Dress Circle: Another Pearl, Crushed.

Posted on August 19, 2012 by Scribe Doll

It was Michael who first taught me the difference between soundtrack and cast recording.  “Soundtracks are from films, darling,” he said, pushing up his glasses, his mellow Irish accent softening a vague distaste for my ignorance, “and cast recordings are from stage shows.”

I used to call them all soundtracks.  But that was before Michael and Chris – before my education at Dress Circle.

 

Dress Circle is a famous musical theatre shop located in London’s Covent Garden and, for many of us, the centre of the musical theatre universe.  A small shop with a dark blue front and wrought iron gates, at the top of Monmouth Street, it attracts customers from all over the world.  Time and time again, I have seen Dutch, German, Japanese, American and Italian customers walk in with a map indicating the shop, and leave with a basketful of CDs, DVDs and memorabilia.  Drama school students sit on the floor against the bright red walls, perusing books of music scores, looking for audition pieces.  They walk up to the counter.  Chris tells them they can get 10% off with a student Equity card.  Did their tutor not tell them?  Sometimes, they hum a tune and he comes up with the title, composer and lyricist.   Tourists ask to buy a wind up model of the monkey playing the cymbals from The Phantom of the Opera.  Hoards of giggly teenage girls raid the shop for anything relating to Wicked.  They try on Elphaba’s green sunglasses, buy the silver witch hat pendant, and ask if the West End show poster can be rolled up.  Thrilled customers put DVDs on the counter, ready to pay.  They have been looking for this film for years.  “Have you got a multi-region player?” asks Michael.  “This is Region 1.”  Many musicals on DVD are imported from the US.  Dress Circle trained me well –  I now buy only multi-region DVD players.  I also learnt how to open a new CD by running a biro point along the side, slashing the film wrapping easily.

 

Stephen Sondheim, I am told, has been in to buy CDs.  So have other famous artists from the world of musical theatre.  Before curtain time, West End performers rush in – their stage make up already on – to buy CDs and get an update on showbiz gossip.  When asked how the opening night of a major show had gone, a minor role actress is said to have replied, “Honey, I was wonderful!” A Broadway star reportedly had to be taken down a peg by the musical director of the show, for acting like a prima donna.  As an agent, I often relied on Dress Circle for advance information on which musicals were casting, not waiting for the official breakdown, which Broadway musicals were transferring and, of course, which shows were worth seeing.

“It’s two and half hours long, darling, but it feels like five.”

“Marvellous.”

“It made me lose the will to live.”

“Oh, darling, I wish I could see it twice.”

Anything you want to know about past, present or future musical theatre, the Witches of Monmouth Street hold the answer.  They live and breathe musicals, they know every recording, every version, every artist, every date – whether it is still being sold or deleted, and no matter how obscure.    Whatever it is that you want, they will try and get it for you, and if they cannot, then you can rest assured it does not exist.  The banter with the customers and among the staff is included in the price of the goods.  You can even get a cast recording of The Producers in Hungarian.

 

I may have drunk my love for musicals with my mother’s milk, but it is Chris and Michael who are my musical theatre godparents, and Dress Circle, the academy where I was trained.  As I walk into the shop, Michael turns his candid white head towards me.  “Katherine, my dear, how are you?” He purses his lips beneath his snow-white moustache  as he kisses the air about four inches away from both my cheeks with a loud, “Mwa!”

 

Regular customers walk in to say hello, and stand around chatting.  Some have frequented the shop for two or three decades, and know each-other’s tales.  All have stories to tell me about great stars they have seen in the West End or on Broadway.  One tells me of how he stood waiting for Gertrude Lawrence at stage door on a cold, rainy night.  When the great lady came out, she graciously apologised for keeping her fan waiting, and thanked him for his patience.  Another tells me that I cannot possibly not have heard ‘Cornet Man’ on the Broadway cast recording of Funny Girl.  I reply that I’ve only ever seen the film version.  He nearly faints from shock, pulls out the CD from his bag, and demands that the shop play it for me on the spot.  Barbra Streisand’s youthful voice rings through the shop, plucking at every musical string in your body.  I am transported, and ask to buy a copy of the CD.

 

Early on a Saturday morning, I sometimes bump into another regular, who bows before me.  “And how is Katherine the Great, today?”

I curtsey on cue.

Someone standing and smoking by the door says,  “His Majesty  – three o’clock.”

We all scramble to the door, and stare as a well-known showbiz personality walks by, and  gives us a puzzled glance.

 

Chris’s sense of humour is caustic, deeply irreverent and always right on the nose.  After a girl with a particularly oversized bust leaves the shop, he looks at me.  “What can I say, darling?” he comments with a slight London twang, “The children of England will never go hungry.” I can barely breathe for laughing.  A pearly grin spreads across his tanned face, and his eyes sparkle with mischief behind his glasses.  I feel like giving his jet black cowlick a tug.  It is Chris who introduced me to the cartoons of Al Hirschfeld.  I bought the collection of English cartoons, British Aisles as my Christmas present.

 

Richard, downstairs, is the one whose job is to find the unfindable CD or DVD.  He  watches the humour histrionics of the shop floor with an air of acceptance and imperturbable calm.  Andrew will listen to your comments about the latest show – or anything else, for that matter – with a twinkle in his eye.  Few people know that he possesses a superlative singing voice.  His rendition of Lerner and Loewe’s ‘If ever I would leave you’ is a rare treat.  John’s tone and expression are long suffering to the novice’s eye, but conceal a wicked sense of humour.  Even when he does not utter it, you can see the joke dance in his eyes.

