Fridamania: Notes on an Accident and Becoming a Ballardian Angel

Salma Hayek as Frida Kahlo in the bus crash scene [1]  

in Frida (dir. Julie Taymor, 2002)

 

I. 

 

Like most people, I knew that the Mexican artist Frida Kahlo had been seriously injured in a collision involving a wooden bus and an electric streetcar (that may or may not have been named Deseo). But until a few days ago, I didn't know details of the accident or the nature and extent of her injuries. 

 

Now that I do, however, I can see why this event has taken on such metaphorical (and near mythical) status. It wasn't fatal, but it was certainly fateful and reveals not only the brutal reality of what happens when vulnerable bodies are smashed by merciless mechanical forces, but how moments of grotesque horror and suffering can have terrible beauty and be transformative.   

 

Kahlo would say afterwards that she lost her virginity on the day of the accident: the broken iron handrail that pierced her lower body entered via her pelvic region and exited through her vagina (puncturing her uterus as it did so) [2]. But she was not only born a woman on 17 September 1925, but born an artist and what might be called a Ballardian angel ...

   

 

II. 

  

For some reason, the sight of Jesus on his Cross has never really resonated with me. 

 

I know crucifixion was designed to maximise suffering over a prolonged period of time - we have the modern word excruciating to remind us of this - and it can't be much fun to have large nails driven through one's hands and feet; as the artist Sebastian Horsley courageously confirmed in 2000 when he re-enacted the Passion of the Christ [3].  

 

But, my compassion for Jesus is limited by the fact that he predicted (some might say provoked) his own gruesome fate whilst doing nothing to prevent such, believing as he did that it was a central and pre-ordained part of God's redemptive plan. In other words, he connived in his own crucifixion and in doing so nailed us all to the Cross.   

 

Further, we are also led to believe that this act of self-sacrifice was something of a sham. For just three days later he was up and about and back from the dead having learned nothing. His resurrection renders his death meaningless - just as his supernatural ascension makes mortal life seem of no real significance. 

 

Frida Kahlo's impaling on a metal pole on the other hand - her rebirth and transformation - seems much more real, much more beautiful, much more moving, much more inspiring to me. I don't adore Kahlo or see her as some kind feminist deity or queer icon - I don't even particularly like her work [4] - but I'd rather sip tequila with her than munch dry bread with Jesus. 

 

 

III.  

   

Unfortunately for Kahlo, all the tequila in the world wasn't enough to numb completely the severe lifelong physical pain she experienced due to the accident, multiple surgeries, several miscarriages, and the emotional distress caused by her rollercoaster marriage to fellow artist Diego Rivera (twenty years her senior).    

 

She once amusingly wrote: Bebía porque quería ahogar mis penas, pero las malvadas aprendieron a nadar ... [5]. However, we're not here to discuss her drinking habits, her unhappiness, or her art. 

 

We're here, rather, to focus on the crash which has acquired a permanent place in the popular imagination because of the highly surreal details surrounding it - most of which were actually true, including the fact that a fellow passenger was carrying a packet of gold paint powder that burst open on impact and covered Kahlo's bleeding, semi-naked body, creating a horrific yet visually striking and magical image [6]. 

 

And then there's the handrail, which we have already mentioned ... 

 

 

IV.

 

Certain people - including medieval Christians and Nazi occultists - get terribly excited over what is sometimes referred to as the Spear of Destiny (i.e., the lance with which one of the Roman soldiers is said to have pierced the side of Christ on the Cross to ensure that he was dead before being taken down). 

 

Indeed, just like Kirk Brandon, I was a little obsessed with Trevor Ravenscroft's bizarre but influential bestselling book of that title in the early-mid '80s [7].  

 

Happily, such holy relics now mean nothing to me and I find the thought of Frida Kahlo's little body being impaled with a snapped iron handrail is more fascinating to me than the thought of Jesus being pricked like a sausage by some superstitious Roman centurion. 

 

And, to tell the truth, I'm a little surprised and disappointed that J. G. Ballard didn't mention Kahlo and her accident in his astonishing novel Crash (1973) [8]. The nature and severity of her injuries and the fact she then had to rely on surgical corsets, back braces, and metal prosthetics, perfectly anticipate his work: was he never tempted to call Gabrielle Frida and give her a monobrow?  

 

V. 

 

In sum: Ballard missed a trick! 

 

Connecting Kahlo's real-life accident to his dystopian fiction would have added a brilliant layer to his study of how human trauma, technology, art, sex, and death are entwined. Like the characters in Crash who obsessively photograph and document collisions, Kahlo spent the rest of her life reimagining and mythologising the exact moment her body was fucked by public transport.  

 

Whether the nightmarish events endured by Kahlo and Ballard's crash-loving protagonists provide a liberating line of flight for everyone is, of course, debatable. Not all of us subscribe to a kinky cyborg aesthetic in which human flesh perversely fuses with metal, and wounds become the site of a new sexuality. 

 

(There are still Christians, for example, who prefer to fantasise about a spiritual union with Christ.)  

 

Ultimately, both Kahlo and Ballard suggest that when the human body is shattered by motor vehicles the victim does not simply heal; they are forced to reinvent what it means to be human within a technological world. 

 

Not that the current exhibition at the Tate - Frida: The Making of an Icon - hints at anything like this: it prefers to celebrate the clichéd and kitschy commodification of Kahlo rather than recognise her as the ultimate nightmare angel born of unimaginable violence, physical suffering, social non-conformity and revolutionary politics.

 

 

 

El accidente (17 September 1926), graphite on paper 

(Colección Juan Rafael Coronel Rivera) [9]

 

Notes

 

[1] This scene - and the surreal operating room sequence that follows in which director Julie Taymor cleverly incorporated stop-motion animation and traditional Mexican Día de los Muertos imagery - can be viewed on YouTube: click here.  

 

[2] Kahlo was a promiscuous bisexual who had affairs with figures ranging from Leon Trotsky to Josephine Baker. Nevertheless, her sexuality - like her art - was to a large extent shaped by her accident and she fucked as an act of defiance and a means of reclaiming power over (and pleasure from) a broken body. 

 

[3] See the post: 'On the Crucifixion of Sebastian Horsley' (4 April 2015). 

