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Thursday January 3rd, 2008
Men & Women (1060 words)
Beneath these words- part of a letter I received from Miss Jamie Sue Austin,
a talented writer & original thinker with a keen sense of humour
whose letters are always a delight. I had said something about my not
wishing my twenty year old self on a twenty year old daughter of mine;
despite Jamie Sue's answer being tongue-in-cheek I am inspired by her
thoughts to disagree in no uncertain terms! (~below Jamie’s
letter)
I suppose you, like so many other
men, assume you will age like wine while the women around you age like
milk. It’s more than a bit sexist: Paul, you could do the same
thing with a forty-five year old woman [Paul’s note- 45: my age]
as you would a younger one. The basic physiology being the same
regardless of gravity’s effects.
Twenty year old boys teach twenty year
old girls the virtue of patience and help grow them up properly into
self-sacrificing martyrs. Otherwise, women might go their whole lives
not knowing what unbridled selfishness looks like and never be fully
aware that it is their place in life to give the very essence of their
youth to every pursuit but their own. We couldn’t have that could
we now? After all, if a woman is not sufficiently wrinkled, dried
up, tired, broken, and miserable by the age of forty-five then she
obviously was not giving enough.
In fact, I’ve decided that once
I turn forty-five I will have myself put down like a gimp mare so as to
spare the world my crow’s feet and soured face. They can
take my sagging corpse to a knacker’s yard and turn me into
premium false-eyelash glue.
I’m poking fun at you, of
course. I just find it amusing that many men assume (or
confidently believe) they will grow old gracefully, remain dynamic and
interesting… and despite their greying hair, balding scalps,
expanding stomachs, dragging balls, creaking hips, bum knees, and
broken backs… women will always be in awe of their virility
(even if it comes in little blue pills).
If women had the same inherent self
confidence, the make-up and fashion industries would crumble, birth
rates would plummet, more than a few governments would topple, and men
everywhere would find themselves in serious want of a lay. It’s
amazing how much of the world dynamic is driven by women’s lack
of confidence and fear of getting old.
I would agree unreservedly with everything you say,
Jamie Sue, if I didn’t think you start with a false premise: the
confidence of which you speak has nothing to do with our believing in
our continued attractiveness or virility into old age. As Bertrand
Russel said: “Women have us at a disadvantage because where we
fall in love with appearance, they fall in love with
character.”
I read the results of an interesting study that took
the simple form of asking men & then women, what each felt was the
most attractive aspect of the other gender. I don’t remember the
exact statistical results but they went something like this: A majority
of men answered: “The bum” then: “Breasts”
after breasts, legs &, perhaps more sensitively: “A
woman’s face”. The majority of women answered: “The
way he walks.” As symbolic psychology I read this result not as
women being turned on by visual prancing but rather the basic
confidence a walk reflects. A man who walks with his head high &
weight on feet (that point forward), gives an image of greater
self-esteem & strength than a head lowered, pigeon-toed &
cautious walk.
Women have the advantage (greater power) while young
but lose it as they grow older-- more readily than men-- for these
reasons. Women are moved sexually by romance novels while men are
excited by visual stimuli like photographs of alluring women (showing
once & for all that men have more imagination! Joking, just
joking...). Imagine this situation: a man, an average man, is sitting
all by himself in a lonely coin laundry waiting for the machines when
in walks Jessica Alba like a spring breeze. She doesn’t hesitate
but stops just before him & pulls off her little cotton dress to
reveal she wears nothing else… she smells of Jasmine, her eyes
are dilated, her cheeks- red, & she looks at the average man with
vulnerable but unconcealed desire…
Most average men, however sincerely in-love &
fulfilled as they may be with their mates, would not hesitate to decide
this was a dream come true. Now reverse the situation- however
attractive the man, the average girl who sits alone in the laundry will
feel offended on principle & won’t be compelled by the same
sexual attraction for the stranger as she might if he were fully
clothed & smiled a charming & sensitive smile (think Jude Law)
at her from the other end of the laundry.
It’s amazing how much of the world dynamic is driven by women’s lack of confidence and fear of getting old.
by men’s competition with other men to have the more attractive
woman according- largely & unfortunately, to men's biological
desires & what women react to.
I once saw a billboard advertisement of a beautiful
young woman in a bikini on the other side of the tracks of the subway
in London. It was an advertisement selling beer or sporting car-tires
or something equally masculine. Someone had risked her (presumably)
life crossing the electrified tracks to spray-paint the words: THIS
EXPLOITS WOMEN. I realised in that moment: It doesn't exploit women, it
exploits men by convincing them to buy one beer instead of another by
titillating their biological urges with a photograph of a very
expensive model.
So while an unintelligent, uninteresting but beautiful
young lady can turn an intelligent & powerful man into an idiot, so
can a beautiful young lady fall sincerely in love with the strength of
character & power (1)
of a man no longer in his sexual prime, or simply: not sexually
attractive in a physical sense- he is still a good nest-provider (&
smart young ladies know older men are best!) I think about fifteen
years difference makes the right balance (Like Nick Nolte & Julia
Roberts in that silly film- I Love Trouble, though with his
beautiful blue eyes, boy's smile & good hair one wouldn't guess it
is actually 26 years that separates them).
(1) Power comes in many forms like Vin Diesel or Tony Soprano or Bill Gates
or Albert Einstein Return
P.S. There is more at work against women’s (& men’s) physical attractiveness than
mere gravity!
16th of January:
Not surprisingly, I have had some
disagreement voiced over the thoughts in this article- Doreen Dori
writes from Israel with the argument that men peak sexually at eighteen
while women don't until the mid-forties (really? Mid-forties? Is that
true?) I'm not sure if by this she is
suggesting the most viable base for a healthy relationship is sexual
& if she is further suggesting that eighteen year old boys would be
best off with middle-aged women but there you have it...
While an old friend of mine says
she agrees with me: she also would not wish my twenty year old self on
a hypothetical daughter of her own but neither would she recommend my
present, 45 year old, self to her; to which the only answer I could
think of was laughter! So let me clarify: what I said about the ideal
age difference between men & women was meant tongue-in-cheek,
speaking as I was, from the Paul who is a chemical robot motivated by
biology instead of intellect & who cannot help being attracted to
women of the same age as he was fifteen years ago.
Wednesday January 2nd, 2008
Tuesday December 25th, 2007 Merry Christmas!
Girls: come closer & I’ll tell you a secret about men (630 words)
I guess by now everyone knows that, to an extent at
least, we humans are chemical automata. Indeed, it is difficult to
believe how recent the scientific knowledge is (mid-twentieth century).
The surge of Oxytocin a mother experiences upon seeing her baby for the
first time binds her emotionally to it; though it feel like nothing
more than an objective experience of mother’s love. Serotonin
accompanies romantic love & Dopamine: passionate.
In a short few years we have developed all kinds of
subtle, thought, mood & personality adjusters that can make the
clinically depressed see the bright side, the schizophrenic take a
break from their tortured paranoia.
These chemicals are the couriers for attitude adjustment dictated by our biological ethos*,
based on the will all living things have to reproduce/replicate. So we
have a clear link between biological mandate, or impetus, &
psychology, or more precisely: what we think (or what we think we
think!).
The zoologist, Desmond Morris, wrote in one of his many
excellent books: Why are human females the only mammals with
hemispherical mammaries? All mammals have pendulant, conical or tubular
breasts with which to feed their young, all except women. It is
sometimes difficult for the human baby to find the nipple &,
apparently, there is even danger of its suffocating while trying to
feed at its mother’s breast. Morris answers with: We are among
the very few mammals that make love face to face & so evolution has
titillated men with the view of a décolletage as substitute for
the primordial bum that would have been the call to sex for males from
before the time we stood upright.