 

As I write this, I glance at the top shelf of my CD case, dedicated to musicals, most of which are original cast recordings, most of which I bought from Dress Circle; and most of which represent episodes of my theatrical career.  City of Angels and Grand Hotel – both shows I saw at the Royal Academy of Music end of year shows, and which featured young performers who caught my eye and whom I signed up when I was a theatrical agent.  Both have become friends.  The London cast recording of The Sound of Music – another show with another young client – and now, friend.  Do I Hear a Waltz? – The first show I went to see in my role as a theatrical agent.  On the Twentieth Century – a show I once reviewed after I was told, “What do you mean you don’t know it?!”

 

It is a symptom of the current absurd decline of many things charming, unique and with a heart, that Dress Circle closed down* last Wednesday, 15th August, after thirty-three years.  So many independent shops are being crushed by the obscene rise in London rents or  the growth of internet shopping, or because they are unable to compete against the wave of faceless chain coffee shops, chain restaurants, chain clothes shops and other chains.  Another pearl, crushed.  London, so famous for its quirkiness and inclusiveness, is now increasingly suffocating the individuality of small, independent shops.  They are often unable to remain afloat in an ocean stirred by the power of the Pound Sterling.

 

I have no idea who or what will eventually open behind the listed wrought iron gates.  I just know that I will not be walking down Monmouth Street for a while.

 

Last Wednesday, many loyal customers paid a final visit to the shop that was a cradle of musical theatre knowledge.  I went, too.  Everybody was trying to be cheerful.  The  cast recording of the London production of Singing in the Rain bounced off the red walls, carefree and upbeat, strangely at odds with the depleted shelves.  You could hear “Change is good”, “I’m sure you’ll be fine” and other platitudes to stop yourself from bursting into tears.  There were many cards displayed on the glass cabinets.  People expressed their sorrow, and wished everyone the best of luck.  Some brought wine.  Others, chocolates.

 

This piece is my gift to Dress Circle.

 

* Dress Circle will continue to trade online.  For more information, please visit their website. 

Scribe Doll

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I am Overwhelmed…

Posted on August 14, 2012 by Scribe Doll

Dear All,

I am not sure how to phrase this elegantly, and without gushing.

On Sunday evening, I received an e-mail from one of the editors at WordPress, informing me that my latest post The Delight of Hand Writing had been selected for the Freshly Pressed Homepage, and that it would go live within a day or two.  Naturally, I was delighted.  I have been writing a weekly column since February 2011, and this is a first for me.  Last night, just before going to bed, I checked the Freshly Pressed page, but my piece was not on it, yet.

This morning, like every morning, the first thing I did was switch on my BlackBerry.  The e-mail notification alert started beeping continuously.  It would not stop.  I panicked.  Last time I had received so many e-mails was when I had been hacked.  I looked on the display screen.  253 e-mails.  I rushed to my laptop, my BlackBerry still beeping every few seconds, demanding my attention.

While I was asleep, my blog piece had gone live on WordPress.  While I was asleep, in England, other parts of the world were awake – and 1,853 people had read my blog, some of whom had clicked the “Like” stars, commented, reblogged me and/or subscribed.  Hence, all the e-mail notifications.  There were 85 comments pending.

In a state of overcharged joy, anxiety and disbelief, I went to work.  I desperately wanted to tell someone about what was happening, and how my head was reeling but there was nobody I could ring at 7.45 a.m.  Many of my friends are showbiz people – and so would not be awake then; and those with daytime jobs would be busy.  I took myself to my morning class on automatic pilot, utterly stunned, trying hard to focus on what I was going to teach.  Vocabulary.  Animal idioms.  Infinitive and gerund verb forms.

After class, when I switched on my BlackBerry again, more e-mails started flooding in.  As I write this, the view count has reached 2,984, and there are 130 comments pending.  Europe is awake.

I want to thank you all, from the bottom of my heart.  Thank you to all those who subscribe to my blog and have supported and encouraged me for the past year and a half.  I would most especially want to thank those of you who leave comments – be it on the WordPress blog or privately by e-mail.  Your comments mean a great deal to me.  They are an acknowledgement, an encouragement and an act of true generosity.  It is you (I would like to name you but you all, I hope, know who you are) who have kept me writing in the knowledge that there are people out there worth writing for – even when I feel lazy or unmotivated.

I also want to thank all the people who have read my blog since last night – and all those who are about to read it (3,011 views and 133 comments pending now).  I hope that you may continue to read my Sunday posts, and enjoy them.

Heartfelt thanks and apologies to the 134 people, so far, who have left such incredibly kind comments, and reblogged my piece.  I will now read and tick “approve”, though it may take a little while to get through them all.  I would like to respond to everyone’s comment so, again, please bear with me for the next few days.

I wish there were more special words of expressing gratitude.

THANK YOU!

(Now 3,139 views and 136 comments pending)

Scribe  Doll

 

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The Delight of Hand Writing

Posted on August 12, 2012 by Scribe Doll

I am sitting on a wooden bench, by the red-brick wall of a small Elizabethan palace.  My back against the arm-rest,  my legs stretched out before me, bare toes  wriggling with the pleasure of sunshine.  Behind the bench, a few sprigs of lavender nod to the breeze, giving off a delicate fragrance.  The self-satisfied gurgle of the Tudor courtyard fountain is caressing my soul.  Somewhere in the vicinity, a crow is cawing.  I sense mockery in its tone.  On my lap, my usual A4 spiral notebook; in my hand, my usual fountain pen.

A gentleman and his wife stop to ask me directions for the café in the park.  Before I have a chance to point, he exclaims, “Oh, my goodness – you’re writing! And with a proper pen! It’s ages since I’ve seen anyone do that.  I’m impressed!”

