Monthly Archives: July 2011
Essex skies, so dubbed by John Fowles, via Ken Worpole’s V&A Memory Map.
Worpole describes Essex as a county that fills up every time the tide comes in.
They have it right.
Ran the dog today as per every morning. I am no longer running myself on account of the winter chest that has returned in the excuse for summer, perhaps next month…
It is grey and chilly but the children still wanted to go to the playground – Dogs Not Allowed – so after a drink Rudi went into the backseat of the car with the windows opened, for air.
As we walked away I heard the most ear-splitting and soulful howling; unmistakeably Rudi protesting about being left behind. I know how he feels.
This song was on the radio whilst I was typing. I had this album in my teens, it was always unfashionable, but I’ll make no apologies for that.
S’pose it’s the height of laziness to reblog your own post.
Note to Self: Fuck It & Live Life Like Frankel?
Tickets on sale now. Pity I have the flying phobia.
via AIRLINE ROUTE
This will be the last post on this subject as it is too horrific and exhausting to continually engage with.
It is reported that Breivik’s lawyer, Geir Lippestad has said that he believes his client is insane. For the record, what Lippestad said is,”This whole case indicated that he is insane.” And that is the difficulty. How to separate, in retrospect, the man Breivik from his mission. And not just the man, but the man’s mind.
Once you know what horror he has perpetrated, which in my mind, Lippestad’s mind, is insane beyond belief, how can you say he is not mad? And if you are the lawyer, holed up with a mass murderer for hours listening to an individual, alternate reality wherein we are just behind in our thinking by about 60 years and by then Breivik’s actions as part of wider war will be understood, how could you not doubt the man’s sanity. Because if Lippestad did not doubt that Breivik’s whole thinking was insane, then where an earth would that leave him. A plea of insanity, which Breivik has not made, is inversely a plea for his lawyer’s sanity.
How do beliefs, realities and narratives combine to inform a true madness? Can you really retrospectively judge the mind that planned the insane and murderous action for years beforehand? Do you just judge the act in isolation or the person after it? If someone acted alone, with no group to sponsor the atrocity does that make it more a terrorist act and less mad? Where are the lines drawn?
I am back now to where they started the debate on the Today programme I think. Are we culturally more inclined to dismiss a white loner as a madman than an Islam fundamentalist? Take Richard Reid the thankfully failed shoe bomber; he acted alone, but he had trained in a terror camp in Afghanistan; that connection rendering him more sane than Breivik at least in the view of the Western World. More answers than questions here I am afraid, but insanity as a label because we cannot conceive of another’s beliefs, let alone actions, means we learn little about others and even less about ourselves.
A note about this blog. It is merely a thinking aloud. I am driven to make my internal home through language and when I type it, it is like building with stones, balancing them awkwardly on top of one another with gaps that cold draughts blow through. If others want to read, then they are welcome to rest with me awhile before returning to their own, hopefully cosier, home. If in their reading they want to add their own thoughts, all good. But my thoughts here are a process, not a product, and some of my posts are wildly unpolished for that reason.
There was a discussion this morning on the Today programme about whether it would be wiser, better? (I never quite got a handle on it) to attribute the atrocities of Anders Behring Breivik to someone in the grip of madness, or as the actions of a terrorist seeking to promote a political ideology (albeit his own) in the most gruesome and abhorrent way.
There is no one answer to the question posed this morning; as with most things in life extreme (insane if you wish) behaviour can occur in the rich conjunction of potent internal and external narratives. Evidentially, one might suggest Breivik’s internal narrative consisted of being a lone warrior figure, but did this self-characterisation exist before his story met the external narrative of wider racial, religious and political intolerance? Did it develop that way because he came across an external story that fitted his internal view of himself and his place in the world.
I can believe as many things as I like in my mind but if I never express them and function in a ‘normal’ way I will never be adjudged mad. If I begin to share some of my personal narrative and it does not fit with the majority view, the more socially acceptable view, or just the dominant view, I may be on shifting sands mentally because my internal reality is invalidated.
At this point, I may or may not reach for an external narrative that will bolster, or chime with my own shaky internal one. Something that is so much easier with the Internet at our fingers. Or I might create a new narrative for myself, something more publically palatable. But where does the old one go? For you cannot kill a good story as the Murdochs could attest.
And I can quietly find people who agree with me to help me out if I am aware I have a minority view of myself, or the world. A silly example: if I tell someone at work, in passing, that I believe that I am the reincarnation of Queen Elizabeth I, then they may ask questions about my right-mindedness. But I don’t and I don’t. If I did, then I could go home and privately while away hours on the web finding people who are into reincarnation and who would probably affirm my belief. Is that mad? Or a harmless eccentricity? The latter presumably, unless I become more forthright in my beliefs and seek to impose them on a world that doesn’t share my view. Insight is a key theme in the diagnosis of a psychosis, but sometimes insight does not help, it can be akin to a newsreader you don’t like broadcasting your own narrative – your news, to you – block your ears, close your eyes, switch the channel.
Can thoughts really be mad, unless they drive the thinker mad, or are expressed in behaviour or output that does not fit with society’s ideals or ideas for palatable consumption? I can be as crazy as I like and no-one will know, or care much, if I do it quietly.
