Lady Chatterley's Body

Photo of Kate Moss by Tim Walker for
Love Magazine, issue 9 (S/S, 2013)

According to a recent tweet from Lawrence scholar Catherine Brown, Wetherspoon's are opening a new pub in Eastwood to be called The Lady Chatterley Arms. I've no objection to this, but think it ironic that the pub is to be named after the one part of her anatomy that Lawrence didn't detail (or fetishize) in his descriptions of Connie. 

We know, for example, she had a ruddy complexion, with soft brown hair, big blue eyes (often full of tears) and a slow, soft voice with an underlying wilfulness. We know too she was golden-skinned and if her navel was rather withdrawn and sad-looking, nevertheless her waist retained its flexibility and her loins their voluptuous curve. 

We also know that whilst Connie wasn't tall and had a somewhat stocky build, she nevertheless had a good figure: she wasn't fat, as Lawrence non-too-subtly puts it. That said, neither was her physique quite fashionable. 

Further, despite having a certain fluid proportion, her body had somehow failed to ripen; her breasts were rather small and drooping pear-shaped, her belly somewhat slack and meaningless. Her thighs, meanwhile, were heavy and inert, whilst her back, her hips and buttocks had lost their distinction and were no longer so gay-looking or sensitive in outline as in her Dresden days (i.e. before her marriage to Clifford).

Nevertheless, these were still the parts of her that seemed most alive; the beautiful, long-sloping hips and the buttocks with their round, heavy contour so full of female energy. It was just the front of her body that made her feel miserable, as it seemed to be making the leap straight from girlhood to old age, without ever knowing its mature perfection. Depressed by this realisation, Connie dramatically loses her appetite and briefly becomes as thin as a rail, with dark shadows under her eyes.

Her affair with Mellors, however, restores her body to its full health and vitality. For he finds her body lovely to touch and to marvel at and this makes her feel beautiful and desirable. Her thighs and belly and hips all perk up and she feels a sort of dawn come into her flesh; even her breasts begin to tip and to stir once more.

Mellors particularly likes her soft, golden-brown pubic hair (in which he ties forget-me-nots) and her silky inner-thighs. And, if he is to be believed, not only does she have the nicest of all arses, but she's also the best bit o' cunt left on earth. 

We know then a good deal about Lady Chatterley's body - perhaps even more than we know about her character. But, as I said earlier, we know nothing about her arms ...

On the Myth of Atlas

 Atlas, by Lee Lawrie (1937)

One of the most depressing and hateful works of art in the world is Lee Lawrie's seven ton, four-story high, art deco bronze sculpture of Atlas, which stands in front of the Rockefeller Centre in midtown Manhattan. The work, installed in 1937, depicts the ancient Greek Titan holding the heavens forever separate from the earth upon which he stands (it's a common misconception that he supports the latter on his mighty shoulders).

This eternal task or burden - assigned to Atlas as a punishment for his role in the war of the Titans against the gods of Olympus - makes my back ache just to think about it. I'm reminded of how Lawrence once joked that, similarly, it was time for Christ to come down from his Cross and give his poor arms a rest. I must confess, therefore, that the idea of Atlas having done with the judgement of Zeus - of simply shrugging his shoulders and walking away in an act of titanic irresponsibility - very much appeals. 

But, of course, for Ayn Rand and her objectivist-libertarian followers, this sculpture symbolizes something rather different. Atlas is not understood as a primeval deity or immortal giant, but as a more contemporary and more bourgeois figure; namely, a capitalist superman. And the conceit is that such a figure supports an ungrateful humanity on his back through his hard work, entrepreneurial genius and his tax dollars. If he were to simply shrug and shut-up shop, then as the protagonist of Rand's appalling fantasy John Galt says, the engine of the world would grind to a halt.  

This, of course, is an outrageous inversion of the fact that it is he and his tiny parasitic class who feed off the labour and the lives of the vast majority. The rich and powerful think they stand prior to, apart from, and above the rest of humanity, refusing to see how their own success is entirely dependent upon an intimate network of support (is a social phenomenon and not an individual accomplishment).

