Cor, Strike a Light! In Memory of the East End Matchgirls

 

Striking matchgirls (London, 1888)

 

 

I. 

 

Thanks in no small part to the Danish storyteller Hans Christian Andersen, the figure of the little matchgirl shivering bareheaded and barefoot in the street on a cold winter's day, desperate to sell her svovlstikkerne to passing strangers, is firmly lodged in the cultural imagination [1].

But the matchgirl is not merely a character who lives within the pages of a literary fairy tale; she has genuine socio-historical status and deserves recognition for the role she played within the English trade union movement; for the little matchgirls of London's East End didn't simply huddle in doorways dreaming of warm stoves and roast dinners, they organised and demanded fair wages and improved working conditions.  

 

 

II.

 

The matchgirls' strike of 1888 was an important victory for women and workers alike; for following the strike's success and the creation of a Matchmakers' Union, other industrial workers - male and female - were inspired to organise and take collective action.

 

In the late 19th-century, match making was big business; there were 25 match factories in Britain, employing thousands of workers, mostly female and almost half of whom were aged between fourteen and eighteen. 

 

But match making was also a dirty business, with serious health consequences for those involved in the production of little wooden sticks dipped first in sulphur and then into a composition of white phosphorus, potassium chlorate, powdered glass, and colouring.

 

Although the level of white phosphorus varied, there was enough of the stuff being used to ensure that many working in the matchstick industry suffered from the nasty occupational disease known as phossy jaw - i.e., necrosis of the jaw bone. As a rule, you really don't want to inhale phosphorus vapour. Doing so might only cause toothache and flu-like symptoms at first, but it quickly turns very nasty. 

 

The bosses were not particularly sympathetic or supportive; if a worker complained of having toothache, they were told to have the teeth removed immediately or face being sacked. 

 

So when the matchgirls working at the Bryant & May factory in Bow withdrew their labour, they were fighting not only for more money but for their health and safety; in fact, as phossy jaw proved fatal in around 20 per cent of cases, they were literally fighting for their lives.  

 

 

III. 

 

The match-making company Bryant & May was formed in 1843 by two Quakers, William Bryant and Francis May, who hoped to capture a significant chunk of the British market. It was estimated that 250 million matches were used daily in the UK at this time. 

 

In 1861, by whch time they were selling 30 million boxes of matches a year, they relocated their business to a three-acre site on Fairfield Road, in Bow, East London. Their young workers were mostly Irish girls (or of Irish descent). They worked long hours for shit pay; those under sixteen would be lucky to take home 4 shillings a week. 

The bosses also imposed a series of fines, with the money deducted directly from wages. These fines included 3 d for having dirty feet - many of the girls were bare-footed as they couldn't afford shoes - or an untidy workbench; 5 d was deducted for being late; and a shilling for having a burnt match on the workbench. 

 

The girls involved in boxing up the matches also had to pay the boys who brought them the frames from the drying ovens and had to supply their own glue and brushes. And some defenders of capitalism wonder why there's industrial unrest and so many employees despise their employers ...! It's things like this that justify class war. 

 

IV.

 

The 1888 strike wasn't the first time the matchgirls had taken action; they struck for better pay and conditions in 1881, 1885, and 1886, but were unsuccessful in achieving their aims. But in 1888 they were better organised and more united. After the unfar dismissal of a matchgirl at Bryant & May in the summer of that year, 1,400 of her co-workers withdrew their labour.

 

The management quickly offered to reinstate the sacked employee, but the matchgirls demanded additional concessions, particularly in relation to the unfair fines which were deducted from their wages. 

 

A deputation of women led by Sarah Chapman presented their case to the management, but received an unsatisfactory response. By 6 July the whole factory had stopped work. That same day a large group of the women went to see the social activist Annie Besant to ask for her support (which she gave). 

 

Initially, the management wanted to take a hard line, but the factory owner, William Bryant, was a leading Liberal and nervous about the publicity, so agreed to the strikers' terms, which included the abolition of unjust deductions from wages and the establishment of a canteen area where meals could be enjoyed in a phosphorus-free environment [2]. 

 

The strike has since been celebrated within popular culture and an event to commemorate the 125th anniversary was held in Bishopsgate, in 2013. 

 

This was followed, in July 2022, by English Heritage sticking up a blue plaque honouring the struggle of the matchgirls at the site of the former Bryant and May factory in Bow [3]. In a nice touch, the plaque was unveiled by the actress and East Ender Anita Dobson, the great granddaughter of strike committee leader Sarah Chapman.

 

 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Hans Christian Andersen's 'The Little Match Girl' was originally published as Den Lille Pige med Svovlstikkernein in December 1845, in Dansk Folkekalender for 1846.  

[2] In 1901, fearful of more strike action and further bad publicity, Bryant & May announced that their factory would discontinue the use of white phosphorus (replacing it with the less harmful red phosphorus).  Then, in 1908, the House of Commons passed an Act prohibiting the use of white phosphorus in matches after 31 December 1910.

 

[3] The building was redeveloped in the 1980s as part of an urban renewal project (i.e., the gentrification of the East End) and is now part of a gated community known as Bow Quarter in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets. It  consists of 733 one- and two-bedroom flats and penthouses, plus a handful of workers' cottages built around the late 19th century, and is set in 7 acres of landscaped grounds. Amenities include a residents' gym, a convenience store, and a 24-hour concierge service. Price for a one-bedroom flat begins at around £320,000. 

 

 

Readers who enjoyed this post might also like another East End tale: click here.  

Mark Gertler: Merry-Go-Round(el)

Mark Gertler: Merry-Go-Round (1916) [1]

Keith Bowler: Spitalfields roundel in memory of Mark Gertler (1995)

 

 

I. 

 

If you ever take a walk around Spitalfields in London's East End, you might notice a fancy series of cast iron roundels [2] designed by the local artist Keith Bowler [3] and embedded at various sites, commemorating the long history and many different peoples who have called the district home. 

 

At the corner of Brushfield Street and Commercial Street, for example, one finds a roundel decorated with apples and pears; a nod both to the Cockney character of Spitalfields and to the old fruit and veg market.

 

On Brick Lane, meanwhile, there's a roundel decorated with buttons and four pairs of scissors in honour of all those - be they French Huguenots, Irish Catholics, East European Jews, or Muslims from Bangladesh - who have traded in textiles and worked in the rag trade.  