 

[4] The modern cultural industry has turned Kahlo into a heavily commercialised simulation and pop icon; see the sister post to this one - 'Fridamania: Notes on a Frida Kahlo Exhibition as a Perfect Crime Scene' (22 October 2026). 

 

[5] This is commonly translated into English as: 'I drank so as to drown my sorrows, but the damned things learned how to swim.' It's an internet variation of a line originally written by Kahlo in a letter to Ella Wolfe (19 October 1938); see The Letters of Frida Kahlo: Cartas Apasionadas, compiled by Martha Zamora (Chronicle Books, 1995).

 

[6] This scene was powerfully recreated in Julie Taymore's 2002 film, Frida, starring Salma Hayek - see the screenshot above which I chose to illustrate this post.

 

[7] Trevor Ravenscroft, The Spear of Destiny (Neville Spearman Publishers, 1972). 

 

[8] As far as I remember, Ballard makes no mention of Kahlo in Crash, although he does invoke her name in a much later novel Millennium People (2003), in which the character Sally Markham is obsessed by Kahlo's life and work following a serious accident in Lisbon involving a tram. Ballard shows how modern individuals often base their identities on the lives of famous people in order to add a little glamour to their own boring lives and find some sense of meaning.      

      Kahlo's absence from Crash has been a point of discussion among critics and fans of the book. See, for example, Steve Finbow's excellent essay, 'The Absent Muse: the Terminal Prosthesis of Frida Kahlo and J. G. Ballard', on creatrixmag.com (5 July 2026).  

 

[9] A year after the accident that enabled her to become the woman she was, Kahlo recalled the event in this rather charming pencil sketch. 

 

 

Strike a Match! It's Sparks vs The Clash (Ron and Russell Show Joe and Bernie How to Cut the Crap)

Fig. 1 Cover of The Clash album Cut the Crap (1985) [1]

Fig. 2 Image from the official video (2022) to 'We Are The Clash' by Sparks (2005) [2]

 

We ain't gonna be treated like trash / We got one thing: we are The Clash!

 

 

I. 

 

Although I loved their eponymous debut album - apart from 'Police and Thieves' - and have all the singles from 'White Riot' through to 'London Calling', I was never a great Clash fan: like Sebastian Horsley, I was a Sex Pistol at heart and more Soho punk dandy than Notting Hill punk phoney [2].

 

Having said that - and despite everything - it's hard not having some affection for Joe and the boys and, for some reason, I've been reading about their final days and listening to their final studio album. Released in November 1985, Cut the Crap features some truly bizarre numbers written by Strummer and Bernie Rhodes.   

 

And it's one of these tracks - 'We Are The Clash' - which I've been humming all week, that I'd like to discuss here ...

 

 

II. 

 

There are many fans of The Clash - mostly dumb Americans who don't know better - who still faithfully parrot the tagline created as a marketing slogan by the band's record label proclaiming them as The Only Band That Matters [4]. 

 

But even some of these fans tend to keep quiet and look away when the album Cut the Crap is mentioned, or desperately try to return the conversation to London Calling (1979). They want to remember The Clash as a quasi-mythical band and punk as defined by The Clash as something noble, cohesive, and heroic. But the truth is far messier and, actually, far more interesting ... 

 

For the story of The Clash doesn't end with Mick Jones's departure in September 1983 (as much as many fans and critics wish it had). The band continued playing and recording with a new lineup; one still with Strummer up front and Paul Simonon on bass, but now including Pete Howard on drums [5], Nick Sheppard on lead guitar, and Vince White on rhythm guitar. 

 

This five-piece lineup, sometimes called Clash Mk II [6], toured extensively throughout 1984 and were credited as working on Cut the Crap - although this was very much a Strummer-Rhodes production and relied heavily on the contribution of outside musicians and the latest studio technology [7]. 

 

 

III.

 

Under pressure from manager Bernie Rhodes, the man who knows more and knows better than anyone else about popular culture - as The Specials testified back in 1979 - Joe Strummer made the fateful (and extraordinarily stupid) move of sacking band co-founder and his songwriting partner Mick Jones in 1983 and attempting to return The Clash to their more aggressive punk roots [8].

Unfortunately, the album that resulted - Cut the Crap - failed to convince and Strummer dissolved the band almost immediately afterwards. He continued to describe 'This Is England' as the last great Clash song, but he disowned the rest of the album and songs from it have been almost entirely erased from official box sets and the band's musical history.   

And yet, arguably, Cut the Crap serves a similar role as The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle (1979); it exposes all parties involved as creatively exhausted and surviving only on ego and past glory as they head towards a spectacular public implosion. And perhaps this failure teaches us more than the commercially successful Combat Rock (1982) that preceded it.  

 

And, funnily enough, whilst I might not agree with Bernie that Cut the Crap is a genre-defying masterpiece that paved the way for the synth pop and electro hip hop that followed, I do genuinely prefer 'We Are The Clash' to 'Rock the Casbah' - and it seems that Ron and Russell Mael might possibly agree ... 

 

 

IV.

 

Released originally in 2006, Hello Young Lovers was the twentieth studio album by genius American pop duo Sparks [9]. It was then remastered and reissued in 2022 on vinyl, CD, and as a digital release as part of the five album 21st Century Sparks collection. 

 

The CD and digital formats contain two bonus tracks: one of which (released as a digital single) is an amusing cover of 'We Are The Clash' that was recorded for an Uncut magazine compilation CD in 2003, titled White Riot Volume 2: A Tribute to The Clash. 

 

What are we to make of this? 

 

Is it just a piss take - or is it a genuine attempt to pay tribute to the punk band by taking one of their lesser-known songs from an almost universally maligned album and invest it with their own kind of magic, transforming a guitar-driven punk track into a theatrical piece of art pop with string arrangements and a piano? 

 

To be honest, I'm not sure. 

 

And the music critics seem uncertain also whether it's perverse, fearless, or perverse and fearless. Readers can open the link in note two below and decide for themselves. Personally, I think it's rather lovely and, strangely, it reminds me of another song by The Clash, 'Hitsville U.K.' [10]. 

