Sid Vicious Versus the Crucified

Sid Vicious Versus the Crucified 

(SA/2024) [1]

The god on the cross is a curse on life, a signpost to seek redemption from life; 

Sid Vicious on his motor-bike is a promise of life: it will be eternally reborn 

and return again from destruction.

 

 

I.

 

Can it really be forty-five years ago yesterday that Sex Pistol Sid Vicious died, aged twenty-one, from acute intravenous narcotism? 

 

It may seem hard to believe, but time flies and it's absolutely the case that Sid departed this world in the early hours of February 2nd, 1979.

 

 

II. 

 

There's really not much more to say about a death of which so much has already been written. 

 

Besides, I'm not one who mourns or regrets Sid's martyrdom; for his was what we might term a necessary death; fatal in the originary sense of the term and one which secured his tragic status. 

 

It's important to realise that punk was - despite its nihilism and apparent morbidity - a form of thanksgiving and an affirmation of life; that Sid, as its highest representative (i.e., its one true star), was not just a drug-addicted loser, but an ecstatically overflowing spirit who redeemed the contradictory and questionable nature of rock 'n' roll.   

Christ on his Cross counts as an objection to life in its eternal fruitfulness and recurrence. But Sid on his motorbike was a spiky-haired Dionysus who affirmed life whole and not denied or in part - even in its most destructive and terrible aspects.

 

As Nietzsche writes:

"One will see that the problem is that of the meaning of suffering: whether a Christian meaning or a tragic meaning. In the former case, it is supposed to be the path to a holy existence; in the latter case, being is counted as holy enough to justify even a monstrous amount of suffering. The tragic man affirms even the harshest suffering: he is sufficiently strong, rich, and capable of deifying to do so. The Christian denies even the happiest lot on earth: he is sufficiently weak, poor, disinherited to suffer from life in whatever form he meets it." [2]

 

In sum: Christ on his Cross places a curse on life; but Sid on his motorbike - or singing on stage at the Olympia, Paris [3] - is a promise that life will be eternally reborn from destruction.

 

 

Notes

 

[1] The iconic image of Sid on his motorbike is from The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle (dir. Julien Temple, 1980): click here. Christ Crucified is an oil painting by Velázquez (1632), located in the Prado Museum, Madrid.  

 

[2] Nietzsche, The Will to Power, trans. Walter Kaufmann and R. J. Hollingdale, (Vintage Books, 1968), section 1052, pp. 542-543. I'm essentially paraphrasing this section throughout this post. 

 

[3] See the post published on 13 October 2018: click here. 

 

On the Ball with D. H. Lawrence

D. H. Lawrence: Spring (c. January 1929)

watercolour (30 x 22.5 cm)

 

 

I. 

 

John Worthen's short piece in the latest Journal of D. H. Lawrence Studies [1] concerning Lawrence's time as a pupil-teacher in Eastwood, is interesting for the revelation that the latter liked nothing better than to arrange an informal kickabout in the school playground during the lunch break, using bricks - and perhaps even jumpers - for goal posts. 

 

Although it seems Lawrence did not himself participate as a player, he was happy to act as a referee and so clearly understood the rules of the beautiful game - just like any other working-class lad at the time - even if there is no evidence (so far) to suggest he supported a local team [2].

 

Knowing this allows us to look at the above painting - Spring (1929) - with fresh eyes; perhaps Lawrence was not merely painting some local youths in the lovely French seaside resort of Bandol celebrating the scoring of a goal during a soccer match, but also fondly recalling the passion with which his own pupils at the Albert Street School would play the game ...

 

 

II.  

 

Funny enough, this picture by Lawrence is one that Keith Sagar seems to particularly loathe:

 

"Spring is supposed to be a painting of some boys in Bandol playing football, but by removing the blue shirts they wore in the first version of the painting, leaving them wearing nothing but boots, and by having all but one of them engage in activities which, whether homoerotic or not, have certainly nothing to do with the ball, he produces a ludicrous painting." [3]

 

The problem, however, is that whilst Sagar was a great Lawrence scholar, he was not, alas, a very good art critic and he misses the opportunity to recognise Lawrence's importance as a painter [4]. There is, I would suggest, a very special violence - and, indeed, a very special beauty - that emerges from his canvases as part of an art of sensation.

