Sculpture

There's a combative article in the Spectator last week by Gerald Laing, a sculptor. He is against abstract sculptures. "While there are, and continue to be, sublime examples of abstraction, I am of the opinion that most abstract art is tantamout to taking tranquillisers or escaping to an ivory tower". Go on, sock it to 'em Gerry. "In addition" he writes, "it is a simple and obvious truth that the quality of figurative sculpture is easier to judge than that of abstract, in both form and content. Many artists, mostly of the abstract persuasion, indulge in a coy symbolism as if they are fearful of committing themselves to an idea or a position."
Most sculptures in parks I don't notice; I know they are there but I rarely go close up to them and look at them, find out who the person represented is. "Some soldier sitting there on his horse," I think, if I think about it all, "probably I wouldn't know who he was if I read his name."
There are four sculptures of well known men in Cardiff that I do look at with interest: one of David Lloyd George in a park in front of the Museum; one of Aneurin Bevan in Queen Street; an action sculpture of Gareth Edwards also in Queen Street - "caught" in the act of passing a rugby ball; and one of Ivor Novello near The Millenium Centre in Cardiff Bay. All of interest to me not because I regard them particularly works of art but because I have read or seen or heard what they were famous for. I saw Gareth Edwards many times. I read about - and saw a silent film on - David Lloyd George. I saw Aneurin Bevan in a Miner's Rally in Cardiff some years back; great orator with a rather squeaky voice and a stammer which seemed paradoxically to help - "Just before I came here I stopped off to have a hair cut; the man who got out of the chair I was about to sit in said to the barber "Do me a favour and cut his throat please." Everyone laughed. That was one of his tricks - make you laugh then bash in with the heavy stuff. Ivor Novello' music I like thouigh I don't think his operettas would go down these days, a bit sickly sentimental. I once wrote a short booklet on Novello which I published myself: of the booklets I published - some ten or so - this was my best seller.

Fanatics

I have been doing a little research (if you can call it that) on the life of Cicero for the purpose of writing a short play about a trial he took part in; I came across this, can't recall who wrote it but think it may have been Anthony Trollope who wrote a book on his life, part of which book I read on line. It is this: "Cicero was urbane, tolerant, humane, deeply learned and sceptical.... he was hostile to all fanatics."
So am I. Well, not so much hostile (too much of a coward to argue against them because some of them are so so passionate about what they believe, they'll kill for it), no not so much hostile as "please leave me alone, give me a break," sort of attitude.
"Fanaticism," says Wickipedia, "is a belief or behaviour involving uncritical zeal, particularly for an extreme religious or political cause."
Fanaticism and scepticism do not go together; in fact they are on opposite sides of a "belief thermometer". The fanatic believes one thing, the sceptic questions everything.
Which brings me to Bertrand Russell who was, in a way a peculiar, paradoxical mix of these qualities. On the one hand he believed that by countries proceeding with the arms race involving nuclear weapons, the world would in 25 years be destroyed (it hasn't but still could be) and engaged in activities like going on marches, making speeches, denouncing leaders of the free world and the communist world; yet he could also write the following in his introduction to his book, "Sceptical Essays": "I wish to propose a doctrine which may, I fear, appear wildly paradoxical and subversive. The doctrine in question is this: that it is undesirable to believe a proposition when there is no ground whatever for supposing it to be true."
I recall a Labour MP telling one of his number who had "crossed the floor" to the Tories that it was the most shameful act possible. It's not. It's the act of someone who has thought things through, who has an open mind, and who decides to change it. Such a person is certainly not a fanatic; the man who accused him may very well be.
Churchill had a few words to say about fanatics: "A fanatic is one who can't change his mind and won't change the subject". I can't recall how many times he "crossed the floor".

Rachmaninov

Some time ago I met a one-time colleague of mine at a concert. He asked where I was sitting; I told "in the cheap seat near the roof". He said: "If you din't go to so many Rachmaninov concerts you'd be able to afford to sit down here."
It was a joke. Sort of. He does not like Rachmaninov, I don't know why, probably has something to do with sentimentality; like a lot of people he finds the piano concertos lush with heart-on-a-sleeve sentiment. I like them, particularly the most popular, the Number 2.
Poor Rach. Towards the end of his life he felt left behind by the avante garde, the Bergs and the Schonbergs and the Weberns. A lot of composers did. There was one (name forgotten) who had good reason to feel left behind; he was practically ignored by those in positions to forward his career e.g. the BBC.
Alex Ross, in "The Rest is Noise" writes that "Rachmaninov produced only 5 major works from 1917 until his death in 1943. 'I feel like a ghost wandering in a world grown alien to me,' Rachmaninov wrote in 1939. 'I cannot cast out the old way of writing and I cannot acquire the new. I have made intense efforts to feel the musical manner of today but it will not come."
I attended a concert two weeks ago that had a work by Rachmaninov in the program: his "Orchestral Dances" was a wonderful work that made me glad he hadn't followed the path of Schonberg etc and their twelve tone scale, whatever that is, but followed his own path which the dances reveal was a culmination of his individual style.
Unlike Schonberg and company who didn't wish to be massively popular, he did. As a friend of Berg's said: "Schonberg envied Berg his success while Berg envied Schonberg his failures."

