Reflections on a Snail at the Birdbath

Snail at the Birdbath 

 (SA/2023)

 

 

I sent the above photo of a garden snail crawing along the lip of the birdbath to M. and she said: 'I didn't know they needed to drink.'

Which is not as foolish as it first sounds; for although garden snails absorb a significant amount of fluid from their food - and some directly through their skin - they do, in fact, need to drink regularly in order to maintain their water balance and not dry out. 

 

This is not surprising when one discovers that snails are actually composed of almost 90% water (which is 20% more water than human beings, but 5% less than jellyfish). 

 

But still, it's not often you see snails actually taking a drink ...

 

However, that's not to say the snail pictured was quenching its thirst; I prefer to think he was, like Narcissus, admiring his reflection in the water (even at the risk of falling in and drowning). 

 

But then, it might be asked: Can snails see? And, even if they can see, would they pass the mirror test; i.e., are they able to recognise their own reflection?

 

In answer to the first question - yes, snails can see. 

 

However, they can't see very well; they can't differentiate colours and although their eyes do possess a lens, they lack the ability to focus images. Pretty much, they can sense light and dark and work out where a source of light is coming from. But that's about it. 

 

Still, snails do have an excellent sense of smell and can feel vibrations, changes in temperature or humidity, etc. Thus, they do okay - and have been doing okay for millions of years.

As for the second question, well, to be honest, it's doubtful that a snail would pass an MSR test. As far as scientists are aware, only a very small number of creatures can do so; apes, dolphins, elephants, magpies - i.e., the usual suspects. 

But who knows what goes on in the (literally) brainless mind of a snail ...?

 

 

Mourning Post: with Reference to Roland Barthes's Journal de Deuil

A favourite photo of my mother

(taken in 1947, aged 21)

 

 

"Does being able to live without someone you loved 

mean you loved her less than you thought ...?" 

 

 

I.

 

There are some books we love immediately upon first reading; and there are other books which it takes time (and several readings) to fall in love with. 

 

Then there are books like Roland Barthes's Journal de deuil (2009) [a] which one only begins to appreciate once one has lived through a similar experience as the author - in this case, the death of a mother.

 

 

II.

 

The day after his mother's death, in October 1977, Barthes began assembling notes written on quartered slips of paper in which he reflected on his sadness, sense of loss, and the fact that modern society seems to leave no time or space in which to express one's grief; as soon as someone dies, there's a frenzied attempt to move on and the bereaved are encouraged to get over it, as if they have a minor illness [b]. 

 

During the following two years, Barthes wrote over 300 of these notes, the contents of which eventually being published in the form of a mourning diary. 

 

I do not here wish to present an overview of these fragments of text, but simply comment on those ideas which most resonate with me at this time and express my agreement with Barthes that the individual should insist on their right to mourn; for it is also the right to "the loving relation it implies" [55]. 

 

In a nutshell, dear reader, don't let your suffering be stolen from you ... [c]

 

Note: the titles supplied below are mine.

 

 

III.

 

On the Corpse Bride

 

There was, I would suggest, something of the same high degree of intimacy between Roland Barthes and his mother as between D. H. Lawrence and his. 

 

Thus, for example, the opening note of the former's Mourning Diary which suggests that the first night grieving for one's mother is comparable in terms of its passion and emotional intensity to a wedding night, reminds me of the opening verse from one of the latter's early poems:

"My love looks like a girl tonight,

      But she is old.

The plaits that lie along her pillow

      Are not gold,

But threaded with filigree silver,

      And uncanny cold."

 

The same poem concludes: 

"Nay, but she sleeps like a bride, and dreams her dreams 

      Of perfect things.

She lies at last, the darling, in the shape of her dream,

      And her dead mouth sings ..." [d]

 

 

On the Maternal Body

 

This first note is followed by one written the next day in which Barthes, who was homosexual, counters the accusation that he has never known a woman's body: "I have known the body of my mother, sick and then dying." [4]    

 

Me too: and it's only now that I stop to think of the strangeness of this fact; that one was fated to care for the body one was born of when that body approached its end and that from out of the death of this maternal body one is somehow issued anew. 

 

To quote from Lawrence once more: "My little love, my dearest / Twice you have issued me / Once from your womb, sweet mother / Once from your soul ..." [e]

 

 

On Posthumous Desire

 

The fifth fragment dated 29 October is one of the most astonishing: it exactly summarises my position and how I feel. No commentary is required, it just needs quoting in full:

"The desires I had before her death (while she was sick) can no longer be fulfilled, for that would mean it is her death that allows me to fulfill them - her death might be a liberation in some sense with regard to my desires. But her death has changed me, I no longer desire what I used to desire. I must wait - supposing that such a thing could happen - for a new desire to form, a desire following her death." [18] [f]

 

 

On Turning Life (and Death) into Literature 

 

I understand why Barthes didn't want to discuss his mother's life, let alone write about her death, for fear of "making literature out of it" [22]. 

 

However, as a writer, he just couldn't help himself - and neither can I. 

 

For like Barthes, I recognise that literature originates with a death - the death of a porcupine, for example, or perhaps even the death of the author - and that Walter Benjamin was right to say that what we ultimately seek in art is the knowledge of an event that is denied to us in reality. [g]   

 

 

On Last Words

 

Many people about to die do so in silence, particularly if, like my mother, Alzheimer's robbed them of their ability to communicate years earlier. 