 

Lawrence does not wish to reduce his figures to the level of optical cliché; he is not trying to capture a likeness! Nor is he simply revealing and celebrating the flesh, he is rather pushing it in the direction of deformation and disfiguration (anatomical fidelity is no more an issue for Lawrence than it was for Cézanne).  

And so, returning to Spring ... 

 

Expecting and wanting to see an actual game of football, Sagar is irritated by the fact that Lawrence provides sensation rather than spectacle and that he is as uninterested in the score-line, the colour of the kits, or the intricacies of the offside rule, as the boys who play for the joy felt by healthy young bodies exerting themselves, the love of team mates, the ecstasy of celebration, etc. 

 

Spring demonstrates Lawrence's appreciation of the fact that football - and, indeed, sport in general - expresses and liberates certain vital forces and flows.   

 

 

Notes

 

[1] See John Worthen, 'D. H. Lawrence as Games Organiser and Football Referee', Journal of D. H. Lawrence Studies, Volume 6, Number 3, ed. Susan Reid  (D. H. Lawrence Society, 2023), pp. 11-16.    

[2] Lawrence might have supported Notts County; the oldest professional football club in the world, formed in 1862; or Nottingham Forest, formed three years later; or Derby County, formed in 1884, and one of the twelve founding members of the Football League in 1888.

 

[3] Keith Sagar, Introduction to D. H. Lawrence's Paintings, (Chaucer Press, 2003), p. 68.

[4] What I mean by this is that Sagar thinks it sufficient to carefully establish the connections between Lawrence's life, writing, and painting, thereby framing the pictures in a bio-literary context. But in simply substituting snippets of biographical detail, personal anecdote, and literary criticism for a genuine analysis of Lawrence's paintings - i.e., one that is written in the terms appropriate to a discussion of a practice primarily concerned with colour and line - Sagar produces a somewhat pointless commentary which not only betrays his own ignorance of the plastic arts, but also his ultimate lack of confidence in Lawrence’s ability to draw.

Margiela Artisanal Collection 2024: Pubic Hair and Porcelain Faces

Maison Margiela Artisanal Collection 2024 [1]

 

 

I was pleased to see that John Galliano decided to experiment with an older ideal of female beauty in his latest collection for Maison Margiela; one with tiny waists, wide hips, and (at least the illusion of) hairy genitalia.

 

For I've long been interested in the question of female body hair and its removal; particularly from the pubic area due to a porno-aesthetic convention shaping our idea of what constitutes desirability. As I wrote in a post published back in January 2013:  

"I am slightly troubled by this trend. For whilst I understand the appeal of the hairless pussy on grounds that range from the practical to the perverse, still I can't help regretting the universal Brazilianization of women as I recall the words of Henry Miller: 'It doesn't look like a cunt anymore; it's like a dead clam or something. It's the hair that makes it mysterious.' [2]  

 

So, well done to Galliano for his use of couture merkins, fashioned from real human hair and visible beneath the sheer dresses worn by models. Perhaps this will start a new trend and maybe even encourage some women to go easy with the wax or refrain from relentlessly shaving every single hair [3].

 

 

II.

 

Of course, Galliano isn't really interested in reviving a more natural model of femininity. As he once admitted long ago, he hates female breasts for ruining the line of his designs.

 

And as the hyper-shiny complexion of his models indicates [4], his queer and slightly uncanny fantasy is to make a real woman resemble a porcelain doll; or perhaps bring the latter to life, fitting her out with all the secondary sexual characteristics of genuine womanhood, and then having her walk down the catwalk looking like a lurid Edwardian prostitute.  

To quote D. H. Lawrence: "It's just weird. And for its very weirdness women like living up to it." [5] But they might do well to remember, however, that the moment they take on that artificial china doll face, the fashion will change and the demand will be for something else.  

