Shakespeare's Globe

St. George? Who? Today is, of course, universally celebrated as the (putative) date of both the birth and death of the secular saint of world literature, William Shakespeare. Most years I try to remember to do a Will-themed post on 23rd April, so, conveniently, on Saturday we happen to have gone up to London to meet our son and his partner for a guided tour of the reconstructed Shakespeare's Globe on the South Bank.

Of the four of us, I was the only one who had never been there for an actual performance – TBH I'm not a great theatre-goer – but we were all keen to get a literal look behind the scenes. These guided tours are clearly a popular activity: there are fifteen bookable slots every half hour, 9:30 - 4:30 every day, and there were at least twenty of us on our 2:00 pm tour on Saturday. At around £30 a head, that's clearly a useful source of income for the Globe.

It was fun actually to be inside that famous "wooden O" and feel something of what those earliest audiences must have felt. Although not what they would have smelt: according to our guide the standing-only groundlings were packed in shoulder to shoulder and known as "penny stinkards", not least because many of them would have worked in the nearby tanneries and breweries. To be honest, though, the tour would only be truly informative if you knew little or nothing about Tudor theatre, and disappointingly there is no actual looking behind the scenes: the guide takes you into the theatre space, delivers a lecture at various suitable locations, and leads you out again, inevitably ending in the gift shop. So, no dressing rooms, or any other working spaces used by the actors or technical members of the company, which is surely what you want to see if you are interested in theatre as such. Our son, for example, seriously considered a stage management career after enjoying his theatrical involvement at university, but (thankfully) followed a different path; Covid must have hit precariously-employed theatre staff as hard as the plague years did in Shakespeare's time.

The guide's lecture obviously has to take into account the possibility – indeed, the likelihood – that some in the group will not have fluent English, barely know the name of any of the plays, or even be aware that electric lighting was not yet available in the 16th century. It will also be coloured by the presence of young children, and there were several in our group. So our guide could only hint at the other sorts of entertainment on offer on the South Bank in the years when it was beyond the jurisdiction of the City proper. Although, amusingly, present in our party was a ten-year-old – clearly a future literary scholar – a solemn, red-haired, bespectacled girl who could answer all of his "can anyone guess" questions, including the one about how had someone extinguished his companion's breeches that had caught fire during the conflagration that destroyed the original Globe. My guess would have been that he had pissed all over his friend, but her hand went straight up: she actually knew that he had used his pot of ale. Impressive, young lady, but you'll need to learn how not to be so annoying. Knowledge may be power, but feigned ignorance is the way to deploy it...

A few things our guide pointed out about the way the physical reality of the place governed the stagecraft did strike me as noteworthy, however.

For example, I had never before realised that those in the very expensive "lord's gallery" boxes, well away from the stinkards – if you had to ask, you couldn't have afforded one – were facing the players from behind: their lordships were primarily there to be seen and admired, not to watch the play. So the suggestion was that the frequent verbal descriptions of the action on the stage – which are what make the plays so readable – are not just intended to cover the inadequacies of 16th-century stage business, but also there to help anyone follow the action who either can't see because their view of the stage is blocked by some inconsiderately tall groundlings, or who is rattling their jewellery in those prestigious but awkwardly-placed seats. I'm not sure I buy that, but it's an interesting idea.

He also mentioned that rehearsal time was minimal: sometimes just a day or two. So, where today's actors can spend months workshopping a drama and exploring their character's motivations, back then each actor had a ready-made specialism: you can imagine that one might make impressive kings, another hilarious clowns, while the more mellifluous young boys would do noblewomen and others, less well-favoured, do "hostesses", and so on. Crucially, they would stick to their métier, like a prefabricated dramatic component. It would have made for a very different experience, and who happened to be available to play parts might well have driven the writing, too. It is often commented, for example, that the change from Will Kemp to Robert Armin as the company's "comedy" actor marks a change in Shakespeare's comic characters, from the simple clowning of Dogberry in Much Ado, say, to the melancholy "wise fools" of As You Like It and ultimately King Lear.

Now, as I say, I'm not really a true theatre-goer, so my opinion counts for little in this regard, but, for what it's worth, I think the Globe has strayed from its original purpose. There are many theatres in London where fine productions of Shakespeare's plays are put on, and which often put a premium on breaking new theatrical ground, whether it be gender- or race-blind casting, present-day and controversial settings, or whatever other innovations a director seeking to make an impact in a competitive space can come up with. But the American actor Sam Wanamaker went to an awful lot of trouble to get the Globe built on London's South Bank as a replica of Shakespeare's original theatre in every practical way. So you would think that if there is one place where authentic Elizabethan or Jacobean dramatic conventions could be seen in action – perhaps even down to having boys play the female parts? Probably not? – then the Globe would fit that bill. And that was the case to start with, under the artistic direction of Mark Rylance, with the rubric "original practices". But since then it seems to have become just another venue for much the same sort of interpretive innovations as in other theatres, such as setting the most recent production of A Midsummer Night's Dream in a winter snowscape. Yes, very clever, I bet no-one's thought of that before. Hey, it's Sauna Shakespeare!

Because a set-change for the next production was in progress – again, perversely IMHO, it's going to be Brecht's Mother Courage, of all things – we were asked not to photograph the stage. Hence the rather cramped view above. We were also forbidden to get onto the actual stage, which was a shame, as I did not get a chance to declaim one of my favourite bits of Shakespeariana:

O, for a muse of fire that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention!
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act,
And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,
Assume the port of Mars, and at his heels,
Leashed in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire
Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all,
The flat unraisèd spirits that hath dared
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth
So great an object. Can this cockpit hold
The vasty fields of France? Or may we cram
Within this wooden O the very casques
That did affright the air at Agincourt?
O pardon, since a crookèd figure may
Attest in little place a million,
And let us, ciphers to this great account,
On your imaginary forces work.
Suppose within the girdle of these walls
Are now confined two mighty monarchies,
Whose high uprearèd and abutting fronts
The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder.
Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.
Into a thousand parts divide one man,
And make imaginary puissance.
Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them
Printing their proud hoofs i’ th’ receiving earth,
For ’tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
Carry them here and there, jumping o’er times,
Turning th’ accomplishment of many years
Into an hourglass; for the which supply,
Admit me chorus to this history,
Who, prologue-like, your humble patience pray
Gently to hear, kindly to judge our play.
Prologue to Henry V

Or at least belt out whatever garbled, misremembered bits of it I could come up with on the spot, anyway. Which is probably just as well. But, by Harry, what a speech, and what could be more appropriate to the Globe? They should employ someone to do it, once every half hour, as part of the guided tour.

