RUNNING COSTS

Fractured or Mending.... The Dissolution of the Certainties

2011-01-26T04:39:00.000-08:00

My father was a deeply committed Christian. He believed. He knew things. He was certain.
I am not. I do not believe. Or rather, I don't think I believe. In fact the process of thinking is a large part of the problem. It is about the concept of Faith. It is about the conviction that there is only one solution. It is about the arrogance inherent in the absolute confidence that one version is real, true, genuine (depending on evangelical muscularity) and the other is illusion, false, fake.
What at one time was called heresy before the ideals of freedom of speech or religion were discovered.

The problem is - I read books. In the process of reading I enter the narrative metaphorically. I interact imaginatively with the characters. I become involved. When I think about the book and any meanings which it may carry, even accidentally, I interpret that message. I make my own decision. In fact this is the best reason to read the book rather than watching the film. For the act of reading a book - substitute the problems of living in this modern world - participating by speech and thought and word. The modern human being is being encouraged to think for himself (up to a point). One is presented with a multiplicity of interpretations of every shade of opinion. Opinion makers varying from tabloid to television, from grapevine to graffiti, from fiction to fact, and between ideology and insinuation and information lies (possibly) the mystical new grail of the truth.

But perhaps therein lies the fundamental difficulty in decision-making. There may be more than one truth. There may be many truths. There may indeed be more than seven types of ambiguity. There may even be a single valid interpretation for each single individual. When societies were united, whether by Church or by State, by celebration or crisis, the consensual perspective seemed to be accepted (particularly from the historical viewpoint). When Henry VIII altered the goalposts he burned the conscientious objectors. When war is declared aliens are interned. The Roman legionaries on Anglesey probably exchanged few philosophical pleasantries with the Druids. History traditionally records very few dissident voices. The modern age is however steeped in dissidence. The chattering classes witter and wail and write. The media manipulate and the press pontificate. Outsiders abound even in the midst of organisations devoted to the Status Quo and they all have voices. And there ultimately is the individual, whistling to himself and playing pick 'n mix with the meaning(s) of life, the universe and everything.

He/She is now alone. Not the fearsome cold of an existential isolation but the crowded, conflicting, cacophony of a children's playground. The decisions the person has to make start with either detaching or participating from their allotted space. In other words whether to belong to a gang or not. And most importantly the question of how that gang and its members behave in its interactions with the surrounding world. I think I want to be in a gang of one. I want to be able to interpret the world through my own lens and to learn to live with this fractured image of uncertainity and relativity. This is the tolerant approach that democracy hints at, but is afraid of. This is a methodology that can make and mend the status of the individual, it will reduce the organisation of religion, education, politics, communication and employment to also-rans in competion with each other, reducing them simply to human interest stories that carry no heavier threat than choice, chance and catharsis can deliver. I would like the world to think for itself but to accept that no one perspective is absolute truth in any field of endeavour or sphere of influence. I would like the world to read the millions of narratives it constructs and to share them. I would like my late father to understand that he did, in fact, help to teach me this.

Creativitality

2010-12-03T07:01:00.000-08:00

Lanyon Quoit (Cornwall)

Should I draw ? Should I paint ? Should I write ? Should I do what I do best ? How can I make time for these activities or any combination thereof ? What happens in the arena when I am disappointed in my performance ? Is it okay to surrender ? Who makes the rules up ? Why do I have to follow them ?

I suspect Artists might be a somewhat selfish breed.
I do what I want to. I do what I enjoy. I try not to be motivated by guilt, by the feeling that I should or must or need to do anything. This is a suggestion that hidden in the perfidy that is procrastination there might be a hidden seam of gold. In my case yesterday if the BBC 4 documentary "The Art of Cornwall" lured me away from my metaphorical easel - so be it.

All these creative activities I feel are intertwined. After all they do originate from that same dark cave - somewhere in my seething little cerebrum. The ways that they are linked is the interesting concept in a world rapidly becoming networked up to its armpits. I read a letter from Robert Genn and it leads me to a writer (shamefully) I've never heard of, and I search the writer out and the work reminds me of another writer. That is ; in Mr Genn's contemplation concerning the artistic banishment of the blues a quotation by the writer Annie Dillard : “You need a room with no view so memory can meet imagination in the dark.” strikes a resonant chord. I am reminded of Virginia Woolf's "A Room of One's Own" in which the necessities for artistic creativity are mused upon. Reading that online leads me somehow to the other side of the equation. The sacrifices that an artist makes in the production of his work. Family dynamics and obsessional drive somehow point me to the portraiture of Lucian Freud and from there to the Paint as Flesh connection with Jenny Saville. The fizzing of these ideas keeps me awake until six am in the morning (luckily accompanied by a very fine England cricket display down under).

The point is that this movement between word and image, between the historic and the contemporary, between the deliberate and the random is itself a creative imperative. It is a journey that in itself is enjoyable and in its documentation can lead down assorted different and diverse directions. If that journey in turn creates something new and you enjoy that creation that is all the motivation and validation that is required.

How Exley Avenue Lost a Mural and....

2010-08-03T11:06:00.000-07:00

What could have been.....

At the end of the cul de sac on which I live is a large and extremely boring grey concrete wall. It measures approximately 30 feet tall and 60 feet across. A while ago a few of us inhabitants on the avenue decided that it would be an ideal site for some kind of beautification. No firm ideas : just vague hopes. Interested parties were consulted and meetings were announced. Some people were enthusiastic and motivated and attended. Many were apathetic and did not. Any prospective art work would need, we realised 100 per cent approval and tolerance as the work transformed the wall. To cut a long story short it never got off the metaphorical ground. Hostility was muted and polite but nevertheless it was enough to spoil the party.

At one meeting several books of art graffitti were produced to show more extreme forms of wall-covering. "Graffitti" or even nowadays "Street Art" are not however terms to make the more conservative brethren amongst the avenue forget property values or automatically embrace a culture of artistic adventure. Whereas Ben Eine or Banksy or Roadsworth have achieved acceptance within areas of the art world outside the north of England critical acclaim would not necessarily be bestowed on them by the folks of Exley Avenue. They could, of course, really like concrete. Or really distrust Artists.

Of course I had a plan. I always have at least one plan. I wanted to create a Trompe L'Oeil effect. I wanted to make the cul de sac into a road. To fade the grey tarmac into moss, grasses, undergrowth and a path seen through to a country trackway. To change the Urban of the real into the Rural of the imagination. To have the trees in the distance fading into greyness, their boughs interlocking to encourage that sense that here, there, was the road not travelled.

If I had to demonstrate the beauty of this type of art I would recommend not the art versions of shock and awe, the patron saints of taggers but the narrative illusionism of John Pugh and I am not for a second suggesting I could create anything as fine as his masterpieces. The idea however still exists and now it is documented in cyberspace. The question becomes: How to persuade people to decide on Art in their environment rather than the merely utilitarian. I even made the point that if it was unsightly or somehow offensive a decent coat or two of battleship grey would assuredly bring back the beauty of the concrete wall. It is possible to live with the wall as it is but it is not strictly necessary that it always stays the same. A future artist is equally entitled to suggest his cunning plan and put that to the vote. Even if that obliterates my work. The point is that if Pope Julius II had decided to go with the flock wallpaper and said no to Michelangelo then the Sistine Chapel might also now be a road not travelled, an artwork that exists only in the mind of its potential creator.

Perhaps, in the middle of the night, with a stencil and an aerosol I could make a start....

Show your working out.....

2010-07-15T05:59:00.000-07:00

They used to say, back in the days of Oxford & Cambridge Examining Board GCE Mathematics (1973) that the student should always show his working out. To demonstrate that he knows NOT just the answer but HOW to arrive at it. Strangely enough I suspect the same concept might and should apply to drawing and to painting, perhaps to all Art with a capital "A". I have always (and mistakenly) treated my sketchbooks as the repository for artistic greatness. In this I will keep all of my DaVinciesque studies. A masterpiece on every page. I start with perhaps 80 pages and, in turn, each drawing goes either "a little bit wrong" or "I'm not happy with that section" or "Just crap from the start". Tidy boy, neat boy, Perfectionist (?) boy. So I tear the page out. When the sketchbook is finally the size of a handout leaflet I discard it or hide it or conveniently forget about it.

Why am I so hard on myself ? Why do I never finish a drawing ? Now and only now finally, I realise in ART it is the working out that matters. The process of drawing. The rough sketched outline is fine. As the shape is described by the objects around it the lines firm up. The various lightly adminstered pencil strokes show where the hard line actually IS. Perhaps only for that split second before the light changes or your daughter knocks over the still life so carefully assembled on the table. But it was and is right. And then finally, you realise what does it matter ; because the NEXT drawing will be even better. As I draw, as I paint, the process becomes more familiar and comfortable and you realise you are AN ARTIST. Or perhaps somebody tells you and then, for no apparent reason, you suddenly believe them. To recapture that feeling, that worrying but exciting stress that you find in struggling determinedly to work something out, you, the artist, know that you will need to attempt working in a different manner, new, or a different medium or stand still. Repeat the same style. However I want to progress my work towards ......what..... and that is the final question. Why do artists do art ?

It is not like in the maths exam where the correct answer achieves the reward. For the artist it seems that it is the process that inspires us. It cannot be for riches or fame (although some artists do manage this). It can't be for the sociable comradeship unless you can share an easel. It is for yourself. A selfish reason : and of course, others may also like your work and that may validate the artist's existence. I paint primarily so that I can be somebody else. When I work with my sketchbook now, I am seeing the world in a far more detailed and interesting way than when I was younger. I am going to fill sketchbooks with my own perspectives on that world. I want to look. I want to be free to view the world sideways in my own way. The artist feels he has a vision and he is fighting to put it on paper, or canvas, or board. To sculpt that vision, to capture it in his viewfinder. I believe in making a mark and drawing in deep breaths.

Note : Due to (at least) two years of cheating in Maths I was put into the top set. Where being a genius I was supposed to take the exam early and pass and go on to Advanced Mathematics. I (of course) failed. Then failed the re-take. I passed it (scraped through Grade 6) the next year from the bottom set. I never showed my working-out because there was none.
Post Note : I now have a calculator,

How to index your life...

