A Little Illumination

Sometimes a moment of ‘Dynamic Quality’ [1.] and an idea one is presented with in a more static or formalised fashion, seem to illuminate each other rather neatly, and with fortuitous coincidence.

The Hockley Arts Club, Hockley, Nottingham, December 2015.  (Photo: Lorel Manders)

The other night, as part of the pre-festive social round, I found myself with a handful of good friends in one of Nottingham’s more happening bars.  ‘The Hockley Arts Club’ is a recent addition to that city’s nightlife and, by all account, very much the place to go, (this month, at least).  If nothing else, that name feels like a considerable stroke of Post-Modernist savvy.

To be honest, being amongst the cool kids was never really paramount in my conception of a good night out, (although being at least on nodding acquaintance with them might have been a secret tangent to my ambitions to attend Art College, all those years ago).  Either way, just being out in convivial company at all, feels like achievement enough these days.

Not sure what happened here, but wine had been taken.  (Photo: Suzie Fletcher).

Over the years, I’ve tended to the view that the best hangouts or ‘scenes’ acquire their resonance through a kind of mysterious, indefinable chemistry, rather than by conscious design or fashion, and that such things are spontaneous, unpredictable and highly subjective, anyway.  Mostly, I was more than happy to just go somewhere new, following the flow of the evening, regardless of the supposed attendant cache.

The Hockley Arts Club, Hockley, Nottingham, December 2015.  (Photo: Lorel Manders).

In the event, I was impressed by the way that, whilst attending to various current ‘Hipster’ tropes, the chosen venue’s designers had managed to create an enjoyable and genuinely comfortable ambience at the same time.  Entertainingly, the overall décor style was distinctly reminiscent of the diluted, mid-Twentieth Century, high street Modernism that characterised my own childhood, and I’d have to compliment whoever was responsible for their stylish deployment of G-Plan furniture, kitsch, chain-store paintings and spider plants - suspended in macramé. (They are a specific historical signifier that takes me right back to where I started).  One particularly impressive aspect of the overall effect was the carefully considered ambient illumination, emanating, in part, from domestic light fittings that might have graced any of the living rooms in which I found myself during the early-to-mid 1970s.

Davis Bowie, 'Young Americans', (Including The Single, 'Fame').

Amongst the unidentified (but perfectly acceptable), Funk and Hip Hop with which we were regaled, was a familiar record that brought home equally my formative years, - namely, David Bowie’s ‘Fame’ [2.].  I don’t actually own any Bowie records these days, but it would be foolish to pretend he wasn’t a significant feature of the Pop-cultural landscape back then, as a shaper of some of the period’s most memorable songs.  His general approach, as rather more of a knowing Bricollagist, than a natural, organic musician, also felt appropriate in the context in which we were currently hearing it.

Even so, as I discussed how cleverly the record’s Cubist Funk elements had been consciously assembled, with my friend Suzie, I couldn’t deny that much of the actual magic just came from hearing it afresh, unexpectedly ‘in the moment’, after years of probably taking much of Bowie’s output relatively for granted.  It is, if you like, the difference between what you know about a record objectively, and how it makes you feel subjectively in a particular situation. (Duh! - that’s the whole point of Pop music, I hear you cry).

I thought about this again the following morning, whilst reading ‘Lila’ [3.], - Robert M. Persig’s sequel to the more famous, (and really rather splendid), ‘Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance’ [4.].  These two books constitute a form of pop-philosophical investigation into the idea of ‘Quality’ and are, essentially, Persig’s attempt to constitute some form of Value-based Metaphysics.  Persig sees this as being in opposition to the binary subject/object concepts of ‘Reality’ that have, (in his view), plagued our understanding since classical times.

That might sound a little daunting, were both books not written in a very approachable, quasi-novel form, and if they didn’t also include large elements of personal history, psychological insight and some useful stuff on constructive approaches to practical tasks, such as - indeed, repairing a motorcycle.  Appropriately, each is also an account of a specific journey.  Conversely, it might be easy enough to dismiss Persig’s thinking, (and slightly hokey world view), as just another product of the 60s and 70s counter-culture.  However, it appears that, whilst not exactly on the syllabus of many serious Philosophy courses, neither is it actually derided by many specialists in the field.  There exist quite serious examinations of ‘ZAMM’ by people far more thoroughly versed in the subject than I [5].

Robert Persig, (With His Son, Chris), Aboard The Very Motorcycle.  (Photographer Unknown).

