Pan Comes to Hampstead: Reflections on D. H. Lawrence's 'The Last Laugh'

Pan - by Thalia Took on deviantart.com

Written in 1924, 'The Last Laugh' imagines an appearance of the goat-footed Greek god Pan in Hampstead on a snowy winter's night and the tragic consequences of this. I'm not quite sure what genre it belongs to, but we might best describe it as an example of sardonic paganism; a mocking and malevolent form of queer gothic fiction directed towards a dark god who is always coming, but who never quite arrives or reveals himself.

By setting the story in a leafy north London suburb, Lawrence relates his onto-theological vision to everyday experience, whilst, at the same time, demonstrating how the latter unfolds within a wider, inhuman context that is resistant to any kind of moral-rational codification. He thereby attempts to loosen the aura of necessity surrounding categories of the present and restore a little primordial wonder to NW3.

How successful he is in achieving this, I'll leave for readers to decide; the following is essentially just a summary of the nightmarish and at times surreal tale for those who are unfamiliar with it, rather than a detailed critical analysis (although there is some degree of commentary) ...

Never one to pass up the chance to exploit cliché - if, as here, for comic rather than dramatic effect - Lawrence opens his tale at midnight, the church clock having just struck the magical hour when, for a short period, there's an opening between our electrically-luminous civilization and the world that lies outside the gate; that unexplored realm of dangerous knowledge where things go bump in the night.  

Three figures emerge from a handsome Georgian house: "A girl in a dark blue coat and fur turban, very erect: a fellow with a little dispatch-case, slouching: a thin man with a red beard, bareheaded, peering out of the gateway down the hill that swung in a curve downwards towards London."

The light covering of snow on the ground has created the impression of a new world; but it takes more than a few flakes to really change things, as we'll discover. The man with the beard, Lorenzo, says goodnight to the couple and goes back inside. Now the slouching man in a bowler hat, Mr. Marchbanks, and the erect, sharp girl who was somewhat deaf, Miss James, were all alone in the street; "save for the policeman at the corner."

She looks at her companion: with his "thick black brows sardonically arched, and his rather hooked nose" he seemed to her "like a satanic young priest" - or a "sort of faun on the Cross, with all the malice of the complication". As they walk together, past the trees and the loneliness of the Heath, toward the local Tube station, he hears somebody laughing. Turning on her Marconi made listening machine, Miss James lifts her "deaf nymph's face", but hears nothing until, that is, he suddenly "gave the weirdest, slightly neighing laugh, uncovering his strong, spaced teeth, and arching his black brows, and watching her with queer, gleaming, goat-like eyes".

Marchbanks is - seemingly without his knowing it - possessed by the Pan-spirit. Looking at the girl in an almost diabolical manner, his face gleaming and "wreathed with a startling, peculiar smile", he again gave "the most extraordinary laugh ... like an animal laughing".

This attracts the attention of the tall, clean-shaven young policeman who comes over to see what's occurring. The Pan-possessed man glared at the bobby and asked if he could hear the laughter that came out of him but didn't belong to him. At the sound of this diabolical laughter, "something roused in the blood of the girl and of the policeman" and they edged closer to one another, their bodies touching:

"Having held herself all her life intensely aloof from physical contact, and never having let any man touch her, she now, with a certain nymph-like voluptuousness, allowed the large hand of the young policeman to support her ... And she could feel the presence of the young policeman, through all the thickness of his dark-blue uniform, as something young and alert and bright."

Was that his truncheon, or was he equally happy to be pressing up against her ...?

The religious mania spreads: Miss James thinks she can see someone hiding among the holly bushes. This makes the Pan-possessed man in the bowler hat get even more excited and, "with curious delight", he broke into laughter again, stamping his feet on the snow covered ground, dancing, before running off like a madman.

When he finally comes to a halt, Marchbanks finds himself at the house of a beautiful Jewish woman whom Lawrence encourages us to believe is a prostitute. She has dark hair and large dark eyes. She is standing in her open doorway, believing that somebody knocked (as a working girl, she is, of course, always anticipating a knock at her door).

Asked if it was he who knocked, Marchbanks says no. But then he admits that perhaps it was him after all - but without his knowing it. He asks her if can come in and she agrees. So he enters the house, trailing after the woman "like a hound" that follows a bitch on heat, tail wagging and tongue lolling.