2010-07-08T08:47:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time it was a running log. Then over a period of that same time it became a journal. And now it has gone online but only inasfar as it is then printed off. It remains a book. Solid, paper, tactile, humane. It contains quotations, postcards, ideas and random thoughts. It aims to be a resource and an ally, a confidante and a vent, a repository and a to-do list. The question is "How to index it ?"

At present I rely on my memory to avoid repeating myself. Words that I stumble across which make me stop and think are written down but how long is it before that same word again strikes me as fascinating (again) and I repeat the process ? In other words "What is the attention span of this journaller ?" Similarly in wanting to connect keywords and ideas together beyond the linearity of a narrative - of what comes next - I want to create a more flexible circling index. I want to show what references Joyce's Ulysses with Marilyn Monroe, to Norman Mailer, to Jerry Siegel ; and whether such a transition is found only in my own personal cerebellum and whether the journey is worth the price of a ticket. I want to find the entrance into my own head and navigate its tunnels, galleries and balconies. I want to examine it's architecture, it's archaeology and it's history and along the way to contemplate other writers, thinkers and artists who have made the same journey in their own fields and in their own idiosyncratic styles.

My journal aims to be a road map, and a commonplace book, an anthology and an art gallery, an abbreviated encyclopedia and a frustrated dictionary. It wants to be everything and nothing. It wants to answer questions and question answers. It wants more than an audience of one but it wants to to remain private. It wants to be famous and anonymous. I want it to say who I am and who I am not. I want it to say what I like and what I don't like. I want it to tell one truth but also to show the other millions of truths that exist out there. It aims to be "The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady" without being a diary, rural, female, or Edwardian. It is "The [ ][ ] of a(n) [ ][ ]". It aims to be open to the reader, provocative to the browser and to be everything for the writer. It aims to be the wor(l)d. Last. Mine.

Abstract Paintings Are Go

2010-05-04T03:38:00.000-07:00

I am beginning to work on a new area for me. I have finished two abstract "paintings". I still haven't managed to use any colour but a style is appearing. It demonstrates perfectly the anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive side of my creative mind. Ideas are beginning to flicker through my mind constantly : being changed, adapted and mutating. However, alongside this, so are critical musings on the work. Why does this occur ? What makes me question why I do something instead of just doing it ? Is this my inner critic justifying the artwork ? Is it my psyche feeling threatened and therefore defensively pre-empting the world-wide discussions of the pieces ? When I collect enough work will I have to build the gallery, design the catalogue, pour the wine or will I settle for simply being a library assistant with a black pen.

At school in my art classes the focus was always on the figurative approach with the hyper-realism of an almost photographic perspective towards creativity. This was, I now recognise, because essentially we were aimed at passing particular examinations. It was not Art intended as a career and definitely not as a life-enhancing aspect of everyday existence. Even the careers which I was directed towards, and advice was sketchy to say the least, took more notice of salary than satisfaction and left the arts and humanities students to either teach or be taught forever.

I have repeatedly tried to do portraits and landscapes never finding the results to be either what I expected, or of sufficient quality to even merit keeping. There was always the nagging thought that a camera could do the job far better. So, at what point did my attitude to Art and Creativity begin to mellow ? From where did my symbolic muse suddenly appear ? That quiet little voice that persuades me I am on the right lines is also the voice that reassures me that even if nobody else ever views the art I know it is developing. I visualise a strange hybrid art form - part book part painting - born out of Blake and the illuminated manuscript and infected by Rothko and the Letraset catalogue. It will try to link the literature I love and admire with the art that inspires me - It will play games - sporting with the obscurity and the complexity of a Joycean narrative with the Northern philosophies of Roy Clarke and the late lamented Alan Plater. Like Joseph Cornell's boxes it will include the whole world of one man's interests and hopefully be of interest to more than that same one man.

R. I. P. RBP

2010-03-24T08:34:00.000-07:00

Robert B. Parker.
Born September 17th 1932 Springfield, Massachusetts
Died January 18th 2010

I have grown up with Spenser. I remember the power of the early works. I delight in the wit and humour and intellectual rigour of the later books. I relished everything about the books. Even as the critics levelled their charges I bought and read and kept the books. To me Parker's creation of Spenser and the characters around him carried an intense meaning that sums up how I interact with literature and life on all levels. I would sit with Spenser at his desk, with a glass of Irish whiskey looking out of the window. I remember Paul Giacomin, the boy who shrugged. I remember the shock as Susan left him. I appreciated the total self-awareness and intensity of emotion reflected in the words and the meanings behind the words.

When John D. MacDonald died and Travis McGee departed to that great Marina in the sky I felt cheated that there would be no more in the series. With Robert Parker I feel grief of the same ilk but also a sense that the characters cannot die. I don't mean for a resurrection of RBP the franchise or an attempt to turn a doodle on a deskpad into the unfinished work that is reminiscent of, but not quite, the genuine article. I mean that in Spenser, Hawk, Vinnie, Jesse, Sunny the images survive in the mind. They live on, and of course so too, does Robert Parker in that sense. I always wanted to read his PhD thesis and perhaps his publishers might consider that but above all I will miss the chance for Spenser and the rest to live their lives on. I would have liked to carry on living with them all instead of having their existences paused with that sense of anti-climax. I could use any number of quotations from the books that might seem apt for this sad occasion but I remember with particular fondness "Early Autumn" where Spenser is teaching Paul how to live, indeed how to survive by himself, in himself, yet at the same time demonstrating the type of relationship that underpins all meaningful human interaction. Parker helped me to understand these type of ideas within the same framework as other great writers from the very highest canons of world literature. For this, Robert, I am grateful. When you're milling around up there explaining to your friends (who made the journey sooner like Robert Urich) what you had envisaged for Spenser and Susan and Pearl (the Wonder Dog) I hope you will feel the love and affection in which you were (and still are) held. I pass on my commiserations to Joan and say thank you for her husband and his work. I raise my glass in salute.

Resigned to my fate...

2009-10-11T10:57:00.000-07:00

No rethinking then. A new organisational structure. No mention of terms such as regrading or promotion. No evidence of thoughts ever having touched on them. I notice both my old departments Serials and Document Supply have been renamed or submerged under different titles. My always-lurking paranoia questions whether perhaps my deafness has been factored into the move. That perhaps I have been found wanting in my customer care skills.
I move to St Georges Library in January (unless those lottery numbers come up first) and expect that life will go on. I will miss the team I have now - they have easily been the best team I have ever worked with. I came to Document Supply trying to find a way to deal with a fractured trust and a feeling that management had used me and exploited me. Being continually asked to do small extra tasks that might eventually give me a job description that would merit upgrading. The promise was dangled above me various times in Serials - new job title - extra responsibilities - but Pay and Reward rather failed to reward me.
Document Supply made me glad to go back to work, not because I believed the future was any brighter but because I loved the people I work with. Thank you for helping me. I wish we could continue.

Restructuring.... Feudalism

2009-09-17T12:27:00.000-07:00

At this moment in time I am hoping for a re-think. For a miracle - for the forces of management to stop their meddling in people's lives and start considering their people. You know, those people, us, that they supposedly invest in, in order to get that plaque. The shield that has been carefully removed from the mezzanine level for safekeeping whilst our workplace becomes a building site.
Of course according to the latest rather vague plan under orders I might be deported off to another workplace come January. In management's version of consultation I have been offered either the job I do now in a different place or a job where I stay with my friends, my team, doing a job I have no desire for - and a hearing problem that makes it almost impossible to really do it well. I consider this offer further evidence that when it comes to consultation some levels of our organisation possess the man-management skills of Vlad the Cataloguer.
The culture of academia has long been considered more humanitarian than,for instance, industry and commerce but within its management framework there are still elements that view those ununionised days of toil and strife as the ideal world. Whilst the world of Trade downsizes, the planet Academia considers the merits of "cheaper, faster, better" and voluntary severance schemes. It pays lip-service to its slave labour, says thank you for building those pyramids with the payoff of Danish pastries and collages of melons but pay and reward is remarkably patchy. The workplace is placed under intolerable conditions. Floundering in a miasma of mahogany dust and accompanied by the rythym of decibel-rich diamond drilling we whinge and we work. Then the library staff cope. Its employees are willing to struggle but we would like to be able to use the experience we have accumulated. If I am separated from my team the University Library will still survive but the world will be less enjoyable particularly for me (and my friends I think). I don't suppose it really matters it just means that caring will become a little bit more difficult.

BBC Poetry

2009-07-04T05:35:00.000-07:00

Although I dislike the way television governs people's actions (especially mine) I must admit to entering into a very difficult stage of the year. These next two months will find me stretched between the Ashes cricket and the Tour de France, but on top of these is a more peculiar return to an old love. It keeps me awake at night and it makes my eyes go glassy and write interesting phrases into a notebook. It isn't healthy like my love of running, or jogging, or sitting in an armchair eating doughnuts whilst watching cricket. Poetry. Perhaps it was just a combination of factors. Television programme about Eliot and Prufrock, tidying my attic and finding Stephen Fry's "Ode less travelled", and remembering an old friend Christina whose views on poetry depended on the use of rhyme. No rhyme equalled No Poem.

Stephen Fry was alternatively scathing about the belief that Poetry was easy to write because it didn't need to rhyme. He stresses the discipline of the different forms and the difficulty of finding the "write" word. I am intrigued by the fact that as a writer (of whatever quality) I can feel if a word is correct. I can feel that also there is a better word but, at this moment in time I can't remember it. Where does that word live ? Where does it come from ? How does it return ?

This "vocation" also fits in with that strange need to comment on whatever surrounds me. Whether in emails to friends and strangers alike. Whether in comments directed to my colleagues passing by an enquiry point in a deserted catalogue hall. Whether in those occasional times when I exchange diction for drawing and design. I am unsure as to whether I am some sort of detached observer whose failing ears have kickstarted some long-submerged literary and emotional turbine or whether the creativity virus has always infected me and gradually metamorphosed out of dormancy.

Whatever - I thank all those people who made it possible - BBC included (although I still begrudge them the licence fee) and will finish with a poem (as they say, defensively, a work in progress...)