 

Whilst, on Hanbury Street, you'll come across a roundel celebrating the matchgirls who worked in appalling conditions for outrageously low wages at the Bryant & May match factory in nearby Bow [4].

 

Fascinating as these roundels are, the one that really interests me, however, is located outside the house at 32, Elder Street, celebrating the life and work of Mark Gertler who lived at this address ...

 

 

II. 

 

Mark Gertler was a British artist, of Polish Jewish heritage, born in Spitalfields, in December 1891. 

 

He is perhaps best remembered today for a 1916 painting entitled Merry-Go-Round  [5], about which his friend D. H. Lawrence - who had just received a photograph of the work - was to say this:

 

"My dear Gertler,

      Your terrible and dreadful picture has just come. This is the first picture you have ever painted: it is the best modern picture I have seen: I think it is great, and true. But it is horrible and terrifying. I'm not sure I wouldn't be too frightened to come and look at the original. 

      If they tell you it is obscene, they will say truly. I belive there was something in Pompeian art, of this terrible and soul-tearing obscenity. But then, since obscenity is the truth of our passion today, it is the only stuff of art - or almost the only stuff. I won't say what I, as a man of words and ideas, read in the picture. But I do think that in this combination of blaze and violent mechanical rotation and complex involution, and ghastly, utterly mindless human intensity of sensational extremity, you have made a real and ultimate revelation." [6]    

 

Lawrence continued:

 

"I realise how superficial your human relationships must be, what a violent maelström of destruction and horror your inner soul must be. It is true, the outer life means nothing to you, really. You are all absorbed in the violent and lurid processes of inner decomposition: the same thing that makes leaves go scarlet and copper-green at this time of year." [7] 

 

And added as a PS:

 

"I am amazed how the picture exceeds anything I had expected. Tell me what people say - Epstein, for instance.

      Get somebody to suggest that the picture be bought by the nation - it ought to be - I'd buy it if I had any money." [8] 

 

It took some time, but, eventually, Gertler's Merry-Go-Round  - a detail from which can be seen on Keith Bowler's roundel - was purchased for the nation; the Tate Gallery acquiring it in 1984. 

 

And now anyone can buy a fine print of this work to hang on their wall from the Tate Shop, kidding themselves that it's simply an anti-War image, rather than a work which discloses their own coordination - and their own complicity with this coordination - within a great and perfect machine; i.e., "the first and finest state of chaos" [9].   

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Gertler's painting was acquired by the Tate in 1984. Visit their website for more information: click here.

 

[2] Also known as coal hole covers, roundels are sturdy metal plates typically found on pavements in older urban areas. Originally, as the name suggests, they provided access to underground coal cellars, but they are now purely decorative and serve as historical reminders of the past. 

 

[3] For more information on Keith Bowler and the Roundels of Spitalfields click here.  

 

[4] Such low wages and such poor conditions in fact, that the matchgirls working at the Bryant & May famously went on strike in 1888 and formed the Union of Women Matchmakers. The largest union of women and girls in the country, it inspired many other industrial workers across the country to organise and stand up for their rights. For a post on this topic, click here.

 

[5] In some ways, it's a shame that Gertler has become so associated with this one picture - brilliant as it is - for it means the wider body of his work is often entirely overlooked. For the record, I think Gertler produced many fine canvases and was an interesting figure, right up until he committed suicide in his Highgate studio in 1939. I particularly like the fact that he entered a competition run by Cadbury's for a series of chocolate box designs and that his still life design of a fruit bowl was among the winning entries. 

 

[6] D. H. Lawrence, letter to Mark Gertler (9 October 1916), in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. II, ed. George J. Zytaruk and James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 1981), p. 660.

 

[7] Ibid. 

      It was by developing such a line of thought - one which unfortunately veers into metaphysical antisemitism ("It would take a Jew to paint this picture.") - that Lawrence (in part) created the character of Loerke, the Jewish artist who features in Women in Love (1920); although, in a letter dated 5 December 1916, Lawrence attempts to reassure Gertler that Loerke is not in fact based on him. See The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. III, ed. James T. Boulton and Andrew Robertson, (Cambridge University Press, 1984), p. 46.  

 

[8] Ibid., p. 661. 

 

[9] D. H. Lawrence, Women in Love, ed. David Farmer, Lindeth Vasey and John Worthen, (Cambridge University Press, 1987), p. 231.   

 

Notes from a Chimps' Tea Party

Chimps' Tea Party at London Zoo (1927)

London Transport Museum

 

 

The chimpanzees' tea party was a hugely popular form of public entertainment in which our simian cousins were provided with a table of food and drink. 

 

The first such party held at London Zoo was in 1926 and was then put on almost daily during the summer months until its discontinuation in 1972, thanks to changing attitudes and a diminishing supply of young chimps being caught in the wild [1].

 

Initially, an amusing set piece was anticipated in which the juvenile chimps - sometimes dressed in clothes for the occasion - would cause (controlled) chaos by throwing things around, jumping on the furniture, fighting over the last slice of cake, etc. Being subhuman, the expectation was that they'd commit acts unacceptable in polite society. 

 

However, things did not go as planned; being intelligent tool-users, the chimps quickly mastered the art of serving  tea and instead of amusing those watching with their antics, they would quietly sit at the table enjoying a cuppa - essentially making a monkey out of us and our expectations.  

As Martha Gill writes: 

"The chimps had done something unnerving in those early days. Their display of competence challenged not only the egos of their audience but the very premise of the zoo itself. If animals were capable of sense or even sensibility, this collection of cages and cells might start to look a little sinister. Less like innocent entertainment, perhaps, and more like a sadistic sort of prison." [2]

 

And so, it was decided to train the well-mannered chimps into behaving badly; drinking from the spout of the teapot, playing with their food, etc. In other words, their comic routine was scripted by their keepers and not a spontaneous display of animal tomfoolery. 

 

This enabled (and encouraged) human visitors to the zoo to go on believing in their own social superiority and higher intelligence; to think of other apes as essentially a grotesque parody of Man rather than sentient, sensitive beings in their own right (and certainly not creatures made in God's image) [3]. 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Although the first chimps' tea party held at London Zoo was in 1926, the origins of such probably date back to the mid-nineteenth century (chimps were first exhibited at London Zoo in 1883). It's certainly true to say that primates have long had a role to play in popular forms of entertainment, such as travelling carnivals and fairs. 

