Friday, 30 October 2015

The artist at the university of life



I was 14 when I got my first job - two weeks on the back of a tractor, planting potatoes. It was a fine way to spend Easter. My second job was as a labourer on the site of a football stadium. I was 15 and still at school. My classmates had gone off on ‘cultural visits’ to Paris and Rome but my parents thought that, if I wanted to go on to college, I should learn a little about the ‘real world’ first.  It took me a long time to realise how right they were. 




My father was a furnace man and I spent my last two years at school working every school holiday at his iron foundry – Easter, summer and Xmas. 12-hour days were spent mixing sand for the moulds, helping pour the castings and then wheeling the steaming sand back to my mill to start all over again the next day.  The foundry was an image lifted from Piranesi crossed with a scene from Dante’s inferno.   

This was the first of several hard and dirty jobs I did - my first term at the University of Life.


I did go on to college but did not graduate. But I did carry on at the University of Life for several more terms – as a railway porter, chicken factory worker, jute mill worker and road mender – before I took a job as a psychiatric nurse. That last experience transported me (eventually) back to academia and (even later) a long career as a university academic and psychotherapist.

I didn’t realise it at the time but my short career as a psychiatric nurse completed my graduation from the University of Life. 


Previously I had simply been grafting with my hands – getting sweaty and dirty. In my time in psychiatry I could stay clean and gain privileged entrance to the worlds both above and below the grind of everyday life. Here I was granted access to the assorted hells that passed for ‘ordinary life’ – all conveniently passed off as one form of ‘mental illness’ or another. Later, a wise old friend reminded me that the mind is just an idea – and cannot be sick, other than in a metaphorical sense. I realised then – and know very well now – that ‘mental illness’ is a metaphor for everything that we might find disagreeable in life – whether in ourselves or others.


I was reminded of all of this when I re-read Brendan Behan who said that “people who say that hard labour is a good thing have never done any”. I can’t recall the last time I met anybody who, as my father might have said, had ‘done any real work’. Most of the people I have associated with over the past 30-odd years have been dying of exhaustion because they had to meet a publishing deadline or give an extra lecture.  But, I must admit to having used much the same excuses. I need to remind myself that I never really had to 'work' – at least not in the sense that my father understood it. Instead, I did ‘occasional jobs’ and then got an opportunity to do something that interested me and ultimately fulfilled me. That kind of 'work' can never be called ‘labour’.


Of all the jobs I have done in my life, being a low-paid ‘nursing attendant’ was both the hardest – and the easiest. Hard, in the sense that I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing and easy, in that I finally realised that all I had to do was sit, watch and listen – waiting was something that came naturally to me. ‘Thirty years later I had written umpteen books about ‘just sitting and listening’ but none of them really captured the essence of the ‘thing’ itself. I can feel the memory now, but I can’t tell you – in words – what it is. If you had the time, I might be able to take you to that realisation.


None of this has much of anything to do with art. No. I am wrong - it has everything to do with art. Art is about expressing that which cannot be expressed in words. Wittgenstein famously said “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent”, prompting his friend Frank Ramsay later to say - What we can't say we can't say, and we can't whistle it either."  

Wittgenstein was a philosopher who understood that language – however sophisticated - is overrated. Although not an artist, Wittgenstein had the ‘vision thing’.


We may not be able to say it – or whistle it – but we can paint it, or shape it in clay, stone or metal, or pull together a bunch of objects that might signal ‘that of which we cannot speak’?


The only thing that interest me is the ineffable – that ‘thing’ which is beyond words. Maybe that is what interests all visual artists.


The work I do as an artist can sometimes be frustrating – due to my own temper or lack of skill. Sometime it can be demanding – when someone pushes forward a deadline. But it cannot ever be called ‘labour’. If approached properly the ineffable will speak for itself through the work. All the artist has to do is have the patience to allow this to happen.

And so I am back where I started all those years ago – waiting.


Monday, 19 October 2015

Dunfermline’s own Phoenix



There is no shortage of metaphors involving fire. The vital spark that first ignites our interest, lights a fire under us and soon we are burning with desire or ambition. We, or others, fuel that ambition until we are almost literally blazing. The idea that a few moments ago was just smouldering can be fanned back into flame and, given the right support, will spread like wildfire among all those around us.

