All entries for Sunday 22 January 2006
January 22, 2006
The Man of Culture
It’s hard to avoid the roots. Eventually I find a comfortable spot, if wet, and lean my back against the fir tree. It’s not half as bad as when it drizzled at ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’. Besides, at my age I like a performance to be a little less romantic. This set, for example, is challenging. It appears as though they’ve smashed thousands of bottles into shards and scattered them, perfectly equally, across the lawn. There is a single, tasteful street lamp at centre left stage- I remember the terms from ‘Drama at Durham’. In fact, if I narrow my eyes and shift slightly from side to side, I could bet the light catches five thousand of the glittering edges. Nigel would up me on the figures, no doubt. ‘Seven million’, he’d whisper, ‘Maybe more’, not taking his eyes off the expanse of glistening lawn. He turned his back on me yesterday evening, in the pretense of filling up his kettle. ‘What’s the performance? ‘Dawning’, is it called? Personally, I wouldn’t go to a play with a title like that’. It seems he’s terrified of the cold.
‘Leamington Park, facing Priory Terrace a kilometre in the distance. Third fir tree from the left, before the park bench.’ I’m in the correct seating. Then why are the branches obscuring the view? I increasingly find these directors to be, shall we say, of ‘diminutive stature’. I can imagine him now, a fiery dwarf of a man, clapping his hands at the finished set, his mind too tiny to admit the prospect of a six foot audience member. Actually, in the spring I was forced to telephone ‘Tate Modern Customer Enquiries’ to inform them that the leg room in their showing of ‘Pierre Untied’ was ridiculously minimal. They told me, thank you for your concern, that the seating had been arranged for purposefully claustrophobic effect…. Come to think of it, there is something peculiarly striking about the very tips of these fir branches. It’s almost as if my eyes, staring straight ahead at the lawn, have been marked by dry, black brush strokes. Yes! Of course! The director is making a self-referential comment. It is implied that his painters ran out of ink by the time their brushes could get to the very tips of the fir branches. The creative ingenuity reconciles me, partially, to the dry cleaning bill for my Burberry trousers. If only they had mentioned the possibility of damp on the programme. However, these observations make me, day by day, less attractive to Marianne.
They are, ever so slowly, brightening the lighting. Nigel would know, but I’m sure it can’t be manual, as regular as it is. They must have ordered in a machine. It has been gradually washing a blue colour over the dark warmness that suffused the scene initially. I’m aware of their intention. They’re manufacturing the semblance of an all embracing bruise. Theatre thrives, so I’ve been told, on anticipated conflict. A wind blows from somewhere across the lawn. I’m unable, somehow, to draw my collar closer to my chin. The slightest movement will release the tiny shivers I’ve been feeling, filing up in ranks along my spine. It’s too cold to think clearly. I won’t recommend this play. The lower of the fir branches, to my right, waver just above the ground. I imagine, although I’m not sure if it’s meant, that I’m in an upside down sea. The more I look at the branches, the more they appear like seaweed, swaying just below the surface of the water. I can feel their need for air. What morose characters, pointlessly asking the ground for sunlight. What a perverse, sorrowful performance.
As I watch, sweet sounds begin to adorn the air. The director has made the birdsong unnaturally sharp. It’s been pitched to resonate in different chambers of the head. I feel a blue tit, tickling just behind my left ear. As I listen, a magpie begins to scratch my upper cranium as if with one nail, unhurriedly. I wish I’d brought boiled sweets with me. I’d crunch them as loudly as I could. This music has intolerable precision. Looking around for some sort of distraction I come eye to eye with the white shell of a conker, laying by my right boot. The presumptious dwarf does not, evidently, own a copy of the ‘Collins Guide to British Trees’. I have ceased, long ago, to expect authenticity from modern art. Shining in the dim light, the conker shell seems carved out of the skeleton of a bird. Is it these noises, effecting my natural associations? No, I’m very much reminded of the ongoing display of Teradactyls in the Natural History Museum. I was there with Marianne, slowing my pace ever so slightly. ‘Look’, I had intoned, gesturing towards a delicate skeleton, ‘Eternally fixed, but so effortlessly breakable’. I left her at home, the sky outside just beginning to grow warm with light, sleeping. Sliding my finger into the conker, the object melts. It’s fragile still, but wonderfully soft inside. My finger feels at home. I close my eyes. I’m stroking her neck.
