The Vivisector
February 19, 2012
Where to start with this towering novel by Patrick White? The fact that I finished reading it yesterday evening. That when I started reading it, a couple of months ago, the handsome hardback I bought on our short trip to Lewes, I immediately felt rejuvenated. Here was a book, a writer, I really wanted to read. Every sentence startles. It’s exhilarating, daring, often caustic writing. I’m reassured, yes, Patrick White does warrant his place right up there in my literary pantheon (I’m sure he’ll rest easy in his grave in that knowledge). The nice coincidence that the bookmark I randomly picked to accompany me on my journey through The Vivisector, a ‘Hill of Content Bookshop’ bookmark, reproducing signatures from their Visitors’ Book, includes the autograph of Patrick White on one side, and Sidney Nolan on the other. Sidney Nolan, the painter, to whom the book is dedicated, along with his then wife Cynthia; and on whose life and art White must have drawn, in part at least, for The Vivisector’s protagonist, Hurtle Duffield. The price White paid, apparently, was the end of their friendship.
Many of White’s recurring themes are here – a spiritual quest that is ultimately futile yet has to be pursued; the thin social veneer that hides (but does not diminish) individual suffering; the squeamish horror of failed relationships between human beings, coupled with the impossibility of avoiding such interaction. No one “does” cruelty, abasement, pathos and disgust quite like Patrick White. He evokes vulnerability with quintessentially White-ian images – a man’s hairy wrists, or a thread of skin from hot milk dangling from a lip. I found affinities with Beckett, too, for the first time, elements of slapstick and farcical dialogue.
From the wonderfully vivid and unsentimental portrayal of Duffield’s childhood (his growing awareness of his difference, his separateness from both his blood and his adoptive family), through his development as a painter (with the small matter of two World Wars as backdrop) to the point where he is feted by an establishment he loathes, White’s depiction of Duffield’s creative process, or his inner life if you like, strikes me as true, and a great achievement. Towards the end of his life, Duffield suffers a stroke, and the language in this passage, as he struggles to claw himself back to a state where he can paint again, is a tour de force of jumbled images, confused and partial words, and comic elisions. There is also an extended bravura section describing the excruciating private view of Duffield’s retrospective at the State Gallery. White, amongst many other things, was a master of scathing social satire.
2012 marks the centenary of Patrick White’s birth. Definitely time to dust off and rediscover the work of this cantankerous, flamboyant and brilliant writer.
playtime!
February 5, 2012
I can’t resist fresh snow. I have to be out in it, scuff through it, touch it, crump it under foot, marvel at it. I love how it transforms London – ever so briefly – into a magical new place: dazzling, crisp, quiet. Hardly any traffic, and what there is slow moving and muffled. And how it transforms Londoners, mostly for the better, allowing us to play and revel and invent all manner of snow creatures. So last night I donned my spanking new wellies and ventured out to play.
Someone had made a half-pint snowman on top of a post.
diddy snowman
Battersea Park was shut, because you must not play after dark. Through the gates, the scene was so tempting.
barred and beautiful
The author pretends she’s in Siberia.
snow is falling
art in a cold climate
February 2, 2012
‘Tis bitter chill at the moment, but I’ve warmed myself on a couple of inspiring exhibitions this week. This lunchtime, a brisk and bracing 15 minute walk got me to The Serpentine’s Centre for Possible Studies for a proper look at the Fabelist Imprint show. We’d gone to the launch the previous Friday (I’m a sporadic Fabelist, having contributed a short poem to the Imprint journal) – a buzzy evening, with lots going on, but I wanted to see the visual art in a quieter situation. The standout pieces for me were Twinkle Troughton‘s Read All About It – a map of the UK collaged from newspaper cuttings; and Chantal Powell‘s Relics – deer skulls inscribed with ancient symbols or bedecked with red yarn - totemic and mysterious. It was also great to see Polly Bagnall‘s final painting, with its free-flowing gestural markings, having followed the evolution of her piece on the Fabelist blog.