 

Having said that, Galliano does have a certain decadent genius and I can't help admiring his latest collection - just as my own perverse interest in the (related) topics of pygmalionism, agalmatophilia, and dollification make it hard for me not to adore the perfect porcelain features of the model pictured above. 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] The Maison Margiela Artisanal Collection 2024 by John Galliano was shown underneath the arches of what for many is most beautiful - certainly the most ornate - bridge in all Paris, the Pont Alexandre III. Click here to watch the show - inspired in part by Brassï’s dimly lit, over exposed nighttime photos taken in Montmarte in the 1920s and '30s - on YouTube.  

 

[2] See the post entitled 'Epilation' (8 Jan 2013) from where I quote this passage.

 

[3] Perhaps. But probably not. I suspect that all the body positive and natural beauty stuff will make little difference within a pornified culture. Some readers might recall that the visual merchandising team at American Apparel tried something similar to Galliano at their East Houston Street store in NYC ten years ago to little effect. See the post 'On Mannequins With Merkins' (21 Jan 2014).

 

[4] The astonishing glass skin make-up worn by the models was created by Pat McGrath; a long time collaborator of Galliano's - from his days at Dior until now at Maison Margiela, where he was appointed creative director in 2014. 

[5] D. H. Lawrence, 'Give Her a Pattern', in Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 163. 

Three French Suicides: In Memory of Olga Georges-Picot, Christine Pascal, and Gilles Deleuze

Christine Pascal, Gilles Deleuze & Olga Georges-Picot

 

 

I.

 

Last night, on TV, they were showing one of my favourite films: the British psychological thriller written and directed by Basil Dearden and starring Roger Moore; The Man Who Haunted Himself (1970) [1]. 

 

There are many reasons to love this film, not least of all because it allows one to get a glimpse of the French actress Olga-Georges Picot in a very fetching black bra. She's luscious. She's ravishing. And there are some men who would happily give up red meat to be afforded an opportunity to perv [2] on this Franco-Russian beauty [3] - including Woody Allen, who cast her as Countess Alexandrovna in his 1975 film Love and Death.  

   

Whilst biographical information on her life and career seems to be limited and incomplete, we do know that she commited suicide in June 1997 by jumping from her 5th floor apartment overlooking the river Seine.

 

 

II. 

 

Olga Georges-Picot's death came less than a year after the death - also by suicide and also by jumping out of a window - of the brilliant French actress, writer and director Christine Pascal ... 

 

Interestingly, this multi-talented woman had often reflected philosophically on the question of suicide, and the first film she directed - Félicité (1979) [4] - opens with a suicide scene. Several years later, when asked by an interviewer how she would like to die, she replied: En me suicidant, le moment venu.

 

Well, that time came in August 1996, whilst receiving treatment at a psychiatric hospital in the Paris suburb of Garches [5]. Whether her suicide is best interpreted as a mad act by a mentally ill woman or a voluntary death by an unconventional woman with a penchant for transgressive behaviour is something I'll allow readers to decide [6].    

 

III.

Finally, let us remember Gilles Deleuze ... 

 

Deleuze was a philosopher very much admired by Pascal and one who, like her - and like Georges-Picot - also topped himself by jumping out of a window, when the respiratory conditions that he had long suffered from became increasingly severe [7].     

I remember the excitement news of this event generated in the Philosophy Dept. at Warwick, where I was doing my Ph.D at the time and had just started to read Deleuze's work seriously. Everyone wanted to know if his death came from within or without and pondered the question of whether it marked a loss of desire on his part, or whether the decision to terminate one's own individual existence as a way of affirming life indicates a final resurgence of vitality.  

 

In other words, was his suicide a logical way for Deleuze to show fidelity to his own philosophy, rather than merely a wish to end his suffering?

 

It remains an interesting question, I think ...       

 

 

Notes

 

[1] I have written about this in relation to Daphne du Maurier's 1957 novel The Scapegoat in a post entitled 'Never Give a Doppelgänger the Keys to Your Car ...' (17 June 2020): click here. 

[2] I'm paraphrasing George Costanza interviewing for a secretary in the season six episode of Seinfeld entitled 'The Secretary', (dir. D. Owen Trainor, 1998): click here.  

[3] Olga was was the daughter of Guillaume Georges-Picot, the French Ambassador to China, and a Russian mother, Anastasia Mironovich. She was born in Shanghai, in Japanese-occupied China, in January 1940. 