On/Off : the rails

Background noise, loud-mouthed boys
Humming conversations.
Power games, shrill-voiced girls
Expressing complications.
Landscape moving, no-one watching
Visions craving patience.
Tram rails down, approaching town
Arriving platformed stations.
Mobiles waiting, appointments, dating.
Embarrassing situations.
Thinking, writing, avoiding fighting
All possible variations.
Riders dispersing, rarely conversing,
Alighting then into the silence.
Remarking in murmurs, remembering journeys
The walking, the driving, the distance.
Passengers roam, but the writer’s returning
Determined, believing in learning.
Inspired to try, not frightened to pry
In the sound of a voice gently yearning.

Twitterdom

2009-02-26T02:58:00.000-08:00

All things considered.
Well, no. Not really. I never consider anything. I just do it (to quote an old advertising slogan). I don't understand it really but this glamorous woman said Do this - so I did. It is like all the other next big things ; Web 2, Wii fit, and other monstrosities moving rapidly from wow to old hat. All it served to do was to remind me that I ought to update some of the other last big things.
My blog, unnoticed by the entirety of humankind serves as a sort of diary to myself in which I hardly ever participate. Perhaps in that parallel universe where I run the world as a wise, benevolent and magnanimous dictator I actually do what I say I will.
Or maybe I won't.
The idea is that we are basically interested in what OTHER people are doing. Now. It's an "In the present tense" idea. How to track people. We used to call it stalking. Now it's described as social interaction. Following a succession of Status messages. Like the dylanologists used to study Bob's leftover Curry cartons to discover the meaning of life. Are we defined by what we say we do and what we say we are ? My dad, Christian to the last second believed that we are defined by what we do; by action. By deeds. I think he assumed Good deeds. If this is true and my current career and lifestyle in the library-world serves to define me then I am going to face a pretty boring recitation of my achievements at the Pearly Gates. Pete, er, well, I'd like to confess three major sins but want 8,000 renewals to be taken into account and I once offered additional support to a totally innocent bystander.
God (or the other one) will certainly have an archive. A dark shadowy place where shelvers fear to tread. I can see the management-speak as the red fiery horned one suggests doing a spot of shelf-tidying and we, taking it all on board, respond in the affirmative and trudge off into the corners of life's mysterious and modular shelving.
Anyway Status. Not waving but drowning.
...and you're not vile.

Old Age - Bucket Listing

2008-08-27T06:52:00.000-07:00

I remember once hearing a definition of old age (or it might be of past-it-tedness) that from that one particular moment in time you suddenly realise you will very probably not sleep with anybody new ever again. This is not simply a question of fidelity and monogamy although both are relevant but more about the options that expand or contract as we move through life. Perhaps it is concerned with possibilities or probabilities and no-one accepts that individuals are guaranteed to never make a mistake, walk on the wild side or play away (pick your own euphemism) but it is seriously unlikely that the latest Hollywood starlet (that shows my age to begin with) will want to help me tidy my attic. Test cricket watching is not very likely to raise their temperature either (although Val for some strange reason thinks Andrew Strauss is cute; as she does Jason Statham although I suspect that impulse may originate from a different section of the cerebral cortex).

These concepts of shared interests and lifestyle compromises imply that even if our hero had a body like a Greek God then certain avenues of exploration were, shall we say, closing relatively quickly. Now in reality with a waistline like the Tropic of Capricorn and a hairstyle in which the term Fringe can no longer be deemed believable it would need something special to draw anybody to look at my etchings.

So attention mysteriously shifts to what we would like to do if our days were numbered and we knew it to be so. One possibility is to purchase all those books such as 1001 paintings to see before you die and use this as the guidebook towards self-satisfaction before destruction. Of course using a book means that the agenda is already set. In fact these are someone else's choices and reflect their tastes not necessarily yours. Indeed perhaps we should already have been working through the books year by year as we approached the heavenly terminus or you can cherry pick which parts you wish to partake of although you would risk being left thinking if only I'd had time to... The same goes for Albums you must hear (subdivided into a separate sister publication of 1001 Classical Recordings to also hear). The publishing boom continues; 1001 Historic sites to visit, 1001 buildings to see, 1001 Gardens to go to, 1001 Natural Wonders,1001 movies to watch, 1001 Paintings, 1001 foods to try and even bizarrely 1001 things to spot in Fairyland. All before you die. All those experiences and so little time. If you are not too tired by this strenuous activity on the borders of ultimate incapacitation then one could take a less structured response.

I do not drive so travelling down Route 66 won't work. I have no money so visiting the Pyramids of Giza or anywhere outside Sheffield city centre is unlikely. The most likely scenario is to buy the above-mentioned books and look at the pictures. But it doesn't quite fit the dynamic impact pattern that we are looking for. Therefore in terms of experiential learning ; sleeping with supermodels is out, travel and variety are out and that leaves only two potential shots at immortality left. The first is achieved already. All life's experiences might be waiting for Carrie, my daughter and her fame, power, glory, achievement all reflect on us, her parents. On the other hand if she descends into a life of sin and depravity then similarly that is also down to us. And then there was one.

The final act in one's life when all other options are spent is to indulge in a purely personal relationship with Art. It definitely does not guarantee lasting fame or wealth but it can be unique and immensely satisfying. To create Art. Creativity. Whatever the art is; from Abstract expressionism to Zoological illustration, from doodling in the margins to monstrous conceptual installations towering over the little ants below it. On my bucket list are two entries - to be happy and to create something that is mine. The two may go together (but they may not) and Art is, of course, a fickle mistress. Now that I am 50 I have served my apprenticeship. As the school report once said and paraphrasing it slightly Christopher's work is "not bad but could do much better". 1001 paintings to paint before you die. 1001 Virgins to deflower. 1001 attempts to read Ulysses. 1001 books copying the Da Vinci code formula. 1001 Muesli recipes. 1001 religions to offer the truth.

Art, literature, Creativity, Style ; They are all about making a mark on something. How and Why is up to the individual.

Investing in What....

2008-07-29T06:42:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the day my partner Val was turned down for a job she had really set her heart on. Experience had warned her repeatedly that to invest too much interest and enthusiasm on behalf of her employers could only lead to disappointment. However she ignored those quiet threatening noises and applied anyway. She put aside her cynical thoughts and sceptical attitude towards management and hoped for the best.

She was not even granted an interview. Kiss of Death.

An immediate explanation beyond a few mumbled phrases was not given and an email was sent inviting Val to contact Kiss of Death's secretary (who was on holiday) to set up a meeting. By pushing a personal visit Val was given no reasoning behind the decision making process because Kiss had not had time to prepare for a meeting with her.

One might think that is not so unusual or surprising but it was for a position within the organisation she already works for. At best it translates as a very poor response to a valued worker, particularly bad public relations to a place that claims to be investing in people, and absolutely destructive to a staff morale prone to the odd upheaval.

We await the final appointment to try to witness the hiring process at its best. We expect the appointee to show us why they were picked and another was not. We will try not to take it personally. But, the point is, that it is personal. And it hurts.

Couch Potato with extra Mayo

2008-06-05T07:41:00.000-07:00

Summer is rapidly approaching and my trainers are starting to become noisy. They sit there on the shelf glaring at me and daring to suggest that just perhaps, once again, you ought to shift some of that lard from around your midriff. They are cruel but accurate. I swear my body still thinks it runs 35 miles a week and is storing this largesse in case of an impending famine. It isn't as if I don't feel guilty - I do and every night as my eyes try to find my toes I tell myself - I will run, I will get fit, I will shed this mysterious five stones that somehow has attached itself to me. Somehow ! I know how, the anchor that tightens my trousers seemingly by day and night, is a terrible disfiguring disease. Found more often in the United States it has nevertheless made its way to South Yorkshire. Fatbastard's Doughnutitis is a creeping sort of virus that sneaks up on you in the lunch and tea breaks of Test Matches - those 5 days you spend pinned in the armchair admiring the battle between bat and ball. And subtly, gently, session by session, you turn into a ball.

One is still able to appreciate Athleticism simply not perform it. I remember that first great sentence of "The Competitive Runner's Handbook" which said "You are an athlete" and at that time I believed it. Nowadays those PB days of 1.34 are long gone. In the last Sheffield Half Marathon I ran in it was over 3 hours until I finished. The stewards were dozing and failed to point me into the stadium, the medals were all gone and the following sweep bus spend the whole race trying to overtake me.
And now I want to run again. I have considered retirement but the thought of developing larger breasts than my partner is distinctly disturbing. After my kidney transplant I was so keen to run, presumably just because I always had done and was now not allowed to. I counted down the 90 days until I could run and I then did. Slowly. And I got slower. And I got fatter. Until now.

Now I aim to change this. To change the worst excesses of my debauched lifestyle. To cast away champagne and oysters, foie gras and melted toblerone (on cornish ice cream); I have divorced my doughnuts, discarded my Dime bars, pole-axed my pork scratchings. I know it will be difficult and I will not lament my pre-transplant times (1995) but set up a set of new criteria. I will run to smell the roses, to feel the wind on my face, to face the oncoming traffic, to fit into a size 38 waist once more. I will let you know how I get on.

Where are you ?

2008-06-03T14:10:00.000-07:00

As I approach the half century and consider my impact upon the world (minimal) and the world's impact on me (monstrous) I lie awake at night and consider other more important questions. Will Sheffield Wednesday ever win the Champions League ? Will I ever lose those last few ounces to bring me back to my fighting weight (five stones to be precise) ? Will I find out where two of my school friends disappeared to ?
It is not urgent. I am simply curious. If they are hiding from the combined police forces of the Western world then I don't want them to give themselves up. I simply wonder. My friend Sam, possibly the finest full back since Skinner Normanton to destroy a ball-juggling Fleur-de-lys Ronaldo, finds a real faith in God and does his work in difficult conditions. But where are Michael Duerden and Jerome Clough ?

Michael, from Todmorden, out there in the badlands between Yorkshire and Lancashire was the bloke I always picked first in my footy team as I struggled to put a game together on those desolate Fylde coast Sundays.
Jerome was more of a mystery. Father something to do with Coca-Cola and Liberia but like Michael never mentioned in any Rossallian newspapers. I hope they have prospered and I really would like to know how they have got on with their lives. I have no intentions of appearing at their front door to reminisce about juvenile pranks or profound speculations about the merits of boarding schools (or their failings).

