Playing The Game

 

The fact that I am tapping the keys to my laptop early in the morning is a tribute to my determination to lay off my compulsive reading of The Guardian as soon as I had eaten my muesli.  The unrelentingly awful news contained in its pages, that seems to bring to mind the worst excesses of the 1930s, and the feeling that I could do nothing about what was happening, was certainly beginning to get me down.

I now give the Guardian headlines a rapid scan on my phone and do the quick crossword and then leave the gruesome details for later in the day.  I still listen to the Today programme on Radio 4 - there are limits about how far I am prepared to go to set myself free from negativity – but there is something more transitory about hearing the news rather than reading it, and that makes it easier to take.  At least for me.

There is always the problem of 45.  I, like so many others, have never (and will never) come to terms with the reality of the present POTUS.  You see, try as I might I cannot get the news out of my mind, no matter how early in the morning I get up!

I have been struggling to find an image to sum up my understanding of how characters like 45 and the ex-third-rate Foreign Secretary actually see the world.  I know that both of them are incapable of seeing anything without the opaque filter of their own egos, but I do wonder about characterising their views of the political reality around them.

I suppose the easiest way for me to consider them and their activity is to find a game that can act as a metaphor for their respective approaches.

To start with 45.  I think that he sees the world as a game of Jenga, but his concept of the rules is not to see how many pieces he can pull out without destroying the construction, but rather to find the piece that will bring the whole structure down to ruin – and then reveal that he actually owns a much better, gold plated, Trump-stamped version of the game that will make everyone (i.e. himself) much better off.  And, after all, it’s only a game – and a game that lacks the seriousness of, for example, golf.

Johnson, (I refuse to call him by his Christian name because that gives a faux chumminess to his selfish egotism) is the leading instigator of coulrophobia in British life.  Dangling from a zip line while waving a toy Union Flag, tousling his carefully unruly hair, roguishly spouting Latin to liven up his calculated throwaway phrases, he assiduously works to polish his upper-class-twit-of-the-people image to mask his embarrassingly naked ambition.

His game is a more sophisticated one than 45’s, it’s the game of tea leaves.  You wait until the dregs are left in the cup, swirl them around and invert the cup then gaze at the pattern that is left and interpret it as a sign of the future.  Johnson is a master of pareidolia, apophenia, patternicity and agenticity – all of those are words that define the ability to perceive patterns where none, perhaps, exist.  Johnson wittingly or unwittingly (both work for him) situations and then he defines the resultant chaos through the refining lens of his own ego.

And, of course, Johnson has perfected the “delete all and insert” approach to life.  The term comes from my experience in General Body meetings in university where in student debates someone would propose an amendment of the “delete all and insert” type which converted the original motion into its opposite!  Johnson is very good at that because he lacks historical perspective – at least as far as his own ethical narrative is concerned.  So, to play his game, all you have to do if the last set of tea leaves were not satisfactory is drink another cup of tea and get a new set.

 Johnson is a ‘crisis manager’ not, in any sense that he is able to calm the situation or even manage it competently, no, his type of ‘crisis manager’ is the type that makes the most of a self-made crisis to advance his career.

Johnson is working to emulate his role model, 45, so that he can walk down Oxford Street and shoot someone and get away with it.  Given the way that he is regarded by the so-called base of the Lower Than Vermin Party, Oxford Street might be a no-no, but the High Street in one of the more rural shire villages might be a possibility.

It is now time for my swim where I can wash away the import of the previous thoughts, at least for an hour or so.

And then back to my work on Elsheimer, who is proving to be a much more elusive character for my research than I would have thought possible for a painter who is, undoubtedly, famous.  But that makes it all the more interesting and I have ordered books!

When 45 and Johnson have been consigned to the ignoble waste heap of grotesques, the paintings of Elsheimer will still, in their jewel-like intensity, be providing delight.  And that is an article of faith that I keep hold of whenever I listen to the news!

The end of an age?

Many moons ago, when the world was yet young and the nationalistic, right-wing, racist, lower than vermin cretins had not taken over the levers of power a neophyte, newly trained teacher was scanning the pages of the TES (the Times Educational Supplement) and looking for a tasty job to apply for

.