It's because the Randroids have so completely taken over the Atlas myth and made it their own that I find Lawrie's sculpture so compromised and objectionable: that and its fascistic execution in the first place.

Ayn Rand: The Mme. Blavatsky of Wall Street

Ayn Rand (1905-1982)

Any figure whose work is scorned and amusingly dismissed by both Dorothy Parker and Lisa Simpson probably doesn't deserve to be taken seriously. And yet, depressingly, Ayn Rand continues to be read by a large number of people, many of whom seem to genuinely regard her as a visionary philosopher rather than a novelist of what Christopher Hitchens described as transcendent awfulness.

Her big idea of Objectivism asserts that rational self-interest should determine all human relations. In practice, this means an unqualified acceptance of laissez-faire economics and idealizing the heroic individual fighting for freedom and human greatness against the State and its regulations, as well as the hordes of resentful parasites (some of whom have facial hair) reliant upon his tax dollars in the form of welfare handouts and publicly-funded programmes of education and healthcare.

Not surprisingly, therefore, she has exerted a significant and somewhat sinister (almost cultish) influence on a number of conservative and libertarian figures; her first major literary success, The Fountainhead (1943), serving in Miss Simpson's words as "a bible for right-wing losers".

As for her fourth and final effort in the field of fiction, Atlas Shrugged (1957), considered by many to be her magnum opus, well, I cannot better Miss Parker's brilliant review which concludes: "This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force".

I'm sorry Antoine, but your affection for this woman compromises my affection for you ... 

Why Atheism is a Non-Precarious Way of Living

 Ahn Jun: Self-Portrait (2011)

ahnjun.com

There's an irony in the fact that those who seek moral and existential certainty often pray to God to provide such; just as there's an irony in the fact that the Italian atheist philosopher Federico Campagna posits a concept of precariousness (or what he terms precarity) as part of his radical ethics and politics; or rather as a postmodern temporal condition which makes such an ethics and a politics both possible and necessary. 

In the case of believers seeking the assurance of truth - i.e. some form of solid foundation upon which to build and thus to find shelter and safety - the irony is that they make this entirely dependent upon God's will and God's grace; something to be obtained by entreaty. In other words, it's contingent upon the divine favour of an often unpredictable and spiteful deity who provides no guarantee whatsoever that mortal prayers will be answered.

The religious quest for certainty thus paradoxically places the faithful in an entirely precarious position. And so, despite what Nietzsche thought, living dangerously seems to involve living with and not without God.

The irony of an atheist philosopher subscribing to a concept of precariousness is thus also exposed. For not only is it essentially a religious notion, but it robs atheism of its one great advantage; namely, that it doesn't allow for doubt or uncertainty. As an atheist, you can know for sure that your prayers will never be answered and that there's no mercy, no justice, and no salvation.

(And you can know for sure what happens if you skip too close to the edge and fall from a tall building ...)   

Note: those interested in Federico Campagna's thinking might like to read The Last Night: Anti-Work, Atheism, Adventure, (Zero Books, 2013).

Why I Love Marisa Tomei

Marisa Tomei as Mona Lisa Vito

in My Cousin Vinny (1992)

There are doubtless many reasons to love the Brooklyn-born, Oscar-winning actress Marisa Tomei, but here are a couple which, along with her amusing Seinfeld appearance, secure her a permanent place in my heart.

Firstly, there's her dead-on balls accurate and critically acclaimed performance as Mona Lisa Vito in the 1992 movie My Cousin Vinny (dir. Jonathan Lynn); a legal comedy starring Joe Pesci as recently qualified New York lawyer Vincent Gambini and the late, great Fred Gwynne as Judge Chamberlain Haller of Beechum County, Alabama.

Amongst the many memorable scenes featuring Miss Tomei, perhaps the one for which we are most grateful is the so-called 'biological clock scene' in which she wears a backless, shoulder-padded, floral catsuit. A daring choice of outfit that provides conclusive proof that despite what certain narrow-minded fetishists believe, the catsuit needn't always be black and made of shiny leather or latex in order to work its magic. 