      See John S. Allen, Julie Park, and Sharon L. Watt, 'The Chimpanzee Tea Party: Anthropomorphism, Orientalism, and Colonialism', in Visual Anthropology Review, Volume 10, Number 2 (Fall 1994), pp. 45-54: click here to read online or download as a pdf.  

      Readers who are interested can click here to watch a tea party at London Zoo filmed in 1955. During the post-War years, London Zoo effectively became a training (and distribution) centre for tea party chimps, who were sent off all over the world.  

 

[2] Martha Gill, 'Zoos are the opposite of educational: they construct fictions about their captives', The Guardian (22 Oct 2023): click here.  

[3] This, despite the fact that in terms of comparative anatomy, behaviour, and biochemistry, chimpanzees, for example, are remarkably similar to human beings, sharing a common evolutionary history and over 98% DNA with us.

      Allen, Park, and Watt argue that adult white Westerners can be particularly smug; their anthropomorphic conceit containing as it does an element of racism, seeing the chimp as they do as an essentially uncivilised creature - childlike and primitive - i.e., much as they once commonly viewed indigenous peoples. See 'The Chimpanzee Tea Party: Anthropomorphism, Orientalism, and Colonialism' ... op. cit. 

 

 

Bonus video: a scene from Carry On Regardless (dir. Gerald Thomas, 1961), featuring Kenneth Williams and friends having tea: click here.          

Memories

Public Image Ltd: Memories 

(Virgin Records, 1979)

  

"Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of pain."

 

 

I. 

 

Looking back, one of the admirable things about 22-year-old John Lydon, after he left the Sex Pistols in 1978, is he had no time for rosy retrospection. 

 

Indeed, if anything, he viewed his own punk past and Rotten persona negatively - as something to be abandoned or overcome, rather than desperately clung to or fondly remembered:

 

I'm not the same as when I began  ... This person's had enough of useless memories ... [1]

 

 

II.

 

However we attempt to configure it, the nature of one's relationship to one's own past remains an interesting question ...

 

Is it best, for example, to simplify one's own history and, in the process of simplifying it, also give it a positive gloss; are good memories (and reshaped lies) vital in maintaining self-esteem and happiness? 

 

Or is it best (if possible) to never look back; to regard nostalgia as a dangerous disease; to tie innocence and becoming to forgetfulness and/or an active denial of the past? 

 

It was, after all, because of Lydon's refusal to rest on his laurels or bullshit about his experience as a Sex Pistol, that he was able - in collaboration with Keith Levene and Jah Wobble - to deliver unto the world his Metal Box [2]. 

 

Arguably, with this album Lydon proved himself to be a genuinely creative artist (or a true star as he once signed himself to me) and not merely a derivative talent or copycat; i.e., one who uses memory to mimic ability and as a resource to plunder. 

 

As Nietzsche says, original artists and great poets seek to counter the deadening effects of an all-too-faithful memory (i.e., a mere recording capability that is of no value creatively speaking).

 

Sadly, however, Lydon never quite succeeded in getting rid of the albatross and he became a monster of passive memory, increasingly consumed by ressentiment. 

 

Now, his entire being revolves around having the last word, settling old scores, slagging off everyone he's ever known or worked with; a grotesque (and bloated) parody of his former self, it should be clear by now that he's the one who makes us feel ashamed ...

 

We let him stay too long.  

 

And he's old.    

 

Notes

 

[1] Lines from the singles 'Public Image' (Virgin Records, 1978) and 'Memories' (Virgin Records, 1979), by Public Image Limited. 

      Cf. Lydon's attitude to the past (and the importance of memory) in the single 'Hawaii' - taken from the album End of World (PiL Official, 2023) - in which he remembers all the good times shared with his wife, Nora Forster. For a discussion of this song, click here.    

 

[2] Metal Box, was PiL's second studio album released by Virgin Records in November 1979. The album is a million miles away from Never Mind the Bollocks (1977) and, indeed, a significant departure from PiL's debut album released eleven months earlier; the band moving in an increasingly avant-garde direction. Metal Box is widely regarded as a landmark of post-punk. An alternative mix of 'Memories' appears on the album - click here to play the 2009 remastered version.  

     

 

For an earlier post in which I discuss Johnny Rotten as an artist in decline, click here.

 

 

One for Sorrow ...

One for Sorrow (Or The Murder of Murgatroyd) 

Stephen Alexander (2023)

 

 

I. 

 

It's striking how the death of an individual creature can have far greater emotional resonance than news of an entire species dying out. 

 

Thus it is that when I came across the body of a dead magpie this morning it filled me with genuine sorrow, whilst discovering that the Chinese paddlefish was declared extinct in 2022 left me almost entirely indifferent. 

 

That's not because I value our feathered friends more than our aquatic ones, it's just due to the fact that death only becomes real (conceivable) when reduced in scale and given a face, as it were. 

 

This applies to people as well as animals; reports of atrocities involving multiple fatalities don't move as much as the image of a single dead child (a fact often exploited by those looking to influence or emotionally manipulate public opinion).   

 

 

II.

 

Magpies, of course, belong to the crow family - widely considered to be the most intelligent of birds - and are famous for their beautiful black-and-white colouration and (in the European imagination) the fact that they love to steal shiny objects, such as wedding rings and other valuables.      

 

They are also thought to have an ominous aspect; to be a portent of good or bad fortune. According to English folklore, one is for sorrow, two for mirth; three for a death and four for a birth. The popular nursery rhyme builds upon this ornithomantic idea, albeit with different lyrics:

 

One for sorrow, 

Two for joy, 

Three for a girl, 

Four for a boy, 

Five for silver, 

Six for gold, 

Seven for a secret never to be told. [1]

 

There are many variants of this, but the key fact remains - as any fisherman will tell you - that a solitary magpie is never a good sign ...

 

In Piero della Francesca's painting of the Nativity scene, for example, a lonely magpie can be spotted on the roof of a ruined stone stable presaging the pain and sorrow that lies ahead (aguably for all mankind, not just Mary and her son).     

  

 

Piero della Francesca The Nativity (1470-75)

Oil on wood (124 x 123 cm)
National Gallery (NG908) [2]

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Like many of my generation, I know this version of the rhyme thanks to the children's TV show Magpie, (1968-80). Sadly, the popularity of this version - performed by The Spencer Davis Group as the programme's theme song [click here] - displaced many regional variations that had previously existed.