 

Po-faced punks and militant Clash City Rockers who hate on Ron and Russell or question why they bothered excavating this track from the forbidden zone - who fail to delight in the ability of the Mael brothers to cut the crap and turn a fairly shitty song into genuine pop gold - can go fuck themselves.     

 

Notes 

 

[1] Cut the Crap was the sixth and final studio album released by The Clash (CBS Records, 1985). 'We Are The Clash' was the third track on side one - and, arguably, one of the catchier songs written by Joe Strummer and Bernie Rhodes (although it was the drab and depressing 'This Is England' that was released as the only single from the album). 

 

[2] 'We Are The Clash' is a rarely heard tribute to the punk band by Sparks from 2005 released as a bonus track on CD + digital on the new edition of Hello Young Lovers (BMG, 2006). Click on the link to watch the official visualizer on YouTube created and designed by Dean Eastment (2022). 

 

[3] See the post 'Why I'm a Sex Pistol Rather Than a Clash City Rocker' (2 August 2018).

 

[4] This ridiculous tagline is a good example of the kind of commercial hype and corporate hubris that the Sex Pistols had encouraged us to disregard with the title of their album: Never Mind the Bollocks ... 

 

[5] Main Clash drummer Topper Headon had been sacked from the band due to his increasingly problematic heroin and cocaine addiction in May 1982 (i.e., shortly before the release of Combat Rock). 

 

[6] Strummer himself would speak of the new line-up as 'The Clash, Round Two'. Mick Jones was less than pleased and thought about taking legal action to prevent the group recording under the name of The Clash - he even playfully toyed with the idea of touring with Topper Headon as 'The Real Clash'. It's hard not to see the lyrics for 'We Are The Clash' as - in part at least - a defiant response to Jones.

 

[7] Paul Simonon has since claimed he didn't play a note on the final recording and that the bass parts were actually by Norman Watt-Roy - a member of Ian Dury's Blockheads and a highly regarded session musician. 

      I think Cut the Crap can fairly be described as Bernie's album (just as The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle (1979) should really be attributed to McLaren rather than the band known as the Sex Pistols). Rhodes not only co-wrote most of the songs with Strummer, he produced the album; taking charge of the arrangements, track sequencing, and final mix. He even chose the album's title. The fact that Rhodes, credited on the sleeve under the pseudonym Jose Unidos, had no previous experience with either songwriting or record production wasn't going to deter him from giving both these things a go (in true punk spirit) - though one might have expected a bit more resistance from Strummer (and Simonon).    

 

[8] With its simple three-chord structure, 'Dirty Punk' is the song on Cut the Crap that best represents Strummer and Rhodes's attempt at returning the band to some kind of zero point. It's not absolutely awful, but it is a bit lame and unconvincing - is being a punk rocker really all about getting a "big, big, big, big, big car" and annoying your neighbours with loud music? How disappointing.  

 

[9] Sparks is an American pop and art-rock duo consisting of brothers Ron (on keyboards) and Russell Mael (vocals). They are noted for their avant-garde approach to songwriting, a theatrical stage presence, and for staying ahead of the game for over fifty years. Their glam masterpiece - 'This Town Ain't Big Enough for Both of Us' (1974) - remains high up in my top 40 favourite pop singles. 

 

[10] The Clash, 'Hitsville U.K.', single release (CBS, 1981) from the album Sandinista! (CBS, 1980), featuring Mick Jones and Helen Foley on vocals. 

 

 

On the Seven Noses of Soho

One of the Seven Noses of Soho by Rick Buckley (1997)

(Meard Street, London W1)

Photo by Stephen Alexander (Feb 2026)

 

 

I. 

 

Connecting Wardour Street in the West to Dean Street in the East, there are many reasons to love Meard Street in the centre of Soho. 

 

Firstly, there's the beautiful Georgian architecture to admire; Meard Street is one of the few surviving streets in London from the early 18th century (most of the houses were built by John Meard, between 1720 and 1732). 

 

Secondly, Meard Street was home to the great English artist Sebastian Horsley, who lived at (prostitute free) number 7. 

 

Thirdly, it's on Meard Street that one can find - should one wish to - one of the Seven Noses of Soho ...

 

 

II.   

 

The Seven Noses of Soho are the work of British artist Rick Buckley [1], dating to 1997. Plaster cast reproductions of his own nose, they protrude from the walls of buildings to which they are glued in a pleasingly surreal manner. 

 

Initially, there were over thirty noses, but now only a handful survive [2]. 

 

Intended as a political gesture, the noses are a protest against the introduction of CCTV cameras across London and the threat posed by a surveillance state (Buckley had been inspired by his reading of the Situationists).      

For Nietzsche, of course, the nose was the refined philosophical organ par excellence, not merely a political symbol. He used his nose to sniff out the corruption in modern morality and culture and thus saw it as an essential tool for the revaluation of all values: "My genius is in my nostrils", as he once informed his readers [3].

 

But, however we think of it, placing noses on buildings is no real countermeasure to the spread of CCTV cameras and since 1997 the increase in their number - not just in central London, but across the UK - has been truly frightening. 

 

If one includes private and commercial cameras as well as those operated by the authorities, it is now estimated by the British Security Industry Association that there are around twenty-one million of the fucking things snooping on us all [4].     

 

Whether we see this as the triumph of Mr Nosey Parker or of Big Brother, depends, I suppose, on how seriously one views this development.    

 

 

Notes

 

[1] For more information on Buckley, visit his website: rickbuckley.net

 

[2] The other six Soho noses are located at Admiralty Arch, Great Windmill Street, Bateman Street, Dean Street, Endell Street, and D'Arblay Street. 

 

[3] See Nietzsche, 'Why I Am a Destiny' (1), in Ecce Homo, trans. R. J. Hollingdale (Penguin Books, 1979), p. 126.   

 

[4] See the recent report published on the Clearway website: click here. The UK may not be top of the list of most surveilled countries in the world - that spot is taken by China - but we're not far behind and on a short walk through London you can be expected to be filmed at least 300 times (entirely without your consent).   

 

 

Notes on Edgar Allan Poe's 'The Imp of the Perverse'

 

'The Imp of the Perverse' - Illustration by Arthur Rackham 

in Edgar Allan Poe's Tales of Mystery and Imagination (1935) [1] 

 

 

I. 

