What do you think?

I've been made over, scrubbed-up and washed-out thanks to my dear daughter-in-law at www.katson.blogspot.com. I think it looks better, hope you agree?

Here in the US of A...

Germaine Greer, Jose Carreras and us are in town, what a great start! More to come.....

 

Gaudier's great!

I was routing through my bookcase and what should loom large: Henri. I talk of him in personal terms because I have known of his work for many, many years. In fact I have owned a number of his drawings; sadly none of his sculptures. I have championed his cause before, but I think it is time to buff it up again. If any of you are near to Cambridge here in the UK, go to Kettles Yard; they have the best collection of his work in the world. That's all because the person who started Kettles Yard, Jim Ede, had more of his work than anyone else. I have found a potted biog of Henri which will give you a taster but do try and go deeper, there are few books on him, but the one mentioned is a good start and he crops up in other books about the normal literary coterie (Pound, et al). Better still, if anyone reading this knows more please share it with me, I'm always keen to know more of Henri.

Gaudier-Brzeska, Henri (1891–1915). French sculptor and draughtsman, active in England for most of his very short career and usually considered part of the history of British rather than French art. He was born at St Jean-de-Braye, near Orleans, the son of a carpenter, and was destined for a career in commerce. In 1910 he took up sculpture in Paris without formal training, and in the same year he met Sophie Brzeska, a Polish woman 20 years his senior, with whom he lived from that time, both of them adopting the hyphenated name. In 1911 they moved to London, which Gaudier had visited briefly in 1906 and 1908, and lived for a while in extreme poverty. He became a friend of Wyndham Lewis, Ezra Pound, and other leading literary and artistic figures, and his work was shown in avant-garde exhibitions, such as the Vorticist exhibition of 1915. In 1914 he enlisted in the French army and he was killed in action the following year, aged 23.

Gaudier developed with astonishing rapidity from a modeling style based on Rodin to a highly personal manner of carving in which shapes are radically simplified in a way recalling the work of Brancusi (Red Stone Dancer, Tate Gallery, London, c. 1913). In Britain, only Epstein was producing sculpture as stylistically advanced at this time. Gaudier's work was appreciated by only a small circle during his lifetime, but since his death he has become recognized as one of the outstanding sculptors of his generation and has acquired something of a legendary status as an unfulfilled genius. Sophie Breszka's devotion to his memory bore fruit in a memorial exhibition of his work at the Leicester Galleries, London, in 1918, and biographies of him were written by H. S. Ede (1930) and Horace Brodzky (1933). Ede's biography was originally entitled A Life of Gaudier-Breszka, but when it was reprinted in 1931 it was retitled Savage Messiah in allusion to the demonic intensity and energy of his life; this was also the title of Ken Russell's film on the artist (1972).

Off to the States soon to see our son and daughter-in-law; can't wait. They always spoil us and the people in their part of the world are so friendly and helpful you just want to move in with them. Plus we can catch-up with art States side. The picture above will whet your appetite in that direction. Furthermore Kathy has offered to sprinkle star dust on my blog, from the blog Queen herself! Exciting stuff to come, hang on in there.

 

Spring is Sprung!

Spring has been expressed in many ways. Eliot thought it was the cruelest time of the year, as its birth was no more than a prelude to death. In one of my first published poems I alluded to that when I wrote: Father come to me, watch the black stare of green eyes: falling winter lays dread upon thought of spring.

 

That aside, it really is a time of enormous regeneration, rebirth, renewal; however you like to express it. As I sit here and look at the garden in the early morning sun, there are buds galore; heads rising above the parapet and I know, to my recent discovery, snails ready to emerge for their winter sleepover and eat-up all those new shoots!

 

So what will come this year? I'm sure there will be more of the self-grown variety of flowers and vegetables; a treat to the health and wealth of the nation. But what else? Maybe a sift away from the single souls society; where we are all doing what I'm doing right now: praying to cyberspace!

 

Perhaps we will inject a little 'us' into this, so instead of all being viewers a number of us will become involvers. Faint chance eh? Let me know what you think. Right now I can't resist the urge to get out there and start digging, planting and, later, sharing. It's one of the great cycles of the year. Enjoy! 