 

[4] Christine Pascal was born in Lyon in November 1953. She was given a starring role, aged twenty-one, in Michel Mitrani's Les Guichets du Louvre (1974). 

      The film portrays the infamous Vel' d'Hiv' Roundup in 1942, when French police assisted Nazi soldiers in the arrest of over 13,000 Jewish inhabitants of Paris and held them under inhumane conditions prior to their deportation to Auschwitz, where virtually all were murdered. Pascal played a young Jewish woman named Jeanne.

 

[5] Félicité was not only written and directed by Pascal, but she played the lead role too. It was a film that shocked many (even in France) with its explicit sexual content and provocative indecency and cemented her reputation as the mauvaise fille of French cinema.   

 

[6] Somewhat unfairly, I think, the psychiatrist who was caring for Pascal was sentenced in 2003 to twelve months in prison for failing to take appropriate action to prevent her suicide. 

 

[7] Deleuze, who had problems with his breathing even as a youngster, developed tuberculosis in 1968 and underwent surgery to remove a lung. In the final years of his life even writing became increasingly difficult and so, on 4 November 1995, aged seventy, he jumped to his death from the window of his Paris apartment.

 

Satanism is Not a Humanism

thesatanictemple.com

 

 

I. 

 

Just to be clear: I'm no great fan of Anton LaVey and I'm not a member or supporter of his Church of Satan [1]. However, if placed between the devil and the deep blue sea and forced to choose between LaVey and the Church of Satan or Lucien Greaves and his Satanic Temple, I'd probably go with the former. 

 

And that's because Satanism as a form of showbiz and ritual theatre appeals more than Satanism as a form of social activism and progressive politics and I think I prefer those who are faux wicked like LaVey to those who are sincerely woke like Greaves. 

 

 

II.

 

The Satanic Temple, co-founded by Greaves and Malcolm Jarry in 2012 and based in Salem, Massachusetts, declares in a mission statement on its website that it has several goals based upon Seven Tenets, including the encouragement of benevolence and empathy among all people; opposition to injustice; and the promotion of practical common sense.

 

None of these things sound particularly immoral to me - and it's no surprise to discover that, actually, Greaves and his associates in The Satanic Temple not only refuse to worship his Satanic Majesty, but deny his existence and believe that religion should be stripped of all supernatural elements, becoming, in effect, just another form of secular humanism [2] promoting reason and liberal values. 

 

Far from affirming an active form of evil, The Satanic Temple wish to reduce human suffering in the name of Love and - as a Nietzschean - I obviously can't go along with that on philosophical grounds [3]. 

 

For me, the altruistic values that Greaves holds dear - born as they are of impotence and ressentiment - are essentially the problem and it is not only absurd to persist with such ideals, but harmful to our present wellbeing and future becoming [4].   

Does Greaves not understand that it is only those with claws who are capable of showing compassion and that it is the strong who grant and guarantee the very rights with which he is so concerned? 

 

Apparently not ... Which is a bit of a shame, because - to give the devil his due - Greaves is undoubtedly an intelligent and courageous provocateur, it's just unfortunate that, ultimately, he's merely another social justice warrior peddling the same leftist ideology one might hear from Owen Jones or Billy Bragg.      

  

 

Notes

 

[1] Anton LaVey (1930-1997) was an American author, musician, and Satanist. A colourful and charismatic figure - once described as a natural born showman - he was the founder of the Church of Satan in 1966. Readers who are interested might like the post published on 24 Feb 2018 in which I discuss LaVey's relationship with Jayne Mansfield: click here. 

[2] Greaves tries to differentiate his model of Satanism from humanism by emphasising its rejection of tyrannical authority and adherence to a principle of individual sovereignty (including that of the outsider), but I can't imagine any secular-liberal humanist would find that problematic.    

[3] One of the things that Lucien Greaves dislikes about LaVey's model of Satanism is the fact that it was informed by a reading - admittedly a crude reading - of Nietzsche's philosophy. Click here to read a fairly lengthy refutation of LaVey's doctrines on The Satanic Temple website.  

 

[4] I discuss all this in chapter 4 of Outside the Gate, (Blind Cupid Press, 2010), pp. 89-99.