Chefs

Why do all those Masterchef contenders want to do a job that to me looks about as inviting as shovelling coal in the bowels of The Titanic? "It's what I really, really, really want to do with my life." Huh? "There's nothing I want to do more than cook." Huh? "I don't think of anything else, only cooking." Huh? again. I feel like yelling at them "Go, get a life!" But no, they really, really, really want to devote their lives to turning out stuff that other people eat.
I feel sorry for them, especially when they lose. "I'm gutted," they say. Or "I'm not giving up now I've come this far; OK my fish fingers were underdone and the crust on them was burnt and they fell apart when you put the fork in them, but that just spurs me on to do better until I'm good enough to open my own restaurant...." Don't they realise that restaurants are closing as fast as pubs? And don't they realise that if and when they do open a restaurant, one of the well known restaurant critics will come along and tear them apart. Some one like A.A. Gill. Or someone like.... no, not him again - the trouble is he's been on my mind for days since I saw his last programme, can't get the beast from my thoughts..... you've got it (sound of horrible slash-horror movie music) Michael Winner.
Just when I thought I'd forgotten his egregiously vile programme of last Friday, his name pops up in a supplement of the Times: a few restaurant critics were invited to pass comment on a new stylish restaurant called "Kitchen". Most focussed on the food. Not Winner. He concentrated his vitriol on the manager and his staff. He didn't even mention the food; he wrote about his favourite subject - himself. "I had an awful time with a rude receptionist...." "We waited and waited...." the General Manager "walked by right to left, ignoring Peter and me."
In a quarter of an hour's time he's on again with his vile posturing in front of two "ordinary people" who will cook for him. He will make notes, be rude, shout at his two aides and sum up at the end like Nero giving a thumbs down. In let me see.... eleven minutes time he'll be at it again. Must close now. Can't wait.

The Goose

Roy Hattersley, a dog lover, objects in toady's Times to the Government's new idea about the management of dogs; he maintains that the prospective law is useless, that it should target dog owners who are guilty of being unable to control their own dogs instead of all dog owners, like the little old lady with her dog companion: she might not be able to afford to register her lovely old pet.... etc etc etc. Then he goes on to say how his own dog, Buster, killed a goose in a park (any dog with the name "Buster" I'd stay right away from).
Killed a goose! I find that difficult to believe having been chased by a pack (host? gaggle?) of geese when I was a kid. They frightened the life out of me. This Buster must have come at a solitary goose (a young one?) from behind because no self respecting goose would be scared a measly canine.
Here's my poem (for kids) on "The Goose".

THE GOOSE.
No one can be friendly with a goose;
A goose does not make friends;
You can touch its feathers, stroke its head,
But there the friendship ends.

Now ducks, they say, can be good friends
And dogs - it goes without saying;
Cats can be your soul mates - if they wish!
And horses too (you can tell by the way they are neighing).

Even goldfish have a friendly streak,
And tigers purr and play;
And I am told that even wild boars
May nod to you "Good day".

But a goose? Never.
No, not a goose - EVER!
A goose is warlike, hasn't heard of peace;
There is, I tell you, only one other thing more frightening than a goose
And that is geese.

