It's Politics, Stupid!

          The autumnal equinox is not usually on my radar but, this year, having been invited to join friends around a small bonfire they lit to mark the event, at last I felt some sense of the need thus to ritualise our connection to nature’s cycles. The fact that the night-sky was calm and the stars twinkled over the stilled waters of the estuary probably helped lull me into a fleetingly, semi-mystic state of awe from which I found myself questioning the temporal strivings of humanity. It was a fitting start to a week I had earmarked for taking a break from the relentless and depressing news of politics to turn my attention, instead, to art and jazz.

          It began with standing under a suspended, giant model of the sun – Luke Jerram’s Helios – that is being shown, with an accompanying and appropriately spooking soundtrack, at various National Trust venues. The potentially mesmerising effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that, it being a rainy Saturday morning, young families were there in great numbers. But for my self-imposed schedule, I would have gone at a less busy time, so I made the best of it and reminded myself that ‘art is for all’, not just the leisured class.

          Thence to London, where, if you can afford the price of entry, there are always exhibitions of interest. At the National Gallery, the show Radical Harmony examines the works of the Neo-Impressionist painters of the late 19^th century, as represented in the extensive collection of a wealthy industrial heiress. Whether you simply like to admire the paintings, or consider the artists’ different approaches to the same subjects, or get up close to the technique popularly known as pointillism, there is another, underlying theme, explained in the notes – radical politics. Many of the artists in this movement were supporters of the anarchist communist agenda that championed working people’s rights to dignity and rest and supported the ideals of harmony with nature and non-exploitative government.

          Next, to the Royal Academy and the exhibition titled The Histories, comprising works by the American artist, Kerry James Marshall, who is celebrated for his figurative paintings that “unapologetically” centre Black people. As the title implies, the artist digs into history for his subject matter and, in so doing, engages with the socio-political issues of the times. His images are strikingly colourful and overtly political, taking a bold, brash approach to messaging, unlike that of the pretty, pointillist face behind which the Neo-Impressionists hid their political activism.

          Then I went from the grandeur of the West End institutions to the tiny Estorick Collection of Italian art, in Canonbury Square. The permanent collection there is full of the work of artists who engaged, not only with modernism, but also the rise of fascism pre-WWII. Their involvement in politics seemed almost de riguer. And, in the temporary gallery space, there is an exhibition of work from the 60s and 70s by Ketty La Rocca, a “trailblazing figure of Italian conceptual and feminist art”. Her interrogation of consumer culture and gender dynamics later became an exploration of alternative forms of communication. It’s all quite complicated to explain. Better to go and have a look. But there’s an element of visual poetry in her later work.

          Then there was jazz. At the suggestion of my friend and fellow afficionado, we went to a performance by an outfit called Lucid Dreamers. If anything could be labelled ‘experimental’, this was it. Leaning on a vocal, poetic base and eschewing regular structures, the music could have descended into incoherent cacophony. Yet there was form and a sense of purpose. And, played with passion by seasoned, talented musicians the music took me to places of tenderness and excitement – as I’m sure was the intention.

          I didn’t detect any obvious political content in the music, but who knows what drives such artists? However, on the walk home, I passed a parked-up, beaten-up old VW van that sported a bumper-sticker proclaiming “Everything is politics!” I’m inclined to agree.

 

 

 

Dream On

          There was a piece in the paper that caught my attention, perhaps because, as I turned the pages, it was the first story not to be about the geopolitical nightmare that is the background to our lives and the daily, debilitating fodder of journalists, commentators and readers such as me. What attracted my eye was a photograph of the interior of “the world’s smallest theatre”, with its youthful, creative director standing there, radiating her pleasure, pride and optimism with a glorious, uninhibited smile.

          The theatre, which is in a former public toilet in Malvern, seats only twelve, so its financial viability must be a challenging prospect (you see what a pessimistic mindset I have been reduced to), but micro-theatre and micro-economics can be made to work, bringing sustenance and happiness to those involved. Not every venture has to be scaled up to succeed.

          The very next day, we saw theatre on the grandest scale, with Donald Trump featuring in a lavish production that, were it to be given a title, might be called The King and I – but for the small matter of copyright law. Insofar as we were not physically present at the show, what we actually saw was the equivalent of ‘the film version’. But that was the producers’ intention, it seems, as stage-management was of the essence in this case. We, the audience, had to be convinced – despite the shaky acting and implausible plot – that the story being told was leading us all to a happy ending. Dissenting voices must be kept away from the stage for fear of discrediting the fantasy.

          As this charade works its way to a flawed finale, what I see is a tale as old as humanity: two individuals, who have come into power by villainous methods (Trump by lying and inciting hatred, King Charles by inheriting unquestioningly the common wealth acquired forcibly by his ancestors), engaged in a tentative dance, choreographed to boost the power and prestige of the President on the one hand and limit the damage to the economy and independence of the UK on the other. The outcome has been predetermined. Since it is well known that the President is something of an Anglophile, an admirer of our monarchy and a sucker for flattery, the UK government has played the appropriate cards to best effect. New money meets old money and as is its wont, seeks its validation and approval.