 

[2] Click here for more information on the work and its recent restoration. Keen-eyed birdspotters will doubtless also note the goldfinch - a symbol of redemption in devotional art - sitting in a bush on the left of the picture.

 

 

Dancing With the Devil in the Pale Moonlight (A Brief History of Scandalous Dances)

Witches and devils dancing in a circle (1720)

 

 

Although some trendy vicars and heretical hymn writers may pretend that Jesus is the Lord of the Dance [1], we all know that, historically, dance has long been problematic within Christianity. 

 

Indeed, numerous records exist of prohibitions issued by Church leaders, usually on the grounds that dance, as a physical (non-spiritual) activity, is associated with paganism and/or promiscuity; the sort of sensual and sinful practice that witches engage in accompanied by devils (see the woodcut image above).    

 

Unsurprisingly therefore, 17th-century Puritans in England and New England who believed it was their duty to enforce moral standards and who opposed drunkenness, gambling, blood sports, and extra-marital sexual relations, also vehemently opposed dancing - particularly around a Maypole or a Christmas tree. 

 

At best they thought dancing to be a frivolous distraction from the serious business of worshipping God and at worst a dangerous form of immoralism in and of itself [2] - which, arguably, it is; or, let us say rather, it's an activity that has always been controversial at some level and often invited misunderstanding and disapproval (even harsh penalties and punishments).

 

For the fact is, the way that men and women move and shake their bodies to music has always had the potential to challenge the conventions of the day, thereby concerning the authorities and scandalising the more conservative members of what we used to term polite society.    

 

Thus, when Miley Cyrus (and Robin Thicke) sparked media outrage with a routine in 2013 which showcased twerking (see below), this was merely the latest dance to set tongues (and fingers) wagging. Earlier dances which were seen to threaten social conventions of gender, race, and/or class include:

 

 

La Volta [click here]

 

La volta is a dance for couples that was popular during the later Renaissance period. Associated with the galliard, it was performed to the same kind of music. La volta was considered to be risqué in the royal courts of England and France, as it required close bodily contact between the sexes and was very much in contrast to the slow, stately routines usually performed at court:

      

"In the dance, the man pushes the woman forwards with his thigh, one hand grasping her waist and the other below her corseted bodice as she leaps into the air. Opponents thought this quick, energetic dance to be immodest and even dangerous for women, fearing it could cause miscarriages." [3]   

 

The Waltz [click here]

 

In the early 19th-century a new dance craze took off in Britain - the waltz. 

 

Performed face to face, with the man holding his female partner tight in his arms as they whirled rapidly and shamelessly around the floor, it caused quite a stir and even though Queen Victoria danced the waltz it was in the minds of many critics associated with lewd behaviour, including Lord Byron who wrote a satirical poem about the dance, in 1812, which is suprisingly censorious considering the mad, bad, and dangerous reputation of the author [4].    

 

 

The Cancan [click here]

 

In the late 1820s working class Parisians began dancing an improvised quadrille by kicking their legs in the air ... Et voilà! the cancan was born - much to the outrage of middle-class citizens who thought it lacked both decency and dignity (as did members of the English press, when it was introduced to London audiences in 1868).

 

An energetic, physically demanding dance that became popular in the music-halls of the 1840s, it is now almost exclusively associated with a chorus line of showgirls lifting their skirts and petticoats and performing high kicks, splits, and cartwheels.  

 

 

The Tango [click here]

 

Even though in the Edwardian era social conventions were gradually beginning to relax, a new dance - the tango - was to test boundaries of what was and was not acceptable behaviour to their limit. 

 

The tango arrived in Britain (via France) around 1913, although its roots lie in the ports of Buenos Aires. Lurid descriptions soon apeared in the press, where it was condemened as a dance only fit for prostitutes and their pimps to perform. Unfortunately, this only excited the attention of young dancers keen to scandalise their elders. 

 

Its reliance on sexy Latin rhythyms and the fact that the tango also allowed for individual interpretation only added to its popularity. 

 

 

The Charleston [click here]

 

The Charleston emerged in the so-called Jazz Age (aka the Roaring Twenties) in the USA, allowing young women - known as flappers - to express themselves on the dance floor for the first time without having to follow the lead of a male partner.    

 

It had evolved from the music and dances of African-Americans living in South Carolina and marked the beginning of what would become a crucial feature of popular culture in the 20th-century; i.e., black influence on white arts and entertainments.

 

As with the other dances we have mentioned above, thanks to its fancy footwork the Charleston was considered by all the usual suspects - parents, teachers, church leaders, etc. - as immoral and provocative.

 

 

The Jitterbug [click here]

 

First popular in the US in the 1930s, American soldiers exported the jitterbug to Britain during World War Two. Like the Charleston, it was based on an earlier African-American dance (the lindy hop).  Again, concerns were voiced for both the physical and moral well-being of those who jitterbugged to the new sound of swing music (and, later, in the '50s, rock 'n' roll). 

 

With its underwear exposing lifts, twists, and other improvided moves, the jitterbug left the English ballroom dancer Alex Moore spluttering in his tea, calling it disgusting and degrading (although he eventually allowed a sanitised version - known as the jive - into the ballroom repertoire).  

 

 

The Twist [click here]

 

Before the 1960s really began to swing, they twisted thanks to Chubby Checker and other rock 'n' rollers. Whilst dancers barely move their feet (and hardly touch one another), they sway their upper bodies back and forward whilst twisting their hips and shoulders and making odd mechanical movements with their arms. 

 

Despite the usual controversies and medical concerns, the twist was a worldwide dance craze which inspired many other dances (including the jerk, the mashed potato, and the funky chicken).

 

 

The Lambada [click here]

 

Originally banned by the Brazillian president when it emerged in the 1930s, because he was shocked by its immorality, the lambada didn't really take off in a big way outside of South America until the late 1980s (largely due to the huge hit single released by the French group Kaoma in the summer of 1989) [5].  

 

Just as once the tango had scandalised by bringing couples closer than the waltz, the lambada also shocked some by insisting that hips were pressed together as dancers performed a series of spinning steps. 

