Self-Winding · A Sort of Progression

Small, Smaller

I thought I knew all there was to know
Of being small, until I saw once, black against the snow,
A shrew, trapped in my footprint, jump and fall
And jump again and fall, the hole too deep, the walls too tall.

Russell Hoban


Take a chair
After my recent foray into Rennie Mackintosh country I?m sensitised to anything arts & craftsy. So "Unified Vision" - an exquisite site from the Minneapolis Institute of Arts is right up my street. Members of the American 'Prairie School' were primarily modern architects who aimed to create 'authentic American architecture'. They, like Mackintosh, carried their design ideas across to the furniture and art objects in their buildings.
It is interesting to observe how the arts and crafts style continued to inform the modern, how it still referenced Mackintosh's ideas, and how it developed across the Atlantic - as illustrated by four chair designs;

Frank Lloyd Wright?s dining chairs have a definite look of ?G-plan out of arts and crafts?. Highly desirable, very solid.

George Washington Maher?s chair crouches on its haunches, giving the feeling that it is about to amble off. It is endearing. It has something of the electric chair about it too!.

Rennie Mackintosh's earlier chair has greater lightness and elegance in every line of its back and a lovely arch on the base binds in the tall verticals. These are Mackintosh reproductions, but they beautifully illustrate his deft touch.

Depends on your point of view
Detail from accident report forms received by Norwich Union Insurance:

'I started to slow down but the traffic was more stationary that I thought.'

'I realised the engine was on fire, so I took my dog and quickly smothered it with a blanket.'

'Attempting to kill a fly, I drove into a telephone pole.'

'An invisible car came out of nowhere, struck my car and vanished.'

Dear old bag
This piece on Eeksy Peeksy brought a companion memory to the surface. I have poor recall of my childhood, and am waiting for the regressive effects of ageing to return it to me one day soon. One of the stray things I do remember is longing at about age six, to have a proper adult handbag with important things in it. To me that meant papers - cards, diary, forms, letters, ration book covers, envelopes, cuttings, bus tickets, paper money. My Aunt Dids set me up with a full size lady's black leather job, a bit bashed on the corners; I filled it up with what I considered to be pukka documentation. I wore it Queen-style, and took it everywhere. I distinctly remember sitting on top of a No 52 bus going up Kensington Park Road, opening my bag and leafing grandly through my papers: I had joined the adults. I bet Mum was looking out of the window and smiling.

Images: a random roundup
Lomography on BBC Four might be worth a look. The nine day photographic event at the V & A linked to on this page is inviting too. □ Life in America is a gem worthy of little browsing time - a deeply atmospheric album of daily life. A new image is posted each Friday. I particularly love the photograph "New Dawn. Southern Illinois". □ I was trying to find new places to hang pictures today. One is difficult to place - a huge print of a tiger in a golden landscape by Matthew Hillier who is a friend of ours, we knew him when he was starting to build up a portfolio and was still living in an attic caretaking and painting. I have several of his pictures, including some much treasured pastel sketches where his hand flowed free, and a perfect tiny study of a frog. We miss him since he moved to America. □ Whoever built Anna Chromy's website certainly went to town; I wish I liked the work as much as the presentation. □ I always considered myself as nothing much to look at, but I did once have a very nice swan neck and I admit I was proud of it - ah, how God punishes the vain; this striking pastel by Sophie Ploeg captures the lovely remembered feeling of youth. □ Mind you, looking at a few of my fellow humans, perhaps I don't have too much to worry about. Some of these galleries are marvellous sources for facial expression picture references.

Rubble, rubble toil and....not much trouble
Today Barry took a big pneumatic drill to the kitchen walls; in baseball cap and mask, wielding this huge thing at shoulder height he put us in mind of Eminem in chainsaw mode! Surrounded by piles of rubble, red with brickdust, he belted out "Pretty Flamingo" of all things, and kept up a comedy turn with Garth. Our chief builder is well named, small he may be, bow-kneed with arthritis he may be, but he has the quality of his namesake. He smokes very thin roll-up fags and is covered in many small wounds derived from careless hard graft. At his previous job the lady was so concerned at all the nicks on him that she asked if he went in for self-mutilation? Between these two marvels the room has now become a very amazingly big shell, a doorway has vanished behind breeze blocks, the concrete mixer stands ready to fill up the forms for new steps and the pile of plasterboard goes up on the ceiling tomorrow. Lesley, the free kitchen design lady, visits at 10 am tomorrow to talk to them about wiring & plumbing. She is so groomed and elegant - an older Kim Novak type - I long to see them together. In fact I have my camera lined up for a souvenir shot of the summit meeting.