Ten minutes past Eight:
The play stares at me with a mute, accusing gaze. How long have I been dozing? A line of mist stretches across the lawn, like the mould that grows on peaches. The street light has dimmed to a faded glowing ring on the backdrop, like an accidental tea stain. I would give anything for a mug of Earl Grey. I’m too exposed for comfort. It feels as if the play is applying its powder, preparing itself for another showing. I can imagine what it will be like: more tight lipped, certainly, but with the same un-ending tension. I have no desire to see it. A sound of glass bottles being tumbled together and smashed affirms my guess that the performances are circular. It comes from across the lawn from Priory Terrace and strikes me as insultingly unprofessional. Jumping up from the ground I brush my trousers down and stride across the dew. The reviews flit through my mind. ‘Trapped in loquacious inertia, bleakly humorous’. I disagree, at times, with Nicholas de Jongh’s verdicts but Paul Taylor from ‘The Independent’ praised it as ‘An accomplished, largely persuasive revival’. I’m sure that was the phrase. Looking back, the fir tree has regained its spatial awareness. It is no longer in danger of cascading downwards into pools of ink. Everything seems to have dried, shrunk and lost significance. The blur of the traffic occupies the air. I here the smashing of glass again. Nothing can be done about the damp patch on my trousers. I stride over the road towards the sound.
The man is manoevering a green dustbin into the glinting vice of a truck.
He doesn’t turn his head, or shift his eyes.
‘Sorry. Could you tell me what’s in that dustbin?’
It clunks into the mechanism and he faces me, wiping hands on jeans.
‘Glass, I should hope’.
He starts off for the other bin on the pavement- a black one this time.
‘Although you can’t tell. People put in all kinds.’
I breath in, preparing to speak deliberately.
‘Starting a bit early, don’t you think?’
Over the shoulder, he shoots me a prize winning grimace.
‘Old biddies always complaining about the noise I make. You want to write to the boss, feel free’.
I follow his flippant gesture to the side of the truck, aware that he meant some kind of slur to me, and copy down ‘R.P.T. Cpt. 11 Cork Road, Hambleton, Surrey, England’ into my personal organiser.
‘Could you direct me to the nearest post office, please.’
‘Take the left down here, when it comes to a junction. It’s about half an hour, mate.’
I come to a village post office with a yellow door. My watch tells eight forty. It may be serving already. I push the door and it swings open, ringing an unpleasantly bird-like bell. A woman in her late forties appears from a back door.
‘Hello.’ I think my wallet has change. Let’s see.
‘Could I buy a first class stamp please, and an envelope.’
‘Certainly sir. I’ll just open up the till. You’re the first customer.’
She slides up the glass barrier.
‘First class, you say’.
The envelope is pushed through. A stamp is torn from the sheet and her fingers push it underneath the barrier. It rests in the hollow, blue face downwards.
I take it and pay the woman. Sliding my wallet into my trouser pocket with my back towards her, I lick the stamp and press it on the paper. Printed on the face of the stamp is the blue, bare ass of a baboon.
THE MAN OF CULTURE’S EARTHLY KNOWLEDGE:
The Man of Culture trains himself to spend his leisure time valuing his body parts. The corresponding values depend on how many people refer to each body part in each day. Cheeks usually come high in the charts because the Man of Culture often blushes. His knees, for example, are hardly ever mentioned.
NOTE OF CONSIDERATION TO THE VERDICT:
During the trial, Ammut swallows the Man of Culture’s knees.
THE CONTENT’S OF THE SCALES:
The Man of Culture’s blushing cheeks.
In the religion of the Ancient Egyptians, life is dominated by Ma’at - the law of justice, order and balance. Ma’at is symbolised by the Feather of Truth. In death, the deceased is tried. His earthly knowledge is displayed before the Court, overseen by Thoth, the ibis-headed God of Wisdom. At the end of the trial, the deceased man’s heart is placed on a scale and weighed against the Feather. If the Feather outweighs the heart, the deceased has led a righteous life and may join the afterlife. If the man’s life on earth has made his heart heavy, Ammut, the God with crocodile head and hippopotamus legs, will devour his heart. In this way, Ammut, the Swallower of the Damned, consigns the man to a second death which is eternal oblivion.