 

 

Twerking [click here] 

 

Finally, let us return to twerking - another dance which is to a large extent all about hip action (and booty shaking). It is summarised thus on a BBC website:

 

"Originating in West African dance moves, twerking is believed to have arrived in the USA via Jamaican dancehalls. The dance was mostly performed in the African-American community but former child star Miley Cyrus's performance at the MTV Video Music Awards (2013) pushed it into the mainstream. She caused a social media meltdown. Her performance divided opinion, raising many questions on sexual exploitation, cultural appropriation by white artists, as well as artistic freedom and feminism." [6]

 

I have to admit, this is a dance that seems almost designed to bring out the inner Puritan; one that might make even the Devil himself look away ... Make up your own mind by clicking on the link above.

 

 

Notes

 

[1] See the recent post on Sydney Carter: click here.  

 

[2] To be fair, the Puritans only banned mixed dancing (i.e., dancing which involved close physical contact between both sexes) - something described by Cotton Mather as promiscuous dancing - because it was thought this would lead to fornication. Folk dance that did not involve such intimate contact between men and women was considered acceptable. 

      It is also worth noting that conservative Islamic and orthodox Jewish traditions still prohibit contact between the sexes in public and thus in these societies men and women either dance separately or not at all.

 

[3] See 'Dirty dances: A timeline of the moves that shocked' (BBC Teach): click here. 

      Readers should note that a lot of the following information in this post concerning dances that have scandalised was adapted from this site.

 

[4] It has been suggested that Byron disliked most forms of dancing due to a physical malformation affecting his right foot that made such activity almost impossible; he could walk, ride, swim, and even run with difficulty, but he couldn't dance. On the other hand, Byron was a strange mix of conservative and radical - said to be prudish even in his libertinism - so his dislike of the waltz may have had nothing to do with his disability. Readers who are interested can read Byron's poem here.

 

[5] 'Lambada', by Kaoma, was released as a single from the album World Beat, (CBS Records, 1989). It featured guest vocals by Brazilian vocalist Loalwa Braz and sold more than 5 million copies worldwide in the year of its release. The accompanying music video featured the Brazilian child dance duo Chico & Roberta. Just don't mention the lawsuits ...

 

[6]  'Dirty dances: A timeline of the moves that shocked' (BBC Teach): click here. 

 

Dancing Jesus

 

 

I. 

 

'Lord of the Dance' is one of those hymns we were expected to sing when I was a young child at school which I truly hated.

 

The problem was, I had a difficult time accepting such a groovy Jesus; even as a six-year-old, I could sense that Our Lord and Saviour, weighed down as he was by the sins of mankind - not to mention a heavy wooden cross - wasn't likely to be light on his feet.

 

The song was thus revisionist at best; fraudulent at worst. 

 

For the fact is, there is no record in scripture of Jesus laughing and I'm pretty sure he didn't dance (or sing) a great deal (if at all) either; he wept, he prayed, he agonised over things, but the Man of Sorrows didn't get down and boogie nor strut his funky stuff. 

 

And I'm sure Sydney Carter, who wrote the lyrics to the hymn - having adapted the melody from an old Shaker song - knew this perfectly well. 

 

Indeed, according his own account, 'Lord of the Dance' was only partly written with Jesus in mind; a statue of the Hindu deity Shiva that sat on his desk also inspired him; as did the idea of Jesus as some kind of Pied Piper; as did the possibility of a cosmic Christ who inspired alien races in far away galaxies to dance the shape and pattern which is at the heart of reality. 

      

It is astonishing, when one considers this, that the song became such a huge and immediate hit with Christians all over the English-speaking world: I mean, the tune is quite catchy and it has an optimistic message at its heart - as well as an antisemitic verse [1] - but as at least one commentator has pointed out the underlying theology is unorthodox to say the very least.

 

Even Carter was surprised by the hymn's success. He later confessed: "I did not think the churches would like it at all. I thought many people would find it pretty far flown, probably heretical and anyway dubiously Christian." [2] 

 

 

II. 

 

In some ways, thinking about the hymn now, Carter's dancing Jesus reminds me of the resurrected figure in Lawrence's The Escaped Cock (1929) and there's the same interesting mix of Christianity and paganism in the lines "I danced in the morning / When the world begun / And I danced in the moon / And the stars and the sun" [3] which one finds in the latter. 

 

Thus, although the song still irritates the hell out of me - it's just so impossibly upbeat - I acknowledge its heretical character and the fact that it counters the puritanism of those who would reject song and dance as a vital part of religious worship.    

 

To paraphrase Emma Goldman: If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your religion. 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] The third verse of Carter's hymn implies collective Jewish responsibility for the death of Jesus. This dangerous idea of Jewish deicide - which conflicts with Catholic doctrine - is central to much religious antisemitism. 

 

[2] Sydney Carter quoted in his obituary in The Telegraph (16 March 2004): click here. 

     

[3] Sydney Carter, opening four lines of the first verse of 'Lord of the Dance' (1963). For full lyrics and further information visit the Stainer & Bell website: click here.  

 

Why I Love Aleksandra Waliszewska

Aleksandra Waliszewska

waliszewska.blogspot.com
@aleksandrawaliszewska

 

 

I would like to express my affection and admiration for Polish artist Aleksandra Waliszewska ... 

 

I like the fact that she's a bit Old School in her influences and points of reference: early Renaissance painters and Slavic folklore. And I love the fact that her queer gothic vision is often more amusing than terrifying. 

 

For the fact is, whilst the nightmarish symbolism and perverse sexual violence of her work might be dark and often gruesome, the mood seems strangely lighthearted; even the monsters, devils, and demons who populate her pictorial universe alongside fabulous beasts, creepy children, and often mad-looking women make smile.

 

I don't quite know why that is, but suspect it has something to do with her technique, which is detailed and precise, but retains a certain childlike innocence and nonchalance: I think she cares a great deal about her work, but not about what people might think of it (or her); she paints what makes her happy, even if what makes her happy happens to be what others describe as macabre or obscene (or even evil).

 

Below is a (typically) untitled work from 2018, but I like to think it's a self-portrait with her green-eyed cat, Mitusia (who so often acted as her feline muse).  

 

 

 

Notes

 

(i) Readers who are lucky enough may still be able to find a limited edition two volumed collection of work by Aleksandra Waliszewska entitled PROBLEM / SOLUTION (Timeless, 2019), with a foreword by David Tibet and an afterword by Nick Cave. 

