Bad Reviews

One of the things I admire about these creative johnnies is their readiness to put themselves in the firing line as far as reviews are concerned. It’s one thing to have a feeling that perhaps the show wasn't quite as good as it might have been; it's quite to another to have an anonymous critic telling you that, and worse, in cold hard print. And you having to get back up on that unforgiving stage the next night.

One of the things that puzzles me about these reviewer types is why they bother to stick the knife in as deeply as they do, regardless of whether it's deserved. Well, that's not quite true. I know why they do it: they enjoy it. There are few activities that can be legally carried out on a typewriter, nowadays a word processor, quite as deeply satisfying as showing your superiority to those arrogant souls who think they have a right to get their stuff on/in stage/film/CD/print/canvas. And the more deeply inadequate you are, the greater the pleasure that comes from slagging somebody off. (I'm guessing a bit there, but I don't think I'm too wide of the mark.)

I was reminded of this yesterday when incorporating a chunk of an article on Alain de Botton into a segment of a workbook we'll be giving our students. I enjoy his work generally and particularly liked The Art of Travel which we'll be using as a Part 4 text for English A1. Mr Charlie Brooker (whoever he is) does not share these sentiments as he makes abundantly clear in a piece subtly entitled The Art of Drivel.

Now if you've bothered to pursue the link above what exactly do you think has motivated Mr Brooker? 1) A love of literature such that he wishes to uphold the highest standards possible against the rising tide of barbarism? 2) A debilitating sense of envy towards someone who's been very successful doing roughly the same thing (writing) as he does but doing it a lot better? I know what my answer is, and it's not number 1.

A Sense of Identity

Strongly recommended: Orhan Pamuk's The Black Book. I'm taking it slowly, as befits a Proustian (in the best sense) novel, and am now just over halfway, looking forward to the delights and, I'm guessing, surprises to come. It's something like, yet nothing like, Snow and I Am Red. But a word of warning. For those like Lear who but slenderly know themselves, and anyone going through an identity crisis, this is one (possibly) to avoid. I'm pretty much convinced by now that whatever 'I' I am is little more than a convenient fiction. Mind you for those of us who are not terribly impressed with ourselves this comes as a bit of a release - an idea that Pamuk, of course, does a good deal of justice to.

For insomniacs everywhere the chapter Can't You Sleep?, at the mid-point of the novel, will make particularly resonant reading.

Retrospective: A Sort Of Innocence

Thinking back to our first visit to Les Halles in December, and the purchase of those rather funky Fripp/Eno albums (also with one from Beyonce including a DVD that the girls wanted) put me in mind of another session of free music we enjoyed - this being in addition to the very fine busker in Montmartre whom I've mentioned in an earlier post. Just before we reached the shopping centre we were through an open square, La Place Des Innocents, and we chanced upon a very jolly gathering featuring a sort of competition between two bands playing some sort of ethnic, gypsy-sounding music. Whatever it was, it sounded great, from both bands.

A group of small school kids, by the looks of it out for the day with a couple of teachers, were circling a near-by fountain and dancing exuberantly as they went, to the extremely danceable music. One lady was winding through the crowd offering chocolates and bits of confectionery to all, especially the youngsters. At first I thought there would be some sort of charge involved for the grub, but, no, all this for free.

One thing about the French: they know how to enjoy life.

Retrospective: Snowbound

Why are the best moments the simplest?

After walking laughingly unsteadily through thick snow to a restaurant and snowball fighting on the way back, John and Jeanette saying The girls will remember this, always. And we all knew it was true.

And Mum's neighbour Barbara telling me about watching Fifi and Fafa from her window playing in the snow outside and how excited they were. It was lovely to see them. As if she were seeing something of her own childhood through the girls.

And Noi and the girls laughing excitedly at the hotel window as the snow fell outside, laughing at their own excitement and their own laughter, knowing what joy there was to come.

Retrospective: Spaced Out

Whilst in Paris I found myself taken aback at the range of music on offer in the shops, well, in one very large shop dealing with books, DVDs and CDs in Les Halles. They actually had a substantial selection of material from Soft Machine and King Crimson and solo efforts by various alumni (to give just one, telling, example of the delights on offer.) I was sorely tempted to buy far too much but manfully restricted myself to couple of Robert Fripp related CDs - one his most recent recording with his occasional partner in crime Brian Eno, The Equatorial Stars; the other a very tasty set of Soundscapes, or, in this case Churchscapes, At The End Of Time. (The Churchscapes bit arises from the fact the pieces are all taken from tours playing churches in England and Estonia.)

