Accessible Art

          On Christmas Eve, finding nothing pressing in my in-box, I took my litter-picking gear for a stroll to a place favoured by litterers, a short tunnel on what was once a branch railway, connecting a former goods marshalling yard (now the site of our abode) to the mainline depot, but is now a route for pedestrians and cyclists. The tunnel recently had a council upgrade – new lighting was installed and it was designated a ‘legal wall’ for street art, which seems to me a good idea but, as I was to discover, not everyone thinks so. Approaching the tunnel, I heard the distinctive rattle of a ball-bearing in an aerosol can and caught a whiff of solvent in the air. Then I saw an artist at work, perched atop a ladder and wearing a gas-mask.

          Who are the people that do this and why? What is it, anyway? Is it art? Is it graphics? Is it graffiti? And how much is the aerosol paint industry worth these days? These are some of the questions I could have asked the man on the ladder, but he was busily engrossed in his creation. Besides, I could have taken time to find out all this stuff years ago, but I guess I became so accustomed to seeing it that my curiosity waned. Still, he descended as I was passing, so we exchanged a few words. Seeing what I was up to, he commented on the amount of litter scattered around. I refrained diplomatically from pointing out that much of it comprised discarded aerosol cans and asked, instead, about his work, a somewhat hard-edged concoction of symbols resembling hieroglyphs on an orange background. He explained that, because he uses several colours, his approach is more sophisticated than that of some others. His brief explanation of the different styles on the wall taught me something of the hierarchy, in which ‘a tag’ – a stylised signature – is the most basic form, painted by ‘bombers’ whose mission is to spread their brand, especially in places they oughtn’t. Some of the more anarchically inclined bombers despise the concept of legal walls, so they sometimes deliberately spoil the art painted on them by others. That’s why he had brought a ladder, I suspect.

          A few days previously, I had been to see parts of the touring British Art Show 9 and I guess that’s what had piqued my interest in what contemporary artists have been getting up to lately. Some of what I saw grabbed my attention – Hardeep Pandhal’s two animations with hip-hop soundtracks, for example, a sharp, witty, multi-media comment on aspects of street life had me fixed to the spot for the duration. And a spoof “late show” TV piece featuring a very young and unfeasibly intellectual interviewer talking to Jorge Louis Borges, the deceased Argentinian writer, made me stop and think. Other stuff did not impress me, insofar as it appeared to require no skill in its execution – an assembly of industrial pipes laid on the floor, for example – or  made sense only after reading an explanation of the reason for its creation, like the video piece of some people talking randomly that turned out to be a dull, un-scientific exploration of the origins of language. Should I have tried harder to immerse myself in those experiences? Is it not the artist’s job to engage me?

          As a layman, I have no thoroughly informed opinion to offer, other than to say that, if our responses to art are subjective, we should expect no fixed rules as to its form or function. Basquiat supposedly said, “Art is how we decorate space; music is how we decorate time”, which seems to me a pretty non-judgemental attitude to what is a universal human urge to express ourselves, however good we might be at it.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

          As I was waiting outside the Barbican Theatre for my Other Half to turn up, a group of women spilled out of a car. One of them said, loudly, “I can’t believe it. I never get spots!” She said it again, perhaps to evoke a smidgeon of sympathy or to convince her incredulous audience. After giving it some thought, one of her companions enquired as to whether she had recently changed her diet. “No,” she replied, “but I’ve stopped smoking weed.” Intrigued by this apparent non-sequitur, I tried to remember if, when I laid off the weed forty-odd years ago, I too had broken out in spots. If I had, they were not sufficiently pustulent for me to have associated them consciously with weed withdrawal.

          Actually, the O.H. and I had no intention of going to the theatre – the promise of an “adult panto”    notwithstanding. We were going to the bar, to eat and have a drink before moving on elsewhere. The last time we’d looked in, it seemed like a welcome oasis of indie heaven that promised Thai food and live music in casually cool surroundings. This time, however, the place was heaving with festive theatre-goers, including the woman with the spots (I tried not to stare) and her mates. Is anywhere immune from Christmas madness? Certainly not the pub I had been to earlier for a quiet, solitary pint. Even as I supped, staff were setting things up for an influx that evening of a party of 35 policemen on their annual ‘do’. The run-up to Christmas has its own special energy, fuelled, it seems, by excited anticipation and frantic, deadline-beating activity. From late November on, I’ve noticed that any enquiry made to a service-provider has been parried with a ‘not-before-Christmas’ disclaimer, as if to say, “We’d prefer to have your business in January, actually.” Even those of us only marginally involved get drawn into the whirlwind unless we take steps – sometimes literally – to avoid the whole palaver.