 

'The Imp of the Perverse' is a short story by Edgar Allan Poe, examining how a desire to do those things that we know we should not do can lead to our own destruction. 

 

This desire is imagined by Poe in the form of a small and mischievous being prone to causing trouble and leading men astray; i.e., what is called within European folklore an imp [2].   

 

Recommended to me by the Irish poet Síomón Solomon, I thought it might be nice to while away the hours on a Sunday afternoon reading it together ...

 

 

II. 

 

The story reads initially almost as an essay, as the narrator explains at length his theory on the imp of the perverse. 

 

Describing it as a primitive propensity of the human soul that causes people - including himself - to commit acts against their self-interest, he claims that it has been overlooked by scientists, priests, and other scholars because they could not perceive its necessity or understand how the imp of the perverse might advance knowledge of the human condition. 

 

In brief: the idea of it simply never occurred to them; it didn't fit into their scheme of things, including their map of the brain (the latter having been designed according to popular moral superstition by a rational and purposeful deity who had made man in his own image).   

 

Our narrator says: "Having thus fathomed to his satisfaction the intentions of Jehovah, out of these intentions [man] built his innumerable systems of mind" and a well organ-ised human body; i.e., one with a mouth for eating, an arse for shitting, and - having determined it to be God's will "that man should continue his species" - an organ of amativeness as well.      

 

In this way, we can conceive of man as an ideal creature, with every organ representing either "a propensity, a moral sentiment, or a faculty of the pure intellect". 

 

Deleuze and Guattari may not be happy with this arrangement, but they are in a minority; most people are content to believe they have a divine origin and a preconceived destiny (remember, dear reader, that this tale was written in 1845, thirty-seven years before Nietzsche's madman was to announce the death of God and over a hundred years before Aratud introduced the idea of a body without organs) [3].     

 

 

III. 

 

The narrator goes on to say that it would have been wiser to have classified man according to his actions, "rather than upon the basis of what we took it for granted the Deity intended him to do". For if we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, "how then in his inconceivable thoughts" ...? 

 

If only more attention had been paid to man's actions, then perverseness - "for want of a more characteristic term" - would have been recognised as "an innate and primitive principle of human action"; albeit an irrational one in that it obliges us to act in a way that often makes no sense and has no benefit (which, in fact, is often harmful): 

 

"In theory, no reason can be more unreasonable; but, in fact, there is none more strong. With certain minds, under certain conditions, it becomes absolutely irresistible. I am not more certain that I breathe, than that the assurance of the wrong or error of any action is often the one unconquerable force which impels us, and alone impels us to its prosecution. Nor will this overwhelming tendency to do wrong for the wrong's sake, admit of analysis, or resolution into ulterior elements. It is a radical, a primitive impulse - elementary." 

 

And this, says the narrator, is undeniable: "No one who trustingly consults and thoroughly questions his own soul, will be disposed to deny the entire radicalness of the propensity in question." 

 

I suppose, if I stop to think about it, there may well be something in what he says. Certainly, whenever I'm presenting a paper to an audience and I look around the faces gathered before I begin, I'm often tempted, sensing no connection, to simply walk off the stage and out of the room without a word of explanation (something Larry David was notorious for doing during his early days as a stand-up comic).  

 

Either that, or to stay and piss people off with deliberate vagueness and a refusal to take a position: 

 

"The speaker is aware that he displeases [...] yet, the thought strikes him, that by certain involutions and parentheses, this anger may be engendered. That single thought is enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing [...] is indulged." 

 

Having said that, sometimes, like Sebastian Horsley, I'm only too happy to flatter an audience and adapt my views to suit them [4] (being transpositional means I can move swiftly from one side of an argument to the other - or neither - without too much cognitive dissonance). 

 

As for procrastination ... Well, I'll say something about that later [5].

 

 

IV. 

 

Is it the imp of the perverse that ultimately brings us to the brink of suicide? That tempts us to "peer into the abyss" until we grow sick and dizzy? 

 

Possibly. 

 

"Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger. Unaccountably we remain. By slow degree our sickness and dizziness, and horror, become merged in a cloud of unnameable feeling" 

 

Is the ultimate practice of joy before death to imagine "our sensations during the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such a height"? 

 

Again, that's possible - and it would explain Annabella's ecstasy as she stands atop the Eiffel Tower and contemplates jumping to her death [6]. This thought of falling - "for the very reason that it involves that one most ghastly and loathsome of all the most ghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering which have ever presented themselves to our imagination" - is the thing she most vividly desires. 

 

"And because our reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore, do we the more impetuously approach it. There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of one, who shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a plunge." 

 

Again, it's not rational; it's a perverse defiance of logic, sound reason, and common sense. But without a "friendly arm to check us" - Annabella looks round for someone strong and brave to save her - there's a very strong possibility we will jump and meet a very sticky end. 

 

 

V.

 

It turns out that the narrator is in chains sitting in a condemned man's prison cell; that the above is an attempt to explain how he came to find himself in such circumstances. He's not mad, as most people think, but is rather "one of the many uncounted victims of the Imp of the Perverse".   

 

What happened, exactly? 

 

Well, the narrator commited murder in order to inherit a man's estate: 

 

"It is impossible that any deed could have been wrought with a more thorough deliberation. For weeks, for months, I pondered upon the means of the murder. I rejected a thousand schemes, because their accomplishment involved a chance of detection."

 

Eventually, after reading some French memoirs, he hits on the idea of using a poisoned candle (i.e., one that releases toxic fumes when burned): 

 

"The idea struck my fancy at once. I knew my victim’s habit of reading in bed. I knew, too, that his apartment was narrow and ill-ventilated."  

 

And although he effectively got away with it after a coroner declared the death to be in accordance with the will of God, he is eventually gripped by a self-destructive impulse to confess his crime in public:

 

"Having inherited his estate, all went well with me for years. The idea of detection never once entered my brain. Of the remains of the fatal taper, I had myself carefully disposed. I had left no shadow of a clue by which it would he possible to convict, or even to suspect me of the crime. It is inconceivable how rich a sentiment of satisfaction arose in my bosom as I reflected upon my absolute security. For a very long period of time, I was accustomed to revel in this sentiment. It afforded me more real delight than all the mere worldly advantages accruing from my sin. But there arrived at length [...] a haunting and harassing thought [...] I could scarcely get rid of for an instant." 