But a little magic was still in store for us. As our guide delivered his final words in the inescapable gift shop, he gestured to the glass case beside me, in which I had already spotted the ultimate Shakespearean treasure: a genuine copy of the First Folio, open at Macbeth, one of the eighteen plays we would not have now, had this unprecedented, celebratory and posthumous volume not been compiled in 1623 by the great man's friends and colleagues. WTF. OMFG. Not for sale, sadly – a copy sold at auction in 2020 fetched $10 million – although a facsimile can be bought for a mere £125. And, besides, you can scrutinise the Bodleian Library's copy online absolutely free: I am proud to be listed among the donors who made this wonderful project possible.

Happy 462nd birthday, Will!

April 2025

After getting home from a very wet walk to the shops I recalled that, by contrast, last year we had a particularly lovely edition of this volatile month. So I looked at last year's April photos, and decided to give some of them the wide treatment, for no better reason than it was something to do on a rainy afternoon. Or rather, an enjoyable way of postponing some other things I really should have been doing instead.

Last year Easter Sunday fell on April 20th, close to its latest possible theoretical date (April 25th), and much later than this year, when it was April 5th. With the result that we were in Wales an entire month earlier this year, so the chances were always that the weather would be rather different.

Apparently the earliest possible date for Easter Sunday is March 22nd, because of the linkage to Passover and thus the lunar calendar: it is determined as the first Sunday after the first full moon that follows the Spring Equinox. That's the "ecclesiastical" equinox, fixed on March 21st, but further complicated by disagreements between the various Christian churches on pretty much every other factor involved in working out the date, the so-called computus paschalis: see Wikipedia. No wonder it's so tricky determining the exact date of the Big Bang: the smart ecclesiastical money has always been on an unspecified Monday morning, which seems about right.

Gold Star Ghost

 You may remember this photograph I took in Wales at Easter 2022:

It's a classic example of what photography does best: simply to record the strange "imaginings" of reality, so often superior to anything our own minds could come up with, albeit as seen through our capacity for wonder and a desire to share the wonderful.

Well, we passed the same stretch of fence this year, and saw this:

Is it the same balloon in a sad state of decay after four years of exposure to Welsh weather, or is it a different one? I suppose there may be much to celebrate in the valley below, and balloons may constantly be blowing up into the hills, but it's quite a coincidence. I can say with a high degree of certainty that those are not the same clouds, though, despite any superficial similarity.

I'm pretty sure that this is the same section of the fence; it even looks as if it is the same sheep's wool, even more firmly attached to the wire than it was four years ago, too. It seems it doesn't just blow away, or dissolve in the rain like candy floss, but becomes ever more tightly wrapped and compacted, until it looks more like electrical insulation than wool. I doubt very much that any hardy peasants come up here wool-gathering these days, although it's true my partner does stuff the cleaner, fluffier bits we come across inside her boots.

The one at the top, incidentally, is an iPhone 12 mini photo. The one below was taken with an Olympus E-M5iii. Obviously, the Olympus files stand up to close scrutiny rather better: 20 megapixels vs. 12, and a much larger sensor; no contest, technically-speaking. But, apart from the weather and lighting conditions (and of course, the subject matter), I don't think there's actually that much to choose between them, quality-wise, in "real-world" terms; either would print nicely up to about A3 size, and for online purposes as small JPEGs there's really no difference at all.

I was going to make a comparison between a cheap digital watch and a Rolex – you know: both tell the time, and wearing either will make you look like a prat in someone's eyes – but then I remembered that the phone cost me rather more than that camera... But, "same difference", as we say. And, besides, I don't own a watch: my phone has that job covered, too.

Phoning It In

Southampton Common

Twyford Down

The weather has been unseasonably [1] warm (around 25° C /  77° F), and I'm still rather tired from all the driving and walking in Wales and Bristol, so I'm just going to post some iPhone photos from March with a little commentary.

My first comment, of course, is that I cannot understand why anyone still considers their phone to be an inferior device to a "proper" camera, albeit one of similar specifications. I'm still using my iPhone 12 mini, bought in August 2021 and – by using an app, ProCamera, that delivers 12 megapixel "raw" DNG files – get perfectly adequate photos in most circumstances, and have no great urge to upgrade it. It fits in my pocket, does a respectable job, and "camera" is not even its main purpose. Although I suppose anyone who insists on always using a DSLR on a tripod will find plenty to fault; but are their photos really that much better? Similarly, anyone for whom a BMW or Range Rover is their base level of satisfaction for "car" won't find much to like about our Skoda Citigo.

Radnorshire

Hergest Ridge

Hail storm approaching near Kington

I'd love a phone that had the classic set of three lenses – wide, "normal", and telephoto – and still use a "proper" camera most of the time, but I can live with what my iPhone delivers. Plus, of course, for certain ongoing projects, which by their nature require the ability to grab any unexpected opportunity that presents itself, only a phone or a very portable pocket camera will do. The dropped gloves I have been collecting – 259 so far – are an example. These three beauties turned up in March.

And, just to slip one in from April, here is the magnificent view across the Avon Gorge from our Bristol flat:

1. "Unseasonably" is increasingly a word without meaning, isn't it? How anyone can deny the reality of climate change is baffling. Although why they do is less so...

