Radiohead “All I Need” In Rainbows 2007, 3:48 | Theodore Sturgeon More Than Human Farrar, Straus & Young 1953 |
Images to accompany my recent exhibition review of Maidstone Museum & Bentlif Art Gallery in the county of Kent (Museums Journal, Issue 112 (05), pp. 54-57).
The museum is rightly grateful to that most capacious of collectors, Julius Brenchley (1816-73). This hoarder has been mentioned in an earlier blog posting, which also alluded to the bedroom antics of Maidstone Museum’s former curator, William Lightfoot. See “Brenchley's bedroom benefaction”. The weather in Stockholm today is terrible. This is precisely the sort of thing that kills me. What happens whenever I feel like going for a nice walk where it’s quiet and dry? The rain pours down and flattens my hair, that’s what. I wonder what it’s like back in dear old Blighty? On second thoughts, I don’t really care: I’ve said farewell to that particular land’s cheerless marshes. I swear it’s the last time I sit on a delayed, overcrowded train stuck among the railway arches somewhere between London, Liverpool, Leeds or Birmingham. There’s nothing worse than being hemmed in like a boar. Even so, I’d still like to go back now and then to chat about precious things. But, really, the things you read in the British newspapers! All those jeremy hunts spouting inane rubbish about love, law and poverty. Perhaps it’s just me, but don’t the way things are going make you wonder if the world has changed? I don’t trust anyone these days, not with all the lies they make up. True, people don’t have long hair any more. And all the pubs have shut down together with the churches. But the liars are still at large: everyone’s out to snatch your money or wreck your body. God, my limbs ache. And it feels so lonely, despite being hemmed in by so many bores. And the media doesn’t help either. I read about a gang of kids peddling drugs. Honest to God, I never even knew what drugs were at their age. I was too tied to my mother’s apron strings to worry about incarceration, castration or coronations. Actually, that reminds me of one bright spot to brighten up Blighty’s cheerless marshes. Did you see that picture on the front of the other day’s Daily Mail? I know she only suffered mild concussion, but it was a really wonderful thing to see her royal lowness all bandaged up and with her head in a sling. I wonder what Charles thought when he saw it? He’d probably liked to have been the monarch on the front cover, veiled in some regalia nicked from his mum. Why is it that he of all people should be next in line for regality? I bet if the libraries or archives were still open any one of us could find some historical facts to prove that they are a pale descendent of some old queen from eighteen generations back. No-one cares of course. Especially not those flag-waving patriots hemmed in like boars along their rain-soaked street parties that stretch from London to Liverpool, Leeds to Birmingham. Honestly, the only way to get them to listen would be to break into Buckingham Palace armed with just a rusty spanner hidden inside a sponge. Sneaking past Charles wouldn’t be difficult: he’d be too busy struggling into his mater’s bridal veil and practicing his coronation steps to notice me flit past. And I bet his mother would confuse me for someone else: “Eh, I know you”, she’d rasp, “and you cannot sing”. “That’s nothing”, I’d reply whilst prising my corroded tool from its soft wrapping: “you should hear me play piano”. This won’t happen, of course. It’s raining too hard for me to venture out. So I may as well stay here where it’s quiet and dry. Perhaps I’ll take a surreptitious peek at the Daily Mail online. Oh, look! It says here that the queen has just taken a nasty tumble... Morrissey/Marr (with Mills, Godfrey & Scott)
“The Queen Is Dead (Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty)” The Queen is Dead, Rough Trade / Sire, 1986, 6:24 “[A] rich mixture of foreign influences has entered our homes for centuries and continues to do so today.” So says the introductory panel to the exhibition “At Home With the World”. This is the title of the Geffrye Museum’s contribution to the laughably labelled “Cultural Olympiad”. The temporary display seeks to explore notions of Englishness in the domestic sphere. What – if anything – is nationally distinct about the homes of England given the ongoing patterns of “foreign influence” that pervade our public and private spaces? This question resonates with a line of dialogue from a play that I am going to see later this evening just up the road from the Geffrye Museum: “All I want is the England I used to know... When you knew where you were and all the houses had gardens and old ladies could feel safe in the street at night.” This understandable nostalgia is ratcheted into a gleefully xenophobic rant by