Out of all the people you know and talk with regularly where do thoughts like this come from ? Why these two boys/men - last seen in 1976 ? Why have their names floated back to me all of a sudden. If for instance my life was summarised as rapidly as possible it would read. University. Failed. Dole. Job. Thinking; temporary. Still there now. Clearly Permanent. Librarian. Married. Divorced. Kidney failure. Transplant. Val. Baby. Carrie. Now 11. Which brings me back to the impact of an individual and the connections that he or her makes around him. C. M. Duerden - Where are you ? J. Clough - Where are you ? Is it really a small world ?

Rossall School was a strange environment to grow up in. I always felt somewhat of an outsider and somewhat rebellious but always with the feeling that my idealism might be, after all, misplaced. I couldn't play the games which that world wanted then and I certainly have not since. I still wait for that Eureka moment when the world I inhabit now finally makes sense and I understand it. If I have found answers to questions they have come from the pages of a book. Answers balanced between interpretation and criticism but not essentially mine. I think I am still doing now what I did then. I act, I posture, I pretend, I look as if I am in control but I am not. And then suddenly I think in the midst of this middle age, in the dark of the night, I wonder Whatever happened to ....

Xanadu Thinking Processes.....

2008-01-10T03:45:00.000-08:00

What I want. What I really really want is a Curriculum, a Reading List, a Prospectus which will direct my thinking and my reading for the rest of my life. It would obviously allow space for digressions or illogical rampages into alien territory or more esoteric tangents. It would supply direction and justification and would allow me to feel I was moving towards an indefinable purpose that someone or something had designed.

It is not as if my social life intrudes. Partying has never really appealed (even to my baser instincts). I think I was born old and I was born unsociable and my partial deafness has not made that any easier. I am not a joiner of clubs. I am a loner but a contented loner with a partner and a family (as opposed to the serial killer loner with a fridge full of body parts). Therefore when I tinkered with the idea of starting a running club (unofficially), just Colin (my brother) and I, in order to formalise our training I hit upon the name Xanadu. Since this was in essence a pretend club, a fantasy running club, Xanadu struck me as just the right name. This was probably based on a gentle admiration for the poem but also for the weird combination of letters in some bizarre scrabblesque thinking process. It did not inspire me to break into the elite fields of international athletics but I do still like the name. It denoted creativity and imagination and romanticism the upside of sweat and blisters. Now in my slovenly dotage the name has developed farther.
Indeed to the extent that if I ever developed a company (which I wouldn't want to) and they were marketing something or indeed anything then I imagine it would most likely be for a service or an educational use - a teaching process to enable a different style of learning or to empower an individual to comprehend a more varied set of experiences. It would be a kind of Creative Project management - a self help fix-it guide with a zenlike attitude to results and profit margins.
I see it all, life probably too, as a game.

With Xanadu thinking the world is in front of us we simply need to see it differently. To see it, according to Alan Fletcher - sideways.

Xanadu Thinking might be a range of tools, meditation or analytic tools which will help the individual towards the art of seeing Sideways. In 2008 this is the year that the magic number 50 will finally be reached. The half century. Halfway there or halfway gone. Glass half empty Glass half full. You pays your money and you makes your choice. Mortality first rings my doorbell. The first footstep is heard above.

Bookshops are filled with books listing 1001 films, books, gardens, paintings, places, natural wonders, to see before you die. As if living is merely observation or worse; a kind of metaphysical twitching where you tick the birds off in the cosmic birdbook before that great Ornithologist in the sky points his pigeon-shitted digit in your direction.

I am left again with the search for a reason. For a protocol to be governed by - for a posterity in which a memory may survive. For an inheritance that would be deemed worthwhile. For a rebirth, a renaissance of what makes living worthwhile and fulfilling. For Zanadu thinking. Incorporated.

January Blues... begging for it......

2008-01-08T03:50:00.000-08:00

It is cold and grey outside and it feels cold and grey inside. The last payday was middle December and the next is the end of January. As expected that glorious feeling of space and time and freedom is replaced by the tightly repressed constriction of the working day. Hopes and dreams are reduced to a flickering candle-powered image like an early silent movie jerkily hopping from frame to frame in a sepia world of doom and gloom.

The unlikely possibilities of a windfall bequest from a wealthy relative or the miraculous jackpot of those six magic lottery numbers seem even farther away than usual (and they have never appeared very near). As my bank account hovers in those margins between black and red like the old Manchester City away kit the image of a fiscal desert dry and barren and dessicated floats through my mind. Insofar as it might help I have decided to grasp the bull market by the horns of a dilemma and whisper goodbye to my pride and my dignity.

Therefore I am making an appeal to anybody out there with a spare (I figured) eighty thousand pounds. An amount that I reckon that takes care of my mortgage, my bank loan and my credit card spending. Please notice that I am not seeking to retire from my current job nor am I wishing to indulge in the pamperings of luxury. I crave no Mediterranean rock upon which to bask nor an automobile to dazzle the roads of South Yorkshire. I desire only a freedom from debt and from worry. Constant worry.

I have decided to consider this as my approach to certain individuals such as Ms Paris Hilton or Ms Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, people who have suffered abuse at the hands of pundits, the press and certain portions of the general populace. Not because I particularly identify with them and have been personally villified but because such attacks offend my sense of fair play and decency. They are, in effect free individuals and can pursue their own dreams irrespective of what anybody else may see, say or think. I thought about Mr Bill Gates or whichever Mr Getty actually holds the purse-strings these days but I decided not to bother with them as their funds (albeit unlimited) may in fact be already allocated. Yes, this would and certainly will constitute an act of Charity but it would not represent a grand gesture or a publicity coup to anybody except myself and my family. The wishes of the donor would be paramount. I can definitely keep either a secret or hold a press conference. The choice is yours. I know this reads like one of those internet scams that seem to come from the needy third world based in the affluence of the free world but this is in essence simply, totally, genuine begging and I must admit I do not really expect any great success. In fact judging by the fact that I seem to be writing to an audience of one (myself) I expect no response at all (unless my schizophrenia worsens drastically).

My fingers are crossed (well, not actually because it makes typing difficult; they are only metaphorically crossed) and I await the flood of donations that might be heading my way. Obviously anybody is free to participate if they so desire - there is no sense of threat or intimidation involved, nor would I accept any personal gifts above the target of eighty thousand pounds (the overspill would be donated to the Northern General Hospital's Renal Unit). Once my mortgage was paid off and essentially my puny wage becomes disposable income (a phrase I have never used before) I feel that many more options would become available for us as a family which can only be for the better. I await the onset of a more relaxed and contemplative future.

A Work of Art

2007-12-20T07:20:00.000-08:00

Heston Blumenthal's Christmas experience.

Christmas special: Wednesday 19 December, 8pm. BBC2.
Heston turned his attention to the biggest meal of the year, Christmas dinner, in this episode. His six guests all had one thing in common - a genuine love of food - and Heston's aim was to make them feel like children again, albeit with some very sophisticated tastes. When Terry Wogan, Kirsty Wark, Dara O'Briain, Rob Brydon, Richard E Grant and Sue Perkins arrived, they had no idea what to expect.

What they received was pure Art you could eat.

The Last Day...

2007-12-20T03:49:00.000-08:00

...at work. With Friday off I can feel the bubbling optimism and joy sweeping through me. Christmas is marvellous but the greatest part is that I don't have to go to work. Yes I know that on January 3rd I will feel terribly depressed but that is in the future, far far away. At five o'clock this evening I hit the point where (apart from my annual Summer vacation) I have the maximum holiday in front of me.

Of course I assume I will be called upon (willingly I add) to do my share of sprout-peeling, toilet-cleaning and grocery-buying but my mood can be neither dimmed nor derailed. I tell myself I will dust my running shoes off, unpack my sketchbook and prepare my creative juices to explode into the vacuum. Usually it pans out to twelve days in an armchair stuffed full with calorific danger (me, not the armchair) with the only exercise being the lifting of the remote control to pause the sky plus whilst I do any business (pouring a drink) before returning to the cricket or the football.

I do without doubt, when faced by "spare time" always feel the urge to stretch my imagination, to write the great northern novel or paint the definitive study of Sheffield at dusk (or whatever). I know these desires are in there inside me struggling to manifest themselves. Even if they have not surfaced during the first 49 years it doesn't mean they might not suddenly escape. (image of Steve McQueen on his bike in "The Great Escape"). The truth is more likely to be that if I perform one task this holiday it will be to reduce the number of bookshelves surrounding the marital bed in the master bedroom. It feels like we are sleeping in a crowded, badly-designed Waterstones and I swear the books talk to me. I often will wake up and think where is that book, (for example, called Adam's Navel) governed by a totally irrational need to use this certain book and of course I can't find it. A reorganisation of reading matter would be helpful therefore to improve access to the books, to allow a deeper and more restful sleep (as being half-deaf I wouldn't hear the books talking in the night if they were in the attic), and to see what colour the wallpaper is (or was).

When I was at boarding school and I was longing for the holidays (and in a previous reincarnation of my current job when I was really, really unhappy) I use to create a chart to count down the hours until I would be free. When an hour went past I would tick it off (or colour the square in) first on a sheet of paper then on an excel spreadsheet (for recent bad times). Obviously overnight I would colour in an entire eight hours which make me feel far happier. This was not really born out of manic depression (although the citalopram does probably help) but rather from a sense of knowing that what I really wanted to do was not in that place but in a room of my own.

Therefore in these future twelve days (at present mercifully free from any extraneous commitments) my time is my own. Whether it is to write the Great Northern Novel or to paint the definitive study of Sheffield At Dusk (or whatever) these days seem to hold the possibility of promise. These twelve days also contain five lottery days, upon which numbers permitting, this delicious sense of freedom might (however unlikely) be extended even farther into the future. When I wake up I wake with the feeling of relaxed optimism. There will be no nausea of adrenalin surging through my body as I prepare to move through the days governed by management, by society, by convention or by pretence. Shackled by work and by fiscal famine (the necessity of one forcing the other) the day-to-day existence, the feudal servitude will be lifted for the holidays. For my twelve days of Christmas my motivations will be internal as opposed to external, ambitions genuinely fed by my perspective rather than anyone else's. I will arise and go and I will think "What shall I do today ?". The limitations are mine and I could ask for nothing more.

Getting it down on paper....