Secondly, there's her not quite so convincing (though massively underrated and sometimes unfairly derided) performance as Cuban refugee and prostitute Dottie Perez, in the 1995 movie The Perez Family (dir. Mira Nair); a romantic comedy-drama based on the 1991 novel of the same title by Christine Bell. 

Marisa Tomei as Dottie Perez in The Perez Family (1995)

No reprise of the floral catsuit in this film, unfortunately, but we do get to watch Miss Tomei pulling on a pair of stockings whilst riding a bus (much to the distraction of the lead male character played by Alfred Molina) and, even more provocatively, we get to see her in a bright orange frock sporting luxuriant underarm hair. 

Again, this is a bold look to go for and tricky to pull off. But Miss Tomei once more succeeds where others would fail and she causes one to wonder why more men aren't partial to maschlagnia and the delights of axillism. For it's puzzling (and slightly disappointing) is it not, that women in the Anglo-American world obsessively shave and deodorize their armpits, thereby neutralizing powerful sites of animal sexuality, whilst in France and many Latin countries men and women show far greater awareness of the body's full erotic potential, including its strongly sensual aromas.            

On the Question of Scottish Independence

David Bowie's unexpected and rather pitiful plea that Scotland stay with us - made at the Brit Awards and voiced via Kate Moss - brought a predictably abusive online reaction from nationalists north of the border, informing him, in short, to fuck off back to Mars and keep his nose out of their affairs.

One might of course simply smile at this and say fair enough. But, as a matter of fact, Bowie is entitled to his view and entitled to express his view, as a Brit and as an Englishman (albeit an Englishman in New York and no longer a UK resident). 

Similarly, I feel entitled to both hold and express a view on the issue of Scottish independence, which is to go to a referendum in September, as a Brit and as an Englishman who also happens (not uncommonly) to have had a Scottish grandmother, even if I'm not entitled to a vote in said referendum.

But what is my view? 

Well, until recently, I would have been fully supportive of any movement that sought independence and wished to proliferate cultural difference, thereby countering the political will to oneness. I shared Lawrence's dream of a future democracy of touch that would dissolve all ideal attempts at universalism and put an end to centralized government. 

Like Lawrence, I thought that a vivid recoil into separateness would see the joyful rebirth of many small states in an infinite variety of forms and that this had to be positive and progressive; that war, for example, was born not of difference, but of the denial of otherness and an obsession with making all people think and act and speak the same beneath a single flag.          

But now I'm having to rethink and revise this view in light of recent world events. Suddenly, the idea of encouraging solidarity and defending political union no longer seems so monstrous or mistaken in the face of grotesque and sinister micro-fascist attempts to rekindle old hatreds and divisions based on racial identity, religious sectarianism, and tribal nationalism.   

  

And suddenly the vitriolic remarks aimed at Bowie no longer seem so innocent or amusing ...

Nor, for the record, do I much care for the fact that my Spanish ex-wife, who has lived and worked in Barcelona for almost twenty years, still has to accept being called a guiri on a daily basis by her Catalan friends - as if she were not only a foreigner, but also a Francoist.    

On the Spectral Rape of the Virgin Mary

Astonishingly, some Christians continue to believe that if they lead modest, conventional lives unblemished by additional sin, then they'll avoid harm and receive God's blessing; or, at the very least, he'll leave them unmolested until they stand before him on the Day of Judgement. 

One might have thought that the shocking story of the girl-child Mary would have taught them differently. For here was a thirteen year old girl who, although born without sin due to her immaculate conception, was nevertheless leading a regular life of moral and social conformity, happily betrothed to a man, Joseph, according to the traditions of her people, and nervously awaiting her wedding night when they would be united as man and wife.