If you agree with me so far I think you will find the
consequent conclusion logical, i.e.- The fundamental difference between
the psychology of male & female Homo
Sapiens is based on the biological fact that men create 250,000 seed a
day while women have just one precious egg a month… 12 a year,
about 500 between puberty & menopause; compared to 5 billion
spermatozoa... for a life-time total ratio of 10 million to 1.
In this world of finishing schools abolished in the
name of feminism & egalitarianism, the women of the last two or
three generations, have forgotten the feminine arts & men have
forgotten the pleasures of being manipulated by them.
Here is the secret girls: When a man falls in love with you & no matter how well you trust him, never let him know you are entirely his
& he will happily chase you the rest of your life trying to conquer
you definitively. But if he ever feels perfectly safe, in possession of
you, he cannot help the nature of the beast who will look over your
shoulder as he hugs you- for the conquest of a more attractive
alternative.
I saw an interview with Marcello Mastroianni not long
before he died where the interlocutor asked: As a famous Latin-Lover,
would you say you have seduced, or been seduced more often? Marcello
shook his head with a low chuckle & answered: No, it is always
& in all cases, the woman who seduces. So don’t lie to your
man, don’t cheat on him, but do use the feminine arts to keep
seducing him forever.
If you think this sounds like an insincere or even
cynical way of approaching a relationship I would beg to differ- it is
as romantic as putting on make-up & as honest as remembering to say
why you love him -- even after you have to trudge through the mud of
mundanity together, instead of staring pie-eyed in the face of the
mystery you imbue with meaning by projecting your desires on to his
clean-shaven, well-dressed, lust-filled & attentive first date.
* ...& similar chemicals for all flora, fauna, bacteria, Archaea, Eukaryota, fungi… Return...
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Saturday December 22nd, 2007
Catholic Spain (1240 words)
In 1492, the same year Ferdinand & Isabel sent
Columbus to sail the ocean blue, the Catholic Kings, as they are
affectionately known here in Spain, also finished expelling the last
Jews. Actually, they weren’t all expelled- the
‘conversos’ who denied their religion & culture, who
traded olive oil for lard, kosher for pork, Sabbath for high Mass, were
allowed to stay. I guess that sounds like it makes the first statement
true: all Jews were expelled leaving only those who were no longer
Jewish, but in-fact many who stayed remained Jewish in their hearts
& secretly brought their children up Jewish.
As an aside, because this essay is not about those
Jews, being Jewish, or even Fernando & Isabela: I remember reading
in the fifth volume (if I remember correctly- the Renaissance tome) of
that most charming of historians, Will Durant’s, History of
Civilization-- that like the Parsee in Persia (the followers of
Zoroaster)-- the Spanish Jews took to ships & tried to find a new
home. They sailed from the South of Spain across the Mediterranean to
the Atlantic Ocean but weren’t allowed to disembark in Portugal*.
They went on to the Bay of Biscay but weren’t welcomed in France
either. Britain also turned them away but in Holland (the Low
Lands) they were given berth. Durant concludes: from that point on,
Spain goes downhill while Holland goes up (Spinoza, whose original
Spanish name was- Espinoza, was one of them).
The Jews weren’t the only victims of the
Christian God’s representatives. After centuries of struggle it
was the Catholic Kings who finally vanquished the last Moorish
stronghold & signed a treaty of surrender that allowed King Boabdil
(who had been so very tolerant of the Christian fundamentalists’
insults to Islam in his Kingdom) & a limited number of his people to live in a certain area around Granada- forever. They
waited two weeks until they felt their power was consolidated &
then threw Boabdil out too (but not the treaty- I have read it). There
is a spot on the route followed by Boabdil & his retinue between
Granada & the sea where the king turned from the last vantage point
to see his beloved Granada, the fecund jewel of the Moorish kingdom
(the abundance of fresh water supplied by the snow capped peaks of the
Sierra Nevada, literally: 'snowed mountain range'). The spot has been
called: El Suspiro del Moro,
The Moor’s Sigh, ever since. Worse was in store for him when he
got home: having forfeited a 9 centuries-old kingdom, he cried
disconsolately for his loss & shame, prompting his mother to
remark: Cry like a woman for that which you weren’t able to
defend like a man!”
The Catholic Kings went on to a distinguished career
as, possibly, the cruellest religious despots in history, or at least-
they laid the groundwork for four centuries of atrocities carried out
in the name of their benevolent & forgiving God. The Holy Christian
Crusades crossed the sea to ‘re'capture Jerusalem from the
infidels & were followed by the ‘Conquistadores’
('conquerors'), Cortes & Pizarro, among others, who crossed the
ocean & managed to wipe off the face of the earth two old cultures,
8 million people, in three years,** even though they had already stolen-- by right of arms-- all the gold in the country.
After Atahualpa had successfully filled one room with
gold & two with silver in exchange of his freedom, Pizarro decided
to kill him anyway- his grounds? He merited execution because he was an
infidel. Atahualpa baulked at being burned alive, because he believed
if he were, he would have no afterlife. The priest (Pizarro’s
partner) offered an exquisitely ironic redemption: if Atahualpa
converted to Christianity he would be allowed to die garrotted instead
of burnt. Ironic on the one hand because when he converted to
Christianity the charges against him as infidel no longer held & on
the other, because his conversion to the Christian creed was motivated
by a belief in a different religion.
Pizarro & the priest offered this option only in
the hopes that the Inca would all convert once the king had, &
could therefore be governed more easily. Instead, the Inca turned to
the new king & were, shortly after, dispatched by uncommonly
efficient, cold-blooded murder.
Most of the Gold came to Spain only to be spent in
Holland (which belonged to Spain through most of the 16 & 17th
centuries) where it stayed.
Then there was the Sainted Inquisition who held brutal
& corrupt political sway well into the nineteenth century. I
bought, at auction in Madrid, an eighteenth century book (published by
the offices of the Inquisition in wood-block instead of moveable type***) that describes in detail how to torture Jews in order to save their souls.
What a religious history! Spain’s church make the most vengeful Greek God seem harmless fluff…
I also have a photograph of a church in a small town in
Spain near which I once lived. It wasn’t a photo of the
unremarkable church however, but of the tiles near the main entrance
painted with Christ floating above the words: This church was rebuilt
in 1936 after the Marxist hordes destroyed it. The ‘Marxist
hordes’ refers to the Spanish Republicans who lost the civil war
to the dictator- Franco. Once Franco was in power he had the children
taught, in Catholic schools, that these very bad men & the cruelty
both excused & imposed by the Church, were actually good men doing
the right thing. So, right up to the end of the twentieth century Spain
has had a violent & corrupt church.
How does today’s Spaniard feel about his
Catholicism? I read of a census that was taken just a few years ago
that claimed 76% of Spanish people were Catholic. But when the
researchers went on to ask questions about the religion, its moral
infrastructure & tenets, they found that the answers given only
qualified 19% as actually Catholic. But more impressive than that, I
would say, is the way Spanish people swear. I am not even talking about
the vulgar swearing one doesn’t say in front of children, but
common swearing when one drops a hammer on his foot or sips coffee that
is too hot; in front of children, on television... Are you ready?
Please don’t read on if you will be offended- Me cago en la cara de Dios & la Puta Madre que le parió! Or-
I shit on the face of God & the whore mother who bore him…!