I am not used to strangers expressing quite so much astonishment, true, but I am used to getting looks; looks that combine puzzlement with wariness or a hint of admiration.  Sometimes, when I look up, I meet a supportive smile from the person opposite me on the Tube or across the coffee shop.  In my mid-forties, what used to be viewed as youthful quirkiness is now labelled as middle-age eccentricity, but the truth is I have written with a fountain since I was nine years old – ever since I was sent to a a French school.  The teachers there demanded that we use nibs.  Allegedly, it helped improve our handwriting.  I have just never grown out of it.

I derive great pleasure from writing with a fountain pen.  I love the soft murmur of a well worn-in nib as it glides on the paper, tracing glistening black swirls which turn into an elegant matt as they dry.  I own four fountain pens.  The latest addition (and the only non Parker-made), was crafted from a piece of 13th Century oak, recovered from the timber ceiling of York Minster.  The handsome nib is engraved with a pattern of swirls.  I have had it only a few months and it has not yet got used to the caprices of my hand.  It has not yet learnt to pace its ink flow.  It stumbles, rebels, catches on the paper, and scratches it with a harsh rasp.  I try and be patient and exercise it regularly, to train it to my fingers.  The eldest of the four saw me through my final school exams.  The stainless steel barrel is just the right thickness and weight for my hand.  The burgundy red plastic of the grip section has changed shape over the years, moulded by the knuckle of my right middle finger.  The small hooded nib skates across the paper with seamless dexterity, and in almost total silence.  It is an old friend who knows all my thoughts and whims, and is at one with my hand.

I like the fact that you can hold a fountain pen in your hand lightly, and not have to force it down onto the paper as you have to do with a biro.  I like the boldness of the black ink that stands out against the white paper, like an uncompromising statement, ready to be counted.

Do not get me wrong.  I can type on a computer.  I have an excellent working relationship with my 13’’ MacBook Pro.  It always knows what I want, and executes it to perfection but I cannot open my heart to it.  I must hand-write it first, then convey it to Mac.  I can, when faced with time restrictions, create a text straight onto computer.  However, I always feel as though I have missed a stage of the process; like leaping from A to C without going through B; like eating a sandwich on the hoof instead of a sit-down meal; or jumping over a river without walking over the bridge.

Paradoxically, it can take me longer to come up with a sentence on a computer screen than on a  sheet of paper.  I stare at the screen and become aware of its almost imperceptible tremor.  It does not inspire me, yet I cannot look away, even though my eyes start feeling tired.  I get distracted by the low but monotonous whirr.  Thoughts and words start chasing one another at increasingly vertiginous speed, in a  chaotic game and I struggle to keep up.

The moment I pick up my fountain pen, thoughts and words get into pairs and stand in an orderly queue, waiting their turn to slide down the ink piston and flow out smoothly through the nib onto the paper.

Because my thoughts have to obey the speed of my wrist, they become more focused, more anchored.  Words written on paper feel more tangible, more physical, more firmly rooted in soil – even more real.  Also, my handwriting reflects back to me my own feelings about what I am writing.  It is not as professionally neutral as the perfect Palatino font programmed on my Mac.  It becomes irregular, crooked and even illegible when I am writing out of duty or necessity.  However, the letters increase in size, the curves grow smoother, the loops acquire panache, and my penmanship becomes clearer when I mean the words I write.  One could say that my handwriting is quick at calling my bluff.

Any creative writing I do – be it a theatre review, a short story, or my weekly blog – I prefer to hand-write first, then copy/edit onto computer.  My novel, I am typing directly onto my laptop because I cannot bear the thought of having to copy 100,000 words.  I sometimes wonder if that is the reason I am finding it difficult to connect with my novel, and why it is taking me so long to write.

In his marvellous, inspiring book, The Places in Between, Scottish historian and politician Rory Stewart narrates his journey on foot across Afghanistan in 2002.  He talks about the serenity of mind he achieves while walking.  He refers to travel writer Bruce Chatwin, who

“concluded (…) that we would think and live better and be closer to our purposes as humans if we moved continually on foot across the surface of the earth.  I was not certain that I was living or thinking any better.”

I agree with him.

What Rory Stewart feels about the physicality of travelling on foot is akin to how I feel about writing by hand.  It gives me a sense of achievement and continuity.  It is grounding and brings me peace of mind.  It is profoundly healing.  By translating my imagination into words, hand writing manifests the ethereal into the physical – with a solid, stone bridge.  I would not miss out on the walk over that bridge for anything in the world – there is a wonderful view from it.

Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: In Praise of Food

Posted on August 5, 2012 by Scribe Doll

I was seven years old and auditioning to be the voice of the Russian commercial for an Italian chocolate spread.  The director was desperately trying to drag more enthusiasm out of me.  “Do you really, really like this chocolate spread?”

Blood out of a stone.  I repeated, in the same, vaguely detached tone, “Yes, it’s quite nice.”

Actually, I loved the said chocolate spread but, a product of my mother’s and grandmother’s drilling, I was trying to behave like a lady; and ladies never expressed strong emotions, but maintained dignified serenity.  “Yuck!” and “Eek!” were banned for being rude, but so were overly vociferous “Yummy!” and “Del-i-cious!”.  My mother and grandmother would curb such enthusiasms at the dinner table.  “What’s this, Katia? Have you never seen food before? Have been starving for over a year? ‘Very nice, thank you’ will do.”

 

The director turned to my mother for support.  She, too, encouraged me to be more effusive on this occasion, but I was too well trained, not to mention confused.  So the job went to another – no doubt more expressive – little girl.