Sophie's voice
At the risk of becoming too poetry oriented, I must say how much I enjoyed Sophie Hannah reading a poem from her forthcoming collection. She's very funny and astute. Have a listen. Naturally I related to the poem she read today:

Sophie's en route to a poetry reading for teenagers at a public library. She is telephoned by the librarian who cancels. The poet is relieved of her nerves, the librarian is relieved of her worry that no kids will turn up, or will come reluctantly. A bookseller, coerced to be there with a selection of poetry books, is relieved at not having to come and sell nothing. The kids will be relieved at not having to listen. So everyone is relieved - and what the hell was it all for in the first place.

I know what she's getting at. I have so often had to organise cultural 'do's' that were doomed from the start. As to the performer - well, made positive by a safe distance of time ahead we all tend to overload on commitments. Being let off the hook at the eleventh hour is such a bonus.

Minimal me
I'm definitely going to have a go at this. Some of the sketches are brilliant.

More from the old red exercise book
A rather scary scribbled page, written in a short period of depression in the ?80?s. The energy for creative life left me for a while. There?s still a little warning in it, mind you, which is why it's here.


Housewife

I looked at my hand today
A tool for working.
I thought how hard it tries
Wiith soil, soap, paper, flour
To organise.
Achieving temporary things ?
Lists, casseroles,
Clean floors,
Gathered leaves,
Flowers,
Secured doors. Un-happenings.

If the hand relaxed and died
What it did is only
Inside this door.
Inside this bloody house.
Temporary salve against
An ugly, uncaring life.
Housewife.
The prize would seem to be
An ability
To organise things rotten,
To dream a bit of warmer things
And then to be forgotten.

Home improvements
The revamp started today - new windows throughout the house. The 4 strong men trying to extract the old Crittal metal windows finally resorted to colourful language and hacksaws. The dear old iron frames held in there like compacted teeth. Anyway, the sitting room now sports some very acceptable white double glazing, surprisingly elegant. The boys return at 7.45 am tomorrow to continue - a quarter of an hour before Garth & Barry are due to arrive to take a sledgehammer to the kitchen. What a hell of a day that promises to be.

I have made 8 pots of tea, 4 soups, dispensed three large packets of biscuits and listened to seven straight hours of Radio 2. If I hear another female with an electronic yodel singing through her nose I'll sling a brick at their tranny. One of the lads, slim as a willow with 3 rings tight in his nostril suddenly leapt through an empty door frame and danced madly on the grass to "I can't get no satisfaction". The brilliant sun thawed the hard frost and a dove came to splash bathe in the bird bath while their van radio played Sting's "Fields of Gold" - always reminds me of "The Lady of Shalott" - 'On either side the river lie, long fields of barley and of rye'. So it wasn't all bad.

The boys packed up, vacuumed, dusted & left the place pristine as they drove off at 4.30, great blokes. I wish I could keep them.

Cornelia
There's a lot to like about Cornelia Parker, the installation artist. She has done magnificent work. She has a very fine face. She has the self-deprecating vulnerability of the lapsed catholic. She shows patience with critics of the tired old "but is it really art?" variety, happily explaining her motivations. She has a taste for the unusual in music. Last but not least, she's amusing, her chosen luxury on "Desert Island Discs" today was a solar powered vibrator.

Dennis Severs' house
'The experience is as much about what you don't see as much as what you do'.
An intriguing find via newthings. The invitingly well-written piece from the Independent made me mark this up for when I next go to London by train - just round the corner from Liverpool Street station.

Obsessing
Yesterday someone lent me a Keith Jarrett CD - The Koln Concert. I'm on my fifth listen right now. How have I never heard this mesmerising thing before?

Some odd bits of love for Feb 14th
Hold me, kiss me, but first turn me on for heaven's sake!
Terry dactyl? Home page here
Remember the Un-Valentines, my child
L'amie des nains
Miss Britney Valentine
Moonlight Kiss(tch)
Áåñïëàòíûé è êîììåð÷åñêèé õîñòèíã

Bellum, Belli, Bello?..
?I do not agree with the war? is a statement that suggests its actual existence before it has happened, bringing overtones of inevitability; it is the phrase now most often heard. ?I do not agree with a war? better reflects reality and is sometimes heard. ?I do not agree with war? is hardly heard at all. That is actually not just a matter of semantics, it reflects mood

Listening to the big set-piece ?Iraq - Britain Decides? debate on BBC1 tonight served only to underline the confusion generated by the frantic maelstrom of opinion that swirls around us. The speculation, calculation and obfuscation leave one picking through the threads of the arguments, seeking some central principle, some overriding logic that inspires an opinion. Occasional shafts of broad, objective judgement shine briefly through. One such was from a top military analyst who begged for a more balanced set of world priorities in which North Korea, Israel/Palestine, India/Pakistan and al-Qaeda outranked Saddam for urgent attention. Bush is so focused, that he disregards the terrible dangers on his flanks.