Can someone capable of saying that really be God-fearing?
I think the tradition is deep but in their hearts they are cynical.
* actually some
did cross into Portugal by land but they & the others already
there, were treated even more brutally a few years later as Ferdinand
& Isabel's Catholisism gained in power & spread its influence. Return
** in a
world that probably held fewer than a billion people, each culture
largely isolated from the others, meaning: it makes ‘8
million’ people an even more outrageous number if the people that
any single culture might be aware of at that time could probably be
measured in the tens of millions. Return
***
Wood-block printing only allows small editions as the blocks quickly
wear out; this book was not meant for the pleasure of the reading
public (in France Voltaire was leading the age of Enlightenment at the
around the same time) but rather the spiritual edification &
practical instruction of priest/torturers. When I hold it in my hands I
wonder at whose bloody fingers turned its leaves in its 200+ years... Return
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Tuesday December 12th, 2007
ART IS KNOWING WHEN TO STOP.
Tuesday December 11th, 2007
Death & the farmer from the 'Dance of Death' series by Hans Holbein the Younger,
first published in 1538 (printed from wood-block). Click to see the nice detail in the background landscape.
Monday December 10th, 2007
Bad luck. (440 words)
I was walking with a friend in the country-side that
surrounded my house just south of Chiang Mai, Thailand, with its mix of
paddy fields, tropical growth & the occasional charming hamlet of
bamboo dwellings that straddles the dirt path. We had just passed
through one of these little, lost-in-time villages, when I noticed in
the irrigation ditch that ran along the edge of the road some small,
clay, figurines of people & animals. They had obviously been
discarded, indeed, were positively strewn in an array of desolate
rejection. I noticed immediately that in typical Thai fashion they were
beautifully stylised & confidently wrought. As I reached to them
while wondering why anyone would throw them away, the Thai friend I
walked with noticed what I was doing & screamed an urgent command:
“DON’T TOUCH THEM!”
It turns out that when one is having an unusually long
or deep run of bad luck the old woman of the village, who knows about
these things, will make the effigial figurines as symbols of the
negative emotions that can bring bad luck or invite the spirit who
curses you with it. The victim holds the little clay water buffalo of
ignorance, duck of vanity, human figure of envy, or whichever are
appropriate, in his hands while the old woman draws the bad luck down
the arms from the shoulders to the sun-dried clay, while intoning
Buddhist mantras (like all religions, one often wonders what the rites
have to do with the gods whose names are invoked!) until finally, when
all the bad luck is transferred, the bad attitudes that brought it are
thrown in a ditch & abandoned.
Later, when I had time to think about it, I realised
this tradition was anything but a baseless superstition or even a
simple religious ceremony but rather a symbolic & ritualistic
introspective psychology. It does not ask of any God or spirit to
remove the bad luck the sufferer feels is unjust, but requires instead
a facing of the actions that brought the ill-luck by its victim. I bet
the practice of Western psychology would benefit a great deal by
putting a face to the concepts.
To the Thai they are not, as they were to me, lovely
little examples of an evolved yet naïf, traditional art, but
rather living entities that seethed with a black & evil energy that
might be contagioned by anyone foolish enough to pick them up. A fact
of life too real to my alarmed Thai friend for me to ignore & I had
to leave the objects where they lay though I would have liked to take
them.
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Sunday December 2nd, 2007
Dogs are the Best People. (1030 words)
I have been around dogs all of my life & despite
the title of this essay I do not, therefore, anthropomorphise their
characters- I have seen my bitches eat their still-borns. I once had a
pair from the same litter who had never been separated but when one was
run over by a car at three years old, his sister sniffed his convulsing
body, wagged her tail & licked at his blood; if I had let her she
probably would have eaten his body. Not to mention the first face
transplant patient who needed the operation because her faithful dog
had eaten her old face while she lay knocked out on drugs & alcohol.
I read a book written by that wonderful zoologist,
Desmond Morris, on the subject of dogs. He explained why small dogs
will attack large ones, like a man attacking an elephant, as if they
didn’t notice how hopelessly outmatched they are. The instincts
that make the larger dog reticent to retaliate as part of nature's way
of protecting puppies from the ire of their adult pack, can encourage
the small dog. He goes on to explain that as different as is the
appearance of a Chihuahua & Great Dane, a Pomeranian & a Bull
Mastiff, they are in fact the same species, if you mix their gametes
together you get: a dog. And so, despite the variety that comes of
man’s genetic tinkering, the dog, in his heart, whatever its
size- still feels he is a wolf.
This
morning I was remembering one of my favourite dogs, Toulouse (I name
them all after artists), now dead of old age at fourteen. A dog whose
life I saved from Parvo while she was still a pup, with an old horse
syringe with which I gave her five subcutaneous shots of plasma daily
to keep her hydrated while her body fought the virus that
wouldn’t let her absorb water or nutrients through her digestive
system.
We travelled a lot in her youth & I think for a
time she felt the English army Land Rover I had then was home & the
other places were just incidental stopping points we visited. This may
have been how she learned the very convenient habit that if we were
ever separated she would go back to my car to wait for me. I often
convinced hotels who didn’t allow dogs to take us by telling them
the truth: she was better behaved than I. She was always by my side
wherever I went & if I had to enter someplace she wasn’t
allowed like say, a cinema, I would tell her to sit & wait &
she would spend the two hours watching the spot I disappeared, ignoring
the throngs that passed her in either direction & waiting for me to
re-appear.
An excellent dog & deeply in love with me.
One time I was painting extensive murals in the house
of a client who had a beautiful English Pit Bull, fifteen kilos of
murderous muscle & sharp teeth. I worked in his house for months
& he would keep his dog outside while mine kept me company inside.
One
day the owner was talking to me from outside the mosquito-net doors,
his dog beside him, mine beside me. The dogs were used to each other
& were of opposite gender so they didn’t bother each other
but on this day, as Ted & I talked & the dogs sniffed each
other through the screen, it occurred to Toulouse to growl… the
Pit Bull didn’t hesitate but simply walked through the mosquito
screen as if it wasn’t there & despite weighing half as much
as my dog & only reaching a third of her height, within a couple of
seconds he had her turned over onto her back as he held her by her
chest in his huge & powerful jaw. I, aghast, managed to grab
Toulouse & separate her from the enraged beast & holding her in
my arms while he continued to try & grab her I looked up at Ted
& shouted: “Grab your dog!” But Ted put his hands &
eyebrows up & said simply: “No way Man!” I held my dog
as high up as I could but as I had seen the Pit Bull jump effortlessly
to the top of the two metre stone wall that surrounded the property in
order to patrol, I knew I wasn’t nearly tall enough for my ploy
to be effective.
As I turned one way & another making it difficult
for him to reach her his frustrated rage led him to clamp instead on my
left knee but with a lucky right knee I dislodged him before his jaw
locked but not before he was able to rip a neat & bleeding gash. I
could see clearly that we three large animals were no match for the
little 15 kilo killing machine & I tried the only alternative that
I could think of, to the losing battle I was fighting: I backed a few
paces & threw my dog into the interior swimming pool just hoping
the Pit Bull wouldn’t follow. As he approached the edge of the
pool I looked desperately for a weapon but found myself grabbing the
only thing at hand- a floatation device, not what I would recommend in
a fight to the death with a furious Pit Bull. While I tried to keep him
at bay with the plastic children’s toy Toulouse kept trying to
get out of the pool but I repeatedly kicked her back in, taking
dangerous seconds from my guard to do so, when… all of a sudden
it was over, the Pit Bull was suddenly not angry any more, his daemonic
face reverting to its habitual & handsome smile-- his stub of a
tail moving back & forth. Ted then acted & took the dog back
outside while I slid the glass doors over the dog-shaped hole in the
mosquito screen.