Anyway, this isn’t the place for an in-depth discussion on either work.  Suffice it to say, whilst I certainly won’t be donning saffron robes anytime soon, (or, I suspect, ever), there’s a lot of stuff in ‘ZAMM’ that I find fascinating, philosophically, and it’s a book I’ve turned to repeatedly over the years.  I’m only halfway through ‘Lila’, so can’t comment too meaningfully on it here, although it does appear to develop Persig’s original idea of the Value underpinning his perception of, well - everything, in terms of a distinction between ‘Dynamic’ and ‘Static Quality’. If nothing else, the following passage, (read with a mild hangover the morning after), does seem to relate, in part, to some of my earlier observations re. Bowie’s ‘Fame’…

"...imagine that you walk down a street past, say, a car where someone has the radio on and it plays a tune you've never heard before but which is so good it just stops you in your tracks.  You listen until it's done.  Days later, you remember exactly what the street looked like when you heard that music.  You remember what was in the store window you stood in front of.  You remember what the colours of the cars in the street were, where the clouds were in the sky above the buildings across the street, and it all comes back so vividly you wonder what song they were playing, and so you wait until you hear it again.  If it's that good you'll hear it again because other people will have heard it too and have had the same feelings and that will make it popular.

"One day it comes on the radio again and you get the same feeling again and you catch the name and you rush down the street to the record store and buy it, and can hardly wait until you can get it home and play it.

'You get home.  You play it.  It's really good.  It doesn't quite transform the whole room into something different but it's really good.  You play it again.  Really good.  You play it another time.  Still good, but you're not so sure you want to play it again.  But you play it again.  It's okay but now you definitely don't want to hear it again.  You put it away.

"The next day you play it again, and it's okay, but something is gone.  You still like it, and always will, you say.  You play it again.  Yeah, that's sure a good record.  But you file it away and once in a while play it again for a friend and maybe months or years later bring it out as a memory of something you were once crazy about.

"Now, what has happened?  You can say you've gotten tired of the song but what does that mean?  Has the song lost its quality?  If it has, why do you still say it's a good record?  Either it's good or it's not good.  If it's good, why don't you play it?  If it's not good, why do you tell your friend it's good?

If you think about this question long enough, you will come to see that the same kind of division between Dynamic Quality and static quality that exists in the field of morals also exists in the field of art.  The first good, that made you want to buy the record, was Dynamic Quality.  Dynamic Quality comes as a sort of surprise.  What the record did was weaken for a moment your existing static  patterns in such a way that the Dynamic Quality all round you shone through.  It was free, without static forms.  The second good, the kind that made you want to recommend it to a friend, even when you lost your own enthusiasm  for it, is static quality.  Static Quality is what you normally expect."  [6].

Pleasingly, it seems that the process can work the other way round, and that the Dynamic Quality of a record may be restored given the right conditions.

I'm also led to reflect that, often, the serendipitous connections between apparently unrelated events are more than enough to be going on with, being a form of Dynamic Quality in themselves.

The Hockley Arts Club, Hockley, Nottingham, December 2015.  (Photo: Suzie Fletcher).

Postscript:

It amuses me that everyone else's photos from the evening feature the members of our little party cavorting merrily, and will probably end up on Facebook.  Meanwhile, those I've chosen to illustrate events focus on neon signage and retro light fittings, and may go no further than this.  Images of my own face have been pretty few and far between on here over four years, suggesting my own relationship with internet 'fame' may be ambivalent, to say the least.  

[1.], [3.] & [6.]:  Robert M. Persig, 'Lila: An Enquiry Into Morals', New York, Bantam Publishing, 1991

[2.]:  David Bowie, 'Fame', (D.Bowie / J. Lennon), RCA, 1975.  (It's surprisingly easy to forget that Bowie co-wrote the song with John Lennon, with whom he also shares vocals on the original recording).

[4.]:  Robert M. Persig, 'Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Enquiry Into Values', New York, William Morrow & Co., 1974.

[5.]:  Those keen to explore different perspectives on Persig's work and philosophical world view are directed to  http://www.moq.org .

'Time Passages' At Melbourne Festival 2014: Extra Time

Photo: Suzie Fletcher

This post is an addendum to my earlier account of the live art project I carried out at Melbourne Festival Of Visual & Performing Arts recently.

Photo:  Suzie Fletcher

My own photos showed ‘Time Passages’, - the large piece I worked on there, in some detail, but were singularly devoid of human content.  The reality is, of course, that you can’t be producing artwork, interacting with the public and photographing yourself all at the same time.  Luckily, my friend Suzie found time to take some between her duties as Open Exhibition organiser, which I’ve included here.  It also means I’ve broken my general rule of not including my own ugly mug on this blog.  Trust me, it won’t happen very often.