a mild mannered man who goes by the name of Martin Taylor. He must surely be the most compelling and controversial character conjured up by the playwright, Dennis Potter. His play, Brimstone and Treacle charts how monstrous Martin wheedles his way into the moribund home of the Bates family. Tensions between the unhappily married Mr and Mrs Bates are exacerbated by the condition of their tragic daughter, Pattie. She lays bedridden and brain damaged following a traffic accident. Martin decides to quite literally lend a hand. The nature of his grotesque physical intervention led to the censorship of Potter’s Brimstone and Treacle. Potter wrote his television play for the BBC some four decades ago. Time, however, has not diminished the shocking denouement of the drama. So it is with a growing sense of guilty excitement that I sit in the sun-drenched café of the Geffrye Museum writing these words and waiting impatiently for the drama to unfold. Until now I have only ever seen Potter’s work through the mollifying medium of television. The chance to come within touching distance of Dennis’ devilishly disturbing world has brought me to London and the Arcola Theatre in Hackney. As luck would have it, the last leg of my journey to the theatre involved the number 149 double-decker bus from London Bridge station. It strikes me that the loathsome Norwegian terrorist, Anders Behring Breivik should be compelled to serve out his life sentence on this bus route. He’d be driven out of his miniscule mind by the glorious microcosm of London life that is played out by a worldwide cast of bus passengers, 24-hours a day. If it were not for the number 149 I wouldn’t have passed by the Geffrye Museum. This marvellous museum has provided the ideal preparation for Brimstone and Treacle. As a “museum of English homes and gardens”, it is filled with stage-set interiors charting a chronological sweep through English domestic history. The Bates’ morose middle class abode of the mid-1970s would fit in beautifully as one of the room sets of the Geffrye Museum. These museumified interiors confirm our collective obsession with “home”. Many people share the sentiments of Mr Bates: they long for a private refuge from the world flanked by a neat little garden and a street outside filled with safe-and-sound old ladies. Of course, these exact same private paradises are all too often the setting for all manner of barbarisms perpetrated by “sweet talking rapists at home”.(1) The domestic sphere is, then, a potent mixture of brimstone and treacle. Dennis Potter makes this shockingly apparent in his brilliant play of that title. I really hope that the Arcola Theatre does justice to Potter’s helping of demonic hospitality. ___ Note (1) The Blow Monkeys, “Sweet Talking Rapist at Home”, Whoops! There Goes the Neighbourhood, 1989, RCA. (After) Brett Murray's "The Spear"
See "Jacob Zuma painting vandalised in South Africa gallery" BBC News, 22/05/2012, http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-18159204 Two politicians have featured on this blog in recent weeks:
As it currently stands, Hunt says he did nothing wrong and James Murdoch dismissed the email comment as a joke. But this is no laughing matter. Yet don't be surprised if Hunt clings on to his job: the government needs him to stay in post in order to protect the British Prime Minister, David Cameron.* Cameron is just as guilty of unethical behaviour in his dealings with the Murdoch empire. One positive thing has emerged out of all this. In his evidence to Leveson, James Murdoch conceded that greater efforts should have been made to "cut out the cancer" of phone hacking at his organisation.(4) Good to see Mr Murdoch accept something that Dennis Potter pointed out many years ago: Rupert Murdoch is a cancer that has infected and undermined British society for decades.(5) The parlous state of Jeremy Hunt’s political health is a direct consequence of that cancer. Get well soon, Jeremy! ___ Notes (1) "Let them eat cake, Lena", 18/04/2012, http://www.stuartburch.com/1/post/2012/04/let-them-eat-cake-lena.html. (2) A hint of Hunt's partial handling of cultural affairs is outlined in my blog posting, "Hunt's cunning stunt", 23/03/2012 http://www.stuartburch.com/1/post/2012/03/hunts-cunning-stunt.html. (3) "James Murdoch at the Leveson inquiry - live coverage", http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2012/apr/24/leveson-inquiry-phone-hacking. (4) Ibid. (5) "Dennis Potter and Rupert", 19/07/2011, http://www.stuartburch.com/1/post/2011/07/dennis-potter-and-rupert.html. ____ Supplemental 25/04/2012 * Another figure to watch out for is Michael Gove, Secretary of State for Education and a former journalist at The Times. He is apparently "greatly admired by Rupert Murdoch". For his part the politician is less enamoured by the Leveson