With typical doggie logic though, my Toulouse showed no
fear of her nemesis the following day but was afraid of swimming pools
the rest of her life.
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Saturday December 1st, 2007
Friday November 30th, 2007
Tough Love. (235 words)
Boy! This page seems to be filling with thoughts of love, coincidence? Well, this short post, at least, has no sex in it!
Though I’m sure some people everywhere in this
wide world practice what they describe as ‘tough love’ it
seems to me a particularly & peculiarly American shortcoming. The
description of a concept that doesn’t in-fact exist, love is not
tough, love is gentle, considerate, sensitive.
Tough love is nothing but an armour suit inside of
which one can safely keep his deep emotions & through which he need
never feel others’. It reminds me of Sicilian women who have told
me without a trace of irony: He only hits me because he loves me.
If one’s influence on another through the use of
this weak & cowardly tool is successful it is for the wrong
reasons: either wanting to live up to the wielder’s expectations
or a submissive fear of his censure. While the healthier impact is
motivated instead, by respect & trust.
I think Aesop would have taught the children of a
thousand generations a far more beneficial lesson if the ant, after his
summer’s toil, had said to the freezing & hungry grasshopper:
Sure Brother, come on in, we’ve worked so hard this summer that
now your cheering music is just what we need to get us through the long
winter (thank goodness you spent the summer practicing).
15th of December:
I have now received so many agreeing comments (without one to counter) that I feel
I should mention it: I have been surprised to find how many people have
raised their voices to express the solidarity they have always felt for
the footloose & artistic grasshopper in the face of the
self-righteous & smug ant who unfeelingly closes the door leaving
the grasshopper to a slow, painful & sure death. Heartening, but
then I have always been of the opinion that man, as a whole, can
generally be counted on to do the good thing if not the right one.
Thursday November 29th, 2007
Dense, intense and condensed: a short love story. (1520 words)
I arrived in London after an 11,000 kilometre flight to
see Kate. I was planning to stay with a friend who has a big house in
Hampstead, but at the last minute I take Kate's invitation to one
of the cute little flats her record label use to put up music
industry people. Very posh, South Ken, quiet, views of
the church. I see she has stocked (or, more likely, sent her P.A.
with a list) the fridge with delicacies, left a carefully chosen
variety of CDs' (from our conversations about music) & finally:
seems to have gotten to know me so well that the 4 or 5 books she has
left by the bedside were all ones I already owned.
We met that night and it was sheer delight, I remember
laughter like I haven't laughed in years. I sometimes feel a
twinge of jealousy when I see others laugh like that, jealous of my own
childhood when Charlie Chaplin could do it to me. And that first
night after hours of excited and absorbing talk, our eyes hardly ever
leaving each other’s- I remember her singing Summertime
for me in her rich soul singer's voice in the depth and darkness of
Green Park at 5 o'clock in the morning. Making love which is
love, talking of the joy of feeling that way forever...
The 21 year old girl, Kate, who I fell in love with and seduced through
writing; letters that took each of us through a range of profound
emotion during a period of six weeks, after an exciting three hour
meeting on an airplane. We were separated by an empty seat but we
talked with ever greater interest as we flew high over our planet, and
our hands began to trespass the no-man’s land.
Our correspondence shared so many intimate thoughts
& sentiments that were mutual, that we felt we knew each other
better than if we had come to know each other in person; we each felt
here was the real I unperturbed by difficult-to-read
physical attractions or dilution in the quotidian mundanities- we knew
each other because of a pristine mental exchange, what we had was real
& my everyday life, 11,000 kilometres away, began to turn around
our usually- thrice daily, exchanges.
She was exactly what she said she was: an ambitious,
successful, talented and intelligent girl, six fluent languages
including one dead, ancient Greek. First university degree earned
at nineteen, with all the advantages of an unusually wealthy father.
The giving, sensitive, sincere and wholesome
‘Kate of the letters’ however, turned out to be the
invention of a much crasser (often drunken) Kate. She thinks she
is enjoying a wild youth, when in-fact we who are older know, she is
just making an empty space in her future memories. I rejected her
and even in the end, her overtures of friendship. I have always
found it difficult to follow disillusioned love with friendship.
At first my romance stricken eyes make excuses for her
bad behaviour (spoiled I thought), made excuses for the strange habit
of ordering a cocktail each at the bar, plus 6 shots of tequila
lined up and shot back, 3 each, before taking our cocktails to a
table... She was busy with work, we met when we could, but mostly
it was at night she was mine. As often as not she would climb
into the bed I was already asleep in. We would make love and talk
‘til morning.
One night at four I was wakened by a telephone call
from a desperately drunken Kate. “I have never drunk so
much! I don’t know where I am! I should go to a hospital!”
At first I don’t take it seriously, I tell her to get in a
cab. I wait a few minutes and call back, “Are you in a
cab?” After a few phone calls, where I even get her to put
bystanders on the phone, (who told me they are outside a now closed
club in Leicester square) I am dressed. Finally I call and a man
answers, a black man, who says, laughing: I don’t know who
you’re calling, but I have just stolen this phone…
I organise with the doorman, giving him my mobile
number in case she turns up, with instructions to sit her down in the
lobby and call me. I explain that though she may sound like a
tramp, calling drunk in the middle of the night, because of who her
father is she is actually a kidnap victim in potential... I get
in a cab and go to Leicester square, a big place with clubs down its
side streets as well as perimeter. I walk awhile, dressed in
crisply ironed white shirt, blue jeans and shark skin cowboy boots,
perhaps the only perfectly sober person on the wide streets of London
at 5 o’clock this Friday morning.
It is deserted, but eventually I find a group of four
people and sure enough one of them is Kate, evidently not nearly as
drunk as she sounded on the phone. I walk up behind her taking
her by the waist (she: surprised and delighted: “Paul! What are
you doing here?), I nod to the group and say: This girl’s with
me. I keep walking. Her girlfriend Megan (a hanger on) and
the two men, are momentarily non-plussed, but Kate doesn’t fall
into step and the two men break in.
I have faced off and had the odd scuffle in times recent to this
writing but I haven’t been in a real fight for years. If I
stop to imagine myself in a dangerous fight I can see myself having
such thoughts as: I’m too old, I don’t want to get hurt, is
it worth it? And yet I know I made those decisions (about
cowardice) a long time ago, and when faced with the real situation I
won’t reconsider my options. It is not that I overcome my
very real fear of death but just that because of those time-worn
decisions I forget it in the appropriate moment.
The two men are between me and Kate whom I can see
hands over mouth giggling. They are both gym giants, one towers
over me, handsome- with bulging muscles covered in tight tee-shirt and
jailhouse tattoos. The other not much taller than me but
significantly wider, shaved head, baseball cap on backwards. The
big one is in my face, hands either side of me, he’s shouting,
surrounding me all by himself, trying to be intimidating. I can
see by his stance he is either over confident, or hasn’t done
much fighting.
With my mind's eye I can see the opening for that lucky
right hook of mine, the one that has done miracles in the past. A
clean punch to the left side of the chin that knocks a man out before
he hits the ground. Though it be a second; though he be
unconscious only the time necessary to fall to the ground, when a man
wakes on his back without knowing how he got there, it can take all the
fight out of him; though he’s not really hurt.