Photos:  Suzie Fletcher

Of course, when the throng was thickest in The Assembly Rooms, Suzie was also fairly preoccupied, so you’ll just have to take my word for the fact that the room was actually pretty full at regular intervals throughout the weekend.  You get the idea…

Photos: Suzie Fletcher

I don’t need to say too much more about this project but I do want to take the opportunity to include a couple of passages of writing which seem to bookend it.  Indeed my initial reading (or re-reading) of them could be said to mark the starting point and the conclusion of it, in my mind.  The first is a piece, written by Suzie herself during a Poetry Workshop at nearby Calke Abbey, earlier this year [1.].  From what I’ve read, some very impressive work resulted from these and I definitely had in mind the varying emotional responses of the writers to that antiquated environment when I began planning ‘Time Passages’.  Suzie wrote several ‘Calke Love Poems’ during the workshop and this was the one I recalled most often, as I worked on it.

Bedroom At Calke Abbey.  Photo: National Trust/John Parkinson

  

Bypass

I lost my heart to this great house

Owing to misdemeanors past

And a delicate disposition last

It’s stowed away from prying eyes

‘place unknown’ categorised

I asked the gamekeeper,

Cook and chamber maid

Have you seen my heart?

Til’ they tired of my refrain

Have you checked your pockets?

Is it on your sleeve?

Have you checked your lists

And inventories?

I retraced my steps of

A hundred years

Looked for clues

The whys and wheres

This is absurd!

Said left brain to right brain

Take the logical approach

You must have stored it under ‘h’!

And then Doubt crept in

With her theories

It could be listed under

Organs, pumps or curiosities

What about mechanisms,

Components or specimens?

Oddities, miscellanea, cornucopia

Animal, vegetable, mineral

Or ‘Other’!

You’re not helping, Doubt

Asserts right brain

Tending towards drama queen

You’re both being ridiculous

This is all in vain

It’s plainly not filed anywhere

It’s lost in hell without a spare! 

A heated argument ensued

I retreated to a darkened room

And only when

I had lost hope too

It dawned on me

How deeply I love you

Nailed to the wall for all to see

I pass my heart every day

Unbeknownst to me [2.].

The 'Potting Shed' At Calke Abbey.  Photo: Phillip Sangwell

The second piece is the final passage of ‘Alices’s Adventures In Wonderland’.  As already described in my earlier post, that was the other suggested source that fed into my thinking about the project at the start; and it really triggered my ideas about subjective time in the final piece.  It was a pleasure to return to Carroll’s text again after some years, and to discover the rather lovely closing section.  It’s perhaps a little sentimental for some tastes, but I do find it rather moving.  It differs from the rest of the book’s fantastical tone in being a a more grown up reflection, from the perspective of Alice’s older sister, on the nature of dream time and the subjective memories of childhood that dwell deep within us all [3.].

Sir John Tenniel, Illustration From 'Alice's Adventures In Wonderland'

“‘Wake up, Alice dear!’ said her sister.  ‘Why, what a long sleep you’ve had!’

‘Oh, I’ve had such a curious dream!’ said Alice, and she told her sister, as well as she could remember them, all the strange Adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, ‘It was a curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it’s getting late.’  So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been.”

“But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream:

“First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright, eager eyes were looking up into hers – she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that would always get into her eyes – and still as she listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her seemed alive with the strange creatures of her little sister’s dream.

“The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by – the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring pool – she could hear the rattle of teacups as the March Hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution – once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the Duchess’s knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it – once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the Lizard’s slate-pencil, and the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable Mock Turtle.

“So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality – the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds – the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen’s shrill cries to the voice of the Shepherd boy – and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard – while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle’s heavy sobs.

“Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of childhood; and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life and the happy summer days.” [4.]

Sir John Tenniel, Illustration To 'Alice's Adventures
In Wonderland'.

[1.]:  Part of the programme of such workshops run by 'Expressium Poetics'.

[2.]:  Suzie Fletcher, 'Bypass', From 'Calke Love Poems'  (A Series Of Pieces Written In Response To The Environment And Memories Of Calke Abbey, Derbyshire).

[3.]:  There has been much speculation about the exact nature of Carroll’s (in reality, Rev. Charles Dodgson), relationship with young Alice Liddell, on whom his heroine was modeled and for whom the book was penned.  I guess it’s hard not to be suspicious in these cynical, sex-obsessed times, but for now, I’m content to keep an open mind and hope that his real motive was to revel in the innocence and imagination of childhood, and nothing more sinister.  The truth is, of course, rarely black and white.

[4.]:  Lewis Carroll, ‘Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland’, London, Macmillan, 1865