Inquiry, describing it as having a "chilling effect on freedom of speech". The man is clearly beyond parody. See Nicholas Watt, "Leveson inquiry has chilling effect on freedom of speech, says Michael Gove", The Guardian, 21/02/2012, http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2012/feb/21/leveson-chilling-freedom-speech-gove. Precisely one week ago I was a pilgrim. My destination was a high temple of mammon in the bustling heart of the metropolis. The culmination of my pilgrimage was inside: it lay in silent, pristine isolation within a darkened room flanked by two acolytes. Such was its sacred value that I was obliged to remain two metres from the object that had prompted my journey. Long had I travelled, yet still there remained a distance between me and the object of my desire. This, alas, made it impossible to read the sacred text inscribed onto the reliquary. However, I knew what it said because the same prophesy had been reproduced in large letters on the wall of the antechamber: "... I felt a loud, unending scream piercing nature." It was here that other canonical stories were told alongside portraits of the great creator and reproductions of other icons he had produced. The end wall of the anteroom was entirely taken up with a painted image of a prophetic sky. The flowing lines of red and yellow in the heavens found an echo in the procession of pilgrims waiting expectantly. The long, snaking queue they formed was surveilled by more attendants. By this stage the congregation had already passed through two layers of security: one at the entrance to the temple and another at the opening to the antechamber. A third barrier awaited us at the very threshold of the relic room. Holy water and other fluids had to be left at the gate. Recording devices were forbidden, presumably for fear of draining the object of its power. And then - oh joy of joys - I found myself before the one thing that I knew I could never possess. And yet - for the two minutes that I was able to be in its presence - it was mine. The jewel was dazzling in the darkness. The reds burned my eyes. But my troubled soul was eased. For are we not told again and again that we live in the age of angst? Hell and damnation are just around the corner. The future is to be feared. We find temporary salvation in past perturbations: sunken ships being particularly popular just now.(1) What better way to silence past pains and future fears than to stand before a silent scream of anguish? And it was now or never: the relic might never be accessible to me again. This is because it stands at a liminal moment between private ownership and public auction. Perhaps its future owner will opt to be cremated with the relic in a last desperate attempt to disprove the adage that there are no pockets in a shroud?(2) Surely no public institution could scrape together the requisite sum when it goes to auction in New York on 2nd May? Its financial value is boosted by the knowledge that, whilst there are other versions of the same relic, these all exist in public institutions and will thus never come on the market. Oh, how I thanked the great auction house for allowing a humble nonentity like myself to enter their hallowed halls. It was an honour to be at the receiving end of the surly contempt dished out by the officiators and the disdain of their fellow apron-clad operatives. Indeed, it felt as if I had been singled out for special treatment. I stood and queued not once but twice to be in the presence of holiness. On my second visit I lingered longer than my fellow true believers and fell into conversation with one of the acolytes standing guard. I was rather shocked to discover that he was a normal person - a pilgrim like me. Soon the others left. I was alone with the security team and one other person. His accoutrements marked him out as a Very Special Person: around his neck were several cameras. Surely no-one normal could be allowed such equipment, especially of such phallic magnitude as the long lens he held in his skilful hands. I too held something that, I think, helped ensure I was able to dwell a little longer than the others: a pen and notepad. Moreover, my closely cropped hair and rather ridiculous beard perhaps marked me out as someone who just might possibly be out-of-the-ordinary and important enough not to treat with the usual contempt reserved for "the public". Be that as it may, I was able to witness a miracle. For lo and behold, the ceiling began to slide back and in shot radiant shafts of sunlight. What is more, one of the two glass screens standing between me and the relic was drawn aside. This, it transpired, was because The Camera Man worked for a hallowed organisation referred to cryptically as "The F.T." and he was here to take a photograph of the relic and its current owner!