The Southend Venus

And what's the good of a woman 
unless she's a glimpse of a goddess of some sort?

For Lawrence, women in whom one cannot glimpse something immortal  - that is to say, a transcendent loveliness of being, unfolding like a rose in the fourth dimension - are little more than animated lumps of clay.

Such women may be very attractive. And may even have winning personalities. But if their flesh lacks a divine gleam or sparkle, then they'll ultimately fail to engender any true sense of awe in a man. 

I thought of this when I watched a friend's teenage daughter emerge from the grey sea at Southend and stroll along the shoreline holding a phone to her ear like a shell, softly laughing and chatting, and pushing her wet hair from her face.

At that moment, her bare limbs pallid with light from the silent sky behind, she embodied Aphrodite far more perfectly than Ursula Andress or Pamela Anderson ever could.

For despite all their Hollywood glamour, they fail to manifest the purity and the stillness that speaks of the sacred and all the lovely morning-wonder that can be found even on a beach in Essex. 
      

See: D. H Lawrence, 'Glimpses' and 'The Man of Tyre', The Poems, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013). 

Note: An alternative version of this post can be read by clicking here.

Love in the Sixth Form (In Memory of Dagmar Starkey)

Me and Miss Starkey (Xmas 1980)

Dagmar Starkey wasn't the first (or even the only) girl I had a crush on in the sixth form. But she was the one, looking back, I remember with most fondness.

She not only had a non-Essex face (her mother was German), but one that was a bit inhuman - like a sly and rather satanic-looking cat. She also had something of a bad reputation; as a troublemaker and a tease. No one seemed to trust her. And no one seemed to much like her. But I did: I liked her very much - ever after her teratophilia came to light. 

Indeed, I think my own xenophilia can be traced back to my adolescent love for Dagmar Starkey: for if today east European girls are working in every local shop, pub, and restaurant, back in the late '70s she and her sister Inge were the nearest thing to foreign bodies found on Harold Hill.

I remember once she got jealous when I expressed an amorous interest in a young teacher called Miss Davies, who, like Toyah Willcox, came from Birmingham, spoke with a lisp, and was sort of sexy in an unconventional manner. "I don't want you to have feelings for that old trout," she said.

Later on, however, I discovered to my chagrin that she'd been having a secret affair with my history and politics teacher; a committed Marxist who helped fuck up my 'A' level result by convincing me to focus almost exclusively on the Soviet Union.

Before entering the teaching profession, Mr Long had briefly worked in a factory where he'd suffered a nasty mishap, badly maiming his hand in a piece of machinery - much to the fascination and horror of his students. When I asked Dagmar about the relationship, she told me she'd only got involved with him because she wanted to know "how it would feel to be fingered by someone with a deformity".  

You have to admire such perverse curiosity, such willingness to be touched by monsters. It shows a very special nature; one that doesn't allow conventional feelings of disgust or shame to interfere with a desire for experience. Like the more interesting of the Brangwen sisters, Gudrun, I think Dagmar understood love to be an exploratory ordeal in which the body is the site of more than mere pleasure ...

We're All Going on a Summer Holiday (Notes on the Photography of Bernard Faucon)

Bernard Faucon: Les Grandes Vacances (1976-81)

bernardfaucon.net

Doesn't time fly?

It's now forty years since the scorching hot summer of '76, when French photographer Bernard Faucon first began assembling material for a five-year project that combined the ravishing, short-lived beauty of actual boys, with the rather more unsettling - though equally mythic - beauty of synthetic beings (in this case mannequins) into a queer form of tableau. 

A project which came to be known as Les Grandes Vacances and that might best be described - borrowing if I may from the clinical language of paraphilia - as a work of paedopygmalionism, although I'm fairly certain that the perverse love of boys, be they real or artificial, isn't really the point of these pictures.

What then, one might ask, is the point of these disconcerting images taken from a summer camp pitched deep in the Uncanny Valley? 

To be honest, I'm not sure I can answer this question. Even Roland Barthes recognised that the puzzle they pose and leave dangling before our eyes - "which cannot look away and yet cannot pierce their mystery" - is a genuine one and thus never fully solvable. 

Ultimately, no photograph, if it's any good, can ever be explained; if we could always articulate what we wanted to say, then no one would bother taking pictures which, far from speaking a thousand words, present an enigmatic, silent, and still form of truth.    

It's interesting to note, however, that Faucon - a philosophy graduate of the Sorbonne who initially worked as a fine art painter - gave up photography in the mid-1990s and began to reinvent himself as a writer, suggesting that the pen remains not only mightier than the sword, but the camera and the paintbrush too.  

