Three Portraits of Naomi 1: Naomi as Playmate, Bunny Girl and Jezebel

Introductory Note

The three portraits of London-born supermodel Naomi Campbell that I wish to discuss were all taken by David LaChapelle for an issue of Playboy magazine (1 Dec 1999). As one might expect, all are visually stunning and typical in terms of composition and content of LaChapelle's aesthetico-erotic obsessions at this period. Unfortunately, these obsessions - such as his very obvious black girl fetish - rest upon rather questionable sexual and racial politics  ...     

Naomi Campbell: Playmate (1999) 
By David LaChapelle 

In the first portrait, we see a bikini-clad Campbell astride a huge Playboy rabbit, the iconic corporate logo chosen by Hugh Hefner on the grounds that the image was frisky and playful and had a humorous sexual connotation. Hefner is referring here, of course, to the fact that people who enjoy engaging in frequent and vigorous acts of coition - particularly young women - are said to fuck like rabbits.

The picture is thus immediately telling us that here is a promiscuous playmate who likes to be on top. In other words, Naomi is a bunny girl. And, as crudely indicated by the fact that the rabbit she straddles is made of chocolate, she's also a black bunny, guaranteeing her sexual willingness as a given.

For if the history of racial mythology has taught us anything, it's that women of colour are real bitches in the bedroom; they can't get enough and they like it rough. This is commonly known as the Jezebel stereotype, one which originally stemmed from European explorers equating the semi-nakedness of the tribal women whom they encountered with a lewd and lascivious nature (so very different to the modest and morally upright girls back home dressed in their corsets and stays).

Amongst other things, such a belief not only established a framework that allowed for the crude objectification of black women, their bodies and their sexuality, but it also conveniently legitimized their sexual assault by white men; the former were always insatiable in their desires and the latter always innocent souls, led astray by these immoral and manipulative Jezebels.

It's disappointing, to say the least, that LaChapelle should reinforce this enduring racist stereotype and artistic convention of representing women of African origin as fuck-bunnies and bad girls. I don't for one moment think he's exploiting Ms Campbell, who's clearly complicit; as happy to pose nude for Playboy as she had been to accept blood diamonds from Charles Taylor two years earlier. But, as my friends in the Black Feminist Network rightly point out, he's not doing other young women of colour any favours with this portrait of Naomi ...


Note: those interested in knowing more about the Jezebel stereotype can click here to read an essay on the topic by Dr David Pilgrim, Professor of Sociology, Ferris State University, Michigan (founder and curator of the Jim Crow Museum of Racist Memorabilia).

To read part two of this post - Naomi in the Cat House - click here. 

To read part three of this post - Naomi's Fruit Passion - click here. 

Why I Love Manet's Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe (1863)

Édouard Manet: Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe (1863) 
Oil on canvas, 208 x 264.5 cm

Manet's controversial picnic scene, known in English as Lunch on the Grass, might seem fairly innocuous to a modern viewer, despite the nudity of the central female figure and scantily-clad bather in the background - and despite the high regard in which it's held by art-loving members of the dogging and CMNF communities respectively.

But, back in the day, it sparked outrage in the art world, breaking with academic convention in style, in subject matter, and in the size of the canvas. It also provoked a huge public scandal; not only was there a woman in the nip besides two fully-clothed men, but they appeared to be fairly indifferent to the fact - more concerned with their own conversation and appearance, like a couple of queers. What's more, she, the brazen hussy, is gazing directly at the viewer, breaking the fourth wall with a coquettish smile that is as knowing as it is obscene.       

Surprisingly, for such a famous work, there's still a good deal we don't know for certain about the painting; including, for example, when Manet first began the canvas, how he originally got the idea and what sort of preparatory work he carried out. Having said that, we do know that the female nude was Victorine Meurent, a famous model and accomplished artist in her own right, whom Manet loved to paint (she it was who sat for another of his notorious canvases belonging to this period, Olympia).

And we do know that Manet was playfully reworking an Old Master's depiction of a Greek mythological scene. For the disposition of the main figures is derived from Marcantonio Raimondi's celebrated engraving The Judgement of Paris (c. 1515), after a drawing by Raphael; an artist revered by the conservative members of the Académie des Beaux-Arts, so Manet's très moderne take on this Renaissance treasure was bound to ruffle feathers. In fact, some members were said to be apoplectic, though others found the canvas simply laughable.

Émile Zola, however, thought it to be Manet's greatest work. So too did many other 19th and 20th century artists, including Picasso, who was so obsessed by Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe that he completed 27 paintings and 140 drawings inspired by it.

Punk impresario Malcolm McLaren also liked it so much that, when managing Bow Wow Wow, he commissioned the photographer Andy Earl to recreate the picture with members of the band, including 14-year-old Annabella Lwin taking on the Victorine Meurent role - much to the outrage of her mother, who called in Scotland Yard and had the image removed from the sleeve of the group's 1981 album See Jungle! See Jungle! Go Join Your Gang Yeah, City All Over! Go Ape Crazy! 

Photo of Bow Wow Wow by Andy Earl 

49 x 38.5 cm colour print (1983) 

Given to the National Portrait Gallery by Andy Earl (1999) 

It's amusing to think that, almost 120 years after being rejected by the Salon, Lunch on the Grass could still upset the elderly authorities and those D. H. Lawrence terms censor-morons; i.e. individuals who attempt to circumscribe the pornographic imagination.

The Rape of Africa: David LaChapelle's Reimagining of Botticelli's Venus and Mars

Botticelli: Venus and Mars (c. 1483)

Tempera and oil on panel, 69 cm x 173 cm

Botticelli's Venus and Mars is an acknowledged masterpiece of the Italian Renaissance, depicting the Roman goddess Venus and her divine lover, Mars, in a blissful post-coital scene.

The conventional interpretation is that she has left him powerless and exhausted; that her feminine charms have triumphed over masculine brute force and that in order to experience what D. H. Lawrence terms the peace of fucking, it's necessary for men to lay down their arms and make love, not war.

One might suggest, however, that what Botticelli playfully exposes is naked male conceit. Happy to lie back and sleep after doing the deed, Mars is as vainly content with his sexual prowess as with his virtues as a warrior. Venus, meanwhile, is left to look on unsatisfied and disappointed; for maybe when stripped of his weapons and his armour, Mars wasn't all she'd hoped him to be (the limpness of his right hand betraying all we need to know).