Wide in Wales

Our Easter procession continues: we left Wales at the weekend, and are now in Bristol. The weather in mid-Wales was typical for the time of year; that is, we had heavy rain, light rain, fog, hot sunshine, and one day of snow. How the poor bloody sheep with their new lambs cope I don't know; no wonder they look so grumpy. Sadly for us, this was our last stay in our cottage of choice since 2011 – an excellent, eco-conscious barn conversion perched on the shoulder of a hill overlooking a picturesque valley – as the owner's son will be moving in with his two sets of twins. I'm not sure it's somewhere I'd want to bring up four children, but I wish them luck...

It's nice to have Wi-Fi and a solid phone signal again, but I'm relying on my laptop here which is not equipped with my full set of photo-processing software, so this little gallery of wide views is a sort of rough preliminary draft of what I will be doing when we get back to Southampton next week.

Obscured by clouds...

Obscured by smoke...

The next five photos are all from one lovely walk we usually make at Easter that leads up to what the Ordnance Survey map marks as a "recumbent stone", a large boulder on top of a hill with commanding views of the landscape in every direction. Whether this is some ancient ritual marker or just a glacial "erratic" (a boulder that a glacier eroded in one place, carried in its icy pockets along with tons of other rocky trash, and dumped in another place, usually hundreds of miles away) is debatable – it may well be both, of course – but it certainly feels like a place of significance: there are stone circles in the valley below and an alignment of four upright stones next to a man-made mound further along the hill.

Technical point: Actually, one thing I'm noticing using this laptop to edit these photographs is that my customary downsizing settings – 22cm long dimension @ 96 dpi for "normal" images, or 30cm long @ 96 dpi for "wide" images – result in rather smaller pictures on this higher resolution screen than what I see on my usual desktop display at home, which is quite old now. Basically, the one on this laptop is 2256 x 1504, whereas the one at home is 1600 x 900... So I really do need to reconsider these settings when I get back to Southampton. Apologies to those of you who have been struggling with postage-stamp size images on this blog forever (Hi, Kent...).

Eighteen

Recently one of my oldest friends, Dave – a friendship dating back to our schooldays at a state grammar-turned-comprehensive in Stevenage New Town – mentioned to me the remarks written by the headmaster in his report at the end of our final year of sixth-form studies, and before the A-level exams that would determine our next step on the educational ladder, in summer 1972. I won't quote what was written, but, to me, those three brief sentences seemed oddly barbed, verging on the downright impertinent, although the reason Dave mentioned them was that he regarded this gnomic parting shot, in retrospect, as insightful and quite prophetic.

I honestly couldn't remember what that odd and ill-starred man [1] had written in mine, although the general tenor of all my reports through the years at that school had been remarkably similar: he's a very bright lad, capable of outstanding work, but so careless when it comes to detail that he is quite capable of falling short of his own potential. Also slightly barbed, I suppose, but also, as it turned out, insightful and quite prophetic. Maybe those teachers knew a thing or two after all.

I knew I'd got my own school report book somewhere, and after a bit of digging around managed to find it in a box of documents. Turning to that last page, I read some surprisingly fulsome reports, qualified as usual with those comments about "detail" (yawn), not to mention the head of sixth form's words, "All this, despite his apparent slovenliness!" Hey, it's a happening look, man! Get with the times!

But all the head had written was, "I concur and add my own good wishes". That was it; no snarky psychological insights, no nothing, just, "wot they said, have a good one". Might as well have been a birthday card.

That aside, I have to say that the rush of reminiscence delivered by opening those pages after so many years was a bit overwhelming. It was not entirely nostalgic – I doubt anyone remembers seven adolescent years in an all-boys school with unalloyed pleasure – but rather more a hefty dose of "seeing ourselves as others see us", followed by a stiff nostalgia chaser.

Now, it's true – although I shouldn't exaggerate this – I had started secondary school as an obedient little "swot", as we say, but became something of a rebel over the years, although not enough of a rebel to leave (or be asked to leave) at 16, and either join the real world or take my A-levels at the local FE college, which is what the bone-deep rebels did. Not everyone likes being at school; I was ambivalent about it myself. By the sixth form I was regularly carpeted about my scruffiness, hair length, laziness, and so on. Hilariously, I was often told that not shaving set a bad example for the younger boys. My attitude was tolerated, though, simply because I was clearly an Oxbridge prospect, and – second only to sporting success – nothing mattered more to small-town ex-grammars than a few Oxbridge entrance successes each year. So, along with a few similarly-minded chums, I walked the wobbly line between "characterful" behaviour and expulsion, confident in the safety net provided by my uncanny ability to ace any exam put in front of me, despite my apparent slovenliness.

However, although I could remember the general tone of the reports of the various teachers I had encountered over those seven years, I had completely forgotten the actual words they had written. After all, school reports are primarily aimed at parents, not pupils. So, reading that final report, two quite similar comments stood out, and suddenly I was indeed seeing myself as others saw me. The report of one of my English teachers was one: "His outstanding, but modest, contributions have been invaluable and have helped to raise the standard of the group as a whole". The report of my German teacher was the other: "I thank him for the distinguished contribution he has made to group discussion & atmosphere, where his spontaneous & uncynical approach has been invaluable".

I was actually quite moved by those remarks. Despite my introversion, I can be quite the little loudmouth and show-off in the right circumstances, and there were certainly occasions when I know I went a little over the top. You do not win friends by diverting an A-level geography class on population statistics by disputing the use of the word "random" in "random distribution" for rather too long, for example. But I could easily imagine how unrewarding, even depressing, it would be, trying to raise a spark of interest out of some dull bunch of teenage boys, year after year, and what a difference getting to engage with the occasional lively group would make. Their gratitude was clearly real, not just some formulaic well-wishing for the future, but I don't think I'd even noticed these two little tributes at the time, or cared about them if I had. But it seems I had made a positive difference, both for them and for our subject groups, and that felt very good, fifty-four years later.