 

What a Relief!

Recession, or no recession, it didn't stop people giving to the giant fundraising event this week, that is Comic Relief 2009. Nearly 60 million pounds was pledged, almost twice the figure that was achieved last time around. So well done everyone that gave something and did, like our granddaughter, something Funny for Money!

 

 

 

More Moore

There's a very good exhibition at the Norwich Castle Museum & Art Gallery called: Moore/Hepworth/Nicholson: A Nest of Gentle Artists in the 1930s.

It's mainly Henry Moore who towers above the trio, but the fascination is the inspiration behind this show:

In the early 1930s a group of artists including Barbara Hepworth, Henry Moore and Ben Nicholson took working holidays at Happisburg on the Norfolk coast. A Nest of Gentle Artists explores these holidays - the friendships formed, the work produced, and most importantly their subsequent influence on the development of modern art in Britain. A story of regional interest can be seen to have had an impact of international importance.

Evidently the trio's walks along the beach gave them the chance to pick-up pebbles, many of which had natural holes in them. This led Hepworth and Moore to use holes in their work which became the defining features of their sculpture.

Nearby, at the Sainsbury Centre, is a very modern exhibition called: CHINA CHINA CHINA!!! A quote from Zhang Zao, one of the artists, says: 'Art needs to be inspired by Nature externally, and ultimately be fused with the internal artistic ideals of the artist.'

I see a similarity between the trio above and the quote from the Chinese artist, although the work from each could not be further apart. It is good to think that location can give to imagination, and, important I believe, to remember our impact on the location in which we live and work; particularly now when places are closing down and there is the look of despair not beauty. Of loss, not gain. Of giving up, not taking on.

Somehow we need to rise above that. Let's think back to Moore walking the beach at Happisburg, when he picks up a stone with a natural hole in it. Now look at the pictures of his sculpture above. Who needs banks, who needs money, who needs all of that: when all you need is imagination!

What will you stand-up for ?

Here's a challenge that we noticed this week:

This summer, sculptor Antony Gormley invites you to help create an astonishing living monument. He is asking the people of the UK to occupy the empty Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square in London, a space normally reserved for statues of Kings and Generals, in an image of themselves, and a representation of the whole of humanity.

Every hour, 24 hours a day, for 100 days without a break, different people will make the Plinth their own. If you're selected, you can use your time on the plinth as you like – to demonstrate, to perform, or simply to reflect. One & Other is open to anyone and everyone from any corner of the UK. As long as you're 16 or over and are living, or staying, in the UK, you can apply to be part of this unforgettable artistic experiment. Participants will be picked at random, chosen from the thousands who will enter, to represent the entire population of the UK. The rules are simple: you must stand on the plinth alone, for the whole hour; you can do whatever you want, provided it's legal; and you can take anything with you that you can carry.

So what would you stand-up for? Would you stand-up and criticise the government as Ezra Pound did in 1942 and subsequently get arrested and put in a mental hospital for 13 years, or are things not like that any more?

An item on this week's BBC Radio Four talked about: 'Are Asian women in theatre today the "Angry Young Men" of the 1960s'. From listening to the program they have every right to be angry; so will they stand-up?

Or will bankers take to the plinth and justify their pensions?

What would you do?

I've put my name forward, so I'll let you know if I get selected; but if I do I'm not sure what I shall do. It might be a slot at 3am in the morning when only the waifs and strays will look and listen; or perhaps it will be at 3pm when the tourists of the world will see this country do what its always been good at: a little bit of eccentricity? Better still, Gilbert & George may repeat their legendary singing in the rain living sculpture; that would be fantastic. I could do go on, so any ideas would be welcome, just in case.

Talking of going on, I had an interesting conversation with someone this week about getting noticed, particularly on the web. It seems that good content alone, is not good enough. Instead, you need lots, lots more. Bells & whistles as we used to say. Links and streams; let alone a Twitter or two! So I do apologise if this blog is pretty damn dull, but it is My Life and ... no I wont go down that road. Perhaps I should talk about when I was a communion wafer baker, that would spice things up, or when my son and I spent a day with Vincent Price. Has that got your attention; if so pass this blog on so we may reach a meaningful number of readers, beyond the handful that dedicatedly click-on each week. To which I doff my cap in thanks.