The first job application (and he sent out many) to offer him an interview was in Kettering.  He had never heard of Kettering and consultation of the AA Handbook (these were the days before the web and mobile phones) did not give much information to flesh out the unknown name.

But, an interview was an interview, and so he was determined to take up the opportunity to visit Kettering Boys Grammar School and see what was what.

Being his mother’s son in matters of commerce he stipulated one simple rule: if there was no M&S in the place then he would walk away.

He booked into the hotel that the AA recommended and set off on his adventure.

Kettering, he discovered, not only had a fine parish church, but also had the essential M&S.  It also turned out that there was a branch of Sainsbury’s and, in those dark days, there was not a single store of that name in Cardiff, or indeed in Wales.  So, that was alright.

To apply that simple rule in Kettering on Monday would mean that that young man would have spurned the opportunity.  Today, Saturday 11^th of August 2018, is the last day of trading for the M&S that I used - for as long as the money lasted and then I downgraded to Sainsbury’s!

I had had evening teaching jobs previously.  Indeed, during my training year in Cardiff University (when that university had an education department) I was teaching four evenings a week – but Kettering was my first ‘real’ teaching appointment.

I worked as though possessed during my first year with my lunchtimes and after schools effortlessly filling up with all the things you do until you discover that most of it is wasted effort.  I did insist on one thing: a (working) overhead projector in my classroom.  I must be one of the ¡very few English teachers who from his training year until he retired used an overhead projector.  I have yet to hear of any others!  If there are any of you out there then let me know, it would be good to know that I was not alone!

But my greatest achievement in my first year of teaching was my address:

          Saint Botolph’s House,

          Saint Botolph’s Road,

          Barton Seagrave,

          Northamptonshire.

In the days when you had to write your address on the back of your cheques, that olde-worlde sounding domicile gave the right air of solidity and rectitude!

Although Northamptonshire is now in the news because of the almost (!?) criminal mismanagement of the council finances by the lower than vermin Conservatives who now bleat that they cannot fulfil their statutory obligations to the disadvantaged without immediate national government help – Northamptonshire itself is the home of some very rich individuals, not least among whom is the Duke of Buccleuch with his little residence of Boughton House, and believe you me, ‘house’ it is not!

Although no one else matches the duke for filthy richness, there are a lot of wealthy people and notable pieces of architecture in the county – some of which (the houses not the filthy rich) I discovered with the authoritative aid of my trusty Pevsner during my stay in the county.

Money is certainly there, but not in the hands of those who can help the young, the disabled, the disadvantaged, the chronically sick, the needy.  And now there is no M&S: truly Northamptonshire is becoming known as The Dark County!

I thoroughly enjoyed my time there, I passed my probationary year and moved on to Cardiff where I spent the rest of my career.  Well, until the little bits added on in Sitges, Castelldefels and Barcelona!

In order of importance (though not necessarily in order of use) I would rank the following stores:

1                  M&S

2                  Boots

3                  Tesco

4                  W H Smith

5                  BHS

6                  Howells (Cardiff - House of Fraser)

7                  David Morgan’s (Cardiff independent store)

8                  Second Hand Book Shops (Cardiff – I knew them all!)

9                  Comet etc

10             Other supermarkets

11             Thayer’s Ice Cream (City Road)

12             Local bread shops

As I was typing that list, so I was becoming more maudlin.  So stopped.  Things are not the same.  Some of those shops have closed down, some are struggling.

 

You will notice that Amazon (the scourge of retail) is not mentioned at all and, anyway, I’m living in Catalonia - where they do things differently?

The direction is set!

Adam Elsheimer, self portrait

The hunt is on! The game’s afoot!

There is nothing quite so satisfying as playing at research. I have had numerous opportunities to do this seriously, but have generally squandered those opportunities, and have instead settled for the more mundane and parochial research of Man + computer + limited library.

Having been fascinated by a painting that I saw in the National Gallery in Edinburgh, I am slowly garnering information and indications about the life and work of Adam Elsheimer.


Elsheimer (1578-1610) is a famously un-famous painter, whose work is generally unknown and unappreciated, but a painter who influenced a whole direction of pictorial representation, influencing painters as famous as Rembrandt and he was a painter who counted Rubens as an admiring friend.

