Let's it here for the Johnsons

I'll end my Johnsonfest with a cheer to Jennifer on her birthday recently. With Olivier giving a welcome cuddle.

And here's a poem from yesteryear to maybe amuse or interest:

Blue-faced boy

Standing with his hands laid
deep within the water of a stone covered
feeder; the boy appears still.

But there are small holes on the other
side, where wings beat incessantly
trying hard to enter and drink.

The figurine upholds its delicate
brushwork and gilded gold, laying definite
lines and aberrations.

His face is blue and the water
has gone into each finger that dances
among the fallen feathers.

Look me in the eye!

The lady here on the left has stars & stripes contact lenses, really weird. You don't know whether to look her in the eye or recognise the flag and salute.Whatever, as my grandson would say, she's a nice lady and I'll salute to that anytime.

Fings ain't whot they used to be!

I travelled all the way to California to meet another Johnson: Roy Johnson at The Di Rosa Collection of Contemporary Art. He was delightful and I soon learnt that Johnsons are as common as Smiths here in the UK. So I told him my line of Johnsons comes from a 350 year history of Suffolk people. It's well worth a trip to Di Rosa to see good art, a wacky house and, most of all, Roy. He'll take you on a trip on his elongated buggy round the collection that includes a car hanging from a tree and another car with a rhino's head on its bonnet.

California here I come

I am going to blog-off for a week or two as we go to San Fran soon, see: www.katson.blogspot.com

This week has had some gems amongst the coal, including meeting Roger Haywood, whose paths have crossed mine on many occasion during the years past. And Desert Island Discs was a real treasure on BBC Radio 4 this week (look it up on www.bbc.co.uk). On top of which The Guardian has been running a great series on poets see: www.guardian.co.uk.

So what can I leave you with? How about this? A piece I wrote to celebrate the eightieth birthday of Ezra Pound (so that means it was 1985). It's not very joyous, but EPs life, particularly at the end was pretty grim.

Taken, until the green fathers die

Stones make cottages and shadows from the sun; young children assemble at the shore, throwing yellow balls from hand to hand. Their eyes squint, too strong is the ray that reflects brightly from moving water. On hills roam sheep, each day free, each night the pen. But beside these animals is a Shepherd, whether it rains or becomes overtly dark, the guardian stays with them. It is to him that the children today play with a yellow ball.

The minister, a chaste man, gives forth his sermon. The sermon for harvest; he deliberates upon the goods for man from seed and earth. Praises the farmers for worthy time and courage against the elements. But alone is his word when the young children watch wielding hands, from the splicing of rope and endurance of storms.

From Stoic, the green fathers arrive, they see that the course of undisputed farming is adhered to. Oppression is their dearest friend; the Shepherd stands upon the hill with his crook guiding the sheep. As they approach him he continues tending and educating the young lambs. One of the animals will not feed its young and so the Shepherd takes milk from the teat and gives it to the lamb. He carries scars, deep creases that set his face as bracken, whatever forces he has tackled, the end has been mostly his. Green fathers arrive and single him out from the community, he is led to an awaiting wagon. Manacles fit his arms and legs, assigning his body to a figure four position.

Prosperous men talk in the darkness of the trees, their conversation is dulled: of the Shepherd who once kept sheep here and was taken away. Taken to be burnt, not to death but slowly limb by limb. Now, they say, he moves from hovel to hovel pursued by friends whom he is now unable to distinguish from enemies. As the light enters and trees move from them, they soften their voices and quickly change the subject. The shore is quiet, people no longer look at the curls of bright water.

 

A Wyndham Lewis original

I thought I would share this with you. It is one of the designs that Wyndham Lewis was commissioned to do for the front cover of the catalogue for the 1915 Vorticist exhibition. The design was never used.


In addition here's a piece of writing that I found in my archive. Can't tell you what it means, but I hope you like it:


Mosaic eye, yellow strains that cross
forever drenching the young veins:
sun crystals, chronicles of blue moon
spirited in presence of transcended hand:
shapeless form lies fallow in the watch.

Can a stool make a piano?

I met a fascinating person this week who has spent his life restoring pianos and making harpsichords and would now like to develop his own unique design of classical piano. To do so he needs to invest time and money in making his prototype that he can launch onto the world's stage (literally). Part of his way to achieve his goal is to design a stool; which having seen it and sat on it, is a piece of creative genius. Ideal for portable use (it breaks down and goes into a nifty carry pack) or to look like a piece of sculpture in your living space, ready for the odd extra guest that may pop-in. Trouble is he needs investment to develop this too and the man can't split himself in two. Where are all the dilettantes, I ask myself? Why can't we not recognise genius and reward it without stifling it in the form filling process? Will his chair make his piano?

 

This reminds me, somewhat, of King Lear and love sought and love lost; no doubt because of the marvelous Melvyn Bragg programme on Radio 4 on Thursday. His subject was Lear and he managed to weave so many themes in and out of the core subject, even though his blog told us that he was suffering from jet lag after filming Gore Vidal in New York. Go to the following link to know more about the best weekly programme there is on subjects that stretch the mind: http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/history/inourtime/.

 

As you know, if you regularly read this blog, I am attempting to show my creative output from my early life up to the present day (although there's more of the former than the latter). That having been said here's two pieces that are kind of interesting. The first is taken from an essay I wrote, which could as easily apply today, but this wasn't today, this was a very long time ago (as the names will reveal):

 

It is unfortunate that, at this time in our civilisation, we should have to consider a fundamental element in the instinctive properties of man; namely, how to live together in reasonable peace. Furthermore the form for this consideration defeats the purpose. From the emotionally involved James Baldwin to the vote-catching President Johnson, there stems far more diverse prejudices which cover the clear thinking needed for this subject. Objective reasoning is more important than subjective involvement. There will soon be few people who can boast of their objectiveness without having incurred some scar or infection in their involvement with the problem, however slight it might be. It is arguable that objective thinking is wrong, for unless one becomes a part of the problem, then there is no grounds for opinions. The ideal line is one of objective thinking after being involved in an objective manner. With this in mind, we can see the problematic aspects of race prejudice.

 

Some things never change. The next little surprise is a poem I found, which I cannot remember writing. Maybe it is from another poet (I have one or two other poet's pieces), or perhaps the muse was at work, without me noticing (Robert Graves where are you?). Either way, I find it quite interesting, and I hope you do too:

 

I had seen the evening's rain

before church's masonry.

 

Fathers walk with purple maidens

drenching the clouds with their water

onto the chipped blocks of stone.

 

This stinging day lays heavy

not needing this much sacrament.

 

To have walked with one

perhaps the mean task of it

allayed the happening.

 

I am alone with my child

softer than the hand of this woman.

 

And men can let the gowns drop

deep upon the dust of roads

dead upon the evening grave.

 

Where to next?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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/
>
> http://directmag.com/news/andi_emerson_0214/
>
> 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.