With Wings Spread Silent Over Roofs: In Defence of the Urban Gull

 

Image: Gary Hershorn / Getty Images

Apparently, whilst the number of coastal birds continues to decline, the number of seagulls making a home in our towns and cities is booming and this makes me happy. 

 

For whilst gulls can certainly be noisy and messy - and may even steal your chips - they are also beautiful and intelligent birds which, I like to believe, act as messengers of the ancient sea goddess Leukothéa; she upon whom all men look with misty eyes, such is her loveliness.

 

Despite this, there are people who react to urban gulls with the same irrational hatred that they do to other creatures that have made their home amongst us, such as foxes and grey squirrels. Personally, I'd like to see those who call openly for extermination or speak euphemistically of pest control subject to a reduction in numbers. 

 

For to paraphrase Lawrence writing of a mountain lion [1]:

 

I think in this lonely city there is room for me and a seagull.

And I think in the world beyond, how easily we might spare a million or two humans

And never miss them. 

Yet what a gap in the world, the missing white-surf face of that long-legged bird!

 

 

Notes

 

[1] See D. H. Lawrence, 'Mountain Lion', in The Poems, Vol. I., ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 351-52. 

 

To read another defence of seagulls, see Stephen Moss's article in The Guardian (19 Aug 2009): click here.   

 

 

Soured Through the Ages Like Piss Lemonade: Notes on Punk Is Dead (2017)

(Zero Books, 2017)

 

 

I.

 

Pressed between the 300 or so pages of this book are a series of memories from various contributors who still like to filter their experiences and thinking through the prism of punk in order to explore the past and indicate their own role within it: I was there is the running refrain throughout the work: And bliss it was in that Summer of Hate to be alive (and to be a young punk was very heaven) [a]. 

 

There is, of course, a certain irony in this: if punk prided itself on anything, it was the refusal to be nostalgic or to acknowledge that it owed anything to the past: No Elvis, Beatles, or the Rolling Stones in 1977 ... [b]

 

Similarly, punk was not sentimental. As Tony Drayton reminds us, the phrase Kill Your Pet Puppy meant breaking all ties, committments, and responsibilities; "reject domesticity, keep on moving [...] never look back, leave your family behind" [195] [c].

 

And so there's a further irony in the fact that the book opens with the two editors - Richard Cabut and Andrew Gallix - thanking their partners, parents and children and thereby placing punk within the Oedipal triangle.
 

Still, never mind the bollocks - let's move on ...

 

 

II. 

 

First up, there's a Foreword by Judy Nylon; a colourful figure who, by her own admission, is "often left out of punk histories" [1], despite being - like her friend and compatriot Chrissie Hynde - on the London scene from the very beginning. 

 

I suspect the reason for this is that Nylon is bigger and more complex than any scene or subcultural identity, which makes her - like many of the singular individuals in this period - too punk for punk. The fact that her "very existence would eventually come into conflict with Malcolm and Vivienne's version of punk" [2] probably also helps to explain her exclusion from many (official) accounts of the period.  

 

Next comes a two part Introduction by the editors ...

 

Richard Cabut makes the perfectly valid point that punk in the early days - "before the Clash essentialy" [8] - had no fixed essence or political allegiance, but was, rather, a defiant and stylish response to the boredom of everyday life. 

 

Where he and I differ, is that he understands this in terms of a "quest for truth and significance" [9], whilst I see it more as the playful deconstruction of these and related ideals as part of what D. H. Lawrence terms a sane revolution:

 

If you make a revolution, make it for fun, 

don’t make it in ghastly seriousness, 

don’t do it in deadly earnest, do it for fun. 

 

Don’t do it because you hate people, 

do it just to spit in their eye. [d]           

 

This resentment-free gobbing - and not the search for meaning - is surely what defines punk, is it not?

 

Andrew Gallix, meanwhile, muses on the passing of time and the fact that even punk rockers - unless they live fast enough to die young like Sid and Nancy - get old ... 

 

I suspect, however, as a reader of Deleuze, Gallix is perfectly aware of the fact that one can, in fact, age stylishly - that is to say, like Malcolm (but unlike Rotten) - not by attempting to remain young, but by extracting the molecular elements, the forces and flows, that constitute the youth of whatever age one happens to be. 

 

Gallix also warns of the dangers of retrospective reinterpretation; "of the way in which the past is subtly rewritten, every nuance gradually airbrushed out of the picture" [11]. For this is not just a way of negating certain inconvenient elements in the past, but of creating a sanitised present. This whitewashing of history and murder of reality is what Baudrillard terms the perfect crime.    

 

Ultimately, however, the cultural importance of punk must be remembered, even if, as a selective process, remembering always involves a degree of forgetting. 

 

Indeed, Gallix argues that punk must not just be remembered, but commemorated in museums and art galleries; both as "the last great youth subculture" [12] and a "summation of all avant-garde movements of the 20th-century" [12] [e].  

 

 

III. 

 

In his essay 'The Boy Looked at Eurydice', Gallix continues to reflect upon the punk obsession with youth: "All we can say for sure is that, more than any other subculture before or since, punk was afflicted with Peter Pan syndrome." [17] 

 

That's probably true: I remember one of the first things I ever wrote was entitled Never Trust Anyone Over Twenty and I always (like Sid) used the term grown-up perjoratively. Again, this came from Malcolm who encouraged his spiky-haired charges to be childish, irresponsible and disrespectful of adult authority [f].   