Of course, in the world of art history Elsheimer is well regarded and has a respectable number of scholarly monographs and books written about him, but outside this rarefied world his is not a name that comes to mind when talking about great artists.

Adam Elsheimer. Rest on the Flight to Egypt.

Probably his most famous painting is “Rest on the Flight to Egypt” where the Holy Family is depicted in a landscape setting at night. Illumination comes from separate sources: the moon and its reflection on water; the constellations and a depiction of the Milky Way; shepherds around a blazing fire and a torch held by Joseph. This is a small painting of oil on copper measuring only 31 x 41 cm. It is believed to be one of the first naturalistic depictions of a night-time scene with accurate rendering of stars in their constellations. It has been suggested that Elsheimer might have been influenced in his painting by the discoveries of Galileo. It was a painting that Elsheimer kept for himself, in his bedroom and may well have been one of the last paintings that he completed before his early death at the age of thirty-two.

Elsheimer was a meticulous artist whose paintings demand intimate viewing. Indeed, in one exhibition of his work, visitors were given a plastic magnifying glass as part of their admission price so that they could look at aspects of his work that were difficult to appreciate with the naked eye: “Devil in the detail” was the subtitle of the exhibition!

Elsheimer was German, born in Frankfurt and ended his life in Italy. Although he produced a small number of paintings because of his attention to detail and the painstaking way in which he worked, the influence of his paintings was extended throughout Europe by their use as the inspiration for a number of etchings and prints. The influence of his tiny paintings explodes into something more epic in the much larger paintings of Rubens and Claude.

Although Elsheimer was modest about his own ability, he was famous and, what is more, he seems to have been what you might term “an artist’s artist” who was highly regarded and much copied.

Altogether, Elsheimer is a fascinating character as well as a wonderfully gifted artist and well worthy of more study. At least by me.

The first thing to do is (breathe it not to Toni) buy more books. I have no books on Elsheimer, and reading through what I have already written that is hardly surprising. His name does not jump out at you from what is generally a fairly meagre collection of volumes of art history in most bookshops.

I will, assiduously, set about building up a collection of and about Elsheimer that will be the wonder of . . . well, at least my street. And yes, I do realize that owning a single volume of his work will probably allow me to gain that accolade!

If the fates are generous then I should be able to utilize not only my course books from my last OU Renaissance Reimagined module, but also the course books that I have bought from the module that I cannot afford to take about art and its global histories.

Although it seems a simple statement to say that Elsheimer was born in Frankfurt and moved to Rome via Venice, it does not give the requisite detail to realise just what the moves meant and what the places represented.

Italy (Metternich’s famous dismissal as nothing more than a “geographical expression”) was not a country then; Rome was the home of the papacy, but a European power in its own right; Venice was one of the most powerful city states in the world with financial and cultural links to the known and unknown world, a centre where the interchange of cultures could thrive. While Frankfurt, a commercial and intellectual centre by the middle of the sixteenth century, had become crucial in the development of the Reformation linked with the rise of a confident middle class. In other words, there is a lot to think about before you even get to a consideration of the works of art. I do enjoy a good wallow in historical, social, religious and political background!

I am not sure if we have any Elsheimer works in Barcelona, but I will find out. And if not, then I will travel to where there are.

Any excuse!

Resist and Remember!

I am, with difficulty, stopping myself from using the Internet.

It’s not that I am addicted to the damn thing, or that I have to keep accessing it to reassert my essential character or that I need the anonymous accreditation that plugging myself into the world wide web gives, no it’s because it’s all too easy.

It all started with a jingle:

“You’ll wonder where the yellow went

When you brush your teeth with Pepsodent!”

              The sort of jingle that has lain supressed for god alone knows how many years and then, apropos of nothing, suddenly springs into the forefront of your brain and then will not let go.  The inane “tune” established itself in my mind and got stuck on repeat.  In a desperate attempt to get rid of it I began to think of other toothpaste commercials from the past.  “Gibbs SR” came and went because there was no tune to it in my memory, though as the first commercial on British TV, with toothpaste and brush embedded in a plastic block of ice, it did provide Media Teachers with a powerful metaphor for the concept of truth in advertising!  The Colgate “Ring of Confidence” briefly surfaced in my memory and then sank back drowned by the repetition of the Peposdent tune.

