Short Fiction: Sculpture

I

“It’s just beautiful! And quite real!”

Mary gazed up at the statue. It was a female nude in bronze, standing life-sized on a plinth in the centre of the gallery. There was something outstandingly flawless about the statue, perfect symmetry, perfect proportion, a clinical sort of perfection. 

She was certainly idealised, like classical sculpture, but something apart from that as well. She lacked that characteristic plumpness, she was tauter, slimmer, a more modern ideal of beauty. Her pose was not of womanly deferment; she looked out with a challenge in her eyes, back erect and chin raised: a picture of confidence.

While Mary studied the statue, another emotion found its place beside her wonder. It was envy. She often felt inadequate around slimmer women but never before had a work of art had that effect on her. She found herself touching her belly as she thought:

                “It’s just a pile of bronze. What’s to be jealous of?”

At that moment she heard a cough behind her. Turning round she was confronted with by a tall man in a dark polo-neck, with short, receding hair and rectangular glasses. He was looking at her with interest, and then asked in a Nordic accent:

                “What do you think of it?”

                “It’s amazing, just so.. perfect. I don’t really know what to say”

                “I should introduce myself. My name is Mr Kettner. I am the artist of this piece”

Mary was caught off guard for a moment. She didn’t know any artists, let alone eminent sculptors.

                “Oh! Well.. Congratulations! I think it’s fantastic”

                “Thank you very much. I’m afraid I can’t stay to talk to but let me give you my card”

She smiled, thanked him and took the card. He walked away towards the entrance of the gallery as she put it away in her coat pocket. She turned back towards the sculpture, and was newly struck by flawlessness. It was amazing that that man had created it with his hands; he must have such skill and also such an eye for beauty and understanding of the human body.

II                                                                              

Mary hung her coat on the chair and sat down in front of her laptop. She spent a few minutes browsing diet sites, a habit she’d had for the last few months. Recently all the advertising around the pages was for cosmetic surgery, or ‘body enhancement’. ‘Get the Most from Your Body’, ‘Be Happy in Yourself’. She knew it was all nonsense, a big scam to take advantage of insecure women. At the same time, she spent so much of her time thinking about her weight, about the shape of her body and what other people thought about her. Wouldn’t she be so much happier without all that? 

Just then she looked down and saw that the man’s card from earlier had slipped out of her coat, onto the floor. Mary bent to pick it up and looked for the first time at his name.

Anton Kettner MBBS, MD, FRCS(Plas), RA

He certainly sounded distinguished to have so many letters after his name. Perhaps distinguished enough to be famous. Mary idly googled his name. The first result was an article from the Evening Standard, around a year old:

                ‘Plastic Surgeon Blends Art and Science’

                Leading plastic surgeon, Anton Kettner opened his first exhibition of sculpture today at the Vaughn Gallery in Mayfair. Kettner has found that his skills in moulding his patients into perfect specimens in the operating theatre are transferrable to the artist’s studio and has created a series of figurative works. He says that practising as a plastic surgeon is such an artistic pursuit that there was little difference in changing from flesh and bronze, just adjusting his technique. ‘For me, the pursuit of beauty and perfection in the female form is everything. I have been very inspired by the works of Da Vinci, whose study of anatomy allowed him to create fine studies of the human body. I hope that, in my small way, I can apply the same technique to my art and indeed visa versa’. Kettner’s Show ‘Form’ runs until 26^th May.

What a strange coincidence. Perhaps that sculpture in the gallery had got her thinking about all that. Mary did remember that strange feeling of envy at its perfect proportions. If she were that shape, people would certainly see her differently. She could understand the figure’s assertive pose: with curves like those, confidence comes naturally.

There was a number on the card as well. With those thoughts in her head, it seemed like the next natural step. She reached for her phone and dialled the number. She was answered immediately.

                ‘Practice of Mr Kettner.’

                ‘Hello.. umm.. I wanted to ask about..’

Mary didn’t really know what to ask for.

                ‘You would like an appointment? Let me take your details.’