 

More importantly, however, was the fact that punk was a thinking against itself - "internal dissent was its identity" [26]. Real punks, as Gallix rightly says, always hated the term: "Being a true punk was something that could only go without saying, it implied never describing oneself as such" [26-27] [g].   

 

 

IV.  

 

For me, one of the most interesting pieces in Punk Is Dead is by Tom Vague who retraces the semi-mythical origin of punk rock to the Situationist International and the Gordon Riots of 1780; a connection first made by Fred Vermorel. 

 

The fact is, whilst you can analyse the Sex Pistols from various perspectives, to talk exclusively about the music or the fashion whilst ignoring the politics which inspired McLaren and Jamie Reid is to profoundly miss the point. 

 

Crucial aspects of the project - particularly in the glorious last days of The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle, when the band essentially no longer existed - will simply not make sense unless you first understand the political context in which things evolved and I would advise everyone to read Chris Gray's Leaving the Twentieth Century (1974), which, as Vague reminds us, is a kind of blueprint for the punk revolution [h].    

 

V.

 

Sadly, of course, for the majority of punk rockers it was all about the music (not the chaos); all about forming (or following) bands, making (or buying) records, playing (or going to) gigs, etc. These were the kind of people who read the NME (not Guy Debord) and failed to see that the most exciting thing about Never Mind the Bollocks was the sleeve (just as the only interesting thing about Johnny Rotten was his public image).    

Unfortunately, these music lovers abound within the pages of Punk Is Dead - still talking reverently about rock history and referring to the Sex Pistols as the Pistols thereby turning them into just another boring band rather than the embodiment of an attitude and an approach to art, politics, and life that bubbled up at 430 Kings Road. 

 

To his credit, Paul Gorman understands the importance of the above address as an immersive art environment and recognises that the music was simply an expression of SEX and Seditionaries (and arguably of far less importance than McLaren and Westwood's clothes designs) [i]. Not everyone could join the band - but anyone could be a SEX Pistol if they had the right look, the right attitude. 

 

Punk was perhaps not all and always about Talcy Malcy, but, as Gorman says, without McLaren and his odd little shop at 430 Kings Road, punk "wouldn't have taken the form it did" [77] [j].       

 

    

VI.

I would normally at this point in a review indicate which are the pieces (and who are the authors) contained in this collection that I really hate - and there are several (not to mention one or two essays that simply don't belong in this book, interesting as they may be). 

 

But, in the spirit of Richard Cabut's positive punk, let me end with a wonderful line taken from Dorothy Max Prior's 'SEX in the City', an amusing account of her days working as a stripper in the pubs of punk London, full of dodgy-geezers and brassy-birds: 

 

"Modernity killed not only every night, but every lunchtime over a pint of Double Diamond in a City Road boozer." [118]

 

 

   

Notes

 

[a] This line from Wordsworth - paraphrased here - is also paraphrased by Andrew Gallix in 'The Boy Looked at Eurydice', in Punk Is Dead, (Zero Books, 2017), pp. 17-18. Note that future page references to this book will be given directly in the text. 

      To his credit, punk-turned philosopher Simon Critchley says he consciously tries not to lecture young people about "how great it was to be alive in the 1970s". Of course, as he admits, he often fails in this. See 'Rummaging in the Ashes: An Interview with Simon Critchley', Punk Is Dead, p. 39. 

[b] As the Clash sang on the B-side of their first single White Riot (CBS, 1977): click here. 

      Andrew Gallix, however, persuasively argues that without nostalgia we would have no Homer or Proust. See his Introduction to Punk Is Dead, p. 12. 

      See also 'Rummaging in the Ashes: An Interview with Simon Critchley', in which the latter says that although he hates nostalgia, "it is unavoidable and I get whimsical when I think back to the punk years and how everything suddeny became possible". Punk Is Dead, p. 37. 

 

[c] Tony Drayton (in conversation with Richard Cabut), 'Learning to Fight', Punk Is Dead. Drayton was the founder of the punk fanzines Ripped & Torn (1976) and Kill Your Pet Puppy (1980). 

 

[d] D. H. Lawrence, 'A sane revolution', The Poems Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 449.

[e] Interestingly, Simon Critchley takes an entirely opposite view: "I must say that I find the idea of the commemoration of punk particularly distasteful, and that punk can be archived and celebrated in museums pretty awful." See 'Rummaging in the Ashes: An Interview with Simon Critchley', in Punk Is Dead, p. 38.

[f] Ted Polhemus picks up on the deliberate and determined childishness of punk in his essay 'Boom!', describing it as "the opposite of the beard-stroking, educated, technically-accomplished, grown-up world where the Boring Old Farts had reduced the anything-goes spirit of rock 'n' roll to a limp, ageing shadow of its former self". See Punk Is Dead, p. 98.

[g] As Paul Gorman writes in 'The Flyaway-Collared Shirt': "Everyone I knew, and/or admired, moved on from punk as soon as it was given a name. [...] The richness of [the] scene had been traduced to the saleable gob 'n' pogo archetype: spiky hair, permanent sneer, brotel creepers, Lewis leathers." See Punk Is Dead, p. 105. 

       

[h] For example, Chris Gray's idea of forming a totally unpleasant pop group "designed to subvert show business from within would obviously be a major influence on the [Sex] Pistols project". See Andrew Gallix, 'Unheard Melodies', Punk Is Dead, p. 213.   