Despite this thought in the back of my mind, I have
little doubt that between the two of them I’ll lose this fight,
echoing in the middle of a big square just us five, and the rats, in
all of London.
When he finished, showing his teeth, muscles taught, a
caricature of menace, I said: I’m going to give you the skinny,
(Damon Runyon? It just came out!) “This girl here,
called me drunk, I got dressed, came to look for her and found her
here. I am ready to die for her tonight but I am taking
her with me. So what are you going to do?” The
guy’s face went slack as the information filtered. He
turned so that we were at right angles, putting his hands into his
pockets. With a confused look he says, almost to himself:
That’s cool! Then more loudly: That’s cool!
Then he turns to me with a slapping handshake and wide grin, Man,
that’s cool! I shake his hand, squeeze his shoulder: thanks
Man! He turns to Kate and says, if I were you I’d stick
with this guy, he’s cool! And I walk off victorious, with the
girl, into the sunrise, lucky Paul, once again.
There were two things that were of important consequence to me in that
five o’clock meeting in the square. One is that if the guy
had instead pulled a knife and run it through my heart, I know I would
have died calmly, no raise in heart rate, no raise in blood
pressure… To feel again, after years untested, more powerful
than my greatest fear...
The other took the following twelve hours for me to
assimilate, but by evening I had taken the rose coloured glasses off,
and my love of Kate fell away. Kate of the letters, sweet gentle
Kate, doesn’t exist -- except in my memories.
TOP
Wednesday November 28th, 2007
The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife by Katsushika Hokusai- 1814
Tuesday November 27th, 2007
Cubans, Norwegians & me. (660 words)
When she called I was flattered into forgetting how
little I had liked her when we met. What I remembered instead was the
Norwegian accent with its stereotyped implications, the rosy youth, the
blonde hair, her cute upturned nose, a big shapely bosom & long
legs, very long legs…
I had been exiting one party for another when she
stopped me, introduced herself, chatted awhile & asked me for my
number, which I wrote on a packet of matches with her eye-liner pencil
before leaving.
When she called my mobile it was to see if I fancied
meeting up- I didn’t beat around the bush: “Sure, come on
over” - “Ok” she said. I wasn’t home but went
there to meet her. We spent the evening talking & laughing. Me,
flexing what ability I have to charm & entertain; she, charmed
& entertained.
Then bed. She- unsurprisingly good in that
Scandinavian, somewhat workman-like, way. Their very lack of inhibition
keeping them from understanding physical passion. Without a sense that
intimacy must overcome the value one places on physical privacy, a
feeling of romance is difficult.
During the hour or two we groped, kissed, licked,
excitedly explored the uniqueness of each other’s bodies, my cock
screamed its gratitude after a couple of months with nothing but my
company -- and my mind forgot the fact that if she were a man she
wouldn’t have qualified for more than the ten minutes it took me
upon meeting him, to decide he was conventional, inexperienced,
unintelligent & therefore uninteresting.
Finally sleep, tightly embraced in a facsimile of affectionate union, breathing into each other’s mouths.
Early morning, she wakes, asks me to walk her to the
Tube station. It is raining, cold. I am not finished sleeping & I
notice a sense of sadness which manifests in irritability. I offer to
treat her to a cab. She calls for one.
During the twenty minutes they tell her it will take to
arrive, she dresses. I try sleepily to be pleasant but can think of
little to say. While she sits in an armchair with overcoat, hat &
scarf for the hour it actually takes the taxi to arrive, I fall in
& out of sleep unconcerned at my un-gentlemanliness.
A few short hours later, when I woke, I found a
depression settling over me & remembered another affair in Madrid
just a few months prior. The girl, a dancer, like others I’ve
known: after a life-time dedicated to training their bodies their
neglected minds show. She, however, was a Cuban mulatto & as sexy
as they come. Although twenty years my junior she reminded me how much
more there is still to learn about love-making.
She told me the story of how she lost her virginity at
fifteen to a thirty year old friend of her father’s whom she had
seduced. When she nervously asked her mother about condoms & ended
by divulging the reason for them, her mother let out a sharp scream,
hugged her daughter & flung the windows open to shout to the women
who were her tenement neighbours: “My daughter has discovered
love! Leave your work- come, let’s celebrate!”
Despite her apparent experience (I don’t know the
extent of her experience, I only got to know her intimately, not
superficially) the sense of romantic attraction, her warmth, our shared
heat, made the memory a cheering one every time I have recalled it
since.
It took me that day & the following one to realize
why the Norwegian left me melancholy while the Cuban had not. I had
been a hypocrite. The self that pretended to like her, enjoy her
company, be interested in her mundane comments, was the self that
enjoyed the encounter. The self that must remember it, on the other
hand, is the one that feels like an unwilling prostitute, prostituting
the I, the I that I respect, for a shallow closeness & a few
minutes of physical release.
Sunday November 25th, 2007
From Bilbao's Guggenheim to Santiago's Tomb. (750 words)
Below this article, a sinister Gothic cemetery on the
road to A Coruña. I saw the potential for this photograph while
driving through the 'Picos de Europa' ('Peaks of Europe' in the green
upper left-hand corner of Spain, above Portugal) through the
Principality of Asturias to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela*
in Galicia (which is a short distance from 'Finisterre': 'end of the
world'). I was driving my little shopping cart of a rental along the
mountain roads in the rain as the sun set. The cemetery loomed darkly
on my left & I didn't hesitate to pull over at reckless speed &
great personal danger, bouncing & sliding through the mud puddles
that made the road's shoulder on the right, to a stop.
I could see it was a question of just a minute or two
before I lost the rose wisps of cloud I needed as backdrop so I grabbed
the camera & ran to the other side of the road only to find a deep
irrigation ditch flanked on either side by mud walls inclined slightly
outward from the water that ran down the centre of the channel. I
managed to scramble/slide down the near side to an unsteady stop just
before stepping into the running water & felt quite proud! But then
I looked across at the 2 metres of mud wall I faced & from the new
point of view, at the bottom of the gutter, it looked far more
formidable than it had from street level...
When I glanced at the fast disappearing colours in the
sky, however, & didn't waste time, but holding the camera by the
strap between my teeth I jumped across the metre of running water with
the aim of hitting the soft wall opposite high enough to scramble with
hands shaped into claws & points of shoes, to the top. I hit the
wall about half way up, my legs & arms splayed like a flying
squirrel, but in a few slow seconds I slid back down like a Hanna &
Barbara cartoon; Wily Coyote hitting a plate glass window...
I then realised I had the same challenge facing me to
return to my car but didn't panic yet & with unusual presence of
mind decided to follow the edge of rushing water (instead of jumping
back across to try again) in the dark of a half-moon & managed to
find a spot a few metres away that dipped lower & with no less
difficulty did, never-the-less, get to the top of the other side. I
then ran through the tall weeds to the back of the walled cemetery
snapping this shot literally seconds before the red fled from the sky.
I got back to my car covered in mud from head to camera & the rain trailed it to the few spots I had missed.
A few kilometres up the road I saw the lights of a
lonely café & stopped to try & wash some mud off before
finishing the 200 kilometres or so I still had to drive to meet friends
in A Coruña. The little cafe/bar turned out to be called the
'Café Moderno' though upon entering I could see that the last
effort at decoration must have predated the Spanish civil war. A warm
Mom & Pop affair which offered me the local white wine (Ribeiro-
fruity, dry & easy to drink) at room temperature & served it in
white porcelain bowls. Maybe they were used to foreigners dropping in
covered with mud but if they weren't they showed no sign; I cleaned up
& gratefully drank their wine while sure the photograph had been
worth it. What do you think? Is it a good one?