Meanwhile, Miss James and the policeman had arrived on the scene, just in time to see the man in the bowler hat enter the house with the woman in high heels. The girl decides there's no point waiting about and so sets off back down the hill, burning with thoughts of murder and strange superhuman power:

"Her feet felt lighter, her legs felt long and strong. She glanced over her shoulder again. The young policeman was following her, and she laughed to herself. Her limbs felt so lithe and so strong, if she wished she could easily run faster than he. If she wished she could easily kill him, even with her hands.
      So it seemed to her. But why kill him? He was a decent young fellow. She had in front of her eyes the dark face among the holly bushes, with the brilliant, mocking eyes. Her breast felt full of power, and her legs felt long and strong and wild. She was surprised herself at the strong, bright, throbbing sensation beneath her breasts, a sensation of triumph and rosy anger. Her hands felt keen on her wrists. She who had always declared she had not a muscle in her body! Even now, it was not muscle, it was a sort of flame."

It's precisely this kind of writing that Lawrence's critics object to, finding it fatuous and bombastic; a dubious mix of lurid sexual fantasy and sulphurous theology. But for those of us who love him, it's his idiosyncratic narrative style which most appeals. Of course it risks becoming ludicrous, or sometimes losing its way in a semantic fog; for it's not easy to articulate unconscious thoughts and feelings, or describe those things which lie outside conventional language. But that's why speculative and experimental writers and thinkers, like Lawrence, who attempt this should, I think, be praised for their courage.

Anyway, let us return to the story ...

It begins to snow heavily and, despite her deafness, Miss James hears voices all around her. She knows that he's come back, although the god who has returned remains nameless in the tale. The snowstorm intensifies; there are flashes of lightning and she laughs at the young policeman whose state of nervous panic made him look "like a frightened dog that sees something uncanny".

They come to a church with its doors flung wide open, allowing the wind and the voices to enter and whirl about, howling and calling. Now, for the first time, she too hears the "strange, naked sound" of laughter. The policeman was silent and fearful. He stood cowed, "with his tail between his legs, listening to the strange noises in the church".

The demonic forces that have been set loose wreck the interior of the church and amidst all the chaos of snow, wind, and laughter, there is the gay sound of pipes playing and the marvellous scent of almond blossom, like that of a Mediterranean spring.

Finally, the girl and the policeman arrive at her house. He is frightened and cold, so asks if he may come in and warm himself. She agrees, telling him he may make up a fire in the sitting-room, but to kindly not disturb her in her bedroom.

Upon waking the next morning, Miss James, an artist, inspects her own paintings and laughs at their absurd, almost grotesque character. Miraculously, she can now hear the birds singing without the need of her mechanical hearing-device. But the poor policeman, however, is distraught, having become mysteriously lame overnight. Not that the girl seems overly concerned with his condition, preferring to sit down before her window, in the sun, and to reflect on the fact that the world had now been genuinely transformed:

"Suddenly the world had become quite different: as if some skin or integument had broken, as if the old, mouldering London sky had crackled and rolled back, like an old skin, shrivelled, leaving an absolutely new blue heaven."

She also reflects, as Lawrentian heroines are wont to do, on love and sex and decides that she doesn't want either. For modern men, she decides - at least those of her acquaintance - are all a bit doggy and infra dig; either messing around with prostitutes, like Marchbanks, or incapable of acting with any real courage and authority - despite wearing a policeman's uniform - when confronted by life (and proud womanhood) in all its savage splendour.

She vaguely wishes that the laughing god had ravished her as he had ravaged the church, so that she might have emerged "new and tender out of the old, hard skin". But at least she had her hearing restored, so she couldn't complain.

At this point, Marchbanks arrives, as it was his habit "to come and take breakfast with her each morning." He asks her about the young policeman and she interrogates him about the Jewish-looking woman. They are friends, not lovers, she and he, but clearly intimate and concerned with one another's affairs.

When they eventually, decide to check on the young policeman downstairs they find him understandably upset because of his sudden lameness. Slowly pulling off his sock, he reveals "his white left foot curiously clubbed, like the weird paw of some animal". Looking at it makes him cry: "And as he sobbed, the girl heard again the low, exulting laughter."