 

And I'm not sure there's anything further to say to the dying beyond a certain point; kind gestures - such as a smile, a kiss, a squeeze of the hand - seem to matter more at the very end. 

 

Having said that, the romantic notion of last words - one which "falsely promises a final burst of lucidity and meaning before a person passes" [h] remains ingrained within our culture and even Barthes finds himself often thinking of his mother's words spoken "in the breath of her agony" [40].

 

Similarly, I find the final two words spoken to me by my mother constantly recurring; the first a word of greeting and the second one of recognition: Hello Stephen. The memory of these words will, I trust, always move me. [i]    

 

 

On Courage

 

Barthes is right: mourning doesn't require courage; the time for courage is when your mother is sick and requires care; when you witness her suffering, her sadness, her confusion and have to conceal your tears (or, as in my case, control your anger and frustration). 

 

 

On Absence [I]

 

Barthes is struck by the painful nature of absence; that it is not so much a lack, as a wound. And struck also by the fact that, with his mother gone, he no longer has anyone to announce his arrival to (or greet him) when he gets home. 

 

Again, I understand this perfectly. But, luckily, I have Cat for company and whilst cats may or may not understand what it is to mourn, they certainly know when we are sad, depressed, or anxious and act accordingly (i.e., attempt to comfort us).   

 

 

On Absence [II] 

 

Everytime I go upstairs and look into my mother's room, "there unexpectedly rises within me, like a bursting bubble: the realisation that she no longer exists, she no longer exists ..." [78] 

 

And I realise also that the dead are all equally dead and gone; it doesn't matter if they died two months ago, like my mother, 36 years ago like Barthes's maman, or two millennia ago like that Siberian princess preserved in ice. 

 

Death is a flat and timeless ontological plane upon which nothing matters and nothing changes and to know this - to know that the dead are eternally and absolutely dead - is also to know that we too "will die forever and completely" [119] [j].    

 

 

On the Truth of Mourning

 

The fragment dated 28 May, 1978, is another that is worth quoting in full:   

 

"The truth about mourning is quite simple: now that  maman is dead, I am faced with death (nothing any longer separates me from it except time)."

Unfortunately, being 60 - the same age as Barthes when he wrote this - there's not even a great deal of time any longer separating me from death (although, hopefully, I'll not be hit by a laundry van in the near future) [k].  

 

But this tragic realisation enables one to understand why it was Nietzsche taught his readers not to pray, but to bless ...

 

 

On Some Sunny Day

 

In a very brief hand-scribbled note left for me and my sister, my mother expressed her hope that, one day, we'd meet again. I don't think that's very likely (or even very desirable; the thought of personal immortality is one I find laughable and abhorrent) [l].

 

But, like Marcel Proust, Barthes is devastated by the fact his mother has died and echoes the author of À la recherche du temps perdu when he writes: "If I were sure of meeting Maman again, I'd die right away." [157]

 

 

On Acedia

 

As we know, the ancient Greeks had a word for everything, including that state of listless indifference in which the heart slowly contracts and hardens: ἀκηδία - or, as we write in Latinised modern English, acedia (or accidie). 

 

It's a concept that Christian theologians borrowed and developed in moral terms; and it's a concept that many writers in the 20th century seemed to have a penchant for, though tending to discuss it as a psychological (or existential) phenomenon. Aldous Huxley, for example, wrote an essay on the subject and concluded that it was one of the main afflictions of the modern age [m].

 

Walter Benjamin also gave acedia an important place within his literary criticism, describing it as an indolence of the heart [n]; whilst Barthes, writing in his Mourning Diary, notes that whilst he believed that following his mother's death there would be a liberation in kindness, what has actually happened is he finds himself "unable to invest lovingly in any other being" [118].

 

In a later fragment, he defines acedia as a form of desolating egoism and writes:

 

"Horrible figure of mourning: acedia, hard-heartedness: irritability, impotence to love. Anguished because I don't know how to restore generosity to my life - or love." [178]            

 

Again, it pains to me say, but I know exactly what he means ...  

Maintaining the Quotidian

 

When my mother died, I thought I'd want to flee the house; to get out as often as possible and meet as many people as possible; to get back into the world. 

 

But, two months on, I've been nowhere and seen no one and I think Barthes provides a clue as to why this is; one tries to continue living - for a while at least - as if she were still here and according not so much to her values, but her needs. 

 

By maintaining the household order (or what Barthes terms the domestic quotidian) - cooking, cleaning, shopping, etc. - one shares in the activities that shaped her life and it's a way of remembering and silently conversing with her [o].

Anti-Mourning

 

Q: What is "the furthest from, the most antipathetic to" [196] mourning in gentle silence? 

 

A: Reading Le Monde, "in its acid and well-informed tactics" [196], says Barthes, writing in 1978; checking social media, in its malevolent toxicity, say I, here in 2023.   

 

In Memory / Filial Piety

 

Like Sade, Barthes has no concern for posterity; no desire to be read and remembered after he's dead; no wish for a monument. He is, he says, perfectly content to vanish completely [p].

 

However, Barthes cannot accept that this should be the case for his mother; "perhaps because she has not written and her memory depends entirely on me" [234]. 

That's why I'm writing this post (and those related to it); I would also like my mother's kindness and modesty to be recorded. As I said at her funeral [q], if I don't speak up for her, no one will (certainly not my sister). 