*The ancient route
that ends at this Cathedral is called St James' walk in English &
was the second most important pilgrimage, after Jerusalem, to Medieval
Europe. When one does the walk (begins officially 900 kilometres away
in foothills of the French Alps but the church considers 100 kilometres
legal pilgrimage) he stops at regular sanctioned intervals to have his
'pilgrim's passport' signed at various churches to prove to the
Cathedral at Santiago he has indeed done it. As reward the Church will
then grant him forgiveness for half of his sins... Isn't that
dastardly?! However many times you do the pilgrimage you will still
have half left & be deserving of only guilt, contrition & fear
of your benevolent God's censure... Return
More photos taken on my trip from Bilbao's Guggenheim to the Cathedral of
Santiago de Compostela.
I probably went overboard- 80 images on three pages...
TOP
Thursday November 15th, 2007
Memories of my Father. (400 words)
I remember a time I was with my father in Italy when I
was about eighteen. We were invited to dinner for a meal with a
dozen friends from the time we lived there, in Florence, some 8 years
earlier.
We ate at an excellent but inexpensive trattoria: seven courses that allow time for talk,
laughter & a bottle of wine per man. We weren’t
expected to dress but when my father turned up neat but with scruffy
looking black brogues I thought it wasn’t like him (men of his
generation place importance on the trim shoes are kept in), when I
commented he answered: “I stopped to have my shoes shined by a
bootblack in the street but when I asked if he minded if I took them
off first he demurred, saying he couldn’t do a good job of it
unless I wore them while he shined them.” “So why
didn’t you let him?” & Dad answered: “I told him
‘Me farebbe sentire troppo come un Re’”
In other words: If I sat in the chair while you squat before me to
shine my shoes it would ‘make me feel too much like a
king’. Implying his natural modesty prohibited his putting
himself in such a position.
I smiled to myself at his reasoning because it was a
typical example of his, noble & romantic, if intellectually
studied, manner, to me a part of his charm & originality.
When I thought about it later however, I realised it was anything but
an instance of uncharacteristic modesty, indeed, it was quite the
opposite. Firstly he denied the man the earnings for the labour
he either chose or worse still: chose him. Secondly & more
importantly: the bootblack didn’t watch my father’s back
recede with the thought: “What a noble gesture from a man who
denies nobility” (!) “I haven’t felt so well
respected in this demeaning job for ages”
Instead, through lack of essential sympathy, my father
treated the man as if he felt as he himself would feel if he were in
the bootblack’s boots, i.e. humiliated. By making himself
the exception to the way the man is treated by his clients every day of
his life he implicitly states that but for himself (who shows merited
respect) the bootblack is in fact humiliated repeatedly, day after day,
by everyone else. Right?
I'm off tomorrow to see Frank Gehry's
Guggenheim in Bilbao, my first time, then a quick tour of Asturias,
also a first- so I'll talk to you at the week-end after this one.
Saturday November 10th, 2007
Thursday November 8th, 2007
Ecco il uomo
While we use words like 'generous' or 'vain', 'bitter' or
'serious', as description of one another, the truth is
far more complex as we are, in fact, every one of us a combination of
those & all other possibilities but each in differing relative amounts.
What love is:
Love is a reckless madness where the replacement of one's
self-importance for the importance of another
becomes, in itself, the most important thing to oneself.
Wednesday November 7th, 2007.
Divorce & maturity. (900 words)
Last night I attended a celebration dinner for two old
friends who finally filed their divorce papers after nearly thirty
years of marriage... just the two of them, their 15 year old boy (with
whom I have my own, good relationship, just as I do with each of the
divorcing parents) & me... it was a liiiitle
tense... they sat at right angles to each other at the
small, square, restaurant table, the boy & I- opposite, as audience
& bemused observers.
When they invited me it had been clear they had become
old friends with each other, all disposition of goods &
responsibilities had been amicable; moreover, they could sympathize
with each other’s joyous sense of freedom since it was mutual
& so, why not celebrate together?
Fernando had his left elbow on the table with his hand
hovering mostly around his left ear. Esperanza, the love of
his life as he had been hers; a love older than their
adult-hoods, sat to his left with her right elbow on the table, her
head leaning firmly against her fist. But yet they managed,
despite their self-imposed barrier of arms & elbows, to talk
exclusively to each other. And each well-known word of each
other's vocabulary rang in each other's ear with a thousand unresolved
memories.
I broke in every few minutes with some desperate joke
which after a quick, self-conscious laugh, (everything’s ok
laugh, you see- I can stretch these tense lips into the shape
of a smile: everything is ok…) was overridden by the
overwhelming black hole-like gravitational field of their shared
interest in each other’s faults both practical &
theoretical. The occasional pleading glance by one or the other of
them that I provide witness to his or her obviously superior (implied
with arched eyebrows) argument drew more from me than mere reluctance
to take sides- but instead- actual fear & panic!
I saw in the boy's eye (who by the time the plates were
cleared had turned his chair around & watched with his chin propped
on his hands on the back of the chair) a smiling glint that I think
spoke of a newly found sense of maturity & adult-hood.
They never raised their voices but from the
hunter’s blind of common courtesy they sniped at each other with
a murderous intent I have never seen either of them capable of, except
here with each other; practice, I guess…
We came back here & I in my last-ditch effort to
change the mood of these otherwise reliably intelligent & sensitive
friends-- allowing the freshly made 'ex' to go back to the
new country he now lives in, without each having irritating memories of
this, the last meeting they need to have in the foreseeable future--
pulled out a little chemical delight & we all introduced it to our
respective brains via our stomach linings & livers thanks to our
obliging blood streams.
I never imagined it was possible, under its influence,
meaning: with our dopamine receptors clogged, the dopamine bumps its
head against the unexpectedly shut sphincters & bursts into tiny,
champagne-fizzy puffs of ecstasy (& I bet you thought I
didn’t know my science!). The warm & rosy glow to our skin
reflecting the sense of well-being through eyes made black by pupils
gone fishing; a kundalini snake twisting sensually up the spine as it
emerges continuously from the dark of our deepest nether regions...
mmnnn... we have all known each other so long… mmmnnn… we
have shared so many important & fun moments…
mmmnnnnn… though we’re now going different ways, we, we
three old friends, actually love each other… mmmmmnnnnnnn…
But no! It was a mistake that only resulted in an
exhausting attempt to catch the exquisite venom before it hit one
or the other of them, I danced & gyred between them, a
clown’s smile stuck in place as, like Wonder Woman with her magic
bracelets, I caught the gobs of slime mid-air & we all pretended
through strained politeness that everything was ok... & we had to
fight the pleasant sensations in order to revel in, & concentrate
on, the creation of cruel sarcasm & I, in trying to diffuse or
deflect its intensity & intent.
I was supposed to drive him to his ship this morning
& when I woke still reeling at one o'clock in the afternoon, I
jumped up, only to find he still slept & we eventually put his
departure off for a day. We ate a bleary eyed & silent
breakfast more or less together & soon drifted back to our beds for
an early siesta after a late awakening.
We traded smiles & words when we met as we shuffled
through the day, back & forth to the kitchen for fresh cups of
hot tea. I to shuffle back with my steaming mug to lay on my bed
while he lay on the couch in the living room, each burrowed into books
waiting for our old abused livers to catch their wind, get up &
back to tottering on their rickety walking-sticks.