Forest Bathing

A Walk in the Woods by Frosted Moonlight 

 (SA/2024)

 

 

Having taken an early morning stroll in the woods by the light of a frosted moon, I'm sympathetic to the claim made by many dendrophiles that being in the company of trees is beneficial to one's physical and mental wellbeing. 

 

That even a short walk in the woods - depressing  as this can be when one sees all the litter and fly-tipped items including paint pots, pushchairs and printers - can help lower blood pressure, keep sugar levels balanced, boost immune systems and even improve cognitive function.     

 

Of course, the Japanese living in a land that is still two-thirds covered with a vast number and diversity of trees, have known this for many years and have even coined a (relatively recent) term [1] for finding oneself by losing oneself amongst them: shinrin-yoku - known in English as forest bathing. 

 

But the Japanese are not unique in recognising the health benefits of this practice; the Roman author Pliny the Elder, for example, argued that the scent of a pine forest was extremely beneficial to those suffering with respiratory problems or recuperating from a long illness. 

 

And I've written on several occasions about D. H. Lawrence's great fascination with trees: click here, for example. 

 

Like Lawrence, I'm conscious of the fact that you can never really know a tree - something which is so much bigger and stronger in life than we are - but only "sit among the roots and nestle against its strong trunk" [2], in silent contemplation [3]. But that's good enough for me. 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] The term shinrin-yoku was coined in 1982 by Tomohide Akiyama - Director of the Japanese Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries - who, worried by increasing urbanisation, hoped to inspire the Japanese public to reconnect with nature and protect their forests by reminding them of the free health benefits that the latter afforded them.   

 

[2] D. H. Lawrence, Fantasia of the Unconscious, ed. Bruce Steele, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 86. 

[3] Having said that, Rupert Birkin does rather more than sit in silence with his favourite young sapling; see chapter VIII of Lawrence's novel Women in Love (1920). I discuss dendrophilia in its erotic (and daimonic) aspect in a post published here on 3 October 2020: click here.  

Warmongering

Image based on the famous recruitment poster 

feat. Lord Kitchener, by Alfred Leete (1914)

 

 

I. 

 

I trust that readers recognise that I am neither a pacifist nor a conscientious objector to war. I even wrote a long post in praise of fighters a few years back: click here. 

But, having said that, I'm increasingly irritated by the belligerent new spirit that seems to have gripped the imagination not just of politicians, military commanders and arms manufacturers here in the UK, but even left-leaning journalists like Gaby Hinsliff [1] who, all of a sudden, seem keen to warmonger in the name of keeping the peace and defending our way of life.

 

Hers may be a slightly posher, better-read, more respectable form of warmongering, but warmongering is still what it is. Scratch away the moral idealism and Hinsliff is revealed as simply a more articulate (thus more persuasive, more dangerous) version of an old-fashioned jingoist, exploiting the same fears that the enemy are at the gates.

 

 

II.

 

In an opinion piece in today's Guardian, Hinsliff writes in support of army chief Gen. Sir Patrick Sanders' suggestion that those of military age in the UK should be regarded as a prewar generation and that British society should essentially be placed on a war footing.  

 

This comes after the Dutch head of NATO's military committee, Admiral Rob Bauer, warned of the possibility of a wide-scale conflict with Russia within the next 20 years - whether we like it or not - only for Germany's defence minister, Boris Pistorius, to say that, actually, war might break out far sooner: maybe even within the next five years.

 

I suppose we should be thankful that Sanders stopped short of calling for the reintroduction of conscription, although he made it clear that, in his view, civilians would be expected to volunteer for the frontline should Putin's forces invade a NATO country. 

 

 

III.

 

I don't know how seriously we should take all this. 

 

And I don't know how effective it would be to issue a military call up based on an appeal to patriotism; would young people be as ready and willing to fight and die for king and country in 2024 as they were in 1914?

 

I have my doubts, but, on the other hand, I was astonished at the level of conformity and compliance during the Covid period ... Maybe they'd regard World War III as the opportunity to live again ...?

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Gaby Hinsliff is an English journalist and columnist for The Guardian. Her piece I'm referring to here is entitled 'For generations Britain has taken peace for granted. But a belligerent Putin could change all that' and was published today (26 Jan 2024): click here to read online. 