Within a few minutes she had booked for an appointment on Harley Street the next week. There were a few things that struck her as strange during the call but the secretary’s efficiency was such that she was just swept along. She was told that she wouldn’t be meeting with Mr Kettner, but that he would be performing the procedure. His ‘philosophy’ was of a ‘universal beauty’ that does not vary between individuals so there would be no need for a consultation. Mary was quite shocked and wanted to ask some more questions but was interrupted by the secretary telling her about the cost. It seemed incredibly reasonable! Mary thought about the surgeon’s amazing skill, she couldn’t let the opportunity pass her by. As she put down the phone, she was shaking with excitement.

III

That weekend, Mary was returning from coffee with an old friend, walking along a busy Kensington pavement. She saw his name on a sign.

                New Exhibition - Anton Kettner - Progression

As she approached the gallery window, she was surprised by what she saw. Bronzes were lined up behind the glass, but they were abstract, twisted figures; they seemed manipulated to the point of inhumanity. They were clearly his, she could tell from the skill in artistry and the shape of the still-familiar body-parts. This looked like a celebration of power over the body and the power was abused to create these shapes; the natural form had been taken and corrupted. Mary was shocked by own reaction. Why did she feel so strongly about the art in the window? This man, Kettner, seemed to be able to move her so much with his work. She shook her head and walked on.

IV

Mary arrived at the practice in good time for her appointment. The process was impressively organised. The secretary gave her a series of forms to sign and she was swiftly taken through to a private room to change into scrubs. There was barely a moment to observe her surroundings beyond a sense of cleanliness and order. Soon, attendants in surgical masks were surrounding her, she was shown to a hospital bed and wheeled along a corridor.

The ceiling lights were bright, dazzling her eyes. She heard doors swing open around her and the electric hum of medical machinery. The lights were brighter yet, but she could make out ceiling tiles, and the men in masks standing over her. They weren’t speaking, but moving about, preparing. One mask loomed over her:

                ‘I am going to put you under now.’

She just nodded. He brought a gas mask down over her mouth. Something occurred: she didn’t want to inhale. It seemed unnatural to breathe away her consciousness, her power over her limbs. It would leave her defenceless over her body, open to attack. He was holding the mask down on her face and as she raised an arm, she couldn’t help drawing breath. The gas acted fast, she was hit by a wave of drowsiness, she didn’t even feel her arm hit the bed.

Mary’s vision blackened; the bright lights above her faded. Streams of colour started to seep into the darkness, washing past her eyes. These coloured ribbons span against the blackness, forming physical shapes, waving for a moment and then falling apart. The shapes started to acquire more structure; soon they were recognisable as bodies. They were naked human forms, swimming through the void. Before her eyes the trunks and limbs started to twist, as though dancing. They were twisting horribly now, spinning out of proportion, distorting and changing, pulled by terrible forces.

The visions flashed away, there were lights and ceiling tiles again. She saw his face, familiar from the gallery. He looked at her through the same rectangular glasses and smiled.

                ‘Ah, you are awake. I feel I have really created art this time. Let me get you a mirror’

Short Fiction: Gallery

She said to meet her at the gallery. I arrived, stepping in from the cold and looking around for her. The room was white-walled and brightly lit. The mingling crowd was surrounded by close-up, full-face photographic portraits of weight-lifters at full strain, eyes open and blown up to twice life size. Looking through the people there I couldn’t spot her. It was the usual unvaried morass of gallery-goers: inward-turned, champagne-handed and voices bleating over the background buzz.

I weaved through to the next room, separated by a thick blackout curtain. It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the lower light. The photographs were calmer this time, of subdued, attentive audiences, possibly for classical music, in rows of tiered seating. Pine panelled walls echoed the photos and the mood seemed to have filtered through to the guests. People spoke in quieter tones, like a massed conspiracy, a prelude to a coup. I could move more easily through this room and, seeing she was not there either, pushed aside the curtain to push on.