 

"One day, while sauntering along the streets, I arrested myself in the act of murmuring, half aloud [...] 'I am safe - I am safe - yes - if I be not fool enough to make open confession!'  No sooner had I spoken these words, than I felt an icy chill creep to my heart."

 

For our narrator knows where his perversity would lead; first to jail and then to the gallows - and that there was nothing he could do about it: 

 

"I had had some experience in these fits of perversity [...] and I remembered well, that in no instance, I had successfully resisted their attacks. And now my own casual self suggestion, that I might possibly be fool enough to confess the murder of which I had been guilty, confronted me, as if the very ghost of him whom I had murdered - and beckoned me on to death." 

 

Poe concludes his tale with the following passages, spoken by the narrator:

 

"At first, I made an effort to shake off this nightmare of the soul. I walked vigorously - faster - still faster - at length I ran. I felt a maddening desire to shriek aloud. Every succeeding wave of thought overwhelmed me with new terror [...] I still quickened my pace. I bounded like a madman through the crowded thoroughfares. At length, the populace took the alarm, and pursued me. I felt then the consummation of my fate. 

      Could I have torn out my tongue, I would have done it - but a rough voice resounded in my ears - a rougher grasp seized me by the shoulder. I turned - I gasped for breath. For a moment, I experienced all the pangs of suffocation; I became blind, and deaf, and giddy; and then, some invisible fiend, I thought, struck me with his broad palm upon the back. The long-imprisoned secret burst forth from my soul."

      They say that I spoke with a distinct enunciation, but with marked emphasis and passionate hurry, as if in dread of interruption before concluding the brief but pregnant sentences that consigned me to the hangman and to hell. 

      Having related all that was necessary for the fullest judicial conviction, I fell prostrate in a swoon."

 

 

VI.

 

Is there any more to say? 

 

Only that Poe's abysmal theory - and I'm using that word in the literary-philosophical sense - of the imp of the perverse is, as fearful thoughts go, one that I like very much; it might not be quite as chilling as he intended, but it certainly makes one question one's own self-destructive tendencies and the desire to deliberately give the game away as it were [7].    

 

It's surely better to think we confess our sins not from guilt or a moral sense of right and wrong (conscience) but from perversity; I for one would rather have a little imp on my shoulder than that annoying little twat Jiminy Cricket.  

 

 

Notes

 

[1] All quotes from and references to 'The Imp of the Perverse' are to the version published in this edition of Poe's tales which can be read free online by clicking here. 

      The tale first appeared in the July 1845 issue of Graham's Magazine (Vol. XXVIII). 

 

[2] I'm assuming that Poe decided on the figure of an imp rather than that of a demon or some othersupernatural entity because it might be read as short for impulse (i.e., a strong and sudden urge to act). It might also suggest the related term impetus (i.e., a force which drives something forward).  

 

[3] Antonin Artaud first used the phrase corps sans organes in his 1947 radio play known in English as To Have Done with the Judgment of God, describing it as a state of liberation from imposed structures and automatic reactions, allowing for true freedom. It was later developed as a philosophical concept by Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari in their two-volume study of capitalism and schizophrenia: L'anti-Œdipe (1972) and Mille Plateaux (1980). 

      Nietzsche first used the phrase Gott ist tot in Die fröhliche Wissenschaft (1882), III. 125. It quickly became so well associated with him that it has almost become his catchphrase.

 

[4] Upon seeing someone make for the exit in the middle of a talk he was giving about his life as a dandy in the underworld, Horsley magnificently said: 'Don't go, I'll say the opposite if it will make you love me.' 

 

[5] Only joking. And in fact I have already written about this topic; see the post of 14 June 2014: click here. The narrator of Poe's tale does provide a nice description of procrastination for those who are interested: 

      "We have a task before us which must be speedily performed. We know that it will be ruinous to make delay. The most important crisis of our life calls, trumpet-tongued, for immediate energy and action. We glow, we are consumed with eagerness to commence the work, with the anticipation of whose glorious result our whole souls are on fire. It must, it shall be undertaken to-day, and yet we put it off until to-morrow; and why? There is no answer, except that we feel perverse using the word with no comprehension of the principle."   

 

[6] I'm referring to the Bow Wow Wow song 'Sexy Eiffel Towers' which first appeared on Your Cassette Pet (EMI Records, 1980) and, later, on the compilation album Girl Bites Dog (Parlophone Records, 1993): click here.  

 

[7] I think it may be stretching things to suggest that Poe's fictional theory of the imp of the perverse anticipates Freud's psychoanalytic concept of the death drive, but, nevertheless, several commentators have been quick to see and insist upon a connection.  

Last Night I Dreamt of Manderley ... Starring Sebastian Horsley as Maxim de Winter

Maggi Hambling: Sebastian Horsley XI (2021) 

Oil on canvas (125 x 95 cm)

 

"The road to Manderley lay ahead. There was no moon. The sky above our heads was inky black. 

But the sky on the horizon was not dark at all. It was shot with crimson, like a splash of blood. 

And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea."

- Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca (1938)

 

 

I. 

 

I honestly can't remember what visions (if any) disturbed my sleep last night, but, earlier today, I went to an excellent group exhibition curated by Daniel Malarkey at the Alison Jacques gallery, whose title is a paraphrase (or perhaps misremembering) of the opening line to Daphne du Maurier's famous Gothic novel Rebecca (1938): 

 

Last Night I Dreamt of Manderley ... [1]  

 

 

II.

 

According to Malarkey, who spent over 18 months working to stage this show, it wasn't until he came to name it that he realised that he had subconsciously been curating an exhibition about the favourite novel of his adolescence [2]; a book that I came to know much later, but have also grown to love [3].

 

Malarkey's aim, according to the gallery's press release, is to "retell the story of Rebecca, taking the viewer on a path which explores notions of memory, darkness and transformation" [4], forming temporal connections and demonstrating the potential of narrative to facilitate all kinds of strange becomings. 