This was swiftly followed by that stiff chaser of nostalgia.

I had forgotten how much I had enjoyed those "group discussions". State secondary schools here in Hampshire, for whatever reason, do not have sixth forms; instead, students wishing to study A-level courses must attend one of a few post-16 colleges with anything up to 3,500 students in each. It can be a bit impersonal, as there are multiple large classes in the popular subjects, drawn from all the schools in the catchment area, so my children's experience was very different from my own long-ago sixth-form years in Hertfordshire in the last century.

Our German group, for example, was made up of just nine of us, boys who had all sat in the same classrooms for many years; in the case of three of us this had been from the age of eight, as we had been in the same primary school class. In fact, one of them even had a surname very similar to mine, so we had actually sat next to each other for years at our alphabetically-arranged desks. It's an odd word to choose, perhaps, but it felt cosy. Most of the time anyway; it could get pretty chilly if we hadn't performed up to our teacher's expectations (see, for example, the post Aieee!).

In German we got to study Goethe, Kafka, and 20th century poets like Rilke, Celan, and Trakl; in English Shakespeare, Milton, and 19th century poets like Browning, Tennyson, and Arnold. What a menu, what a feast! Those sixth-form sessions will likely be the closest encounters with great literature you will ever have, a sort of intellectual growth spurt, in which you feel yourself growing into something approaching your full mental height for the first time. We were no longer a class of 30 boys sitting in rows of desks, some paying attention to the blackboard, some daydreaming, some plotting mischief, and a few even [um, no, let's not mention that. Ed]. We were now a little collective, a band of brothers with a common academic purpose, guided by excellent teachers. I found it intoxicating; it's no exaggeration that you could occasionally get high on the flashes of insight as they sparked around the room.

In comparison, university was a let-down.

That same old friend and I both did well enough at A-level to be encouraged to stay on for an extra term of tutoring before sitting the Oxford Entrance exam. Both of us were successful, and after interviews were admitted to Balliol College to study English: no small achievement for a couple of lads from our sort of background. But Oxford's much-vaunted collegiate tutorial system was not what I had imagined it to be, at least as far as English at Balliol was concerned. Other subjects like PPE (philosophy, politics and economics) were the source of the college’s renown, and other colleges had built a greater reputation for English. I suppose I had expected a higher-voltage version of what I had experienced in the sixth form, but it never even came close.

The nadir for me came when I read out an essay on Virginia Woolf's The Years – a book I admired very much – and it turned out that the junior tutor leading the session – he was on loan from Reading University, I think – had never actually read it himself, and therefore had nothing to say beyond, "Hmm, interesting...". Yeah, well, you're not wrong there, chum. So, after three years of this, in our final farewell session with our senior tutor Dave angrily accused the college of running what was, in effect, a correspondence course, which was about right. I believe things may have improved since then.

But, remembering those sixth-form years, I'm reminded of how, back in March 2009, I drove my son and a friend from their sixth-form college all the way from Southampton over to Guildford to see Measure for Measure at the Yvonne Arnaud Theatre (with Alistair McGowan as the Duke, and the action transposed to a "Victorian" Vienna). They were studying it for A-level, so this rare chance to see one of Shakespeare's weirder plays in performance was very opportune, and easily worth an hour's drive each way.

Driving back home through a very dark, very starry night – partly concentrating on the road, partly turning the play over in my mind, and partly listening to the chatter of two very bright soon-to-be 18-year-olds – I finally felt the true weight of my subsequent thirty-seven years of reading, listening, looking, learning, working, succeeding, screwing up, and daydreaming. I was no longer eighteen, no matter how much it might feel that way inside. I was fifty-five.

It was not an unpleasant feeling, and I remember sitting in a happy silence, slightly high with the realisation that just continuing to turn up and to be open to whatever "life" presents – having learned how to pay the closest possible attention to it and to give your best possible response – is perhaps the only achievement worth the name. Although just now what I'm mainly aware of is just how quickly "eighteen" became "fifty-five" and then "seventy-two"...

Question: Where does it go? Discuss. You have three hours. Write on one side of the paper only.

1. For reasons that are murky and much-rumoured, this headmaster was dismissed just a few years later.

Left in the Loft

Here comes yet another round in my ongoing grapple with the values of the contemporary art-world; this time the bell was sounded by the Victoria Miro Gallery's newsletter. Seconds out!

So, imagine this scenario: you've moved to a new house, and in the garden shed, or up in the loft, you find the painting above. It's on a canvas not much larger than a sheet of A4, just like the ones you can buy ready-stretched in any art store that caters to hobbyists. Do you think:

a). Wow! This is an amazing painting, and might even be worth a lot of money! We'd better decide whether to keep it – it would look great on the living room wall – or take it to an auction house for a valuation. What idiots, to leave something like this behind!

or

b). Bloody hell! Why won't people do something with their junk before they leave? Mind you, I'm not surprised they left this risible piece of crap behind. Somebody out there needs to find another hobby! I'll break it up and put it in the bin.

Your call. I think you can probably guess that I'm going with (b).

This particular painting is by an artist I had never come across before, Etel Adnan. It is just 24 x 30 cm (9.5" x 11.75"), so very small by today's standards; as I say, not much larger than a sheet of A4. Note the effusive puff to the right. If you can't read it, it says, "Etel Adnan juxtaposed brilliantly coloured geometric forms to evoke with bracing succinctness the eternal landscape verities of sun, sea and sky", and is signed by Christopher Riopelle, who happens to be curator of post-1800 paintings at the National Gallery, London. So someone who, let's be honest, ought to know a lot more about painting than you or me.