 

My grandmother was an outstanding cook who could easily coax guests into third and fourth helpings.  Between mouthfuls, they would plead for the recipe.  On the other hand, my mother’s appearance in the kitchen was the equivalent of a Vandal raid.  On that front, she has not improved with age.  Only the other day, now in her late seventies, she asked why I needed butter to bake a cake.  As a girl, I had no interest in cooking.  I planned to grow up to become rich and eat only in restaurants.  When I first left home, at nineteen, I spent the first few days eating grilled apple slices with cheese on top, until my housemate taught me to scramble eggs.  I would also boil pasta, then drown it in ketchup, since I could not make a sauce.  Believe it or not, I enjoyed that.

 

In spite of my grandmother’s talent for cooking, and our living both in Italy and France, where food preparation is an art form, I managed to grow up with almost totally insensitive taste buds.  Somehow, I followed into my mother’s footsteps in the quiet assumption that food was for sustenance and health, health being paramount to the development of the mind.  Hence, a healthy diet was a means to an end – to make your brain healthier and better able to cram more “worthy” information, such as languages, philosophy, history, literature, art, sciences, music, geography – and have I already mentioned languages?

 

And so, for the first three or so decades of my life, my response to food was, “Yes, it’s quite nice” and I did not give it any more thought.

 

I greatly owe the precious discovery of the pleasure of food to two friends, L. and B., who entered my life about fifteen years ago.  They showed me that food is not just a means to an end but a jolly companion in one’s intellectual pursuits.

 

L.’s hospitality is truly magnificent.  No one I know can pack a more delectable picnic hamper, and you will always be fed when you visit her flat – no matter what time of day, or night.  You can sit at her table, discuss poetry by Pushkin or Lamartine, whilst biting into whole cloves of garlic, dipping sperlonga bread in olive oil, popping juicy cherry tomatoes into your mouth, and reaching out with your knife towards a plateful of seasoned Manchego or goat’s cheese with tarragon.  The poetry infuses the food with subtlety, while the food anchors the poetry into something earthy.  Of course, there is always a glass of red wine to team up with the imagination.  Sharing food with L. is a celebration of life as a whole, where head, heart and stomach team up in perfect harmony.

 

My friend B. is another gourmet.  He is always game to try out a new food, a new ingredient, a new taste.  On a trip to Venice, we admired unknown produce in alimentari shops with as much curiosity and excitement as the Moorish arches that lined the narrow calli.  On our first day, I asked the shopkeeper for “a typical Venetian cheese” only to be told, in Veneziano sing-song, “Well, Signora, Venice is an island – don’t know if you’ve noticed – we don’t have any cows here…”  Our evening picnic dinners – complete with a bottle of Valpolicella – on the bench beneath the Doge’s Palace, to the lapping sound of the Canal Grande, are as powerful a memory for me as the splendour of the city.  Even now, I mix a tea brew at home, which I first tasted in a Venetian bar.  A fragrant blend of Earl Grey and rose petals.  Refreshing, with a dash of milk; subtly teasing, with a slice of lemon.  Like Proust’s madeleine, its taste brings back the experience of Venice for me.  I often make what I call “Venice tea” when B. comes ‘round.

 

In Brugge, you wake up to the scent of chocolate and, as you take an early morning stroll, the sweet fragrance permeates the cobbles under your feet, the Flemish base-reliefs of the church walls, and rises to the tops of the crow-stepped gables which flank the narrow streets.  It gives the town a fairy-tale atmosphere.

 

When I was in San Sebastiàn, my friend O. (himself a superlative cook) introduced me to Basque cuisine.  Rich, fragrant and full of flavour, it wraps you up and takes you for a spin to the myth-filled heights of the Pyrenees.  Every bite of a pincho has a story to tell.

 

Going out for a drink in a bar or pub is convenient when time is of the essence, but you form a special bond with people when you share food and, especially, enjoy food.  Sharing food can be binding, grounding and comforting.  Perhaps because it reaches that part of us which comes from and is connected to our common mother, the earth, and so reminds us that we are – in many ways – siblings.  It is also deeply satisfying to give people food you have cooked yourself.  And what joy it can be to cook with someone you get on well with.

 

When my young friend M. and I meet for tea, we study the cake display at the Pâtisserie Valérie and pick out two varieties we both like.  Once served, we split the cakes and each gives the other half of his/hers, so we end up having two different flavours on our plates.  A simple enough practice, but it adds a further sense of fun to the – already scintillating – conversation.

 

I suddenly find that food is playing an important role in many of my friendships, in that it adds a special kind of warmth to them.  There are good reasons why most social celebrations have meals as their centrepiece.  One of them is, undoubtedly, that if you enjoy your food, you are happy within yourself and so, consequently, become good company to others who have also shared food with you.

 

And now I am off to bake a loaf of wholemeal soda bread.  Not just any soda bread, though.  Into the dough, I will sprinkle rosemary, pitted black and green olives, shreds of sundried tomatoes, chop some garlic and fold in some grated hard goat’s cheese.  While the bread is still warm, I will slice it and spread rich, creamy butter on it, which will melt in contact with it.  I plan to accompany it with a glass of tempranillo.

 

Anyone care to join me?

 

As you may have gathered, I can cook now.

Scribe Doll

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Review: Scandal, Lyres and Audiotape

Posted on July 29, 2012 by Scribe Doll

Take a lyre.  Take a harp.  Both string instruments, right? Well, not just string instruments.  The lyre and the harp have been heroines of the music stage since the dawn of times.  Since Orpheus first charmed his way in and out of hell.  The lyre and the harp were also rivals for the affections of minstrels and courtiers.