 

In order to accomplish this, Malarkey brings together the works of over 30 artists, some of whom - such as Leonora Carrington, Maeve Gilmore, and Torpedo the Ark favourite Aleksandra Waliszewska [5] - I am familiar with; whilst others - including Jean-Marie Appriou, Leonardo Devito, Graham Little - I am now grateful to have discovered. 

 

 

III. 

 

To be honest, as much as I love Rebecca - and as interested as I am in the folk and fairy tale tradition which more obviously inspires many of the works in this exhibition [6] - I felt compelled to attend the show more for the opportunity to see (in the decomposing flesh, as it were) one of Maggi Hambling's portraits of much-loved (and much-missed) Sebastian Horsley [7]: 

"Finally, the viewer is led downstairs through an arch into the 'Underworld', where Maggi Hambling's portrait of Sebastian Horsley presides over the space, introducing themes such as the conflict between morality and religion, resistance to authority, and a questioning of established traditions." [8]

 

Whether we are invited to imagine Horsley as the character of Maxim de Winter (crossed with Dorian Gray), I don't know - but it's a nice idea, I think, and not one that would displease Horsley who, like de Winter, was a passionate floraphile (although not, as far as I'm aware, a wife killer).

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Last Night I Dreamt of Manderley, curated  by Daniel Malarkey (24 Jan - 8 March 2025) at Alison Jacques, 22 Cork Street, London W1. For full details and to view all the artworks included in the show, click here.

 

[2] Like Alice Inggs, I'm tempted to question whether Malarkey's claim about Rebecca being a once favourite book that exerted a subconscious influence on his thinking when assembling this exhibition is "strictly true or a retroactive application to works very much open to allegory", but it doesn't really matter either way.

      And, as Inggs later concedes, you can certainly find more than a few "curious (and apparently incidental) parallels between passages from the book and the artworks [...] wherever you walk, there is Rebecca: the windows open to the sea, the white cats, the uncanny figures, the wrought-iron gates, the driftwood and rope, the rhododendrons, the antique wallpaper, the almost-silhouettes, the subtly erotic scenes, the sense of expectation …" 

      See her (cleverly titled) review, 'Psyche For Sore Eyes', in The World of Interiors (7 Feb 2025): click here. 

 

[3] For a two part post published in November 2024, in which I explore my own memories of Manderley,  please click here and/or here. 

      Interested readers can also find several other posts written on the work of Daphne du Maurier on Torpedo the Ark; simply go to labels and click on her name. Many of these posts are also reproduced on the official Daphne du Maurier website: click here.  

 

[4] This press release, written by Bella Kesoyan, can be found on the Alison Jacques website: click here.

 

[5] See the post entitled 'Why I Love Aleksandra Waliszewska' (13 Oct 2023): click here.

 

[6] To quote from the press release once more: 

      "All the works in the show challenge conventional notions of fairytales as children's stories and idealised narratives. While often adopting the visual language of magical landscapes, imaginary beings, and extraordinary human powers, the exhibition also explores darker and complex readings of this age-old genre." 

      That being so, one might have just as easily called this show Last Night I Dreamed of Angela Carter and one wonders how familiar Daniel Malarkey is with The Bloody Chamber (1979), her collection of ten short stories in which, to use Carter's own phrase, she extracts the latent content from traditional tales including 'Beauty and the Beast' and 'Little Red Riding Hood'.     

 

[7] As Emily Spicer notes: 

      "Hambling painted Horsley several times after his death, imagining, it would seem, his decomposing body, his likeness falling from his bones to reveal the white skull beneath. In all of these paintings he is disintegrating, melting or dissolving into oblivion. Hambling has said that Horsley’s life was an elaborate rehearsal for death and we feel her coming to terms with this, searching, unflinchingly, for an image that reconciles this tragic irony." 

      See her review of The Quick and the Dead exhibition at the Jerwood Gallery, Hastings (20 Oct 2018 - 6 Jan 2019) on the Studio International website: click here. This show included Sebastian Horsley VIII (2011). 

      See also the post on Torpedo the Ark entitled 'The Picture of Sebastian Horsley' (6 Sept 2019), in which I muse on Hambling's 2011 portrait of Horsley: click here. 

 

[8] Bella Kesoyan, press release for Last Night I Dreamt of Manderley, as linked to above in note 3.

 

 

This post is for Ann Willmore, who encouraged me to write it. 

 

 

All That Jazz

Theodor Adorno, D. H. Lawrence, 

and Sebastian Horsley: they fucking hate jazz

 

'Jazz is the false liquidation of art [...] the mechanical reproduction of a regressive moment ...' [1]  

 

 

I.

 

Sebastian Horsley famously didn't like jazz and refused to believe that other people liked it either; "once they're in Ronnie Scott's, they're asleep like everybody else" [2]. 

 

Of course, Horsley is not alone in hating jazz and certainly not the first person to express his contempt for the genre. One recalls that Adorno, for example, wrote a number of essays that expressed his negative evaluation of jazz as an art form and dismissed the claims made on its behalf by exponents and admirers. 

 

In brief, for Adorno, jazz was not only formulaic and banal, but it also lacked moral-aesthetic truth value and was essentially alienating and dehumanising (and not in a good way). Mostly, however, he despised it for being popular; a commodity born of modern mass society and the music industry. 

 

Although Adorno lived until 1969 - and despite the fact that jazz became increasingly complex and avant-garde, deviating significantly from its own origins as an upbeat genre to which the Bright Young Things of the so-called Jazz Age could dance the night away - he never revised his opinion of it.   

 

 

II. 

Another famous critic of jazz and popular modern culture in general - including the cinema and the radio - was the English writer D. H. Lawrence, who, in many ways, anticipated what Adorno would say, albeit using less openly Marxist terminology [3].

For although Lawrence was from a working-class background and frequently expressed concern with how he might appeal to as wide a readership as possible, he often used the word popular negatively to denote cultural forms that, in his view, lacked the spiritual and intellectual value that he believed genuine art possessed. 

 

As he grew older, Lawrence became increasingly critical of popular culture and the "bulk of our popular amusements" [4], including gramophone records; famously breaking one on Frieda's head in a notorious incident of domestic violence after she played it over and over, driving him into a rage with its dreary jazz trombone and crude sexual innuendo [5].