However we choose to read it, the painting is undoubtedly one of the jewels in the collection of The National Gallery, London, and I would encourage anyone who hasn't seen it to do so, should they be fortunate enough to have the opportunity. I would also encourage readers to view David LaChapelle's provocative reimagining of the work, entitled The Rape of Africa:

    

David LaChapelle: The Rape of Africa (2009)

Digital image ft. Naomi Campbell as Venus and Caleb Lane as Mars 

LaChapelle's picture, featuring Naomi Campbell in the role of a Black Venus (and rape victim), is a pomo-political allegory, which, like most of his work - both as a commercial fashion photographer and as a serious artist-cum-activist - is visually stunning, but lacking in subtlety for all its knowing sophistication and obsessive attention to detail.

As critics have noted, the work also leaves nothing to the imagination and is weighed down by its own aesthetic excess - crammed full as it is of various objects serving a crude symbolic function and a rich saturation of colours - and by its moral-political idealism. In the end, if you look at it for too long, you start to feel a tiny bit queasy; but it's only when you consider the latter that you seriously want to vomit.    

For this photo is not, alas, the visual equivalent of Conrad's Heart of Darkness. At best, it simply repeats the refrain made famous by Edwin Starr and attempts to foster white guilt over the three evils of racism, imperialism and colonialism. Viewers might also notice the large piece of earth digging machinery working away at a gold mine, reminding us of the environmental cost of consumer capitalism (aka Western greed).    

I understand LaChapelle's ambition to create a more substantial, more socially aware body of work beyond the frivolous worlds of pop, celebrity, and fashion - and I wish him every success. But, really, David, we can do without the political posturing, the crocodile tears and the shameless hypocrisy.

Ultimately, The Rape of Africa is another example of that sentimental compassion which Pascal Bruckner rightly identifies as an insidious form of contempt.    

Two Great Dancers in Two Unforgettable Pop Videos: Maddie Ziegler and Sergei Polunin

Maddie Ziegler performing in "Chandelier". 

Vocals by Sia. Written by Sia and Jesse Shatkin. From the album 1000 Forms of Fear (2014). 

Video dir. by Sia and Daniel Askill. Choreography by Ryan Heffington. 

A journalist writing for People magazine described Maddie Ziegler as a super-human child or graceful alien sent to Earth from Planet Talented to make us lesser beings look really stiff and clumsy in comparison. And, indeed, watching this eleven-year-old spin and scuttle around like the world's prettiest cockroach, or an insane fairy, in one of YouTube's most viewed videos, does make one feel not only inept and inferior, but very, very old.

We might, as Spinoza would say, still not know what a body can do; but we now have a much better idea, thanks to Maddie Ziegler, of what fabulous things some little bodies are capable of. Once seen, her mesmerizing performance is never forgotten - but never quite believed either (thus the compulsion to watch the video over and over). It's magical. It's grotesque. And it's genius.    

Meanwhile, in an atmospheric and erotically-charged video directed by the American photographer and filmmaker David LaChapelle, former Royal Ballet bad boy and principal dancer Sergei Polunin gives a stunning visual interpretation of Hozier’s powerful gay protest anthem, "Take Me to Church".

Sergei Polunin performing in "Take Me to Church". 

Vocals by Hozier. Written by Hozier. From the album Hozier (2014) 

Video dir. by David LaChapelle. Choreography by Jade Hale-Christofi. 

Set in a rather lovely white studio, amongst the trees and flooded with natural light, the twenty-five year-old Ukrainian shows off his muscles, his scars and his numerous tattoos; pirouetting, leaping and rolling around the stripped wooden floor, dressed in a pair of nude tights cut off above the knee. His passionate - if, sometimes slightly hackneyed performance - not only showcases his own genius and demons, but captures the angry brilliance of Hozier's song.

Lacking the bonkers exuberance of Maddie Ziegler that ultimately makes you want to laugh, Polunin has such immense beauty and eloquent control of his movements that it almost makes you want to cry.

Indeed, I would suggest that anyone who isn't moved by these two performances, these two songs, is probably dead ...

In Praise of the Naked Mole Rat

Photo of a naked mole-rat by Joel Sartore

National Geographic Photo Ark

Despite the fact that it is, in common parlance, fuck ugly - looking as it does like a wrinkled penis with short legs and large, protruding teeth - the virtually blind, shit-eating, naked mole-rat is a truly astonishing creature, possessing traits that enable it to survive in a harsh subterranean environment.

For one thing, the naked mole-rat is eusocial: in other words, it's achieved a highly organized level of society in which large numbers of individuals, often from different generations, share collective care of the young whilst otherwise observing a strict division of labour; some rats dig tunnels, some rats find food, some rats defend the colony from predators. It might not be a democratic model of society - in fact, it's all about patiently serving the reproductive queen - but as ants, bees and the Borg have also discovered, it's one that works.

The naked mole-rat is also the only mammalian thermoconformer: that is to say, it brings its own body temperature into line with its immediate surroundings, thus avoiding the need for internal heat regulation within a relatively narrow range. If, however, it shows meek compliance to the ambient temperature on the one hand, the naked mole-rat displays stoic indifference to pain on the other. For, thanks to the fact that its ill-fitting, pinky-yellowish skin lacks the important neurotransmitter known as substance P, the naked mole-rat is insensitive to stimuli that other animals would find irritating or acutely uncomfortable. You can dip them in acid, or rub their bare backs with a hot chili pepper and they'll not flinch.

Further - and it's this that really captures the interest of scientists concerned with the question of human mortality and disease - the naked mole-rat is remarkable for its longevity and resistance to cancer. For a rodent of its size (only a few inches in length and weighing just over an ounce), the naked mole-rat is extraordinarily long-lived - up to 30 years. Not only that, but it remains relatively healthy and sprightly even in old age; nothing seems to slow it down, muscle tissue and blood vessels all remaining in tip-top condition. Ironically, this seems partly due to their ability to dramatically reduce their metabolic and respiratory rates during hard times, thereby preventing damage from oxidative stress.

As for cancer, naked mole-rats laugh at the thought of developing tumours. Again, this can mostly be put down to fortunate genetics preventing uncontrolled cell proliferation. But in 2013, researchers also reported that naked mole-rats have an extremely high level of molecular hyaluronan - which is a good thing if you don't want cancer - and ribosomes that manufacture virtually error-free proteins.  

Finally - and perhaps most astonishingly - it has recently been discovered that naked mole-rats have the ability to use anaerobic glycolysis with fructose, rather than glucose, to live quite happily in oxygen-depleted environments; indeed, they can even survive without any oxygen whatsoever for almost twenty minutes - thus, effectively becoming-plant for short periods.

Mice can't do that; and men can't do it either. And until cross-species genetic engineering really gets underway, it'll remain another unique characteristic of the very wonderful naked mole-rat ...


Note: readers who are particularly interested in how 'Fructose-driven glycolysis supports anoxia resistance in the naked mole-rat', can find the research by Thomas J. Park et al published in the journal Science, Vol. 356, Issue 6335, (21 April 2017), pp. 307-11. 