But, having already been selected by God as a broodmare (and doubtlessly groomed by him and his angelic servants throughout her childhood), Mary was never going to be allowed to live a happy, healthy, orthodox life as a Jewish wife and mother. Instead, she would be subject to spectral rape and divine impregnation and obliged to accept her role within a perversely insane religious melodrama:

"This is how the birth of Jesus Christ came about: his mother Mary was pledged to be married to Joseph, but before they came together, she was found to be with child through the Holy Spirit. Because Joseph her husband was a righteous man and did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he had in mind to divorce her quietly.
      But after he had considered this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, 'Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. ...'
      When Joseph woke up, he did what the angel of the Lord commanded him and took Mary home as his wife. But he had no union with her until she gave birth to a son. And he gave him the name Jesus."

 - Matthew 1: 18-24.

What Matthew's account wishes to reassure its readers is that Joseph is placated and, effectively, made complicit in the rape of his young wife and the exploitation of her fertility. It says nothing of how Mary felt about events. For an account of this, we have to turn to Luke. He tells us how God also sent the angel Gabriel to visit the virgin Mary and that he greeted her as the special plaything of the Lord:

"Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. But the angel said to her, 'Do not be afraid, Mary, you have found favour with God. You will be with child and give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus ...'
      'How will this be,' Mary asked the angel, 'since I am a virgin?'
     The angel answered, 'The Holy Spirit will come upon you and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God.'"

- Luke 1: 29-38

     
Recognizing that she has no choice in the matter, Mary gives what might be regarded as consent: 'I am the Lord's servant. Let it be as you have said.' Only then, having got her agreement to be fucked, does Gabriel depart. But her consent is clearly rendered null and void given her age and the situation of extreme duress or coercion under which it was given.

It surely doesn't take much to imagine how, despite her resignation, Mary remains distressed; she is clearly agreeing to act in a manner that she would not normally act were she genuinely free to choose. If it's difficult to say no to sexual predators in positions of power and authority, it's virtually impossible to say no to a god: ask Leda. But yes doesn't always mean yes and all the pure white lilies in the world don't make it so.             

In Support of Punk Violinists

 Ara Malikian giving a radio performance in Madrid (2011)

If you can overlook the various affectations upon which he has opted to found his stage persona -

the hair which signifies his wild, untamed hippie character ...
the clothes which speak of his unconventional, dandy-bohemian aspect ...
the constant grinning and jigging about which demonstrates his vital, joyful nature ...

- then the fact is that Ara Malikian is a genius with the violin; one who was taught to play not by gypsies or demons, but by some of the finest classical tutors in Berlin and London. Thus he has an extensive old-school repertoire, but has brilliantly added contemporary works to this and beautifully assimilated the musical styles of various cultures (Arab, Jewish, European, and South American).

 

Of course, some critics cannot overlook the hair, the clothes, or the exuberance - and won't forgive him these things either. This is unfortunate, but comes as no surprise. For we saw much the same unforgiving nastiness a few years back in the case of Nigel Kennedy, whose persona was also regarded by some as vulgar, ludicrous, and offensive. In 1991, for example, he was dismissed with sneering contempt as Liberace with a mockney accent by Sir John Drummond, one of the most formidable figures in the UK arts world at that time and Controller of BBC Radio 3.

It's precisely such remarks made by such people that make me sympathetic to performers such as Kennedy and Malikian. I may not feel fully comfortable myself with the way they look, speak, or behave, but oh how I love them in comparison to their enemies within the music establishment!

That is to say, the elderly grey ones who suck the life out of everything - including the works of the great composers whom they claim to revere - by insisting on painfully self-conscious technique at the expense of all passion; and the privileged high-brows who listen in a sort of ecstasy in order to receive the correct spiritual thrill, but feel nothing. 

On Cumshots and the Triumph of the Will to Orgasm

Charlotte Gainsbourg as Joe in the two-part film 

Nymphomaniac, dir. Lars von Trier (2013)

According to one sexologist, real men like to have narrative closure and some sense of satisfactory ending. Thus the importance and popularity within the pornographic imagination of the cumshot which provides an often premature but nonetheless definitive full stop to proceedings.