      I have had issues with Hinsliff before: see the post 'Gaby Hinsliff Versus Douglas Murray: You Pays Your Money and You Takes Your Choice' (9 May 2017): click here.   

Petrophilia: A Brief Note on the Geochemical Origin of Life and the Religious Worship of Rocks

Der Nietzsche-Stein [1]

 

 

I. 

 

According to Deleuze and Guattari, not only do plants and animals sing and express themselves, so too do rocks [2]. I don't quite know what they mean by this, but as a petrophile, it's always been an idea that resonated with me. 

 

Of course, I know that rocks are not alive. But I also know that biochemistry rests upon geochemistry and that researchers have shown how rocks and minerals play a crucial role in almost every phase of life's emergence; catalysing, for example, the synthesis of biomolecules, and kick-starting metabolism [3]. 

 

In fact, according to the British organic chemist and molecular biologist Graham Cairns-Smith, the very earliest form of life was possibly a type of clay mineral able to carry genetic information and evolve. This is a provocative and controversial claim, but one that has been taken seriously by philosophers interested in the question of what does and does not constitute life [4].

 

We usually think of the latter as being carbon-based and involving cells containing DNA. But Cairns-Smith obliges us to ask if that was always the case - and must it always be the same on distant alien planets? 

 

 

II. 

 

When feeling in a slightly less scientific and more religious frame of mind, I'm also tempted to agree with D. H. Lawrence that from the smallest stone to the greatest rock we find God made manifest [5]. 

 

It seems that those ancient pagans who practiced their pantheism in material (non-abstract) terms were profoundly right to do so; for "everything that has being has being in the flesh" [6].

 

Interestingly, we might note in closing how even some modern Christians celebrate Jesus as the Rock of Ages, i.e., an unfailing and seemingly everlasting presence in their lives [7].  

 

 

Notes

 

[1] According to Nietzsche, the central idea of Thus Spoke Zarathustra - i.e., the idea of eternal recurrence - came to him when he encountered this large rock on the shores of Lake Silvaplana (Switzerland).

 

[2] See Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, trans. Brian Massumi, (University of Minnesota Press, 1987), p. 44.

 

[3] See Robert M. Hazen (ed.), 'Genesis: Rocks, Minerals, and the Geochemical Origin of Life', Elements Vol. 1 (June 2005), pp. 135-137.

 

[4] See Alexander Graham Cairns-Smith, Seven Clues to the Origin of Life, (Cambridge University Press, 1985).

      This book popularized the clay hypothesis, which promoted the idea that self-replication of clay crystals in solution might provide a simple intermediate step between biologically inert matter and organic life.

 

[5] See D. H. Lawrence, Apocalypse and the Writings on Revelation, ed. Mara Kalnins, (Cambridge University Press, 1980), p. 95.

 

[6] D. H. Lawrence, 'Bodiless God', in The Poems, Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 605. See also the poem 'The Body of God' on the same page of the above.

 

[7] This well-known Christian hymn written by Reformed Anglican minister Augustus Toplady was first published (in full and with a revised first verse) in The Gospel Magazine in March 1776. 

On Painting 1946 and the Magic of Art: The Malcolm McLaren Birthday Post (2024)

 

Francis Bacon: Painting 1946 (1946)

Oil on linen (78 x 52 in)

I. 

 

On this day, in 1946, Malcolm McLaren was born and I'd like to mark the event by reproducing above a typically brutal and disturbing work painted by Francis Bacon in this year, when the horrors of the Second World War were evidently still haunting his unconscious. 

 

 

II. 

 

McLaren was an admirer of Bacon's and I know they met on at least one occasion, when, having previously been introduced by the London art dealer Robert Fraser [1], they viewed the Manet exhibition together at the National Gallery in 1983. 

 

According to Malcolm, Bacon helped him understand that truly great artists are more than mere painters; they are also alchemists, who can transform ordinary objects and base materials into something magical [2]. 

 

 

III.

 

Painting 1946 was initially sold to the dealer and gallerist Erica Brausen in the autumn of that year, for £200 (Bacon used the proceeds to escape London for Monte Carlo). Two years later, Alfred Barr purchased the work on behalf of the Museum of Modern Art in New York. It has remained there ever since and is now too fragile to be exhibited elsewhere.