 

In her one-woman show, Scandal, Lyres and Audiotapes, directed by Rafe Beckley, storyteller Clare Goodall imbues her musical instruments with a soul and an almost human personality.  Moreover, she becomes at one with the numerous instruments laid out on the stage, which she lovingly picks up and plays during this forty-five minute performance.

 

From the moment you take your seat in the theatre, and see Clare Goodall already on stage, playing a 14th Century song on a dulcimer (a dulcimer – yes – when was the last time you saw one of those?) you sense that you are in for an unusual, priceless evening.  Once the house lights are dimmed, she stands up and begins her tale of musical instruments and their role in Society, from Ancient Egypt through the Middle Ages and the Renaissance.  The Lyre, mother of all string instruments reigns in supreme glory until she is usurped by her daughter, the seductive harp.  She never forgives her.  Many other troubadours witness the rivalry.  Among them, the angelic dulcimer, the earthy shawn and the devilish bagpipes – each of them also trying to sing for his and her supper.  Each has to be conscious of social conventions and positions, and of the roles prescribed to men and women.

 

Clare Goodall is clearly knowledgeable about the field, and her passion for the instruments – she handles each with the tenderness of a mother towards a cherished baby – latches onto everyone in the audience.  She makes eye contact and tells you a story, and you cannot help but hang onto her every word.

 

Clare Goodall playing the bray harp

Like a troubadour of yesteryear, she ends her tale with a thanks and a bow.  At that point, aficionados of Mediaeval music and new converts alike start firing questions at her.  They want more, and she answers every question, showing off her instruments with obvious pride.  A few people step onto the stage and gingerly touch the instruments with their fingertips.  “Go on, try playing it,” she encourages.  And so we stroke the polished wood and pluck at the strings of these wonderful objects.

 

Rafe Beckley’s direction makes this monologue with music and audience involvement flow like a smooth melody.

 

I am certain that Scandal, Lyres and Audiotape will be like a pinch of magic powder during the Edinburgh season.

Scribe Doll

Scandal, Lyres and Audiotape is on at the Space on the Mile (venue 39)

Preview 13th August £5(£3.50 concessions)
14th-18th August £7(£5 concessions)

8:35pm

http://www.edfringe.com/whats-on/theatre/sex-lyres-and-audiotape

 

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Odds & Ends: Art or a Naked Emperor?

Posted on July 22, 2012 by Scribe Doll

A ten year-old Italian boy called Federico went to the Tate Modern with his mother.  When he saw Damian Hirst’s formaldehyde-pickled cows, he said, “That’s cruel.  Why didn’t they allow this calf to grow up and have calves of its own?”

I was told about this occurrence over dinner, that evening, by some amused adults.  I leaned across the table and said to the boy, “I totally agree with you.”

Federico’s eyes sparkled with intelligent fun.  I winked back.  He had helped me unleash thoughts about Modern Art, I had harboured for some time.

Striking.  Powerful.  Controversial.  Raw.  Brave.  Statement.  Subversive.

Words often used to describe Modern Art.  Words of violence.  Words we also often use when we find ourselves before a thing in a museum, which baffles us but which we think we should understand.  We do not want to appear stupid, by not understanding.  We think that this thing must be rich in meaning or symbolism, surely, or it would not be displayed in a reputable gallery or museum.  Critics would not call it a “milestone” or a “seminal work”, would they? Critics are free-thinkers, right?

“That’s cruel.  Why didn’t they allow this calf to grow up and have calves of its own?”

That is the voice of the free-thinker.  The voice of unadulterated innocence, which speaks straight from the heart.  It does not care if someone thinks it is stupid.  It is true to itself.  It is that same voice which rose from the crowd, in Hans Christian Andersen’s story, and cried, “But, Mummy, the Emperor is naked!”

Shortly after the wonderful, intelligent Nora Ephron passed away, I read this quotation of hers: “I am continually fascinated at the difficulty intelligent people have in distinguishing what is controversial from what is merely offensive.”

Just because something breaks the rules of convention does not, per se, mean it is good, or Art.  One must first assess whether that convention is good or bad, before deciding if breaking it is an act of courage or the spitefulness of an egotistic brat.

Being original is not automatically good.  You cannot try to be original.  Originality is like style – you’ve either got it in you, or you haven’t.  Trying to be original can only result in tack.

I think many contemporary artists seek – above all else – to break the mould, to defy rules for the sake of defying them, and to brand the world’s stage with the mark of their ego – as opposed to creating a work of art that will please.  Pleasing is now considered weak, unadventurous, dull.  Pleasure has become coupled with guilt.  It does not occur to them that it takes skill to please.  Today’s motto is subvert, shock, make people feel uncomfortable (again, discomfort is not always a path to learning; it can also be an instinctive rebellion against something that is actually wrong for us).

My question is, what gives an artist the right to be so aggressive? What degree of arrogance allows an artist to think he or she has the keys to the Truth? In my book, a true artist loves the art more than him or herself.  He/she is the servant of Art – not its manipulator.

Let us take London’s newest building, the Shard (the very word makes me wince).  As its name suggests, the building looks like a sharp fragment of broken glass stabbing into the soft blue sky.  This is not the inspirational spire of the Chrysler Building, streamlined and refined.  It is a weapon in a pub fight.  What kind of society admires a shape that evokes violent cutting, breaking, bleeding, pain?