 

Does this make Lawrence and Adorno reactionary cultural elitists? Maybe. At the very least, we can agree that their views are out of tune with more informed opinion on the subject of jazz and popular culture - although Horsley would certainly have been sympathetic.

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Adorno wrote that "Jazz is the false liquidation of art" in his 1967 essay 'Perennial Fashion - Jazz'. It can be found in Critical Theory and Society: A Reader, ed. Stephen Eric Bronner and Douglas MacKay Kellner (Routlege, 1990).

      He described jazz as the "mechanical reproduction of a regressive moment" in his much earlier text, 'On the Fetish Character in Music and Regression of Listening' (1938), which can be found in his book The Culture Industry: Selected Essays on Mass Culture, ed. J. M. Bernstein (Routledge, 1991).     

 

[2] For Sebastian's highly amusing take on punk, jazz, and Notting Hill contra Soho, click here.   

[3] See Gemma Moss, ‘Popular Culture’, in The Cambridge Companion to D. H. Lawrence and the Arts, ed Catherine Brown and Susan Reid (Edinburgh University Press, 2020), pp. 145-159. 

      As Moss rightly notes, Lawrence and Adorno were both living in a period when European culture was becoming increasingly Americanised and transforming into commercial mass culture with its standardised models of entertainment generating mechanical responses in the audience. In other words, both Lawrence and Adorno believed that popular art forms - such as jazz - create a public who become used to a limited range of emotions and ideas.

 

[4] D. H. Lawrence, 'Pornography and Obscenity', in Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton (Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 244. 

 

[5] The record - 'Empty Bed Blues (Columbia, 1928) - was by the African-American singer Bessie Smith, with Charlie Green on trombone and Porter Grainger on piano. Smith was extremely popular during the Jazz Age and is now regarded not only as one of the greatest singers of her era, but a major influence on many other blues singers and jazz vocalists. 

      For an interesting essay on Lawrence and Bessie Smith, see Fiona Becket, 'A Brand New Grind: D. H. Lawrence, Manliness and the Blues', in the Journal of D. H. Lawrence Studies - click here to access as an online pdf. 

      Readers who wish to listen to the track can do so by clicking here.  

 

Vive le flâneur - et la flâneuse!

 

Mariateresa Aiello: The Flâneur

(Ink on paper, 2011)

sketchbloom.com 

 

"Around 1840 it was briefly fashionable to take turtles for a walk in the arcades. 

The flâneurs liked to have the turtles set the pace for them." - Walter Benjamin

 

I. 

 

In comparison to the concept of dandyism, which has often been referred to on Torpedo the Ark [1],  the idea of  flânerie - as embodied by the figure of le flâneur - has, rather mysteriously been overlooked.

 

I don't know why that is, particularly as this blog is essentially a form of strolling amongst literary leftovers, philosophical fragments, and the ruins of contemporary culture; coolly observing what passes for (and remains of) the real world whilst collecting images and ideas as I go, thereby making me a kind of postmodern flâneur in all but name.

 

For although the term flâneur threatens to transport us back to the arcades of 19th-century Paris and the musings of Baudelaire and Benjamin [2], that needn't be the case. For the concept of the flâneur - and flânerie as a practice - has been brought into the 21st-century by those who are more interested in moving through virtual spaces and exploiting the opportunities afforded by mobile technologies than actually standing on street corners. 

 

 

II. 

 

Having said that, as someone who has concerns with the question of technology, I'm not averse to physically still drifting through Soho; gazing in the windows of shops and restaurants; observing the street life whilst sipping coffee on Old Compton Street; jotting down notes for future blog posts; vaguely hoping someone I know will pass by, or that I might encounter the ghost of Sebastian Horsely; essentially just idling time away (much as I have the last forty years) [3].

 

Paradoxically, as a flâneur one is both an essential part of urban life and yet detached or set apart from it - which kind of suits me as I want to belong, but only on the margins or fringes of society; Johnny Rotten may want to destroy the passer-by, but I'm happy to be a non-participant who is not caught up in events or overcome with enthusiasm (for one thing, this provides a certain degree of immunity from infection by political or religious fanaticism).

 

 

III. 

 

Of course, it isn't easy to be a flâneur in the poetic-philosophical sense today.

 

Some (perhaps overly pessimistic) commentators suggest that the flâneur has been supplanted by the badaud - an open-mouthed bystander who simply gawks without intelligence or aesthetically attuned appreciation for what he sees; one who is enchanted by the Spectacle and is a representative of das Man [4].

 

Way back in 1867, before Debord and Heidegger were even born, the French journalist and author Victor Fournel wrote this:

 

"The flâneur must not be confused with the badaud; a nuance should be observed here. […] The simple flâneur […] is always in full possession of his individuality. By contrast, the individuality of the badaud disappears, absorbed by the outside world, which ravishes him, which moves him to drunkenness and ecstasy. Under the influence of the spectacle that presents itself to him, the badaud becomes an impersonal creature; he is no longer a man, he is the public, he is the crowd." [5]

 

However, just as I believe in fairies, so too do I believe there are flâneurs still amongst us today; just much rarer in number and harder to spot. And I was reinforced in this by a chance meeting a couple of weeks ago at the National Poetry Library with an astonishing young woman called Tamara who gaily confessed herself to be a flâneuse ... [6]

Notes

 

[1] Click here for several posts on TTA which have mentioned dandyism over the years.  

[2] Developing the work of Charles Baudelaire, who described the flâneur both in his poetry and the seminal essay Le Peintre de la vie moderne (1863), Walter Benjamin spurred artistic and theoretical interest in the flâneur as a key figure of the modern world; see The Arcades Project, trans. Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin (Harvard University Press, 1999). And for a short discussion of this work by Benjamin - and my convoluted relationship with him - see the post dated 21 October 2024: click here. 

 

[3] Readers will doubtless understand that this is a form of active idleness; as one French literary critic noted, flâneurie is tout le contraire de ne rien faire. 

     

[4] The badaud is essentially the anti-flâneur; more bystander than passer-by; the sort of person who today films events on their mobile phone, bartering away the sheer intensity and joy of experience for mere representation. This includes filming those terrible sights from which any decent person would look away; the mangled remains of some poor devil who jumps from the platform in front of a train, for example. 