A bucket load of Beckett

Good news this week; the first volume of The Letters of Samuel Beckett was published. I've always liked Beckett for his ability to turn the absurd into pure poetry. Beckett was also on the fringes of the genre that I have liked (or been obsessed with) all my life i.e. Pound and his cronies. Beckett only popped-up in that group as James Joyce's secretary amongst other things. But he made an impression with Pound.

Here's an amusing story in James Laughlin's book: Pound as Wuz. The time was 1967 and Pound had retreated into his silent period. He was taken to Paris by Olga Rudge for the publication of French translations of some of his books. During the trip he was driven to the chateau of Vaux-le-Vicomte. 'Swinging his cane, Ezra walked briskly through the house and the gardens. No comment whatever. But that evening he uttered. He had been seeing his old friend Sam Beckett, who had taken him to a performance of Fin de Partie (Endgame), the play in which two characters are in garbage cans. Out of the blue he said, "C'etait moi dans la poubelle." (I was the one in the garbage can.)

Evidently Samuel Beckett and James Joyce were also 'addicted to silences' they 'engaged in conversations which consisted often of silences directed toward each other, both suffused with sadness.'

But as for joy, there is a new production of Waiting for Godot in London and the provinces opening soon, starring Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart. I predict that it will be one of the highlights of the year. Particularly if Pozzo and Lucky are played well. Those two characters, in my opinion, characterise the play. They bring in the absurd; they offer a wider canvas (Pozzo could have been threatened with crucifixion, Lucky could be the mess that the world has got into). Go see this production, it could change your life.

For those that were concerned at the last sentiments in my last blog, fear not. The silence was deafening, but I'm not finished yet. I have much to say and much to do; but it would still be nice to hear from you (someone did say that my 'Time' poem was nice - never a very stirring word that, but I'll take it for what it's worth). To end, let me just say in passing, The Pet Shop Boys were so good at The Brits Awards (my son has just fallen off his chair, because he didn't even know I knew the PSB...but don't worry son it was only a one-off, back to Brahms German Requiem for me).

The Man Who Went Away

I am looking for a book published in 1952 (in the States, I believe) by George Paul Solomos called The Man Who Went Away. I've tried AbeBooks again and again, but no luck. Pass the word around please; I really would like to find this book that I read many years ago and the author who was a friend and mentor in my early writing life.

Talking of publishing I met a very interesting small publishing company this week called: the Gatehouse Press, see: www.gatehousepress.com. They publish some fine authors (like George Szirtes and Jo Kjaer) and are run by an author and charming man: Tom Corbett. For those who live in my neck of the woods, or who hanker after our corner of the word go buy Shuck, Hick, Tiffey! written by George Szirtes. It's three Norfolk libretti which evoke a life as interesting as the environment it celebrates. If you do nothing this week go to Gatehouse, its website is a bit rusty but its output is well worth collecting.

Talking of nothing in particular I came across a lovely poem by Hilaire Belloc called The Garden Party, in a beautiful book called England from Eland Publishing. The first verse is:

The Rich arrive in pairs
And also in Rolls Royces;
They talked of their affairs
In loud and strident voices.

I thought that today, the equivalent might be:

The Celebs arrived alone
And also in Lamborghinis
They talked of Sylvester Stallone
In between drinking bellinis.

Back to basics of an amazing kind; another encounter on my travels was with a company that is surviving in these difficult times, and long may it do so. Based here in North Norfolk it is the epitome of a cottage industry. Everything is made by hand, by local people, in sheds and bolt holes, using strong and lasting materials. Whilst I was with these wonderful people (you'll see the extended 'family' on the website) one of the cats (named fidget for obvious reasons) would not leave me alone, chickens ran everywhere (would you like some they said, just help yourself) and the place exuded old world charm and individuality. May it never go the way of China, or much worse. Enjoy: www.carriercompany.co.uk.