 

But as Barthes's translator Richard Howard notes, perhaps the ultimate task of every son is neither to bury nor sing the praises his mother, but to show a little gratitude; "to exalt her exceptional contribution to his own happiness" [260].   

 

 

Notes

 

[a] The English edition of this work by Barthes was translated by Richard Howard as Mourning Diary and published by Hill and Wang in 2010. All page numbers in the post refer to this edition. 

      Arguably, it might have been better to have come up with an alternative title. For in a note of November 30, 1977, Barthes instructs: "Don't say mourning. It's too psychoanalytic. I'm not mourning. I'm suffering." For Barthes, this Proustian notion of suffering is that which remains (ever present) when emotivity passes. See pp. 73 and 103-04.   

 

[b] Barthes writes in the note dated 20 July, 1978, on p. 163, that he finds the idea of taking an anti-depressant drug to help him overcome his grief shameful; as if suffering were a disease, rather than something essential. 

 

[c] In a fragment on p. 71 of the Mourning Diary, dated 29 November, 1977, Barthes writes: "I can't endure seeing my suffering being reduced - being generalized - (à la Kierkegaard): it's as if it were being stolen from me." 

      However, he later realises the importance of transforming suffering from a static stage to a fluid state. See the fragment dated 13 June, 1978, on p. 142.

 

[d] D. H. Lawrence, 'The Bride', in The Poems, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 65-66.  

[e] D. H. Lawrence, 'The Virgin Mother', in The Poems, pp. 66.

 

[f] See also the fragment dated 16 November, 1977 on p. 53: "Sometimes roused by desires [...] but they're desires of before - somehow anachronistic; they come from another shore, another country, the country of before."

 

[g] Later in his Mourning Diary, Barthes will admit that writing is his salvation and that depression is when "in the depths of despair, I cannot manage to save myself by my attachment to writing". 

      See the fragments dated 21 November, 1977 on pp. 59 and 62. See also the fragment on p. 105 dated 23 March 1978 in which Barthes speaks of integrating his suffering with his writing in his book on photography (Camera Lucida). And finally, see the notes dated 17 and 18 of January, 1979, on pp. 224-225, in which Barthes admits that since his mother's death he has no desire to construct anything new except in writing.    

 

[h] Michael Erard, 'What People Actually Say Before They Die', The Atlantic (16 Jan 2019): click here.

[i] Having said that, Barthes acknowledges (with horror) the possibility that the memory of a mother's last words will one day fail to move (make cry or make smile). See the fragment dated 19 November, 1977 on p. 57. 

[j] Having said that, in a thanatological fragment published back in September 2014, I wrote:

      "We shouldn't reify death, nor confuse the fact of our own individual death with non-being. At most, death might be seen as a temporary pause or refreshment before the inevitable return to what Nick Land describes as the compulsive dissipation of life." 

      

[k] On 25 February 1980, Barthes was knocked down by the driver of a laundry van while walking home through the streets of Paris. He died from his injuries one month later, aged 64. 

 

[l] I'm a little more sympathetic to the idea of metempsychosis (i.e., the transmigration of souls) and like the idea of atoms being endlessly recycled and assembled into new bodies and objects of all kinds. Seeing the swallows flying "through the summer evening air" whilst on holiday in Morocco, Barthes tells himself: "how barbarous not to believe in souls - in the immortality of souls!" See the fragment dated 13 July, 1978 on p. 159. 

 

[m] See Huxley's essay 'Accidie' in On the Margin (George H. Doran Company, 1923), pp. 25-31. Readers can also click here to read the essay online in the Project Gutenberg ebook.   

[n] See Walter Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama, trans. John Osborne, (Verso, 2003).

 

[o] See the fragments dated 18 August, 1978 on pp. 190 and 192. 

[p] In his will, the Marquis de Sade expressed the wish that his grave be strewn with acorns, so that it would be eventually covered with oak trees. In this way, "any trace of my grave will disappear from the face of the earth, just as I trust the memory of me will fade from the minds of everyone, save for the few who in their goodness have loved me to the last". 

      See the English translation (from which I quote) by R. J. Dent in Philosophy Now, Issue 143 (April/May 2021): click here to read online. 

[q] See the post entitled 'From a Baby in a Basket ...' (27 Feb 2023) which reproduces in full the few lines spoken at my mother's funeral: click here. 

"And so, my love, my mother,

I shall always be true to you."

On Being Followed by a Seagull

(SA/2023)

 

"It is right for a gull to fly -

freedom is the very nature of its being ..." [1]

 

I. 

 

The other day, walking in the park, I was followed by a seagull. Although it might simply be the case that he was hoping for some food, a poet friend insists on the symbolic (and spiritual) importance of the event.

 

Apparently, these intelligent and beautiful birds are not merely noisy opportunists, but able to travel between realms and bring us messages (or warnings) from the dead. 

 

Normally, I wouldn't give much time to such a thought, but as I'm still mourning the death of my mother - who loved birds - I'm inclined to be a little more receptive to the idea that the gull wanted me to know something. 

 

But what? 

 

That, of course, is the question - and the difficulty. How can one know that one has interpreted a message from the dead carried by a feathered messenger correctly? 

 

I'm not sure you can. But this is my attempt to do so ...

 

 

II.

 

As the bird remained silent, I assume it wasn't telling me to find my own voice. 

 

In fact, I'm keen to speak less and look more these days; to move away from the written text towards the world of images; to put down the pen and pick up the paintbrush; to exchange the computer keyboard for the camera. 