As if the situation weren't already disturbing enough, Marchbanks now lets out a strange, yelping cry, like a wounded animal: "His white face was drawn, distorted in a curious grin, that was chiefly agony but partly [the] wild recognition ... of a man who realises he had made a final, and this time fatal, fool of himself."

And then, "with a queer shuddering laugh he pitched forward on the carpet and lay writhing for a moment on the floor", before lying completely still "in a weird, distorted position, like a man struck by lightening." Miss James stares at the body in a somewhat nonplussed manner and enquires of the policeman if her friend Mr. Marchbanks is dead. The officer, however, was trembling with such terror and his teeth chattering so violently, that it took him some moments to finally stammer that it certainly looked that way.

A faint smell of almond blossom once more filled the air - sweeter, certainly, than the foul stench of sulphur, but just as infernal in nature it seems ...


See: D. H. Lawrence, 'The Last Laugh', in The Woman Who Rode Away and Other Stories, ed. Dieter Mehl and Christa Jansohn, (Cambridge University Press, 1995). 

Note: thanks to the University of Adelaide, the story can also be read online: click here.

This post is dedicated to Catherine Brown: may she always have the last laugh ...

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D. H. Lawrence: The Reluctant Londoner

Unused design for the 14th International 

D. H. Lawrence Conference (London, 3-8 July 2017) 

by Stephen Alexander 

(Based on a 1929 film poster by the Stenberg Brothers)

Asked to name places associated with D. H. Lawrence and his fiction, many readers will say Italy, whilst others immediately mention Mexico. Those familiar with the novel Kangaroo often fondly recall his descriptions of the Australian bush. Mostly, however, they think back to the dreary coal mining district in the East Midlands from out of which Lawrence rather miraculously extracted himself. 

One thing's for sure: not many readers will say London - even though he and a surprising number of his characters have interesting connections to the capital. In fact, according to Lawrence scholar Catherine Brown, Lawrence visited the city around fifty times between October 1908 and September 1926 and not only did he live and work there at certain periods, he even married Frieda at a registry office in Kensington. 

Of course, given his aggressive anti-urbanism, it's not surprising to discover that Lawrence didn't much like being in the Smoke and that many of his comments and fictional portrayals of the city tend to be negative - although he does admit in a newspaper article written in 1928 to having found it exhilarating upon arrival as a young man:

"Twenty years ago, London was to me thrilling, thrilling, thrilling, the vast and roaring heart of all adventure. It was not only the heart of the world, it was the heart of the world’s living adventure. How wonderful the Strand, the Bank, Charing Cross at night, Hyde Park in the morning!"

But today, says Lawrence in the same article, all the excitement seems crushed out of the city - not least by the sheer weight of traffic, massively rolling nowhere.

Thus, I suppose Lawrence might at best be described as a reluctant Londoner; one who quickly grew tired of its charms - including the West End girls who had at one time fascinated the Eastwood boy as they paraded along Piccadilly, displaying their non-provincial beauty. Not because he was tired of life, as Samuel Johnson would have it, but, on the contrary, because he found it lacking in vitality and full of deathly dullness and the noise of endless chatter ...

And speaking of endless chatter - though hopefully it won't be deathly dull in character - the 14th International D. H. Lawrence Conference will be held in London this summer (3-8 July). Readers interested in finding out more can click here.

Notes

See: D. H. Lawrence, 'Why I Don't Like Living in London', in Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 119-22. 

See also Catherine Brown, 'London in D. H. Lawrence's Words', which can be found as an article on her website - catherinebrown.org - or accessed directly by clicking here. 

Readers interested in a related post to this one might like to click here.

Reflections on The Strange Death of Europe: A Book For Thinking, Nothing Else

Bloomsbury (2017)

Douglas Murray's new book, The Strange Death of Europe, addresses very contemporary concerns to do with immigration, identity and Islam. But it's in some ways a rather old-fashioned read, as one might expect from a neoconservative who continues a long (peculiarly German) tradition of cultural pessimism - Oswald Spengler anyone? 

Far from being an incendiary text full of urgency and the visionary promise of a future beyond the ruins, it's a nostalgic, somewhat lugubrious work oscillating between world-weariness on the one hand and a sense of loss on the other; less angry call to arms, more solemn eulogy. But perhaps that's its strength and what distinguishes Murray's work from that of far-right nationalists; he's not demanding that Europe awake! but suggesting that Europeans take time to quietly reflect and, in so doing, rediscover not just old forms, but find new feelings.