Until the 20th Century, Art was designed to caress the senses, glorify Nature and the human body.  Art enhanced the pleasure of life.  Art exalted Beauty.  John Keats wrote

“‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’ – that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

You only need to observe the colours and forms of Nature, to realise that this is, indeed, true.  Purposefully creating ugliness is an egotistic perversion, since nothing in the natural world is ugly.  Ugliness teaches only ugliness.  It is unnatural, in the strongest sense of the word.  It goes against the perfection of this beautiful World.

Of course, we cannot all like the same things.  I may gush in front of Verrocchio’s Tobias and the Angel at the National Gallery, while you may rejoice at the sight of Rosina Wachtmeister’s cats.  However, let us not shy away from being discriminating.  There is art; there is what – with the correct marketing spin – becomes a money-making venture aimed at the same people who marvelled at the Emperor’s invisible thread cloak; and there is also what Kenneth Branagh’s character in the film Peter’s Friends calls “Shit with a capital SH”.

In this era where reclaiming personal power is so frequently advocated, let us claim back our right to be pleased, to be caressed, to be spoilt with Beauty.  Let us demand to be wrapped in it, to swim in it, to drink it to our hearts’ content.  Let us gratefully rediscover Pleasure.

 

Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: A Nomad to Guard Someone’s Land

Posted on July 15, 2012 by Scribe Doll

My Armenian grandmother, Yekaterina Gregorian, passed away last March, at the age of one hundred.  Several years ago, when, blind and almost deaf (but her mind as sharp as a needle), she was moved from my mother’s to a nursing home, I raided her cupboards and drawers, grabbing anything I thought should be kept safe, intending to go through it at a later date.  Although that was, technically, my mother’s job, I was worried that – with all the pressure of her own frequent house moves – she might overlook something.  Or else that she would discard something as merely sentimental and, therefore, not worth holding onto.   I come from a family who has not owned a property since the Soviets confiscated the little my great-grandparents had, nearly a hundred years ago, and who has moved from country to country for now three generations.  We have moved through marriage, political unrest, lack of opportunity, or simply because we heard it said that such-or-such a country was better than the one we were currently in.  I, for one, have moved house forty-four times, so far.  I imagine if you do not have the security of a place to live from where no one can boot you out, there is nothing stopping you from chasing after dreams over mountains and over seas.  After all, if you have no solid roots to anchor you to a piece of soil, then you ride on any alluring gust of wind.

Among my grandmother’s personal possessions, there was not much.  Certainly nothing of any financial value.  The upside of having nothing, is that there are never any family fights over bequests.  There is nothing to fight over when there is nothing material to inherit.  I know that is where both my grandmother’s and mother’s quasi obsessive thirst for knowledge and education comes from – one that was drilled into me from at early age.  Learn, learn, learn – languages and skills.  You have nothing except what is inside your head.  At any moment, you could lose your home, your spouse, your friends.  But your knowledge is yours.  No change in government or affections can take that away from you.  Gold is too heavy to carry, banknotes lose value, but acquiring a new language is always a good investment – because every new language gives you a new perspective.

When The Red Room posted the theme of finding something in your attic that reveals a fascinating piece of family history, as a blog challenge, I decided the time had come to spill the contents of the plastic envelope containing what I had salvaged from my grandmother’s things, on the kitchen table.  There is a small cloth-bound notebook with recipes  transcribed, out-of-date documents (one with a picture of my grandmother at the age of seventeen), letters her mother sent her from the Soviet Union after my grandmother married an Iranian diplomat and moved to Teheran.  A couple of the letters are cut up, with paragraphs missing beneath jagged edges.  Soviet censorship.  There is also a land deed, dated 1902, complete with the Russian Imperial seal.  Several pages of thick yellowed paper, sewn together with a cotton thread.  I have difficulty deciphering the old legal Russian language but understand it testifies as to the acquisition through inheritance of a plot of land containing a small house and a vegetable garden.  It belongs to a man whose name I do not recognise.  There is also a map, traced in different coloured inks, outlining this plot of land.  Where this land is situated, though, I cannot work out.  The names written in the legal document no longer exist, probably changed by various incoming political regimes.  What is someone else’s land deed doing among such personal family keepsakes? I studied the map, wondering.  Then a word, and image, a recollection at a time, a memory began to take shape.  I remembered odds and ends from something my grandmother used to tell me, long ago.

Your grandfather helped this man.  

He always helped people.

This Russian man fled from the Soviet Union.  They had taken everything from him.

He wanted to go to America.

Your grandfather helped him get the papers.

The man was so grateful to your grandfather.  He left him the land deed – what good would it be to him in America? He gave it to your grandfather for safe-keeping in case, one day, the Soviet Union collapsed, and borders would be opened once again.

My grandfather gave the documents to my grandmother, and told her to keep them safe.  “You never know,” he said, “life can be strange.  Perhaps, someday, our children or grandchildren will meet an American, by chance.   He’ll tell them his father or grandfather once owned a piece of land in Russia.  Our child or grandchild can then give him good news, say he still owns this land, and hand him the deed back.” 

And so it seems I have in my possession that land deed, for a plot which belongs by rights perhaps to an American of Russian descent, somewhere across the Atlantic.  Life is strange.  Nobody in my family has ever owned land in living memory, and here am I, a nomad, yet unwittingly the guardian of someone else’s land.  Life can certainly make you smile.

I will find someone to help me translate the deed, and find out exactly where this land is, and whom it belongs to.  Then I will have all the information I need to be ready and wait.  Wait for a gust of wind to blow me to the rightful owner of this land – or to blow him or her to me.

Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: London – Can’t live in it, can’t live out of it.

Posted on July 8, 2012 by Scribe Doll

Ask me if I like London.