I was greeted by a chaos of waxwork sculptures in jubilant poses, wearing bright military marching band uniforms in disarray. There were no weapons but dented tubas, drums and trombones littered the marble floor. The sculptures crowded the room so I could not see the opposite wall and the guests were forced to take a circuitous path around the still riot. I weaved through, peering ahead and anxious to find her.

I saw her ahead of me, framed by false wax bodies and all the more alive for it. She looked so elegant.

Art Review: Bronze @ Royal Academy of Art

Kapala-Hevajra and Nairatmya

For their Bronze exhibition, the RA have pulled together an outstanding array of 150 fine bronzes from all over the world, covering many different styles and spanning a period of 5000 years. Naturally I was excited to see it so flew up the stairs of the gallery past the other visitors to get into the exhibition!

The very first artwork is the Dancing Satyr of Mazara del Vallo (Greece, c..200 BC), an amazingly refined study of musculature and movement, only rediscovered in 1998. I stayed staring at it for minutes, just fascinated by the play of light on the dancer’s outstretched arms and the brilliant sheen of his smooth skin: quite a sight. The Chimaera of Arezzo (c.400 BC) on loan from Florence is considered by scholars to be one of the true Etruscan masterpieces so I felt honoured just to share space with it. I think the exhibition’s lighting really shows off the shiny surface of the beast’s ribbed flanks and unnatural snake-head tail. The exhibition has impressive cultural breadth: the early Ming period statue of the gods Kapala-Hevajra and Nairatmya (c.1400) (pictured) has a beautiful metallic lustre and a gleaming array of arms. Considering its age this piece has retained its shine very well and the jewels set into its base have a mesmerising sparkle.

In general I enjoyed more the modern creations. Some of them, such as Auguste Rodin’s ‘The Age of Bronze’ (1877), are finished to a really high shine and I found them just dazzling. I could even see my reflection in Willem De Kooning’s ‘Clamdigger’ (1971) but I must say the curved surface made my head look really small!

If there’s one thing that ruffled my feathers, it was the Japanese Bhudda head (c. 1200 AD) in gilt bronze. Most of the gilt had worn away leave a disappointingly matt surface underneath. I think it could really have benefitted from a good buff.

That aside, during the whole exhibition I was so excited by each new treasure that my feet never touched the ground. I must admit that some of the bronzes are so radient that I felt a real urge for a more tactile experience, to pick them up and feel them, even to carry them away!

Check back next week: I’ll be reviewing Charlotte De Sylas’s jewellery exhibition at the V&A. And, yes, my wife and children are very well, thank you for asking.

So it’s a pointless review but I’m trying to make a point about subjectivity.  The magpie only values the art because it’s shiny rather than because it is beautiful, has cultural value or shows fine workmanship. In the same way, a work of art is different things to different people depending on their artistic values. Similarly I want to say something about the usefulness of reviews by art critics. If you don’t like the same things as the critic, you might as well be listening to a magpie. Lastly I just wanted to show that a bird can write a better art review than Brian Sewell. 

Theatre Review: Anthony Burgess's Clockwork Orange @ Soho Theatre

(There’s a review further down but I couldn’t resist a pre-ramble)

Vice

Hogarth’s Rake’s Progress is a morality tale charting the brief rise and subsequent fall of Tom Rakewell, due to his scandalous lifestyle. Rakewell inherits a fortune from his rich father, moves to London and his subsequent profligacy and debauchery leads him first to prison and eventually to a crazed death in an asylum. Clockwork Orange forms an updated version of this story. Our rake, Alex, is worse than Hogarth’s, obsessed with violence and rape but follows a similar path, towards censure and prison. By way of a change, he is offered freedom in exchange for taking part in a scientific process that will give him a permanent horror of sex and violence and leave him unable to re-offend.

The hero rejects moral decision-making and the simple chain of moral cause-and-effect is replaced with a more complex question: is it acceptable to contain dangerous behaviour by turning someone into an automaton, a Clockwork Orange? As far as society is concerned, Alex has become a better, more peaceful citizen having undergone a complete reform and the prison system is freed from the burden of housing him. If every criminal received this treatment we would have a crime-free society. The scientist in the story suggests that the process simply instils the natural horror of violence present in most people; if that is the case then Alex has been improved and not harmed. From a utilitarian point of view this is an open-and-shut case.