Painter looked at the mountain
And the mountain looked
Or so he thought, in the wind
Her slopes were huge and icy
The mountain looked on
Painter, cried the falling leaves
Look at the mountain
We are shrubs by the river
Look at our stones and see
We are limited
Painter looked at the small boy
And the small boy looked
Or so he thought, in the store
His fingers were curled and soft
The small boy looked on
Painter, cried the local store
Look at the small boy
We are dust behind the shelves
Look at our tins and see
We are limited
Painter looked at the girlfriend
And the girlfriend looked
Or so he thought, in the bed
Her eyes were blue and hazy
The girlfriend looked on
Painter, cried the blood stained sheets
Look at the girlfriend
We are cracks in the ceiling
Look at our hairs and see
We are limited
At noon, Painter was painting
And the mountain was
Or so he thought, on the page
Her slopes were ‘bianco white’
The mountain was not
Painter, cried the boy’s fingers
You see through ‘pale cream’
Your eyes make other mountains
Look, your pupils are stones
Are you limited?
Painter left for the co-op
And the boy had left
Or so it seemed, in the aisles
By the tins, no soft fingers
The boy left nothing
Painter, cried the girlfriend’s sheets
You think without dust
Your mind makes other children
Look, your skull is cracking
Are you limited?
Painter ran to the girlfriend
And the girl’s eyes ran
Or so he thought, with his paint
Her neck was wet and scarlet
The girl’s eyes ran red
Painter, cried the girlfriend’s tears
You look for a boy
We are colour with no brush
Look at our tracks and see
We can break limits
At dusk, Painter loved the girl
And the girlfriend loved
Or so it seemed, in the dark
Her limbs were blue and hazy
The girl’s love created
Painter, cried the girl’s body
Look at my black hairs
I’m staining the sheets with blood
Look at my crack and see
I am your limits
At night, his hand grew heavy
Or so it seemed, in his head
With his lover’s soft fingers
They had merged at the joints
Girlfriend, cried the Painter-Man
Look at our fingers
They’re grey with dust from the store
Feel the soft flesh and know
We limit ourselves
The man ran to the mountain
And the girlfriend ran
So it was, in the sunlight
The leaves fell off their bodies
The lovers ran on
Lover, cried the girlfriend
Look at the mountain
We’re running in her shadow
Feel my fingers’ aching
We are limited
PAINTER’S EARTHLY WISDOM:
Painter gains the courage to hack off his right hand. He is free to paint, but only with his left hand – his second, less natural choice.
NOTE OF CONSIDERATION TO THE VERDICT:
During the trial, Ammut swallows Painter’s discarded hand.
THE CONTENTS OF THE SCALES:
The mountain in Painter’s eyes.
Hamlet (the man) is dominated by an emotion which is inexpressible, because it is in excess of the facts as they appear... It often occurs in adolescence: the ordinary person puts these feelings to sleep.
– T. S. Eliot, ‘Hamlet and his Problems’.
I (the girl) was dominated by an emotion which was inexpressible, because it was in excess of the facts as they appeared. I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him And the supposed identity of myself with the girl in my diary was genuine to this point: that the diary girl’s bafflement at the absence of an objective equivalent to her feelings was a prolongation of the bafflement of myself in the face of an artistic problem. I’m your problem. Look at me. I’ll eat your heart in the marketplace. Expose you for what you are. That I fear you raping me, hitting me. Remember when I was up against the difficulty that my disgust was occasioned by my father, but that my father was not an adequate equivalent for it; my disgust enveloped and exceeded my father, what would you do if I was drowning? If you were watching on the shore and I was drowning with my eyes so wild? It was thus a feeling which I could not understand; I could not objectify it, and it therefore remained to poison life and obstruct action. None of my diary girl’s actions could satisfy it; and nothing that I could write could express her for myself it is an azure evening: the sky flashes like the inside of a jewelled locket, popped open for my widening eyes, my own wet lips. For my father, downstairs, it is ‘comedy night’. Laughter comes out of his mouth, comes echoing up the stairs and it is not laughter. If he could hear it, if he could hear himself, he would stumble into the kitchen and take the knife from its comfortable home inside the varnished jar by the butter puffs, the oranges (Blood! the fearful blood!) and happy, and achingly sad- I would put my ear to my bedroom carpet. The hight, the levity of the girl from my diary, her repetition of phrase, her puns, were not part of a deliberate plan of dissimulation, but her form of emotional relief. In her character is the buffoonery of an emotion which could find no outlet in this constant tuneless whistling and the sound of his dry fingers rubbing together in her actions; and I want to silence it. Silence for him and for myself it was the buffoonery of an emotion which I could not express in art.