See: Roland Barthes, 'Bernard Faucon', in Signs and Images, trans. Chris Carter, (Seagull Books, 2016). 

On the History and Politics of the Bikini

A bikini-clad 19-year-old Brigitte Bardot 
at the Cannes Film Festival in 1953

Someone writes to say that my recently published post discussing the French burkini ban [click here] left them feeling irritated and disappointed:

"You not only failed to condemn the actions of the mayor of Cannes, but you also missed the opportunity to put on record your opposition to all forms of racism and Islamophobia. Instead, by placing a serious issue within the context of a song from a Hollywood musical of all things, you turn it into something that can be treated in a lighthearted manner. Let me assure you it isn't funny for those Muslim women affected by the ban." 

Apart from the slightly worrying fact that I seem to irritate and disappoint a lot of people these days - and not just readers of this blog with a proverbial bee in their bonnet, chip on their shoulder, or stick up their arse - this criticism essentially leaves me cold. Cold with contempt, rather than in the sense of being unmoved or indifferent. For not only is it presumptuous, but it's ultimately an attempt to force me into taking a position in line with the speaker's own. And - for the record - I'm not sure I share my critic's ideological interpretation of events, or political worldview.

First of all, I don't think in oppositional or dualistic terms. Nor do I subscribe to any form of ascetic militancy or militant asceticism that seeks to pass judgement. So I didn't fail to condemn the actions of David Lisnard - I chose not to.

What's more, I sympathise with the mayor and, whilst not wishing to endorse his actions, I understand where he's coming from. For he's not simply reacting to the terrible events in Nice, so much as actively defending the values of Western modernity; values which, for the fashion-conscious, sexually liberated inhabitants of the Côte d'Azur, are embodied forever in the ideal figure not of Marianne, but a bikini-clad Brigitte Bardot.

In order for this to be appreciated, perhaps a brief history of the bikini is in order ...

Whilst the two-piece swimsuit existed even in classical antiquity, the modern itsy-bitsy bra-top and teenie-weenie bottoms combination as we know it today was designed by a Frenchman, Louis Réard, in 1946. He named it after an atomic bomb test site in the Marshall Islands, Bikini Atoll, and hoped that his revealing outfit would create "an explosive commercial and cultural reaction".

Made from just 200 square centimetres of material, the bikini was advertised as smaller than the smallest swimsuit and came packed in a little box measuring 5 x 5 cm. When Réard had difficulty finding a model willing to showcase his daring and devastating design for the atomic era, he hired a 19-year-old nude dancer, Micheline Bernardini, from the Casino de Paris. Following her appearance at a press launch on July 5th, 1946, held at the Piscine Molitor, she received over 50,000 fan letters.         

Although initially banned in Catholic countries including Spain, Portugal and Italy, following the Vatican's declaration that it was sinful, the bikini soon became a must have item of beachwear among young women; particularly after fashion models and film stars, such as Brigitte Bardot, posed in them for glamorous photo shoots. I think a reporter writing for Le Figaro understood best what was going on:

"People were craving the simple pleasures of the sea and the sun. For women, wearing a bikini signaled a kind of second liberation. There was really nothing sexual about this. It was instead a celebration of freedom and a return to the joys in life."

That surely is the crucial point: the bikini is not merely a skimpy swimsuit. Rather, it's a symbolic garment and a vital form of self-expression within the post-War Western world; a sign that we belong and want to belong to a more liberal and more secular form of society in which - rightly or wrongly - truth loves to frolic semi-naked on the sand.    

And that's why I don't think it's being culturally insensitive to ban women in burkinis from the beautiful beaches of the French Riviera. Au contraire, I think it's arrogant that some Muslim citizens display such wilful ignorance of the history, politics and fashion of modern France that they fail to see why the burkini is likely to cause offence; it's an affront to the European way of life and to French joie de vivre.  

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Let's Call the Whole Thing Off ...?

Sadly, it seems that things have come to a pretty pass in the South of France, where the mayor of Cannes has recently ordered a beach ban on women wearing sharia-approved swimwear.

Whatever one may think of this, it's obvious, is it not, that the relationship between the West and Islam is flatlining. They wear burkinis, whilst we love bikinis and one wonders if it isn't time to abandon the great social experiment of multiculturalism. For if the Muslim populations of Europe cannot integrate - and will not assimilate - then something must be done. Or goodness know what the outcome will be.