As is so often the case with this area of Fripp's work, it would be easy to dismiss the material as synthesisery noodling, good only for background. The way to prevent oneself reaching such a facile conclusion is to actually, actively, listen to what is on offer. Once you're drawn in it's not so easy to get out. But who would really want to leave?

The nearest equivalent in the Fripp canon to At The End Of Time, by the way, is A Blessing Of Tears, in itself a powerful recommendation. And the sleeve notes are wonderful. This is Fripp on playing in Estonia: What changed in Estonia? These spring to mind: The venues: sacred not secular. The audiences: willing to listen; able to listen. The culture: civilised, on human scale. As always, punchy and pithy in a prolix sort of manner. A bit like the music itself.

Retrospective: Art and Play

Of all the galleries we went in on our European venture it was the smallest, the Musee d'Art Naif Max Fourny in Montmartre, that afforded us the most sheer pleasure per square inch. We came upon it sort of by accident as we were going up the hill towards the church and decided to pop in for a bit of a break - a wise decision indeed. It seems the place specialises in brut (whatever that means) and naïve artworks by artists from around the world who are often self-taught. The work of a couple of such artists was on display in two delightful exhibitions, the creators in question being a chap called Chomo and a lady by the name of Marie Morel. Probably they're well-known in the art world, if not they certainly deserve to be, but I'd never heard of them before. So there was a huge element of exploration and discovery about the whole experience.

Chomo's work seemed to be based on recycling all sorts of rubbish. Some of it was quite nightmarish but in an oddly friendly manner. At times I'd look at a piece and think I could do that, and I could but not one tiny fraction as well. But the fact that I could think such a thing added to the enormous accessibility of it all. Mdm Morel's work was a bit more intimidating in its sheer excellence, but again was based on techniques that anyone could make a go of. She's got this thing of assembling big canvases, as it were, out of small, evenly sized units, squares or rectangles, each containing images - simple drawings, odd sentences, actual objects like twigs and feathers - relating to the theme in question. It was fascinating how your eye would begin with the big picture of the overall design, usually beautifully balanced in itself like gorgeous wallpaper, and then go down to the level of the individual, individualised panels.

There was a wonderful sense of playfulness in both exhibitions and that's always something to celebrate in art. (The girls loved it all, though I think Fafa found some of Chomo's work a bit scary.)

Retrospective: An Old Favourite

Slight error in yesterday's post: the Warhol fan is Fifi not Fafa. Our elder niece is showing distinct signs of developing a funky attitude to life as she enters her teens.

Before our December trip I think I would have probably denied having particular favourite artists myself or being any kind of fan of an individual painter, but our walk around Tate Britain, or the wing of it with all the Turners, reminded me that at one time, I think in my late teens, I developed a very soft spot indeed for the great Joseph Mallord William. That spot emerged softer than ever at the end of a wonderful couple of hours enjoying not just the paintings but a lovely room devoted to some of his drawings (with some of the original notebooks!) and the engravings made from them.

The extraordinary thing about a room full of Turners, at least in the clever way the Tate goes about displaying him, is that you are almost guaranteed at least one canvas that elicits a stupefied Waaahhh!!! as soon as your eyes touch it - or, rather, as soon as your eyes catch the blaze. Significantly in our choosing (the nieces, the missus and myself) of favourites it was telling how often all four of us plumped for the most abstract piece in each room. How did he manage to be so utterly modern and get away with it in early nineteenth century London of all places? I suppose it helped that he was so good at the photo-realism bit that his audience simply trusted him in his wilder flights.

Turner does that thing common to so many of the greatest artists in all fields: he educates his audience in the process of his development.

Retrospective: Looking At Art

What should you be doing in an art gallery, other than visiting the toilets, the bookshop and the little cafe (assuming it comes complete with these features)? I first started visiting galleries in my late teens and then, and ever since, I've never been entirely comfortable with my behaviour in these hallowed halls, never quite sure I'm doing the right thing, whatever that is. Now I'm old enough not to be all that bothered by the question (not having any great concern at all with right things as far as art is concerned), but visiting numerous galleries with Fifi and Fafa in hand did make me wonder ever so slightly if I were a good role model on their premises.