 

[i] As Richard Cabut says in 'A Letter to Jordan', in terms of cultural influence upon style, SEX (later to become Seditionaries and World's End) is "the most influential shop/meeting place ever". See Punk Is Dead, p. 120. Cabut is also right to recognise - like Adam Ant before him - that the perfect embodiment of SEX was Jordan, rather than Rotten. 

 

[j] Ted Polhemus challenges the view that punk was primarily and most significantly shaped by Malcolm: 

      "Not only is this view a reductionist distortion of how history happens - and actually did happen in 1976 - but it also fails to give credit were credit is surely due to the startling, unprecedented creativity of hundreds and then thousands of teenagers like John Lydon [...] and so very many others whose contribution was great but whose names were never known to us [...]." 

      See his essay 'Boom!' in Punk Is Dead, p. 99. The fact that Polhemus refers to Rotten as John Lydon perhaps indicates where his sympathies lie and why he might wish to down play McLaren's role.    

  

Final Reflections on Hölderlin's Poltergeists (A Drama for Voices by Síomón Solomon)

(Peter Lang, 2020)

 

 

I. 

 

Astute readers may have noticed that whilst I published a quintet of posts last month on the supplementary writings contained within Síomón Solomon's study Hölderlin's Poltergeists,* I didn't actually comment on the highly original adaptation of the radio play which is at its heart. 

 

This was due to the fact that although Nietzsche may figure prominently in my intellectual background, I simply do not feel qualified to do so: I am not a German literature scholar and not only have I never studied Hölderlin, but I hadn't even heard of Stephan Hermlin or his 1970 audio drama, Scardanelli, before reading Solomon's book. 

 

Further, whilst I've read a lot of novels and seen a lot of films, my knowledge and appreciation of plays is shamefully underdeveloped. I don't know why, but watching plays unfold on stage, or listening to them on the radio, has always filled me with a kind of performance anxiety. I even find reading plays troubling. 

And so, I'm perfectly happy to accept Dan Farrelly's estimation of Solomon's work as a "beautiful, free and creative translation" which "opens access to an extraordinarily creative poet who is superbly served by the playwright and his translator" [1]. 

 

Happy also to reproduce below remarks made by Solomon in his introduction, which give a fascinating insight into his thinking and working method ...    

 

 

II. 

 

According to Solomon, although his adaptation is rooted in "an exhaustive attentiveness to the minutiae" [2] of Hermlin's original German text, he has nevertheless seen fit to take a transmorphic approach in accordance with which he has made "a host of minor and major infidelities to the mother script, from compensations (moved text), borrowings (untranslated language items), tweaked directions, insertions and elisions to new dramatis personae and whole scenic re/writings" [3]. 

 

Solomon continues:

 

"As a result, the source text - already, of course, a seething intertext implicating a range of semiotic fields (Classical/Romantic poetics, early European psychiatry, Franco-German revolutionary politics, epistolary erotics, etc.) - has been both critically trimmed and lavishly enhanced. Our clamorous ark of thirty-five speakers [...] through twenty-eight scenes - roughly doubling Hermlin's quantities in each case and all doing their many varieties of violence to Hölderlin's voice - has been accordingly relaunched as a keening vessel of ventriloquized voices, in which ill-starred poets, idealist philosophers, literary editors, hamstrung employers, pious relatives, mortified lovers, political tyrants, ghoulish voyeurs and anonymous critics collide and collude." [4] 

 

In consequence: Solomon calls his work a 'remix', "aiming as it does to offer a musical variation on a pre-existent artistic matrix" [5]. 

 

And in sum: "Hermlin's play has been treated playfully, with a passionate recklessness or irreverent love" [6] that some might term abusive fidelity. 

 

Notes

 

[1] Dan Farrelly, Senior Lecturer in German (retired), University College Dublin. I am quoting from the blurb provided by Farrelly for the back cover of Hölderlin's Poltergeists.

 

[2] Síomón Solomon, 'Translator's Introduction', Hölderlin's Poltergeists, (Peter Lang, 2020), p. 13. 

[3] - [5] Ibid.

[6] Ibid., p. 14.

 

* The quintet of earlier posts inspired by Hölderlin's Poltergeists are: 

How Fascism Makes Killers Of Us All (With Reference to the Case of Stephan Hermlin)

 

There is No Tongue That is Not Forked: Notes On Síomón Solomon's Fantasia of Translation 

 

A Brief Note on the Life and Work of Stephan Hermlin 

 

What's in a Name? Quite a Lot When That Name is Scardanelli 

 

We Are Transmitters: Reflections on Síomón Solomon's Audiopoetics 

 

 

From the Archives ... A Brief Style Guide for the Nietzschean Woman

"We are the smart set, a world apart set 

We are the neatest, ergo elitist." [1] 

 

As Derrida pointed out, the question of style and the question of woman almost become one and the same question within Nietzsche's philosophy - particularly when thought in relation to the question of Truth [2].   

Perhaps that's what I was thinking of when, in 2004, I wrote this brief style guide for the Nietzschean woman - anticipating my Philosophy on the Catwalk project ...

 

1. Burn all soft-cotton frocks as these invariably suggest Laura Ashley and her ersatz brand of pseudo-traditional fashion. The key point for the Nietzschean woman of today is to look smart and well-groomed; to demonstrate she has both discipline and breeding. 