Others and Winner

I have had two TV experiences this week that are, as it were, on the opposite ends of an artistic spectrum. The one was seeing the film "The Lives of Others" (for the third time); the other was seeing a programme hosted by Michael Winner.
I was once asked, at dinner on holiday, by someone who doesn't like silence but who's always in the party spirit and wants everyone else to be even if they hate parties (like I do, though I recall saying this once long ago to be told "It's probably because you're never invited". Sod.), I was asked what my favourite film was. I said "Casablanca". But later, thinking about it, not trying to play along with the party-er, I changed my mind and thought "No, not Casablanca but City Lights by Chaplin". Now, after seeing "The Lives of Others" I've changed my mind again. Is there a finer film than this? I can't think of one. It's about a Stasis stooge of a man, working for the East German government before the fall of the wall, who is without a soul but who finds his when he is appointed to spy on a couple of artists..... which doesn't tell you anything about how beautifully this is accomplished, how heartrending the story is, how thrillingly its story unfolds, how it is constructed so cleverly, how the music underlines the action without intruding upon it..... Heaps of other reasons. It makes one feel, not sad, but uplifted spiritually.
Then there's Michael Winner and his programme in which he goes to people's homes, eats their food, makes notes as he eats, then at the end tells them what he thought of the meal and awards stars to them. I could not turn the damn thing off; it was how a rabbit must feel when a stoat approaches it; I just found it horribly fascinating. There he was at the large house of an elderly Scottish couple, upper middle class, standing like some grotesque, large garden gnome while the party of people chatted away merrily. No one welcomed him, he said; no one spoke to him (they said they had), and, though he had said the food was generally good he wasn't going to give them a single star because they didn't make him feel he was welcome. For God's sake, you don't talk to a garden gnome do you?
The other family he gave one star to, not because the food was any good - it was dreadful, I could do better myself (that's how awful it was), but because he was given a good old fashioned, hearty welcome and he had a good time. Some restaurant critic he must be.

Loonies

"Loonies" is what Rod Liddle calles them in The Spectator in his article on how people are getting let out of prison and out of places where they are supposed to be treated, let out onto the streets of Britain; and how some of them kill, not with premeditated motive but just because they suddenly have to urge to kill someone, anyone. There are more dangerous men on the streets of Britain than authorities admit, he says.
I don't know the facts so I can't agree but there have been a quite a few cases of murder by such people, usually men I think. Too many probably. One is too many.
I was on a bus a while ago and there was a man across the aisle and further back in the bus who was talking to himself loudly so that everyone could hear, using language that one doesn't hear on buses or streets except on weekend nights outside clubs; in short, his language was filthy. He was, everyone on the bus surely realised, quite mad. I wondered whether to say something to him but was too much of a coward (he was sitting behind me and might have attacked me from behind with a razor or something so I kept mum, but annoyed. Then a young man sitting across from him said: "Shut that cake-hole of yours," and he stopped. He looked frightened. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Not quite.
Another time a few years ago when I was teaching in a Technical College, I was sitting behind a table in the Physics lab when I felt a sort of presence in the room, can't explain exactly: I knew someone was there close to me but he hadn't spoken. I looked up to see a young, quite good-looking man, smiling at me politely. Seemed a nice sort of fellow. Then he said: "I'm losing my hair; I wonder if you could help me to stop it falling out." Now, he had a full head of straight, black hair, parted neatly on one side - not a sign of even one hair falling out let alone a whole tuft.
I told that I taught physics, not Chemistry so I suggested he go down the corridor to the Chemistry department. He went. Thank God. After a while I looked down the corridor to see if he had been attended to and there he was in conversation with H.C. They seemed to get on OK. But that was not surprising because I always maintained that H.C. was mad too.

Angels and Ghosts

I don't believe in either. But I try to avoid them just the same. Apparently 40% of Brtish people believe in angels and a hefty 70% of Americans. I haven't the figure for ghosts but I bet it's about the same. I have met people who believe in ghosts and know of people who see them all the time. Like angels there seem to be good ones and bad or evil ones; the bad ones are members of the devil's family.
I once told a person at a weekend writer's course that I had once seen ghost; she told someone else who told someone else - in short, the word spread through the college like wild fire and soon I had a horde of middle aged females at the door of my room wanting to know all about my experience. I hadn't realised early on in my life what attractive qualities ghost-knowledge endows the male with. I had seen a ghost, no one else had - they'd have eaten out of my hand. Gee, I coulda been a ghost-writing Don Juan!
The ghost I saw was actually in my bedroom. It was staring at me with its horribly blank eyes (a bit like the eyes in "The Scream") and it had a gaping mouth, no teeth that I can recall. The thing was, my mother had been talking with her sister about the previous occupants of our house and that one of them was a medium who held seances in the very same room I slept in. I was scared out of my wits.
But the fact that I had explained to my female admirers the reason for my witnessing the ghost suddenly made it, and me, less interesting. "It wasn't a real ghost"; "he'd dreampt it" and so on, as they wandered, disappointed, away.
But, as I said, I try to avoid them even if they don't exist. A woman novelist who sold thousands of her novels was down to give a talk in the local library. I looked her up on Google and found that not only did she write stories about ghosts but that she actually believed in them. I did not attend her talk. Something might have rubbed off on me.