 

So maybe the gull was encouraging me with this; to quietly find my wings, so to speak, as a visual artist and fly above past limitations and the somewhat grim (anxiety-inducing) circumstances of the present (health issues, money worries, threats from Google to terminate this blog because I have violated their community guidelines, etc.).    

 

I certainly prefer to interpret being followed by a seagull as a good sign; as something positive, rather than a bad omen and one recalls the words of Luce Irigaray, who wrote some very lovely lines concerning the precious and mysterious assistance she has received in her life and work directly from birds:

 

"Birds are our friends. But also our guides, our scouts. Our angels in some respect. They accompany persons who are alone, comfort them, restoring their health and their courage. Birds do more. Birds lead one's becoming. The birds' song heals many a useless word [...] restores silence, delivers silence. The bird consoles, gives back to life, but not to inertia." [2] 

 

It may well be that a storm of some kind is approaching and I need to think a little more seriously about the future than I normally do. But somehow, as long as there are birds still nesting and calling in the world, I believe everything will be fine. 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, (Macmillan, 1970). I'm quoting this from memory, so it might not be dead-on balls accurate, as Miss Mona Lisa Vito might say. 

[2] Luce Irigaray, 'Animal Compassion', trans. Marilyn Gaddis Rose, in Animal Philosophy, ed. Matthew Atterton and Peter Calarco, (Continuum, 2004), p. 197. I first quoted these lines in a post published ten years ago; see 'Feathered Friends' (9 Jan 2013): click here. 

I Am Heinrich Heine

Portrait of Heinich Heine 

by Moritz Daniel Oppenheim (1831)

 

I. 

 

Readers may recall that I recently had a run-in with the Google censor-bots [1] that now patrol the sites hosted by Blogger, seeking out content which infringes their community guidelines.

 

Several posts on Torpedo the Ark have now been flagged for review and subsequently placed behind warning notices which let readers know that they contain sensitive content. 

 

Although they can still access the offending posts if they wish to do so, readers must first acknowledge these notices and confirm they are old enough to access adult material.  

 

As for me, I'm invited by the Blogger Team to update the content so as to adhere to Blogger's guidelines; once I have done so, I can then republish the posts and ask that their status be reviewed.

 

 

II. 

 

If all this wasn't troubling enough, Google have now gone a step further and actively deleted a post - without any prior notice or permission sought - on the grounds that it doesn't simply infringe but violates their guidelines - which is a particularly strong term to use. 

 

Just for the record: the post in question - 'On the Figure of the Prostitute' (15 May 2013) - did not advocate vice nor lend support to the illegal sex trade; nor did it use an image that could possibly be described as obscene or pornographic.

 

In fact, the post was a critique of sexual exploitation within a free market economy and phallocratic order, which affirmed the feminist position that within such an order there are no bad women, only bad laws. 

 

So, I'm a little puzzled as to what it is Google find so offensive in the above post - and I'm more than a little troubled by the threatening (and fascistic) nature of their closing remark:

 

"We encourage you to review the full content of your blog posts to make sure that they are in line with our standards, as additional violations could result in termination of your blog." 

 

One can only respond to this by paraphrasing the words of the nineteenth century German-Jewish poet Heinrich Heine: Where they terminate blogs, they will, in the end, terminate human beings too ... [2]

 

 

Notes

 

[1] See the post entitled 'Torpedo the Ark Versus the Censor-Bots' (1 March 2023): click here. 

 

[2] In his play of 1821, Almansor, Heinrich Heine wrote: "Dort, wo man Bücher verbrennt, verbrennt man am Ende auch Menschen."

Submission

Sex Pistols: 'Submission' (1977) [1]

 

I. 

 

According to Rotten's recollection, it was Malcolm who suggested the band should write a BDSM-themed song with the title 'Submission' - they were, after all, called the SEX Pistols, although only guitarist Steve Jones seemed to have an eye for the ladies, Rotten once famously dismissing the act of love as merely a couple of minutes squelching [2].

 

So perhaps no surprise that Rotten would decide to interpret the word submission as sub-mission, i.e., a submarine mission and write a song that is less about kinky sex of the sort McLaren fantasised and more about an immersive experience with a mysterious girl and her watery love [3].   

 

Reflecting on the song years later, Rotten said that whilst he and other band members enjoyed the punning humour of 'Submission', Malcolm failed to see the joke and, as a result, didn't ever attempt to suggest or shape the lyrical content of a song again, which, if true, is a shame; for Malcolm was clearly the guiding spirit and intelligence of everything that came out of 430 Kings Road, including the Sex Pistols [4]. 

 

 

II. 

 

One assumes that McLaren was hoping Rotten might come up with something simlar to 'Venus in Furs' by the Velvet Underground, a track inspired by Masoch's famous novel of that title published in 1870 [5]. 

 

Unfortunately, however, Rotten is no Lou Reed and, as noted, kinky themes of sadomasochism, bondage, and submission mean nothing to him - or, at most, they provide an opportunity to mock those who do take these things seriously. Sex, style and subversion may be central to McLaren's philosophy and aesthetic, but Rotten is all about sarcasm, scorn and sneering. 

 

In a sense, Malcolm might have been better off kicking Rotten out of the band earlier than he did and bringing in another talented young singer-songwriter, namely, Adam Ant, who immediately quit the pub rock outfit Bazooka Joe (for whom he played bass) after seeing the Sex Pistols in November 1975 [6]. 