2. Always wear a hat and gloves when out of doors. It does not matter if you are wearing the most beautiful Chanel outfit, if you lack these things you will look like a member of the herd. 

3. Stockings should also always be worn. Even during the hottest summer days, the Nietzschean woman does not parade around with bare legs; nor on the coldest of cold winter nights does she ever think of pulling on woolly socks. Tights, of course, are utterly infra dig - a sordid remnant of the 1960s. 

 

4. Make-up is a necessity and should be worn with pride and defiance so that one looks striking and dramatic; clearly defined lips, eyes luxuriantly shadowed, brows pencilled with firm, think curves; cheekbones emphasised with rouge. A face without make up looks offensively bare and contrary to what our idealists believe, Truth does not love to go naked. 

 

There is, of course, much more to Nietzschean style than this. But any woman who sticks to the above will already have gone a long way towards a revaluation of values and protecting herself from viral infections: For has a woman who knows herself to be well dressed ever caught a cold? [3] 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] I'm quoting here from an English version of a Berlin cabaret song - Das Gesellschaftlied (1931) - written by Mischa Spoliansky (music) and Marcellus Schiffer (lyrics) and performed by Ute Lemper (Decca, 1996): click here.   

 

[2] See Jacques Derrida, Spurs, trans. Barbara Harlow, (The University of Chicago Press, 1979). And to read my take on this work, click here.  

 

[3] Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols, 'Maxims and Arrows', 25.

 

 

Put on a Little Makeup and Make Sure They Get Your Good Side: A Brief Note on Positive Punk

The Class of '83 ... Photo by Mike Laye

 

"Consigned to a foul demise by the forces of cash and chaos, punk broods alone in its dark tomb. 

Its evolution away from the light has been a cruel and twisted one, from guerilla assault on the media 

to ghost dancing on the bones of Red Indian mysticism, from glue to Gothick. 

Naturally, unattended for so long, its hair has grown. So have its aspirations." [1]

                                                                                                                                      

  

What is so-called positive punk? 

 

I'm not sure I knew back in 1983 when the movement was first identified by Richard North writing in the NME [2] and I'm still not sure I know even now, although, if North is to be believed, it seems primarily to involve the internalisation of punk's energy in order to produce a new gothic sensibility. 

 

In other words, it was punk - but this time with feeling - as reimagined by the art school crowd and drama students who looked on in (Rocky) horror at the antics of those for whom the word Oi! was invented (by yet another music journalist, this time working for Sounds; the loathsome Garry Bushell).  

 

And, in a sense, that was my crowd; the crowd who danced the night away at Le Phonographique to the sounds of the Southern Death Cult and the Sex Gang Children [3]. And yet, at the same time, it was never quite my crowd and I never quite followed them into the night. 

 

I don't know why: perhaps it was because the gloomier-than-thou fanaticism of Killing Joke meant more to me at the time than any form of positivity. Also, I quite liked a lot of the three-chord rubbish that North dismisses, if ultimately conceding that this can become a bit boring after a while and that a soft-centre is often more seductive than a hard core.          

        

 

Notes

 

[1] Marek Kohn, 'Punk's New Clothes', in The Face (Feb 1983): click here to read on punkrocker.org.uk

 

[2] Under the pen-name Richard North, the interesting figure of Richard Cabut - bass player with Brigandage - wrote his positive punk manifesto in a piece entitled 'Punk Warriors' for the NME (19 Feb 1983): click here to read on punkrocker.org.uk

 

[3] Musical bonus: Southern Death Cult, Fat Man (1982): click here / Sex Gang Children, Sebastiane (1983): click here.  

Reflections on The Rokeby Venus

Diego Velázquez: The Toilet of Venus 

aka 'The Rokeby Venus' (1647-51) 

Oil on canvas, 122.5 x 177 cm 

nationalgallery.org.uk

 

D. H. Lawrence once jokingly suggested that his painting The Rape of the Sabine Women (1928) might best be described as a 'Study in Arses' [1]. 

 

And perhaps something similar might also be said of the only surviving female nude painted by Velázquez - the so-called Rokeby Venus - which has a lovely looking bottom as its focus point (one hardly notices the rather blurry face reflected in the mirror held by Cupid). 

 

Although paintings of the naked Venus had been popularised by 16th-century Venetian painters, such an overtly sensual picture would, of course, have been highly controversial in 17th-century Spain; the Catholic Church strongly disapproving of such risqué images. 

 

Amusingly, it's a picture that has continued to provoke outrage amongst moralists and militant ascetics of all stripes, including fanatic suffragettes such as Mary Richardson who, on the morning of March 10th, 1914, entered the National Gallery and attacked Velázquez’s most celebrated work with a meat-cleaver [2], and contemporary feminists concerned with the imperial male gaze and the sexual objectification of women, etc., etc. 

 

On the other hand, since its arrival and public display at the National Gallery in 1906, this extraordinary painting continues to inspire a wide range of artists, including the photographer Helmut Newton, who in 1981, took this beautiful photograph, after Velázquez, in his apartment in Paris, for an edition of French Vogue [3]:

 

 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] See D. H. Lawrence, The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. VI, ed. James T. Boulton and Margaret H. Boulton, with Gerald M. Lacy, (Cambridge University Press, 1991), letter 4370, sent to Aldous and Maria Huxley [2 April 1928], p. 353.  

