Northern Lights

First impressions can last a lifetime, while beliefs and attitudes change over time. The opinions of others aren’t always based in a recognisable truth, nor do they always correspond to our own. One need only read reviews on a particular artist or work of art, a film, book or even a luxury hotel or new restaurant to see that evaluations differ according to expectation. Personal experience however, brings invaluable knowledge in formulating genuine understanding of the insider perspective. So it is with people we meet, befriend and even dare to love, and places we visit once as a tourist or a child but then return to after awareness of life has taught us about formulating belief based on instant judgments.

Yesterday I watched as the Olympic torch was carried in procession through the streets of that distinguished northern English city, Liverpool.

A token of freedom and power, the torch signifies continuity and the spark of genius that lives on in the soul beyond the reach of the forged glimmer of temporal concerns into the hopes of creative enterprise. At once a false god and a beacon of truth, the torch is recognised by people everywhere as a symbol of liberty and the spirit of the advocate come to bring light to the darkest regions. In the shadows of history Liverpool was indeed a sinister place, garnering riches from evil pursuits and feeding on the poor and frightened while amassing wealth through politically devious means. Time and the long experience of hard living however, can change everything, like love it can eventually break down the most stubborn and hardened hearts.

Liverpool is and has been many things to the world in its long and chequered history. To some it is a magical realm of extreme excess populated by happy-go-lucky shaggy-haired boys living in yellow submarines and blue meanies who have littered the overgrown strawberry fields with decrepit council houses and boarded-up shop fronts. Since its decline as a major hub of the slave trade and world-renowned shipbuilding it has evolved and changed into a centre of creativity and advanced its situation with a focus on tourism.

Along the Mersey riverfront are stunning new art galleries and hotels and striking postmodern architectural blocks that contain sporting arenas and concert halls, and a sense that the purpose and meaning of life that had escaped from this northern town long before the Beatles made their getaway has been renewed with a vigorous attempt at smart style and a desire for tourist dollars.

Among its crumbling façades are fashionably hip nightspots and must-see places of interest; museums to pop stars and maritime navigation, the slave trade and football heroes sit remarkably comfortably alongside chic restaurants and busy market stalls selling all manner of imported foodstuffs, retro-fashion clothing and locally crafted handiwork.

Boutiques and coffee houses now crowd the narrow and confined lanes that weave labyrinthine through the old town to the visually arresting indoor shopping arcades, Liverpool is learning to accentuate the best of what it once took for granted. These winding paths have become vogue and charmingly inoffensive in their glance back at a cumbersome past through the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia.

The stylish and expansive Albert Dock area with its massive Ferris wheel, grand amphitheatre and of course a well-stocked regional Tate gallery, has become a centre for modern culture.

Standing proud in the once dirty and teeming docks are masterpieces of contemporary art and magnificent glass and steel structures resplendent as the morning sun reflects off the river.

In the middle of this oasis of wealth one can feel a touch of higher-class elitist values emanating from this industrial capital of another era.

A visit to the Bluecoat gallery confirms the odd need some artists have to pour their personal anxieties onto the stone floors of history. This space, where Yoko Ono first exhibited in the UK is, like so many modern galleries, a place where boundaries are pushed but few actually succeed in defining style with human warmth. Go along if there is something happening, as the events are often better than the substance of the work.

In the dockside Tate one can be persuaded that contemporary art has depth and feeling to balance the intentional twisting of cultural roots. Paolozzi’s homage to Michaelangelo represents the broken dream of Western idealism while Dali’s surreal lobster phone sits comfortably beside Monet’s tranquil ponds and Warhol’s dancing girls.

Chamberlain’s scrap metal appears admirably intentional across from the manufactured needlessness of Lucas as Hockney and Moore compete side by side to reassemble an age of beauty in simplicity of form.

A special exhibition of writing and free expression was on display for those who wanted to partake; current national poet laureate Carol-Ann Duffy had installed a large whiteboard onto which visitors could randomly assemble prewritten words and phrases to create an immediate and temporary work of collective public poetry.