(3) The glass was therefore a hindrance - so too was the darkness. So I watched in awe as blinding light flooded into the room. I had a sudden urge to gather together the security team and arrange them into a pose plastique of Caravaggio's Conversion of Saint Paul (after all, we all saw the light but heard not the voice). Surely I could never dream of experiencing anything so wondrous? But what was this? In the cold light of day I noticed that much of the relic's appeal lay in clever lighting. Any old golden-framed scrap of cardboard would have looked special when exposed to such trickery. As the reds and oranges faded in the sunlight I realised that this was no relic. It was a false idol. I remained rooted to the spot. More acolytes came. They were evidently getting increasingly anxious because the owner was delayed doing something else. The crowds outside were lengthening. Something had to be done. So The Scream's screen was replaced and the natural light shut out once more. The room's interior slowly disappeared and the relic shone forth again. Returned to the darkness, I began to castigate myself: Oh, ye of little faith! How could I have doubted my belief in Art? The vision had been there all the time. It was I who had wavered. Soon the chamber was filled with other pilgrims and the two minute rule was enforced. I was ejected and found myself amongst other artworks. But I had been changed by my recent experiences. I began to look more critically at the second-rate relics that surrounded me. These were clearly of a lower order. They were rudely stacked together cheek by jowl. Is it not the case that, when one has been touched by greatest, mere brilliance leaves one disenchanted? This was exacerbated by the fact that I could come as close as I liked to these tawdry things with their million dollar price tags. I sidled up to other images by the same disciple who had produced the relic before which I had just genuflected. One was described as being "Property from a European private collection". Yet four others, apparently of equal authenticity and appeal, were marked as "Property from an important private collection".(4) How curious! Value is clearly not inherent in the relic itself; greatness is at least in part conferred on it by the significance of the anonymous owner. Ownership of a different kind struck me when it came to another work, namely Bridle Path painted in 1939 by the American artist, Edward Hopper (1882-1967). This was described as follows: "Property of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, sold to benefit acquisitions." Isn't that a bit like divorcing a spouse in order to save one's marriage? This got me thinking about the great relic next door. Maybe its cousins in public collections aren't quite as immune from sale as we might suppose? What goes for San Francisco Museum of Modern Art might, one day, apply to Norway's National Gallery or Munch Museum... In an effort to repress this troubling thought, I started to ponder who was behind the present sale - and why? In search of answers I sneaked back to the antechamber and consulted the oracles on the walls. Its vendor is Petter Olsen, a businessman whose ship-owning father - Thomas Fredrik Olsen (1897-1969) - was a neighbour of the artist, Edvard Munch. Olsen junior skilfully deployed the same sort of logic as the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art: the work was being sold on the pretext of wishing to establish a new museum devoted to the artist. The text neglected to mention one other interesting fact: the owner's older brother had been disinherited of the majority of the artworks that his father had acquired. This triggered a long and costly legal battle that was eventually won by Petter Olsen.(5) Had his brother Fred triumphed, would he have chosen to flog off his family inheritance like young Petter? All this sibling rivalry sounds like a Nordic version of the story of Isaac and his twin sons Esau and Jacob. Oh, the religious parallels! And what better way to mask the fact that the saga described here is entirely about earthly power and riches than by dressing it up with pseudo-religious paraphernalia? Knowing as I do that "even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table" (Matthew 15:27), I assembled a collection of mementos of my visit. These included the thickest, most luxurious napkin I have ever touched. Embossed on it are silver letters that spell the word: Sotheby's. I also retained an apparently free pen and a leaflet with thumbnail reproductions of the things I had seen. I even bought a special book, the cover of which is embossed with an image of the relic.