[2] Frustrated by their failure to achieve equal voting rights for women, some within the suffragette movement, including Mary Richardson - a loyal supporter of Emmeline Pankhurst - favoured the adoption of increasingly militant tactics. As well as the attack on The Rokeby Venus, Richardson committed acts of arson, smashed windows at the Home Office, and bombed a railway station. She was arrested on nine occasions and received prison terms totalling more than three years. Perhaps not surprisingly, considering her penchant for political violence, in 1932 she joined Oswald Mosley's British Union of Fascists (as did several other leading suffragettes, including Norah Elam and Mary Sophia Allen). 

      For an interesting online essay on all this, see Philip McCouat, 'From the Rokeby Venus to Fascism', Journal of Art in Society - click here. 

[3] To be honest, this photo has always meant more to me than the painting that inspired it and those who attended my Visions of Excess series at Treadwell's in 2004 might remember that the final paper on nihilism, culture, art and technology, featured an adapted version of this picture on the poster designed to advertise the talk.     

 

 

From the Archives ... Lovely Louise (On the Nakedness of the Prostitute)

 

My fascination with the cards left in the now nearly vanished red phone boxes by London's prositutes advertising their services and physical charms, already had a long history before I decided to produce an adapted range of my own cards in the early 2000s, containing fragments of text taken from my Illicit Lover's Discourse project [click here].  

 

I suppose - using a term coined by the cultural critic Mark Dery - this might be described as a form of subvertising. Having said that, whilst my cards mimicked the look and feel of the original works, I wasn't attempting to undermine the sex trade, nor mock those involved in such.  

 

Rather, I was just playfully trying to introduce a little philosophical speculation into the world of vice and perhaps deconstruct some of the stereotypes and clichés that endlessly circulate within the pornographic imagination. 

 

Perhaps what I was doing might better be thought of as an apolitical détournement - i.e., something done just for the fun of it, with no real objective and free of all judgement.   

The cards - extremely limited in number - were placed in phone boxes in Soho and Paddington. Fuck knows if anyone ever saw them before teams from Westminster City Council removed them, but it pleases me to imagine that an illicit lover went round collecting them in the same way I went round collecting the real cards. 

 

Sadly, the only example I seem to have kept in the archives is a card featuring Lovely Louise (New - 19 Yrs Old), who specialised in solo exhibitions and strip tease. My addition to the card is a text in which I muse on the nakedness of the prostitute:

 

"Were we ever to succeed in peeling away that series of coverings given her by the pornographic imagination in order to ensure the erotic appeal of her flesh (and advertise its availability), the Prostitute would not merely be desexualised, she would in fact cease to exist. 

 

Knowing this, the Prostitute is very reluctant to remove her clothes (to have her strip always costs extra). And knowing this, the Illicit Lover is often a fetishist who realises that desire is aroused and sustained by signs and symbols of the surface; like the Greeks, he becomes superficial out of profundity."

 

 

From the Archives ... On My Dealings with Channel 4

My application for a job as an Assistant Editor 

(Youth and Entertainments Features) at Channel 4

 

 

I.

 

My first dealings with Channel 4 were in the autumn of 1983, less than a year after the station started broadcasting. Rather naively, I believed that they fully intended to stick to their public service remit and provide a genuine alternative to the shit served up by the BBC and ITV. 

 

That is to say, provide 'a broad range of high quality and diverse programming which [...] demonstrates innovation, experiment and creativity in the form and content of programmes; appeals to the tastes and interests of a culturally diverse society; exhibits a distinctive character.'

I was then collaborating with a spiky-haired student of Communications, Arts and Media called Gillian Hall on various projects and, encouraged by Alan Fountain - an independent producer hired by Channel 4 as a commissioning editor and mentor to new filmmakers - we submitted a proposal for a series that would be profoundly anti-Christian in nature and feature music, dance, witchcraft, sex-magick, and Satanic ritual.

 

In other words, we basically assembled ideas and images from all the usual suspects - from Aleister Crowley to Killing Joke (the album Fire Dances had just been released and I was under its spell all summer) - and visualised a kind of postmodern black mass with a post-punk soundtrack. It may well have been catastrophically bad had it ever been made - but it wouldn't have been Songs of Praise.

Alas, whilst initially intrigued by the proposal, Fountain lost his nerve somewhere along the line and Gillian and I were politely informed by letter that our Pagan TV show was not something that Channel 4 would be willing to commission, not least because many of the ideas that the show intended to explore were ones that the vast majority of people would find profoundly offensive.  

 

 

II.

 

Several years later, I again had dealings with Channel 4 - and again suffered the pain and disappointment of rejection (although these feelings were alleviated by the fact that I didn't give a shit).

 

Having failed to land a role as a presenter on the 24-hour cable and satellite TV channel the Music Box (a sort of naff pan-European version of MTV), Malcolm had advised me that I needed to be a 'little less Johnny Rotten and a little more Simon Le Bon'. With that in mind, I decided to apply for a job as an Assistant Editor (Youth and Entertainments Features) at Channel 4, which I had seen advertised in The Guardian. 

 

The ad for the post (reference number BH01) made clear that applicants should have 'definite opinions regarding youth programmes, journalism and the youth entertainment market in general'. 