Only a few effeminate perverts enjoy the experience of delayed orgasm in which the purpose of pleasure and pleasure of purpose is constantly deferred and often ruined; perverts, a few philosophers, and those rare women who still value seduction over production and regard feminism in a Nietzschean sense as a loss of style, or an obscene staging of desire determined by purely phallic values.  

For such women - to whom the promise of so-called sexual liberation was always laughable - pleasure can very well exist without purpose. They don't mind exchanging amusing stories that lack a punchline (the female inability to tell jokes is rooted in an unconcern with climax, rather than the lack of a sense of humour), or receiving massages without the happy ending that most men anticipate and desire (consenting to a certain amount of back, neck and shoulder work so long as they are able to eventually flip over and have the oiled hands of their masseuse set to in the one area they want to have rubbed).

But today, as indicated, such women are few in number. The majority have been taught to demand equal rights and pleasures and to make sex visible and meaningful, i.e. the essential truth of themselves: I come therefore I am. The insistence on orgasm and the porn industry's obsession with showing such close up and in hi-definition has exorcised the ambivalence of her body and compromised the strange intensities that existed in erotic games of reticence and artifice.

I would like to think that Lars von Trier understands something of this and that his new film, Nymphomaniac - as well as the accompanying poster campaign which features many of the lead actors showing us their orgasm faces (including Charlotte Gainsbourg pictured above) - is a subversive attempt to mock the sexualized order we inhabit and to bring about some form of reversal.    

But, sadly, I suspect from what I have read of the work, that this is not the case; that he too remains a believer in sex as a form of truth to be ejaculated in all our faces in an orgy of realism. For that is precisely what it is to live in a pornified culture; one is subject to endless cumshots and an obsession with the real. 

Why I'm not Wild about André Gide

Last night, despite a persistent cough, I went to an interesting if somewhat old-fashioned seminar at UCL in which Professor Patrick Pollard examined the French reception of William Blake's The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. 

Briefly commenting on Charles Grolleau's 1900 translation, Professor Pollard then discussed in rather more detail and with rather more enthusiasm, André Gide's subsequent translation of 1922. He argued that whereas the former praised Blake as an idiosyncratic English poet, painter, and mystic, the latter saw him as very much part of a nonconformist tradition of writers which would include Baudelaire, Whitman, Dostoevsky, and Nietzsche; authors who liked to flirt with evil and prided themselves on their immoralism.
   

One author whom Gide did not name as part of this satanic pantheon - and his absence was a glaring omission - was Oscar Wilde. Of course, we all know the reason for his exclusion. Quite simply, Wilde's ghost continued to haunt and torment Gide as much as the living figure, whom he encountered several times as a young man, scared the pants off him. 

Gide, in my view - though I don't think I'm alone in this, - never fully acknowledged his intellectual and aesthetic indebtedness to Wilde and, despite his attraction to diabolical characters and pederastic pleasures, never fully accepted the profound challenge which Wilde presented to his own thinking and his own sexuality. 

Ultimately, I think of Gide as something of a coward, ever-fearful of losing his precious soul; the sort of man who would hurry home to write to his mother after spending time in Wilde's company that the latter was a terrible human being and the most dangerous product of modern civilization. 

His great success as a writer and existential humanist, contrasts tellingly with the Irishman's spectacular failure on all fronts. Gide wins the Nobel Prize for Literature and lives to a ripe old age; Wilde gets a prison sentence and dies exiled and in poverty, aged just 46. 

Informed by Wilde during one of their final meetings that, in art, there is no first person, Gide simply smiles and carries on exploring subjective depths and confessing what he sincerely believed to be his essential self. He never quite understands Wilde's transgressive philosophy or love of masks, anymore than he understands Nietzsche's revaluation of all values.

That's fine. But his own rather smug face and his attempt to read these authors in line with his own project is not and I find that I don't much care for M. Gide (despite the fact that the Catholic Church placed his work on their Index of Forbidden Books after his death in 1951).