          Some will argue that it’s as well we have a monarchical heritage resplendent with pageantry. “You see, it does have a role to play”, they say. But what if we had used the nation’s riches not to glorify an unelected family but to invest, instead, into a renewed common wealth? Would our national economy then be as impoverished as it is and as subservient to that of the USA?

          We peasants can be distracted easily from seeing the bigger picture: dangle baubles that are just beyond our reach, divert our attention from their power-grabs by creating enemies for us to hate – it’s a universally successful technique. All these ingredients are mixed into the script of the show currently playing. The Americans are offering to boost our economy by investing billions of dollars into our digital infrastructure (something we should have done ourselves), creating jobs for blue- and white-collar workers alike. But they will be calling the shots and the price we will pay is fealty to the economic and political values they preach and want us to espouse.

          And what of the existential problems of the world: eco-destruction and the wars driven by it and the naked greed of nationalism? These themes, apparently, have no place in their programme. I’m hopeful they will find a spiritual home, at least, in theatres where they do still dream – like the one in Malvern.

 

Two Stories

          A few weeks ago, Boston United went to Cornwall to play Truro City in the English National League, the fifth tier of English football. I only know this because certain relatives of mine, Lincolnshire born and bred, are avid supporters (or customers, in my admittedly cynical view) of Boston United – so much so, that they devoted the whole weekend and a considerable amount of their combined disposable income in travelling to Truro, via a stopover here in Plymouth, to watch ‘their’ team lose, 3 – 0.

          As I was recounting this sorry tale to a couple of friends a few days later, I became aware of a blank expression that betrayed a degree of incomprehension. “What?” I asked. It transpired that, despite being university-educated people, in their early fifties, born and brought up in England, they had no idea that Boston was anywhere but in the USA. I’m sure I sounded incredulous at having to explain that the American city is named after Lincolnshire’s Boston (which happens to be ten miles away from the original New York). They seemed bemused but not embarrassed. And I’m not convinced they believed me – or even cared that much.

          Nevertheless, I went on to explain that the nickname for Boston United is “The Pilgrims”, because the town was the port of departure, to America, for a group of Puritans fleeing persecution by the established church. However, their ship, the Mayflower, sprang a leak and made a pit-stop here in Plymouth before heading across the Atlantic. Now, I am aware that my enthusiasm for this line of coincidental dot-joining might not sustain the interest of an audience for long, so I left it there. I had another story to tell.

          The previous week, the campervan overheated while dawdling along in slow-moving traffic. A loud hissing noise and a cloud of steam emerged simultaneously from under the bonnet, so I pulled over to the side and stopped the engine. The breakdown service – who know us quite well – advised us to get out and find a safe place for the two-hour anticipated wait (it was a Sunday).

           Fortunately, we campervanners are well equipped for unforeseen circumstances. We unfolded two canvas chairs and placed them on the ‘safe’ side of the crash barrier, where we intended to have an improvised picnic. Just then, a black saloon pulled up behind us and disgorged two armed police officers, which caused us concern given our recent brushes with the law over protest demonstrations. Had the government’s measures to stifle us by introducing ever more draconian laws really come to this?

          But it seemed they were just passing and, it being a slow day for armed police action, used our plight as an excuse to stretch their legs. The friendlier of the two asked about our circumstances, put his head under the bonnet and identified the problem. I had failed to see it myself, but a hose had become detached from the bottom of the radiator. “I can get to that,” he said and, lying on his back, slid under the engine and came out with a rusted, broken circlip. “Have you got one of these?” he asked. “Yes”, I replied, offering an assortment from my toolbox.

          Mutual respect developed and was further enhanced when he realised that we were carrying enough water to top up the radiator. The officer, his gun still in his holster, slid back under the engine, reattached the hose, then topped up the coolant reservoir. “We’ll follow you for a while, make sure you’re OK,” he said and held out his hand to shake. I took it and was astonished at how limp it felt. Could it really handle a pistol?

          Well, I was glad not to have to put that to the test. I sensed that, perhaps, he was too.

Will the Past Ever Inform the Future?

          At this time of year, when summer is morphing into autumn, I like to observe the subtle progress of the seasons’ handover. The years have taught me what to look for and what to expect – which makes the changes wrought by pollution and the shift in our climate worrying, to say the least. Perhaps the coming generation will be less anxious about losing the past and more focused on forming the future.

          I’m thinking of two young men in particular. One is the child of friends, the other a great nephew. I’ve seen them only sporadically during their childhoods, but they have both now turned 18 and, coincidentally, I spent a little time with each of them last week. For these young men, the subtleties of seasonal change are secondary to what is happening in their lives: they are excited about starting at university. They will study subjects based on their aptitudes – the arts and geopolitics, respectively – though I hope they will one day conclude that nothing exists in isolation, not in the biosphere nor in the sphere of human affairs (neither of which is in good shape right now).