 

Well, I definitely had opinions regarding these things; unfortunately, they were largely (if not entirely) negative and, Sex Pistol that I remained at heart, I basically just wanted to destroy everything and cause as much chaos as possible. (Of course, I didn't list this under career goals and ambitions on my CV, though I suspect that something of my underlying nihilism shone through the bullshit that I did write.)

Instead of the requested covering letter to accompany the CV, I sent the above poster which clearly illustrated who and what they would be getting if they hired me. The text on the poster, which paraphrased Zarathustra and referenced a favourite song by Bow Wow Wow reads: 

'If culture is, before all things, unity of artistic style in all the expressions of the life of a people, then barbarism is surely a lack of style; or a chaotic jumble of all styles. Thus we postmoderns, we parodists of world history and plunderers of the past, are the new barbarians: we are the TV savages! We are that hybrid breed, without meaning, substance, or style: we are Youth!'

 

I don't remember if anyone ever bothered to reply: if they did, I don't have the letter or recall its contents. 

 

And that, pretty much, was the end of my dealings with Channel 4 - a short (and not particularly spectacular) history of failure and rejection (but no regrets).

 

 

From the Archives ... The Bad Mood - by Lorrie

Lorrie Millington: The bad mood (c. 1983/84)
Chalk pastels on paper (210 x 297 mm)

 

 

I've spent the last couple of days going through a small portion of my personal archives - always a pleasure tinged with horror and sadness. 

 

Of course, it should be understood that when I say archives, I actually refer to a large number of cardboard boxes sat gathering dust in the loft, some of which I have been lugging around with me for the best part of 35 years, crammed full of all kinds of papers, photos, drawings, letters, notebooks, diaries, etc. going all the way back to the early 1980s.

 

Obviously, I didn't keep everything. And some things - including some of what were to me the most precious items - have been lost or destroyed; this includes, for example, much of the correspondence from Lorrie Millington (aka the Girl in the Mystery Castle).

 

One of the things I do still have by the above, however, is a self-portrait she entitled The bad mood. From a technical perspective, it may possess lots of faults. But I will always cherish this work; just as I will always fondly remember the young woman who drew it and the happy times we shared in Leeds.     

 

On the Art of Character Assassination cum Eternal Salute: Reflections on D. H. Lawrence's 'Memoir of Maurice Magnus'

Lawrence and Magnus photographed in Italy (c.1920)

 

Also - Maurice! Ich grüsse dich, in der Ewigkeit.

 

If I'm grateful to the author of Burning Man for anything, it's for sending me back with fresh interest to D. H. Lawrence's Memoir of Maurice Magnus, a queer text (about a queer figure) first published in 1924, which Frances Wilson regards - like Lawrence himself - as perhaps his greatest single piece of writing as writing [a].  

 

The sixty-odd page text - which Lawrence wrote as an introduction for Magnus's book telling of his (wretched) time in the French Foreign Legion - opens on a "dark, wet, wintry evening in November 1919" [b]. Lawrence has just arrived in Florence: poor as the proverbial church mouse and Friedaless (she having gone to visit her mother in Germany). 

 

Needing help finding his feet, Lawrence turned to exiled British writer and paedophile Norman Douglas [c], whom he had known for several years and regarded as someone he could trust; someone who had, as he put it, never left him "in the lurch" [11]. Douglas it is who introduces Lawrence to Magnus, a figure who will both fascinate and exasperate, attract and repulse, with his mincing walk and high-pitched voice.

As first impressions seem to matter a very good deal, here's how Lawrence initially sized Magnus up: "almost smart, all in grey, and looked at first sight like an actor-manager, common [...] a touch of down-on-his-luck about him" [11]. Lawrence continues: "He looked a man about forty, spruce and youngish in his deportment, very pink-faced, and very clean, very natty, very alert, like a sparrow painted to resemble a tom-tit" [12].  

 

It's difficult to know quite what Lawrence found so irresistable about Magnus; perhaps it was his light-blue but rather tired-looking eyes, or his "crisp, curly, dark-brown hair" [13] that was just beginning to grey at the temples [d]; or perhaps it was the nice 'n' sleazy element that captured Lawrence's interest every time ... Who knows? But there was something (much to Frieda's later disgust and irritation) [e].

 

Despite insisting on Magnus's essential commonness, Lawrence can't help admiring the man's sensitivity and appreciation of fine things. Entering Magnus's room the morning after a gay and noisy night before, Lawrence notes:

 

"He was like a little pontiff in a blue kimono-shaped dressing gown with a broad border of reddish- purple: the blue was a soft mid-blue, the material a dull silk. So he minced about, in demi-toilette. His room was very clean and neat, and slightly perfumed with essences. On his dressing-table stood many cut glass bottles and silver-topped bottles with essences and pomades and powders, and heaven knows what. A very elegant little prayer book lay by his bed - and a life of St. Benedict. For Magnus was a Roman Catholic convert. All he had was expensive and finicking: thick leather silver-studded suit-cases standing near the wall, trouser-stretcher all nice, hair-brushes and clothes-brush with old ivory backs. I wondered over him and his niceties and little pomposities. He was a new bird to me. For he wasn't at all just the common person he looked. He was queer and sensitive as a woman [...] and patient and fastidious." [15]

 

Rather sadly, Lawrence suspects that Magnus finds him a bit of a bore; someone fearful of spending the money he hasn't got; someone fearful of letting go and getting into the gay spirit of things whilst his wife was away. Without saying there was always something a bit pinched and provincial about Lawrence, it's true that he certainly wasn't a wild bohemian or louche libertine.  