Self-Enjoyment and Concern Part 2: The Aesthetico-Ethical Case For Masturbation

No wanker wanks twice

  

In his final book, Modes of Thought (1938), Whitehead argues that life implies immediate and absolute self-enjoyment. What I'd like to do here, is perversely interpret this theory of auto-affection and show how it might relate to the question of masturbation in a manner that allows us to conceive of wanking as a vital pleasure, rather than an unnatural vice; a pleasure which enables solosexuals to experience life directly by taking it in hand.

Further, Whitehead's philosophy enables us to think of pleasure as immanent to the act of masturbating; non-dependent upon the achievement of any goal or static result, including orgasm. A wank, as it were, unfolds entirely in and for itself, without conditions and without reference to any other living moment.          

So far of course, this merely reinforces the case that D. H. Lawrence and Rae Langton have against masturbation. But Whitehead goes further and affords us the opportunity to construct a novel defence of self-enjoyment; to argue that each occasion one jerks off is an activity of concern. Concern, that is to say - in feeling and in aim - with things and bodies that lie beyond it. This, insists Whitehead, is concern understood in the Quaker sense of that term.

Steven Shaviro - upon whose excellent reading of Whitehead I'm reliant here - provides a convenient explanation of this latter point:

"For the Quakers, concern implies a weight on the spirit. When something concerns me, I cannot ignore it or walk away from it. It presses on my being and compels me to respond. Concern, therefore, is an involuntary experience of being affected by others. It opens me, in spite of myself, to the outside. It compromises my autonomy, leading me toward something beyond myself." [14-5]

In other words - and contrary to what Lawrence and Langton believe - we masturbate from out of a concern with (and a desire for) others; it's a relational activity, even if the enjoyment is purely private and personal. Ultimately, masturbation is a way of reaching out and coming into touch with others and not just touching ourselves in an inappropriate manner.

Unfortunately, Lawrence and Langton confuse the fundamental difference between these two closely bound but contrasting conditions of self-enjoyment and concern; or, rather, they see the first but are blind to the latter. But as Shaviro points out, you can't have one without the other; for concern is itself a kind of enjoyment and both are "movements, or pulsations, of emotion" [16].    

Thus, whilst masturbation may not directly involve others, it always keeps them in mind. It's also, crucially, not an atemporal phenomenon; we may wank in the present, but we do so with fond memories of past experience and projected towards the hope and the promise of sexual contacts still to come. In other words, masturbation is "deeply involved with the antecedent occasions from which it has inherited and with the succeeding occasions to which it makes itself available" [15].

It's because we come in a way that unites and affirms our life not just in the living moment, but across time, that wanking is transformed from simple self-enjoyment into concern: "Conversely, concern or other-directedness is itself a necessary precondition for even the most intransitive self-enjoyment ..." [15]. For no wank is ideal, or ever entirely without object.

And, what's more, no masturbating subject ever experiences the same wank twice; each and every wank is selected from a boundless wealth of alternatives, thus ensuring that masturbation, as a philosophical practice, "has to do with the multiplicity and mutability of our ways of enjoyment, as these are manifested even in the course of what an essentialist thinker would regard as the 'same' situation" [18].

In sum - and to reiterate - the joy and the excitement felt by a happy masturbator, is always derived from the past and aimed at the future. As Whitehead says: "'It issues from, and it issues towards ...'" [16] someone, something, or somewhere else. But it's important to note that it doesn't really matter who, what or where; what matters is the activity of wanking itself as an event that explores modes of thought, styles of being, and contingent interactions.  

I don't know whether masturbation can be said to be beautiful - though it certainly belongs to any ars erotica worthy of the name. But it can, I think, be said to be ethical (if in a somewhat illicit sense) and, as such, part and parcel of a good life conceived as something physically embodied. Indeed, what Whitehead offers us, says Shaviro, is an "aestheticized account of ethics" [24] in contrast to any categorical imperative.

And what I've attempted here is to illustrate how such an ethic might result from masturbation - i.e. concern is the consequence of wanking, rather than the basis of its value or its moral justification; something which "cannot be separated from self-enjoyment, much less elevated above it" [25].

See: Steven Shaviro, The Universe of Things, (University of Minnesota Press, 2014). All lines quoted and all page numbers given above refer to the first chapter of this book: 'Self-Enjoyment and Concern'. 

To read part 1 of this post - The Moral Case Against Masturbation - click here. 

Self-Enjoyment and Concern Part 1: The Moral Case Against Masturbation

D. H. Lawrence and Rae Langton

According to D. H. Lawrence, the one thing that it seems impossible to escape from, once the habit is formed, is masturbation; a simple pleasure that he regards, for a number of reasons, as the most dangerous of all sexual vices. Chief among these reasons, for Lawrence, is the fact that masturbation is a form of fatal self-enclosure rather than just innocent self-enjoyment; a vicious circle of narcissism and nullity that causes the breaking of bonds between people formed via an exchange of mutual affection and results in a state of inertia, each man and woman trapped and isolated within the dirty little secret of themselves.      

Eighty years later and the feminist philosopher, Rae Langton, is still making much the same argument in her work on what she terms sexual solipsism; leading a liberal crusade not only against pornography and objectification, but against masturbation too, as a form of self-objectification, thereby betraying her Kantian roots. 

For Langton, committed masturbators, playing all alone with their sex toys, are not merely sad losers and reactive fantasists, they're unethical. And they're unethical because they show no genuine interest in - or concern for - others and their otherness. Happy to imaginatively explore their own bodies and their own desires, Langton regards their auto-erotic activity as so inauthentic, as to border on the inhuman. 

For we have, writes Langton, a duty as human beings to love others as others and to open ourselves up to that which we are not. In so doing, we unlock the prison of the self and nourish the virtues. Further, we impose an obligation upon others to love us in return. And so, in this way, we slowly erect a moral utopia established upon love, reciprocity, and transparency of the feelings.

Now, readers who are intimately familiar with this blog will doubtless recall that I've discussed this material previously: click here, for example, for a post on masturbation as a form of sex in the head; or here, for another critical summary of Rae Langton's musings in this area. I suppose we might deduce that something else which seems impossible to escape from, once the habit has been formed, is writing about masturbation ...

However, with apologies for any repetition and at the risk of boring readers for whom masturbation isn't such a pressing issue, I would like to offer in the second part of this post a new perspective on this subject; an aesthetico-ethical defence of masturbation as an activity of concern - not merely self-enjoyment - inspired by Alfred North Whitehead, a philosopher whose thought has recently been subject to a (post-Deleuzean) revival of interest after a prolonged period of neglect.

To go to part two of this post, please click here.


