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

-

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

What's in your basket?

I happened to come across a very wonderful blast from the past this week, when I stumbled upon Michael Mackmin, in a supermarket. When I remarked on the pomegranates in his basket he was able to relate their literary significance:


Proserpina was the daughter of Demeter and was, while picking flowers
in Sicily, carried off to Hades by Dis (king thereof).
As a child I liked the picture of this, for some obscure to me, then,
reason, in the Children's Encyclopaedia - possibly not unrelated to the
swish of thin robes, bare toes etc. Dis knew that he'd only get to
keep her there if he could make her eat. In the end, just before she
was rescued ( and after her mother had wandered up and down the earth
for six months creating sorrow and desolation and winter) she was
persuaded to eat, and managed a meal of six pomegranate seeds. So she
had to be Dis' wife for six months and could return to the upper earth
for the other six. Thus explaining spring.
See also W. Shakespeare, Winter's Tale,

O Proserpina
For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou lett'st fall
From Dis's waggon - daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes...............


Not surprising, in the slightest, because Michael is the editor of the wonderful poetry magazine in England called The Rialto. See their website: www.therialto.co.uk, better still buy the magazine it is one of the best literary mags in the land (and still financed by The Arts Council). I hope Michael will look kindly on my return to poesy if that is what I achieve this year. The episode in the supermarket made shopping a discovery and gave another spin on this time of the year: from Eliot to Mackmin in one leap. The Ides of March next perhaps, now who can help me on that road to discovery?

Winter in Wells, Norfolk

After the hint of doom and gloom in last week's entry, look at this for an uplighting sight. Yes, the seals have come out in Wells, here in the UK, for a bit of people watching. What you can't see, is the other side of the camera, where an orderly line of people has gathered to see this wonderful sight. Seal mums with their cubs in the milky sunlight. Enough to bring-out the poet in everyone.

This is also the week where Jennifer had an eye op to remove a cyst. Painful, yes, but what a place to test the clarity of vision.

So I declare that Spring is here, and I am moved to write a line or two:

Stretch your finger, cup your hand,

break the mercury in the sand:

each rounded pool of light

lets us determine what is right.

New shoots, new beginnings...

I am reminded, at this time of the year, of spring to come through the crispness of winter. T S Eliot was not too keen on April:

 

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

 

In my first published poem I saw it like this:

 

Father come to me, watch the black stare

of green eyes: falling winter lays dread

upon thought of spring.

 

I think it's all to do with knowing what's coming; but surely the inevitably of life needn't be the dullness of life?

 

As I said in my last blog, I haven't been writing new stuff as much as I should; and this year that is what I want to do. Be a wellspring to myself. Use Pound as my beacon. Why Pound, well he used the process of creativity in writing as a life-long study, mantra and occupation. He couldn't write a letter without seeing that as a creative exercise. No 'Dear....' for him. Here's his opening to Wyndham Lewis:

 

Cher VVwvyndammmn

 

Makes us rethink the email, possibly?

 

As it happens I'm just about to plant some fruit bushes, so whatever, I will see some new beginnings.

 

It is also our granddaughter's birthday tomorrow: she is 5 years old. What a stage in life. To think, Mozart had written his first piece of music but then. No pressure!

 

Let me end, by going back to what I wrote as a biog piece in 1966 when the "Father...' poem was published:

 

Contemporary poetry should be: purity of word with scarcity of evaluation.

 

Until next time: keep planting.

 

 

Happy New Year to you, and you, and you, and you...

Here we go again. A grand start. A run at it with no clothes on. Or the dregs of yesteryear, as a reflux.

 

What say you?  I say; more & better. Well, time is running out, as many a soothsayer has been saying.

 

More writing, for me. Not difficult, seeing as I have had a dose of the block for quite some time. I need an incentive; and not just a special occasion which trumpets words of an echoing kind.

 

No,  real words that get-up the nostrils and make you snort.

 

Don't know if blogs are good enough for that. Far too ethereal. Might have to go back to real words, on real paper, in real books; for someone to realise in later life.

 

But for now, a dinger ling on the bell of life. There, off you go. Wave as you wiz by.

 

 

When I'm 64

When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now,
will you still be sending me a valentine, birthday greeting, bottle of wine?
If I'd been out till quarter to three, would you lock the door?
Will you still need me? Will you still feed me? When I'm sixty-four.

It's Happy Christmas from me and it's Happy Christmas from him

Wyndham Lewis, not quite forgotten

If you haven't heard of Wyndham Lewis, or not seen his work for a while, please take time out to acquaint yourself. This year is 50 years since he died and his old school put on an exhibition of his work. The following is a quote from Rugby School:

After primary schooling in Bedford and Ealing, Lewis entered Rugby School at the age of fourteen and appears to have enjoyed its tough, sporting ethos: 'Quite unlike most who write about their Public Schools . . . I am unable to say I had a disagreeable time.' Academically his time at the school was undistinguished, however, and he came bottom of his class of 28. Fifty years after his death, our culture still does not know what to make of the art and writing of one of the most talented, intelligent and vital of its twentieth century creators.

