Keep on Joining the Dots

On just my second day away from home last week, I was puzzled by the disappearance of my change of underwear. Certain that I had packed it, I made an extensive but fruitless search of the rooms, concluding that I must have inadvertently recycled it with the previous evening’s bottles – or something. Still, apart from a spot of unscheduled laundry and shopping, the loss did not disrupt my plans unduly.

I was keen to see the exhibition Charmed Lives in Greece at the British Museum so that I could ‘join up the dots’ that connect the writer Patrick Leigh Fermor with the artists John Craxton and Nikos Ghika. While in Athens a couple of years ago, I had been enchanted by Ghika’s town house – now a museum – that is full of art and memorabilia from post-war Greece. Fermor and Craxton featured among the exhibits but I did not then appreciate the extent of the connection between the three. My appetite having been whetted in Greece, this exhibition presented an opportunity to find out more. But I have a self-imposed limit when it comes to amassing information on any one subject, since my aspiration is not to become an amateur specialist in just a few fields, but to make connections with as many strands of history as I can. This is an ambition that can easily get out of hand though, since the scope is enormous. Sometimes, friends look nervous when I launch into a “Did you know?” – as in, for example, “that Maida Vale in London was named after the Sicilian village of Maida where, in 1806 General Stuart’s British force beat  the French? And there was, until recently, a pub called the Hero of Maida with Stuart’s portrait on the sign?” (I am reading a history of Sicily because I plan to go there soon.)

Sometimes, however, it is refreshing to know nothing. When, days later, I went for the first time to the Hertfordshire town of Ware (for a family birthday celebration) nothing connected it to anything I knew – although its name always reminded me of a childhood sweetheart called Christine Ware. Arriving early, I poked my nose into the town’s museum, where civic pride in its history as “one of the oldest, continuously occupied sites in Europe” was evident. As I scanned the captions, I half hoped to see a mention of the Ware family but there was nothing. The only connection – and a tenuous one at that – is the Roman road, Ermine Street, which runs through Ware and up to Lincolnshire, where my courtship of Christine was conducted on the playground swings of our innocence.

The acquisition of facts in this age of information is easy. So easy, in fact, that the quantity we can amass threatens to outstrip our ability to process it. How much capacity do our brains have? Until recently, it was supposed that older people’s brains were unable to create new cells. Latest research, however, indicates that this is not necessarily so, as long as the person is fit and healthy in mind and body. Despite this, we all have limited life spans and are unlikely ever to match, say, Facebook algorithms’ ability to make zillions of connections between zillions of scraps of knowledge. Not that FB’s conclusions can be relied upon: there is no way, for example, that I can be persuaded to pay £70 for a pair of poncey slippers. On the other hand, there is a possibility that it could put me back in touch with Christine.

But that is mere fantasy. What I really want is for my brain to continue making new cells, especially since, when I got home yesterday, I found that my underwear had never left its drawer.

Look Back in Moderation

“When you re-read a classic, you do not see more in the book than you did before; you see more in yourself than there was before.” The editor and critic Clifton Fadiman wrote these words and, when I contemplate them, I am inclined to agree. However, there are so many classics out there that there arises a question of practicality. Who has the time for re-reading? It takes me seven days just to get through the weekend’s newspapers – and I don’t even glance at the sports sections. Perhaps I could streamline the process by limiting consumption of Brexit-related articles and developing a speed-reading technique but, even so, War and Peace would still be years away from a re-read. (In fact, it is so long since the first read, I can barely recall whether it merits a re-read). Moreover, if you apply the principle of re-visiting classics not only to books but also to other creative works – films, paintings, plays, operas and all kinds of music, the pressure on one’s time is compounded.

To a limited extent, you can save time by listening to recordings. Audio books, poems, plays and music may be appreciated while driving or doing the ironing: effective time-management for the consumption of culture. The same does not apply, however, for films and art exhibitions. Arguably, you can watch a film while ironing, though the dangers are apparent: you may miss a crucial shot while perfecting a trouser-crease and/or catch an exquisitely framed sequence while scorching a favourite garment. I have never yet seen anyone ironing in an art gallery, though I did once watch a lady ironing on Trafalgar Square’s “fourth plinth” as part of a public-participation-in-art event.

Moreover, shortage of time compounds even further if you consume music accompanied by video footage. The simultaneous engagement of ears and eyes excludes listening as an accompaniment to practical tasks. In extreme circumstances, you could be fully occupied watching YouTube for the rest of your life. I have developed something of a penchant myself, while finishing the last of the evening’s tipple, for trawling YouTube for classics such as Joni Mitchell performing Both Sides Now, only to find that an hour has slipped away in the pursuit of inferior cover versions subsequently suggested to me by the smart-arse algorithm. Let’s face it: there has to be a limit on the amount of time one spends re-visiting the classics. Apart from time being precious, there is another, important consideration: how do you keep abreast of the classics that are currently being produced if you are forever harking back to golden oldies?