See:

Rae Langton, Sexual Solipsism, (Oxford University Press, 2009), particularly chapters 14 and 15. 

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

Steven Shaviro on Warhol's Failure to Make Space

Someone recently compared me to Steven Shaviro, the American philosopher and cultural critic. Whether this comparison flatters, insults, or stands up to scrutiny, I'm not entirely sure; as a Professor of English at Wayne State University and a highly respected author, he's arguably smarter and more successful than me, but, on the other hand, I'm younger and better looking ...

Still, I'm happy to take it as a compliment; for whilst I don't know the gentleman in question, I am familiar with Doom Patrols (1997), Shaviro's theoretical fiction(s) about postmodernism in which he says many things - not necessarily true or accurate, but often witty and stylish - with which I sympathise and might wish to have said myself (You will, Oscar, you will).

I particularly love Shaviro's reading of Andy Warhol and his swish aesthetic. He is absolutely spot on to acknowledge the importance of Warhol and his pimples; an artist who not only understood how to be Greek in the Nietzschean manner (superficial out of profundity), but how to have done with judgement (I approve of what everybody does) - including the judgement of God, but in a far less aggressive, less hysterical fashion than others:

"For Warhol has none of the anxieties that plagued his great Modernist forebears, none of their transgressive urges or buried ressentiment."

Andy simply didn't care if nothing was true and everything permitted. Nor did he worry about substantial things disappearing behind their own shadows and losing their solidity, their palpability, their presence. For as Shaviro says, an artist is somebody who ultimately wants to turn the whole world into a simulacrum:

"It all comes down to images and nothing but images. [...] The critical spirit finds the world to be radically deficient. Images never satisfy it; it always wants something more. But Warhol just shrugs his shoulders, and suggests that enough is enough. The world, for him, is not deficient, but, if anything, overly full."

It's unfortunate, therefore, that even Warhol - by his own admission - simply produced more art junk, thus cluttering up the world still further. To make a little space, it seems, is the most difficult thing of all ...


See: Steven Shaviro, Doom Patrols, (Serpent's Tail, 1997), ch. 16: Andy Warhol. 

Note: The complete text is available to read free on Shaviro's website: click here.  

In Praise of the Ballet Boot (and Other Kinky Forms of Footwear)

 Leather lace-up knee-length ballet boots 

The so-called ballet boot is a style of footwear given us by the pornographic imagination, that ingenuously integrates the box toe of the ballerina's pointe shoe with an ultra high heel, forcing the foot of the wearer to assume a near vertical position and miraculously transcend the ugly flatness of nature. Obviously, they're not designed as casual wear or for comfort; novices can experience painful lower leg cramps, for example. But for those who admire the art of shoe making, they're a perfect combination of culture, cruelty and contemporary calceology.      

Usually, the height of the heel is a minimum of seven inches; long enough to ensure that the foot is fully extended, but not so long as to prevent standing and tottering about. Knee-high and thigh-high versions will often incorporate zips, buckles, and padlocks as well as elaborate lacing; these things - in addition to the material that the boots are made of - being of crucial import to the devotee (the devil being in the detail, as every fetishist knows).   

Apart from the pointe shoe - which was originally conceived in response to the desire for dancers to appear ethereal, like the much loved Marie Taglioni, credited with being the first ballerina to genuinely dance en pointe in 1832 - another precursor of the ballet boot was the Viennese fetish boot (c. 1900), which came with an eleven inch spiked heel that made standing (let along walking) nigh impossible, but came in handy for anal penetration of the submissive male subject.     

Finally, mention must be made of Alexander McQueen's iconic Armadillo boot from the S/S 2010 collection entitled Plato's Atlantis - one of his most astonishing creations for the catwalk. Designed like the ballet boot with high heel and box toe, this outrageously beautiful ankle boot, hand-carved from wood and covered in snakeskin or iridescent paillettes, not only extends the foot and elongates the leg, but seems to organically fuse with the wearers flesh, transforming her into some kind of alien being.
     

Although somewhat challenging to wear - not only because of their height and shape, but also their weight - a bulge designed above the toes enables the boot to be lifted relatively more easily when walking; not that many women will ever be fortunate enough to experience wearing them, as only twenty-one pairs were ever made.

In 2015, Lady Gaga snapped up the three pairs shown above, auctioned by Christie's New York, for $295,000.

In Praise of the Poulaine (and Other Forms of Pointed Shoe)

Medieval dandy (c. 1450) 

Although no one quite knows why, where or how the trend started, at some point in the 12th century, the long toe shoe - known as a poulaine - became all the rage amongst medieval Europeans. 

Whatever their origin, their popularity was so great that they remained in fashion (in as much as this term means anything with reference to a pre-modern world where styles changed at a snail's pace) for several centuries during the Middle Ages; achieving their most extreme form in the late-14th and early-15th century when the toe length extended by an outrageous twenty-four inches (transforming two feet into four).

In order to provide rigidity and help keep their shape, toes were often stuffed with moss, wool, hair or grass. Alternatively, they could be supported with whalebone. Young men of leisure would often combine their favoured footwear with a provocatively short tunic (as seen in the image above). Predictably, there was vociferous opposition from all the usual quarters to these beautifully bonkers, fabulously frivolous and pointlessly pointed shoes.

In a recent post on the Victoria and Albert Museum's blog, Ruth Hibbard writes:

"They were decried by the Church as sinful for their phallic shape ... [and] their impracticality was seen as leading to laziness or incapacity. ... They were also thought to be too showy to be modest or decent."

The ruling elite, also concerned by the popularity of poulaines, introduced laws regulating  toe length by social class; the longest being the preserve of the nobility (commoners were permitted no more than a mere six-inches).

Eventually, however, the fashion in footwear finally changed and, by the end of the 15th century, short, square toe shoes were the in-thing. But poulaines continue to haunt the cultural imagination and every now and then they make a reappearance; in a very modest form as winklepickers in the 1950s and - currently and far more spectacularly - as botas picudas mexicanas, which can have an extended toe length of up to sixty inches (transforming two feet into seven).  


See: Ruth Hibbard, 'Getting To The Point Of Medieval Shoes' (July 9, 2015), Victoria and Albert Museum Blog: click here.

From Codpiece to Camel Toe Pants

The codpiece was a popular male fashion statement in Renaissance Europe; attached with string ties to the front of the crotch, its purpose was to accentuate the genital area rather than conceal or afford protection.

For despite often being riddled with syphilis, the men of the 15th and 16th centuries were proud and confident in their manhood and these colourful cocksure dandies would compete to have the best shaped, most padded and most decorative codpiece.

This outlandish game of one-upmanship came to a climax in the 1540s; after this date, the codpiece increasingly became an object of derision and fell out of favour amongst the more stylish and sophisticated of men.