2007-12-06T04:44:00.000-08:00

This is a probably futile attempt to organise my thoughts regarding all the creative ideas and concepts which make an impact upon me. How to structure what is thought or done or discarded should, in effect, when collected explain a great many of the complex narratives which in turn reveal the creative life of the individual. As a writer and artist whose initial drive is directed towards recording on paper and preserving for posterity (really ? he asks himself). In fact the intimate artistic history of impulse, impetus and imposition would definitely seem to make the base foundation of the examined life that of the Journal. Whether that can successfully record both stream of consciousness and external stimuli is a cunning plan born out of the mind of a collector and a creator.

How many of us lie awake at night with our brains fizzing with world-shatteringly brilliant dreams and need to write it down if only to grab some semblance of peace and quiet. Sometimes the idea is fine, sometimes it is rubbish but other schemes and schedules can easily develop out of this miasma of half-considered and semi-understood desires. If I had a copy of every doodle I had ever made or every quotation that ever attracted my attention, every book read and painting admired, every garden planned or rearranged would it help the process of creating art. I tend to regard every artistic or creative endeavour as being in some way linked. I like to keep archives of photographs that carry meaning. Imagery from magazines that arrests my attention. The thousands of volumes in my library that serve as a repository of reference material. I hoard pebbles, rocks, pieces of driftwood; all with colours and textures that for some reason have found a place in which to rest. The link between these collections and the creation of new art may possibly be argued for and be supportable (even if not immediately self evident) but the average person on the street who demands a "use" for an item might well be baffled.

The struggle towards creativity however has little to do with the concept of "average" and as in so many struggles what is most obvious is the confusion. It is in order to access the individual strands that combine intellectually, psychically, spiritually and even physically to create an artistic anything that I try to anatomize the elements of my own individuality. Yes it is self-absorbed but it looks both ways inwards and outwards. I am looking for connectivity between areas of interest and searching for the alliances between images collected and concepts explored. It is both academic and emotional moving between differing disciplines and entering into the shadows of areas not so seriously studied. Out of this navel-gazing and creative-stalking of myself I hope and aim to find out more about who I am and what I can do. If it reflects other elements of the environment that has designed me then so be it but this is a personal pilgrimage with all the overtones which that term can carry. To find the crux of creativity can bring both angst and absolution. To discover an intimacy of identity can forge either integration or isolation. To listen to the voices in your head and by mapping those personal perspectives you may begin to find a series of different directions in which to travel. The process is in the Journey.

Approaching Resolution....

2007-11-29T13:05:00.000-08:00

Kneeling meekly, settled on our sofas and watching Strictly Come Bloating We approach the season of Celebrations, dedicated to the patron saint of corpulence; St. Slimfast and the divine message of conspicuous and abundant consumption, we prepare to initially destroy our bodies and then decide (really, really decide) to transform them into the strong, sculpted and toned Godlike physiques we know that are lurking under all that pale white flab. This is the time of resolution. The time when the diary can assume an even greater significance because it demonstrates most clearly both our strengths and our weaknesses, our successes and our failures.

Last year I bought a five-year diary with each page having five spaces on it in order to give (at the end of the demi-decade) a comparative perspective of the changes both physically, mentally and spiritually which I had achieved. 2007 was to be the start of what the Russians called a five-year plan. At the very least, I honestly believed it would recall my running times and the evidence of my fight against the evils of fatbastarditis.However and unfortunately the shameful history of 2007 (so far) are the details of a paltry, puny five runs; [in miles] 0.4, 0.4, 0.61, 1.725 and 0.4 - a magnificent total of 3.535 miles. Yes, my capacity for statistical analysis is still burning powerfully even if my motivation is cooling. However with the rationalisation of the upcoming resolution period I tell myself if I NOW start training seriously I would still never be able to meaningfully alter those statistics anyway. I tell myself they would serve better as a benchmark of indignity and having confessed (here, now, in public) I will swear to do better next year. Like writing a diary for the first week in January and then giving up I will dedicatedly and determinedly fight through to at least March. In fact having never started my five-year diary last year at all I can make 2008 the new beginning of the five-year plan and with similar skills to those Soviet apparatchiks who designed such plans in the first place I can rewrite history to fit a complete new set of facts.

Optimistically then I foresee an immediately successful year. Indeed I can probably do more mileage in one run (relatively easily) than the whole of 2007 (perhaps with a lie-down after). So 2008 will be a better running year than 2007.Additionally If I finish one drawing or painting in 2008 which I am pleased with (enough to keep) that will also be an improvement. The truth is that my expectations are so incredibly low (to match my running incredibly slow) that the future is rosy or rose-tinted at least. In the year 2008 I will be 50. England expects everyman to do his duty and I expect to do better. I expect to do more, and I expect to do it faster. I speak these words as I write them with the solemn catechismal pronunciation of the new believer - with a faith-restored and belief-bolstered conviction that things can only get better. [cue music and lights]......

Identity. Who you are.... The Examined Life

2007-11-22T07:11:00.000-08:00

If somebody (for whatever reason) was given the task of trying to understand how I think or who I am (or was);(although why anyone would want to do such a thing I cannot imagine) how would they go about the task ? Bearing in mind modern security warnings regarding identity theft there are clearly many ways to go about this endeavour but I am approaching it from the perspective of the individual wishing to lead "an examined life" as opposed to that of a potential stalker sizing up his next target. If you are a stalker however this may well be of help to you and if you are contemplating identity theft I would seriously reconsider your choice of individual. Incidentally now that all our personal details have been so generously distributed by our own government if you are seeking financial security it must be pointed out that there is very little money actually in my bank account. It was however empty before they lost the discs with the details on them. You are free to take over the debts though if you want.

It is said that if you look at somebody's bookshelf you can get an idea of their character. Does this also apply to the polymath or the renaissance man - adept at a multitude of tasks and skilled in them all? What does Stephen Fry's library look like ? Millions of books in front of you or just a select few ? Could it not mean that the person is just a book collector ? How they are organised gives the investigator another clue ; strict alphetical order, in dewey-decimal ranking or just a lumping of all the blue covered books together. (Or worse - a combination of everything) What does that signify ? Do we see the glimmerings of an obsessive personality ? Are the books annotated ? Do they look well-thumbed ? (Although I can't say I use my thumbs much when reading.) Are the favourite books separated ? Which books are next to the bed ? Which books are on the desk ?

Are there any diaries, notebooks, letters ? In this electronic age is there a laptop with an online diary or a blog (hastily written, in snatched episodes whilst supposed to be working) ? Emails saved in bizarrely-named folders, paintings or posters on the walls, objets d'art or just found materials scavenged from interesting walks along the river bank. Is there a special place where the individual "nested" ; a den where the person could surround themselves with the necessities of life like music, coffee or the regalia of past endeavours both successful or not ? The old baseball glove, the juggling balls, (the deduction of meaning). Consider the samurai sword and tea set bought whilst seduced in the middle of reading Shogun and brought down from the attic after watching "Kill Bill".
Do the shelves illustrate a past history of collecting and interests - endless possibilities from gardening books to cooking books, from tropical fish to almost every sort of art and craft imaginable. Even the boxes of bookmarks including those small leather types which say something like "Welcome to Conisbrough Castle". In other words Where have you been ? Clearly as I write I picture somebody watching me trying to imagine what I am like. To see yourself as others see you is a difficult project. Am I a butterfly flitting from idea to idea with no purpose or future or goal ? Or is everything linked in some vast cosmic network that at some point in time will come together, will slot into place with a vigorous and exquisitely screamed Eureka.

I am unsure exactly how many people out there in cyberspace can, could, would or will even read this. Nor is this the reason for its writing. Neither am I sure what that reason is though. I feel like writing. I know I am not really confident enough to advertise it beyond simply leaving it out there exposed (freudian choice of word) for the universe to read. I keep hoping an interesting comment might be wending its way towards me to reassure myself I am not simply talking to myself but then again in the nature of the examined life that might be highly desirable. Perhaps one day I may even surprise myself. Can one surprise oneself ? or can only others do that to you (or for you) and the madness comes steadily, stealthily closer. Muttering to itself whilst you sit there writing a conversation with yourself.

Under the Weather

2007-11-20T02:41:00.000-08:00

As Winter approaches and the evenings draw in the world of sniffles descends upon the unwary bystander. The lack of sunlight the scientists tell us is responsible for the darkness of our moods and our tumblings into misery and depression but our pagan animal instincts also move us towards the possibility of conserving our energy and even hibernating. The thoughts of huge open fires warmly inviting us to sit and stare into the flames are replaced by the functionality of the radiator and the central heating. Winter is however a time of not simply bland dormancy but hopefully recuperation. The garden sees a build up within the soil of the energy that the increasing Spring light levels and warmth will trigger to begin the cycle again.

This Wintry season is therefore a time of contemplation. It is a time to organise and to order (if possible) the chaos that surrounds us. I make lists; of ideas, of intentions, of schedules, schemes and plans. Not (for once) of world domination and how to spend my eight-figure lottery winnings but of simpler more creative concepts.
The death of Norman Mailer intrudes upon this solititude and those early discussions about the greatness (or otherwise) of the American Dream come flooding back. The potential (cruelly destroyed) of John F. Kennedy and his dreams for the Camelot administration pierced by an assassins bullet and decades of conspiracy theories. I remember considering this tragedy whilst reading "The Great Gatsby" and "The Catcher in the Rye" and thinking about the realities of the individual, the contributions each person can make and the impressions they can leave upon the world.

Winter is a time for such musings. In the semi-darkness the light can seem a long way away but cocooned within a nest of imagination, research and creativity the seeds of future productivity can be harnessed. If the outside is hostile then we can only retreat back inside - into an atmosphere which can sustain optimism and (to use a word sometimes corrupted by religious overtones) Hope. Under this duvet of re-invigoration the future may be mapped and in the strands of art or literature a vision may be glimpsed. There are no guarantees, of course sterility and stagnancy are by no means seasonal. It is as perfectly possible to fritter away the Winter as it is the Summer but because the weather and the climate and the immediate environment itself prevents alternative perspectives the best of all worlds is to rest and recover. To recoup the strength required and to plan your work under the weather, in the eye of the storm and in Spring; to come out running.

Beguiling....

2007-11-11T05:23:00.000-08:00

Art which places you here........