Earlier in the week we braved the plummetting mercury (okay, it’s hardly Siberia, but up until now it’s been a mild winter) for a preview evening at the Lisson Galleries. I’m reserving judgement on the Santiago Sierra exhibition, Dedicated to the Workers and the Unemployed, despite the rousing title. Go instead to 52-54 Bell Street for the retrospective of paintings by Carmen Herrera. The factual titbits in the accompanying pamphlet are intriguing and inspiring: Herrera was born in 1915 in Cuba, she’s still painting, and sold her first painting at the age of 89. And then there are the paintings, which speak for themselves: bold geometric abstracts in vivid colour combinations – crimson and black, burnt orange and royal blue, light cream and grassy green. There is something gloriously life-affirming about these paintings, and I’m glad that I’ve had the chance to see them. I’ll be going again, soon, whatever the weather.
a bunch or two of cheerfulness
January 21, 2012
I’d lived in Battersea for years before I discovered there’s a traditional greengrocer’s just seven minutes’ walk from my block. And even though I’ve been frequenting Thurgood’s for a good few years now, I still get a tingle of anticipation each time I set off for their small but invaluable establishment. A proper greengrocer’s in Battersea! What new seasonal produce will be in stock? Once – just once – there was black cabbage, but, to my own bemusement, I was too scared to buy any. I wish now I had. Today, for the lucky sum of £7.77, I came away with a bag of English Cox’s, a few tomatoes, bananas, four blood oranges (hooray! the first this year, and one of my personal harbingers of spring), flat leaf parsley, a cos lettuce, a handsome swede (for Burns’ Night), two limes, one lemon, minimal packaging, and two bunches of scented cheerfulness. They look and smell gorgeous. Cheerfulness, a pound a bunch. That’s a bargain in my book.
Later in the year, there will be Cyprus potatoes with chunks of red earth still clinging to their skins, English asparagus for roasting, Scottish raspberries, nectarines… Long live the greengrocers!
a bulging fruit bowl
scented cheerfulness
a quick (late) sketch from the rear stalls
January 16, 2012
To a seat in the rear stalls at the Royal Festival Hall last night, for the T S Eliot Prize readings. This was the hot ticket on a very cold Sunday night. Nearly 2,000 in the audience. Eight shortlisted poets reading for 10 minutes each (give or take a rambling digression or two). Compered by the ever affable Ian McMillan. The stage bare apart from a lonely lectern and a discreet-ish promotional banner; centre back a large screen for the benefit of us punters squinting from the rear stalls. And in order of appearance:
Daljit Nagra – bouncy, boyish, infectious and inventive! I’ve read his collection Tippoo Sultan’s Incredible Man-Eating Tiger Toy-Machine!!! and it’s very good!!
Bernard O’Donoghue – the name was not unfamiliar but the poetry was. A touch of humour. Seemingly effortless but also moving. I like his themes – family, loss, exile. What lies beneath the ordinary. He ended with a finely judged elegy for a friend.
Esther Morgan – understated, cool poems. “It looks simple” one of her lines starts in the poem Grace, and these are poems (as all poems should be) to go back to, to mull over, to give them space to work on you.
David Harsent – mysterious, slightly withheld. Writing at the height of his powers, according to our compere. The last poem he read, Blood Alley, ‘about’ playing marbles as a child, and so much more; the twist of the last line sharp as a bully’s pinch.
[Interval. Scramble a plastic goblet of red wine. Exchange impressions with fellow poet Joolz Sparkes. Spot a few known culprits from the London poetry circuit.]
John Burnside - he’s funny, good at the banter between poems. And his poems aren’t bad either. In fact, I rather like them. Rich imagery, and beautiful precision. I close my eyes to listen better. He’s on my list.
