A Blast From the Past

Wyndham Lewis photographed by George Charles Beresford in 1913

Front cover of the first edition of his Vorticist magazine Blast (1914)

 

"We start from opposite statements of a chosen world. 

Set up violent structure of adolescent clearness between two extremes."

 

 

I. 

 

Despite the fact that there has been renewed critical interest in his work and he is now regarded as a major British artist and writer of the twentieth century, the figure of Wyndham Lewis doesn't mean a great deal to me.  

 

Indeed, I sometimes confuse him with his friend Ezra Pound (to be fair, both were controversial figures associated with the avant-garde movement known as Vorticism and both were unpleasant characters - talented, certainly, but unpleasant).       

 

This year, however, marks the 110th anniversary of Lewis's magazine Blast and I thought I might say something about this short-lived publication in which he advanced the aesthetic ideals of Vorticism on the one hand and vilified his enemies (which, by this date, included Marinetti) on the other.    

 

 

II. 

 

When I say that Blast was short-lived, I mean it was short-lived. In fact, only two editions were ever published; the first in July 1914 and the second in July 1915. Both were primarily written (and edited) by Lewis - although other contributors included Pound, Epstein, and Rebecca West - and both cost 2/6 (or half-a-crown to you and me). 

Although the second issue doubtless contained some interesting material - including poems by T. S. Eliot and a short play by Pound - it's the first issue with its punk-looking bright pink cover that is recognised as a seminal text of 20th-century modernism - particularly English modernism, whose distinct style it helped create; Lewis's use of bold typographic innovations and fonts again anticipating the punk aesthetic of the 1970s.  

 

The illustrated issue featured a (mostly positive) critique of (and extracts from) Kandinsky's pioneering work, Concerning the Spiritual in Art (newly translated into English by Michael Sadleir); a plea to suffragettes not to destroy works of art; a review of an exhibition held in London of Expressionist woodcuts; and an open attack on Marinetti's model of Futurism (dismissed as little more than an up-to-date Impressionism).

 

The opening twenty pages of Blast 1, however, were taken up with the Vorticist manifesto ...

 

 

III.

 

Written by Lewis, the manifesto is primarily a long list of things that deserved either to be Blessed or Blasted, depending on how he perceived them at the time; one is tempted to say that Lewis woke up one day and suddenly knew which side of the bed he was lying on ... Among those blasted were members of the Bloomsbury Group and among those blessed were hairdressers who, for a small fee, attacked Mother Nature.    

 

Perhaps predictably, the English press was unimpressed, finding the writing dull and describing the artwork and typography as simply a pale imitation of the Futurist style (much to Marinetti's amusement and delight). 

 

Although after the War Lewis attempted to revive the avant-garde and declared his intention to publish a third edition of Blast, essentially the game was up and the world had moved on. Four years of mechanised slaughter and unrelenting horror had put things in perspective and many former revolutionaries were now hoping for a little peace and quiet and looked to more traditional art values. 

 

By 1920, even Lewis had to admit that the age of Vorticism was over and these days Blast is itself a museum piece.       

 

 

Fragments of Remembrance

Gathered here are six little fragments of text written in remembrance of authors who have, at one time or another, meant something special to me. Arguably, they might be read as an attempt to bear witness to the uniqueness of the relationship that one has with the writers and the books that one loves. And, indeed, with the dead.

Not that these somewhat incomplete and unfinished verses constitute anything so grand as a poetry or a politics of mourning. In writing them, I think I simply (and at the risk of banality) wanted to record an affection, rather than produce art or pass judgement.

In Memory of Anaïs Nin 

Many types of flow - of madness and literature, desire and disintegration - 

traversed the queer forest of her body in which gay little birds twittered 

obscenely and dark poppies blossomed.

In Memory of Henry Miller

A boy from Brooklyn: a pornographer: a mystic.

A son-of-a-bitch quoting Nietzsche in an East Coast accent,
whilst parading round Paris with a personal hard-on like the
happiest man alive.

In Memory of Friedrich Nietzsche

Bones, a few biographical details, the odd photograph,

and a small number of books: the remains of a dead

philosopher.

And yet he is more alive now, in death,
than he was in life, having become that
posthumous individual he said he would.

And this childless man is today father to us all.


In Memory of Sylvia Plath

I do not like the English summer, unfolded
into green completion and the smugness of
strawberries and cream.

Intolerable the seasonal stupidity of the natives;
one yearns for the first breath of autumn and
the fresh reassurance of rain.

Even, like a spinster, I long for winter,
so scrupulously austere.

In Memory of Marinetti

When I think of Marinetti
hurling defiance at the stars
beneath a violent electric moon,

I think of a bald-headed little man
in a bow-tie masturbating whilst
erect on the summit of the world.

Instinctively, one can't help but smile
at how quickly this ludicrous lover
of the machine and the manifesto
became passé.


In Memory of the Marquis de Sade

A monster, say his jailers.
Perhaps.

But, if so, then a monster of generosity
and good will, in whose name sex and
death entwine to produce a singular
form of love.