 

Adam soon fell in with key figures on the London punk scene, including Jordan, who famously worked at SEX, and, unlike Rotten, he was more than happy to explore the pervy world of fetish, producing some fantastic songs on the subject, such as 'Whip in My Valise' and 'Beat My Guest' [7]. He even coined a motto for his band Adam and the Ants which read: Ant music for sex people. 

 

Unfortunately, it would be two years after the breakup of the Sex Pistols, in January 1980, before McLaren finally paid attention to Adam and agreed to manage - or, more accurately, mentor - him for a month, receiving a flat fee of a £1000. It was from Malcolm, that Adam got his pirate-Apache look and the Burundi drum sound - so a bargain, really, although it also cost him the loss of his band, who left with McLaren to form Bow Wow Wow ... but that's another post.

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols (Virgin, 1977) was originally released as an 11-track album, but included 'Submission' as a one-sided 7" single. It was soon added to the album and the 2012 remastered version can be heard by clicking here.

 

[2] See Charles M. Young's feature on (and interviews with) the Sex Pistols - 'Rock is Sick and Living in London' - in Rolling Stone (20 Oct 1977): click here. 

      Asked if he shares Sid's view that sex is boring, Rotten replies: "Love is two minutes and fifty seconds of squelching noises. It shows your mind isn't clicking right." It was a quote greatly appreciated by the writer Aubron Waugh.

[3] It's possible, of course, that Rotten has, in fact, penned an erotic number - even if it was primarily designed to annoy McLaren. Repeatedly singing about going down, for example, suggests an interest in oral sex and when Rotten refers to her undercurrent flowing one can't help but imagine that the song references either female ejaculation or golden showering. Ultimately, whilst I have no idea if Rotten has a penchant for urophilia, it's undeniably the case that he enjoys taking the piss. 

[4] Rotten would like the world to to believe that he almost singlehandedly wrote the songs, only begrudgingly admitting the role played by other band members. But it's hard to imagine that he would have come up with 'Anarchy in the U.K.' without McLaren putting ideas in his head and 'Pretty Vacant' was almost certainly written at the latter's instigation after he was inspired by Richard Hell's 'Blank Generation' (I discussed this in an earlier post that can be accessed by clicking here).   

 

[5] 'Venus in Furs', by the Velvet Underground - a band managed by McLaren's artistic hero Andy Warhol - was originally released on the 1967 album The Velvet Underground & Nico. Readers who wish to listen can click here.

 

[6] In fact, the Sex Pistols - playing their first ever show - opened for Bazooka Joe at Saint Martin's Art College on 6 November, 1975.   

 

[7] 'Whip in My Valise' originally featured as the B-side of the Adam and the Ants single 'Zerox', released in July 1979. It was also added to the 1983 re-issue of the album Dirk Wears White Sox.

      'Beat My Guest' would eventually turn up as the B-side of 'Stand and Deliver', a single released in May 1981, and on the compilation album B-Side Babies (1994) Click here for the first of these tracks and here for the latter. 

No Feelings

Jamie Reid: No Feelings (1977) [1]

tate.org.uk.

 

 

When Sex Pistol Johnny Rotten informs us that he has no feelings how are we to interpret this? 

 

Some suggest it's a sign of apathy - a key term within the punk lexicon. 

 

And it's certainly true that Rotten often exhibits emotional emptiness as sneering indifference; informing listeners of 'Pretty Vacant', for example, that there's no point asking him to care about what's happening in the world as he's out to lunch [2].

 

Others have suggested that we might also consider 'No Feelings' in relation to the neuropsychological phenomenon of alexithymia - i.e., that Rotten's problem is not so much an inability to feel, but identify, acknowledge, and express emotions. 

 

As an accomplished lyricist, however, Rotten is very rarely lost for words, so I think we can safely assume he doesn't suffer from alexithymia - and even his apathy is, ultimately, just another punk affectation or pose.  

 

Indeed, even the aggressive narcissism of 'No Feelings' is clearly put on for comic effect (although, sadly, Lydon's genuine self-regard has - like his waistline - expanded massively over the years).      

 

 

Notes

 

[1] This work takes its name from a song of the same title - 'No Feelings' - by the Sex Pistols, for whom Reid constructed a powerful graphic identity, designing record sleeves, posters, etc. The song can be found on Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols (Virgin, 1977): click here. Or, to watch the band perform the song live at the Longhorn Ballroom in Dallas, Texas, on 10 Jan 1978, click here. 

 

[2] To listen to 'Pretty Vacant' on Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols (Virgin, 1977), click here. To watch the official video (as played on Top of the Pops), click here. And for an earlier post on Torpedo the Ark (30 July 2018) discussing this song, click here.

Bodies

"I'm not a discharge / I'm not a loss in protein 

I'm not a throbbing squirm"

 

 

I. 

 

The debate around the issue of abortion is often loud and ugly, with those who take up the polarised (and politicised) positions of either pro-life or pro-choice often viewing the matter as one in which there is no compromise possible. 

For the former, abortion is wrong in most if not all circumstances on the grounds that human life begins at conception and an unborn baby deserves protection. For the latter, on the other hand, affirmation of a woman's right to bodily autonomy is sacrosanct over and above all other considerations, including any supposed rights of an embryo or foetus.    