No, I don’t, would be a frequent answer.

Architecturally, I don’t think it’s beautiful.  Not as ugly as some other places (no names mentioned) but not a city where you can walk down the streets and feast your eyes on one beautiful building after another.  Because of the Great Fire of 1666, most of London is relatively modern.  What we have predominantly, is a combination of Colonial chunkiness (Trafalgar Square, Whitehall and Pall Mall), and cold steel and glass expressions of folie des grandeurs (the London Eye, the Gherkin and, now, the Shard).  London buildings do not possess the splendour of Rome, the sensuality of Venice, the quiet precision of Brussels or Brugge, the charm of Cambridge, or the elated inspiration of New York skyscrapers.

Still, sometimes, when I am walking around the city, I find myself ambushed by a whisper, a song, a few errant words from a story, carried by a gust of wind; or a wink rippling in the Thames.  A building is calling me.  I stop and pay attention, and come face to face with a gem.  St Paul’s Cathedral bathed in silver light, seen from Hungerford Bridge.  The gold Houses of Parliament reflected in the nocturnal river.  Big Ben at sunset.  Hammersmith Bridge, in green and gold.  The Tower of London, murmuring secrets.  Lambeth Palace, austere and sapient.  There are also the hidden jewels, the ones that do not feature on the official tourist trail.  Fulham Palace, with its Elizabethan courtyard and gently gurgling fountain.  All Saints’ Church has stood guard at the North end of Putney Bridge for six hundred years.  The Royal Courts of Justice line Fleet Street, tall and imposing.  Across the street, ensconced among barristers’ chambers, the Temple Church – built by Knights Templars – is another  nugget of precious architecture, history and music.

When I returned to London both from Hamburg and Brussels, I wanted to turn back as soon as I stepped off the plane and the Eurostar.  After the politeness and helpfulness in Hamburg and Brussels, London rudeness and aggressiveness was like an unprovoked slap across the face.  London is becoming increasingly difficult to live in.  It is becoming the playground of the rich and, unless you can keep up financially, you fall under and get trampled.  Property prices are absurdly disproportionate to the average salary.  Food prices are noticeably rising.  Public transport prices are shocking.  If you are well heeled, London is the Horn of Plenty for it can cater to your every whim (except offer consistently good weather – even millionaires can’t order that one).  Unless you are on a high salary, living in London can be an uphill struggle to survive.

I spend much of my time plotting ways to escape from London; to move to a small, quiet town where the main street is deserted after 8 p.m., and where I can get around on foot.  Where I can afford to live.

Then I get a day like the one I had a few weeks ago.  I bought a pair of sandals from an Italian shoe shop.  Then I bought bunches of fresh dill, mint and parsley from a Middle Eastern grocer.  I had crusty Italian bread for lunch, and a Japanese take away for dinner.  There is a café in Southwark, where I like drinking Turkish coffee.  Sometimes, I get a loaf of wholemeal and rye bread from the German bakery, and poppy seed cake from the Polish shop.  I also like buying Spanish hot chocolate tablets from the Spanish shop on the Portobello Road.  I can take a walk to a couple of nearby newsagents, and buy a copy of The Guardian, of El Pais, a Corriere della Sera, a NewYorker or Le Monde.  I cannot afford these often but they are there if and when I want them.  On the bus, and the Tube, you hear people speaking French, Italian, Spanish, Russian, Farsi, Thai, Polish, Arabic… The list could go on and on.  You cannot get bored in London.  London is a city where new experiences are served daily – whatever your budget.

As for moving to a small, quiet town where the main street is deserted after 8 p.m., where I can get around on foot, and where I can afford to live… Well, I think I will wait a while.  I will be one of the many London church mice for just a little longer.  I still enjoy breathing this dirty but wonderfully varied air.

Do I like London? I guess I do.

Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: The Generosity of Animals

Posted on July 1, 2012 by Scribe Doll

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a grey wolf ran up to him.  “What is the matter, Tzarevitch Ivan?” asked the wolf.  “Why so downhearted?”

“Grey wolf, I have lost my trusted steed.”

“It is I who ate your steed… And now I am sad for you.  Tell me, why are you so far from home and where are you bound?”

“My father has sent me on a quest for the Fire Bird.”

“Three years would not have been long enough for your steed to take you to the Fire Bird! I alone know where she abides.  So be it.  Since I have eaten your steed, I shall become your loyal servant.  Now climb on my back, and hold on tight.”

And so Tzarevitch Ivan sat astride the wolf, and the wolf began galloping so fast, extensive forests and wide lakes flashed before his eyes.

The huntsman noticed an injured eagle in the tree.  He drew his bow and aimed his arrow.  Suddenly, the eagle spoke to him in a human voice.  “Spare me, good man.  There will be little profit in killing me.  Better take me alive.  Nurse me and feed me for three years, three months and three days.  Once I have regained strength in my wings, I shall repay your kindness.”

(Extracts from Russian fairy tales)

Last week, I joined a small group of fans surrounding a policewoman’s horse in Covent Garden.  The dark brown filly nodded as half a dozen adult and child hands tried to stroke her head, muzzle and neck.  When I began caressing her and speaking words of endearment, she turned to me and I am sure I saw a glint of mischief in her eyes.  Then, she opened her mouth and my hand suddenly disappeared between her large jaws.  I left it there, curious to see what the horse would do next.  Well, she began chewing it gently, her teeth playfully grinding my knuckles.  A few seconds later, I pulled out a hand glistening with equine saliva.  I walked away with the sense of deep satisfaction you feel after sharing a joke.