Indeed, the word coddy would eventually become a disparaging slang term for those who were governed by their pricks rather than their minds; characters such as the young tram inspector, John Thomas, for example, in Lawrence's short story 'Tickets, Please' (1919).

And today, who wears a codpiece other than the odd leather fetishist or heavy metal musician - and even then it's worn ironically as a theatrical item of macho-camp, rather than as a symbol of phallic pride and undaunted masculinity.

Thus, in the absence of men who might carry off wearing a codpiece with conviction whilst gaily strolling along Piccadilly, it's left to our young women to step up and make an immodest display of their genitalia - and with the creation of camel toe knickers they can do just that ...   

These padded pants, offering the illusion of a perfectly shaped pudendum, have been popular in Asia for some years. Now they've finally arrived for sale in the UK, affording British women the opportunity to turn heads by unashamedly directing attention to their labia. 

Available from Amazon in a variety of skin tones, the pants cost just £28 - which is certainly cheaper than paying a plastic surgeon to design your vagina with a knife ...

On Trolls and the Task of Philosophy

Internet Troll by Leon Strapko

deviantart.com

Originally, a troll was a type of grotesque-looking creature depicted within Norse mythology and Scandinavian folklore, often living in isolated caves or under old bridges and intent on causing harm to any human beings - or billy goats - who had the misfortune to encounter them.

But today, in online circles, a troll is a type of moron who likes to pick fights, disrupt on-topic discussion and insult people by posting often malicious, usually anonymous and nearly always extraneous comments, full of bigotry and wilful ignorance. Often claiming to represent the majority of ordinary decent folk, trolls pride themselves on their common sense and their plain-speaking.

Either way, it's advisable to avoid or ignore them and certainly not do anything to encourage their nastiness. Unfortunately, this isn't always possible. Sometimes, therefore, one is obliged to confront trolls. Indeed, if one is a philosopher, one has a certain ethical obligation to do so. For as Deleuze liked to remind his readers, the essential task of philosophy is to degrade stupidity and expose all forms of baseness of thought; to make these things shameful.

And so, if set upon by an ugly troll - perhaps disguised in the form of a squalid porcupine or an elderly badger (for trolls are excellent shape-shifters, changing form as easily and as often as they bend or break the rules governing intellectual exchange) - my advice is to stand your ground, like a philosopher.

And then shoot to kill - as much as one may dislike having to do so ...         

The Most Beautiful Streets of Paris (Notes on Surrealist Mannequin Fetish)

André Masson: Mannequin (1938)

Photo by Raoul Ubac (gelatin silver print)

The Cleveland Museum of Art

 

If you love Love, you'll love Surrealism ...

Unfortunately, however, I don't love Love - certainly not as some kind of moral absolute - and so have never really much cared for Surrealism as conceived by André Breton, whom, despite his admirable anti-theism ("Everything that is doddering, squint-eyed, vile, polluted and grotesque is summoned up for me in that one word: God!") remained an idealist and a dogmatist at heart.

However, there are some aspects - the darker, pervier aspects - of Surrealism that do excite my interest. And one of these aspects is the erotic fetishization of mannequins; agalmatophilia being a major component of the Exposition Internationale du Surréalisme, held in Paris at the beginning of 1938.

The exhibition, organised by Breton and the poet Paul Éluard, pretty much involved everyone who was anyone in the world of Surrealism at the time, including Duchamp, Dalí, Max Ernst, and Man Ray. It was staged in two main sections and a lobby area, displaying paintings and objects as well as unusually decorated rooms which had been redesigned so as to create what would today be called an immersive environment or experience.

It was the first section - Les plus belles rues de Paris - in which a parade of surrealist mannequins was located, including, most dramatically, the one by André Masson pictured above.

The mannequin, or lay figure, has a long if relatively humble history within the world of art; as a tool it's pretty much on a par with an easel, a brush, or a palette knife, even though it served several purposes; from helping fix perspective and understand the fall of light and shadow, to acting as a support for drapery and costume.

Perhaps, in their loneliest moments, some artists looked affectionately - even longingly - at their mannequins as silent companions. But it was only from the 19th century, however, that the latter became the subject of the painting and, ultimately, an objet d'art in its own right. For the Surrealists, however, the mannequin became something else too: a sex object.

Upon entering the most beautiful streets of Paris, visitors encountered sixteen artificial female figures provocatively designed, dressed and posed by Masson and friends. These kinky mannequins were deliberately intended to disturb and to arouse strange (often illicit) desires.

Duchamp, for example, dressed the upper-half of his model in male clothing, but left the lower-half naked, thereby playing with notions of androgyny and obscene exposure. Max Ernst, meanwhile, had intended to place a glowing red light bulb in the underwear of his 'Black Widow' mannequin (revealed by looking up her conveniently raised skirt), but - ever the prude and policeman - André Breton prevented this. 

It was, as indicated, Masson's mannequin that attracted the greatest attention, however,  with its pretty head squeezed into a bird cage covered with red celluloid fish. The mannequin was gagged with a velvet ribbon and had a pansy placed in its mouth.

What this all means, I'm not entirely certain. But it surely isn't just about female objectification and misogyny masquerading as art, or the pornographic violence inherent in male sexuality. Those critics and commentators who exclusively discuss these works in such reductive terms are mistaken and being intellectually lazy, I think. 

This isn't to say that these things aren't realities or worthy of serious discussion. But simply that there are other considerations here; for example, the way in which objects became central within consumer culture - the mannequin in particular being the very embodiment of urban modernity, as Hans Richter pointed out. Or the manner in which fetishization can elevate an object from base utility, transforming it into something magical and seductive, with its own strange allure.         

For me, as a perverse materialist, mannequins, statues and sex-dolls need to be considered as things in themselves and not as mere substitutes for real women. And the men who choose to erotically privilege such over biological entities are deserving neither of ridicule nor condemnation.

The adult imperative to grow-up, stop touching yourself and get a steady girlfriend (i.e. one who is actual, rather than imaginary; human, rather than synthetic; alive, rather than dead) is one that at least some of the Surrealists dared to challenge and for that I admire and respect them.  

Besides, maybe Proust is right to argue that we are all forever isolate at some level; that reciprocity is an illusion and the objects of our affection - whatever their ontological status - simply allow for the projection of our own ideas, fantasies and feelings ... 


Note: those interested in knowing more about the role and rise of the mannequin in Western art should see Jane Munro, Silent Partners: Artist and Mannequin from Function to Fetish, (Yale University Press, 2014). 