It is now just past midnight but I realised the day
was over before eleven, if that is, it had actually started. My
old friend agreed with a laugh when I pointed out that today had been a
rare one in that it had a complete & absolute absence of event.
Saturday November 3rd, 2007
An article I wrote for content syndication about the town I give art workshops in.
Arcos de la Frontera. (725 words)
Deep in the south of Spain's southernmost province,
Cadiz, hidden in the Gaditano mountain range, lies Arcos de la Frontera
the prettiest town in Spain. Although the old walled town of Arcos only
holds 4000 people & is lost in a valley hidden in the mountains,
its place in Spanish history is important because of the town's
strategic placement in Catholic Spain's long struggle against the
Moorish kingdom. Boabdil, the last Moorish king, finally fell in
Granada in 1492, the same year Columbus sailed west for India. At
Cadiz's tip, near Arcos de la Frontera, Africa looms large across a bit
of water that seems a mere swim away.
A friendly town, Arcenses, as the population of Arcos are known, tend
to ready smiles & obliging attitude to the visitor. A variety of
restaurants from cheap to middle priced in the old town or by the lake
where one can fish, sail, paddle or wind-surf. Many of its hotels like
its restaurants are housed in beautiful & ancient stone buildings.
Arcos is built atop a sharp promontory with cliffs to either side in
the middle of a wide valley surrounded by distant mountains. The only
approaches to the town are at either end of its long, thin length &
they are protected by heavy gates. One begins to see how its sheer
impregnability made it an important stronghold in the constant battles
against the Moors & some of the churches still display the
'infidel's' banners won in battle.
Arcos' coat of arms includes the legend: "King Brigo founded Arcos and
Alfonso the Wise recovered it from the Moors" King Brigo being Noah's
grandson & Alfonso the Wise the thirteenth century king that
captured & held it against the Moors. The bit about it being
founded around the time of the great biblical flood is surely legend
but Arcos does, never-the-less, offer evidence of an ancient history.
Beginning with remains & artefacts from pre-historic Iberia
including skeletons & cave paintings dating back as far as 150,000
years. Some of the caves in the cliffs of Arcos of unknown ancient
inhabitants are still lived in today.
Later the Romans occupied the town for six hundred years until 400 AD
one of their more durable examples being the bridge at Ronda also near
Arcos. Outside of Seville, in the town of Santinponce, is Italica, the
largest city of ancient Rome after Rome itself & includes a 25,000
seat Amphitheatre.
After the Romans came the Visigoths for 300 years until 711 AD. Then
the Moors for a further 500 years until 1264 AD. Architecture from each
culture is still mixed with even later styles like the Spanish Baroque
throughout the buildings of the town. Most of its old buildings
are built with local sandstone that not only wears to beautiful organic
roundness but glows like old gold in the evening
light. Despite its diminutive size it holds seven churches
two of which are Cathedrals! Santa Maria & San Pedro enjoyed an
enmity based on their rivalry as most important Cathedral that lasted
centuries. In the fifteenth century a bishop made the trip from Arcos
to Rome on a donkey to ask for Papal dispensation on the matter of
which had seniority. It was more than four years before he returned
with the gift the Pope made him of a carved baby Christ (on view today)
but no final decision.
As the feud grew each church tried to show its importance in whatever
way it could like being the first to ring the bells upon the hour,
which competition quickly led to very poor time-keeping! Finally in
1775 the Vatican made the decision the older of the two, Santa Maria,
built between the fifteenth & eighteenth centuries, was the senior
Cathedral.
A rich history, beauty of a kind that can only grow, evolve, over
centuries & can never be designed. The gorgeous country-side that
surrounds it including valley, forest & mountain for horse-back
riding or trekking. Easy access to Andalucia's most important cities:
Seville, Jerez de la Frontera, Malaga, a short distance (2 hours) from
Tangiers in Morocco & an hour from Gibraltar or Cadiz, Europe's
oldest town. Without mentioning the area’s cultural roots in
Spain’s bullfighting, horse breeding, Sherry & Flamenco-
Arcos de la Frontera is still a largely undiscovered jewel &
definitely worth a visit.
TOP
Thursday November 1st, 2007
Artistic inspiration & process. (650 words)
I am writing & painting
again after a hiatus of adjusting to my new home which is now slowing
its demands & so, as I keep promising those discerning few who care
(!) I will enjoy getting back to regular additions to this blog.
When I have found myself in the society of writers at
clubs I have belonged to & suchlike, it is only the fact I am a
painter that kept me from being surprised at just how different,
different writer's motivations & methods can be; while by these
different roads each may reach literary excellence. Even a
traditionally frowned upon artistic inspiration like the desire for
riches or popularity have been efficient foundation to masterpieces.
I was astonished, for instance, to discover my beloved
Ibsen, to me one of history's handfull of great connoiseurs of human
nature who, furthermore, had the unprecedented luck of being able to
combine his insight with the extraordinarily rare talent for precise
while uncontrived, sensitive but not obscure, language to express his
understanding with.
Well, it turns out Henrik Ibsen was in life, a dandy,
concerned in the extreme with his outward appearance, the prestige of
his social contacts & what's more was unable to take common
criticism of his published work in a mature/dignified way often wasting
his writing time on beautifully composed letters of outrage or defence
posted to anyone with the temerity to make comment that wasn't strictly
idolatrous.
Like one good friend & talented writer (who having
been published is the only one of us two with a right to the title) I
also 'think' exactly what I am going to write, trying to archive
certain turns of phrase & general structure among my unreliable
neurons before I sit to write an essay or short story. I'm sometimes
quite sure I could rattle off from memory the say, 1500 words, I intend
to write as I sit down to the keyboard but have discovered that unlike
my friend who does indeed transcribe directly from memory (though he
then spends years patiently reading & re-reading the resulting
manuscript until the day he can find nothing to change that would
improve it) my method seems to be that though the careful thought
before-hand seems to be important (that is, if you the reader, find my
writing worthwhile) it is in the end inevitably formed by the action of
expressing it & not the thought that preceded it. Time & again,
just as when I am painting, the canvas & brush in the one instance,
or pen & paper in the other, surprise me with ideas that were far
better than mine.*
And so today while working on a little script with a
filmmaking friend I found yet another definition present itself while
writing though it hadn't while thinking. A definition I have tackled
before in these very pages concerning the elusive answer to the
question of quantifying: What is art?
"...after a few years of practice most can learn to
copy what they see using standard technique & materials but the
artist’s true obligation is not searching for beautiful things to
paint (as I have said elsewhere- even a Philistine can recognise the
beauty of a sunset) but rather it is a pact, a collaborative act
between painter & viewer of the artwork, where the artist, having
found the beauty in a common but commonly overlooked sight, or as Emily
Dickinson would agree: its truth,- provides clues to the hidden beauty
the spectator must furnish with his imagination. When successful,
this relationship can serve to move the sensitive viewer to compelling
sights he would have missed otherwise- that is the magic of art."
What do you think?
*As Picasso famously
said: A true artist doesn't wait for inspiration; when true inspiration
comes it finds the real artist already holding a brush. (Paraphrased
from memory) return
Thursday October 25th, 2007
I am slowing my efforts with the art
workshops I have been setting up now that I have the ball rolling &
enough interest to make me feel confident of the success of my
endeavours. So finally I can get back to my neglected easel & even
do some writing. The article I am adding today however, is not an essay
but an answer to an English friend's comments in an e-mail about
Spanish bull-fighting:
Bulls & Men. (650 words)
I despise the lily-livered, fussy-stomached,
hypocritical English attitude to bull-fighting; aside from
Flamenco I think bullfighting is the most beautiful of Spanish
idioms. A wonderful tradition criticised ignorantly- don't
understand-don't like. I find the audacity that allows the English
to lobby the European Union from their cold grey isle for the
banishment of the practice, odious.