The opposing view comes from the prison chaplain. He says that choice is important; an argument for free will. Alex hasn’t made a choice to lead a better life so hasn’t been reformed. He’s saying that we should be free to make bad decisions, and to bear the consequences of them. He hopes that through life experience we can learn to improve ourselves morally. His argument owes a lot to Christian dogma, we save ourselves by choosing the right path, but it has broader value if we see freedom and self-determination as fundamental goods and human rights.

Perhaps the joke’s on the chaplain: he works in an institution that functions to remove inmates’ opportunity to offend in the same way as the scientific process. It is a blunt instrument defending society from anti-social individuals by removing their freedom. He places faith in the system’s ability to reform but given Alex’s violent and calculating nature, that doesn’t seem like a possibility.

Anthony Burgess’s novel eventually arrives at redemption, justifying the chaplain’s beliefs. Alex tires of violence and settles into a peaceful life. However, this ending did not find favour with his American publishers who cut the final chapter leaving Alex as an unreformed, brutal sociopath at-large, thinking that would sit better with their audience. Stanley Kubrick followed form with his 1971 film, stating that Alex’s change of heart was inconsistent with the rest of the novel. Perhaps he anticipated the moral outrage caused by his visually shocking film would be blunted by such a tame resolution; it’s well-known that controversial material sells. Whether or not the original author should have control over his artistic creation is a whole different debate but given the high re-offence rate of released criminals, which ending rings truer as a reflection of society?

I’m not a big consumer of science fiction but I think the genre is at its best when it postulates technologies that raise new moral and social issues. Roald Dahl did this really well in stories like ‘The Sound Machine’ and ‘William and Mary’. With Clockwork Orange Burgess created a thought-experiment* that raises some interesting questions about crime, punishment and the value of free will.

AND NOW AN ACTUAL REVIEW..

I thought this was a superb production, cleverly balancing high-camp with brutal menace. Martin McCreadie as Alex did well to create a convincing persona in the lead part with Malcolm McDowell’s considerable shadow looming over him; I assume the Yorkshire accent was retained by way of tribute. He was quite magnetic as the strong-arm gang-leader, eloquently expressing his delight in violence and Baroque music. Particularly impressive, also, was Stephen Spencer’s double turn as the contrasting Neanderthal thug ‘Dim’ and self-serving politician ‘Minister of the Inferior’.

Fantastic, flamboyant movement was used to bring out the gang’s amoral delight in violence and the show was visually stark with the palette limited to black, white and orange. The Nadsat vocabulary worked brilliantly on stage, defining the gang by its language and trivialising its unpleasant activities; the cast did well to make it sound real.

*This double-meaning was the point of the whole section. Sorry.

Fantasy Dinner Party: Alchoholics

Note to self: Stock up

Dorothy Parker

Alexander the Great

Janice Joplin

Dylan Thomas

Billy Holiday

Sportspeople: Bad Examples

Jessica Ennis - just selfish?

With the recent announcement of the BBC Sports Personality of the Year shortlist, the press will no doubt be raking over the Olympic rhetoric about achievement and role models. Athletes like Jessica Ennis, Mo Farah and Bradley Wiggins have been hailed as excellent new examples for the nation's children to sweep away the dross of reality stars and rappers. On the face of it, that seems like a good idea. We can replace talentless big brother contestants and misogynistic performers with clean-living, dedicated athletes, focused on pushing the boundaries of human achievement. I’m going to swim (ineptly) against the tide and suggest a few reasons why sportspeople aren’t worth idolising.