      A short promotional video (of sorts) with the same title was made by the artist in collaboration with Jacek Lagowski, featuring Kaja Werbanowska: click here.

 

(ii) Alternatively, those interested in knowing more about Waliszewska and her work might like to purchase a new book published by the University of Chicago Press (2023); The Dark Arts: Aleksandra Waliszewska and Symbolism, ed. Alison M. Gingeras and Natalia Sielewicz.

 

(iii) Waliszewska's imagery has inspired many other artists working in many different fields, including musicians. Here are two short pieces readers may enjoy: the first by Andrea González (2019): click here and the second by Jeff Pagano and Ben Zervigon (animation by Wiktor Striborg): click here.

 

 

I Love You in Velvet (and Silk Underwear): Notes on the Wagner Case

Richard Wagner in a velvet jacket and hat (1871)

 

There's a man I simply dote on / unlike others of his ilk 

A velvet cloak and hat on / And underwear of silk

 

I.

 

Velvet is a type of woven tufted fabric in which the cut threads are evenly distributed, its short dense pile giving it a distinctive softness. 

 

Whilst today velvet can be made from all kinds of materials - including synthetic fibres - in the past it was typically made from the finest silk, meaning it was expensive and, before the invention of industrial power looms, difficult to produce. 

 

This fact - added to its lush appearance and feel - meant that velvet was often associated with the nobility and high offices of Church and State. King Richard II of England, for example, decreed in his will that his body should be clothed in velvet.

 

During the medieval period, velvet produced in the great Italian cities was thought to be the most magnificent in terms of texture and depth of colour. However, by the 16th-century Flemish weavers had a reputation for making velvets that rivalled those of Venice, Florence, or Genoa.  

 

 

II.

 

Other than Richard II - and George Costanza [1] - the figure who most springs to mind when thinking of those with a penchant for velvet is 19th-century German composer Richard Wagner ...

 

For Wagner, besides being perhaps the greatest genius that ever lived - and a notorious antisemite - was also a bit of a dandy, with an almost fetishistic love for the feel of velvet and silk against his skin. 

 

Indeed, there is some evidence to suggest that his love of finery and frilly silk underwear eventually pushed him in the direction of cross-dressing (not that there's anything wrong with that) [2].

 

Wagner certainly had an eye for fashion and not only paid close attention to his own wardrobe, but that of his wife, Cosima, for whom he would order dresses from Milanese couturiers, providing precise instructions down to the smallest detail concerning the cut, the fabric, the trimmings, etc. 

 

Wagner also loved his velvet curtains and other home furnishings, including rose-scented cushions. 

 

Amusingly, it seems that when his number 1 fan, the young philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, came to stay with him and Cosima at their house in Tribschen, on the shores of Lake Lucerne, Wagner would send him on errands, including picking up his tailor-made silk underwear and velvet outfits - much to Nietzsche's embarrassment.  

 

Fortunately, Nietzsche was able to persuade himself that his actions were justified on the ground that a god need not only be adored, but adorned [3].

Notes

 

[1] In an episode of Seinfeld entitled 'The Doodle [S6/E20], George finally gets to realise his dream - socially acceptable or not - of being able to dress from head-to-toe in velvet. The episode, dir. Andy Ackerman and written by Alec Berg and Jeff Schaffer, originally aired on 6 April 1995. Click here to watch a clip on YouTube.

[2] See Charlotte Higgins; 'Wagner - public genius with a private passion for bustles, bows and bodices', The Guardian (1 March 2007): click here.  

      It should be pointed out that Wagner informed those who were interested in the matter that he had to wear silk next to his skin, because he suffered from erypsipelas (an infection whose symptoms include painful skin-rashes).

 

[3] Nietzsche eventually wised-up and came to perceive Wagner as a decadent sorcerer, who, like some dreadful disease, contaminates culture and makes music sick. See Nietzsche contra Wagner (1899), in which he expresses his disappointment and frustration with his former idol (whilst still praising him on several occasions).

 

 

Musical bonus: Malcolm McLaren, 'I Like You in Velvet', from the album Waltz Darling (Epic, 1989): click here. The little verse at the top of this post is a paraphrase of the opening verse to this track.  

It's Creepy and It's Kooky, Mysterious and Spooky: Notes on Mark Fisher's The Weird and the Eerie (Part 2)

Mark Fisher (1968-2017) author of 

The Weird and the Eerie (2016)

 

 

I. 

Fisher's opening discussion of the eerie is perhaps my favourite section of his book and deserves to be quoted at some length:

"As with the weird, the eerie is worth reckoning with in its own right as a particular kind of aesthetic experience. Although this experience is certainly triggered by particular cultural forms, it does not originate in them. You could say rather that certain tales, certain novels, certain films, evoke the feeling of the eerie, but this sensation is not a literary or filmic invention. As with the weird, we can and often do encounter the sensation of the eerie [...] without the need for specific forms of cultural meditation. For instance, there is no doubt that the sensation of the eerie clings to certain kinds of physical spaces and landscapes." [a] 

 

But the feeling of the eerie is very different from that of the weird: "The simplest way to get this difference is by thinking about the [...] opposition [...] between presence and absence." [61]

 

The weird is the presence of that which does not belong; "the eerie, by contrast, is constituted by a failure of absence or by a failure of presence" [61]. That's a nice definition. It means that the sensation of the eerir occurs "either when there is something present where there should be nothing, or there is nothing present when there should be something" [61]. 

 

The only way to dispell this sensation is with knowledge; for the eerie concerns the unknown (although that doesn't mean that all mysteries generate the eerie).

 

Finally, Fisher returns to a point made in the introduction to his book. Behind all the manifestations of the eerie lies the question of agency: 

 

 "In the case of the failure of absence, the question concerns the existence of agency as such. [...] In the case of the failure of presence, the question concerns the particular nature of the agent at work." [63]

 

The key point is: "Since the eerie turns crucially on the problem of agency, it is about the [often invisible and/or unconscious] forces that govern our lives and the world." [64]

 

 

II. 

 

It makes me happy that Fisher discusses the work of Daphne du Maurier, as I'm a devotee of her work. 

 

(On the other hand, it makes me feel ashamed of my ignorance when he discusses the work of Christopher Priest about whom I know nothing at all.)  