But is that the madness under discussion this morning? If there is no expression of it in thought, word or deed, how can we say it is madness, in truth. I have met people, in mental health settings, who, with perfect equanimity, would announce that they thought I should bath in curry powder with hi-fi speakers, or that a dog was their brother. On the other hand, I have met people in incoherent deep pain who only express a coherent version of such. Both types are equally recognised in the mental health system, both offered chemical cudgels to ease their brains, or their pains and the distinction in their manners given a differential diagnosis so we know. We know this one has this and this one has that and from time to time we might lock them up when they become a danger to themselves or others.
And that is where the madness we fear and that reared its many-headed Hydra in the debate this morning makes its intractable entrance. A mad woman mumbling on a street corner, or shouting at the moon is a personal tragedy perhaps, but of no especial interest. A casualty of life. It is when narratives collide, and a madness is acted out violently that we are forced to take notice.
Even then, you might point out that if that howling at the moon is a song that can be sold and sung along to, or a painting that can be bought, hung and admired, then, that’s ok, that is the creative genius.
My own view is one of damage. We are all damaged, we are all undamaged, but it is the story of the damage or undamage that we tell ourselves that matters the most, not what was done, undone or never done. Perhaps the most pernicious damage is one where the story is untold, only hinted at and never given the opportunity for the chapter’s ending. Because that kind of story cannot have a conclusion, it can only exist as news, and at anytime it might become the headline in your head if that disembodied broadcaster decides to make it so. You have lost control of your own narrative. That might be one of my views of what some might call madness.
The horror of events in Norway make me think perhaps it is when our personal narratives collide and meld with socio-political narratives that we can become the most force for good, or something else. How that country chooses to frame and express this tragic story may partly define its socio-political future.
I am not sure personal madness comes into it until the cogent narrative self is completely subsumed and in the case of Breivik, appearances would suggest that it has very much not.
If you look at a word long enough it can start to look strange, alien even. I only need to glance briefly over the words poet, poem or poetry for them to start to look very discombobulated indeed. And then, for some stranger reason, I can only recalibrate my brain by thinking about Winnie the Pooh who also says something about the word poem, but I am sure has the letters in the wrong order. I am hoping for an explication of this phenomenon from the Winnie the Pooh expert after she has finished ambulance duties for the day.
Which is all a rather long preamble to what I originally intended to say which was this. Amy Winehouse was a lyrical poet and that’s why, as my friend Jamie has observed, all her words have meaning. Not every artist can do this: expose their own feelings directly in the work. Does the authenticity of this process take more out of them, or was the taking out of them already done. I don’t know, but I do know this is a heartbreak of a song to listen to and a very fine lyric poem.
On days like these when it should be a little warmer than it feels, a little kinder than is evident, a little less painful to hear the news; these are the days when I force myself to type a few words, if only to take refuge in the temporary comfort of the keyboard’s repetitive depressions, accompanied by the familiar clicks of the letters being arranged into a small meaning for the day. An existential activity, like many others, and a little harder but more necessary on days like these.
Write about Freud perhaps: all pain is loss, remembered and unremembered… The perpetual artistic discharge of that unknown void only squaring and cubing it in the case of Amy Winehouse who could only sing loss and pain to us, through, and about, thick layers of suffocation with analgesia. That particular road is No Entry for me today; it has no streetlights, and no bright sun or moon to light a way – I would simply be lost. I will make the journey another day. But make it I will. One step after another is all it takes after all, but the context is as yet unclear: an expedition, a pilgrimage, a maze…
Instead, back to Lucian and his friend, William Feaver’s appreciation in today’s Observer. Seems when I wrote about Freud’s landscapes I was seeing not only what I fancied, but what the artist intended.
About 10 years ago we went to Paris together to look at a Constable show. We both loved his portraits and were somehow trying to help lose, or shake off, the Constable that everyone knows. People tend to say that Constable was a boring English artist, but he was extraordinary in that he treated landscapes and portraits as if they were the same thing. This is what Lucian felt an artist should do. When it came to talking about art, Lucian was incredibly focused, and incredibly open-minded. His favourite word was “promising…
…He believed all his paintings were a kind of self-portrait. “They are all autobiography,” he would say. When I look at his work, however, I see his strange way of approaching things: slightly from the side, slightly awkwardly, but deliberately so, not cack-handedly so. When he was painting, at the point where you or I would probably say to ourselves: “OK. Stop. Leave it now,” Lucian would press on. Sometimes he did this to disastrous effect, but often not. His work, I would say, does not reproduce very well and that is often true of the work of a really great artist. However, when you actually see one of his paintings in front of you the impact is extraordinary. And that impact is him.
I know Freud will be described as the leading exponent of realist portraiture as the media pay tribute to his work in the light of his death, but if you look at his output, and some don’t really like to because much of his work requires bravery and honesty in the viewer, you may see what I do.
I see folds and shadows, valleys and mountains of flesh. I see rivers of veins in moonlight, bands of coloured estuarine sands in the sun giving way to dark deltas. And I have glimpses of the subjects’ inner landscapes as the eye is challenged to look, yes look, at demanding mounds of unruly skin eons away from the bland aesthetic of current consumer culture and I am forced to feel something, and to think.
Lucian Freud, the grandson of Sigmund Freud, and brother of Clement, shared with his grandfather the ability to offer a representation of people’s minds, and with his brother he shared a love of The Lowlife: dogs, horses and gamblings. His life was unconventional, hardly surprisingly.
To paint people in all their uncompromising truth and beauty, as he did, it is unlikely you would live as a satisfactorily domesticated subject with another for any great length of time.