Here is how the gallery describes Atnan:

Etel Adnan was born in Beirut, Lebanon, in 1925 and died in Paris, France, in 2021. An acclaimed poet, novelist and artist, she began painting in her thirties and gained widespread recognition as a visual artist through her inclusion in Documenta 13 in 2012. Adnan developed a distinct visual language, one rooted in colour, form and intuition, as her abstract paintings sought to capture the essence of land, sea, sky and cosmos. She revered nature and believed that its power was revealed through colour. She described painting as an impulsive act, completing each work in a single sitting, working indoors and entirely from memory. Laying the stretched canvas flat, like a page on a table, she applied oil paint directly with a palette knife, creating planes of colour that convey a placeless landscape from afar and reveal a brilliant intensity upon close observation.

So here is yet another apparently notable figure whose name I, in my casually parochial way, had never come across before, but whose work looks to me, I'm afraid I have to say, like the efforts of some well-intentioned but cack-handed Sunday painter. A fuller account of her life and career can be read here, courtesy of the White Cube Gallery. It seems she is one of that populous diaspora of cosmopolitan, multilingual academics and artists who fled the Middle East at various junctures and found congenial new lives in Europe and the USA.

Now, it goes without saying that you don't get to exhibit in such upscale spaces as Miro and White Cube, where the prices are such that they're only available "on enquiry", without having made something of a reputation for yourself. How such reputations get made is an interesting subject, but one you could only really tackle at book length. Many are called, but few are chosen, and all the roads to a bankable reputation are treacherous. But it is revealing that, according to the White Cube biographical sketch:

It was not until her mid-thirties, while teaching Philosophy of Art and Aesthetics at Dominican College in San Rafael, California, that she started painting. The head of art, Ann O’Hanlan, asked how she could teach philosophy of art and not practice art herself. Adnan replied, 'Because my mother said that I was clumsy.' 'And you believed her?' At first she used crayons, scraping them flat over remnants of paper from the art department before using up the ends of oil tubes with a knife. This new language of spontaneous gesture, infused with Californian light, offered a liberation from the constraint of writing in the formal language of her upbringing. ‘I didn’t need to write in French any more’, she said, ‘I was going to paint in Arabic’. ’

So, in effect, Adnan was a Sunday painter, but one with a ready-made reputation in other fields. And it seems that being an academic and poet brings more cachet and more gravitas to your painting efforts than, say, being a Rolling Stone, a Beatle, or even a James Bond.

What strikes me more, though, is that her mother had a point. Paintings like these (and hers are all like this) are clumsy: an idea for an image has been transferred to canvas with no apparent regard for skill, or the subtler qualities of paint and mark-making. Talk of "spontaneous gestures" seems very far from the mark: this is graffiti by numbers. I am very much reminded of some work I came across back in June 2017, described in the post So Bad It's Bad.

Compare that painting with this print, say, by Richard Smith, to pick something pretty much at random from my digital scrapbook:

Sun Curtain, 1971

How much more "spontaneous" it seems, despite the comparatively laborious process involved in its production (it's a lithograph). Simple, abstract, lively, and uncluttered: for me this really does warrant a description along the lines of "juxtaposing brilliantly coloured geometric forms to evoke with bracing succinctness the eternal landscape verities of sun, sea and sky" (as per the puff next to the Adnan painting).

Or what about this, by Idris Khan, someone who blends his multiple cultural heritages to great effect:

Time Present, Time Past (Azrag III), 2025

"In these new works, each panel is carefully inscribed with layers of musical notation or Arabic text, applied by hand using gold leaf. These inscriptions, often poetic or meditative, are overlaid repeatedly until only their edges remain legible. In this process, language folds in on itself and meaning dissolves into form." Um, OK, if you say so; looks good, though, however it all got there.

Of course, handwavy stuff about "quality" in art is very dated. My impression of the various strands of contemporary art philosophy may be out of date, too, but in general they have always seemed to converge on the reductive but irrefutable idea that a "painting" is nothing more than some marks made on a two-dimensional surface, intended for no other purpose than to be looked at. Any meaning we might derive or emotion we might feel when looking at one has not been put there by the painter – so, thankfully, it seems you can ignore whatever grandiose claims are made in any accompanying "statement" – but is brought to the encounter by us. Seen in this light, an abstract painting is not that different from some interesting textures and colours you might notice on a distressed fence or wall (a view photographers would encourage, of course).

It follows that all judgements of whether a painting is "competent", "good", or even "excellent" are also supplied by the viewer, and clearly some viewers of greater influence and sophistication than me have supplied some very favourable judgements indeed when gazing upon the work of Etel Adnan. Obviously, we are all entitled to our strong views about the sort of thing we like, but it will always be people who have arrived at positions of aesthetic authority, like Christopher Riopelle, who will ultimately determine whose work is dismissed as derivative kitschy crap and whose gets elevated to a world-class contribution to culture.

To the typical art civilian, though, the difference between the two can seem ... confusing. Jeff Koons good, but Jack Vettriano bad? Huh... OK, if you say so... Few people who care about art have the confidence (or the ignorance) to be totally independent in their tastes, and if you are aware of what the cultural authorities think, then you may well realign your views accordingly, whether consciously or not. The story of "The Emperor's New Clothes" is so insightful in this regard. Except, in its contemporary version, the ending has been changed. The wisest, most art-savvy advisor to the Emperor says to the boy, "But of course he has no clothes! That's the whole point... Here, read the artist's statement!" 

So if you, like me, admire Smith's "Sun Curtain" or Khan's "Time Present, Time Past" – I'd love to find one of those hiding in my loft – but consider Etel Adnan's "Untitled" canvas to be merely bin-worthy, then good for you. But our opinions do not matter, when it comes to the mysterious and distinctly undemocratic business of making artistic reputations. With the result that, whereas I think it's safe to say that anyone could easily knock out something similar, or indeed identical to an Adnan canvas, they would surely never be able to persuade anyone to buy it with the "wrong" name attached to it, never mind hand over however many thousands the "real" thing sells for. Unless... No, stop right now, don't even think about it. But the temptation must be there: bankable paintings as characterless and technically crude as this are surely any art forger's dream.

Some interesting textures and colours on a distressed fence...