It is no accident that these metaphors are linked, so powerfully, with creativity – a legacy of our ancestors’ discovery of fire and its potential – for good and ill. 


The shadows thrown up on the cave wall from our ancestors' early fires probably sparked the idea of intentionally marking those walls - and so the mural was born.

Of course fire is something to be feared. What can warm and comfort can also consume us if allowed free rein. So, at some point, our ancestors devised what we now know as the extinguisher. Another classical element – water – provides the simplest means of cooling the heat, dousing the flame and ultimately extinguishing the fire.


 But the last thing we want is for our creative spark to be dampened far less extinguished. The great fear for all creative types is that the slowdown in generating new work will turn into a ‘creative block’ that, eventually, will signal the first stages of burnout.


All this considered, it was great to discover that an old fire station, used for generations to fight fires, had been transformed into an arts hub, dedicated to lighting and fuelling the creative sparks of a whole community of artists – and all those interested in the art they produce.


FireStation Creative opened this summer in Dunfermline, Fife, Scotland. Built in 1934, James Shearer’s ‘international design’ for the original fire station became an icon of progress in the town before lying empty for over five years. Now, the old fire station has been transformed into the thriving hub of Fire Station Creative - a charity and social enterprise set up to renovate the building and then to help fuel the creative appetites of the community as well as its artists - a Phoenix rising from the ashes of its own history.


With over 20 studios, a classroom, gallery and café, Fire Station Creative supports existing artists as well as inspiring the younger creative community.


I am proud to say that I was born and grew up in Dunfermline and used to pass the old Fire Station every day on my way to school.  When travelling abroad I am often  asked where I come from. Without hesitation I always say that I am from Dunfermline -  ‘the capital of Scotland’.  OK, I may be a few hundred years adrift but it still feels like a capital to me. The combined efforts of Ian Moir and his colleagues, along with Sarah Young, John Gibson, Billy George and many others, is restoring some of that capital feel to the Auld Grey Toon.


It is interesting that, on the day I first visited Fire Station Creative, I came across the out-of-print autobiography of my mother’s cousin, the Scots sculptor Harry Bain

Harry called his book  “The Fire Within: Life in sculpture”. 

Now that is what I call synchronicity.


May all the fires of all the Dunfermline artists never go out!


Monday, 12 October 2015

Critics and eunuchs



Brian Sewell was quite a character but he might not have become quite such a character if he had talked like Ray Winstone - or some of my neighbours. The tortured, posh voice carries a political weight usually denied to more honest tongues like ‘folk fae Fife’. Sewell’s caricature of Edwardian drawing-room English was a carefully-crafted weapon: expertly wielded; sharp on every side. 

However clever and witty he seems fated to be remembered as a bit of a dinosaur. Ironically, some of his prime targets exploited his savage wit – like the Brit-art crowd. Without Sewell’s dismissal of their artlessness Hirst and Emin et al might have had more of a struggle to build their reputations.

As a critic, Sewell might even have been a ‘national treasure’ but he was not a great fan of that other treasure, David Hockney. Unlike the Spectator art critic, Andrew Lambirth, who jealously guarded Hockney’s work and wrote:

  a great many people visited (Hockney’s 2012 Royal Academy exhibition) and came out smiling and uplifted. They tended to be individuals who don’t usually go to exhibitions or look at real painting (sic), and it may thus be said that they had very little idea of what they were actually looking at, or indeed should be looking for in an exhibition of painting”. 

I have been visiting all sorts of exhibitions since my youth and Lambirth set me wondering if I too might be someone who had ‘little idea’ of what I was looking at – or should be ‘looking for’  - in a show of paintings. It had never occurred to me that I might need a qualification to visit an exhibition. Who would decide if I was adequately prepared to be allowed entry? Perhaps dumb viewers like me should pay less for entry since we shall gain so much less from the experience. Hey ho! 
There may well be only two kinds of people who try to appreciate art – the critic and everyone else. The critic may make interesting, amusing or informative observations. The critic may even stimulate others to think – hopefully for her or himself - although I think that letting us know what he (usually) thinks remains the main objective.  So, criticism, as a profession of sorts, is not entirely without honour. But, is criticism any more than opinion – however, well articulated?