ELITISM

All sport is elitist by its very nature. Elite sport is especially elitist. Controversial, I know, but I'm saying it anyway. Surprisingly - as this is one of the least socially mobile developed countries in the world - this isn't a social issue: even the rowing and equestrian teams showed an encouraging diversity of background. This is about physical elitism: an intrinsic quality of professional sport where the point is to establish which competitor is physically superior to the others. Should our children be inspired by a system where only one person can be successful, and that success is heavily dependent on genetics? It’s hardly a good model for society.

The problem with elitism goes further.  From World Champions right down to sports day champions, that status is only achieved by excluding others. Sporting success isn't an appropriate thing for a large number of people to aspire to unless those people are going to be happy with losing. Can we expect that, given how much of our appreciation of these athletes is based on their unwillingness to accept defeat? So maybe people could just be inspired to take part in sport? In that case, why idolise champions and not just your mate who plays Sunday league football?

BODIES

I wonder why there is so much uproar about advertising showing models with bodies unobtainable by most of us, while athletes who fall into an even smaller corporeal niche are celebrated as role models. The message of the anti-size-zero lobby is that our fashion role models should have obtainable bodies; an understandable criterion. Generally this just isn’t the case with athletes; it's more realistic for an average teenage girl to get the body of a model than a world-class heptathlete. Athletes are admired for their dedication and self-denial when it comes to diet as well as exercise; isn’t that just the same quality so denigrated in stick-thin catwalk models? Well at least, you might say, for athletes there’s a better reason for exercising restraint: which brings me on to:

POINTLESSNESS AND MORALITY

I think that two basic criteria for a role model are that she should be doing something good and for the right reasons.

A lot is said about amirability of achievement in sport, particularly about record breakers like Usain Bolt, those overcoming adversity like Ellie Simmonds and endurance athletes like Bradley Wiggins. However it strikes me that these athletes, for all their striving, aren’t helping anyone. Sportspeople are profoundly, almost uniquely amongst all the roles in society, not contributing any good. Bankers, tax collectors and politicians all serve in roles that improve society by providing something that people want or need; athletes provide no direct benefit to anyone but themselves. You might say that they provide entertainment but firstly, that’s only tangential and certainly not the focus of their efforts and secondly much more entertainment is provided by footballers (judged worse role models) than rowers (judged better role models) who are only on television briefly every four years.

Elite sport’s pointlessness is well illustrated by its arbitrariness. Usain Bolt is hailed world-wide as a hero and role model for breaking the 100m record, while James Roumeliotis of Boston, USA holds the world record for consecutive pogo jumps and you’ve not heard of him. James raised over $10,000 for a Scleroderma charity with his record attempt; I don’t have a link to Usain’s justgiving page for the 2012 Olympics.

So what athletes do isn't productive; doesn't that make them more noble for having purer aims? Let’s compare the motivation of a runner to, say, a rapper. The runner’s motivation when he goes out training is either to run faster (socially useless) or to beat his opponents (selfish) whereas the rapper’s motivation when she’s practising could be to do something creative (socially useful) or to entertain (altruistic). The rapper might be doing it just for the money and fame so there’s a chance she’s solely motivated by greed, but the athlete must be selfish as there’s no-one else who can benefit from his achievements. I think that dedication is an admirable quality but it loses all of its impressiveness when directed solely towards self-aggrandisement.

In conclusion, I think that replacing reality TV stars with athletes is progress. We’re replacing bad role models with bland ones. But surely we should aspire to something better?

Declarations:

1. I don't watch sport. Could you guess?

2. This reads like it's born of resentment at sporting failure. I have national medals in two sports.

3. My vote for SPOTY: Katherine Grainger. What a trooper!

Diversion: "Putting a downer on public celebrations of tremendous achievement since 2012"

British Psycho: An Alternative Skyfall Review

I'm not going to write a normal review of this as I think Giles Coren hit all the important points in an an article the Times declined to print and which is available on his wife's blog. As I yawned my way through this remarkably pace-less, tension-less film, this is what was going through my mind:

I'm suggesting that this film tells us more about the public acceptability of legitimised versus unregulated violence than it does about perverse cocktail-preparation techniques. Perhaps next time we consider the conflict between Israel and Hamas we should think about why Bond is so widely loved and Bateman derided?