The search for weapons in Iraq is a bad joke, they are surely under the vast sands somewhere, but Blix isn?t going to find a convenient pile of destruction dockets. They have now found missiles which exceed the permitted range by several miles; could this technicality have sufficient weight with the Security Council to swing it for war? France, who consistently vetoed the UN weapons inspections in the past, now wants that whole operation expanded as a delaying tactic. Can it be that next Friday?s report on what has been found could bring any major, unequivocal evidence. The UN is in hell, trying to keep reins on Bush, handle quarrelsome ?old Europe?, handle big players like China and maintain some respect for the integrity of its final resolution. Dear God, what a mess.

I feel brotherhood and loyalty to the USA, gratitude for their brave defence of many liberties. Many people whom I respect feel that Saddam must be tackled - such as an American friend who was at the sharp end of Desert Storm and will remember forever dealing with the horrors of what the Iraqis did to the citizens of Kuwait. But for me, I have come down on the side of the peacemakers. Two overriding reasons guide me, one moral, one of self-interest.

First, the obvious moral objection. The Iraqi people have suffered enough, it is thought that a cornered Saddam will turn his weapons on his own population to create outrage. The battle plans outlined in tonight?s debate would expose them again to the bombs and ultimately to the snipers. Instead, more guile, more money, more time and extended diplomacy should be used to change the regime. Don't sniff. The stick has been used instead of the carrot for years and where are we? Anti-diplomacy of the "Axis of evil" variety has alienated the Islamic world.

Secondly, the attack will bring terrible terrorist reprisals. I am, frankly, afraid. I live 13 miles distant from the biggest USAF airbase in the UK, where the combat aircraft are based and where nuclear materiel is stored. I do not feel comfortable. I may need to go out and buy some duct tape. But I do not care just for me and mine, but for us all. The world is changed and changing - ?Farewell the tranquil mind?.

So I've been to Cathures
Think I might have to reserve these poems by Edwin Morgan at the library, mind you it's a bit unfair - there won't be many takers for it in Norfolk. I feel like checking him out though, while the post-Glesca enthusiasm is upon me. By the way, I have linked to the Guardian poetry page.

Tom McRae
'....seemingly from nowhere, has immediately captured the imagination'
My new musical discovery, I have been playing his new album ?Just Like Blood? since I bought it in Glasgow. Some voices immediately speak to you, and his husky sweetness caught me up. The orchestration is haunting, the lyrics nicely enigmatic. Checking out his background, I find all sorts of references in his biogs. that explain the response: Brel: Scott Walker; angst; Francophone; bookshop; intense; dark; Notting Hill; angry. A friend dropped in this evening to lend me his first album, which is playing now - quite different, less subtle. He is appearing at UEA in March & I may persuade Sean & Louise to go, it's their regular stamping ground.
Amazon.co.uk reviews

The Devil's Dictionary
I have treasured this book for many years as a source of wit and elegant cynicism:

Bore - A person who talks when you wish him to listen
Congratulation - The civility of envy
Patience - A minor form of despair, disguised as virtue.

This new (slightly revised) web version is attractive and accessible. Here is a brief introduction to its author, Ambrose Bierce.

Plus ca change
"Went to the footie last week, home game. Typical Norwich. Played like Brazil for 35 minutes then like Norwich City for the remainder. As long as we don't lose the derby I can just about put up with it." (email from Brandon)

Here beginneth??.
the start of a love affair with Scotland. I have reached my advanced age without visiting it, and I have started well. Glasgow is a terrific city. In three days we saw and did so much. The people were courteous, interesting and kind.

We walked miles through the changing quarters of the city ? villages within the town, each with special character. Like San Francisco, the streets slope steeply and give suddenly startling perspectives; the buildings pile up the slopes in staggered masses of different styles, classical cornices, gothic spires, domes, new pseudo-Mackintosh, steel & glass towers. A tour on the open topped tourist bus on an icy, but brilliant morning was the best way to see what has been done. Past the cathedral to Glasgow Green, on by the river Clyde with its few remaining shipyard cranes and the new silver Armadillo exhibition centre. Street after street of tenements cleaned and rehabilitated. The new financial and hotel sectors, still under construction, busy with builders? bums.

There are tired fringes at the city edge, down at heel and overwhelmed with graffitti - and even in the main city there is still much in need of regeneration. It is being tackled apace; great facades stand open-faced with everything behind demolished, huge cranes work everywhere. Merchant banks have become restaurants. Once involved with the place, you become aware of how much has been achieved, the architecture is rich, with old stuff beautifully restored & good new design everywhere.