2007-11-11T04:40:00.000-08:00

In this world we inhabit where people are continually labelling and categorising everything and everybody. Where lists of the top ten or bottom ten are spread across our cultural radars. Where the omniprescent use of the sound byte indicates the perceived average attention span of the viewer or audience or congregation. Where influences are cited and homage equates with plagiarism. This image stands out. Borrowed off the Tate Britain web site this painting places Simon Patterson in the constellation of his own individual universe.

Is it reasonable to think of it as a directional mapping leading to a referenced framework from which something (or anyone) may emerge. There is no visible named linkage between the artist and his painting - no explanations of how or why or where decisions were made; no naming of names in any expected order. He gives no criteria to elucidate his choices. He grants no special favours towards his viewer or chooses one line above another. He offers the flat surface of the classic Underground plan and subverts it into something much much more. It is titled The Great Bear, a major constellation in the night sky that with the relevant astronomical knowledge would allow any traveller in a particular place to know where he is. It is, however far more than merely a signpost or a compass.

Neither is it an anonymous image. It does reveal the shadow of the artist because it conveys a sense of personal identity both by and within the dramatis personae he uses and chooses. Each individual is selected, and positioned by the artist working, in effect as an individual himself therefore if his shadow is not visible then his presence still subtly haunts the building. The image conveys within it the idea of contemporaneity (NOW) and of [wanted and unwanted] heritage (THEN) delineating the past and the present along a linear sense of directional historical value(s). It is also geographical both in its spatiality - mapping routes and/or combinations that could lead to different universes of collaborative interaction and in the variety and numerous nationalities depicted. This is not simply a white anglo saxon or masculine only construct.

Simon Patterson in this painting has created a mind map which can answer the ultimate question What is the meaning of life ? This artwork serves to define and direct the viewer to a place where it is impossible to arrive at. The journey of life, moving continuously and continually towards its close with no idea of where we are going. This image can reveal places where influences interact and significance (signification) is given a measurement as a point along a pointless scale and the viewer, lost in a world of free will and opportunity is free to position himself. For those of us - the silent majority, unnoticed and unappreciated - without that fickle dusting of celebrity are able to imagine where we reside, not on the lines but in the blankness between them.

Even from the distance of 2007 its relevance can miraculously carry on growing in meaning the viewer can with imagination extend the given lines along existing networks or create new ones to encompass new influences and dynamics. The viewer would be able to include the modern greats and not-so-greats that have since burst into life so that this image will effectively become one immortal web. This idea, born in the image, still can and does illustrate the world to the world. All it requires is for the viewer to place his mark upon it; shouting or murmuring, scribbling or spraying, using a big red arrow or a miniscule footnote, the slogan I AM HERE....

Crisis Management

2007-11-10T04:38:00.000-08:00

When mistakes are made, when apologies are offered and when self-esteem plummets how do we survive. After doing the unthinkable and breaking the laws and rules that govern civilised behaviour we ask ourselves questions. They start at the very lowest rung of the ladder ; do we try to re-climb the ladder or stay at the bottom. If we decide to try to climb HOW do we do it. Shyly and tentatively or brazenly and arrogantly. My impulse is to hide both physically and psychologically. To bury myself where I cannot be seen and pointed at as if the guilt is/was emblazoned on my forehead. Of course the old adage states life must go on and like the counselling sessions where one is asked Have you ever harmed yourself or thought about suicide you sense the immediate reaction. Oh God no. But the question in turn makes you think about whether you could. Like standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down and wondering. Or standing at the edge of a busy road one step from destruction and contemplating Notness. Of not existing. The temptations of a peculiar sort of freedom but they offer no continuing sense of, well, enjoying oneself. And the fact that pleasure is still a possibility rather than an entitlement suggests to me there isa desire not to finish the last chapter with a cliffhanger.

So to face those demons we climb and we do it more slowly, more carefully than we have ever done before. Knowing that the ladder may not be firmly secured and knowing in our loneliness that we must accept the blame for that although in different circumstances behaviour is doubtlessly modified. One step at a time. Gently does it.
The dream is still there. Faded and flickering. HOW is important. WHY is interesting. Although busted it can still be rebuilt. HOPE survives......I hope.

About looking and seeing....

2007-11-07T03:31:00.000-08:00

The easel is set up. The pencil is poised. Where to start. At this point STOP. Look at the subject. REALLY look at it. Concentrate. Forget the details. Forget the exciting focal point of the image. Even if that is the most interesting part - indeed perhaps it is the reason you chose this subject in the first place. Ignore the subtlety of colour and form and texture. Look at the object in front of you. See it AS IT IS. Examine the overall composition of it. Try to see the general shapes that make up its basic construction. Sphere or cone or cube. See how they relate to each other. Picture the volume enclosed within it. Imagine the lines that describe its contours even those invisible to you at the back of the subject. Acquire an understanding of how space is broken by that object sitting within it as if the air surrounding it was the only revealing fact that showed there was an object there. Some artists acquire these "looking" skills by using this delineation of negative space to allow the outlined form to be revealed. This style of drawing avoids the cartoonifying of a sketch and producing a clumsy bordering for an outline for a drawing that if it IS incorrect in its structure will destroy the integrity of the artwork. Even using the lightest touch possible with a hard pencil to sketch in an outline allows into your drawing a mindset that is not natural. Shape, form and texture are not functions of solid line.
Similarly examine the colours of the subject or object. Do not rely on your knowledge of that subject to allow it to provide the tonal ranges as a cursory inspection may reveal. Take your time. A blackboard in the shade is a different colour to a blackboard in full sun and neither is black. Don't paint the green bottle without the reflections which change that green colour to whatever is revealed and reflected in it. In other words every object is part of its context and those surroundings impact on it as a subject but that object also impacts on those surroundings. In a landscape colours and shadows grant meaning that allows the eye to make sense of the image in terms of a particular kind of reality. To paint and sketch is to allow oneself to be drawn into a closer examination of this reality which in turn helps to make sense of other areas of artistic truth. To give oneself this possibility of a new understanding of both life and art is to uncover a potential that great artists recognise immediately but us mere mortals need to learn. And it IS a matter of learning - learning to slow down, to study, to try to see what IS in front of you NOT what you THINK is in front of you. Between this collaboration of muscle memory and intellectual rigour a new sense of artistic reality can be forged and the complexity of even the simplest object can inherit a new and stunning beauty that was, in fact, always there in front of you but never seen before. Open your eyes and look again. And again. And again.

Bewitching

2007-10-04T08:24:00.000-07:00

2007-10-04T08:12:00.001-07:00

Landscape 101.i

2007-10-04T07:17:00.000-07:00

Jonathan: I want to fly where no seagull has flown before. I want to know what there is to know about life!

Father, Mother: Son, this may not be the best life, but it's all we know.
Jonathan: There's got to be more to life than fighting for fish heads!

[the Elder banishes Jonathan from the flock]
The Elder: You are henceforth and forever outcast!

Jonathan: Listen, everybody! There's no limit to how high we can fly! We can dive for fish and never have to live on garbage again!

Chang: Heaven isn't a place; heaven is perfection.

Chang: Perfect speed isn't moving fast at all; perfect speed is being there.

Chang: I've gone everywhere and everywhen I can think of...

Chang: To fly as fast as thought to anywhere that is now - you begin by knowing that you have already arrived...

Chang: I am a perfect expression of freedom, here and now.

Jonathan: You have the freedom to be yourself, your true self, here and now - and nothing can stand in your way!

Jonathan: I only wish to share what I've learned - the very simple fact that it is right for a gull to fly!

Jonathan: The only true law is that which sets us free.

Wisdom 101.ii

2007-10-03T07:42:00.000-07:00

"What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so."
--From Hamlet (II, ii, 115-117)

The Meaning of Life..... and Everything.......

2007-10-03T02:47:00.000-07:00

The quick and easy answer as everyone knows is 42 (and not to panic). Evolving from The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy this posits us (the earth) as part of a gigantic computer program designed to discover that very answer. The point is that it assumes an investigative mode of behaviour and by placing the question in the guise of a comedy places existence firmly in the field of the surreal. Perhaps this is not so far from the same existence being explained in terms of the pantheon of Ancient Greek Gods interfering in the mortal lives of their subjects. Both of these are explanations that put the basic responsibilities for life and its meanings on the shoulders of giants (or at least higher beings with differing senses of responsibility). Us, as puny mortals, are at the beck and call of outside events - the whims of fate.

In the literary novelistic worlds of the human hero the meaning of life is deduced from the actions of the combatants of existence. To do one's best in the face of overwhelming odds. To boldly go where one is told to go and perform as and when required. It may even be the heroism of the ultra-ordinary that is celebrated. Reginald Perrin trudging faithfully into the anti-heroic world of Sunshine Desserts every morning down those streets named after the greatest poets in the English Language. Perhaps the meaning of life is measured in terms of the rise and fall of individuals, of civilisations, even of celebrity.

Another option lies in the meaning of the examined life. Making sense out of the inexplicable. The song of the philosopher struggling to describe mankind (and womankind) to itself. The navel-gazing or the star-gazing, both activities requiring knowledge, vision and mental strength to face what may turn out to be a big fat existential nothing.

My own personal choice lies in the making of beauty and truth (or Truth and Beauty). To describe what you can see or what you wish to see. To create a culture or an image that serves to define that decision to explore. The meaning of life would then be more about the process than the result. In terms of the written word or the making of marks the resulting works of Art would (could, should, might) reveal the nature of existence. It can illustrate the framework in which we find ourselves, the time and space and nature that surrounds us and in turn reflects our options, our opinions and our operations to understand that universe of being. The meaning of life is personal, private, public, profound, and punctuated by confusion. In the pauses and the clauses of existence life may be as obvious and as misused as punctuation. We eat, shoot and leave.

Autonomy

2007-09-28T06:23:00.000-07:00

The image is that of the private detective; the loner; walking the mean streets - righting wrongs, defending the weak and helpless and doing so whilst remaining frightfully uber-cool. The modern image of this chivalric ideal has been rewritten many times but it still holds within it the element of heroism that Literature, Film, Society and Culture all in general can recognise. For myself the Spenser novels of Robert B. Parker demonstrate these qualities par excellence.