A year ago, while holidaying in Abruzzo, I walked up a mountain to see the ruins of a Mediaeval castle.  On the way, I was joined by four village dogs who – bored and with nothing else to do on a hot day – decided to tag along and escort me.  Among the pack was a sheepdog-wolf mix.  You could tell by her slanted shape of her eyes.  There are many such dogs in the area.  We followed the sign-posted tourist route.  At one point, I veered off the designated path.  The wolf dog, who had run ahead, immediately turned around and bounded towards me.  What happened next was a miracle of love and concern I will remember for as long as I live.  Very, very gently, she took my fingers between her teeth, and pulled me back onto the marked path.

My late cat, Genie, woke me up when I had nightmares.

The cat I had before her, Pyewacket, would sleep on my pillow, curled up around my head, while I was ill with high blood pressure.  She resumed her place at the foot of the bed as soon as I got well.  Pyewacket also took sides during my divorce, and decided she no longer wanted my husband to stroke her.

Yesterday, I was walking in Kensington Gardens with a friend.  The side of the pond was lined with swans.  Sleeping, their beaks buried in the feathers on their backs, grooming, people watching, gliding on the water, or enjoying a lunch of bread proffered by humans.

I got it into my head that I wanted a swan feather.  There were none lying around the grass or on by the pond, so I decided to ask for one.  I went up to a swan engaged in meticulous grooming and waited for a feather to drop.  It did not.  “Can I have a feather?” I said.

The swan pulled out a large, ragged feather from his side and tossed it on the water.  It floated away before I could reach it.  The wind then lifted it and carried it further away.  “Can we try this again?” I asked.

This time, the swan stretched his neck towards his tail, plucked out a smaller, perfectly formed feather, and dropped it closer to me, where the water carried it to the shore.

“Thank you!” I said.

The swan straightened up, beak in the air, and wriggled his bottom.  I kissed the feather, and walked away, my beautiful, generous swan gift in my hand.

Scribe Doll

For more stories about animals, please see:

In the Mountains of Abruzzo

An Apology for the Grey Squirrel

Crows

The Ravens in the Tower

BBC Radio 4 Saturday Live Podcast on Crows

The Swan who Gave me a Feather

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Odds & Ends: A Mother-in-Law to Smash all Stereotypes

Posted on June 24, 2012 by Scribe Doll

When I was getting a divorce, twelve years ago, my mother-in-law said, “I want you and I to remain friends.”

I muttered some polite platitude in return.

Friends with the mother of the man with whom I was engaged in a who-hurt-whom-most contest? Right.  On which planet would that happen?

During my eleven years with her son, I had never really thought of Sue as my friend.  True, she had always been extremely kind to me but as far as I could see, as women, we were poles apart.  I did not understand her background and outlook, and took it for granted that she had little clue of where I was coming from.  Every Christmas and birthday, I cringed at the presents she sent me, invariably containing bows, frills and flowery scents.  Her proud Welshness brought out fierce and uncharacteristic English nationalism in me.  She proposed to decorate our wedding cake with daffodils.  They were my favourite flowers until I realised they emblematised Wales.  “This isn’t a blinking rugby match!” I protested, thereby also deriding Sue’s beloved sport.  “I’d rather have English roses.”  Thankfully, the end product was a three-tier, nation-free dessert.  Moreover, coming from a family of two, I felt overwhelmed by the number of relatives I was marrying into, which seemed to constitute half of South Wales (though even I had to admit that they were uniformly lovely.)

After the divorce, I assumed I would not see Sue again but our paths crossed again when my by then ex-husband was hospitalised, and we had to liaise over various medical arrangements.

One evening, almost as a spite against the cold shoulder I was parading, Sue knocked on my door.  She was holding a bottle of organic merlot veneto.  I cooked pasta and we uncorked the wine.  We talked and opened up to each other.  Casting off niceties, we left exposed – and for both to see – anger, disappointment, hopes, fears, pain and vulnerability.

Slowly, we stepped out of the prescriptive roles of mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, and  began weaving an entirely new kind of bond.  One we improvised, since we could find no model for it in our social circles, books, or films.  One thread at a time, one misunderstanding, resolution and laugh at a time – our progress was conducted over the ‘phone and in writing.

I have not seen Sue for ten years.  The reasons for this are multiple and complex.  They involve our living in different parts of the country, her struggling with a debilitating case of M.E., but also an unspoken pact not to cross certain boundaries.  Most of these, Sue has erected for my own emotional protection, and I can only imagine the strength she musters to guard them.  For example, in the ten years of our friendship, she has not mentioned my ex-husband once.  She shares with me news of the trials and joys of her other sons and their families.  I feel genuine concern for their problems and genuine delight for their achievements.  About the son to whom I was married, she keeps silent.  It is as though the man with whom I spent eleven years came into my life with the sole purpose of leaving me the gift of this precious friendship with this extraordinary lady.  His task achieved, he has no place in the rich tapestry Sue and I have woven, so his name need not be mentioned.

I call Sue at least once a week.  We chat, set the world to rights, deplore the downward spiral trend of the country, bemoan the state of education, enthuse about books, drool over the mellifluous voices of Shakespearean actors, and share a love for the English language.  I ask her to scan all my projects, run to her with my anxieties and tell her about my successes.  A talented artist, she sends me cards painted with elegant cat figures and abstract patterns.  I feel deeply privileged to be her friend, and undeservedly lucky that she should be mine.  She reads everything I write and is my staunch, loyal supporter.   “I’ve always known you’re a writer,” she tells me.

“Someday, I’ll write a play about us,” I reply.

I hear excitement in her voice, as she wholeheartedly approves.

Scribe Doll

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