(6) Eventually I made moves to leave the temple. At the doorway I was met with the anguished cries of those who were told that the queues to see the sacred object had reached such magnitude that would-be pilgrims were being turned away. Finding myself on the streets once more I came face to face with a reproduction of the relic. This too had a certain majesty, courtesy of its glassy, golden architectural surround. People walked by. Yet even these non-believers - who clearly had no wish to enter - murmured to each other in knowing recognition of what they glimpsed in the window. I decided to make my way to another temple known as Forbidden Planet. I arrived to the plaintive cry of a young boy aged about six or seven. Oblivious to his father's attempts to placate him he wailed repeatedly: "I just want to buy something!" This young lad had already learnt one of life's crucial lessons: we consumers are fated never to be satisfied because we know that there is always something better just beyond our reach. That's why Edvard Munch's The Scream is so important. It is at the apex of the consumer market. The ultimate commodity. Tastes will change but its values are - we are led to believe - eternal. Pilgrims of the past used to acquire souvenirs to show that they had been on a pilgrimage. I have a reproduction of one such pilgrim badge depicting the early British Christian martyr, Saint Alban. He is shown in rude health despite having just being decapitated. The scene is all too much for the Roman soldier standing alongside: in his hands he holds his eyes, which have literally popped out of their sockets in disbelief. I travelled to Forbidden Planet to acquire a little memento of my day. And I found the perfect thing: a plastic pigeon complete with plastic pooh.(7) A bargain at £44.99 ("How much?" cried my wife!) This foul fowl will decorate our new home, greeting unsuspecting visitors as they enter. These guests may very well think that they are looking at a pathetic plastic toy acquired by an immature weirdo. Yet they will in truth be in close proximity to pure genius: a plastic piece of the true cross. Just like my battered version of The Screaming Scream seen in the video above. Because, I scream, you scream, we all scream for Edvard Munch's many, many, many Screams.(8) ___ Notes (1) Two such ships currently being commemorated are RMS Titanic (sank 15th April 1912) and HMS Sheffield. The latter saw service during the Falklands War. It was attacked by an Argentine Lockheed P-2 Neptune aircraft on 4th May 1982 and sank six days later. Ten crewmen died - as I heard this morning in a very moving episode of BBC Radio 4's series, The Reunion (http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b01dmdnb#synopsis). (2) This is a reference to the Japanese businessman, Ryoei Saito. In 1990 he acquired Vincent van Gogh's Portrait of Dr. Gachet for the then record-breaking sum of $82.5m. Rumours have since circulated that he issued instructions for it to be cremated with him when he died in 1996. Its location remains uncertain. (3) The photographer in question appears to have been Charlie Bibby. His highly amusing image was used to illustrate the following article, Peter Aspden, "So, what does The Scream mean?", Financial Times, 21/04/2012, accessed 22/04/2012 at, http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/42414792-8968-11e1-85af-00144feab49a.html. (4) These are, respectively, Edvard Munch's Summer Night (1917, see Woll, Vol. 3, No. 1235); Woman Looking in the Mirror (1892, see Woll, Vol. 1, No. 270); Clothes on a Line in Åsgårdstrand (1902, see Woll, Vol. 2, No. 529); Night in Saint-Cloud (n.d., see Woll, Vol. 3, No. 287); and The Sower (1913, see Woll, Vol. 3, No. 1043). See Gerd Woll's four-volume catalogue raisonné, Edvard Munch: Complete Paintings (London: Thames & Hudson, 2009). (5) Gro Rognmo, "Lillebror Olsen tok siste stikk", Dagbladet, 06/06/2011, accessed 20/04/2012 at, http://www.dagbladet.no/nyheter/2001/06/06/261987.html. (6) Sue Prideaux, Reinhold Heller, Adam Gopnik & Philip Hook, Edvard Munch: The Scream (New York: Sotheby's, 2012). (7) This is a Kidrobot Staple Pigeon. See http://stapledesign.com/2011/11/kidrobot-staple-pigeon. (8) The famous phrase "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream" is from the brilliant film Down by Law directed by Jim Jarmusch (1986): My doodle reflects some of the things I learnt when listening to a talk given by Thomas Demand at Nottingham Contemporary.(1) The German artist burbled on about a series of photographs he took of models made by the architect, John Lautner (1911-94). As he spoke, a selection of Lautner's private letters and other ephemera held by the Getty Research Institute (GRI) in Los Angeles were beamed onto the wall. Hence the odd snippets of information from Lautner's life:
The same fate will not befall Mr Demand's own maquettes: he destroys them, thus preventing some future artist from demand-ing that they be co-opted into their own practice. ____ Notes (1) "Thomas Demand in Conversation with Joseph Grima", Nottingham Contemporary, 12th April 2012. (2) This appears to have been his caretaker, Francesca Hernandez. The Duke of Sutherland is awfully rich. And now he's even wealthier thanks to the £95m of largely public funds that were used to pay for two of his Titian paintings. These masterpieces were produced in the 16th century by an Italian artist for a Spanish king. It's amusing to think that they have now been "saved for the nation". But shouldn't this be "saved for the state"? What happens if Scotland votes for independence? Will the two "nations" get one each? And when will all this nonsense end about saving things for nations? How many paintings would remain in the National Gallery if everything had stayed in its home nation? __________ Source: Stuart Burch, "The national question", Letters to the Museums Journal (UK), issue 112/04, p. 22-23, 01/04/2012, http://www.museumsassociation.org/museums-journal/comment/01042012-letters Danny Robins has a voice like Tony Blair and loves Sweden with the same intensity as does David Cameron and his "free" school sidekick, Michael Gove. Like me, Danny is married to a Swede. Yet the Sweden that he conjures up in BBC Radio 4's The Swedish Invasion is no place that I've ever visited.(1) But then again, unlike Danny Robins, I've never exterminated an elk in Eksjö... In his programme Danny salivates about the land that "gave us IKEA, Volvo and Abba". It is, of course, also the country that rocks our world with top-design products like Saab AB's Carl Gustav 84mm Recoilless Rifle: "The best multi-purpose weapon there is".(2) This globally exported grenade launcher is in fact so potent that it shares its name with the king of Sweden. Alas, there was no time for Danny to discuss Sweden's burgeoning weapons export industry.(3) This is a real pity because, if he had focused on this aspect of "the Swedish invasion", he might have squeezed in an interview with Sweden's former defence minister, Sten Tolgfors. Mr Tolgfors resigned yesterday in the wake of reports that he had sanctioned covert Swedish support for the construction of a weapons factory in Saudi Arabia.(4) But why should we trouble our pretty blonde heads with such things? It's far nicer to seek out a snug, "mysig” IKEA-furnished corner and lose oneself in Steig Larsson's cosy world of rape and murder. Pure fiction, Danny, eller hur? ____ Notes (1) Jo Wheeler (producer), The Swedish Invasion, "An Unique" production for BBC Radio 4, broadcast 30/03/2012 and available to listen for seven days. See http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b010k2f6. (2) "Carl-Gustaf M3 - Weapon System: The best multi-purpose weapon there is", http://www.saabgroup.com/Land/Weapon-Systems/support-weapons/Carl_Gustaf_M3_weapon_system. (3) Read more about this explosive aspect of the "Swedish Invasion" in my soon-to-be-published paper, "Banal Nordism: Recomposing an Old Song of Peace". (4) "Swedish Defence Minister Tolgfors quits over Saudi deal", BBC News, 29/032012, accessed 30/03/2012 at, http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-17548390. I am a republican with little interest in the pharmaceutical industry. This summer will therefore be a testing time for me, what with London hosting the Olympic Games and the British monarch celebrating her diamond jubilee. Fortunately these two events are only temporary. They will, however, leave lasting legacies. One such is the 175,000 m2 Westfield Stratford City shopping centre. Britain’s gold medal haul would really rocket if the "Retail Relay" were to become an Olympic event. Heaven on earth is now a reality for the shoppers of London. Meanwhile, another legacy project has yet to be accomplished. And, in an effort to help ensure that it remains that way, I have rushed to my keyboard with the same zeal as a drug-fuelled athlete reacting to the boom of the starting pistol. For it grieves me to report that a group of cretinous politicians are proposing to turn the Houses of Parliament's "Big Ben" into the "Elizabeth Tower" in honour of our dear old queen.(1) Now, a number of arguments can be deployed to support this obsequious suggestion. Firstly, the name change wouldn't really matter. The vast majority of locals and visitors would continue to mistakenly refer to it as "Big Ben". Its proper – and far more mundane title – is simply "the Clock Tower". Big Ben alludes to its great bell, which in turn is probably a reference to the politician and engineer, Sir Benjamin Hall (1802-67). Secondly, the re-christening would bring this iconic symbol in line with the Victoria Tower on the other side of the building. This erection takes its name from Queen Victoria, Britain's erstwhile longest-serving monarch. Ditching Ben in favour of Liz would add yet another royal epithet to the Houses of Parliament – or, to give it its formal designation: the New Palace at Westminster. This title reflects the fact that Sir Charles Barry's architectural fantasy arose from the ashes of the old palace. Only Westminster Hall survived the inferno that engulfed this ancient edifice in 1834. The centuries-old Westminster Hall is skilfully integrated into Barry's neo-gothic design. Earlier this month the queen paid it a visit in order to witness the unveiling of a stained-glass window to mark her jubilee.