Spenser the eponymous hero of the series is now a middle-aged but still strong figure. As the series has developed the physicality of his force has changed - he uses violence only when necessary and never seems to glory in its accomplishment. His powers of persuasion and detection have also subtly altered to include seemingly opposite perspectives from his long-term love interest Susan (The Psychologist) to his brutal enforcer-friend Hawk (The Executioner). Spenser's path (and by inference Parker's) seem to travel between these points. His regular heroic characters portray a stillness around their own centrality. They are confident. They have learned from experience and maturity. They are autonomous without the arrogance of condescension or the unreality of the isolated hero. They are self-sufficient in their autonomy but they accept the need for the beauty and the passion of an outside commitment; whether to truth or beauty or even an individual. Spenser would not shrivel away if Susan died .(Indeed she did leave him in an early book). He would contemplate events and feel sad but I would expect hime to move on. Stoically but with style.

The Godwulf Manuscript (1973)
God Save the Child (1974)
Mortal Stakes (1975)
Promised Land (1976)
The Judas Goat (1978)
Looking for Rachel Wallace (1980)
A Savage Place (1981)
Early Autumn (1981)
Ceremony (1982)
The Widening Gyre (1983)
Valediction (1984)
Catskill Eagle (1985)
Taming a Seahorse (1986)
Pale Kings and Princes (1987)
Crimson Joy (1988)
Playmates (1989)
Stardust (1990)
Pastime (1991)
Double Deuce (1992)
Paper Doll (1993)
Walking Shadow (1994)
Thin Air (1995)
Chance (1996)
Small Vices (1997)
Sudden Mischief (1998)
Hush Money (1999)
Hugger Mugger (2000)
Potshot (2001)
Widow's Walk (2002)
Back Story (2003)
Bad Business (2004)
Cold Service (2005)
School Days (2005)
The Hundred Dollar Baby (2006)
Now and Then (2007)

Looking in Mirrors

2007-09-25T07:33:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time I was a runner. I was never incredibly fast. I never travelled faster than a speeding bullet or leaped tall buildings in a single bound - but I enjoyed running. For many reasons I stopped (and started and stopped) running, even jogging (which is/was a more accurate description). Unfortunately my body thinks I still burn off the calories and that increased rate and that glutton inside myself has not told my body. In fact (as in pregnancy) I am eating for two - Chris the runner and Chris the couch potato - and it makes the thought of trying to change these habits harder. I now weigh 16 stone 4 pounds. At my pre-Transplant running weight (1993) I weighed 10 stone 8 (1 stone underweight as befits the serious runner). I would like to get to 11 stone.

Therefore I advertise my intention here. From the 1st of October I am deciding to diet, to exercise, and to stop biting my nails. I have taken that ultimate deterrent ; the semi-naked body picture of the Before (posed frontally and in profile) and it is not a pleasant sight. [Don't panic I have no desire to put it online]. I hope to take an After (the diet) picture that will allow my self-image to recover. I will keep a food diary and an exercise log and will record either my progress or the lack of it. In my high mileage days one of those books written to inspire and encourage me used to suggest that the runner should check in shop windows to watch his form. This means that I would be leaning slightly forwards not backwards, that my arms were carried low, with hands loose rather than clenched into fists. That my arms moved forwards and backwards as opposed to crossing my chest and restricting my breathing. Finally that my face was relaxed and preferably smiling. The image in my mind was the slow motion image of Steve Austin (the 6 million dollar man) striding through the city - the slow motion interestingly conveying the notion of high speed athleticism.

In reality I found recently that I do actually move in slow motion (but not cinematically) and that my face, rather than being illuminated by a smile is contorted into a grimace, a rictus of pain. I convey nothing but an image of a fat plodding potential heart attack victim out tempting fate. I will need to tell myself that it will get easier in time and that simply taking exercise carefully and slowly is at least a beginning. It is the ASICS slogan that stands for "Anima Sana in Corpore Sano" (a sound mind in a sound body) that leads me to this optimistic frame of mind; rejoicing in the interconnectedness of my fitness with other elements of my life. In the past running has worked for me for many reasons, especially as a form of meditation and I hope it can do once again. If you see a lonely figure trudging along Rivelin Valley Road or around Damflask please feel free to lend encouragement. This man is trying to make a start, to fight the ravages of time and age and their pressures weighing on his much-maligned body.

Reinvention tension

2007-09-22T03:46:00.000-07:00

When I win the lottery I will stay exactly the same. Nothing will change. This is the refrain often spouted towards the cameras as the so-talented beneficiary celebrates their good fortune. Personally I swear now, here, in public - I will definitely change as many elements of my life as I feel necessary. Please don't misunderstand me I won't swap Val for a younger model or insist on silicon implants (to either of us) but I will reconfigure the environment of my life.

The term is Reinvention and it comes with many problems. I don't mean the small changes like giving up smoking or even eating meat, or the style changes for image purposes. Those well-worshipped celebrity changes ; Madonna's chameleonesque transformations, Bob Dylan's decision to use an electric guitar, or Kylie's iconic shiftings from girl-next-door to siren to show queen. The true reinvention is a spiritual and psychological decision to restructure and reshape your life. Yes I would give funds to the hospital that granted me my kidney transplant in 1995 and buy my brother the house he will need when Noah is born but that is only the doing of things. With reinvention comes the chance to BE different, to be MORE, to be how and what you feel you could be.

For certain individuals this move may be brought upon them by personal crisis by the death of a loved one or the betrayal by a supposedly loved one. These reinventions are born out of pain and misery and at the time they feel only like survival - of moving from day to day and going through the motions. My own divorce involved no children and for the two of us the reinvention was helped by the fact that we realised the intelligent person we once loved was still intelligent but had simply made a decision. A decision that allowed friendship to remain and reinvention to begin whilst gaining the knowledge of who and what we were, are and might be.

Reinvention is about a realistic understanding of personal identity. It is about self-knowledge and self-worth. It is not the mid-life crisis or the adventures of hormonal change it is a thought process that, for me, would be a pleasure to undertake. In the (statistically unlikely) event of that monumental windfall or the (astronomically improbable) urge of a benevolent patron of the arts with a spare ten millions pounds to see me as the next great MABA (Middle-Aged British Artist [think Damien Hirst with Stickleback rather than Shark]) then my reinvention is going to be slow and steady. It will probably only begin when I retire whilst hopefully the body will still be holding together. This is the curse of the Working Man to (heroically) man the barricades day by day whilst internally one's mind is circumnavigating the globe or saving the rainforests.

I hear the brave people out there with courage to back up their conviction muttering about seizing the day and grasping the dream and perhaps in my unwillingness to alter my circumstances lies the very foundation of a conventional stagnation. This blog comes out of that stagnation and although it makes make little claim to be either a mission statement or a strategic plan there lies within it the potential to be both. Perhaps everybody somewhere sometime has these ideas unless their life is perfect and that seems to me to be unlikely. In the meantime plans are forming, seeds are growing, intentions are made or muddied, the world turns and gravity holds us in position. Reinvention is the mother necessary to change that position.

six numbers = ?

Wisdom 101.i

2007-09-19T08:33:00.000-07:00

"Most of the world's ills, it seemed to him, were caused by men who believed themselves important: on a good day it always ended in tears, on a bad day in global destruction. Oliver was not a man to start a war or provoke pestilence: his icons were the makers of music, the tellers of tales, the clowns and the balladeers, and all who celebrated life's footnotes, appendices and afterthoughts."

Alan Plater, Oliver's Travels, Little Brown, London, 1994, p. 2

Self-Help and the Pregnant Pause

2007-09-19T07:15:00.000-07:00

I like to think I can sort myself out. I keep thinking that if there is a question there must be an answer. Why do I think this ? Is there any evidence that suggests that resolution of our problems is imminent ? Or is it an inbuilt sense of boundless optimism resonant with the promise of Micawberesque possibilities that something will turn up. It is not simply a choice of option between the glass being half-full or half-empty because in other areas of my existence I display a fairly healthy dose of outright scepticism (if not cynicism).

Therefore I ask myself why do I purchase diet books or exercise books. Books on Yoga or Runes or Native American Medicine. Why are there boxes of cards supposedly to encourage creativity or to find one's soul or to encounter the truths of buddhism or meditation. Could it be the frantic graspings of a control freak coming to terms with not being in control of anything, particularly of his own surroundings. Self- help has come a long way since Samuel Smiles in 1882 advocated fine old values such as hard work and moral improvement. Self-Help as a marketing and publishing style has entered the new age of the individual far from the needs of societal enhancement. Perhaps when the day dawns that shows these two elements need to be reconnected will be when the world starts to be a better place. In the days when Church and State mattered to individuals in the sense that Life and Death matter self-help could rather simplistically be viewed as the Bible as the instruction book for those generations who chose it. And equally so every other Religion had their equivalents (with equal certainty and the power to enforce it).

In a way the modern concept of self-help is definitely more peaceful but it sows in its individualism the seeds of its own ineffectuality. In terms both of a more fractured philosophy of existence and in the disparate attitudes shown to global problems. If only one factor should intrude upon an individualistic autonomy of life it must be that of ecological stewardship. Self-help in a post Mad-Max world will be about self-preservation if the environmentalists cannot get their messages across. In a pregnant pause between thinking of a possible disaster and that catastrophe being pushed upon our grandchildren we need to create and nurture an unself-help that can save the world. It may be as simple as recycling and composting to begin with but voices need to be raised. In that pregnant pause before the birth of the idea whilst people are thinking - that is the time for one's self to provide the answer.

The Face that launched....

2007-09-19T06:15:00.000-07:00

Keeping a Journal

2007-09-19T04:10:00.000-07:00

When I was small I would be given a diary and for a few days or weeks I would write in it everything I did ; that is until I got bored with it and it became a chore. When I was fit and active (before this mysterious extra four stones appeared around my body like a cellulite rings of Saturn [Faturn]) I religiously kept a running log. And I mean religiously. Times were recorded to the minute, second, tenths, hundredths. What shoes were worn was recorded with the distance run for each pair (so if a pair dropped to bits you could compare performance). A subjective measuring of effort was noted as was the weather or any other data which might prove useful in gauging training for an event or analysing an injury.

Even when the running began to slacken off - I haven't given up - the running log has subtly changed its style and its relevance. It is a blending of what has been called in the past a "Commonplace" book - collecting quotations and reviews of books or television, a journal - where intimate thoughts (or not) are expressed, and an artist's ideas book. Postcards and images are kept. Random thoughts are preserved. It functions as a confidant, as an audience, as a trigger, as a resource for future writing, as a listing, as a repository for useless (and useful) information. It is an aid in understanding how I think and feel and act and make decisions and solve problems.