Leontia Flynn – witty and self-deprecating and contemporary and engagingly discursive. After reading an extract from a long poem, she ended with an elegy for her father, who had Alzheimer’s. As she read the poem I realised I had read it before and been struck and moved by it.
Sean O’Brien – restrained anger, a powerful voice. And another elegy, this time for his mother (how many ways there are to be moved, how different and yet how close each individual’s loss).
And last but not least, Carol Ann Duffy – assured, razor-sharp, generous. Finishing with an elegy for her mother, Premonitions, and as she read this poem again it revealed itself to me as a poem I’d read and tucked away inside, the movement and feeling of the poem reverberating in me.
And the winner was announced tonight…
…John Burnside, in case you hadn’t heard.
pep talk
January 4, 2012
New year’s resolutions are so last year, don’t you think? Besides, I have a constant conversation with myself (mostly not out loud, but the occasional exhortation gets vocalised) about being more disciplined, focussing on what’s important, keeping the day job in perspective, not giving in to diversionary tendencies (that sounds like a political crime in some tinpot dictatorship), making time to write, and so on. I know exercise (walking, cycling, swimming) helps my mood and stimulates the creative juices. I can see there’s some value in the idea of ‘the power of positive thinking’, but I simply can’t be resolutely upbeat all the time. The motivational and self-help industry makes me queasy. So I’m left to my own resources and those private imprecations and the ongoing never-resolved tussle to carve out writing time from all the other pressures, pleasures and temptations of life in London in the twenty-first century. Phew. And when I do sit at my desk and ignore all the myriad distractions – as I managed to on several mornings over the festive season – and engage in writing – well, that is one of the best places to be in the world.
antithematic
December 27, 2011
As a writer, I’m allergic to themes. Or, perhaps more accurately, I have an intolerance of themes, rather than a full-blown allergy. I can see why magazine and anthology editors like themes – to give structure and shape, an overall coherence to the final selection. The theme may also help restrict the volume of submissions to a slightly more manageable level than it might otherwise be. Or it could be a themed writing competition, in support of a particular cause or to promote a sponsor. I realise the given theme is meant to be a starting point, a trigger to spark ideas in all sorts of directions, to be interpreted in any number of weird, whacky or wonderful ways. But, for me, too often, a theme leaves me cold. My writing muscles freeze, and I can’t get beyond the most obvious and literal images or thoughts prompted by ‘water’ or ‘chocolate’ or whatever the theme is. I’ve tried my darnedest in the past to write to a particular theme, but the resulting piece more often than not strikes me as weak or forced. On the whole, then, (oh, and I do love my qualifiers, which probably should be the subject of another post…), so, on the whole, if I come across a call for submissions on a certain theme, I’ll tend now to see if there’s an existing piece I’ve written that fits the criteria. That’s how my short story ‘Howard’s Journey’ found its home in the latest Duailty anthology, on the theme: ‘Home’.
Of course, more broadly, certain themes recur in my writing, sometimes despite myself: childhood, moments of departure, misfits looking in on life from the outside. A nonconformist streak, which no doubt also plays its part in my resistance to writing to a specific theme. Now, there must be a publication out there somewhere looking for obscure navel-gazing writerly reflections?
all quiet on the literary front
December 19, 2011
Not much writing going on, for various reasons (excuses?). I’m still adapting to (resisting) the full time work routine. And then, last week, there was my significant other’s significant birthday to celebrate. Cue: midweek break to Margate for bracing walks, sea air, magnificent skies and a visit to the new Turner Contemporary gallery – unprepossessing on the outside, but impressive inside. The current exhibition, Nothing in the World But Youth, is an eclectic survey of artists’ exploration of adolescence over the last century and a bit. Posters of gigs and rallies from the late 70s and early 80s; a montage of found footage from early rave clubs; The Smiths Meat is Murder album recreated from karaoke recordings of young fans from South East Asia; Glenn Brown‘s sculpted desk, Teen Age Riot, camouflaged in thickest cakings of oil paint (love that smell!); a strangely beautiful (beautifully strange?) short film, Lasso, by Salla Tykkä, with a knowingly manipulative soundtrack, which somehow captures, entirely without words, adolescent longing in all its absurdity and poignancy. Overall, a thought-provoking and moving exhibition. And not at all inappropriate for those of us who survived this turbulent phase of life a not insignificant number of years ago!