As a loosely-connected afterword, in the Guardian's review of David Hockney's latest show in London – a gigantic frieze of 100 joined-up iPad paintings – Ben Eastham makes an interesting observation:

Hockney’s work, for a decade after about 1963, should likewise be treasured for disproving the lie (maintained by those who prefer to read about paintings than look at them) that great art must be difficult to comprehend, despise the everyday world, and remain inaccessible to a wider public.

But then, lamentably, the critical sniping seemed to catch up with Hockney. Whether because he was anxious to be taken seriously or had run out of steam, an era-defining painter retreated into ill-advised historical dialogues with Picasso and Van Gogh, and started experimenting with media from set design to fax machines (with mixed results). And so our greatest pop artist entered his jazz phase.

"Those who prefer to read about paintings than look at them", "jazz phase": nicely put, I think. And, as someone very nearly said on BBC Radio 4's Front Row: Will somebody do us and Hockney a favour and hide that bloody iPad?

Some more interesting textures and colours...

[NOTE: As usual, we'll be away in mid-Wales over Easter with no WiFi, so comments may not get posted straight away. There might just be a phone signal out there somewhere, though...] 

Dad Club

I mentioned in a previous post the idea that pretty much everybody has unrealised ambitions. Never getting scouted for a professional football career, perhaps, despite two outstanding seasons in a  local amateur team; failing to write a prize-winning novel (or, more likely, to finish any novel at all); never getting a cabinet post (or even winning a seat on the local Council) despite years of scheming and collegial sabotage; or even just to ride through Paris in a sports car, and so on. You cain't always git what you want... I suppose an important part of any ambition is that you have to know what it is, even if that knowledge is relatively content-free. You can want to be a doctor or the owner of a bookshop without much idea of what either job entails. Ambitions can be mutually exclusive, too: did Tony Blair want to be the singer in a band or to become Prime Minister? You certainly can't be both. Yet, anyway.

If I think back, what I really wanted to be when I was a kid was the David Attenborough of the Zoo Quest TV series or, failing that, the Gerald Durrell of his various creature-catching books, which were my main reading-matter at age ten, after I had been given The Bafut Beagles as a school prize. [1] I suppose I assumed there was a job called "naturalist", but had no idea of the job description or the credentials required beyond a beard, a way with words, and suitable knees for shorts. But by the time I was of an age to flaunt those credentials my ambitions had changed. Mainly, I think, what I wanted was to write the sort of book that would cause women to pester me with their attentions. So, sadly, having a beard (tick!), a way with words (tick!), and suitable knees for shorts (tick!) were now irrelevant, and having failed to publish any sort of book didn't help much, either.

One ambition I certainly didn't have as a young man was to be a father. I sort of assumed I would probably become a father at some point – although TBH I was mainly haunted by the worry that I might become one by mistake – but it had never really figured high on my "bucket list", as people say. And yet, as it turned out, becoming a father at the relatively late age of 37 has probably been the single most fulfilling experience of my entire life. I have loved being a father, with all its ups and downs, far more than any other identity I  have worn over my seventy-two years; which is just as well as – unlike, say, "student", "librarian", "photographer", or "blogger" – this one is permanent and non-negotiable.

It is easy for other identities to get swallowed up by the all-consuming role of "parent". I'm sure this is the main reason some suffer from an "empty nest" crisis when their children leave home, especially in the case of those for whom becoming a parent had been high on, if not at the top of their list of ambitions, and who had not really developed any competing identities before starting a family when still quite young. Middle-age can be enough of a crisis in itself, without suddenly realising that, without any children around, you have no idea who you really are, or what you might have been. Which is one very good reason for becoming a parent later in life, I suppose. It worked for us, anyway, and I like to think it worked out well for our children, too.

Given justifiable claims that we still live in a "patriarchy", you'd think being a father would be a pretty well-defined job. "Here you are, son: these are the rules of Dad Club. Pay particular attention to the sections on Dad Jokes and Dad Dancing..." But "being a father" is actually a very fuzzily defined condition, on a spectrum ranging from irresponsible absentee through unapproachable family CEO to the annoying sort of kidult dad who wants to be his children's best friend. So you pretty much have to make a role up for yourself, and find a way of dealing with the helplessness, guilt, and irrelevance you feel as you watch the woman you love go through trial by childbirth. 

I found myself happiest somewhere towards the "hands-on" end of the spectrum. There is a practical man inside me, a maker and fixer, and having children to entertain was all the encouragement he needed to come out. When the kids were small, I really enjoyed the endless improvised making of props and playthings with card, scissors, and tape, whether it was an elaborate crawl-through tunnel of joined-up cardboard boxes or a carefully painted and fitted Power Rangers mask made from robust watercolour paper. It was a bit like being a primary school teacher with a class of just two. Or perhaps more like home-schooling, where the only lesson is always Art & Craft. But I'm afraid putting up the occasional shelf, fixing a dripping tap, or redecorating the bathroom just don't hit the same spot, and Mr. Inner-Fixit does have a tendency to put his feet up and put those jobs off.

So being a father is an occupation with an open and evolving job description. The world has changed a great deal in the last 70 years, and it's impossible to know what part any one of us has played in bringing about those changes. I certainly make no grand claims to agency, but I can claim to have participated in a quiet revolution that has been reconfiguring the acceptable spectrum of paternal masculinity, and I take some pride in having nudged that dial, even a little.

[Waits for the jeers and loud scoffing noises of the mothers out there to die down]

If you want evidence that things have changed, just look on any high street, and count the men pushing prams and pushchairs. Not so long ago in Britain, for a man to be seen out with a shopping bag, never mind pushing a pram – or, bloody hell! Carrying a baby in a sling! – would have been like being caught trying on a dress. [2] Even when I was a child the division of labour around "man's work" and "woman's work" was still strictly gendered: not even an unemployed man would have been expected to take on any of the burden of housework or childcare. No wonder so many of my friends' mothers seemed always to simmer with barely repressed frustration and anger. I remember hearing from a girlfriend how her mother had exploded over the weekend, and thrown the family Christmas tree through a window. I don't recall now whether the window was open or shut at the time.