Never going so far as to renounce entirely the need for action, Murray nevertheless understands the importance of engaging in what Nietzsche terms invisible activities and which Heidegger relates to a notion of transcendence (the human capacity to reshape and revalue the world via an essential form of contemplation).

In other words, The Strange Death of Europe is a book for thinking, nothing else.

Thus, whilst Murray discusses in detail the large-scale events unfolding all around us and clearly indicates the problems these events bring in their wake, he wisely refrains from offering any final solutions. Critics who pour scorn on the book for failing to provide such answers have missed the point.

Similarly, when they laugh at Murray's suggestion that the fate of Europe might depend on our attitude towards church buildings, they fail to grasp what he means is that our singularity as Europeans is made manifest in our art and architecture. And, of course, in our literature; one of the nicely surprising sections of Murray's book is his discussion of the novelist Michel Houellebecq.    

Having said this, there are aspects of Murray's book that disappoint. For example, whilst I broadly accept his political analysis of postmodern Europe, I don't find what Lyotard termed incredulity toward metanarratives paralysing in the way Murray suggests. Nor do I feel ravaged by decades of deconstruction and desperate to put Humpty Dumpty together again.

Although an atheist, one gets the impression that Murray is moving towards the Heideggerean conclusion that, ultimately, only a god can save us. But if only he stopped thinking nihilism in such dramatic nineteenth-century terms and playing the crypto-theologian, Murray might recognise that our loss of faith and inability to act with absolute certainty paradoxically signifies our spiritual superiority to all fanatics and fundamentalists who daren't ever doubt or deviate from scripture.

For me, it's infinitely preferable to live in a secular society that delights in shallowness and gay insincerity, than in a theocratic society plumbing the depths of religious stupidity. In order to counter Islamism, we need to become more ironic and irreverent, not less. And a little bit more Greek; superficial out of profundity.          

Gaby Hinsliff Versus Douglas Murray: You Pays Your Money and You Takes Your Choice

In her review of his new book, The Strange Death of Europe, political journalist and commentator Gaby Hinsliff accuses Douglas Murray of gentrified xenophobia; a phrase by which she means a "slightly posher, better-read, more respectable" form of racism.

The implication being that if you scratch away the smooth exterior, then Murray is revealed as simply a more articulate (thus more persuasive, more dangerous) version of Katie Hopkins, appealing to the kind of people who "wouldn't be seen dead on an English Defence League march", but who nevertheless fear Muslims are coming to rape their loved ones and destroy their way of life.

I don't think this is a fair characterization of Mr Murray, or his readers. And nor can such fears be dismissed as entirely irrational or groundless; not after Rotherham. In fact, I would say concerns about the three i-words around which Murray weaves his text - immigration, identity and Islam - are perfectly reasonable.

Nor do I think that Murray's book - which Hinsliff rather bizarrely disparages as a "proper book, with footnotes and everything" - is "so badly argued" that she can dismiss it without addressing any of the factual data that is carefully documented and detailed in those footnotes, even if she chooses to interpret it differently from the author and play down the seriousness and legitimacy of his concerns. 

Hinsliff insists the work "circles round the same repetitive themes" and "regurgitates the same misleading myths" concerning immigration that UKIP like to peddle. But, ultimately, it's she who bores us by repeating the well-worn platitudes of liberalism and her feigned ignorance - at least I hope its feigned - of what makes European culture uniquely precious and worth defending.

In a tweet, published on the same day that her review appeared in The Guardian, Hinsliff jokes that she'd read Murray's book so that her readers wouldn't have to - hardly an inspiring model of criticism. But, in that same spirit, I'm writing this so that you'll not waste your time clicking on the link below - whilst at the same time strongly recommending Murray's text.


Notes

Douglas Murray, The Strange Death of Europe: Immigration, Identity, Islam, (Bloomsbury, 2017).

To read Gaby Hinsliff's review of the above in The Guardian (6 May 2017): click here. 

To read my reflections on Murray's text, click here.  

Photo of Gaby Hinsliff by Mark Pringle. Photo of Douglas Murray by Matt Writtle. 

Uranus

Uranus photographed by Voyager 2 in 1986

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies / When a new planet swims into his ken

One of the things I like about being an Aquarian is that I have Uranus as my ruling planet. Some love Venus, some love Mars - but, for me, the electric blue ice giant that is Uranus is the most beautiful of all the bodies orbiting the sun.