In the wise words of Ira Gershwin, let's call the whole thing off ...

But, having said that, it's worth remembering that Gershwin's wonderful song also includes the following verse:

But oh, if we call the whole thing off

then we must part.
And oh, if we ever part,
then that might break my heart.

Perhaps, in the end, we need each other. So maybe we'd better think twice before calling for something we'd come to deeply regret.


Note: "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off" was written by George and Ira Gershwin for the musical comedy Shall We Dance, starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers (dir. Mark Sandrich, 1937). Get your skates on and click here.

Him With His "Tail" in His Mouth

"This said, his guilty hand pluck'd his piece, 

and as the grim Ouroboros he did feast."

I can understand Lawrence's philosophical dislike for the ancient symbol of a snake devouring its own tail. For eternal cycles, in which origins and ends are revealed to be one and the same, are abhorrent to many of us. And, like Lawrence, I prefer my serpents to have sharp fangs, moving about on the alert, heads held aloft, experiencing the world with a gentle flick of a forked tongue and dancing round the heels of Woman, not coiled up into endless self-reflexivity.

And it's this latter aspect of the ouroboros - the suggestion of self-absorption and self-satisfaction - that really troubles Lawrence I suspect. For what this ancient Egyptian symbol ultimately refers us to is not a model of infinity or primordial wholeness, but the divine practice of auto-fellatio.

In other words, him with his tail in his mouth is really a god with his cock in his mouth and I can imagine Lawrence - to whom all forms of masturbation are anathema - finding that extremely hard to swallow. Nevertheless, the fact remains that there are numerous ancient texts describing acts of oral self-stimulation; a practice favoured not only by Egyptian deities, but by those mortals devoted, flexible and well-endowed enough to also enjoy such.              

For example, in a document held by the British Museum, one can read a short poem embedded in a prose account of creation which narrates how the sun god Ra created the sibling deities Shu (god of air) and Tefnut (goddess of precipitation), by sucking himself off and spitting his semen onto the ground. Never in a million years is Lawrence going to feel comfortable with this queer act of generation.

Indeed, I think he'd sooner accept that in the beginning was the Word, than that in the beginning was a self-administered blowjob.


Notes

D. H. Lawrence, 'Him With His Tail in His Mouth', in Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine and Other Essays, ed. Michael Herbert, (Cambridge University Press, 1988).

The document I refer to held by the British Museum, is the Papyrus Bremner-Rhind, written c. 4th century BCE. Obviously, I haven't read the original - nor could I - but I have no reason to doubt the accuracy of the translation and reading by Egyptologist David Lorton, whose essay Autofellatio and Ontology (1995), can be read by clicking here.

Hot Dog (Another Postcard from Southend)

If anything symbolizes the soul of Essex Man, it's this grotesque anthropomorphic hot dog figure located in Southend-on-Sea: crude, greedy, infantilized, self-satisfied and, ultimately, self-cannibalizing.

It's meant to be amusing: but it isn't funny. It is, however, despite its obscenity, an authentic work of art in that, like Basil Hallward's notorious portrait of Dorian, it records the truth of human corruption.

If the locals had any shame, they'd hide this hideous thing out of sight, or toss it off the end of the pier. But, brazenly, they erect it on Marine Parade as a form of challenge and provocation; a passive-aggressive response to the culture of endless consumption that made them what they are.      

The Man With the Child in His Eyes

Like many people, I have a fascination with childhood photos of "myself". The glut of more recent images and selfies taken on a smart phone don't really mean anything to me. But those rare pictures of a young boy in a pre-digital world I find powerfully seductive.       

To be clear: it's not that I'm learning to love myself, or searching for the inner child. There's nothing therapeutic or healing about my interest in old snaps. Nor is there anything perverse or pathological in it; those who theorise about narcissistic exhibitionism or auto-paedophilia are missing the point.   

It's more a case of trying to understand how these objects frozen in time continue to play an important philosophical role - not by revealing or constructing my present self, but, paradoxically, in serving to disguise it and thus helping distance me from myself. 

Ultimately, we can never really see ourselves; not in photographs, nor in mirrors. And when I look at that nine-year old above wearing his favourite Fred Perry t-shirt, I glimpse a kind of stranger - albeit a stranger with whom I have a lot in common and who constantly haunts my writings.          

As Roland Barthes says, no one is responsible for their childhood, but if it marks you and stays with you, it's never completely done away with.

A Postcard from Southend-on-Sea

Southend-on-Sea, Essex, lies approximately 40 miles east of London on the north side of the Thames Estuary; a region that has produced its own virulent strain of English now spoken in many regions of this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Ingerland.  