Now, here comes the winter solstice, some pagan festivities, and a few very welcome ‘grace days’ away from work. Time (I hope) to declutter the mind and put pen to paper. No pressure. No resolutions. Or so I wish…
from the steps of the Turner Contemporary, 14th December 2011
big paintings, small review
December 6, 2011
Well, hardly even a review. But I’ve been thinking about the Gerhard Richter retrospective, Panorama, on at Tate Modern at the moment. I’ve been twice now, and there is so much to see, and the work is so varied, which is one of the things I like about Richter. The same artist can produce bleak and troubling monochromatic paintings (for example, the 18. Oktober 1977 series), then wildly colourful abstracts, or a touching portrait of his daughter. He engages with difficult subjects (Germany’s Nazi past, the Baader-Meinhof gang etc), as well as ‘Questioning painting’ (Room 11 in the current show). But of all the work on display, I’m most taken by the six Cage paintings, hung in a room of their own, and separate from the main exhibition. If you can’t or don’t want to fork out to see the whole exhibition you can wander in to see these paintings without buying a ticket.
The 2006 series of canvases was painted while Richter was listening to the music of John Cage. The text on the gallery wall tells us that Richter is ‘drawn to Cage’s rejection of intuition as well as total randomness, planning his compositions through structures and chance procedures.’ The paintings are more muted – quieter – than a lot of Richter’s earlier abstracts. Layers of paint scraped and stripped back, like mottled streaks of glue and torn poster fragments. The palette all pale yellows, creamy greys, shots of verdigris. I’m reminded somehow of Cy Twombly‘s late paintings. And that wonderful word ekphrasis comes to mind. What’s missing, what I want to hear, is Cage’s music playing in the same room, to see, and feel, how the music and the paintings interact. Music begets Kunst; creativity begets creativity.
less is more, more or less
November 27, 2011
To Kings Place on Friday evening for a concert billed as 50 Years of Minimalism: Europeans & Experimentalists, featuring the sibling pianists Katia and Marielle Labèque, alongside musicians involved in Katia Labèque’s ‘contemporary rock band’. It turned out to be quite a varied programme, ranging from incredibly quiet and delicate pieces to the cacophonous. Now, there is a part of me that loves noise – whether it’s the industrial racket of early Einstürzende Neubauten, the shimmering crescendo of a thundersheet, or some other-worldly electronic fuzz; and I like the mild absurdity of an electric guitarist playing from a score on a music stand, while those audience members less enamoured of noise stick their fingers in their ears – but for me the highlight of Friday’s concert was the music of Howard Skempton. In the first half of the concert, Marielle played solo piano pieces from Skempton’s Images followed by Postlude – exquisite short pieces – the temptation is to call them fragments, but that makes them sound light and throwaway. They are small, perfect aural sculptures. In the second half, Matthew Barley performed Six Figures for solo cello, which I found intimate, beautiful and amazingly inventive. The Labèque sisters then joined Barley for a lively rendition of Skempton’s jaunty Resister, before the composer was beckoned up onto the stage for warm and well-deserved applause.
A special mention too for percussionist Raphaël Séguinier, who opened the evening with a mesmerising performance on solo gong (seriously!) of Postal Piece No. 10: Having Never Written a Note for Percussion by James Tenney, and later played Philip Glass‘s One Plus One (for ‘amplified table top’), drumming out the piece with his fingers on the closed lid of an upright piano. Both visually arresting and quite an ear-catcher. More minimalism, less contemporary rock, s’il vous plait.