      In contrast, the flâneur takes single snaps that are technically imperfect and full of flaws, but never obscene or sensational; images that give a fleeting glimpse without exposing objects or making them strike a pose (thereby allowing objects to retain their allure). 

 

[5] Victor Fournel, Ce qu'on voit dans les rues de Paris [What One Sees in the Streets of Paris] (1867), p. 263. The (uncredited) English translation is cited on the Wikipedia entry for the subject of badaud: click here.  

      Walter Benjamin essentially adopts this distinction between the two figures of flâneur contra badaud in his work. 

 

[6] The feminine term flâneuse was born of recent feminist lit-crit and gender studies scholarship; previously, the term passante was used to describe the somewhat elusive modern woman who liked to wander round the city, experiencing public spaces in her own manner. Proust famously favoured this term.  

      Readers who are interested, might like to see Lauren Elkin's book: Flâneuse: Women Walk the City in Paris, New York, Tokyo, Venice, and London (Chatto & Windus, 2016), in which she discusses a number of flâneuses, including George Sand, Virginia Woolf, Agnès Varda, Sophie Calle, and Martha Gellhorn.    

 

A Brief Note on the Resurrection of the Damned and Johnny Rotten as an Artist in Decline

The Damned - Rat Scabies, Brian James, Dave Vanian and Captain Sensible - 

proving that whilst punk rockers never die, they do, sadly, grow old ...

Photo credit: John Nguyen / JNVisuals (2022)

 

 

Readers who, like me, still retain a vague interest in how the story of punk unfolds in its twilight years, will have doubtless noticed a couple of stories in the news recently. 

 

Firstly, the original line up of the Damned have reunited to play live, 46 years after they initially took to the stage, offering us not so much an opportunity to smell once more the sweet scent of a new rose, as witness the sad spectacle of human decay.

 

Their show at the Hammersmith Apollo earlier this week - the first of five UK gigs - was described by Neil McCormick in The Telegraph as a 'cacophony of amateurish noise and chaos', so it certainly sounds like it was fun [1]. 

 

But, ultimately, apart from sixty-something die hard fans, to whom does such a event really mean anything? 

 

Secondly, a sheet of handwritten lyrics by Johnny Rotten has sold at auction for more than £50,000; well over the estimated sale price of between £15,000 and £20,000. 

 

The songs featured are 'Submission' - a track written in mocking response to Malcolm's request for a song with a sadomasochistic theme - and 'Holidays in the Sun' - the Sex Pistols' fourth single, which opens with the memorable line 'A cheap holiday in other people's misery' [2].    

 

Lyrically, neither song is at the same level of brilliance as 'Anarchy in the U.K.' or 'God Save the Queen' and arguably Rotten never wrote anything as good again as this verse taken from the latter:

When there's no future, how can there be sin?

We're the flowers in the dustbin ...

We're the poison in the human machine ...

We're the future, your future! [3]

 

However, even Rotten's weakest songs written as the charismatic young singer of the Sex Pistols look like works of genius compared to the dispiriting rubbish he now offers us as the fat old man fronting Public Image Ltd. 

 

I very much doubt people will be paying tens of thousands of pounds for the handwritten lyrics to 'Double Trouble', for example. 

 

Nor can I imagine that Sebastian Horsley would still describe Rotten as "Rimbaud reborn in Finsbury Park" - with all the intelligence and vision of an extraordinary poet [4] - were he able to hear Lydon moaning about his domestic life and indoor plumbing issues: 

 

What - you fucking nagging again? 

About what? What? What? 

The toilet's fucking broken again 

I repaired that, I told you 

Get the plumber in again [5]

 

It pains me to say it, but I'm tempted to agree with Vivienne Westwood that whilst Johnny Rotten was a sensation when performing with the Sex Pistols, once he was thrown out of the band "he didn't have any more ideas" [6]. 

 

And so he turned inward and began to exploit his memories and feelings; this internalisation being one of the defining characteristics of post-punk. Indeed, Lydon himself has confessed that whilst he invested the Sex Pistols with his intelligence, he poured his heart and soul into PiL. 

 

This may have produced some interesting work at first - I'm not denying the brilliance of Metal Box (1979) - but, ultimately, it resulted in a steady decline of his writing skills, just as age and increased girth have, sadly, led to a deterioration of his ability to sing and perform [7]. 

 

Johnny Rotten at the Cruel World Festival (14 May 2022)

Photo by Alex Kluft

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Neil McCormick, 'The Damned are just as amateur now as they were in 1976', The Telegraph (29 Oct 2022): click here. 

      For those who want a reminder of just how great the Damned were back in the day, click here. 'New Rose' was the first single released by a British punk rock group, on 22 October 1976 (one month prior to the Sex Pistols releasing their debut single, 'Anarchy in the U.K.'). 

 

[2] Both these songs can be found on the Sex Pistols' album Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols (Virgin Records, 1977). Click here to listen to 'Submission' and/or here to play 'Holidays in the Sun'.

 

[3] Lyrics from the Sex Pistols' second single 'God Save the Queen', released May 1977 on Virgin Records, written by Johnny Rotten and © Warner Chappell Music, Inc. The track is credited to all four members of the band; Steve Jones, Johnny Rotten, Glen Matlock, and Paul Cook. Click here to play.

 

[4] Sebastian Horsley, Dandy in the Underworld, (Sceptre, 2008), pp. 57-58.

 

[5] Lyrics from 'Double Trouble' written by Lydon, although the track is credited to all four members of PiL; Scott Firth, Lu Edmonds, John Lydon, and Bruce Smith. It can be found on the album What the World Needs Now ... (PiL Official Ltd., 2015): to play, click here.

      Although the album received mostly favourable reviews, it is, in fact, fucking awful. Middle-class music critics working for The Guardian might find the songs exhilarating, foul-mouthed fun, but I don't.

[6] Vivienne Westood interviewed by Alex Flood (13 May 2022) for the NME. Click here to read online.

[7] This is evidenced by a charmless live performance at the Cruel World Festival earlier this year: click here to watch an excruciating version of 'Shoom' (another track from What the World Needs Now ...).