Ode on an English Poet

Some time ago I wrote a piece about the relationship between artists and critics. The piece went something like this: a lady journalist for the Guardian said that critics shouldn't write about their artist friends. I said she was full of shit, though to be fair, I wasn't quite so rude at the time. Here's an example why I think she's wrong.

Enter stage left, Ross Sutherland. Okay, so I wouldn't exactly call Ross a friend in the friendly sense of the word, but he's not quite an acquaintance either. We haven't had a drink together, but he performed at one of my SALON nights, I've got his number in my phone, and we're 'friends' on facebook. According to the laws of 21st century relations, that probably constitutes friendship.

The reason I so vehemently disagree with the lovely lady journalist is because sometimes your artist-type friends are really good at stuff and just because you're a critic doesn't mean you can't be objective about your own friends. Not only that, but you shouldn't be afraid of telling people how good stuff is, even is said stuff is penned and performed by people you have less than objective relations with. Obviously you want to support these people, but you also want to help the viewing public - to introduce them to something new and amazing.

I had a conversation with another friend at lunch last week about modernism and the decline of close-knit cultural circles. Even though neither of us are that keen on modernist philosophies, we agreed that it was a great time to be an artist: with your Peggy Guggenheims and your Gertrude Steins - your Eliots and Picassos and Hemingways and Pounds - this sort of cultural community that sometimes feels like it doesn't exist anymore. And if lady journo had her way, there wouldn't be any cultural community at all - for how can such a thing exist if critics and patrons are encouraged not to patronise (can you use this word in this sense anymore?) the people whose work they admire and respect.

But one glittering bonus that came out of putting on the SALON exhibition is that I saw a whole different side of London's artistic community. There are people making things happen - this man is a very good example - and making cross connections and doing and supporting and having a jolly good time. Ross is very much a part of this and his show reminded me that I shouldn't be so sourpussed about the golden ages of cultural history past - we're doing pretty fine with what we've got.

So. The kid's got talent. I've seen him read his poetry before - from this book - and he's great: most of his poetry is inordinately clever, and narrative driven, but rather surprisingly steeped in formalist technique. Like the best rules and restrictions always do, though, formalism frees Ross up to do all kinds of crazy stuff. His take on univocalism has me in stitches every time I hear it (though it isn't in the current show) and his N+7 (where you replace every noun/verb with the one seven places below it in the dictionary) reworking of the little red riding hood story turns out the hilariously inspired 'the liverish red-blooded riffraff hoo-ha'. But apart from the fact that Ross' poetry is more than good enough to stand on its own, the framing device offered by this show turns it into something altogether more poignant and provocative. What surprised me most of all is how moving the show is - not something I often experience at more straight-up poetry readings.

Ross does what many of the best artists do - in one of my creative writing courses at Uni, the instructor was always shouting at us to, 'write what you know!'* - and has taken episodes from his own sort of annus horribilis and turned them into a lesson for us all: our future is of our own making. Thankfully, he never bludgeons the lesson into his audience but allows it to creep neatly in via his artful time-capsule. One of my favourite bits of the show was when Ross explained how Keats' 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' inspired the creation of the time capsule - he managed to make Keats totally and hilariously relevant to an audience full of people who I'm pretty sure had never read any Keats in their life, let alone his ode to an urn. Any man who can do that is all right by me.

The point is critics should write about their artist friends because sometimes their artist friends are great. So go see The Three Stigmata of Pacman not because Ross is my friend, but because his show is great.

* funnily enough he sounded exactly like Wallace Shawn. There's a whole other story there, but I'll save that for another time

creating dystopia

One of the more tortuously embarrassing moments of my University life occurred early on. First semester, first year of Uni I had torrid, but thankfully brief, almost-kind-of-fling with an older man (who happened to have a pregnant on-again-off-again girlfriend). In a last ditch attempt to get my man I went over to his flat to argue my case. He pulled out the pregnant girlfriend card and that was that. In some ridiculous act of self-flagellation I accidentally locked my keys in my truck and so had to face the further humiliation of spending the night in said man's flat. He slept on the floor. I slept in his bed. Not how I originally intended the evening to pan out.

The next morning, walking back to my flat to pick up a spare set of keys, I rang my mother. I didn't tell her what had happened the night before and I don't remember most of the conversation, but I do remember telling her that I wanted to drop out of Uni, that I was being suffocated by the constriction of only being able to look at things in books that I wanted to see first hand. I told her that I was fed up and that I wanted to travel - to get away from everything. She said, as only one's mother can, that I was being an idealistic dreamer and that once I had finished my degree I could go and travel until I died. And finish I did, though I managed to make it to Europe and quite a few other places before I finished my degree.

Last night I went to an interesting theatrical phenomenon called Theatre in the Pound. The point of TITP is that it's a night of first come, first served performances. Each group performing pays �10, each attendee pays �1 and you get to experience a gaggle of interesting, if a bit rough around the edges, theatrical works in progress. I went to see The Boy and his merry band of men perform in their first gig in nearly a year. Of about six performances, The Boy's crazy George Orwell meets Jacques Tati performed entirely in the dark (with torches) sketchy play called "Dystopiary" was far and away the most interesting (and best performed - nicely done, chaps). Not to belittle their achievement, but considering they were in the company of an awful lot of students, two guys who had written a musical called "Motherland" set during "the epic battle of Stalingrad," and some poor chap who only had nine hours to rehearse his monologue, it might not be a fair comparison. Part of the point about TITP is that the audience is asked to provide feedback about the performances in an attempt to help the actors/writers/directors perfect their piece. This is how I know so many of the writers and actors were students - they volunteered the information.

I'm certainly not the first person to wonder whether art school or film school or any other creative education programme is worth it. If you want to make connections, get feedback, or have constant and regular incentive to practice or create, I can see how these reasons might justify spending the time and money. But wasn't it Epictetus who first said, "if you want to be a writer, write." Yes, some very talented and creative people have been nurtured through art schools or creative writing programmes, but it you want to be a writer, playwright, filmmaker, cellist etcetera, then write, make films, play the cello, take photographs, whatever. I also can't help but wonder whether someone like The Boy, who has a very unique and absurd sense of humour, might not have been discouraged rather than nurtured had he done a "comedy writing" course. I don't know. I don't really have a definite view on the issue - it was just sparked by the contrast in performances last night. The people who are a part of the school machine seem to be stilted and even a bit machine like themselves, while people outside the fold are maybe more able to develop truly original and innovative creativity. I think everyone needs support and maybe structure, but can you really be a true original if you're constantly surrounded by people all trying to do the same thing? Education or experience? No easy answers indeed...