 

Also: apologies for the 'Sans. It's used ironically.

Diversion is dead

Now seems like the appropriate time in the movement’s life to declare it dead. Much like rock’n’roll, chivalry and Paul McCartney in 1966, it’s reached the end of its natural arc. It’s artistically exhausted, out-run by society and still miles from an excruciatingly metaphorical finishing line. Its followers, in a cruel, ironic stroke, have been diverted onto some flimsy substitute briefly more deserving of their tiny attention spans. What’s left to do? Go underground and await the nostalgic, talking-head TV special in 15 years time? Adapt and evolve into nu-Diversion? Change market, enter China and Brazil?

Perhaps there’s hope while there’s still a core of fanatic support; we don’t need scale, we need passion! Who said relevance is everything or even necessary? As long as MySpace, like some tragic operatic heroine is still coughing out one last TB-ridden aria I think there is leeway for the rightfully dead to march on, zombie-like. As long as Mick Jagger’s still strutting and my bicycle’s called Roccinante, long live Diversion!

A Devilish Diversion

I hear this often:

‘I can’t stand those guys who stand outside tube stations shouting about God! If that’s your belief then OK but don’t thrust it upon others.’

Imagine for a moment you’re running down the stairs of a burning building and you see someone clinging to the banister, refusing to leave. Do you haul them out or leave them? This is beginning to sound like a euthanasia argument – it is, a little.

Many Christians believe in hell, a place of eternal suffering. It’s a punishment for those that don’t believe in God and seek his forgiveness for their sins. If there is a moral imperative to at least reason with the person on the banister, there is a far greater imperative to be an evangelist. Through the eyes of a Christian who believes in hell, the rest of us are bound for a far worse peril than simply burning to death: we’re going to suffer forever. At that point, shouldn’t he be doing something?

A Diversion into Abstraction

Two things I don’t like are close-mindedness and hypocrisy. They often arrive hand-in-hand. Let’s have an example from everyday life:

            ‘I don’t much care for modern art’

            ‘That’s a shame, what didn’t you like?’

            ‘Oh I don’t know particularly. It’s rubbish though, all shapes and colours, there’s nothing there’

            ‘You mean abstract art? Don’t you think that an artist can deal with emotion or ideas without actually drawing an object?’

            ‘Nonsense, it’s just lazy. I like my pictures to be of something’

‘Well each to his own. How do you feel about classical music?’

            ‘I love it! I think Beethoven was a true genius, I could listen for hours!’

I don’t think I need to go on.

Art isn't just a functional item that does a job, like showing us what a person or a landscape looks like. What makes it art is some added element of emotional or political interpretation by the artist. We get abstract art when that artistic element completely eclipses the representation.

Walter Pater wrote that “All art constantly aspires towards the condition of music” meaning that through music the artist can completely combine subject matter and form,  and so James Whistler moved towards the purity of Beethoven’s medium. A lot of classical music doesn't represent anything tangible but it can still touch us profoundly, why should we reject visual art when it tries to achieve the same thing?

I said I didn’t need to go on; but I will:

This is describing a mirror

             ‘And I don’t think that you should need to read the writing beside the picture to understand it. A picture should speak for itself’

            ‘Well at least you've got Beethoven. Do you know his 3^rd symphony? Eroica?’

‘Oh it’s wonderful! It’s actually very political, you see he originally dedicated it to Napoleon because he admired his revolutionary ideals..’

Art does not exist in a vacuum; it would be a poor, sad thing if it did. So much of the enjoyment of art is through recognition of something from our own experience; if we don’t have the experience it references then why not gain that understanding and then revisit the art? Films about the Holocaust rely on the viewer’s historical knowledge for their gravity, WH Auden’s love poetry doesn’t have resonance until you’ve shared his passion. So, perhaps we can look outside the picture frame for inspiration.

Are you in the same boat as our Socratic victim? Next time you’re at Tate Modern, don’t walk so quickly past the Pollocks.