          I’ve remarked before about the strange phenomenon of three-a.m.-anxiety, whereby sleeplessness is exacerbated by fretting over small issues. These past few days, however, my three a.m. slot has been filled with doom and despair over the takeover of the world by just a few dictators, most of whom were invited to a self-congratulatory party in China this week, where they gloated over the quantity and quality of their host’s weaponry, while Trump sulked at home, where he has yet to graduate to full-on tyrant. I sense that his exclusion from the gang rankles.

          Morning dawns gloomily after a night of such preoccupations, but therapy is at hand in the form of distractions, i.e. enjoying what freedoms we still have – campervanning, for instance. The last outing – to Hartland, North Devon – proved to me, yet again, just how much there is still to explore on the relatively small island of Britain. The diversity of landscape and the legacy of our social history will keep me occupied (or distracted) for as long as I’m capable of pursuing them.

          The extraordinary geology of the coastline around Hartland Point has thrown up dramatic jagged, saw-tooth rock formations for the Atlantic to smash into and for ships to be wrecked upon. On a blustery day at Hartland Quay, the elemental power of nature inspires awe and is likely one reason why the Smugglers Inn, with its offer of comfortable refuge, has endured for the hundred years since trade (legal and illicit) shifted away from the sea and onto the roads and railways. Another is the rise of tourism, itself driven – as film buffs will know – by the fact that the location has been a favourite with film directors since 1950.

          The quay itself was a capitalist venture; infrastructure built for profit and financed privately. Once the business model failed, the quay was left to ruin. All that remains in the water now is a slipway constructed by latter-day enthusiasts. However, nearby, there’s a more enduring monument to a former way of life, Hartland Abbey (also a famous filming location). It survives because it has been a family home since 1539, when Henry VIII dissolved the Abbey and gave the estate to the Sergeant of his Hampton Court wine cellar. Monarchs, of course, only owned land because they had taken it by force in the first place, but this small detail has never troubled the beneficiaries of their ‘generosity’. So-called nobility apparently sees it as a hereditary right to own land and rent it back to those from whom it was taken.

          But don’t get me started. Having failed to rectify this historical injustice in my lifetime, I must hope that the next generation of idealistic, hope-filled youngsters will sort it all out – after they’ve paid back their student loans, of course.

  

Local Is Global

          By August last year, our freezer was crammed with stewed blackberries, but this year’s drought has caused my favourite hedgerow fruit to shrivel before it ripens. On the plus side, this leaves plenty of room for stewed apples, which is as well because a bumper crop is expected on account of the early warm and sunny conditions. We’ve already made a start, collecting windfalls from the orchards at Cothele last week, where we also enjoyed the peace of the gardens there, watching the dragonflies skim over the ornamental pond.

          Later, I took myself off for a couple of days, tootling solo down the coast towards Looe, a popular centre for holidaying families. Every little beach I passed along the way was busy and the term ‘Cornish Riviera’ came into its own. I found a pitch on one of the many campsites around Looe Bay, then walked the two miles into town. I had thought, perhaps, of spending the evening in one of the pubs that had live bands playing, but the reality of my situation did not match my fantasy. Being on my own among high-spirited groups of families and friends soon became uncomfortable, so I caught a bus back up the hill and retired with a book and a tot or two of single malt.

          Back in the mid-nineties, I acquired a map of Britain’s ancient monuments, a cartographical record of archaeological remains that we usually drive past obliviously. I put it to use the next day in seeking a more suitable spot for solitude. Conveniently, it showed I was near a neolithic stone circle on the edge of the village of Duloe, just four miles inland but a world away from busy, buzzing Looe. The circle is small (about 10m) but comprises large, white quartz stones, one of which weighs about twelve tons. I stood in the centre and tried a little mindfulness, imagining the lives of our ancestors. Here I was, immersing myself in quiet, rural surroundings, deflecting the buffeting winds of geopolitics that so distress our daily lives (whether or not we recognise their origin and direction of travel). Our ancestors surely had it tough, but geopolitics was not really a concern for them.

          People like to take a break from routines, get-away, go on a retreat, vacation, holiday, sabbatical – whatever they choose to call it. They are all a form of escape.  Usually, they go back to their regular life after the time allotted, only to find that the global forces that ultimately determine their lives are still grinding away. The question that haunts my otherwise shallow mind is what can we, as ordinary citizens, do to influence the destructive forces that control us? For example, last week the world’s nations convened to agree ways to limit pollution of our ecosystem by plastics. It was reported that the delegates were outnumbered by lobbyists from the plastics industry and it was no surprise that the nations who vetoed any meaningful action were those whose economies are based on petro-chemicals. What should concerned individuals do about stopping this self-harm? What can they do?

          Later, at Lanhydrock, a National Trust-owned estate, I waked down to a hidden vale within the grounds where there is a disused, open-air swimming pool. Built by Victorians in somewhat Spartan fashion, it is kept up as a mini nature reserve, though not many visitors make the effort to find it. So it was that I sat there for a while in the company of hundreds of dragonflies, some so bold as to hover right in front of my face, amazing me with their flying skills and sparkling colours. They seemed like creatures from a different planet, yet it is the same one as ours. The difference between our species is that they can’t influence what happens to it.