Cut it Out - Reflections on Blue Nudes and Racial Fetishism in the Work of Henri Matisse

Henri Matisse: Nu bleu IV (1952)

The Blue Nudes are a series of painted female figure cut-outs stuck to paper and then mounted on canvas, completed by Henri Matisse in 1952. They are - no matter what fanatic Lawrentians may think - very lovely works and have added poignancy when one recalls that they were produced very late in his life when Matisse was not in the best of health, having undergone surgery for abdominal cancer ten years earlier. 

Conventional painting and sculpture having become too physically demanding, Matisse turned in his final decade to a new medium and, with the help of his assistants, began creating artworks that defy genre, being neither paintings nor sculptures as such, but incorporating elements of both these disciplines. 

Initially, the cut-outs were fairly modest in size and ambition, but eventually included large pieces of great complexity and if, at first, Matisse thought of them as subsidiary to his earlier work, by 1946 he had started to appreciate the possibilities inherent to the technique and to realise the new freedom working with scissors rather than brushes allowed him: An artist, he declared, must never be a prisoner of any style, of the past, or of himself ... 

Blue Nude IV - shown above - took the elderly artist two weeks of cutting and arranging (and an entire sketchbook of preliminary studies) before it eventually satisfied him. The slightly awkward and uncomfortable looking pose of the figure was obviously one for which Matisse had a penchant, as it's similar to a number of nudes completed earlier in his career and can be traced back to Le bonheur de vivre (1905-06), one of the great masterpieces of modernism completed in his so-called Fauve period. 

Mention must also be made of Nu bleu: Souvenir de Biskra, painted shortly afterwards: 

This work scandalised the French public when first exhibited in 1907 and continued to provoke controversy six years later at the Armory Show in the United States, where it was burned in effigy - not least because of concerns about the racial origins of the female figure. 

There's an obvious and much discussed primitivism and Orientalism in Matisse's work; African sculpture fascinated and inspired him as much as it did Picasso and other European artists at the beginning of the twentieth century. Disillusioned with Western culture and searching for new values and new ways of seeing the world, Matisse and his contemporaries attempted to merge the highly stylized treatment of the human figure found in African sculptures with painting styles derived from the post-Impressionist works of Cézanne and Gauguin. The resulting pictorial flatness and vivid use of colour helped to define early modernism. 

Whilst these artists probably knew very little, if anything, of the history or meaning of the African sculptures they encountered - and probably didn't care all that much - they nevertheless recognized the magical and powerful aspects and adapted these to their own efforts to move beyond the naturalism that had defined Western art since the Renaissance.

Ultimately, one might suggest that the blueness in the works shown here signifies seductive Otherness and functions as a disguised form of blackness, revealing the fact that Matisse (like many white men) has something of a secret BGF ...    

Blue is the Colour ... Notes on Barnett Newman's Onement VI

Barnett Newman: Onement VI (1953)

Sixty years after it was painted, Barnett Newman's Onement VI sold at Sotheby's in New York for $43.8m, which, as the art critic Jonathan Jones says, is a tremendous bargain for what is an essentially priceless work of art; one that offers us a glimpse not only of the sublime understood from the perspective of traditional aesthetics, but of the blissful blue unity that belongs to what D. H. Lawrence calls the Greater Day. 

In other words, Onement VI is more than an artwork; it's a portal onto a prelapsarian world lying on the other side of angel-guarded gates; an act of defiance against God's judgement and an assertion of man's right to return to Eden home. The hope of regaining paradise - what else, asks Newman, could possibly explain the seemingly insane desire to be a painter or poet ...?

A vertical light-blue line - what Newman liked to term a zip and which is an iconic and revolutionary aspect of his mature work - divides the flat expanse of perfect deep blueness in a manner suggestive of the biblical creation myth when the waters of heaven were separated from those of the earth. Again, it's as if Newman - one of the major figures in abstract expressionism and a leading exponent of colour field painting - is directly challenging God in his capacity as the maker of worlds: 'Anything you can do ...'

But the painting also challenges the viewer who stands before it, obliging them to be aware of their own presence and locality - as well as their own contingency and isolation - before the Void, whilst, at the same time, conscious also of their belonging to and connectedness with the universe and all things in it. In other words, Onement VI - like all great artworks - helps put us back into touch and atone for the Fall (understood as a fall not into sin, so much as into self-consciousness and separateness). 

Whilst at 102" x 120" it's not monumental in size, it's a work - one is tempted to call it an event - on an inhuman scale. And Newman - shamefully underappreciated as a painter for much of his life (the media preferring to promote the work of more volatile characters such as Jackson Pollock) - is a true giant of American art who almost at times makes his far more successful friend Mark Rothko seem a little lame in comparison.       

Blue is the Colour ... Yves Klein is the Name

Yves Klein: IKB 191 (1962)

Portrait of the artist by Charles Wilp / BPK Berlin (1961)

Considered today a major figure in post-War European art, Yves Klein memorably expressed his nouveau réalisme in a series of brightly-coloured monochromes exhibited in Paris during the mid-1950s.

Unfortunately, the public response to these canvases was not what he'd hoped for - it was mistakenly believed he was offering a new form of abstract interior decoration. Annoyed and disappointed by this, Klein decided a further - more radical - step in the direction of monochromatic painting was required. Thus, dispensing with  red and yellow, he decided to work exclusively with one primary colour alone: blue.
     
It was a fateful decision - and the right decision. For his next exhibition, Proposte Monocrome: Epoca Blu (Milan, Jan. 1957), featuring eleven identical blue canvases attached to poles rather than hung on the walls in order to give a greater sense of spatial ambiguity, was a huge critical and commercial success, eventually travelling to Paris, Düsseldorf and London.

Key to its success was the fact that Klein didn't use just any old blue paint; rather, he went for ultramarine pigment suspended in a synthetic resin of his own devising that he called (rather cryptically) The Medium. The latter helped retain the full brilliance of the pigment and the resultant colour on canvas had all the magical intensity of the lapis lazuli used by medieval artists to paint the Madonna's blue robes.

Klein registered his unique paint formula in order to protect the authenticity of the pure idea and proudly gave the world a brand new blue: International Klein Blue (IKB).

From this time on, the blueness of Klein's works was no longer just a component; it was, rather, the very essence of his art and he used IKB not only in the production of conventional canvases, but in his sculptural work - see, for example, Vénus Bleue (1962) - and in his performance art (Klein had a penchant for covering the naked bodies of young models with IKB and having them squirm around or dragged across blank canvases like living brushes - a technique he termed anthropometry but which many WAM enthusiasts know and love as sploshing).

Ultimately, we might best view Klein as a kind of perverse mystic. Someone for whom art was a means of both transforming and transcending the world; of entering that fourth dimensional realm that D. H. Lawrence also describes in terms of its blissful blueness and names the Greater Day, but which Klein simply calls le Vide.