That said, in common with quite a few post-war working-class families, my parents seemed to have developed their own home-grown progressive theory of parenting: there was little smacking, much kindness, and bemused indulgence of my somewhat Martian personality. Times were changing. Mum was out at work part-time as soon as I started school, and full-time before I was eight. The money was welcome, of course, but I think Dad recognised that she needed the independence and a life outside "family" rather more. At home he was not some remote, unapproachable patriarch hidden behind a newspaper, never to be bothered with silly kid's stuff, but was always available, whether to help me in my efforts at drawing and painting, to patiently explicate the lyrics of the songs we would hear on the radio, or to play ball games in the back garden. Although it is also true that he had never cooked a meal in his entire married life until Mum had started to disappear into dementia, when he did finally figure out how to use a microwave oven.

1932: my paternal grandfather almost pushing a pushchair

In the 1970s some of us felt a rising wave of change – a metaphorical wave powered by the very real energetic output of angry young women – and began to push (or to be pushed to push) at the boundaries of our inherited ideas of masculinity. I am talking about housework and childcare here, not trying on dresses, although it's true that in 1972 I did once encounter a home-town friend on a remote Greek beach wearing his partner's long red Laura Ashley number in order to alleviate all-over sunburn, and to my surprise I learned not long ago that at least one college-era friend has since changed from Matthew to Matilda.

To arrive at Oxford University in the early 1970s – at that time an epicentre (or, perhaps more accurately, a distribution centre) of radical new ideas – meant that, for me, a traditionally-raised boy from a very ordinary family, the "learning curve" was dauntingly steep, and beset with pitfalls, tripwires, and the occasional landmine. I was constantly putting my foot in it, on it, and through it, when it came to the manners and shibboleths of my chosen new tribe. But I'm a quick learner, and it's no exaggeration to say that I entered university as one person and left as another. This was not without cost: I fell out of phase with old friends, and for many years felt at odds with a world where so many old certainties had turned out to be lazy choices, and not the eternal truths I had been led to believe.

So becoming a "hands on" dad may have come more easily to me than to many. Changing nappies, getting kids ready for school, or waking in the small hours to calm the big anxieties of small children simply became part of my daily routine. More than that, though, these small but significant things, taken together, felt like a rite of passage into a fully adult life. Although, as I never really enjoyed the bedtime preparation rituals, for example, I agreed to do all the cooking instead; no small undertaking, as anyone who has tried to keep up with their children's ever-changing food fads will attest. This was a deal which suited us both – my partner has never enjoyed cooking as much as I do – and still stands to this day, despite the fact that our "children" are now in their 30s and living busy lives in London (I really ought to check the wording of that contract). Somewhat annoyingly, though, for their one-time bespoke short-order cook, they are now truly adventurous diners who will eat, or at least try anything, up to and including durian-flavoured ice cream.

Sometimes a pram just can't get you where you want to go

Inevitably, though, there are problems when fundamental changes happen in a society which has not planned for them. Double income households with children have become the norm, pretty much as a financial necessity, and are no longer confined to the poorest families who need the cash or the professional classes juggling two careers. But small children still need to be looked after, and long and frequent school holidays – not to mention parental absences due to work commitments – need to be accommodated. Contracting this work out to childcare professionals is not cheap, whether in the home or a commercially-run nursery – it can eat up an entire second salary – and comes at an emotional cost, too. Which is why so many boomer-generation grandparents have found themselves back on a childcare duty roster, rather than out in the world enjoying a carefree retirement. So much for having "eaten all the pies".

As it happened – and I appreciate how infuriatingly privileged this will seem to many – my job entitled our children to attend a subsidised and well-staffed university day nursery from a very early age: six months! Obviously, this was an enormous benefit. My partner could pursue her nascent academic career and I could spend every lunchtime with our kids until they started school, sharing a meal and then, as they grew, taking them for exploratory walks around the campus. I loved taking them through the landscaped grounds, usually ending up in the Valley Garden, back then an Edenic, post-human spot, with ruined greenhouses, overgrown taxonomically-arranged plant beds, and gigantic, fairy-tale Gunnera manicata plants along a stream that would flood after heavy rain, turning the valley bottom into a marsh. We would gather fat windfall apples from the abandoned orchard and check on the progress of the frogspawn in what had once been an ornamental pond. This, now I come to think of it, laid the groundwork for what were to become my lunchtime photographic expeditions, daily walks which continued right up until retirement, fifteen years later. See my book, The Garden.

Unless you are wealthy enough and ideologically inclined to abandon your children into the "care" of private boarding schools – unimaginable to me, I have to say – there does come a point when the relative priorities and practicalities of both parents' working lives and ambitions have to be assessed. So I persuaded my bosses that it would be the progressive thing to do to allow me – a key member of the technical and middle-management library staff, even if I say so myself – to go part-time at work. This was a very unusual request at the time, not least for a male member of staff, and they did take a lot of convincing. But, as I have often said, whereas my partner's star was clearly on the rise, mine had chosen to stay in bed, so it was not a difficult choice to make. Whatever ambitions I might once have had, career-wise, were spent. Besides, as the children grew older and more independent the more time I would have to pursue my own real interests and unsalaried ambitions at home.

In those days, the 1990s, I would collect them from school in the afternoon, and I was often the only man waiting in the school playground; being rather older than most of the mothers, some barely more than children themselves, I was presumed to be their grandfather. Sometimes I was also an awkward – and not entirely welcome – male presence at occasions like birthday parties. But I was not there to make any point, other than the fact that, unlike some families, our kids had two fully-functioning parents rather than the conventional one and a bit. I suspect – indeed I hope – this may have caused some righteous questioning in some of those other households. "OK, Darren, how about I wash the car this afternoon, and you take Jimmy to that little shit Luke's party? Hmm? I'm sure it'll be fun! Isn't that what you said?"