The two big football clubs that contend for dominance in this small city were playing each other on one of my recent forays into the heart of the metropolis, and challenging chants and friendly banter echoed across the street from the doorways of competing Irish pubs offering sports and fist fights for the hometown fans.

American franchises might attract more generic entertainment for most visitors to this friendly city, though in true northern spirit it’s still entrenched in ancient adversarial rivalries that transcend the understanding of most ordinary day-trippers.

Although springtime was pushing buds and green leaves from withered branches and the sun blessed me with its presence for most of my stay, the evenings chilled with a dash of rain that made ducking for cover in the world famous Cavern Club a sincere pleasure, and though definitely a kitsch attraction for those seeking reminiscence, it was one of the highlights of my visit to the old town.

With memorabilia from various stages of the Beatles’ career, especially the days playing as house band in this recreated underground hotspot with its coarse brick arches, one can easily spend hours and dollars relaxing with local ales to the note-perfect sound of tribute bands and look-alike performers.

The singers and musicians do their best to entertain with songs and witty Lennonesque asides, and we weren’t disappointed as everyone sang along with the classics and danced to the bebop rhythm of the rough and ready early numbers while black and white newsreels and films flickered like peeling paint on the bare stone walls. Continuing the theme, the next day we headed over to the Beatles museum and lost ourselves in the groovy pomp of sixties revivalism.

Educational and amusing the attraction is filled with artefacts from the heady days of self-discovery when people believed a song could change the world. It offers a chance to revisit memories or experience a sense of what it must have been like to chart a course to success only to discover that real accomplishment is but noble survival when proclaiming peace in the midst of those who prefer to forge weapons from ploughs than peace from promises.

During European capital of culture year 2008, I was invited to show some of my work in a fabulous gallery space near the Albert Dock. The presence of so many artists and musicians in the city at that time made me feel as though I too had accomplished something special. I’m looking forward to my return to show in Liverpool again, and perhaps next time I’ll stay for longer. 

My first impressions of Liverpool were favourable and it has continued to grow on me, rather like a friend one sees only occasionally but upon meeting again is comfortably talkative as if picking up the thread of an unfinished story.

I suppose this is partially due to the circumstances of my initial foray into the regentrified docklands area, its up and coming attitude and the sense of history around every corner, and also because Liverpool itself is a hospitable place with so much to do and see.

Some people give a great first impression and we are instantly taken with them, but then they leave us with regrets when we discover they aren’t who we thought or hoped they would be, while others impress us with their integrity and grow into lifelong friends; Liverpool is the friend you want to see again.

 

Liverpool welcomes the stranger, invites honest appraisal and holds its head up as a city in transition from the gloomy age of reason and the time of industrial invention to the colourful era of creation and personal discovery.

The beacon of light that shines across the Mersey today will delight and inspire all visitors to this at-once grimy and glittering urban centre. A torch has been lit and the spark of the wonder of tomorrow lives in the rejuvenated hearts of those who call Liverpool home.

Although I’m not a local I feel connected to this wonderfully cosmopolitan city through creative association and endeavour, for surely wherever like minds gather to share thoughts and express positive and heartfelt emotions, in places where feelings and opinions are made tangible and the substance of dreams congeals through age and acceptance into an candid exploration of contemporary culture, I will be a welcome guest.

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On the Wings of Age

Time flies when you’re having fun, so the saying goes, which means, to make a cliché true, I’ve been enjoying changes on wings of passing age. I might look older but I feel younger. Change is as good as a rest they say, and time is changing the world for me once again. Life over the past few months has been full of experiences reminding me who I am, where I’ve been and where I’m going, as well as throwing in a few interesting surprises that reminded me of other ideas I'd been harbouring in the back of my mind. It's time to look to the sun once more, hoist the sails and put to sea again.

