Jan 21
Nov 25
Everything Beautiful Began After by Simon Van Booy
October: there sat Simon Van Booy's first novel, 'Everything Beautiful Began After.' It'd been a while since I'd dipped into his collections of short stories; these had found for me a voice that mirrored my insides and lay like poetry in the caverns of my mind. I hadn't realised Van Booy was writing a novel, though I suppose it was the inevitable next step. Whilst I love the novel form, for me there is something that rests between poetry and fantasy; fulfilment and promise; a tempered exhalation of grief, that only the short story can achieve. There is something about the process, the requirement to limit ones words, paradoxically opening the way for this sense of exquisite freedom as a writer or indeed a reader. However, SVB does something here whereby he extends his embrace of loss, his delight in people, the inescapable truth that we must accept that death can be beautiful, that in any given moment we might find light. As soon as you enter into this world with him, he delights you with Proust and Waugh, leading you slowly into a prologue, the likes of which I have not read before. I love a prologue- they provide lingering questions, they clasp you as though you have fallen through the air and Wilde's giant has allowed you to land gently in the palm of his hand. That is whilst you dare imagine what may follow. Hector says to Postner in Bennet's 'The History Boys, 'the best moments in reading are when you come across something- a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things- that you'd thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you've never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it's as if a hand has come out, and taken yours.' I first came across Van Booy when I read a moving article in The Guardian, Christmas 2009 where he spoke eloquently about the sudden and unexpected loss of his wife and the rituals he had created and was exploring with his daughter Madeleine, so as to remember, connect and love. This resonated with me for obvious reasons. However it was only when reading the prologue with Jesse; the voice of a young girl, thinking about the love of her father and the beauty of her mother when a seemingly inexplicable moment is touched upon. This moment provides a lingering question throughout the rest of the novel. For those of you who know the way Lindsay left the world, you might understand why, when Jesse and I read this passage together, we looked at one another and were bonded by this novel for a lifetime, before it had even begun... 'all she knows is that someone fell, and that everything beautiful began after.' SVB luxuriates in language. He is unashamedly poetic, seeing the potential for everything in everything. The chapters are short to begin with, many moments linked together which reveal to us, not the grand gestures of epic heroes, but rather brief glimpses, albeit romantic glimpses with red wine and cigarettes, opera and pipe smoking professors, into worlds in which we have all found ourselves; Maybe not in France or Athens but in love and in lust, both joyful and suffering; wandering the streets at night full of delight and dread in equal measure. As the novel progresses, the chapters lengthen as the impact of grief is felt and the panic, exhaustion, fear, confusion and unbearable turmoil is felt by one of the central protagonists. One thing that struck me about the relationships in this novel, from early on, was a fragile, messy, honesty- which can only be beautiful even in lament; even in the unknowing. Van Booy himself once quoted Joyce who said, 'every bond is a bond to sorrow,' saying it was the happiest thing he'd heard as it makes the bond mean something. As much as the idea of loss permeates his writing, he engages exquisitely with the absolute connectedness of human beings and a joyfulness rings through his work; one is both floating on the waves of his language choices, leaping from one point of action to another in unnerving excitement or resting in reflection at a point of recognition wherein Van Booy's strength as a writer lies. It is clear throughout the novel and his work, that Van Booy is both a lover of the man and the woman; the worker and the dreamer; the artist, the creator of something new and the archaeologist, he that unearths things past, the preservation of which matters somehow as it is ever present in who we have become. It is love though that drives his narratives and this is as true here as it is in anything he writes. The novel is not perfect. There are flawed moments where words are explained that perhaps need not be...'the stench of anise, fennel, and raisins- the ingredients of ouzo' as an example. But these imperfections, deliberate or otherwise only make it a more endearing read- at the heart of this need to extend metaphors and extrapolate the insides of language is the desire to connect, to share and to wonder. I wrote to SVB having read the Guardian article, and told him a little of our story. I didn't expect to hear back from him. It was Christmas morning and I woke, as I often do on such a morning as this- in a house full of my sisters children, excited squeals and rituals ahead of the day. I wanted to walk that morning and so I did, as moments such as life produces, call us to reflect; and where one slips into a moment of cathartic nostalgia about what has gone before and dreams of what still lies in wait- fear and loneliness become drenched in love and hope. I wonder if he knew, that when he gave me the gift of having listened that morning and responded with grace, he might touch again the heart of another who though once broken by loss now knew that 'everything beautiful began after.' Van Booy's honest reflection on what it is to feel, to need to understand, to share and to forgive are like pieces of poetry that linger with you. An incurable romantic, you cannot help but be drawn by Van Booy, to explore life through glasses tinted by pink roses; for though we may reflect on the cruelty of existence, we must walk with a lightness of step and be bound only by the freedoms of what it really means to love.