It is home to the world's longest pleasure pier; a marvel of 19th century engineering that everyone from Princess Caroline to Arthur Daley has strolled along at some point. 

I first day-tripped to Southend with my parents in the early seventies. By then - although I didn't know it at the time - it was already in decline as a popular holiday destination. Everyone who could was jetting off to sunny Spain instead. For who wants soggy fish and chips and a mug of lukewarm tea, when you can have a big plate of paella washed down with a cheap bottle of vino? 

Still, I always loved my time in Southend as a child, beginning with the train ride from Romford via stations whose names had an exotic and almost magical allure - Shenfield-Billericay-Wickford-Rayleigh-Hockley-Rochford-Prittlewell - my excitement growing as I got ever closer to the coast and the thought of a fresh plate of cockles raked straight out of the mud at low tide, or an ice-cream from Rossi's.

There was no real beach to speak of and the grey sea was always out as far as I remember. But the place had a certain working-class Cockney charm (dare one say authenticity) and I had hours of fun in the amusement arcades and Peter Pan's Playground (which I preferred to the rather intimidating Kursaal full of young skinheads in their boots and braces and ageing Teddy Boys). 

What I enjoyed best of all, however, was sitting in the landscaped gardens of the Shrubbery eating a packed lunch, which always involved either a ham or cheese sandwich. There was a little stream and a waterfall, a fairy castle and a few left-over figures; remnants from its fifties heyday as Never Never Land.

Today, over forty years later, Southend is still on sea and many things have remained essentially the same; the pier, for example, still stretches a mile out to nowhere (although now you have to pay to walk along it).

But the deprivation of the town is as noticeable - and as shocking - as the tattooed obesity of the natives, or the large number of women hanging around the newly built lagoon wearing hijabs and burkinis and recreating scenes that more closely resemble Mogadishu than the lost world of Jane Austen and Donald McGill. 

      
 

In Defence of Trivia

Thou, Trivia, goddess, aid my song: 

through spacious streets conduct thy bard along

  John Gay (1716)

This just in by email, with reference to a recently published post:

"It's bad enough when writers like you try to persuade us that superficial and boring phenomena, such as fashion, have great import or interest. But what is worse is that when you do decide to discuss serious topics, such as cultural appropriation, which involve issues of class and race, you invariably reduce them to questions of style or semantics in a manner that is disingenuous, disrespectful and disappointing. Surely philosophy - even of a postmodern variety - should do more than trivialise everything with an ironic smirk; particularly things that have real consequences for real people in the real world." 

There's obviously quite a lot here to which I might respond. But it's the idea of trivia that I think I'd like to address (briefly and obviously not in depth; nor with the appropriate gravitas that my critic seems to expect).

It's clear, is it not, that those who hate trivia do so from a moral position that is thought superior, but is in fact only snobbish and judgemental.

For what constitutes trivia after all other than forms of knowledge believed to be of lesser value or commonplace; fine for those of limited education or intelligence (and postmodernists), but not for those who have greater intellectual gifts and who, like my critic, prefer to discuss important issues from a serious perspective and not waste time playing language games or worrying about aesthetics.   

The Romans used the word triviae to describe where one road forked into two. And this too provides a vital clue as to why people such as my critic hate trivialisation.

For rather than being a reductive process, it's one that adds complexity and ambiguity; multiplying alternatives and proliferating difference; demonstrating that there is no single, super-smooth highway to truth, just a network of minor roads and what Heidegger terms Holzwege - paths that might very well lead nowhere and cause the seeker after wisdom to get lost. Ultimately, my critic is frightened of losing their way by leaving the straight and narrow. But I'm more like Little Red Riding Hood and prepared to take a risk; I might miss the point - but, on the other hand, I might meet a wolf (and there's nothing inconsequential about that).

Alternatively, I just might encounter a deity ...

For Trivia refers not only to fun-facts about popular culture or the minutiae of everyday life, but is the name of a goddess who, in Roman mythology, haunted crossroads and graveyards and was the mother of witchcraft and queen of ghosts, wandering about at night beneath the harvest moon visible only to the barking dogs who told of her approach. Again, one suspects all this rather frightens and repulses my critic, who would doubtless dismiss it as superstitious nonsense. But as the former editor of Pagan Magazine, the thought of encountering such a figure continues to secretly enchant.   

And so, in a nutshell, it's better to trivialise than to moralise and be forever bound by the spirit of gravity.