Sometimes we go somewhere in attempt to discover our inner selves, and other times we leave our usual place behind to lose ourselves in the bustle of a different crowd or, perhaps seek a relaxing retreat to settle some emotional matter, giving us a chance to calm anxious thoughts. Some take a trip to feel the sun on their face or, like so many others I meet abroad, a break from the routine and standards of home simply to enjoy cut-price beer and cheap sex.

Occasionally, often by pure chance, we who seek something more meaningful find a place that opens our mind to new ideas on the course of life, provides a deeper understanding of the nature of culture or stimulates reflections on the value of time. Either way, our awakening to a new dawn of expectation can creatively and spiritually fulfil we who travel in the desire to grow and learn through a continual experience of withdrawal and interaction.

Leaving one town or country to go to another for a longer term entails both opportunities and risks, but a fresh challenge and the development of self that comes with the adventure can make all the difficulties worth the effort of making that change. I’ve made that change so often it has become a way of life, the life I love.

Since my last post on this Blog I’ve driven from the southern shores of the Aegean to the western banks of the Black Sea, travelled from the south coast of England to the northern hills during a week of auspiciously sunny days and thrown in a few other adventures for good measure. In January I swam contendedly in the warm sun-drenched waters of the Mediterranean and comically slid along icy grey streets on the Romanian border. During March I spent time visiting friends in the UK and taught a selection of classes to an interesting variety of people in several countries.

Taking time to do some self-reflection and personal investment I upgraded my teaching qualifications through courses in the UK and went along to some superb art exhibitions and concerts.

Trying new food always excites me and gives me ideas for improving my own culinary skills and lately that has been a real part of the adventure too. I’ve also begun a new project teaching English to the managers of a 5-star hotel based in Istanbul while continuing to educate my regular students at the language school here on the coast, and I’ve also squeezed in time to work on my own visual art, hopefully with a new imaginative vision, toward the aim of showing again later in the year.

I’m a person who needs objectives and goals to give me a purpose and reason. Unlike so many today I’m not obsessed with fame and celebrity, money and possessions or small town dreams of picket-fenced suburbia. I’ve been there and done that, as they say. I’m much more interested in the complete complex experience of living, while time allows.

This post being personal commentary I won’t be spending any additional words discussing the recent elections in France, where the left-leaning party has managed to oust the war supporters in favour of banking reform. But didn’t Sarkozy look miserable during his final laying of the wreath at the VE Day commemoration? Nor will I write about the vote in Greece, where the anti-austerity party is attempting to force a coalition to denounce negotiations over the Euro that have left so many struggling to survive.

Both these results are essentially a thumbing of noses at financial measures around Europe that have seen the banking class get richer while everyone else pays their catalogue of overdue bills, and reflect a growing trend of desire by ordinary people toward establishing accountability for these schemers. However, Britain needn’t worry, for ‘The Queen’ in all her jubilee splendour is opening parliament for the next term of conservative designs to suppress the meek for the good of the wealthy. But, not a word on the earthly campaigns of those entrusted with power; this is only about me.

No one knows what the future holds, but we plan and strive and work and participate in anticipation of the future for a better today tomorrow. Sometimes our hopes are fulfilled, other times we learn to adjust the expected result of the preparation. As John Lennon sang, “life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans,” and enjoying the life you create today is the best way to ensure you don’t miss out on what is happening as you think of tomorrow.

Too many people spend their time waiting for that to come day when they can enjoy life, and forget to experience the moment of now. One day I’ll have enough time to travel, one day I’ll have enough self-belief to write, one day I’ll have enough confidence to show my work, one day I’ll have enough money to buy the things I want, the occasion to take that course, self-assurance to leave this place and be with the one I love, and on and on .. so they say.

One day like some day is a vague postponement of action and a definite act of procrastination. It is an excuse for not engaging with the world and life. It separates the achiever from the loser, the go-getter from the do-nothing, those who smile in the sunshine from those who cry in the rain (unless of course you like the rain – where the daisy blooms!), those who engage with the world from those who sit in their garden and talk of things they’d do if only .. excuse after lazy excuse ..