But kids quickly grow up and start building their own adult lives. It's the "journey" we're all on, after all, and for them, as it was for us in our own day, leaving home is something that can't happen too soon. [3] So the hands-on stage of being a parent doesn't really last very long. Tweenies and teens are far too busy inventing themselves and figuring out how, where, and with whom they might fit in out there in the wider world to require much attention from you. But I am so grateful that ours grew up before social media had parasitised young lives so completely.

Plus, let's be honest, to have finally become little more than a 24/7 cash machine, taxi service, and short-order cook does get old very quickly. But this awkward last phase is just nature's way of putting a cordon sanitaire between you and any unhealthy nostalgia for those adorable but long-gone little toddlers. You might shed a sentimental tear when you find those old photographs in a drawer, but then you recall the night your daughter called you [unpleasant names] for chucking some boy out of her bedroom at midnight, or came home incapably drunk at 3 a.m., or... Well, any parent will know the sort of thing I mean. These teen-parent traumas do make letting go rather easier.

But, if you're as fortunate as we have been, such memories are anaesthetised, if not entirely erased, by the knowledge of the delightful and responsible adults your children have since turned out to be. You might even allow yourself to reflect that things have turned out pretty well, family-wise, even though you say so yourself. It seems that, after all, the best ambitions are the ones you didn't even know you had, until you finally realise in retrospect that you had been working towards and have finally achieved something perfectly ordinary and yet totally remarkable. Wow, did we do that? Well done, us!

So wear that Dad Club tattoo with pride, but do go easy on the Dad Jokes, and please avoid any further dancing in public at all costs.

1. At that age I was immune to Durrell's condescending humour, verging on racism. I read his best known book, the autobiographical My Family and Other Animals many, many times, cover to cover, at bedtime for years. As a keen collector of moths, fossils and any natural historical debris that came to hand I was Gerald Durrell, in my dreams, at least. When they were of a suitable age, I gave copies to my children, fondly anticipating having to retrieve the book at night from across their sleeping faces, as my parents had. But: they found it unreadable, and I can understand why. The archness of Durrell's writing belongs to another era; what was once a model of imaginative writing handed out as school prizes has become irretrievably class-bound, its voice toe-curlingly patrician and smug. Just like the real Gerald Durrell, in fact.

2.  See this recent SMBC cartoon: Invisible...

3. Although I read that the average age to leave home is now 24 and even older in the case of young men. Something to do with all those pies we boomers are supposed have eaten...

A Wide Game

I realise that to some this is heresy, but I like to crop my photographs. Not, in the way of most wildlife photographers, in order to isolate some tiny area of interest in a vast sea of indifference (although I have given that a go, too, as in last year's post Go Large), but to try out "aspect ratios" other than the standard 3:4 or 2:3 delivered by most cameras. You've probably noticed that I have a particular liking for the square, but I am also attracted to "panoramic" formats, most recently a more extreme, almost cinematic 6:17 crop across the whole width of the image. It doesn't always work, but when it does I like the result.

Obviously, this seems to work best with strongly horizontal compositions, and I'm drawn to those with a strong central element, or at least something eye-catching going on in the middle. This may be because I envisage using them in a "layflat" book, where a degree of symmetry about the central fold works nicely, or it may simply be that the standard advice to place key elements of interest artfully off-centre actually unbalances an image made within this format. As always, like the Pirate's Code in Pirates of the Caribbean, any bits of compositional advice are more by way of guidelines, than actual rules...

With limited height to play with relative to the width, one danger is that the detail can seem a bit too densely packed in. In particular I was conscious of the slightly claustrophobic lack of sky in those first four, so I sought out some more "airy" images to work with:

N.B. that storm over South Wales, seen from Clevedon on the other side of the Bristol Channel, is no exaggeration. Newport and points east were taking an apocalyptic pounding back in August last year, while we stood marvelling and completely dry at the end of Clevedon pier.

I did also try converting some into monochrome, but with less satisfactory results. Some work well enough, and have their own strengths, but for me the colour version is always stronger. I suspect I'm just not sophisticated enough for black and white...

 

Of course, there's no reason not to crop in order to isolate some small area of interest, especially given the remarkable ability of today's software to enlarge ("up-rez") an image without discernible loss of quality. Walking through the Sports Ground this week, for example, my eye was caught by the way the afternoon light was falling on the renovations taking place on the ski slope on the opposite side of the valley. So I took this photograph:

Meh... Too confusing, and the main attraction is relegated to support-act status. But with a tighter crop and a modest 1.5 times enlargement using Topaz's Gigapixel it becomes this 6:17 "panorama", entirely compatible in size, resolution, and aspect ratio with the images above, and (to my eye) a much more compelling picture:

Back in the days of film I did have a bit of a fling with "proper" panoramic imaging. I actually owned one of those Russian swing-lens Horizont cameras that record a 120° view onto 35mm film. I think I was probably inspired by Josef Koudelka's work with a similar camera. Basically, the lens actually rotates using a geared mechanism, rather like a scanner, producing a very characteristic distortion, especially if you haven't levelled the thing properly. It's a very different "look" to a simple narrow and wide crop, and not one I enjoy much these days: that exaggerated panoramic sweep quickly becomes its own cliché, and tends to dictate the sort of subject matter that is suitable.

In the early days of digital I did also have a brief enthusiasm for some panoramic stitching software (Panorama Factory, I think it was) but, as you can imagine, getting a suitable row of images to "stitch" together successfully is very dependent on the use of a tripod, plus ideally a special head that rotates the camera around the lens's "nodal point" [1] and, well, that's just not the way I like to work. Besides, as I say, "real" panoramas get quite boring after you've seen a few, even in the hands of a master like Koudelka. I much prefer the natural, undistorted perspective of these "letterbox" views.

1. Apparently, what you really need is "the point of no parallax", which is subtly different from the actual optical nodal point of a lens, but frankly I don't care what you call it, or which it is, I'm still not going to lug a tripod around, either way...