Like the other giant planets, Uranus has a ring system and multiple moons. But - and this is what makes it so attractive to me - images taken by Voyager 2 revealed the planet itself to be almost featureless; there's nothing overly dramatic about it - no storms, no scenes, no nonsense. It's just cold and blue and perfect in its neutrality.    

That's how I like my planets and gods to be; completely impersonal; neither attention-seeking nor awe-inspiring.

In fact, so unshowy and content was Uranus to remain outside the classical solar system, that, although visible to the naked eye, it didn't allow itself to be recognised as a planet by ancient observers. It wasn't until 1781 that the astronomer and composer Sir William Herschel took a long look through his telescope and declared it to be such (and even he initially mistook it for a comet).

As for the name, Uranus, the Latinised form of the ancient Greek Οὐρανός [Ouranos] - meaning sky or heaven - this was given by the German astronomer Johann Elert Bode, after Herschel failed to come up with a catchy suggestion of his own.

(His proposal that it be known as Georgium Sidus, in honour of his patron King George III, wasn't well received and so Bode's name for the new planet quickly gained wide - eventually universal - acceptance).   

Interestingly, on this subject of names, fans of a certain cinematic space opera might be amused to hear that in one of its Thai translations Uranus is known as Dao Maritayu or Death Star. Indeed, as a thanatologist, this pleases me too ...

Zulus on a Time Bomb (On the Politics of S. Africa from the Perspective of a Disillusioned Duck Rocker)

South African President Jacob Zuma 

wearing traditional Zulu costume 
(apart from the footwear)

I remember how excited Malcolm was to have visited Soweto in South Africa and to have recorded several tracks with local musicians for his Duck Rock project (Charisma Records, 1983), combining the spirit of punk with the sound of mbaqanga; a style of joyous, energetic dance music with rural Zulu roots popular in the townships, particularly amongst migrant workers.

He used to love to talk about King Shaka and tell the story of how red-coated, well-armed British soldiers were defeated at the Battle of Isandlwana, not by superior numbers, but by the magical power of song and dance; by native warriors who, armed only with spears, put on a big beat sound and stomped, barefoot on the ground, terrifying their pale-faced enemy.

How factually accurate McLaren's retelling of the above was, I'm not entirely sure. But his romantic anti-imperialism was something I found very appealing and convincing at the time and whilst I didn't go on protests or join the Anti-Apartheid Movement, I suppose I was vaguely sympathetic to the plight of black South Africans.

Times change, however, and our political sympathies (and prejudices) also shift ...

Now, two of the idiots I despise most on the world stage are Robert Mugabe, the President of Zimbabwe, and Jacob Zuma, President of South Africa. One might have hoped that the latter would have observed the former and learned precisely what not to do if at all concerned with securing the future of his nation. But, alas, it seems that Zuma is as intent on wrecking his country's economy and inciting violence along race lines as Mugabe.

In March of this year, for example, Zuma called on the South African parliament to change the constitution in order to allow the expropriation of white-owned land without any form of compensation.

His fantasy, it seems, is of returning the country to a pre-colonial paradise. But this resorting to racist populism is also to divert attention from his own dismal record as president since 2009 and the fact that his party, the ANC, has been losing votes to the more radical Economic Freedom Fighters, led by Julius Malema, who advocates a far more aggressive taking back of land from those he terms white invaders and Dutch thugs.

Comments such as these have triggered understandable alarm among the minority white population and activist groups such as the Boer-Afrikaner Volksraad, which claims to have 40,000 armed members ready to fight, says it would regard any attempt to seize land and property as a declaration of war.

Disappointingly - but perhaps predictably - it seems the so-called Rainbow Nation is on the brink of catastrophe; that today, all South Africans, not just the Zulus, are sitting on a time bomb ...


The Malcolm McLaren single Soweto, produced by Trevor Horn, was released on Charisma Records in 1983. The video, directed by Ian Gabriel, can be viewed on YouTube by clicking here.

The 'B' side, Zulus on a Time Bomb, also produced by Trevor Horn and with an accompanying video again directed by Ian Gabriel, can be viewed on YouTube by clicking here.  

To Have Done With the Judgement of Judy

If you live to be a hundred, 

you will never be as smart as I am.