 

When not running round on errands for Douglas and managing his affairs, no one quite knew what Magnus did. Though he liked to hang about with the monks at a monastery near Rome and dream of leading a spiritual life. One day, Lawrence goes to visit him at the monastery, which, according to Lawrence, makes Magnus very happy:

 

"He looked up to me with a tender, intimate look as I got down from the carriage. Then he took my hand. 

      'So very glad to see you,' he said. 'I'm so pleased you've come.'

      And he looked into my eyes with that wistful, watchful tenderness rather like a woman who isn't quite sure of her lover." [21-22]

 

This homoerotic tone is a constant feature of Lawrence's Memoir. He can't help finding Magnus a quaint creature full of a certain tenderness; the sort of man happy to lend you a beautiful warm coat when, like Lawrence, you are feeling the cold: 

 

"Magnus [...] made me wear a big coat of his own, a coat made of thick, smooth black cloth, and lined with black sealskin, and having a collar of silky black sealskin. I can still remember the feel of the silky fur. It was queer to have him helping me solicitously into this coat, and buttoning it at the throat for me." [24]  

          

Of course, Lawrence being Lawrence, he can't just appreciate this act of kindness and enjoy being wrapped in splendour for once: happy to be warm, he nevertheless secretly detests the expensively tailored coat. Nor can he bring himself to simply say something polite when shown a photograph of Magnus's mother:

 

"Magnus showed me [...] a wonderful photograph of a picture of a lovely lady - asked me what I thought of it, and seemed to expect me to be struck to bits by the beauty. His almost sanctimonious expectation made me tell the truth, that I thought it just a bit cheap, trivial." [26]. 

 

It's precisely this kind of remark that prompted Norman Douglas to issue a plea for better manners from Lawrence [f]. As a rule, dear reader, if someone shows or sends you a photo of their mother, newborn baby, much-loved child - or even their cat! - just smile and say something complimentary. 

 

Pretty soon, Lawrence finds life at the monastery unbearable: "'The past, the past. The beautiful, the wonderful past, it seems to prey on my heart, I can't bear it'" [33]. It wasn't the rich authenticity of the past that distubed him per se, but that he was reminded of just how much he remained a "child of the present" [27] who could never return to a time gone by, no matter how nostalgic it made him feel. 

 

This is important: too many Lawrentians mistakenly believe Lawrence wants to go back and worships the peasant and noble savage. He doesn't. 

 

Thus, for example, whilst he rather admires the mindless Italian peasants living their lives "as lizards among the rocks" [30], Lawrence is quick to add that this doesn't make them superior beings: "I don't give much for the wonderful mystic qualities in peasants. Money is their mystery of mysteries" [31] - just like the industrial workers living in the big cities and worshipping the machine. 

 

Ultimately, says Lawrence, one has to press on and accelerate the process of modernity and in this way hope to get beyond it.     

 

At some point, mention is made by Magnus of a manuscript on which he is rather pinning his hopes. Lawrence reads it, but thinks it poor: "And yet there was something in it that made me want it done properly" [29]. And that - in part - is how and why Lawrence ends up adding an introduction and overseeing publication of the work (then called, rather wonderfully, Dregs).

 

The book - eventually published under the title Memoirs of the Foreign Legion, in October 1924, was, sadly, not one that Magnus would ever hold in his hands; for he had committed suicide in November the year before, just three days shy of his 44th birthday (the age that Lawrence would die at in 1930) [g].    

 

Lawrence tells us that news of Magnus's death (briefly) caused the world to stand still for him: 

 

"I knew that in my own soul I had said, 'Yes, he must die if he cannot find his own way.' But for all that, now I realised what it must have meant to be the hunted, desperate man: everything seemed to stand still. I could, by giving half my money, have saved his life. I had chosen not to save his life. 

      Now, after a year has gone by, I keep to my choice. I still would not save his life. I respect him for dying when he was cornered. And for this reason I feel still connected with him: still have this to discharge, to get his book published, and to give him his place, to present him just as he was as far as I knew him myself." [62-63]

 

That's kind. And generous. But what follows in the introduction is rather less so; in fact, one might describe Lawrence's words as unkind and uncharitable - even cruel:

 

"The worst thing I have against him, is that he abused the confidence, the kindness, and the generosity of unsuspecting people [...] He did not want to, perhaps. But he did it. [...] What is one to feel towards one's strangers, after having known Magnus? It is the Judas treachery to ask for sympathy and for generosity, to take it when given - and then: 'Sorry, but anybody may make a mistake!' It is this betraying with a kiss which makes me still say: 'He should have died sooner.' No, I would not help to keep him alive, not if I had to choose again. I would let him go over into death. He shall and should die, and so should all his sort: and so they will. There are so many kiss-giving Judases. He was not a criminal: he was obviously well intentioned: but a Judas every time, selling the good feeling he had tried to arouse, and had aroused, for any handful of silver he could get. A little loving vampire!" [63]

 

Magnus's book, says Lawrence, is dreadful. But Magnus is worse than dreadful; he is a liar and hypocrite. Particularly when it comes to the question of sodomy. For like his friend Norman Douglas, Magnus had a taste for young boys and willingly paid for sexual favours. 