May 8
Information is Beautiful: Timelines
This weekend was open house weekend in Dulwich. I'm not at my most comfortable in stranger's houses, with the pressure of feeling artistically inadequate, however, David McCandless opened his home to his thought provoking, at moments both funny and sad as well as shocking images. If you don't know his work, check it out- it really is informative beauty and though I'd caught glimpses before, I'd never really explored it. Pretty much cheap as chips too for prints. Beki got a signed copy of the book for a designer friend but I am going to buy one for the coffee table- unsigned as I failed to have the foresight to take any means of payment with me.
http://www.informationisbeautiful.net/visualizations/timelines/That said, the sister did let me add to the kitty for a sweet 50's dress picked up in the house of the 'Skip Sister's' (their website doesn't appear to be live for a decent link but plenty of articles abound)- recycling, up-cyclers who do an amazing range of vintage watches re-shaped with pictures of a young Queen Elizabeth for those endowed with slimmer wrists than the Bateson sisters and some gorgeous trays with ballerinas and birds which I should really have purchased. I decided today that I like plates on walls, ceiling to floor bookshelves in bathrooms, framed maps and dark wood framed, slightly eerie bird/flower/ 1930's type prints such as you might find in the Observer book of Birds. So those paying a visit over the coming months, prepare to see some re-decoration as I trawl charity shops to add to my plate collection and begin to create some kind of menagerie of the painted variety. Open House continues next weekend so do go- and if like me you're rather shy about your deficient knowledge but are compelled by the aesthetic, take someone with you who can pull out the cool and collected card, when conversation about the virtues of neon structures or temporary lights around Nelson's Column in order to create a visual representation of the rising sea levels, are considered completely normal. Thanks BB.
Feb 23
Jesse's assignment on 'The Loss of the age of Innocence'
Don’t Get Me Started On… The Loss of The Age of Innocence
Naivety: a beautiful state of mind, full of wonder and exhilaration; the innocence of a pure imagination; the invisibility of hurt and anguish. Yet able children are choosing to neglect their innocence for a life of confusion and drama, whilst in places such as Gaza, children are being forced to lose their innocence to responsibilities that should never be asked of anyone, let alone a child.
Israeli and Palestinian children are constantly colliding with bombs of hatred and explosions of cruelty, whilst British children, with the ability to live a calm and collected life are being hit with the selfishness of self-pity and the pure blindness to their privileges. As these middle-eastern countries are wounded by violent shots that allow them to realise their loss of any hope to live in a peaceful society, Western countries are wounded by the fashion of drugs. These ‘pleasurable’ weapons western children use to create damage within themselves and their communities have no necessity but to be ‘cool’. This absence of need highlights the absence of humility and intellect. Innocence is therefore lost in the need to escape from reality and escape from their childhood, for the weak excuse of it ‘feeling good.’
Each heart of a newborn is filled with unique genius. Each gentle eye seeks a world of wonder and beauty as it opens. Each mind embraces the anticipation to live; to learn and unfurl the gifts that life has yet to bring. Each child is brought up facing struggle, happiness, confusion and joy. But, as our society develops as one relying on materials and technology, each British child will rely on their looks and reputations to succeed.
As children develop, dreams and wishes develop with them. As wars kill families, desperate wishes of freedom, peace and childhood die with them. As wars kill families, western wishes of increasing riches, trees drooping with branches of anorexia, alcohol, drugs and relationships come to life. Not only is there a loss of concern for poverty stricken countries, but a loss of care and appreciation of loved ones, and life itself.