 

It's a great picture; one which even Bacon - who could be highly critical of his own work - was always proud. 

 

And, if only for the date of its composition, I think it makes a suitable image by which to remember McLaren on what would have been his 78th birthday [3].      

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Robert Fraser - aka Groovy Bob - was a key figure on the London cultural scene in the Swinging Sixties and his Duke Street gallery became a focal point for contemporary art in the UK, helping to promote the work of many exciting new British and American artists, including Peter Blake, Bridget Riley, Richard Hamilton, and Gilbert & George. Many beautiful people - including writers, actors, and musicians - frequented Fraser's gallery and partied at his flat in Mayfair and, as a young art student, McLaren also visited exhibitions staged by Fraser, whom he later described as a major icon. 

      In 1983, Fraser opened a new gallery and was influential in promoting the work of Jean-Michel Basquiat and Keith Haring. Sadly, however, he died from AIDS-related illnesses in January 1986. Those readers interested in knowing more should see Harriet Vyner's biography; Groovy Bob: The Life and Times of Robert Fraser (HENI Publishing, 2016); originally published by Faber & Faber (1999).   

 

[2] See Paul Gorman's The Life and Times of Malcolm McLaren, p. 480, where he mentions Mclaren's recollection of this visit to the National Gallery accompanied by Francis Bacon.

 

[3] McLaren died on 8 April, 2010, having beeen diagnosed with peritoneal mesothelioma in October 2009. 

Here We Are Nowhere (Bienvenue à l'Hôtel Non-Lieu)

The Overlook Hotel (The Shining, 1980) 

 

 

For a long time, I have dreamed of one day living in a hotel. Not staying for a short break or even a prolonged period, but living there full-time (and, indeed, dying beyond my means in a hotel just like Oscar Wilde) [1].

 

It isn't the amenities or services that attract per se, so much as the notion of anonymity and the fact that it provides an escape from domesticity and all the horrors of home, sweet home. The idea of not actually owning property also appeals. 

 

Since this is essentially a fantasy, concerns about the cost or feasibility - I know that many hotels have rules governing maximum duration of stay - haven't really entered my thinking. 

 

Nor have I worried about the fact that hotels can provide only a transient and somewhat artificial sense of community. In fact, that's part of the attraction; not belonging anywhere or having to establish long-lasting relationships with neighbours seems a plus to me and I imagine it would be far more fun interacting with a rotating cast of staff members, ghosts, and fellow guests. 

 

However, recently, I've begun to have my doubts and I'm not so sure that life in what the French anthropologist Marc Augé termed a non-place [2] is really such a great idea ... 

 

It's not that I fear being unable to sustain my identity, or that I might feel alienated and alone. Rather, my concern is that, ultimately, living in a hotel - no matter how fabulous - might begin to feel as if one were in limbo, neither here nor there, and once you tire of nowhere there is, of course, nowhere left to go [3] ... 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Oscar Wilde died on 30 November 1900 at L'Hôtel, 13 Rue des Beaux Arts, 75006 Paris, France, where, famously, he disliked the wallpaper. Readers interested in staying in what is now termed the Oscar Wilde Suite will find all they need to know by clicking here.    

 

[2] See Marc Augé, Non-Lieux: Introduction à une anthropologie de la surmodernité (Éditions du Seuil, 1992); recently republished as Non-Places: An Introduction to Supermodernity, trans. John Howe, (Verso, 2023). 

      Augé coined the phrase non-place to refer to those spaces where traditional notions of history, identity, and human relations, are, if not erased exactly, then suspended. Examples of a non-place include a hotel room, an airport lounge, or a shopping mall. When you enter, you might immediately feel a sense of familiarity and yet they incite no sense of belonging. 

      Readers who would like to read the Introduction to the second edition of Non-Places can find it on the Verso blog page: click here.   

[3] I'm recalling here the line from the Stiff Little Fingers song 'Here We Are Nowhere', written by guitarist Henry Cluney, which can be found on their debut album Inflammable Material (Rough Trade, 1979) and listened to on YouTube by clicking here - 59 seconds of punk genius.