It?s a University town in spades ? full of young people, so the atmosphere?s lively and sociable. Our hotel is opposite the Glasgow School of Art in Renfrew Street, where a constant swirl of students passes ? all midriffs, piercings, orange and purple hair, portfolios under arms. The school is our first sight of the Charles Rennie Mackintosh oeuvre and is familiar from reproductions. Glasgow?s favoured son, an architect and designer of great originality, his work is used as a symbol of culture throughout the city and references crop up everywhere ? small blue glass squares lit up in the pavements, signage, fascias.

We visit The Willow Tearoom which he designed with such panache. We take, too, a tour of the interior of the school, led by a German student with perfect English. He makes, however, a strange verbal twist; he says that the surface of walls in the upper floors were made of Polish concrete for cheapness. We stroke their shiny, slippery surfaces and wonder about the ingredients of such an exotic substance. Hours later we realise he must have meant polished concrete.

Just by the Hunterian Museum at the University of Glasgow Mackintosh?s own delicious house has been reconstructed in full detail; a breathtaking sitting room, all white, full of light with strong, co-ordinated design flowing through furniture, paintings, lamps, plasterwork, fabrics. Another excellent Mackintosh exhibition is at the new Lighthouse gallery ? as interesting for its presentation as its content. Here on the sixth floor (reached by blue illuminated escalators) we look out over the city, then go down a floor for a gin & tonic courtesy of hosts of an exhibition of stunning designs in glass. It is stewarded by an art student who spends time with me talking about ideas for his final year presentation.

At dusk the lights come up, buildings come into their full beauty and the place begins to buzz. Each night we gravitate to Borders Bookshop, behind GOMA, reached through a classical colonnade. A café in the gallery is lined with accessible books, the place is packed till 9pm. At 7.30 in the basement music shop, the wine is poured and an event takes off. On the first evening I am stopped in my tracks upstairs by an amazing voice; it is Tom McRae (of whom more elsewhere) singing songs from his new album, so we sit on the stairs for an hour and listen. The next night, a poet and musician give a performance of pleasurable eccentricity. After these treats we drift to candlelit bars for a glass of wine, then on to dinner. Variously, we ate pasta, tapas and some excellent salmon. Each night we walked the mile back to the hotel uphill and thus it was I lost a couple of pounds. Or was it the enforced absence from salted peanuts?

Elizabeth, who goes on to Texas in July, was sad that time was short and this would be her only visit; being pretty compatible in what we wanted to see, we packed a hell of a lot in. I will go back as soon as I can. In summer the nearby coast and parks would beckon. On Saturdays there is the huge 1000 stall market. And why not go back, indeed - the air fare was just £27 return, the bus from Prestwick Airport cost 50p each way, b&b was cheap and most cultural venues were free. Less than a theatre trip to London, and vastly more pleasurable.



From ?The People?s Palace ?
This wonderful museum is worth a separate paragraph. Because of my affection for the Crystal Palace (also referred to by the same name), I was happy to see the conservatory so beautifully restored; it has been set out with plantings of cacti, bromeliads & exotic trees. The museum itself treats with the social history of Glasgow through oral history, photographs, artifacts of everyday life. To read its exposures of the harsh conditions in the slums actually made me weep at the sadness of lives lived in hideous poverty. Yet the natural optimism and humour of the people bursts through in their words and in the images of their faces. The heart lifts a little. What is unforgivable is that regeneration was so slow, and terrible conditions persisted into the nineteen fifties and sixties.

I remember a few special things:

 Song sung by tenement children in the forties under the windows of honeymoon couples:

The first night?s the worst night
The first night?s the worst
The first night?s the worst night?.
I want tae gae hame to me mammy

 A section on alcoholism displays a large black and white photograph of a filthy back alley where a figure sprawls on his back in the dirt, above him a child stands staring down. The agonizing caption says simply:
?Broken man with small boy?

 In a glass case hang three baby?s long dresses made from blue-striped ticking, carefully sewn, and a diaper fashioned from flour sacking; they were made for her child by a woman prisoner in Glasgow Gaol in the 1890?s. Imagine the stiffness, the discomfort, the laundering.

 While we were there a class of seven year olds was being given a dramatic history performance by a tired middle-aged Scots lady wearing a turban, slippers & wrap round apron. ?This heere is ma tenement, and this is ma beed where we all sleep together?? and so on. The children were fascinated and so were we for about twenty minutes. Later we were having a coffee downstairs and an attractive blonde girl of about 25 in a beret and a dashing blue coat smiled at us and said she hoped we had enjoyed her performance! We were staggered - that was some make-up!

Now, bookworms, be appreciative...
......or be very afraid!