 

'The Birds' (1952) is a tale I wrote about on Torpedo the Ark back in Feb 2019: click here. 

 

Funny enough, I don't remember describing it as eerie - I think I stressed its malevolence, ambiguity, and inhuman brilliance - but that's not to say Fisher isn't right to use this term. Maybe the fact that the birds seem to possess an unnatural degree of agency is eerie.       

 

Fisher also discusses 'Don't Look Now' (1971), another tale I have twice referred to on this blog: click here and here. Whilst on neither occasion did I use the word eerie, again, I understand why Fisher does; because there is definitely something eerie about fate as a form of obscured agency [b].    

 

And as for the unconscious - if it exists - of course it's eerie, full as it is of absences, gaps, and other negativities. 

 

 

III.

 

Mightn't it be that there's a subjective element in what constitutes an eerie landscape? That eeriness, like beauty or any other aesthetic phenomena, is in the eye of the beholder? 

 

Probably. 

 

Though that's not to deny that a landscape - as an object in its own right - will often demand "to be engaged with on its own terms" [76] and if it happens to be "desolate, atmospheric, solitary" [77] well then it's eerie, no matter who happens to perceive it.

 

Insensitivity to the mood of an environment - be it moorland or an inner city wasteland - is a failure of the individual and can be a dangerous failing too. For we underestimate the powerful agency of a terrain at our own peril. 

 

We might, after Lawrence, call this mood-cum-agency the spirit of place and think in terms of "different vital effluence, different vibration, different chemical exhalation, different polarity" [c]. This sounds a bit like pseudo-science, but the spirit of place is, insists Lawrence, a great reality, however we choose to describe it.

 

Of course, the spirit of place needn't always be malevolent and openness to it might lead one into an ecstatic encounter with otherness that is "pulsing beyond the confines of the mundane" [81] and is "achingly alluring even as it is disconcertingly alien" [81] [d]. 

 

In other words, sometimes wandering outside the gate brings joy and can help restore a sense of primordial wonder (which is precisely why Nietzsche encourages philosophers to do their thinking in unexplored realms of knowledge).   

 

 

IV.  

 

As someone who has been researching in the field of thanatology for the best part of two decades, a section entitled 'Eerie Thanatos' is bound to attract my interest ...

 

By this term, Fisher refers to "a transpersonal (and transtemporal) death drive, in which the 'psychological' emerges as the product of forces from the outside" [82]. The theme is beautifully explored, says Fisher, in the work of Nigel Kneale, an author best known for writing Quatermass and the Pit [e].

 

For Kneale - as presumably for Fisher (and for me) - "the material world in which we live is more profoundly alien and strange" [83] than most people care to imagine. And rather than "insisting upon the pre-eminence of the human subject who is alleged to be the privileged bearer of reason, Kneale shows that an enquiry into the nature of what the world is like is also inevitably an unraveling of what human beings had taken themselves to be" [83]. 

 

To quote from Fisher at length once more if I may:

 

"At the heart of Kneale's work is the question of agency and intent. According to some philosophers, it is the capacity for intentionality which definitively separates human beings from the natural world. Intentionality includes intent as we ordinarily understand it, but really refers to the capacity to feel a cerain way about things. Rivers may possess agency - they affect changes - but the do not care about what they do; they do not have any sort of attitude towards the world. Kneale's most famous creation, the scientist Bernard Quatermass, could be said to belong to a trajectory of Radical Enlightenment thinking which is troubled  by this distinction. Radical Enlightenment thinkers such as Spinoza, Darwin, and Freud continually pose the question: to what extent can the concept of intentionality be applied to human beings, never mind to the natural world? The question is posed in part because of the thoroughgoing naturalisation that Radical Enlightenment thought had insisted upon: if human beings fully belong to the so-called natural world, then on what grounds can a special case be made for them? The conclusions that Radical Enlightenment thinking draws are the exact opposite of the claims for which so-called new materialists such as Jane Bennett [f] have argued. New materialists such as Bennett accept that the distinction between human beings and the natural world is no longer tenable, but they construe this to mean that many of the features previously ascribed only to human beings are actually distributed throughout nature. Radical Enlightenment goes in the opposite direction, by questioning whether there is any such thing as intentionality at all; and if there is, could human beings be said to possess it?" [83-84] 

 

That's the direction I head in too: a direction that leads to the Nietzschean conclusion that life is only a very rare and unusual way of being dead. A conclusion which Freud, following Nietzsche, also (reluctantly) arrived at in his work on Thanatos and the death drive:

 

"By striking contrast with the new materialist idea of 'vibrant matter', which suggests that all matter is to some extent alive, the conjecture implied Freud's positioning of Thanatos is that nothing is alive: life is a region of death. [...] What is called organic life is actually a kind of folding of the inorganic." [84]

 

But ...

 

"But the inorganic is not the passive, inert counterpart to an allegedly self-propelling life; on the contrary, it possesses its own agency. There is a death drive, which in its most radical formulation is not a drive towards death, but a drive of death." [84-85] 

 

Thus ...

 

"The inorganic is the impersonal pilot of everything, including that which seems to be personal and organic. Seen from the perspective of Thanatos, we ourselves become an exemplary case of the eerie: there is an agency at work in us (the unconscious, the death drive), but it is not where or what we expected it to be." [85] 

 

This argument - which I believe to be correct - is surely the most important in Fisher's book. I'm less convinced, however, by his (somewhat hopeful) suggestion that science - as an equally impersonal process - offers us a way beyond. To paraphrase Quatermass himself: Maybe death is as good as it gets. Perhaps it's a cosmic law.  

 

 

V.

 

Fisher provides an excellent reading of Margaret Atwood's novel Surfacing (1972) as a book which, in some respects, "belongs to the same moment as such texts as Luce Irigaray's Speculum of the Other Woman, and Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari's Anti-Oedipus" [101]. 

 

That is to say, works which "attempt to rise to the challenge of treating discontent, abjection and psychopathology as traces of an as yet unimaginable outside rather than as symptoms of maladjustment" [101]. 

 

Having said that, Fisher thinks that the novel's unnamed narrator at the point of schiophrenic break-rapture is actually more in tune with Ben Woodard's dark vitalism [g], which is an interesting idea, but not one I wish to discuss here, as frankly, I can't quite see how the latter relates to the eerie. This might be shortsightedness, or a sign of my own intellectual limitations; or it could be that Fisher is now hallucinating visions of the eerie and seeing it in places where it really doesn't exist. 