Eight million children die before the age of five each year. In Britain, children are given rights and opportunities that are rapidly being abused by the children themselves. The egocentric look on childhood in our country is embarrassing. Streams of chance and hope rush past us and we ignore it; we think we are better than that and watch our innocence drift away without thought for anyone but ourselves.
Palestinian and Israeli children are scarred by tragedy each day. Yet as the sun rises, young hands set free kites; kites that hold a message of peace and ascend until the light breeze carries it to the other side of the wall, where young hands grasp the kites, to receive the hope of a peaceful future. As this goes on, screens are bombarded with hatred and broken promises from one teenager to the next. They are not capable of baring, what they see as the embarrassment of holding a kite in their hands; they are not able to set their pride free, for it would be too heavily weighed down to fly through the summer breeze anyway. Towers of arrogance shadow their innocence; their naivety lost.
Oct 20
The End of Joy- A revised version
The End of Joy
Swathed in covers, the warmth of a night of joy-
I breathed in that space
We tumbled amidst the moment and laughed and sank beneath the sheets
You met me there.
Awake- I woke.
Dandelions and buttercups
River walking, sea swimming
Could we belong?
Soon you wished me gone
And I understood my longing
For something given, accepted, received.
For nights of dancing- and you danced
Trailing, your cigarette perched in between your lips-
Separate and longing for something other, majestic-
I wasn’t majesty.
In your eyes there was emptiness-
And I should have kissed your face, explored all the places.
Instead of the quiet of calm,
Our words infiltrated our togetherness
And tongues and hands and yearning,
Pleasure and fruition
Were left strewn amongst the stones,
And parting came-
So swift and so open and so rash.
And I walked that morning, knowing,
Resting amongst the stones of the dead.
***
You held me giddy and caught my hand
In that moment I was yours amidst the chaos of your mind-
I had sought stillness, solace, time
And still you came
To lay your gentle head tenderly upon my breast.
And yet, in that moment
You held the pillow to my mouth and stifled
Sweet sounds, tore away heart, left me fumbling to regain my lost composure.
I have blundered my way through these days,
Nervously rushing to meet you,
Drunkenly uttering regret, remorse,
A passionate intensity
For which you and I were not bound
***
I thought of my love last night
His absence haunts me still
And though for us there were beginnings,
With him was the end of joy.
Sep 26
a slice of my poetry...inept and human.
Butterflies
Behind me butterflies swirled in effervescent circles and I turned
Were you there amongst the flitting?
London skyline began to rise and with each step
The frost fell closer on my feet.
The station gates swung to, gently closing behind them
The dusk of another day
And beyond the brow of the hill, the twists and turns
Of the corners that led me home
There rose the dawn of our wars
Tupperware on my front porch
A torrent of words on fluorescent paper
A tentative knock in the wake of your goodbye
And the flies beauteous swarmed the moon of that sky
Which would soon see the dawn of another war
That night I wandered the streets of my London
Where Blake had seen angels, demons came
Upon the boughs of ashen trees blew a breeze
Which chilled brittle bones, the dust of which
Settled on the stark and barren grey of pavements
Drawing back the curtains that night
The lights revealed the longing of the city
Beyond the walls adorned in the red of your hand
Revellers dreamt and danced and wandered their own way
To their own wars
Each had pummeled the other black and blue
The seeping purple of blueberries once picked in innocence
Now sour- a sickened stomach and a crumpled crush of heart
We had met our destruction, become our own destroyers
Lost our respective wars
Behind me tonight were the butterflies
Were you there amongst the flitting?
Your twisted hair and the flesh of your black skin
Mingled amongst the effervescent flight of wings as they flew
Away from the wars of human frailty
They drew me inside their flutterings
And violins played gorgeous melodies
Led me round the twists and turns and corners of a journey
Through wars in which I played the only cards I had
Somewhere tonight were the butterflies
Were you there amongst the flitting?
You eyes bare and deep and dark
And I rest in them, ‘Spiegel im Spiegel’
Mirror in mirror
An infinity of images
Are you there amongst the flitting?