(2) As she looked up at this glittering tribute, I wonder if she spared a thought for Charles I? For it was in that very same building way back in January 1649 that this soon-to-be-beheaded monarch was put on trial – and sentenced to death. Charles's nemesis was Oliver Cromwell. Cromwell was still causing a right royal rumpus two centuries later. This was in relation to the decorative scheme planned for the New Palace at Westminster. If you look carefully you'll see that parliament's façade is festooned with statues of the various kings and queens that have ruled England and Britain through the ages. This carved history posed a dilemma to its designers: what should be done about Cromwell? For the sake of historical accuracy and completeness he ought to have been slotted in between Charles I (executed in 1649) and his son, Charles II (restored to the throne in 1660). But placing a regicide in a royalist pantheon proved to be a commemorative step too far.(3) Cromwell was sculpturally excised from British history. Not until the very end of the 19th century was the Lord Protector rewarded with a statue. He stands there to this day: at one remove, deep in thought and with his back turned to parliament.(4) So, whether you like it or not, Cromwell is part of Britain's political and monarchical history. If "Big Ben" must have new nomenclature, then it should from this year on be known as "Cromwell Tower". What better way to mark Queen Elizabeth's jubilee? A silent admonition not only to this monarch but to all her heirs: they occupy positions of privilege and power not by right but by accidents of birth. Other, far less anachronistic and slightly more democratic systems are possible. The Cromwell Tower will remind the House of Windsor and all their subjects that we should not take the status quo for granted. God Save the Queen! ____ Notes (1) James Chapman, "Bong! Will Big Ben tower be renamed after the Queen? MPs call for the London landmark to be renamed for the Diamond Jubilee", Daily Mail, 23/03/2012, accessed 25/03/2012 at, www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2118999/Big-Ben-renamed-Elizabeth-Tower-Queen.html. (2) Jon Craig, "Westminster To Honour Queen's Diamond Jubilee", Sky News, 20/03/2012, accessed 25/03/2012 at, http://news.sky.com/home/politics/article/16192187. (3) The phrase "A regicide in a royalist pantheon" appears in the fifth chapter of my PhD, which concerned the commemorative history and symbolism of parliament and the adjacent square. See Stuart Burch, On Stage at the Theatre of State: The Monuments and Memorials in Parliament Square, London (Nottingham Trent University, 2003). (4) The stupendous statue of Cromwell - with bible in one hand and sword in the other - was made by Sir William Hamo Thornycroft RA (1850-1925) and completed (without an unveiling ceremony) in 1899. Ever since 1950 he has stood face-to-face with a lead bust of Charles I inserted into a niche on the façade of St. Margaret's Church opposite... ... as can be seen below: "Every day is a new day. Tomorrow isn't that important, yesterday wasn't that important. I really am thinking about today." Andy Warhol, The Philosophy of Andy Warhol: From A to B and Back Again Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1975, p.6 Yesterday I commented on one of the ways in the British government's budget for 2012 "limits use of tax reliefs and tackles [tax] avoidance."(1) There now exists a cap of 25% of income on those seeking tax relief of more than £50,000. Included amongst these nasty tax-avoidance scams is charitable giving. This, I argued, contradicts the government's clearly stated wish to see large increases in the amounts of money wealthy philanthropists give to the arts. A day later and this contradictory state of affairs becomes even more perplexing. It has been reported that Jeremy Hunt - the culture secretary - has decided to get rid of the current chair of Arts Council England, Dame Liz Forgan.(2) Hunt wants to appoint someone better suited to "increasing the amount of private giving to the arts".