the thick hair, black upon his arms, so now it lays in neat patterns full and strong. The beard too is more discernable on the brown face, distinct powerful bones around the eyes and cheeks. He walks back into the hut and arranges a few pots upon the stove, in preparation for a meal. His arrangement finished, he stands and surveys with an amount of latent satisfaction. Alfred takes from a hook on the wall a three spiked weapon of unusual and ominous design, with this he walks out of the hut and along the path that runs towards the fields and forest.

 

Shall I continue?

Cracking winter