Saturday, 13 February 2016

No Selfies Here

If you fail to implement your New Year resolutions during January you get an opportunity to re-boot them in early February when the Chinese New Year comes around. I tried it myself. Having resolved to get to get to grips with Instagram, and conscious that my 21 followers might be eager to see my next post (the last was in 2014 when, in a rush of enthusiasm, I opened an account and tried it out), I took a snap of the street decorations celebrating the Year of the Monkey and put it out there. It got three likes. To be honest, it wasn't a great photo: the composition was poor and the lighting so-so; and I couldn't get the hang of the editing function. I fear my followers may lose faith unless I up my game.

My resolutions also include a list of places to visit, one of which, the Wedgwood Museum, is by happy coincidence also on a friend's list. So we made a date and, one sunny morning last week, travelled by train to Stoke-on-Trent. I took my camera/phone/portable communications device thinking there might be rich pickings for my Instagram followers. In the event, however, I became so absorbed in the history that I forgot all about them. Anyway, I reasoned, does anyone really want to see a photo of Dave and me posing awkwardly in front of a display cabinet?

Design by Ravilious
We found that the museum has morphed into the Wedgwood Experience. Having spent millions on re-housing the collection (following its rescue from the fire-sale which followed the collapse of the pension fund to which it had been entrusted) the new owners are keen to make their investment pay off. The Experience includes a tour of the factory, entry to the museum and opportunities to throw pots, decorate plates and take tea and/or lunch. We opted for the tour, followed by lunch and a visit to the museum (which was brief on account of our having lingered over too many glasses of Shiraz).

Design by Paolozzi

Our factory-tour guide was brisk and efficient and, if she was disappointed that there were only three of us, didn't show it as she pointed out the fire-exits and forbade us to take photos. Much of the manufacturing process now benefits from technology and automation but the few employees who remain are surely on their way to celebrity status. We watched in admiration as Debbie attached handles to cups, Derek applied 18 carat gold to plates and Christine painted a horse-race scene onto a £20k trophy-vase commissioned for a Canadian racecourse. I began to understand the photography ban: celebrities can be touchy about being photographed when they are not looking their best; and there is the matter of commercial sensitivity which applies to some of the commissioned works - though not, apparently, to the 19,000 piece dinner service destined for the Presidential Palace of Abu Dhabi which we were allowed to view and which is, by the way, unremarkable.

Pamphlet from 1788
The museum contains an overwhelming number of objects, some dating from the very beginning of Josiah Wedgwood's enterprise, but - beautiful as they are - one soon tires of china-wares. The real inspiration here is the man himself. Remarkable for his energy, insight and principles, he was an inventor, innovator and designer as well as an entrepreneur and social reformer. He supported the development of a canal system (which facilitated the shipping of his goods), but was also a member of the Lunar Society and an active proponent of the anti-slavery movement and, at the age of 38, had a leg amputated. Incidentally, his daughter married the son of Erasmus Darwin and they begat Charles Darwin. There's no way to Instagram all that so I've included my photos here.

Saturday, 6 February 2016

Global Village Plundered

This week I had occasion to dust off the campervan and spend a couple of nights in parts of rural England where ‘progress’ is moderated by the indigenous population’s affinity to the old ways. Such places give the comforting impression that people still have roots and that there remains some variety in the ‘global village’ we all inhabit. One night was spent at a prosperous-looking farm where the aged but sprightly lady in charge looked and sounded like a 1950s caricature (but drove a state-of-the-art Land Cruiser). The next night I was on a smallholding where the rooster woke us in the early hours. Charmingly rustic, I thought, and a change from the screech of emergency sirens back home. The smallholder, however, complained that it had woken him and that, since it was probably a fox alert, he could not get back to sleep.

I ended up in Lincolnshire, where the land is a larder and every village has a butcher’s shop – sometimes two. Like a man drinking in the last-chance saloon, I stocked up on locally produced delicacies such as stuffed chine, pork pies, haslet and award-winning Lincolnshire sausages. The good thing about traditions is that some of them are really rather good.
I got back to Manchester in time to deal with the tax deadline. I transferred what I owed HMRC online, while waiting for the plumber to turn up. He was an hour late. “Sorry,” he said “I had to go to the post office to pay my tax.”
“You found a post office?” I said. He did not look amused. I tried introducing the hot topic of the day, Google’s agreement to pay a paltry sum of tax – more as a PR exercise than an acknowledgement of liability – but my man had his head in the cistern and was not really following the argument.
“I only just made it. They fine you if you pay late,” was all he said.