Like millions of viewers worldwide - particularly female viewers aged between 25 and 54 - I feel a lot of love for Judith Sheindlin, or Judge Judy, as she's known when dealing with real cases, real people in a Hollywood film studio mocked-up to resemble a courtroom and full of hired extras performing as instructed. 

For twenty years, this fast-talking, no-nonsense New Yorker, has presided over the airwaves in her award-winning reality show, clocking up almost 6000 episodes in that time. She's the acknowledged queen of daytime TV and one of its highest earners. An icon of popular culture, a poll once revealed that a majority of Americans trust her more than any of the Supreme Court justices.

However, despite my fondness for Sheindlin - an attractive and intelligent woman in her seventies - I've found myself increasingly uncomfortable with the spectacle of a well-educated, highly successful, extremely wealthy individual in a position of authority instructing people who are markedly less fortunate to put on their listening ears just so she can berate and insult them for the amusement of viewers such as myself.

It's not her abrasive manner per se that concerns me and I don't believe like one of her most ferocious critics and fellow judge, Joseph Wapner (the first ever star of an arbitration-based reality court show), that she's a disgrace to the profession who purposely demeans those who appear before her. Sheindlin's schtick is mostly performative; she understands that the show is intended to entertain and generate ratings, not provide an accurate portrayal of the justice system.

It's just that it can be a bit galling when a woman earning $47 million dollars for 52 days work a year tells someone struggling to pay their debts about the necessity of living within their means, or suggest they they might make extra money collecting cans. And, what's more, just because you don't have a law degree, doesn't mean you're stupid; just because you don't have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, doesn't make you a loser.        

Having said that, those who appear on Judge Judy - described by hardcore fans as the endless parade of idiots - are consenting adults and must have at least an inkling of what they sign up to. Further, both plaintiffs and defendants receive an appearance fee, plus all expenses are paid for them and their witnesses, including flights and hotels.

In addition, it should be noted that the award for each judgment is also paid by the producers of the show and not the losing party - a fact that blows a rather large hole in the conceit that Judge Judy is about making individuals acknowledge their responsibilities and not allowing them to benefit from acts of wrongdoing, no matter how small in scale their infringements of the law may be.

This is why Lady Justice lifts her blindfold in the opening credits and winks to the camera; she knows perfectly well what's going on and it's the viewer who is expected to turn a blind eye to the truth of events in Sheindlin's fantasy courtroom.  

Three Portraits of Naomi 3: Naomi's Fruit Passion

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: Fruit Passion (1999)

By David LaChapelle

In the third portrait, Naomi is displayed as the ripest, sweetest and juiciest centrepiece in an exotic fruit salad. Lying passively and provocatively, the object of masturbatory male gaze, she invites us to squeeze, taste, and consume her soft, smooth, easily bruised flesh.

The afro wig serves to remind us of her blackness and of the exotic origin of much of the world's fresh produce. But it also adds an element of nostalgia; the photo has a funky seventies feel to it, a period when Playboy was at its peak in terms of circulation and cultural relevance (the November 1972 issue was the best-selling ever edition of the magazine, with sales topping seven million copies).

The seventies was also the decade during which the sub-genre of exploitation movie known as blaxploitation emerged in the United States. Featuring a mostly black cast and originally developed for an urban black audience, the appeal of these movies quickly spread across racial boundaries as white movie-goers learned to love films such as Shaft (dir. Gordon Parks, 1971), and Foxy Brown (dir. Jack Hill, 1974).

The latter starred the undisputed queen of the genre, Pam Grier, in the title role. Foxy was a whole lot of woman whom you wouldn't want to mess aroun' with, seeing as she was the meanest chick in town; a sexy mix of brown sugar and spice who, apparently, would put on ice any man who didn't treat her nice. As one might gather, the film relied upon and reinforced a number of racist stereotypes concerning black women, their sexuality, their sassiness, and their all-too-ready involvement in criminal violence, prostitution, and drug abuse.

Having said that, there are feminist film critics who feel a good deal of respect and affection for Foxy Brown, not least of all because she was a strong and independent African-American woman, fearless in confronting male power, seeking justice, and attempting to protect (or avenge) loved ones to the best of her ability in extremely trying circumstances.

Whilst we might discuss this further in a future post, I'd like to return here if I may to LaChapelle's portrait of Naomi and his pornographic imagining of the female body in terms of fruit ...