I lost years of my life waiting for someone or something to come along and kick-start my stuttering motor back to life after a series of incidents left me feeling powerless and alone. Slowly I was finding a way back to my rightful position when another series of events altered the plan again. A spark of life had returned and just as steps were appearing beneath solid ground a mistaken notion walked in. I thought it would be smooth sailing with sunrise as my rudder and happiness directing a course to the stars. Unfortunately, that turned out to be a failed investment of time as I learned once again the hard lesson that not everyone is as honest as we expect, trust and loyalty are vague concepts to some, and pretty outside isn’t always a reflection of inside.

However, that exhausting experience freed me from the constraints of waiting for dreams to happen and I began to shape my own future again, a tomorrow where anything is possible and all things are available with properly focussed effort. I rediscovered inner strength and left behind what was only making raising myself from the shadows of depression an emotional struggle. To do this I had to get away from negative influences and darkly depressing pressures, to create something new and enduring for myself, to go back to a life that made a positive contribution to the world, a return to the self – then things began to happen to make life healthier and more pleasurable again.

Now, I love travelling once more, I love meeting people and sharing experiences, the friends who welcome me into their lives, moments spent in calm solitude knowing that no moment is forever, visiting various countries and cities, learning about cultural differences and similarities, coming home to the place I relax after a hectic day at work, a busy week on the road or an eventful month abroad. I love what I do to earn my daily bread, the places I go to do it and the people I encounter doing it. I love this creation I call my life; I love the art of living.

I’ve learned to eliminate from my life the people who don’t deserve my trust, the people who only value what I have to give rather than who I am in my heart, the people who want more than they are prepared to give in return, and those who lack due respect for my life choices. I’ve learned to surround myself with people who place worth in friendship, whose decisions are based in integrity, the things that assist me to do my work or make life tolerably comfortable, desires that fulfil ambitions and a respect for myself that supports my current activities and future dreams.

In contrast to the photos I'm posting, the sun is shining here, baking the lush green earth into hues of brown and red, and the temperature is soaring as summer approaches with its promise of longer days, tan muscles and lightening hair. The flocks of tourists are returning with their pink bellies and lust for all things tonic and loud. But for me life for me has become real again, and real is liberating, therapeutic and invigorating. Time waits for no one and as someone with something to offer I wait no longer, I look to the sun to inspire my travels and allow the winds of change to direct me toward my next destination.

So do yourself a favour, catch the fire, seize the love, free the dove and watch your spirit fly to lofty heights on the wings of age, because that’s where real life exists. Don’t wait for others or expect politicians or celebrities to do it for you. Learn to respect yourself and others; work to complement this world with your dreams of hope and truth then genuine happiness and success will follow as surely as the sun rises.

These photos were taken in January while exploring the edge of the Carpathians and the Black Sea - time permitting over the next couple of weeks I’ll update this page with a few photos and thoughts on my recent activities abroad. Until then, drop in and say hello or tell me your own story ..and if you keep an eye on my other Blog I'll probably post a new poem or two over the next couple weeks ..

Mutlu Yillar; The Tabula Rasa

As New Year’s bells ring out across the globe and firecrackers disguised as rockets scatter their pyrotechnic blaze of colour into the night sky in announcement of the passing time, people everywhere will contemplate the past and look to the future with anticipation. It is only another moment in life, yet it signifies more than a mark on the calendar; when the clock strikes midnight and the world enters 2012 people will turn the page to write a new chapter filled with hope, or wipe the slate clean in attempt to paint a healthier, more honest vision of our changing reality on the blank canvas that is tomorrow.

We proceed into the future with joy in our hearts and the expectation that somehow humanity, with all its flaws and failings can create a more promising opportunity for the present from the lessons of yesterday. I welcome this New Year as a present waiting to be opened; a personal opportunity to initiate plans for new projects with happiness as the measure of success and an imminent future that holds promise for the revelation of truth.