Later I read about the problems of social deprivation which are plaguing Seattle, the home of Microsoft, Starbucks and Amazon – notorious tax-avoiders all. The city, like most others, does not have the resources to deal fully with homelessness, drug-addiction and crime, yet its public penury could be remedied by a contribution from the massive wealth of its corporations. Do corporations think that they exist in a separate universe? Henry Ford had at least the sense to see that paying his employees a decent wage enabled them to have sufficient disposable income with which to buy his cars. His motive may have been more selfish than philanthropic but it was certainly a practical approach to the new economics of industrialisation. I hear that Walmart has decided to do something similar and that there is even a tech company in California which is experimenting with paying all its employees the same rate. But these are examples of exceptional corporate policy. We cannot rely on corporations to do the right thing: “corporations have neither bodies to be punished nor souls to be condemned; they therefore do as they like.”*

 And if what they like is to avoid paying tax, they are well placed.  Having transformed themselves into global entities they can effectively ignore national tax jurisdictions. The global village works fine for them: it’s one big market-place with no tax-gathering authority in attendance. While lunching on poached egg and haslet, however, I thought of a possible solution to this conundrum: authorise the United Nations to collect taxes. Recalcitrant payers could be threatened with its peacekeeping force although, on reflection, the mechanisms for collecting and allocating the monies raised would probably swallow up most of the revenue. And there would remain local issues: we wouldn’t want the plumber facing international sanctions for not getting to the post office on time.

*Edward Thurlow, 1st Baron Thurlow: was Lord Chancellor from 1778 to 1783 and again from 1783 to 1792.

Friday, 29 January 2016

Art For The Masses

This week I went to Another Place – i.e. the seashore at Crosby: Another Place is the name of Anthony Gormley’s art installation there. It comprises a hundred cast-metal replicas of his body set on the shoreline, facing out to sea. I’ve previously only seen photos of the work looking enigmatic and beautiful with the sun setting over a seemingly endless expanse of sand which falls, almost imperceptibly, into the beckoning horizon. The day I visited, however, the sky was the colour of an old tin bath and the wind brought tears to my eyes. Never mind, I thought, don’t be disappointed: outdoor-art must necessarily be appreciated in all weathers and, in any case, the concept of “perfect conditions” is entirely subjective. Look for the beauty in the present: perfection– if you’re lucky enough to come across it - is rare.

It is abundant, however, in the cinematography of Hou Hsiao-hsien whose film The Assassin I saw the following day. He fills the screen with meticulously detailed costumes, sets and characters - all shot lasciviously in sumptuous colour. Three red-ripe pomegranates artfully poised in an elegant bowl particularly caught my eye and seemed to me to epitomise the aesthetic and symbolise the ethos of the ancient Chinese traditions depicted in the movie. But there is an unseen side to the visual gorgeousness, choreographed movement and formalised interaction idealised in this film which niggled me throughout: the unjust system of social repression which enabled an elite few to live in such privilege, pomp and luxury. By the end I had become so incensed that I began to sympathise with Chairman Mao’s attempt to obliterate such a culture. This may seem like an over-reaction but I was already inclined that way having watched recently the third episode of War & Peace in which various Counts, Princes and their degenerate dependents obsess about their privileged lives while the so-far-unseen majority of Russians endure a life of slavery, their euphemism for which is serfdom.

As you may have gathered, I’m at the end of my tether when it comes to the celebration of so-called nobility. It was refreshing, therefore, to see a film which has a more proletarian theme. Never on Sunday is set in Piraeus where I spent some time recently. It was released in 1960 but I had never seen it and was motivated to do so when, on visiting a museum in Athens, I learned something about the Greek cultural icons who were involved in its creation. The film contained an incidental surprise in the form of the appearance of a couple Royal Navy sailors wearing HMS MANCHESTER insignia on their caps. It also sprang a couple of revelations on me: first was that Greek men, like their Russian counterparts (as seen in the last episode of War & Peace) have a similar style of solo dance which involves strong liquor and slow, exaggerated macho gestures; second was that Melina Mercouri wasn’t just a singer and didn’t always wear big, thick-rimmed spectacles.

Films, much as I love them, are set pieces, fixed in the mode of their creation. I have no inclination to see them more than once. Gormley’s men on the beach, however, do tempt me back. I saw them when the tide was out and they stood oblivious of me and other admirers: the curious who wanted to touch their barnacles, stroke their smooth parts or dress them in funny hats; children playing around them; dogs chasing balls along the beach. I would like to observe them alone as they disappear under an advancing tide or face a lashing thunderstorm. I imagine that all the while they, like me, are waiting stoically for that perfect moment when the sun sets in a cloudless sky and reflects its fiery light off the water and into their unseeing eyes.