Eloquent Unwisdom
You would wander through places invisible to me
And I would wonder what these places held for you.
On your return, I would reckon with you, reason with you
While away hours which had past,
They had passed
Not between us but through us-
Like trickles of water as they find their way from rivers to ocean doors.
I with heart and you with eyes
And both with our eloquent un-wisdom
It began again in the cobbled alleys of the east.
Your glasses removed; your eyes revealed
And me adjusting to an awakening- of heart, of self,
Of my truth
We would find ourselves oftentimes
Sinking and slipping into beauty, Buckley, blue.
I hid in the arms of my chair
And you looked at wooden boards as you spoke-
Of tree-houses in the countryside, of your father,
Of a Kenya that was not your home.
And your language fragrant,
Would soon become that familiar and eloquent un-wisdom
As the red became clear glass
And once again, shoes off, smoke rising
We stumbled into nakedness.
Tapestry
I think of you in the night
Your skin is soft, tender,
Your face like a tapestry-
What is in this space
Is out of my control.
There is no geometric design
To align us with a higher element.
Instead, your face is like a tapestry
Winding threads- out of my control.
Sleep does not evade me in the night,
Rather, you embroider my stillness,
Heighten the depths in which I dwell-
Until I wake to painful rushes,
Flowers in my garden,
Stones beneath my feet.
You are Bourgeouis to me,
You distort me and leave me swollen
I am your abstract expression of love
And yet your face,
Like a tapestry,
Weaves colour, beauty and truth.
Sep 21
Wallace Stevens...'Sunday Morning'- reflections on loss, faith & Palestine
I was reminded again this morning how deeply potent and moving this piece of poetry is. Stevens touches here on loss of faith, primarily christian faith; he points to the internal battle of the letting go of the god of Palestine, perhaps as we once did the gods of Olympus and questions whether this leads to devastation and division, or whether or not we should instead engage once more with the earth, those things that are transcendent in the ordinary. That in nature lies the flux and movement, the re-birthing and the awakening suggested by Christian doctrine, as a concept which circulates solely around the notion of a heaven, an eternity elsewhere. As an aside, surely in our search for some purity in another place we have paid far too little attention to the earth, the solar system, the moons and the suns as eternity, as a constant unearthing of truth and question, of discovery and unity. I for one wish for no heaven that offers only one answer, where mouths are silenced by an absence of need for conversation because we all know. Stevens suggests here that no metaphysical or religious idea has lasted or will last as long as the cycles of natures annual greening endure...for me perhaps, this is even graver reason to explore how we harness the beauty of this earth of ours. This morning, this poem really drew me to the notion of a 'silent Palestine.' Though I fully realise the deeply felt spirit of god in this part of the world and the sense in which the Palestinians; Arab, Muslim, Christian seek solace and truth in their faith as much as I do in the miracles of the earth that I don't necessarily by definition account to god- I also note that this 'silent Palestine' a different one to the genteel Christian notion Wallace was referring to- raises questions. On the one hand, our Palestine; today's Palestine, is indeed silent- voices have been stifled, death has been brought to every home, mothers have no words left and fathers only know what it is to be strong in the quiet. And yet- how loudly and hauntingly do those screams reverberate in our minds when we remember to remember; how piercingly brutal the hiss of the phosphorus shells as they stung the skins of children, how screamingly absent the pictures of Dr Ang Swee Chai when she asks us, 'where are those children now?' And somehow Wallace's idea of a silent Palestine seems removed and the solace of a god who might listen is utterly understandable. But the only question to raise surely, is how we look for life on earth for these people, not the promise of something to come that even the doubts of the greatest believers makes clear we may not be able to deliver. They cry for peace now amidst the never ending cycle of fear and theft; they want their land in this moment, not simply an ethereal promise of something better then. I don't want to argue that one cannot walk hand in hand with the other- my musings are not to desecrate beliefs that I myself will always have questions about; where faith in something matters to me too- but where will change happen; where this silence will no longer fall on deaf ears. The astonishing line, 'Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires,' reminds us that we do not have to abandon one another in death. That the idea of impermanence as written into Buddhist teachings, the emergence of re-birth, not in heaven where the earth remains untouched, but here within a new cycle of