The problem is that as far as I can see there's just too much art to look at. This is true even of small galleries, but when it comes to places like the Louvre and Tate Modern the excess is so overwhelming that I find myself wondering whether I'm seriously expected to do anything close to justice to their contents. So what do you leave out? And what do you do regarding the stuff you are going to seriously look at? Give it one, two minutes? Stand up close? Pull back? Look at details?

What I have discovered recently is that I can absolutely lose myself in a painting or sculpture or even one of those installation thingies if I choose to. Choosing to depends on the piece in question having some kind of basic 'pull' for me. But if it has, and time is available, I can immerse myself for minutes at a time in a kind of meditative reverie. For some reason this gives me the feeling I am responding appropriately, but the process has little connection with any kind of intellectualised evaluation. In fact, it feels entirely and satisfyingly primitive. I suppose staring in this manner, which is what it amounts to, might make me appear formidably artistic, but equally I might just appear terribly short-sighted.

Another technique we adopted as a group - me, Noi and the kids - was to wander for a few minutes round a room and then vote for what we liked best. Childish, but it helped to focus the mind. The remarkable thing was how often two, three or four of us were in agreement and sort of knew which pieces the others would choose. It was also remarkable how often it was the more abstract 'modern' pieces which garnered the votes. I grew up at a time when 'ordinary' people still needed convincing that techniques other than basic realism were worthy of note (at least, that's what the papers said.) Yet the girls do not have the slightest difficulty in responding to 'puzzling' material. Fafa, for example, turned out to be an Andy Warhol fan. I don't recall them asking once what anything meant. Rather fortunate for me, as I don't think I'd have been able to answer.

Retrospective: Getting Serious

In our time in Paris and London we visited a fair number of art galleries. I found myself pondering therein on the intensely serious expressions worn by most of the coves being immortalised in the various works of art on display. This was especially true of those whose features were enshrined in marble - the fate of quite a number of French aristos and gentlemen. Now I know Art (with a capital A) is a serious and expensive business, particularly when it comes to the use of marble, and I suppose you'd want to enter eternity - or however long marble lasts - looking your best, but is that enough to explain the glum expressions on our chums?

I think not. The more miserable faces I encountered, the more the suspicion grew that these chaps looked so serious basically because they took themselves so seriously. Either that or they were also suffering bad cases of toothache. I'm no great art buff when it comes to the visual stuff but one of the saving graces of modern art (some of it, anyway) is that it can be quite funny.

There also seemed to be a lot of pictures involving severed heads in the Louvre (generally Biblical rather than in association with the guillotine.) Quite an odd subject for a painting when you think about it. Not the sort of thing you'd want on your dining room wall I'd have thought.

Irresolute, again

I had intended to start the year, 2010 not 1431, with a declaration of intention in the form of several resolutions. However, it has proved difficult to get on-line here on the hill and having forgone a posting for the first of the month I've decided to take this as a sign of sorts. Also someone plonked onto my desk at work a copy of an article making the not unreasonable case that resolutions are pointless as they don't work. This wasn't exactly news to me, and my resolutions have never been formulated with the vulgar notion of success in mind, but it, the perspicacious article, reinforced the sense of living in an age, well a month, of signs. So there are to be no such declarations.

But I found myself terribly impressed with the mission statement of the company Klutz, a subsidiary of the ever-worthy Scholastic Inc., and I can't resist quoting it here, not so much as a declaration of intent - or replacement for my own finely crafted mission - but simply as a reminder of possibilities. The statement reads: Create wonderful things. Be good. Have fun. I find it difficult to believe a committee might have come up with anything so elegant, sane and useful.

In case anyone is wondering where I came across the statement, it's on the inner jacket of the wonderful Drawing for the Artistically Undiscovered by Quentin Blake and John Cassidy. I treated myself to a copy from the bookshop of the Tate Modern, having offered to buy it for Fafa, who wasn't interested. It's aimed at eigh-year-olds and upward and since I'm definitely upward and artistically very much undiscovered, especially to myself, I thought I'd give it a go, a decision I have found no reason to regret.