But, of course, no issue is cut and dried and abortion is (in every sense of the word) a messy business. To discuss it fully requires consideration of complex moral, legal, and medical questions. I'm not, however, here to address the question of abortion from the perspective of a priest, a lawyer, or a doctor. Rather, I'm interested in it in relation to a controversial song by the Sex Pistols entitled 'Bodies' ...     

 

 

II.

 

To be honest, I never much liked 'Bodies' although it seems to be a fan favourite and the band would often open their live set with the song, so one assumes they always enjoyed playing it. 

 

Found on the album Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols (1977), 'Bodies' tells the true and terrible tale of a female fan from Birmingham called Pauline, who stalked the group whilst carrying an aborted foetus in a plastic bag [1]. 

 

According to the song's graphic and expletive-laden lyrics, this schizophrenic young woman lived in a tree house in the grounds of a mental institution at one time and made even Nancy Spungen seem sane and reasonable in comparison.

 

Apparently, Pauline recounted her experiences of having had several abortions to Rotten at length and in detail and it was these stories that inspired him to write 'Bodies'. 

 

Interestingly, the song is sung from multiple perspectives and is not quite the reactionary and misogynistic anti-abortion diatribe that it is now thought to be by many liberal critics [2], including the loathsome Mark Kermode, who finds the song absolutely reprehensible and thinks it explains why it is Lydon ends up as a Trump supporter [3].

 

What it doesn't do is shy away from the tragic aspect of abortion, which some activists who identify as pro-choice are often keen to overlook, deny, or downplay. It's a difficult track to listen to, but Rotten here as elsewhere captures some of the horror, pain, confusion, and ambiguity that characterises human life conceived as a gurgling bloody mess.             

 

 

Notes

 

[1] To listen to the version of 'Bodies' that appears on Never Mind the Bollocks, click here. To watch the song being performed live at the Longhorn Ballroom in Dallas, Texas Tuesday, on 10 Jan 1978, click here.  

 

[2] It should be pointed out that there are also some on the right who have interpreted 'Bodies' as one of the greatest conservative rock songs; charting, for example, at number 8 on John J. Miller's list of fifty such songs in the National Review (5 June 2006): click here.  

 

[3] Whilst discussing Danny Boyle's 6-part miniseries Pistol with his (equally odious) sidekick Simon Mayo on their podcast Kermode and Mayo's Take (1 June 2022), the former makes clear his moral contempt of the Sex Pistols - particularly Rotten and particularly the song 'Bodies' - click here and go to 4:12 - 4:48.  

     

Brief Notes on David Bowie's 'Life on Mars'

David Bowie looking perfect in the video for 

'Life on Mars' (dir. Mick Rock, 1973)

 

 

David Bowie's arty glam rock ballad 'Life on Mars' is three minutes and forty-eight seconds of pure pop perfection [1].

 

Originally included as a track on his 1971 album Hunky Dory, it was released as a single in the summer of 1973 and although it only got to number three in the UK charts - kept off the number one spot first by Slade, then Peters and Lee, and, finally, Gary Glitter - I agree with the many fans and critics who believe it to be Bowie's finest song; one that became, rather ironically, his 'My Way' - i.e., the signature song he would frequently return to in performance throughout his career and which turns up again and again on compilation albums [2].         

 

To promote the single, photographer Mick Rock filmed a video that shows a heavily made-up Bowie looking extraordinarily beautiful in an ice-blue satin suit designed by Freddie Buretti [3] and miming the song against a stark white backdrop. 

It is, in its own way, just as perfect as the song and Rock achieves what he set out to do; namely, create a musical painting that captures perfectly what Malcolm McLaren would term the look of music and the sound of fashion.

 

In 2016, the video was remastered and re-edited by Rock and uses a remixed version of the song by the original producer Ken Scott, which strips the track back to strings, piano and vocals: click here - and enjoy!

Notes

 

[1] What makes 'Life on Mars' so perfect, apart from Bowie's own vocal performance and talent as a songwriter, is the string arrangement composed by guitarist Mick Ronson and Rick Wakeman's excellent playing of the same studio piano that was used by the Beatles when recording 'Hey Jude' in 1968 (and, later, in 1975, by Queen for their own moment of pop perfection 'Bohemian Rhapsody').  

 

[2] This is ironic because Bowie wrote 'Life on Mars' as an intentional parody of 'My Way' - the original French version of which, by Claude François and Jacques Revaux (entitled Comme d'habitude), he had once supplied English lyrics for (rejected by the song's French publishers). 

      Shortly afterwards, much to Bowie's annoyance, Paul Anka purchased the rights to the song and rewrote it as 'My Way', which was then recorded and made famous by Sinatra in 1969. In order to show that he was just as capable of creating an equally epic song, Bowie effortlessly tossed off 'Life on Mars'.      

 

[3] For more on Freddie Buretti, see the post entitled 'On the Designers Who Dressed David Bowie' (19 Dec 2017): click here.

Is There Life on Mars?

Is There Life on Mars? (SA/2023)

 

 

The question of whether there is - or at some point has been - life on Mars is one that continues to excite the popular imagination, as well as arouse the professional interest of astrobiologists.

 

Indeed, the seach for microbial Martian life or, at the very least, traces of such life - so called biosignatures - is one of the main reasons NASA keep sending missions to the Red Planet.    

 

However, whilst evidence has been found that Mars could have once supported life in the past - for it wasn't always the dry and arid planet that we know today - there's nothing to indicate that life is still present now.      