There is, of course, a long established tradition in the arts in which this metaphorical comparison is made and sex is equated with food. Indeed, it quickly became a cliché for (predominantly male) poets and painters to compare breasts to melons, nipples to dark cherries, and moist cunts to ripe figs that show crimson through the purple slit, as D. H. Lawrence would have it.

So, LaChapelle is certainly not doing anything groundbreaking. Far more innovative and provocative are the fruit-fingering videos of the artist and vulva activist Stephanie Sarley, which last year caused a viral storm on social media. The less-than-innocent but technically blameless videos depicted a range of fruits, including oranges, limes, lemons, strawberries, apricots, and kiwis, being gently caressed, rubbed, and poked by Sarley until their skins split and juices oozed out.

Ever prepared to act the censor-morons, Instagram ludicrously removed the videos and disabled Sarley's account on several occasions, informing her that they infringed the company's rules governing 'sexually suggestive content'.

You have to smile, for it seems that when a celebrated male photographer places a naked black woman in a fruit bowl and invites the male consumers of a pornographic magazine to objectify her body and ejaculate over her image, before then discarding it - as Kant would say - like a sucked dry lemon, that's socially acceptable. Indeed, the photo is reproduced many times in art and fashion magazines and deemed either a work of stylish eroticism, or a harmless and ironic piece of kitsch.

But when a woman simply posts a short film of her finger penetrating a pomegranate and, in so doing, subtly challenge tired clichés and sexual stereotypes with humour and absurdity, then she can be assured to receive a shitload of vile abuse online and have her work removed by the self-appointed moral guardians of Instagram in the name of defending public decency.        

It's no wonder women - of all skin tones - sometimes get angry ...


Note: those interested in watching Stephanie Sarley's fruit art videos can find them on her official website: stephaniesarley.com  

To read part one of this post - Naomi as Playmate, Bunny Girl and Jezebel - click here.

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

Three Portraits of Naomi 2: Naomi in the Cat House

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: Cat House (1999)

By David LaChapelle 

In this second portrait we find Naomi in the cat house ...

I don't know if LaChapelle supplied the title to the picture, but it wouldn't surprise me, for a 2006 book published by Taschen featuring his work was called Artists and Prostitutes, so his ideal of womanhood is clearly rooted in the porno-moral imagination and perpetuates a philosophy not so much of the bedroom, as of the brothel.

It's not, however, the stereotype of woman-as-whore that I wish to discuss here, as fascinating and as important as this is. Rather, I wish to comment on the idea of woman-as-animal; in particular, the white male obsession with portraying the sexuality of black women in bestial terms - as here, where Naomi is depicted naked and on all fours, like a wild jungle creature in need of taming (try to kiss her and she'll claw you to death).

Whether we are supposed to imagine Naomi being mounted by a leopard and interpret this photo as a zoosexual fantasy, or understand that she is herself some kind of cat-woman, marked with the curse of those who slink and mate and kill by night and whose femininity is distinctly feline in nature, I'm not sure. Either way, it's understandably troubling to women of colour who have to deal with the consequences of such dehumanising mythology - and I sympathise with those who object to being thought of in animalistic terms that have sexist and racist overtones.

Having said that, I have to admit to still finding LaChapelle's photograph of Naomi extremely seductive. In part, this is due to the glossy technical brilliance of the picture and Campbell's astonishing beauty; she wasn't one of the original five women branded a supermodel for no reason. But it's also due to the fact that German actress and model Nastassja Kinski was very much the object of my teenage desire; particularly in her role as the ailuranthrope Irena Gallier, in the queer erotic horror Cat People (dir. Paul Schrader, 1982).

For better or for worse, this film - and the equally disturbing 1942 movie of the same title upon which it was loosely based - forever fixed the fetishistic (and occult) idea in my mind that there are rare and exotic women in this world who turn into black panthers when sexually aroused; their melanism being a crucial component of their allure. 

And so, whilst hopefully sensitive to the politics at play within representations of women - particularly women of African origin - that portray them in a primitive, fetishistic, hypersexual and inhuman manner (as wild animals in a state of perpetual heat and undress), I suspect I'm always going to be ravished by them.


To read part one of this post - Naomi as Playmate, Bunny Girl and Jezebel - click here. 

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

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.