(3) Rather than jettisoning the Labour-appointed head of the Arts Council, perhaps Mr Hunt would be wiser to look for scapegoats amongst his specious colleagues at the Treasury? ____ Notes (1) Stuart Burch, "Biting the hand that feeds", 22/03/2012, available at, http://www.stuartburch.com/1/post/2012/03/biting-the-hand-that-feeds.html. (2) Charlotte Higgins, "Liz Forgan asked to quit Arts Council England when term ends", The Guardian, 23/03/2012, accessed 23/03/2012 at, http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2012/mar/23/liz-forgan-arts-council-england. (3) "Jeremy Hunt to appoint new chair of Arts Council England", press release 035/12, 23 March 2012, available at, http://www.culture.gov.uk/news/media_releases/8936.aspx. Yesterday was budget day. How thrilling! George Osborne, the British chancellor of the exchequer (i.e. finance minister), has now delivered his annual budget to the braying mob in the houses of parliament. In the light of my own particular interests, I searched his report for sexy words like "museums", "culture" and "heritage". The welter of problems facing the economy meant that these were hardly likely to feature very heavily. However, one aspect of note did crop up. This concerned charitable donations made by wealthy philanthropists. It transpires that tax relief on this sort of giving is now capped at £50,000, or 25% of the giver's annual income. Why do this? The answer, it appears, is in order to "curtail... excessive use of [tax] reliefs."(1) And yet, mindful of the negative impact this might have, the Budget Report is quick to add: The Government will explore with philanthropists ways to ensure that this measure will not impact significantly on charities that depend on large donations.(2) Let's hope that their exploration is a fruitful one! The Charities Aid Foundation (CAF) fears that the measure might "strangle" major donations.(3) Given recent reductions in state support for culture and the present administration's supposed interest in non-governmental "big society" initiatives, it is surely bewildering that a disincentive of this nature should be introduced at this time. Can any charitable soul kindly explain the logic behind this sort of political schizophrenia? Please note, however, that they must not under any circumstances devote more than 25% of their time to coming up with a plausible answer. ____ Notes (1) Budget 2012, §1.192 (available at http://cdn.hm-treasury.gov.uk/budget2012_complete.pdf). (2) Budget 2012, §1.193. (3) "Budget 2012: Charities could lose big donors", BBC News, 21/03/2012, accessed 21/03/2012 at, http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-17458362.
Sculptor: Sir William Wilson (1641-1710), c.1680
William Cavendish, the First Duke of Newcastle-upon-Tyne is notable in Nottingham not Newcastle on the site of a slighted castle that has been unfortified upon the façade of a fired house that is no longer a home above a door that is now a window that looks into a room without a floor of a pioneering public art gallery which has now been privatized behind a paywall. assaulted, belittled, castigated, decapitated, emasculated, flayed, goaded, hobbled, incapacitated, jinxed, kiboshed, lacerated, maimed, nobbled, ostracized, pelted, queered, rubbished, slated, traduced, usurped, vilified, whacked, xoanoned, yoked, zapped Sculptor: Joseph Durham ARA, FSA (1814-77) _ JULIUS LUCIUS BRENCHLEY, BENEFACTOR, BORN at KINGSLEY HOUSE, MAIDSTONE, 30th NOVEMBER, 1816, DIED at FOLKESTONE, 24th FEBRUARY, 1873. After many years of travel, returning to England, he bought, laid out, and transferred to the Maidstone Local Board the adjacent Public Garden, and at his death bequeathed his collections of Natural History, Books, and Works of Art to Trustees, with an Endowment for their preservation and exhibition in this Museum. Alternative plaque:
Barbara Burch __ 11:55 am, Monday 30th January 2012 Evan Jones (1907-69) Coronary care unit (CCU), St Thomas' Hospital, London Barbara Burch in memoriam __Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise women at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good women, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild women who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave women, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my mother, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. by Dylan Thomas (with slight modifications) |
Para, jämsides med.
En annan sort. Dénis Lindbohm, Bevingaren, 1980: 90 Even a parasite like me should be permitted to feed at the banquet of knowledge
I once posted comments as Bevingaren at guardian.co.uk
Archives
July 2019
Categories
All
_
Note All parasitoids are parasites, but not all parasites are parasitoids Parasitoid "A parasite that always ultimately destroys its host" (Oxford English Dictionary) I live off you
And you live off me And the whole world Lives off everybody See we gotta be exploited By somebody, by somebody, by somebody X-Ray Spex <I live off you> Germ Free Adolescents 1978 From symbiosis
to parasitism is a short step. The word is now a virus. William Burroughs
<operation rewrite> |