But is the critic’s performance –by turns, witty, savage or patronising – not just another arm of the entertainment industry? 
Like musicians, actors or acrobats, the critic seeks to goad us; tickle us; unsettle us – playing with our emotions as well as our thinking. If we enjoy this performance we applaud and leave satisfied. If we don’t – we don’t return.
A less accepting conclusion – expressed by many playwrights, novelists and artists - is that critics, whether generous or contemptuous, are scavengers. Without the art the critic need not – indeed cannot - exist. 
As Brendan Behan noted:
  Critics are like eunuchs in a harem; they know how it’s done, they’ve seen it done every day, but they’re unable to do it themselves”.
Today, I can upload my opinions on the latest books, restaurants or fashions to a huge assortment of digital media. Today, I could become a critic. All I need is someone to take my opinion seriously. I need someone to imagine that I possess that remarkable quality called ‘discernment’!
  
More importantly, I need someone who has never heard of Brendan Behan and his savagely accurate wit.

Tuesday, 6 October 2015

Caravaggio's smile





Has the Dalai Lama spent too long in the West? I read recently that he had offered his support to a ‘course in happiness’. Perhaps he risks sponsoring the idea that life is some kind of ‘project’. How to be happy seems very much like a project to me and not what you might call a Buddhist one.

Life – as my old friend Tom Szasz once said - is “something to be lived, as intelligently, as competently, as well as we can, day in and day out. Life is something we must endure. There is no solution for it”. That says it all really. 


This fixation on the chimera of happiness is folly personified. Feelings just exist. They ‘come’ and they ‘go’. One moment you are happy and then next moment – whoosh – another fickle feeling has displaced it. But that too will be displaced in turn by some other emotion. Why waste time and effort fiddling with something that is so mercurial and transient?

The Japanese psychiatrist Shoma Morita was greatly influenced by Zen Buddhism. In his view people thought and felt too much – and did not do enough. Well said. Morita advocated that we should ‘accept our feelings, know our purpose and do what needs to be done’. 

My father, whose working class culture must have been a distant Western relative of Zen often said –“there’s nothing else for it’. I assumed he meant that we must accept our situation and get on with ‘doing what needs to be done’. Once you have finished crying over the spilled milk of life you need to do something to deal with – or at least live with – the situation; and you need to do it NOW!


Happiness is just a feeling – like anger, irritation, joy or delight. The idea that we should ‘be happy’ is so daft it is hardly worth talking about – but I shall persevere. We only know we ‘are happy’ because once we were miserable or bored or frustrated. The change in mood may be welcome but it is just a change – like the weather. Now the sun is shining but at some point the clouds will gather, the sky will darken and it will rain. Weather never lasts. NOTHING LASTS! At some point the sun will break through (again). To flip another clichĂ© – the light at the end of the tunnel is merely a sign that another tunnel is approaching. Such is life.     


An old academic colleague – Dr Alec Grant – wrote that: I once stood in front of Caravaggio's The Taking of Christ, in Dublin. I lost an hour. It was a numinous experience”.


I wonder what kind of experience Alec had that day in Dublin, as he was ‘filled with the presence of divinity’ - which is one reading of ‘numinosity’;  or as he was spiritually elevated, connected to his ‘higher emotions’ and ‘aesthetic sense’? What kind of feeling did Caravaggio’s masterpiece engender in Alec? Was he happy? Did he really care?



It seems more likely that, like anyone who ‘gets lost’ in front of a work of art (or in music, a book or play) Alec experienced all sorts of feeling as he engaged with something bigger; something much more ineffable; something which he 'felt' as a ‘numinous experience’.


I don’t know if art is meant to make us happy – it seems clear that a lot of art is unsettling or disturbing, often intentionally so, like Goya’s ‘black paintings’. If art has any function perhaps it is to arrest us: stopping us in the tracks of our everyday meanderings; inviting, if not tricking, us into contemplation; nudging us towards the ‘numinous experience’. Art which is decorative, nostalgic or romantic has its place and may delight us, offer comfort, help us feel secure. However important this might be it is unlikely to change us.


I suspect that Alec Grant walked away from Caravaggio that day a different man. Perhaps he knew himself in some sense ‘better’. 

Perhaps he was confused and genuinely lost and knew himself ‘less’. Either way, he knew that he had had an important experience – one that might live with him for a long time.


Either way, Caravaggio might have smiled.