This ragbag this week, is brought about by the desire to reach out, to connect. I know I have a small following, but I would like to think it could be more. So pass on my blog address to all that you think might benefit from literary ramblings and other bits & bobs that come out of my head from time to time. Clearly, me in my small corner, and you in yours, is not reaching out to a wider world out there. Or perhaps they have opened the door, looked inside, realised it's an old and musty gut bucket and moved on. Don't blame them, I only keep one essential site that I look at every day: www.katson.blogspot.com. But it would be good to know that these ramblings are of some interest, or should I just turn the light out and pull the duvet over my head?

Artists reject banks as source of income...

...it was ever thus.

 

Here's a quote from a circular that Ezra Pound and other artists put together in 1922 to try and stop T S Eliot having to work at a bank to earn a living. Note the figures quoted and realise how far we have come from then and how much greed has taken over: 

 

In order that T S Eliot may leave his work in Lloyd's Bank and devote his whole time to literature, we are raising a fund, to be 300 pounds annually; this being in our opinion the minimum possible for this purpose. Method, 10 pounds, fifty dollars...payable yearly by 30 subscribers.

 

This appeal went on, in a way you would expect from Pound, but was, ultimately, successful in getting Eliot out of banking and into full-time literature.

 

The world would have been poorer without Eliot's richness of poetry. Whilst, I'm sure he would have continued to write, to work in business and to write in private does not work. I've have tried it over the years and you have seen the manifestations. Try as I may (and I remember my long suffering wife putting up with me writing until the early hours, whilst she was in bed, or feeding our new born children, before I got up early in the morning and stumbled off to work) mammon has been the pull, in place of the muse.

 

But now; well the chance to share my writings and ramblings with you, if there is anyone listening? As well as the chance to celebrate the writers I grew up on. So let me end with some memorable lines from Eliot's Prufrock:

 

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table

 

Now if that isn't worth walking out of a bank for, then nothing is.

Show Me The Bird For Killing (a scrap from the archives)

Recollection: frail Father place the nocturne before you.

Leave eyes molten and touch my hand, I wish to feel the

old brown skin with its cracks and festerments.

 

Swan-walk, the rifle nestling beneath your winter coat;

enough time to crack a few chestnuts and send running the

young boys who quietly fish. This silence you can beat,

knock the hell from it and bring this remoteness back to

its place beside the High Street. Show me the bird for killing;

will it be fat and worth eating or should I not ask until it is

dead? Over at the green cricket - the barb catches wool and pulls

me back - the green burns. It is not only chestnuts on the

floor, there are feathers with dry blood upon the quill, so fill

the bags with more and we will clean the leaves and droppings.

After which we shall go and watch the Sunday game, Father is

walking with a large shadow - onward to the refreshment hut.

The clean whites are attractive by the side of wrought tables,

we could sit and drink tea. These crates of empty bottles are

not so good as the trays of tea; you seem to like them Father

though they have no more juice, like the boy who drinks it.

 

Crease each stare do I, my eyes watch the red covered bottle.

Is this nothing but a slumdog?

We've just seen the film Slumdog Millionaire. It is an epic. It has outstanding performances. It is shot with in-your-face colours and compositions. It will clean-up at the Oscars. But I would have thought twice, if I had known what it was like.

 

Must life be like this? Incredibly cruel. Selfish to the core. Totally driven by money. Them and us, rich and poor. All for the sake of....

 

In the end love won over everything, but at what price? OK, it is only a story, it is only a film; but I'm naive enough to think that life is like that in places all around the world.

 

I will clap and cheer with everyone, when the director and actor gets their gongs, but I hope they will have collecting boxes for the heroes that have survived, or are at the moment surviving, what this film portrays in angonising detail.

In the beginning ...

How many times have we said that?
But is this the time?

The time to hang-up our prejudices.
Time to start anew?

Time to fix what's broken
time to grab a pew.

And when we find that time
will we give it the time it's due?

Time to once more see a smile
upon their timeless faces.

Time to accept and renew
without calling in anytime dues.

So who's saying time on time?
Not you or you. Not this time.