 

For Magnus, however, it's not what's done that matters - it's how its done (and who's doing it); a brutal legionaire raping a boy-child lacks the sophisticated spirituality and style of the educated man who looks to the ancient Greeks for his code of sexual conduct. Lawrence doesn't agree:

 

"To my mind he is worse than the poor devils of legionaires. They had their blood-passions and carried them defiantly, flagrantly, to depravity. But Magnus had whitish blood, and a conceited spiritual uplift, and he kept up appearances: and filched his sexual satisfactions, despising them all the time." [64]

 

Memoirs of the Foreign Legion is, says Lawrence, "in its way a real creation" [67]. But he would "hate it to be published and taken at its face value, with Magnus as a spiritual dove among vultures of lust" [67]. But again, on the other hand, Lawrence's introduction isn't merely an exercise in character assassination; he also passionately sticks up for the dead man, admitting his courage and saluting him in eternity:

 

"He had his points, the courage of his own terrors, quick-wittedness, sensitiveness to certain things in his surroundings. I prefer him, scamp as he is, to the ordinary respectable person. He ran his risks: he had to be running risks with the police, apparently. And he poisoned himself rather than fall into their clutches. I like him for that. And I like him for the sharp and quick way he made use of every one of his opportunities to get out of that beastly army. There I admire him: a courageous isolated little devil facing his risks, and like a good rat, determined not to be trapped. I won't forgive him for trading on the generosity of others, and so dropping poison into the heart of all warm-blooded faith. But I am glad after all that [a friend] has rescued his bones from the public grave. I wouldn't have done it myself, because I don't forgive him his 'fisacal' impudence and parasitism. But I am glad [someone] has done it. And, for my part, I will put his Legion book before the world if I can. Let him have his place in the world's consciousness. 

      Let him have his place, let his word be heard. He went through vile experiences: he looked them in the face, braved them through, and kept his manhood in spite of them. For manhood is a strange quality, to be found in human rats as well as in hot-blooded men. Magnus carried the human consciousness through circumstances which would have been too much for me. I would have died rather than be so humiliated, I could never have borne it."  [68-69]

 

This last idea is vital for Lawrence: man can only achieve his self-overcoming by daring to know himself and know everything at last, with "full, bitter, conscious realisation" [69]; this includes all the great horrors and agonies of life. Knowledge, concludes Lawrence, is a kind of vaccination: "It prevents the continuing of ghastly moral disease." [69] 

 

Magnus dared to enter the sewers and to know what lies beneath. But he also had the courage to fight to retain (or regain where lost) his integrity and spiritual liberty:

"And so, though Magnus poisoned himself, and I would not wish him not to have poisoned himself: though as far as warm life goes, I don't forgive him; yet, as far as the eternal and unconquerable spirit of man goes, I am with him through eternity. I am grateful to him, he beat out for me boundaries of human experience which I could not have beaten out for myself. The human traitor he was. But he was not a traitor to the spirit. In the great spirit of human consciousness he was a hero [...] a strange quaking little star." [70]  

Thus, whilst not trying to forgive Magnus, Lawrence beautifully attempts to do him justice and, in this way, allow his restless spirit to be appeased.

 

 

Notes

 

[a] See Frances Wilson, Burning Man: The Ascent of D. H. Lawrence, (Bloomsbury, 2021), p. 152.      

      Readers interested in the fascinating background and publication history of the Memoir can either read Wilson's book, or, of course, they can consult volume two of the Cambridge Lawrence biography - Triumph to Exile 1912-1922, by Mark Kinkead-Weekes, (Cambridge University Press, 1996). 

 

[b] D. H. Lawrence, Memoir of Maurice Magnus: Introduction to Memoirs of the Foreign Legion, by Maurice Magnus, in Introductions and Reviews, ed. N. H. Reeve and John Worthen, (Cambridge University Press, 2005), p. 11. Future page references will be given directly in the text.   

[c] For a recent post in which I discuss child sexual abuse accommodation syndrome with reference to the case of Norman Douglas, click here. 

[d] Later, Magnus would admire the colour of Lawrence's hair - though was sure the red-brown tint had come from a bottle, much to Lawrence's amusement. See Memoir of Maurice Magnus, p. 18.  

[e] Frieda first meets Magnus when he turns up at a house she and Lawrence are renting in Taormina, Sicily. He's on the run from the law who wish to question him about unpaid debts. If at first she thinks he seems quite nice (having kissed her hand in the correct German fashion), she soon calls him a dreadful person and a nuisance and is annoyed at Lawrence getting involved with him. See Memoir of Maurice Magnus, p. 40.  

 

[f] In response to the introduction written by Lawrence to Magnus's book, Douglas published a small pamphlet entitled D. H. Lawrence and Maurice Magnus: A Plea for Better Manners (1925). The work attacked Lawrence on a number of fronts and voiced the author's unhappiness with the mean and unfair manner in which, he said, Lawrence had portrayed him and his friend Magnus. Lawrence was eventually obliged to reply and set the record straight in a letter published in the New Statesman (20 Feb 1926).      

[g] 44 is a dangerous age for men - particularly men of artistic temperament and/or a philosophical frame of mind - and there is a long list of figures who have died at this age, including: Spinoza, Henry David Thoreau, Robert Louis Stevenson, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jackson Pollock, and Tony Hancock. Pop stars, of course, always keen to live faster and die younger, have their own fatal age of 27.