Hear, hear is what I say to their last comment. I have greatly admired Wyndham Lewis's work for years and have all of his books and two of his drawings. It is beyond my belief to see this year pass by and only his school has shown his work. Surely one of the public galleries should have recognised this great man who, work wise, stood head & shoulders above most of the others of his time. Look at the fine portraits. Stand back and gasp at the draftsmanship. Remember when all this was being done: almost a hundred years ago.

I refer to Lewis's art, but let's not forget his novels, poetry and polemics; as strident as his pencil on paper. Time, perhaps, for me to quote one of my poems from way back, that refers to WL, James Joyce, Eliot & Pound. It was published in CORE magazine:

Eye corners, eye corners

always eye corners.

Now, just as then, askance

at userers and usury.

Gone banker to right from drudgery

or bog eyed stupefier.

Just a botched civilisation

gone in the tooth

for a few Sunflowers let loose.

Where then, worse now,

and unCantoed.

A pound of this a pound of that

is just a pound of anything

and not a pound of Poundian.

So, as this year passes, let's remember the good guys, the good gals, the great dogs and the wonderful things to come. Christmas approaches and that brings joy to most people; so whoever you are, wherever you are: enjoy the moment and be in the moment. Always.

Wyndham Lewis, Nude, 1938

Here's looking at St Pancras Station

It's a great place to visit or to travel to or from. Scattered throughout the concourse are poetry plaques with lines from many of the great and good. Plus a sculpture of John Betjeman and a bar named after him too! So here's a pic of JB and a huge bronze of two people in a 'brief encounter'. Go there and enjoy.

Here's me, Jennifer & Stuart at Joe Allen's in London after a great lunch and just before we went off to see Chicago. Happy days!

Stuart's photo to come

Sorry I have not been able to show you the photo I mentioned below. I'm having slight technical problems!!!

Kind hearts and coronets

A number of interesting coincidences happened to me recently which brought the past into the present and, hopefully, the future.

 

Firstly the service at Westminster Abbey for the Queen and her husband organised by our dear friend Stuart Holmes who you will see in the photo later on with Jennifer, my wife. As always Stuart, and all those at Westminster Abbey, represent the finest English tradition, with pomp & ceremony in good order. I've known Stuart for at least 25 years and he just gets better and better. He recently returned from the Great Wall of China where he walked for charity to the impressive tune of ten thousand pounds. Luckily we were able to meet-up at Joe Allen's in Covent Garden, London. What a great time we had, followed by Chicago the musical which is now in its 10th year in London. That was a real show stopper - no wonder Stuart has seen it 8 times!

 

Then we stumbled across Antonio Carluccio standing in Neal Street looking at what used to be his pasta emporium; now sadly gone because greedy landlords have forced him out of the place where he first started and clearly still loves. The property is being given over to American Apparel: do you call that progress?

 

None of this is to do with what this blog is supposed to be about, namely my writing over the years. So I've looked through my archives and tried to find a piece that is more of a diary note than a poem or play. More appropriate for a blog.

 

As it happens it describes another great city: Prague:

 

Running through the dark cobbled streets we catch sight of the Kafka Cafe. The quick cuts of the shifting black rectangles: disturbed. We stopped. The sound of a violin echoed towards us. It was sweet but piercing. Haunting. The sound came from an unlit archway. Such beauty in such a place. The setting, the melody. Indescribable beauty and romance. We had hurried from an opera and now seemed to be a part of an opera.

 

Memories, quick cuts. Life in a collage. I hope yours is a wonderful kaleidoscope.

 

 

Yin Yang and Bertram Lloyd

Delving back over my archives and looking to the future is turning out to be a bit of a Yin and Yang. What's good about it is the way you can compare and contrast. The swinging sixties of yesteryear and the more focused techno life of today (you talk to the world, you talk to yourself). Back then I used to do poetry collages, now I just rummage through my past creative ramblings and pull out a gem or two; like:

 

I was once complimented on a title I gave to a story I wrote: 'The man who drank his socks.'  Titles can be important, unfortunately the story that followed was not. This next piece of prose I found has no title, other than the fact that it came from a chance remake my daughter made. After all these years later it still has a resonance of sorts:

 

Those moments of complete peace; a high note as the flute reaches the edge of the horizon and transcends into the purest, colourless sky.

 

It was remarked that I was always likely to put a loose head into a landscape, such was my fascination with faces.

 

So I cupped my hand and rocked the mercury water: its landscape of reflected sky winked in the kink of the uneven rock.

 

I threw it to my face and silver jewellery hung from my ears and hair. I was a harlequin now dancing to fluted music.

 

Excuse me Mrs Pankquery, do you have a spinning disc on your toe, you carousel so well I feel I have reached the music box.