Besides, what actually constitutes a classic? I suppose that the likes of Clifton Fadiman would be qualified to compile a scholarly list but, when it comes down to it, one has to choose for oneself. A lot depends on the impression the work makes in the first instance. Yesterday, I went to see the 1958 film Look Back in Anger. It wasn’t a re-visit – I had never seen it – but I had seen the famous play on which it was based and, more significantly, I had acted one of the parts in an am-dram production. The work qualifies, therefore, as a classic on my list.

I should explain that my acting career was very short – lasting only one term of my fresher year at university – and that I was cast as Cliff, the genial one, not Jimmy, the angry one. At the time, I did not understand why Jimmy was so unreasonably angry – after all, he had the girl, didn’t he? But what I didn’t know back then was that not everyone has had a happy, contented childhood and, consequently, little reason to be angry.

The Return of Medieval

Walking to the station one afternoon, I passed the office block where, on the pavement, sheltering under an overhang, a man had been living in a tent for several weeks. Now, however, he was striking camp. The street-team had thrown his tent on to a refuse lorry and were scrubbing the pitch clean. Meanwhile, he was being led away by a police woman and several social workers (as I assumed them to be). Further on, I passed other street-dwellers, all in their usual places and untroubled by eviction – perhaps because they inhabit sleeping bags and are therefore not in contravention of town-planning byelaws applicable to tents. Dealing with homeless people is, I am sure, complex – as are the circumstances of their plight.

I was on my way to York to attend a friend’s* book launch and, while there, take in some of the tourist attractions. It was my first time in York, yet I was not surprised to find the same degree of vagrancy on the short walk from station to centre as there exists in other cities. One law of economics is universal: if you are begging, then you must site yourself in the midst of the maximum number of potential donors, especially nowadays, in the light of at least three developments. The first is that fewer people carry cash in their pockets; the second is that people are experiencing compassion fatigue; the third is that donors are increasingly persuaded by the argument that giving money to individuals merely buys their next drug fix, whereas funding registered charities is more likely to help in their rehabilitation. This latter I subscribe to, though I am convinced that vagrancy can only be eradicated by re-balancing our socio-political system. I am working on that.

The day after the launch party, I took a walk along the city wall to get a feel for the antiquity of York. I also visited some ancient buildings, among them the small church of All Saints, where the medieval stained glass windows are not only remarkable but also very accessible, being at shoulder-height. One of them, (pictured) from 1410, depicts a man in ‘eyewear’ that might be fashionable in hipster circles today. But it was the Merchant Adventurers’ Hall that really interested me because of its continuity (it is still owned and used by the society that founded it in 1357) and the fact that part of its original function was to provide respite for the destitute at a time when government was not concerned with such issues. There is much more to see in York, of course, but I ran out of time.

Back at Manchester Piccadilly, I encountered a scruffy-looking man dragging a reluctant creature on a leash. “Is that a ferret?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied but, as he was about to warm to conversation, I caught a whiff of a pungent odour which deterred me from getting closer. In fact, it put me in mind of medieval hygiene. I left him and his pet – which was struggling to propel itself along the slippery tiles. Although the smell of ferrets can be very unpleasant, there are ways of minimising it. This man evidently had made no effort to do so. In fact, he had even acquired it himself. Outside the station, the street-dwelling vagrants awaited and, swathed as they are in grubby blankets and sleeping bags, they added to my impression that I had slipped into a medieval time warp. Overall, I am sure that the human condition has improved with the progress of civilisation, though by Samuel Johnson’s measure – “A decent provision for the poor is the true test of civilisation” – that progress has surely stalled in recent years.

* Robert Powell

  

Knock Knock. Who'sThere?

What an enigma is Russia! Despite a political history that appears to have been characterised by brutal repression, corruption and militarism it has been – and still is – a breeding ground of massive talents in the arts, literature, music, philosophy and science. How can that be? And how is one supposed to come up with a popular characterisation of your stereotypical Russian? Are they cultured sophisticates who have shaped Western European arts and sciences? Are they vodka-swilling brutes, lost in a sea of nostalgic yearning for the Soviet era? Are they oppressed victims of a succession of callous political systems, inured to hardship, imbued with cynicism and devoid of hope? The fact that stereotyping the people of a nation is a lazy route to superficiality has never prevented us doing so, but with Russians, it seems particularly tricky. I know only one Russian personally – a young academic who has a winning smile, a sense of humour and a love of classical music. She has lived and worked in England long enough to be comfortable with both the language and the people – so much so that, when I told her she didn’t seem very Russian, she replied in an accent chillingly reminiscent of that Cold War character Olga, the nasty piece of work in From Russia with Love, “I can do if you want.” Therefore, based on my sample of one, I conclude that Russians are not easy to characterise.

