Even as an infant, I was aware of the condition that we now call FOMO. Our life on an RAF base in rural Lincolnshire, cosseted though it was, felt mostly like an existence waiting to begin. Perhaps that was a by-product of the pervading sense of purpose of our community, which was standing at the ready, Vulcan bombers poised, to do the bidding of the powers-that-be, who were located elsewhere – probably in a nuclear bunker near London, wherever that was. Well, wherever it was, that was where I wanted to be. The feeling has never left me. At the age of 20, I volunteered to spend a year working in Sudan, though the sense of adventure soon turned into a longing to return to England, where the sixties were swinging – without me! Nor was I tempted to emigrate to Australia, though some of my close friends had done so. When I went to visit them, I recall standing on a beach, gazing woefully at the horizon, knowing that whatever was happening in the world, it was happening thousands of miles away from that spot.
And so I felt quite content spending most of last week at St. Ives, on Carbis Bay, where the leaders of the G7 countries had congregated for their annual get-together. Not that I had been invited by the authorities – quite the opposite: road signs in the area advised would-be visitors to stay away. Nor was I exactly in the thick of it. But I did come across Biden’s motorcade blocking an entire street while the man himself attended a local church service. And I spotted Andrew Marr obliging a fan by posing with her for a selfie. No, I was there in what has become my usual capacity, an Extinction Rebellion (XR) camp-follower, providing back-up support for my more militant OH.
One observation I made was that, for a movement that disavows leaders and rejects hierarchical organisation, XR does put on quite a show. Perhaps a thousand people marched through St. Ives and, the following day, Falmouth, while other demonstrations popped up frequently and colourfully in the most prominent locations. The variety and novelty of these actions demonstrate the efficacy of XR’s policy of inclusiveness, which encourages imaginative forms of action from all types of people. A multitude of demonstrators provided a free, entertaining spectacle for holidaymakers, locals, the media and, one hopes, the G7 delegates, with their often-witty messages stressing the urgency of the need to act on climate change. There was one placard, however, that did not chime with the theme of concern for climate change: its main message, “Free Julian Assange” and a list of other, assorted causes, such as “USA out of Syria”, seemed of the kind with which a liberal might have some sympathy. But on enquiring of the bearer, I discovered that he was a ranting conspiracy-theorist who had nothing to offer in the way of constructive criticism. So, after a prolonged earful, I left him to it and went to seek solace in Barbara Hepworth’s delightful garden, so near yet so far from the geopolitical melee a few hundred metres away.
Whatever art is about, the contemplation of it is the important thing. Its effects can be soothing (as in this case) or otherwise, but it also has a sort of medicinal property that works well on persistent cases of FOMO. Once you appreciate the artist’s work, you become a part of their creativity, so you are where it’s happening. And where it’s happening is in the mind, not a place, remote or otherwise.
It was with this thought that I retired to the cute little bio-wine bar across the road from Hepworth’s studio and sipped a glass of Carignan while discussing with the proprietor his wonderfully sonorous, retro hi-fi system. Place does still count, after all.
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