Bullfighting is a big part of Spanish culture &
image (we watch bullfighting on television the way Brits watch grown
men chasing a ball, I mean really! English men at the peak of physical
form rolling around on the ground holding their knees with blubbering
lips compared to Spanish men refusing to be carried from the arena
while their life's blood pours from their wounds). I have faced
mere one year olds with a cape & it was downright scary, when do
the English face their fears like that? Oh, I forgot- the English do
kill tiny foxes from horseback...
The beauty of the noble beast (if they weren't
bred on gorgeous oak strewn farms free to wander until their
dates in the ring, the species would be extinct) following
his instincts in mortal combat is a far better way to live & die
than being penned until fat & killed by a retractable bullet in the
brain. The brave bull (toro bravo is the name of the species) by
the way, is eaten after the match like any other bovine.
But it isn't a fair fight! Cries the Englishman, well,
it isn't a fight at all- it is a ritual killing where the killer takes
grave risks to show he is a man & not someone who will only eat
meat killed by someone else & packaged in bloodless plastic.
Do you think the English attitude stems from empathy
for the beast? No it does not, it comes from their wanting to avoid
being reminded of their own blood, gristle & eventual
death. If this were not true all Englishmen would be vegetarians.
The English man-animal is only allowed to be sexy by
accident (Hugh Grant) any wilful display of sexual vigour (like
any other male animal in nature) is berated by your confused
society. Imagine you are in a ring of swept albero in front of
2000 jealous men & 2000 wet women, eight thousand eyes on you-
the very symbol of sexuality. You strut; you flaunt your
cock through your tight trousers. You look the four
thousand pound mass of rippling muscle topped with murderous
horn in the eye- you want to run for your life but you stand firm
& say: Come on motherfucker, you can kill me but you can't scare
me...
Here's a line from a rare Alpujarrenean poem (oral
tradition, few of them could read or write until well into the 20th
century). In springtime piglets are bought by each household &
left to live on the ground floor of the stone house along with a
donkey, dog & chickens, in the fall- the matanza (killing) that
provides protein through the long cold winters. The matanzas are
very dramatic in an elemental sense, before sunrise as many as 8 men
will wrestle the outraged beast onto its back on a table &
then kill it with a long knife cut to his throat. The
several litres of blood collected in a large wooden vat make our
breakfast along with fresh bread & anisette (to warm the
blood) as the sun rises & the pig's dying screams still echo
through the mountain range...
The poem asks- If you don't go to the matanza how can
you expect to love? If you can understand this you will have risen
above England's sanitised sophistication to a primitive aristocracy of
the soul that will let you grasp the true barbarity of British
refinement. Life, death, love, death, sex, death, procreation...
death... the eternal cycle.
Thursday October 12th, 2007
I have been so busy promoting the workshops here in Spain (oh yeah, I forgot to tell you: I moved to Spain! Check out the painting workshop site)
that I have again been neglecting my blog. I will be adding new
articles to it soon but in the meantime I couldn't resist putting a
link here to something very cool or part II which took this clever & original 18 year old (Alan Becker) 3 & 5 months respectively, to make...
page 6
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P'sMW- page 1
Four ducks | A painter's style | Thinking with Google | The Vulture's Throat | Tortures of the
Damned | Memory and self | Hinduism and me | The Barber | Glasgow Smile | Airports | False advertising | Buttons | Govandhan pooja | Mean Streets | Population | Back in New Delhi | Buskers | Science and Philosophy | Happiness and Theory of
the Mind |
Boat races in Sarasota | Would
you
kill yourself to go on living? | More Happiness | Theo Jansen's kinetic
sculpture |
ebooks
and writers | Arthur Ganson | Thai politics | Misanthropy | Dying | Googling our minds | Knowledge transfer |
TEDTalks | Viggo | A study in ideal form | Fables | The Ant and the
Grasshopper | Conceptual Art |
The importance of
punctuation | California, first impressions | India | Conspiracy theories |
I love you; thanks’; you’re welcome | Errata | Fear | Egon & the other animals | A note about price:size ratio in paintings | Strange tales |
P'sMW- page 2
Christ’s devil | Timelines | Life's funnel | Souvenirs | Moon Myth | How chaos was subdued in the Japanese genesis myth | Noah Lukeman & the murky world of today’s book publishing | Morality and religion | Music and Love |
Temeris Mortis | The Dream | Peace | God's Tick | Old Man (short story) | Intuition | A Curious Fact |
P'sMW- page 3
Why Humans prefer other Humans to be like themselves | A letter to painters | Why do people talk? |
The Painter's Eye | I'bn al Alhí's treasure (short story) | Associative Personality Disorder |
Love poems, death poems | The Golem | Elitism in Art | Theory of the Mind | Death Scenes | Politics II |
Rock & Roll | Words II- more words | Words |
P'MW- page 4
Confidence | How to steal from gullible artists | Priests behaving badly | How to make a painting | Oats & history |
A note about signatures on paintings | Bob Dylan | Number of atheists among scientists | Theoretical physics & me |
Faust & Mephistopheles | Children's reading habits | How to get good photos of firework | The 20th century |
Further Dialogue on the 20th Century article (here) with comments by Bobby Porter | Love is | Civilisation |
Martial Art as Sport | Blind Boy Fuller | Becoming an artist | Insomniac notes | Mind-brain | Age | José Tomás |
Black Adder | This is not a Blog |
P'sMW- page 5
Dammit! (final comments on the article Karma without metaphysics) | Laic morality (comments on Karma without Metaphysics) | Karma without metaphysics | Chivalric ethics | Shibumi | Shibumi: Comments by Bobby Porter |
Oxford Project revisited | How to travel | How Wang-Fô was saved | Fish memory |
The artist’s relationship to his work | Bobby's response to The artist’s relationship to his work | Egon | 20,000+ |
Memories of my father II |
P'sMW- page 6
Men & Women
Girls: come closer & I'll tell you a secret about men
Catholic Spain
Art is
Bad luck
Dogs are the Best People
Tough Love
Dense, intense and condensed: a short
love story.
Cubans, Norwegians & me
From the Guggenheim to Santiago's tomb
Memories of my Father
Ecco il uomo
Divorce & maturity
Inspiration & process
Bulls & men
P'sMW- page 7
Truth & beauty | Bugs as food | What is art? part II- Is modern art, art? |
A painter’s thoughts about self-portraits | The Piraha of the Amazon jungle | Thailand: stories |
P'sMW- page 8
We'd be better off without Religion | East Meets West | Thoughts on Memory | Scared | Frank Zappa |
Art & Dreams by Ilene Skeen | Indoctrination | Rush to change names in Isaan | The Artist & Emotion |
The art critic | What is Art? Part I | Note of introduction added to the Masculine/feminine article |
Rebuttal to Raymond S Kraft |
P'sMW- page 9
I'm back! | Masculine versus feminine, Muslim versus Buddhist | Driving with Muslims or Buddhists |
Peter Feldstein & Stephen G Bloom's Oxford project | How to
argue | On 'happiness', in answer to Ivan's comment |
Thoughts on Happiness | The birth of Chiang Mai | War
Story | Happiness Versus Suffering |
Cogitations upon observing the life of an ant, from its birth to
its death by old age, while I lay in a bathtub.
June 10, 06
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