This Zen-inspired concept of the Void refers to a kind of noumenal zone in which real objects sparkle darkly as things in themselves beyond representation. Klein wants his audience to be aware of objects in their invisibility and their absence. The blue monochromes were thus a visual analogue for the Void itself, a view he found support for in the philosophy of Gaston Bachelard who famously wrote:

First there is nothing, next there is a depth of nothingness, then a profundity of blue ...
   

Note: those interested in knowing more about Yves Klein's anthropometry can click here to access a short film on the Tate website that includes footage from a performance and a recent interview with one of his models, Elena Palumbo-Mosca. 

Blue is the Colour ... Notes on Rilke's Blue Delirium

Blue is the colour found between violet and green on the visible spectrum of light as perceived by human eyes. It comes in many different hues, tints, and shades and varies dramatically in intensity and brightness, but is found at its purest at the middle of its range on the spectrum with a wavelength of 470 nanometres. 

Along with red and yellow, it is regarded as one of the three primary colours and much loved by painters. If it's extremely difficult for us to imagine the natural world in the absence of blue, it's virtually impossible to construct a history of modern art that doesn't refer repeatedly to this profoundly beautiful colour in its various guises; ultramarine, cobalt, cerulean, turquoise ... even the names make happy and contain a kind of poetry or word-magic.  

Recognizing this, Rilke famously speaks in his letters about the possibility of writing a monograph on the colour blue, beginning with the pastels of Rosalba Carriera and ending with the very unique blues of Cézanne. As the intensity of his blue-delirium increases before the canvases of the latter, Rilke speaks ecstatically of all kinds of blue, including: a waxy blue, a wet dark blue, a self-contained blue, a densely quilted blue, a thunderstorm blue, a bourgeois cotton blue, a juicy blue and an almost invisible blue that he terms barely-blue.

As one commentator notes, this blue-incantation goes beyond a mere listing of technical terms and although he makes conventional references to sea-blue and sky-blue, Rilke carefully avoids clichéd descriptions. For he's attempting to see colours differently and to stammer the first terms of a new language in which blueness is expressed directly and concretely; as it is by the truly great artists - be they poets or painters - who understand how the reality of colour arises from the work itself.


See: Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters on Cézanne, ed. Clara Rilke, trans. Joel Agee, (North Point Press, 2002).

Serenity Now (Notes on 'The Flying Fish' by D. H. Lawrence)

Stephen Alexander 
Window onto the Greater Day (2017) 

 

"'Beauteous is the day of the yellow sun which is the common day of men; but even as the winds roll unceasing above the trees of the world, so doth that Greater Day, which is the Uncommon Day, roll over the unclipt bushes of our little daytime. Even also as the morning sun shakes his yellow wings on the horizon and rises up, so the great bird beyond him spreads out his dark blue feathers, and beats his wings in the tremor of the Greater Day.'"

- D H Lawrence, The Flying Fish (1925)

I've always rather liked this poetic passage in which Lawrence suggests that the day-to-day world of man is not the only reality; that we might, in times of great crises and crack-up, glimpse something of the deeper blue that belongs to the Greater Day, wherein shines that other (darker) sun. It's liberating to think that there is something external to our own small and tight and over-furnished universe; something unconquerable and unknowable in its sheer immensity; the world in which flowers bloom and objects sparkle.

And it's strangely comforting to imagine like Lawrence a new type of humanity living in this fourth dimensional world without walls; that those who belong to the Lesser Day and cannot or will not leave their homes behind, will "'shudder and die out, like clouds of grasshoppers'". For the Greater Day belongs to those men and women who, like flying fish, are able to move between worlds on translucent wings, invisibly rejoicing as they do so.

The poorly protagonist of this unfinished tale gains his clearest insight into how astonishing life can be in the Greater Day, when witnessing a school of porpoises swimming alongside the ship on which he's sailing. Lawrence describes the scene in very beautiful detail as a "spectacle of the purest and most perfected joy in life". Although travelling at high speed, the marine mammals do so with carefree composure and serenity.

And that's the crucial thing; for you can't access the blue splendour of the Greater Day by an act of restless, noisy self-assertion. Rather, it requires qualities that many modern people no longer value: silence, stillness, and attentiveness ... One must, as it were, learn to enjoy watching paint dry and listening to the grass grow. 


See: D. H. Lawrence, 'The Flying Fish', in St. Mawr and Other Stories, ed. Brian Finney, (Cambridge University Press, 1983). 

Baby/Doll (With Reference to the Work of W. B. Yeats)

 

Admit it, we're so much nicer than 

   the real thing mewling and puking ...

If I were asked by some kind of investigative committee into poetic activity: Are you now or have you ever been a reader of W. B. Yeats? I would have to answer no. 

However, in the interests of full disclosure, I would also have to admit that I did once (unsuccessfully) attempt to read his esoteric study A Vision (1925) and that I am of course familiar with three of his most famous verses: 'The Second Coming' (1920), 'Leda and the Swan' (1924), and 'Sailing to Byzantium' (1928).

But I'm certainly not a Yeats scholar of any kind, nor even a fan of his writing; it's too traditional, too nostalgic, too mystical and too Romantic - in short, too Irish - for my tastes. When I don't find it boring in its lyricism, I find it politically pernicious in it's völkisch nationalism and myth-making.

Having said that, there is at least one other poem by Yeats that fascinates and horrifies in equal measure ...

'The Dolls' (1916) tells the tale of a doll-maker and his wife who has recently given birth following an unplanned pregnancy, for which she is shamefully apologetic in the face of hostility to the newborn child from her husband's handcrafted creations, one of whom "Looks at the cradle and bawls: / 'That is an insult to us.'"

But it is the oldest of all the dolls who kicks up the biggest fuss and screams with indignant rage: 

"'Although
There's not a man can report 
Evil of this place,
The man and woman bring
Hither to our disgrace,
A noisy and filthy thing.'" 

This is obviously upsetting to the couple, as one might imagine; and upsetting also to readers of the verse. Creepy, malevolent dolls are bad enough - but creepy, malevolent dolls that bad-mouth innocent living babies, are even worse. WTF is Yeats playing at here?

Well, let me reiterate: I'm no Yeats scholar - but I know a woman who is ...

According to Dr Maria Thanassa, here, as elsewhere in his verse, Yeats is affirming the superiority of art over nature and the fact that he subscribes to a material form of aesthetic idealism in which artificial objects, such as handcrafted dolls, are infinitely preferable in their porcelain perfection to biological entities, such as babies, who cry, vomit, and defecate all day long without restraint and are subject to disease, cot death, and all the other forms of sordid stupidity and defect that characterise mortal existence.      