 

So far, I've enjoyed and been impressed by the manner in which Fisher has taken a rather hackneyed idea - the eerie - and given it an original twist as well as a strong degree of conceptual rigour. But I think he should have wrapped things up with the notion of eerie thanatos, having already offered us his central insight; i.e., that the eerie is ultimately the trace of an inhuman (and inorganic) drive. 

For the first time, after a hundred odd pages, I'm starting to get just a wee bit bored and to feel that Fisher is now simply namechecking a few more of his favourite things à la Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music (1965) and flexing his muscles like an intellectual version of Tony Holland [h].

 

Having said that, I don't like to abandon a book before the end once I've begun to read it. And so, let's continue, fast-forwarding past Jonathan Glazer's 2013 film Under the Skin [i] and arriving at the final couple of chapters, 'Alien Traces' and ''The Eeriness Remains' ...

VI.

 

Any consideration of outer space, says Fisher in the first of these chapters, "quickly engenders a sense of the eerie" [110]: is there anybody (anything) out there? Again, I suppose that's true - so obviously true, in fact, that it could have fallen from the mouth of Sybil Fawlty [j].  

 

Fisher also claims that Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) is a "major contribution to the cinema of the eerie" [112]. 

 

But it's also one of the most boring films I have ever had to sit through and I'm not sure I'd agree with this judgement; I mean, I can see that of Kubrick's The Shining (1980) - and enjoyed Fisher's analysis of the latter - but 2001 ... I'm unconvinced.  

 

Let's just say that when it comes to eeriness, ghostly twins always trump aliens ... and if anyone thinks I'm going to discuss the "possibility of an eerie love" [121], well, they've got another think coming; I'm afraid that I do find this suggestion sentimental "as well as emotionally and conceptually excessive" [121]. 

 

VII.

 

I mentioned in section III of this post how the eerie needn't always be malevolent and openness to it might lead one into an ecstatic encounter with otherness; that wandering outside the gate may even bring joy and help restore a sense of primordial wonder.

 

Well, Fisher clearly agrees with this and that is why he closes his study with a discussion of Joan Lindsay's brilliant novel Picnic at Hanging Rock (1967):   

 

"Not only because Picnic at Hanging Rock is practically a textbook example of an eerie novel - it includes disappearances, amnesia, a geological anomaly, an intensely atmspheric terrain - but also because Lindsay's rendition of the eerie has a positivity, a languorous and delirious allure, that is absent or suppressed in so many other eerie texts." [122]

 

Whereas the outside is usually seen as dangerous and deadly, Picnic at Hanging Rock invokes an outside which involves "a passage beyond the petty repressions and mean confines of common experience into a heightened atmosphere of oneiric lucidity" [122]. 

 

Fisher concludes: "The novel seems to justify the idea that a sense of the eerie is created and sustained simply by withholding information." [126][k]  

 

I could elucidate, but the above note seems to encourage one to recognise that sometimes it's best to say no more ...   

 

 

Notes

 

[a] Mark Fisher, The Weird and the Eerie, (Repeater Books, 2016), p. 61. Future page references to this work will be given in the main text.   

[b] Etymologically speaking, it's weird - rather than eerie - that suggests fate; the Old English term wyrd meant having the power to shape the latter and thus control one's destiny. Readers will probably recall that the witches in Shakespeare's Macbeth, often known as the Weird Sisters, have this ability.     

 

[c] D. H. Lawrence, 'The Spirit of Place', Studies in Classic America Literature (Final Version, 1923), ed. Ezra Greenspan, Lindeth Vasey and John Worthen, (Cambride University Press, 2003), p. 17.  

 

[d] Edward Hunter and Simon Solomon seem to understand this in their short film Room (2010) set on the North Yorkshire Moors. Unfortunately, I can provide no further details of this work or give any links at this time.   

 

[e] Quatermass and the Pit is an influential British science-fiction serial transmitted live by BBC Television in December 1958 and January 1959. A Hammer Films adaptation was released with the same title in 1967, directed by Roy Ward Baker and scripted by Kneale.

      Fisher also discusses the fantasy novel Red Shift (Collins, 1973) by Alan Garner in his chapter on eerie thanatos in relation to the question of human free will, but this is another book and author about which and about whom I again know nothing and so prefer to pass over in silence here (with no disrespect to Garner).       

 

[f] I discussed Jane Bennett's Vibrant Matter (Duke University Press, 2010) in a post published on 10 April 2015, in which I express my dislike of her material vitalism: click here. 

 

[g] See Woodard's Slime Dynamics: Generation, Mutation and the Creep of Life (Zero Boks, 2012). 

 

[h] Tony Holland is a British bodybuilder known for his musical muscle man act. He achieved national fame in the UK after appearing on Opportunity Knocks in 1964 - which, unbelievably, he won six times. 

      Click here to watch him perform (joined by Kenny Lynch) to what became his cha-cha theme tune; 'Wheels', originally recorded (and released as a single which reached number 8 in the UK charts) by the String-A-Longs in 1960. As a very young child, I always found it weirdly disturbing when Holland came on TV and hearing this tune today still makes my skin crawl.     

 

[i] I intend to (i) watch this film and (ii) write a future post on it - and that's why I don't discuss it here. 

      I don't know why I haven't already seen this film; I'm beginning to think I sometimes have blackouts like Rip Van Winkle and when I wake up the world has moved on and certain cultural productions have simply passed me by. The fact that I have been denied an opportunity of seeing Scarlett Johnasson on screen playing an alien young woman stalking human males really irritates.

 

[j] I'm referring here to a famous exchange between Basil and Sybil in the final episode of Fawlty Towers [S2/E6] entitled 'Basil the Rat' (dir. Bob Spiers, written by John Cleese and Connie Booth, 1979): click here. 

 

[k] As Fisher reminds us: 

      "In the case of Picnic at Hanging Rock, this literally happened: the form in which the novel was published was the result of an act of excision. In her original manuscript, Lindsay provided a solution of sorts to the enigma [at the heart of the novel], in a concluding chapter that her publishers [wisely] encouraged her to remove [...] This 'Chapter Eighteen' was published separately, as The Secret of Hanging Rock [1987]." [126] 

 

 

To read the first part of this post - on Fisher's notion of the weird - click here.