 

But the thing is, I don't really understand why it matters or why anyone should care: for whilst there may or may not have been life on Mars billions of years ago, there's presently an abundant and mind-boggling variety of living organisms here on Earth - it's the freakiest show, as Bowie might say.

 

Indeed, as the above photograph illustrates, there's probably more life to be found on a single red tile of my front door step than on the entire surface of the Red Planet and surely we should cherish and preserve this life, rather than spend billions of dollars looking for alien beings.        

 

For me, a tiny baby garden snail inspires far more wonder than E.T. (Oh man, look at those molluscs go!)

On the Ugly Truth and Beautiful Fiction of Butch Cassidy

 Who are those guys?

 Prison mugshot of Robert LeRoy Parker (1894)

Publicity photo of Paul Newman as Butch Cassidy (1969)

 

On this day, in April 1866, the (in)famous American outlaw and leader of the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang [1] Robert LeRoy Parker - better known as Butch Cassidy - was born in Utah, the son of English immigrants (his mother, like mine, was a Geordie lass from Tyneside).

 

Parker's life (and death) have been so extensively dramatised (and, indeed, mythologised) in film, TV, and literature, that he has assumed legendary status as a figure of the Wild West during its late period at the tail end of the nineteenth-century and beginning of the twentieth-century.

 

In fact, it's almost impossible when thinking of Parker not to immediately have an image in one's mind's eye of Paul Newman playing the role of an affable and intelligent Butch Cassidy (alongside Robert Redford as the rather more laconic Sundance Kid) in the ridiculously entertaining 1969 film directed by George Roy Hill and written by William Goldman.    

 

Ultimately, beautiful fiction always wins out over brutal fact, and that's why far more people know Newman's handsome face in relation to the story of Butch Cassidy than know Parker's ugly mug - and it's why whenever the movie is shown on TV I have to watch it, whereas I wouldn't dream of reading a biography of Parker (or even writing a lengthy post about him) [2].      

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Although in the film Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969), Parker and his criminal cohorts were referred to as the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang, they were actually known as the Wild Bunch (a name they borrowed from another gang of outlaws - the Doolin-Dalton Gang). 

      The Hole-in-the-Wall was a popular hideout in Wyoming for several gangs whose members may have interacted on occasion, but mostly operated independently. 

 

[2] Having said that, I would like to read more about Etta Place - the female companion of Parker and Harry A. Longabaugh (the Sundance Kid), who accompanied them to South America and participated in at least one robbery. 

      Sadly, however, little seems to be known about her, other than the fact she was a very striking young woman, as the picture below taken in NYC in 1901 (alongside her lover Sundance) illustrates. 

      In the 1969 film, Place is played by Katharine Ross and said to be a schoolteacher (screenwriter William Goldman rejected claims that she was a prostitute). Upon returning to the United States in 1906, it is believed Place settled in San Francisco. After that, she vanishes from the historical record ...     

 

 

 

Musical bonus: 'Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head', written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969), sung by B. J. Thomas. Click here. 

 

 

Dinner with Malcolm at L'Escargot

Malcolm McLaren enjoying a glass of wine in 1984 [1].

 

 

I.

L'Escargot is London's oldest - arguably finest and most famous - French restaurant [2].

 

Housed in a mid-18th century Georgian townhouse and located in the heart of Soho, L'Escargot was established by snail-loving Georges Gaudin, a painted sculpture of whom still sits astride a giant snail outside the restaurant to this day (see image below).

Ella Alexander - no relation - provides an excellent description in a review piece for Harper's Bazaar:

 

"If L'Escargot were a person, it would be a wealthy French dandy never seen without his cane, cravat or cigar. London's oldest restaurant is a bastion of Soho decadence, where red velvet, chandeliers and jacquard curtains still reign. It's as far from modern luxe as you can imagine, which is all part of its charm." [3]

 

Regrettably, I've only had the pleasure of dining there once - almost 40 years ago - when L'Escargot was owned by husband and wife team Nick Lander and Jancis Robinson, and managed by Elena Salvoni, widely recognised as one of the greatest maître d's of the time and known fondly by regulars as the Queen of Soho [4]. 

 

But it was a memorable night for me - not so much because of the food (mushroom soup followed by pheasant), but because of the company; for it was one of the few times I accompanied Malcolm McLaren for dinner and got to enjoy his unique genius in a more relaxed setting than the office on Denmark Street ...

 

 

 II.

 

Note: the following account is based on an entry in the Von Hell Diaries dated Tues 27 Nov 1984. 

 

Myself and Lee Ellen - the Charisma Records Press Officer - were supposed to be going for a quick bite to eat and then to the theatre. But whilst dropping off some new photos that required his approval, Malcolm insisted that we go for dinner with him and a friend who designed rubber jewellery in the shape of fish (and who, according to Malcolm, was in the IRA).

 

After a brief discussion, it was decided we'd go to L'Escargot ...

 

Malcolm was in a very buoyant and - even by his standards - exceedingly talkative mood; he was pleased with a film made for The South Bank Show that was soon to air on TV [5] and he was looking forward to escaping the muddy hole of London and starting a number of new film projects - such as Fashion Beast - in the US. 

 

Nothing was happening any more in London and any up and coming young rascal who wanted to do something radical, should, he said, relocate either to New York, Leningrad, or Australia. 