For the doll-maker, his beautiful figures are the result of hard-work and exquisite design; the child, on the other hand, is the unfortunate consequence of a quick fuck and carelessness on the part of the woman. It takes talent, discipline and dedication to be an artist, whilst anyone can be a human breeder. Thus we should value things born of the mind over things born of the body.

Obviously, in as much as this analysis of Yeats's thinking is correct, I find it problematic to say the least - even as someone fascinated by objects and sympathetic to agalmatophilia, pygmalionism, and all forms of doll fetish.

Were I the doll maker's wife, I'd get my child and get out of there ...     

See: W. B. Yeats, 'The Dolls', in Responsibilities and Other Poems (Macmillan, 1916). Click here to read online at allpoetry.com 

Thanks to Maria Thanassa for her kind assistance with this post.

Sailing to Byzantium (Notes on Yeats and the Singularity)

William Butler Yeats by Tricia Danby

deviantart.com

Written in 1926, when Yeats was 61 and starting to feel his age, the poem 'Sailing to Byzantium' was published two years later in a collection entitled The Tower (1928).

Composed of four stanzas, each arranged into eight ten-syllable lines with a traditional rhyming scheme (a-b-a-b-a-b-c-c) of Italian origin much favoured by poets who go in for a mock-heroic effect - not that Yeats didn't take himself and his work very seriously indeed - it describes the metaphorical journey of a man musing on his own mortality and attempting to imagine a vision of eternal life that might provide him with posthumous hope.     

In other words, given the problem of a heart sick with desire / And fastened to a dying animal, Yeats looks to art for a solution, speculating that he might be able to escape his paltry body and transfer his soul into some non-natural form - such as that of a mechanical golden bird, that sits in a fake golden tree and sings about the mysteries of time.

This quest for immortality is, for Yeats, at the heart of all spiritual yearning; a yearning that becomes increasingly acute - and increasingly desperate - with age.

What's interesting - to me at least - is not that Yeats openly expresses his contempt for imperfect nature, which, in his mind, is full of ugliness and prone to decay; for that's common among idealists who despise the softness and (sinfulness) of the flesh. It's the fact, rather, that he's equally explicit in his positing of the artificial object as superior to the natural entity in every sense, including, the aesthetico-spiritual.

Ultimately, his is a material idealism of things, including golden birds, not an immaterial idealism of disembodied minds. And his dream is of being gathered into the artifice - not the reality or truth - of eternity. Once his soul has been released from nature, he wants it to be reincarnated in a man-made object.

I thought of Yeats whilst reading an interview with Ray Kurzweil, the American author, computer whizz, and Google's director of engineering. Kurzweil is a public advocate of artificial intelligence and transhumanism who eagerly awaits the singularity - i.e., the moment when mankind fuses with its own technology, finally securing immortality and a new Byzantium; albeit a scientific utopia wherein the knowledge drive is triumphant, rather than poetic fancy.     

If Yeats fantasized about becoming a toy bird, Kurzweil hopes to have his consciousness downloaded onto his laptop and eventually transferred back to his cryogenically preserved and technologically enhanced body, which will be all ready and waiting in its vat of liquid nitrogen at the Alcor Life Extension Foundation, Arizona.

Both of the visions described here are anathema to me; not only as a Lawrentian, but also as a Wildean. For like the latter, I too hope that if I am to be reincarnated one day it will be as a flower - no soul but perfectly beautiful.

And for that to happen, I need to be buried in the dark soil and allowed to decompose; returned to nature, not released from it; returned to death, which, as Nietzsche says, is a return to the actual, not projected into some virtual future founded upon techno-idealism and dreams of becoming-machine. 


See: W. B. Yeats, 'Sailing to Byzantium', in The Collected Poems, ed. Richard J. Finneran, (Scribner, revised paperback edition, 1996). Click here to read on the Poetry Foundation website.

Of Spiders and Flies (Notes on the Lawrence-Eliot Relationship)

D. H. Lawrence and T. S. Eliot 
by David Levine

The relationship between D. H. Lawrence and T. S. Eliot was never going to be anything other than strained at best. And often it was hostile, even spiteful (one is tempted to say catty). There are several explanations why. F. R. Leavis, for example, accused Eliot of snobbishness in his appraisal of Lawrence and there is undoubtedly an element of class antagonism present in the Lawrence-Eliot relationship.

But Eliot doesn't just dislike or dismiss Lawrence for being an oik; they were artistically and philosophically irreconcilable, as well as belonging to different social worlds. And they were also poles apart religiously, which, arguably, was the really crucial issue for both.

Eliot, who famously converted to Anglicanism in 1927 and identified with the more orthodox wing of the Church, was as contemptuous of the young Lawrence's nonconformist background as he was disdainful of the mature Lawrence's neo-paganism. In After Strange Gods (1934), Eliot argues that whilst Lawrence's vision of life is spiritual, it's nonetheless corrupt and represents the intrusion of the diabolic into modern literature. 

Eliot also seems to have disliked Lawrence's idea of what constituted wholesome fucking:

"When his characters make love - or perform Mr. Lawrence’s equivalent for love-making - and they do nothing else - they not only lose all the amenities, refinements and graces which many centuries have built up in order to make love-making tolerable; they seem to reascend the metamorphoses of evolution, passing backward beyond ape and fish to some hideous coition of protoplasm."

This might not be entirely fair, but it is rather amusing.

Far less amusing, however, was Eliot's response to E. M. Forster's generous and straight out description of Lawrence following his death in 1930 as "the greatest imaginative novelist of our generation". Eliot - to his great discredit - felt it appropriate and worthwhile to pick this touching tribute apart, demanding that Forster explain and justify his terms:

"I am the last person to wish to disparage the genius of Lawrence, or to disapprove when a writer of the eminence of Mr Forster speaks 'straight out'. But the virtue of speaking straight out is somewhat diminished if what one speaks is not sense. And unless we know exactly what Mr Forster means by greatest, imaginative, and novelist, I submit that this judgement is meaningless."

This - written in a published letter - is just nasty and petty, is it not? Insulting to Forster, insulting to Lawrence and insulting to the friendship between them. Forster was stung to reply:

"Mr T. S. Eliot entangles me in his web. He asks exactly what I mean by 'greatest', 'imaginative', and 'novelist', and I cannot say. Worse still, I cannot even say what 'exactly' means - only that there are occasions when I would rather feel like a fly than a spider, and the death of D. H. Lawrence is one of these."

       
See:

T. S. Eliot, 'The Contemporary Novel', in The Times Literary Supplement (12 August 2015). Click here to read.

The Forster-Eliot letters were published in The Nation and Athenaeum in March/April 1930 and can be found in The Letters of T. S. Eliot, Vol. 5: 1930-1931, ed. Valerie Eliot and John Haffenden, (Faber and Faber, 2014): click here.