Brian O'Nolan (Flann O'Brien)
Dusty Springfield
Ulysses S. Grant
Joan Crawford
Bix Beiderbecke
Wednesday, 2 January 2013
Monday, 31 December 2012
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 26th
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’
Tuesday, 4 December 2012
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 |
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.
Monday, 3 December 2012
Theatre Review: Anthony Burgess's Clockwork Orange @ Soho Theatre
(There’s a review further down but I couldn’t resist a
pre-ramble)
 |
| Vice |
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.
Thursday, 29 November 2012
Fantasy Dinner Party: Alchoholics
 |
| Note to self: Stock up |
Dorothy Parker
Alexander the Great
Janice Joplin
Dylan Thomas
Billy Holiday
Wednesday, 28 November 2012
Sportspeople: Bad Examples
 |
| Jessica Ennis - just selfish? |
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"
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