In desperation I turned to sweets.  I know from excited experience that, apart from physical injuries, there is nothing that people like to talk about with more enthusiasm than “Sweets from the Past”.  And, although I personally might be referencing sweets from sixty-odd years ago, remembering chews, black jacks and sherbet fountains (Barratt's sherbet fountains to be precise, the ones with the liquorish sucking tube) my own wistfulness can easily be matched by eleven or twelve-year-olds reminiscing about the times “When I was in Primary School” as if those were twenty years ago rather than the same number of months!

So, my flittering remembrance lighted on Opal Fruits.  A sweet I never really liked, too chewy and sickly-sticky for my taste, but the advertising jingle still lives on in my musical memory:

              Opal fruits!

              Made to make your mouth water!

              Cool as a mountain stream,

              Four refreshing fruit flavours!

And this is where it gets a bit jumbled.  I think that the “Cool as a mountain stream” is actually a lying line from a menthol cigarette advert, and after the fourth line the individual flavours were lovingly articulated.

The point is, I cannot remember what they were.  They must have been citrus, so lemon and orange should be two of them.  I thought that it might be banana as the third, but that is hardly refreshing.  Lime? hardly.  Strawberry is always popular, or black current or black berry or some woody fruit.

I know that I can type in Opal Fruits and all will be revealed.  I will probably be able to hear again the original adverts on You Tube.  There will be original packets for sale on eBay and Amazon will probably deliver them to my door.

But I refuse to take the easy way out.  I lived through the introduction of these sweets, I am sure that I had my favourites and spurned the “unfashionable” ones.  But, what were they?

And if I look them up will what I find out be a refreshing of my memory or the creation of a false one?  Will I truly remember, or will I convince myself that I do?

If you study with the Open University you are encouraged to be a wide ranging as possible with your range of electronic references, but the Powers That Be in the institution caution you against Wikipedia, like God Almighty warning Adam and Eve about the Serpent.  We are told that we Cannot Trust It, beware, we are told, of the Blandishments of Easy Knowledge from something that seems so guilelessly and gratuitously munificent.

The end result of course, is that we all (ALL) use it, but then look around for something more academically reputable to back up what it told us.

So much of the Internet is not really trustworthy.  My own experience of using a range of totally authoritative websites gave contradictory factual information, and don’t even get me started on my Sisyphean task of finding out the ‘correct’ punctuation in a line of Clare’s poem ‘I am’.  I rapidly came to the conclusion that the only way in which I could be truly satisfied was to see the original manuscript and I discovered that it hadn’t been digitalized and wasn’t on line.  I had various books of poetry in which the poem occurred, but there was not consistency about the way in which it had been written and, to this day, I remain unsatisfied.

It reminds me of the time when I was studying for ‘O’ Level Art in which there was, thank god, a whole History of Art Paper (On Which I Could Get Marks) and which partially compensated for my lack of artistic ability on the other two practical papers.  I had begun to buy Art Books and I realized that I had various copies of Turner’s “Snow Storm – Steam-Boat off a Harbour’s Mouth”.  I laid all these books on my bed, open at the painting and marvelled at just how different they all were.  It was not just the colours, though those were spectacularly different - it was how the publishers chose to size the painting, how they cropped it.  Few of the books actually gave the dimensions of the painting, and fewer still gave you the materials used.  Mostly, it doesn’t matter too much, but in the academic world it matters a lot.

Let me wrench you back to Opal Fruits – which may well still exist as far as I know.  My memory fails to bring too much back.  How can I be sure that anything that I gain about them from electronic media might be absolutely true or absolutely false.  How will I know?

Perhaps TIAT (Take It As True) is now a state of mind for us all.  The musty old libraries full of authoritative books have been superseded and we have instant, overwhelming information flows of truly questionable authority that we perhaps question too little.

Do you remember the flavours?

And, no, I still have not gone to the Internet.  At least not for that.