 

And so it went on, a certain charm amongst the nonsense. None of that with Kevin Spacey, all gems no nonsense. He is shortly to be the subject here of a major TV documentary on the work he has done and so much of that, recently, is to do with the Old Vic theatre which he has breathed life into. That was a challenge and a half when he took that on (in the steps some time ago of Lord Olivier). But he has done remarkably well. Staying true to his principles and giving us some great theatre. Not long ago we went to see The Entertainer at the Old Vic, a revival of the classic that Laurence Olivier starred in 50 years ago. Robert Lindsay took the lead this time around. A moment in the theatre that was unforgettable. The whole ensemble were brilliant. I believe it then went to Broadway...catch it if you can.

 

I ramble. Back to the past while looking at the future developing in the orched leaves of this Autumn. A season, a year, that seems to keep slapping us around our complacent faces. A flood here, a fire there; natural disasters everywhere. No so much natural as truly of our own making. I visited an old airfield this week, where there was a hangar filled from floor to ceiling, with thousands and thousands of boxes filled with old empty printer cartridges, destined for land-fill until this company came into existence to recycle every single part (including the unused toner, which will be send to Canada!). A timely reminder that we need to be a bit faster off the ground.

 

But what of Bertram Lloyd? For those that know me, or have read this blog, you will be aware of my life-long interest in Ezra Pound. Well, one of the items I have associated with him is a first edition of The Faming Terrapin by Roy Campbell published by Jonathan Cape in 1924. There is an inscription on the fly-leaf in ink by Ezra Pound, that says:

 

Bertram Lloyd

        from EP

 

With a line underneath and what looks like a 2.

 

So, the question is, who was Bertram Lloyd? I've looked through the many, many books I have by and about Pound and can find no clue. In the days I am referring to authors did not willy nilly sign books (especially Pound, where signed items are very rare) so I assume Bertram Lloyd had some special significance. If you can help me understand the connection I will be more than grateful. 

 

I am unsure as to whether I am grateful to Norman Mailer whose life was celebrated recently. Great writer no doubt, but a bit too good. His last known book was 'The Castle in the Forest' which was published this year. A book attempting to explore the evil of Adolf Hitler. So good was it that I found it very disturbing. Forget the nightmares, this gave me daymares too. Trouble was it only went as far as the subject's adolescence. Did Norman complete the trilogy? Do I really want to know the rest? 

 

Now, I must return to the present, and consider the future. A walk along the sea sounds good, before the bluster of Autumn slaps us in the face once more.

Anybody there?

It's been a long while since I blogged, sorry if you missed me but I think in the end you're only as good as your last blog and, more importantly, I think blogs are better in the NOW than THEN. So a change of direction from what was to what is. I'm not abandoning the whole idea of reviewing my past but, I want to add in some reflections about now to give a rich flavour and more to chew on.

 

I take the lead on all of this from my daughter-in-law's blog: www.katson.blogspot.com . It is, in my opinion, one of the best blogs that you'll come across. There again, another good one is Melvyn Bragg's weekly blog (which you can reach via the BBC website). So, with those two as torches in the world of blogs, let me go on into the realm of exploration. Come with me on the journey, let me know you're there. It's going to be good ...

 

Bounce. Wow that was a long nap. It's all dingy in here, with lots of cobwebs everywhere. But it is beginning to clear. Trouble is, when I left you I had just celebrated the publication of my poem about Ezra Pound; the result of ten years in the making. A milestone. Now where? Well that was in the early part of the 21st century and I had to concentrate on other things than writing (a mistake I know, but I had sold my soul to mammon long ago). But when I could find time, I found that my creative impulses were turning away from just poetry to fiction. I will give some examples later but, for now, here's a musing from my notebook:

 

As you listen to the fortune

of the wind

and understand the creaks

of the bark

 

Play me now

I am unto you.

 

And have always been.

 

It is a mark I carry

as a symbol

a cast from the rest.

 

We are joined

but individual

a band

of criers.

 

I am, but many

that kiss the stone

and pats the hand

upon my shoulder.

 

Hang on, I said I would be in the now and not just the then: so how about Stephen Poliakoff? Last night there was a celebration of his work on BBC2. Magnificent. Such an imagination. Poetry for the eye. The man claims he makes films for television because he has complete control. Film industry: give him complete control. We need his work on the big screen. NOW. I know what makes him great, it's because he's a writer, as well as a director. That's why he needs complete control so he can take us into his mind and show us his creations. I have always seen the mind as a spiral staircase with landings containing collections that we discover on our way to seeing...well I haven't got to the top yet, so I cannot tell you what's there, but on the way the light holes get bigger, you can see further, and the clatter of that that is down below becomes less and less.

 

So, I'm back, hope you'll want to stay with me. If you do, what do I offer: weekly musings, a mix of stuff on the style of Kathy's blog. Most importantly, it would be good to have a dialogue. I met some great people on a recent trip to San Francisco to see my son and daughter-in-law: if this blog gets passed on like a round robin; greetings to you all, I so much enjoyed being in your company.

 

Until the next time, keep climbing your own staircase: I'll wave to you from my peep-holes.