 

Other topics of conversation (by which I mean McLaren monologue) included: the history of the English music hall; famous Victorian scandals involving the British Royal Family; the influence of Jack Zipes on contemporary readings of the fairy tale; why fascism is an ever-present danger and England in the 1980s resembles Weimar Germany in the late 1920s.  

 

Malcolm was disappointed that I had to leave early - though it was nearly 1am - and told me I was a drongo for living way out west in Chiswick and should move to Bloomsbury as soon as possible. 

 

However, he did confess that whilst an art student he dated a great big fat bird who lived in Turnham Green (he also told me that at around this time he'd shot up the Spanish Embassy with a machine gun in order to protest the Franco regime, but I have my doubts about the veracity of this latter tale) [6].  

As Malcolm and Tom walked off into the Soho night, Lee Ellen and I got a taxi to Sloane Square. Walked her home and then made my way back to Chiswick. Bed at around 3am, but couldn't sleep as I felt sick - the sign, so they say, of a good evening. 

www.lescargot.co.uk

 

Notes

 

[1] Unfortunately, in an age before smart phones, no photos were taken on the night at L'Escargot that I reminisce about here. However, this image of McLaren - screenshot from The South Bank Show (see note 5 below) - was taken only a few weeks earlier in New York and he wore the same suit on the night I dined with him in Soho.

 

[2] L'Escargot, 48, Greek Steet, Soho, London W1. The restaurant is currently closed for refurbishment, but is due to re-open on 10 May 2023.

 

[3] Ella Alexander, 'L'Escargot, London: How London's oldest French restaurant kept its allure 90 years on', Harper's Bazarre (29 June 2017): click here. 

      It's easy to understand from Alexander's description why L'Escargot would be such a popular hangout for actors, artists, and fashionistas. And whilst I'm sure McLaren liked the place, I think he found the history of nearby Kettner's - founded in 1867 - far more exciting, and used to love telling stories of how the Prince of Wales would dine there with his mistress Lillie Langtry, whilst Oscar Wilde entertained young boys in the rooms above. It was in Kettner's that he also once encouraged me to smash a window.

 

[4] Born in Clerkenwell, in 1920, to parents from Northern Italy, Elena Salvoni died in March 2016, aged 95. Having started work aged 14, at Café Bleu in Soho, she devoted her life to hospitality, ending her career at L'Etoile, also in Soho, where she continued to work even after her 90th birthday. 

      Readers who are interested can find a nice feature on Elena published in the Evening Standard (29 April 2010): click here.  

 

[5] See the recent post 'When Melvyn Met Malcolm (A Brief Reflection on The South Bank Show Episode 178)' - click here.

 

[6] Who knows, maybe it's true ... As Paul Gorman reminds us, McLaren attended several political rallies and demonstrations as an art student in the 1960s, protesting against the war in Vietnam, the apartheid regime in South Africa, etc. He was even arrested, aged 20, for burning the American flag outside the US Embassy on 4 July 1966. 

      See The Life and Times of Malcolm McLaren, (Constable, 2020), pp. 71-72. 

 

 

When Melvyn Met Malcolm (A Brief Reflection on The South Bank Show Episode 178)

Malcolm McLaren - Boy George - Adam Ant

The South Bank Show (S8/E9 - 1984)

 

The South Bank Show is a British television programme which treats high art and popular culture with equal respect. Conceived, written, and presented by Melvyn Bragg, it was originally produced by LWT and broadcast on ITV between 1978 and 2010 [1]. 

Of the many excellent episodes during this period - and there are over 730 to choose from - I suppose my favourite is the one broadcast on 2 December 1984 (S8/E9) [2], featuring Malcolm McLaren and filmed whilst the latter was recording Fans - his amusing attempt to fuse opera with R&B [3]. 

 

It's not just that the film provides an excellent insight into Malcolm's thinking, it also reveals how two of his protégés - Adam Ant and Boy George - really didn't understand his motivation, or quite get what the spirit of punk was really all about; namely, a desire not merely to question authority and challenge conventions, but destroy success (i.e., the very thing these ambitious, hard-working pop stars most wanted).   

 

When speaking about Malcolm, George, for example, says: 

 

"He's somebody who's capable of being absolutely brilliant. But for some reason, you know, he's someone who regards success as being anti what he believes in and he gets to a certain level then he wants to smash the wall down." 

 

Whilst Adam confesses (with the same disbelief at McLaren's anarcho-nihilism): 

"I don't understand all the anarchist stuff, with him. Obviously, that's a lot to do with his youth, or whatever. He likes to do things [...] and afterwards he just smashes it all to bits, he just destroys it." [4]

 

This, of course, is precisely the aspect of McLaren I most admired; the fact that, in his own words, he was not an empire builder ...

 

 

Notes

 

[1] A new version of the series began broadcasting on Sky Arts in May 2012. 

 

[2] As Paul Gorman reminds us, this episode was the brainchild of director Andy Harries and, crucially, it "conferred importance to McLaren's position in British cultural life". See The Life and Times of Malcolm McLaren, (Constable, 2020), pp. 555-56.

 

[3] Fans was McLaren's second studio album released on Charisma Records (1984). Although not an entirely convincing or successful experiment, the album did give rise to the astonishing single 'Madame Butterfly (Un bel dì vedremo)' and the steamy video that accompanied it, directed by the fashion photographer Terence Donovan: click here.

 

[4] Boy George and Adam Ant interviewed on The South Bank Show S8/E9 (1984): click here and go to 3:42 - 4:08.