It is a form of presentation that is becoming far more widely used - from my daughters' school giving her a homework logbook to a Project Management tool to the online versions of the same. The Blogging generation with all the new found flexibility that technology can give are but an offshoot of this desire. Although I use this blog for many of the same purposes I do so in reference to my Journal. However the Journal is also Art in the sense of its objectival value. As a construct with aesthetic meaning that book form fits into a tradition that so far technology has not dimmed. As in the predictions that have been made saying that the Book is dead - the Screen Supreme - it has not happened. Francis Fukuyama's "End of History" has not happened. For many of us the book is an object to be treasured and touched. Indeed, even the smell of a new book (especially a glossy coffee table book)- the opening of a crisp new notebook to write in with its promising potential; these conjure up an image that encapsulates newness and freshness and the hint of a knowledge somehow sensually to be possessed and enjoyed. Imagine those Venn diagrams from early mathematics classes - the circles that overlapped creating sets and subsets. If the circles are "Me" , "Us" , "Them" , that section which contains all of those is the Journal. That is a position I try to keep it in.

To be creatively continuing

2007-09-18T04:11:00.001-07:00

So I tell myself it is all about Process and not simply Production. Creativity is found in the unlikeliest places and not necessarily at the times when one is searching for it. "Being an artist" (and I admit I am only guessing) - a professional artist - is an occupation. It is not stereotypically as pictured ; the bearded emaciated figure high in his Parisian garrett waiting for inspiration to strike him. Writing has a similar romantic image but Terry Pratchett as a writer tries to produce a certain number of words per day and for the artist there needs to be a similar sense of discipline. Robert Genn's letters on "The Painters Keys" website illustrate this perfectly. (see http://www.painterskeys.com/ ). What is needed is a product that ideally will bring joy both to the creator and to the purchaser.

Within the process there are millions of traps to ensure that production is sidetracked. Reference books become more interesting than actually painting. The decision on the subject matter leads to a mindless doodling - usually into what is described, by myself, as "an abstract format" but by my intrigued daughter as bubbles or rocks or fingerprints. (That is three different styles I happen to use ; not one unrecognisable one.) Sometimes I simply tidy my art boxes out or reorganize my workstation. Is this art or creativity or I am still in "a building stage" and I will burst into profligate artistic nirvana any day now. Part of the problem lies in the act of possession.

I like to be ABLE to do something if I wanted. If I want to paint or draw or carve I can. I have the tools and the materials I have collected. They are waiting. With regard to subject matter I have collected cuttings from magazines - faces, eyes, images which shock and surprise, ideas that other artists have used which I admire, photogaphs which range from the iconic to the bizarre. I am intrigued by masks, by the concepts of individuality and identity, by the spiritual nature of everything from running to worshipping the sun. I like to possess the information to learn and to harvest that knowledge any time I choose in order to create something new. So far I realise I have created a library and an archive but as for creativity I believe that is somewhere within. I hope this blog may help me to think out loud and turning that churning morrass of ideas and instincts and intentions, that intensity of feeling into some artwork profoundly purposeful and poignant. The question is how to manufacture Creativity.

Making a Mark

2007-09-14T07:45:00.000-07:00

Back in 1976 I took Art A level. I got an A. The examination consisted of a written paper on Architecture and three practicals in Life drawing, plant drawing, and a still life. Due to the fact that a practical examination lasting three hours would not give the examinee time to finish his work to an acceptable level it was figured that he would complete a small section to illustrate how it would have been done had he had more time.

It is now 2007 and I am 49 and I still have not finished one single drawing or painting I am happy with. Correction - if I am unhappy with it I throw it away long before it could ever be finished.

Why ? I admit I am a perfectionist. I admit I have a lazy streak. I admit my mind would rarely stay still long enough to finish a drawing. To finish any art. I admit to a flexible outlook that allows me to lower my expectations. I admit that I collect all the materials but then have no idea what subject to draw. I know what I don't want to draw. Is this a start. On one project at A level I remember I decided to create a pointillist poster of Laurence Olivier as Othello holding the incriminating handkerchief in front of Desdemona (Maggie Smith). It was A1 size. As time progressed I realised it was so slow A1 was Optimistic to say the least. It is now in a frame at home (unfinished) A5 with only Othello's face drawn. The idea was fine but the implementation was slow and basically, lost.

However I feel like I want to be creative; to draw, paint, carve, sculpt, design.
To be Continued.

Imagined Worlds

2007-09-14T06:47:00.000-07:00

It has long been a criticism of the Science Fiction fraternity - the readers of it - that they admire this genre because of its escapist leanings (and, of course a real proclivity for dressing up and living the part - the Tolkien afficionado who speaks elvish or the Star Trekkie with his Vulcan pointed ears or his Klingon body armour). Science Fiction and the Fantasy genre has grown up. Perhaps it is even approaching respectability. The literary critics, those guardians of the canon can now not only place Tolkien in the 1940s and Star Trek in the 1960s/70s but can historically allocate many other writers and their works to a position in which other texts of the literature and the visual arts can now relate. It is possible to make the connection that these works can be seen as both indicative and illuminating of the environment in and out of which they were produced.

The imagined world is a difficult place novelistically to construct. Often requiring epic lengths to create the necessary detail yet in that obsessive delineation of minutiae they risk losing the reader. John Norman's Gor books spend so long advocating the misaligned nature of male and female that it begins to read like the fantasy of a hen-pecked husband. The words "pleasure-slave" do little to enhance the feminist ideology which obviously seemed to threaten the author. Another perhaps more endearing methodology of imagined creationism is to allow each volume to stand on its own but to cohere to an overall universality of design. The Discworld concept in its shadowing of the real world has the power to find humour in both worlds. Thematically this can run for as long as Terry Pratchett can still find targets that amuse him. Jasper Fforde aims at the even more self-referential vision of literature, both classic and popular. It helps to have read Jane Eyre but his first book entitled "The Eyre Affair" works well without it. Classic patterms of literary development still function in this genre Girl meets Boy. Girl loses Boy. Girl gets boy back but only, it turns out, due to Thursday Next. Christopher Booker's "Seven Basic Plots" are as inspirational to the beginning writer as Joseph Campbell's "Hero with a Thousand Faces" was to George Lucas's Star Wars dream. For Fforde the pages of literature are ripe for the talents of a revisionist literary detective searching for her lost love.

Likewise Malcolm Pryce's Aberystwyth novels or Roy Clarke's Last of the Summer Wine, Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast or Christine Feehan's Carpathians they all convey in a microcosm the universe as their author sees it or would want others to see it. The popularity of each work further emphasizing that many other participants see it the same way. The accusations of escapism only block off an imaginative entry into these worlds - to see the honour in a work by the late great David Gemmell ; fighting against despair because it must be done - to see faith and loyalty in the words of James Barclay. The response of the reader to these works - to these worlds - is more than is termed a demeaningly described suspension of disbelief - it is a true spiritualised belief far from the religiose demands of compulsion - but not in broadswords and elvish heroes but in a humanistic capacity to improve and grow. Of course the book ends and the reader wends his weary way back to his life but inside him that affiliation to those higher qualities is still there and it only needs some trigger to harness it. We know we will be unlikely to face these heroic types of choices but we are shown the way. And we know the way. Read the instruction book carefully......

Afterthought...
The Pern books of Anne McCaffrey demonstrate this breadth of interest very clearly. From the original settlers decision to leave a crowded and strife-riven home planet to designing a system of government and opening up a new world with all its attendant crises. Where would one park one's dragon ?

Interpretation and Post-modernism

2007-09-13T06:27:00.000-07:00

At school we learned things.
What we were taught was considered to be true.
After compulsory education, you were in the growing-up phase where you did things.
Just like I believed that the bible was the word of God so did I read about Boadicea (as she was then named), about German aggression and how the Empire was a civilising thing. I believed in fairness, truth and justice. I believed in elders and betters.

The world was never like this. Why was I lied to ? Why was my education inextricably intertwined with an ideology I now recognise as not just untrue but obviously untrue and patronisingly simplistic. Nobody told me this but now I see the glimmerings of the doubts beginning to appear. Approaching A-levels I remember how essay writing began to involve the use of the word "perhaps" and how one was encouraged to offer the differing sides of the argument. One still had to use that pompous tone of official authority but in hindsight the cracks were starting to appear. My history teacher told me that no-one needed to know the date of the battle of Waterloo and that History, as a subject, taught an individual to learn to think. Similarly, years later, at an Open University Summer School reading King Lear and the Literary Critics the varying interpretations of the text were offered and rather than judgmentally deciding that one was right and the others wrong I learnt to recognise differing degrees of "Rightness".

Although I make, even now, no pretence to either wisdom or knowledge, I can see in a text (whether it be news documentary, film, or book) the meanings that exist. Not a single meaning but many. The quality of that text is assessed by the accuracy or the emotional response engendered in the work. It is judged by the depth of its presentational awareness and by its avoidance of the banal, the sensational or the dogmatic. Truth is not a single authority nor can opinion be cast as fact. The truth of the fossil record destroys the basis of Genesis but the bible and its believers do tell of power, propaganda, misinformation and manipulation. The bible describes the voice of man rather than the word of God. The organised church, indeed all religions tell of governance and the belief that wanes as humanity both asserts itself and searches for comfort in an alienating, marginalised world.

As an individual I value my capacity to think and dislike it when it is assumed that I will routinely follow a pre-ordained path. I wish to choose my own direction and to power that search not with a cause that I will inflict on anyone else but out of a natural curiosity to find the option which I want to keep. I suspect that the answer to contentment lies in a blending of a multiplicity of skills, talents and thinking. I believe the first step on that search is to satisfy an individual's curiosity to create. The answer starts in that Creativity. And that creativity stems from.........

In the beginning

2007-09-07T07:44:00.000-07:00

In the beginning -

There was not the word, there was not a bang, there was certainly no flash photography - there was probably only silence.

These thoughts are about Creativity, about Art and Culture, about Interpretation and Interrogation. It is about answering questions and questioning answers. It is about the narratives of Vermeer or the shadows of Rembrandt; the crow-dark imagery of Ted Hughes and the imagined worlds of Pratchett and Fforde.