Nevertheless, Putin’s henchmen are doing quite a good job of reinforcing the “nasty” image just now, sending heavies over here to bump off their surplus-to-requirements citizens, then claiming it has nothing to do with them. (Their assertion that the British Secret Service is to blame might just wash in a ‘spy-counter-spy’ scenario but having just witnessed Putin’s pretence of a democratic election, it is more likely that his regime blames the West in order to bolster its ‘strong leadership’ credentials at home.) Whilst it may be beneficial to London’s economy to have Russian oligarchs spending loads of money in the retail sector and lining the pockets of British lawyers with their endless ownership squabbles, we really must insist that they moderate their gangsterish tendencies, at least while guests in our relatively law-abiding country.

The question is how can we insist? Fighting talk of Britain “punching above its weight” is jingoistic, nostalgic nonsense. We moved into the lightweight category soon after WWII, where we have languished – resentfully – ever since. When faced with a powerful adversary, it is useful to cultivate powerful allies – regardless of their moral credentials – and it is with this pragmatic approach that British politics proceeds. Of course, diplomacy is always to be preferred to conflict but in this instance, diplomacy has hit a couple of obstacles. One is Russian insistence that the West is out to do them down. The other is Boris Johnson. Notwithstanding there has been a tit-for-tat expulsion of diplomats, this has achieved nothing so it may be time to adopt subtler tactics such as, for example, those employed in the latest spat between India and Pakistan.

The Indian deputy high commissioner in Islamabad recently complained that he was awoken at 03.00 when someone rang his doorbell and ran off. He insisted it was Pakistan security agents. A few days later, the Pakistani deputy high commissioner in New Delhi was awoken at 03.00 by an identical doorbell-ring-and-run incident. It was, he claimed, an act of retaliation. Now, this kind of low-level tit-for-tat diplomatic activity has its advantages. For one, it is a lot cheaper than expulsions, though just as effective. For another, it is well within the capabilities of Boris, a man well qualified to be leader of a doorbell-ring-and-run gang: we may be confident that he has at least some understanding of what the job entails. Furthermore, the Russians will be extremely annoyed, as it is well known they have no sense of humour.

Only Nine Months to Go!

The end of the world is nigh again. I saw the notification, outside Pret a Manger, by Victoria Station, written in black felt-tip on two sheets of cardboard propped against a wall. The sentences were ungrammatical, written more like a mood-poem with words like Lord Jesus, final judgement, angels, fire, destroy, etc. However, it conveyed its message effectively and was unequivocal about the date: December 2018. The presumed author and wild-haired prophet of doom sat at a nearby pavement table, a camouflage-print survivalist rucksack and a freebie golfing umbrella at his feet. He was nursing a Pret beverage and studying a copy of the Metro. Just why he would bother reading about news and current affairs is a mystery, considering that soon they will cease to be. I watched him through the window while I sipped my coffee. Was he was taking a well-earned break from proselytising, or just idly passing the time ‘til December? Whichever, he was making very little impact on his target audience. One person did stop to read the notices, a middle-aged woman carrying shopping bags, but then she glanced disdainfully at the off-duty prophet and plodded on, shaking her head.

I certainly hope the world will not end that soon – there is so much I would like to do that I can’t fit it all into the next nine months – but if it does, it will certainly not be the work of an avenging god and his cohorts of angels. If there were a god, why would he go to all the trouble of creating disobedient humans only to destroy them when they proved to be disobedient? In any case, would he do it just before his son’s birthday? I don’t think so. More likely, if the end comes at all, it will be because of the falling-out of two pumped-up egotists with eccentric hairstyles and itchy trigger-fingers. Still, it got me thinking that I should draw up a list of priorities to allow for life’s shorter-than-expected span. I could make a start by getting up earlier, then eliminating every moment of downtime from my daily schedule e.g. staring into space or watching property-porn on TV. Then I could pick off other pointless activities, such as going to the gym: fitness will not be advantageous in the event of one’s imminent and inevitable demise.

I finished my coffee and, with a renewed sense of urgency, went to catch my train for Margate, one of the places I have been curious to visit – but only since it got its new art gallery, the Turner Contemporary. Margate is one of many seaside resorts that lost its appeal when holidays in Spain became popular. The town’s investment in a ‘destination’ gallery aims to compensate for that loss of trade. I certainly hope it works although, like the Council’s other major developments in recent times – the civic centre, the tower of flats, the shopping centre – it is an ugly brute of a building in a very prominent position. The magic only happens when you step inside: the windows face the sea, so that the marring of Margate, be it new and overbearing or old and decaying, is not visible. Looking out to the sea and sky, it is possible to imagine a positive future for the children busy in the bright studios and workshops.

The main exhibition, currently, is themed to connect with T. S. Eliot’s poem The Waste Land. He worked on his creation while in the town, recuperating from a nervous disorder. In 1921, he sat in the ornate Edwardian shelter overlooking Nayland Rocks and wrote “On Margate Sands / I can connect / Nothing with nothing.” A bit like the Council, I thought, as I looked up at the wall of the adjacent bunker-like public toilets, where they had tacked the blue plaque commemorating the poet. How much more ugliness could they conceive in nine months?