          But even I, standing as I do at the “Bah! Humbug!” end of the Christmas-enthusiasm spectrum, will admit to a degree of heightened anticipation as the great day approaches. The symptoms have been recognisable for a week, coinciding with the onset of a cold snap that signals a certain change in the seasons and a reminder that the true origin of this time of feasting and celebration lies in the pagan tradition. Bring on the feasting and celebration, by all means (and I don’t mind if it happens more than once a year), but ease off on the commercialisation and eliminate entirely the Christian mythology and I will be on board. As things stand, the best part for me is the unusual pall of quiet inactivity that pervades the 25^th and 26^th days of December. The feeling that you’re not obliged to do anything except have a good time is so alien to the prevailing ‘protestant work ethic’ as to be worth celebrating in itself. It also reveals the true sense of the original word ‘holiday’, re-setting one’s perspective on the rest of life’s activities.

         We won’t be having the traditional meal on Christmas day. We’ll have something really tasty instead. And it certainly won’t be Thai cuisine, since I’ve tried it three times now and found it so disagreeable that I’ve applied the ‘three strikes and you’re out’ rule so as not to waste any more money on it. It seems that, no matter which item I choose from the menu, the overwhelming taste is of sugar and the predominant texture is sticky. Each time I leave the table, I have an urge to rinse my palate with beer. In fact, I reckon that if I were to eat Thai food for more than one consecutive meal, I too should break out in spots.

Down-in-the-Dumps?

          One morning, feeling low (diagnosis: down-in-the-dumps), I self-medicated. Taking advantage of the fine weather, I cycled the couple of miles to the old fishing docks, where there’s a good artisan bakery and decent coffee, then homeward, along the elevated seafront, where the views are magnificent. Getting out-and-about may not be the answer to everyone’s blues but, as a cure for the occasional bout of pessimistic introversion, it works for me.

          This week, I’ve been constantly high, out and about most of the time, driving hundreds of miles to attend a party and to visit friends and relatives en route, a trip that was all about affirming existing relationships and reminding oneself of life’s joyous aspects. The first stop was at the home of a friend I first met in Sudan where, under the aegis of Voluntary Service Overseas (VSO) and at the tender age of 21, I was engaged on what I believed to be the philanthropic cause of helping an ‘undeveloped’ nation to join the modern world. But, with the cynicism of age and experience, I now see it was more likely I had been duped into facilitating a government soft-power programme aimed at keeping a former colony close for geopolitical reasons. Life since has been a battle to resolve the naïve idealism of youth with the more nuanced realities of existence.

          The party, which happened the next day, was to celebrate a 70^th birthday so, as might be expected, it was populated by friends and acquaintances who, having long since gone their disparate ways, are seldom all together except on such occasions. That evening, I experienced “doesn’t time fly?” moments, where I felt regret that I had not been more present in the lives of so many people I know and like. But regret is countered by inevitability: beyond the exigencies of unavoidable circumstance, one makes one’s choices.

          The party invitation had stipulated that everyone wear a mask, which presented a minor challenge. To buy a mask would be to roll over in surrender to lazy consumerism. Furthermore, given the arty and creative nature of this particular crowd, a store-bought solution would be unlikely to attract more than polite admiration. An effort was called for and my Other Half rose to the challenge by conceiving and executing masks made of autumn leaves, plucked that morning from leafy suburban hedges. And so, we made our unapologetic entrance, garnering quite a few accolades and bestowing many in return.

          Masks can be intriguing. They can impart to the face of a well-known friend a nuance of expression that had not previously been apparent. But they can also be uncomfortable and inconvenient – as was discovered right away by the chap whose face was so encumbered by a long papier-mâché proboscis that he could not lift a glass to his lips – and, sooner or later, they inevitably slide to the top of the head, like unwanted sunglasses. We left ours on a sideboard for our hosts to add to the compost heap when clearing up.

          Back at home, though sated with external stimulation, I was now obliged to leave my armchair to attend a different sort of gathering; a presentation to the stakeholders of a community-building project that I have become involved with. There were no friends present, just strangers or, looked at another way, potential friends, in the spirit of which I instigated a few conversations. One such was with someone who, like me, had spent time in Ethiopia and had served with VSO in Sudan (albeit a decade after my time). Even the fact that we were both at the event was indicative that we might have yet more in common, though time will tell. Getting out-and-about sometimes requires an effort and doesn’t always get immediate payback. But I’d rather give it a go than sit at home waiting for something to happen.