Saturday, 23 January 2016

Sociable Drinking

It seemed an unlikely place but nevertheless, in the gift shop at the Tate Britain gallery, I found what I have been seeking: the ideal teapot. Not that buying a teapot was the highlight of my visit - the exhibition Artist & Empire has much to commend it - but it's a promising start to the year and I have a feeling that it will delight me in small but satisfying ways each time I brew up. It might even encourage me to try drinking tea socially: offering guests caffeine instead of alcohol would present opportunities to impress them not only with the stylish teapot but also with my steely resolve to cultivate sobriety.
I'm not generally in favour of New Year's resolutions preferring, instead, a more frequent review (say, weekly) of habitual behaviour, to identify unwanted tendencies and correct course for the general direction of virtuousness. Each January I have the same argument with a certain person over the merits or otherwise of his self-imposed tee-total month. I argue that his concept appears to have, at best, some questionable, short-term health benefits and - leaving aside the possibility that it might be an act of penitence - otherwise serves no practical purpose. This year he has softened and allowed himself some social drinking capacity. Drinking is deeply embedded in social interactions but therein lies a dilemma: imbibe too much and you risk alienating yourself by behaving anti-socially; refuse a drink and you risk being labelled anti-social anyway. And lately it seems I have walked this tightrope so often that I ought to be getting good at balancing.
For example, meeting a particular friend for "a few beers" has become a recurring event and one which is more enjoyable since I adopted the policy of ordering half-pints. On the last occasion, however, we found ourselves drawn into a pub by a live blues band and there, caught up in a good, old-fashioned, feel-good crush, I may have had one too many. But live blues and beer is a combination that's hard to resist.

Informal dinner parties also present challenges to moderation. My partner and I were invited to dinner by her oldest friend and, since she and her husband live in rural Surrey, they put us up for the night. The assumption was that we would want to drink, which we did - too much and too fast, so excited were we at being in their company after rather too long a break. Perhaps there is something to be said for the formality of an aperitif, followed by a glass of Sancerre with the fish, a glass - two at most - of Claret with the main course, Sauternes with dessert and a digestif to end. It's a structure that facilitates paced as opposed to uncontrolled drinking.

But in between the drink-fuelled socialising I have remained sufficiently sober to take in a few cultural events, Annie Leibovitz's solo show at Wapping among them. The photos on display are all of women, accompanied by some interesting text in which she promotes her ideal of equality between male and female, arguing in favour of obliterating gender distinctions wherever possible. In support she quotes several African languages which, she claims, do not accommodate gender distinctions, in contrast to others such as French which attribute gender even to inanimate objects, thereby encouraging the perception of difference.

I also went along to Celts at the British Museum where I was fascinated by medieval bling in the form of torcs, precious metal necklaces worn by both sexes. I also noted that they had a fondness for the drink but had developed an effective social mechanism for controlling its consumption: they removed the element of choice by passing around communal drinking bowls - some of them very stylish indeed.

The Great Torc of Snettisham and a ceremonial drinking bowl

Saturday, 16 January 2016


Control freaks, brace yourselves: sometimes you just have to go with the flow, as events this week have reminded me. At 09.00 on Sunday morning contractors recommenced digging a trench in the main road adjacent to our block; then at 10.00 an alarm began to sound in the courtyard; and at 11.00 a sinkhole opened up in the side-road next to it. It began to seem like a good idea to go out for the rest of the day so, after calling block management and the highway authority, that’s just what I did. Of course I was fortunate in not having firm plans for a quiet day at home; and in being solvent, mobile and within walking distance of myriad alternative venues; all of which was just as well since, as it turned out, it was more than just the day. The disruption continued for two days and nights. But, taking a positive view, I looked on the necessity of removing myself as an opportunity and during that time I saw several films, explored digital resources in the library and had a haircut that wasn’t really necessary.
One of the films I saw was The Danish Girl and it coincided with my having just read Jan Morris’s 1975 account of her transgender journey, Conundrum, in which she refers to Lili Elbe (the Danish girl), the first chronicled recipient of transgender surgery. This theme is in marked contrast with that of the next film, Jean Luc Godard’s Le Mépris (I was not legally allowed to see it when it first came out in 1963), which is so fixated on an iconic object of conventional male sexual desire that it made me realise how alienated transgender people must have felt – and undoubtedly still do.
Then I watched Jaco: The Film, an account of the rise and fall of Jaco Pastorius, the innovative musician credited with elevating the art of bass-playing to extraordinary heights but who suffered mental illness and died quite young. I am an admirer of his music and thankful that so much of it was recorded but, because his musical medium was jazz, his work is not as widely known or appreciated as that of others. Which brings me to David Bowie: the day after he died I was at the barber’s shop, waiting my turn while the radio in the corner played his songs interspersed with listeners’ reminiscences of their favourite Bowie moments. I would venture to claim that there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, though we all did our best not to show it, and when it came my turn in the chair I pretended that I had a hair in my eye. The barber said nothing but shook his head every now and then.
The library, however, was a Bowie-free zone. It was practically a book-free zone as well, so many of its habitués were reading from screens. In fact, Google was there with a series of pop-up seminars on improving your digital presence and, afraid of being left out, I signed up for one before returning home.
Roadworks ceased at 17.00 but the alarm continued to sound through the night: the agents kept sending contractors to silence it but none had been able either to identify its cause or gain access to it. I remained calm – “mindful” in the current jargon – stuffed in some earplugs and slept reasonably well. On the second night I watched a couple of episodes of the BBC’s new production of War and Peace using big, chunky head-phones so that I could hear the dialogue. Then, as I was about to go to bed, a mechanical digger started up on the street and contractors began to excavate the sinkhole.  Now, I thought, is the real test of mindfulness: or, to be honest, those dense foam earplugs.