life, can become a visionary one. Where we cannot stop believing that somehow, a re-birth into a new land is possible for the Palestinian people, one that sees them recover what they have lost and be granted that which they are owed in terms of dignity and freedom. It is precisely the concern of the masculine voice in section six to affirm death as an agent of necessary change, a storm that shakes the worm-eaten rot from the tree, returning that rot to the earth from whence it came, speaks one critic of the poem. In every religion which must necessarily be engaged, in undermining the continuation of Israeli rage towards Palestine, we must come back to a unified message of truth in every religious story- that death does bring new life; where for others this is the story of Christ, of Chuang Tzu; of Bhagavad Gita, of Brahman; even of Nietzsche's idea of eternal recurrence; for me it lies currently in the rotation of the seasons and Autumn brings with it that re-birth. I was touched this morning to return to this poem through news of the death of the parent of another friend. I had mentioned the line to Saga recently on the news of her father's passing and today I was brought to it once more as I considered the death of Dan's grandmother who had spent her life raising him and his brothers. It is both a deeply personal piece but one which for some reason today seemed to have wider implications for me. That death is not simply about loss- of love, of faith, of touch but that it is also about the creation of something beautiful. I remember at Jesse's christening, almost a year after Lindsay's death, my siblings and I sang these words, 'something beautiful, something good, all my confusion, he understood, and all I had to offer him was brokeness and strife and he made something beautiful out of my life.' And where 'he' my have become something other for me, the intrinsic truth remains, something beautiful is possible. Link to the poem 'Sunday Morning' by Wallace Stevenshttp://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/wallace-stevens/sunday-morning/ Images by Sally Mann, some of which were taken drawing on inspiration from this poemhttp://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/gallery/2010/may/29/sally-mann-raw-material#/?picture=363062442&index=0
Aug 25
Scott Pilgrim vs the World- I lesbian Edgar Wright.
Put away the panic...Michael Cera has been saved by the superb writing and direction of the increasingly impressive Edgar Wright. That and some superb casting of the likes of Jason Schwartzman, Ellen Wong, Kieran Culkin, Mary Elizabeth Winstead and others. Whilst I haven't read the Bryan Lee O'Malley comics, there seems to be a common consensus amongst critics that what Wright has done with the dialogue and the visual style he employs, is by and large excellent; he appears not to stray too far from his original source by all accounts & his love for the form is apparent throughout. An eccentric and simple display of gaming, comics, the slick slide from one page to another rather in the style I now get on my Iphone Marvel app, is discreet and fantastical- central elements in the comic form. The nod to early TV comic book shows- Bob Kane's Batman in particular springs to mind, is carried off with perfectly pitched humour and mingles seamlessly with the early gaming forms. The female roles excite me here too- never are there enough strong, feisty, empowering roles for women, who both express their vulnerability but not at the expense of the characteristics that enable them to fight- both in true comic hero style and with emotional finesse. The women here are unwilling to be taken hostage by their male counterparts whilst also having searingly open and honest relationships with them. Made accountable for their choices, they are not made to apologise for their human error other than to recognise their accountability to people they have let down or to themselves for being part of those choices. I don't want to get heavy about what is essentially a light hearted piece of pure entertainment but one of the things I love about comics and something that draws me back to them time and again, is their simple comment on what it is to be human- central, I think, to our identification and resonance with our superheroes. I loved Schwartzman's Gideon; a mix of Sandler's Zohan and Myer's Dr Evil with all sorts of other references I can't quite conjure including his own comic genius as displayed in Rushmore. He was for sure the ultimate ex! Unable to say much more so as not to create any spoilers, I would urge you to go and see this film- in the midst of what has been a year of disappointing films from Holywood this year, this British director again proves the indomitable wit and talent of what film makers in this country have to offer. Though for me, Kick-Ass remains a more mature and slick modern response to the comic genre (out on DVD on the 7th September) this film proves itself an eclectic mix of comic talent, visual brilliance and quick witted dialogue- it has a great little soundtrack to boot. I want me a Scott Pilgrim!
Aug 23