If truth is indisputable fact, there is no one truth that encompasses all culture and time; history has become a relative position. Human beings in certain places through different ages must determine an agreed set of understandings that can be operated within to form an ordered universe of expectations, what we generally call the rules of socialisation, the paradigm of the age. We create matrices of worlds within the spheres of politics and emotion, spirituality and economy and our use of language and all the aspects of interaction that we term the public, and then look to the creative community to share this notional concept of thought through the finest art, as an authentic experience of the contemporary culture of each civilisation.

Not all painting or sculpture or music or poetry or any of the skills and talents we associate with ‘the arts’ is truly art, for art, though it can often entertain and amuse, is of the highest calibre and most likely to pass the test of time when it reveals, enlightens, informs and teaches us about ourselves in any given period of history. History, and even time itself, is a fluid concept and perspective determines the importance of events in the past.

Artists in previous centuries seeking a return to the natural revived the primitivism of the art of Cro-Magnon cave dwellers with its ochre and red dyes and two-dimensional portrayal of animals, while by contrast early Christian icons, although using colour and gild with regularity, can appear static and unnaturally posed. However, each style communicates intent and was created for a reason.

Renaissance painters excelled at capturing deep, rich tones and shades in fabric accentuated with detailed folds in garments and dimension of matter so that there is a perfection of realism in presentation, however many of these fine works are filled with symbolism and the juxtaposition of context of bizarre objects that are entirely unreal in the situation of the subject; parrots and pears swirl in the air with scrolls and orbs.

Islamic artists in the latter centuries of the first millennium utilised magnificently complex calligraphic techniques to portray various elements of the natural world whereas 20^th century cubists attempted to capture the inner person through a reordering of the human form in geometric shapes. More recently the abstract expressionists, pop art lithograph creators, urban primitivism and stencilled graffiti has captured the imagination of the world. All these methods can have equal value in the eye of an audience seeking revelation and/or awareness of the social environment through visual experience.

In the past couple weeks a few of the most widely-known American artists of the late 20^th century passed away into the annals of art history, and only time will tell whether the work they leave behind continues to be valued as the generations shift toward new methods and techniques and an evolved understanding of what it is to be human in the age to come.

John Chamberlain, the ‘son of a saloon-keeper’, began turning scrap metal into sculpture back in the 50s. He was a native of Indiana who served in WW2 and using his grant became a hairdresser initially, then after becoming inspired by DeKooning, Giacometti and Van Gogh attended university in Illinois. He dropped out of the Art Institute of Chicago after 18 months but continued at college in North Carolina and went on to have work exhibited all over the world. Aluminum foil, Plexiglas and foam rubber as well as metal torn from wrecked cars were among the common materials he worked with to create his pieces, which consisted of joining together existing forms to reference historical sculpture in contemporary terms. His monolithic twisted designs with their kinetic energy exuding modernist theories of non-linear literature quickly attracted attention from avant-garde galleries and he represented the US at the Venice Biennale in 1964. A retrospective of his work will be on display from February at New York's Guggenheim Museum, where his first retrospective was held in 1971.

Helen Frankenthaler, though highly considered in certain circles, and reviewed with much praise in the media over the past week, leaves me cold. As an abstract expressionist known for splashing colour thinly and randomly onto untreated canvas her art says very little, although that is merely my subjective aesthetic opinion. Her work has been compared to Jackson Pollack, though I really don’t see the similarity other than they both painted on the floor. Pollack’s work, though appearing to the untrained eye as dribbles and splashes of paint reveals something more, as beneath the patterns and swirls we see form and substance, the contours of dancers and revellers, the staged procession of life, whereas Frankenthaler’s work appears as blotches of faded dye seemingly purposeless on a landscape of nothing, commonly referred to as ‘color-field painting’. As the daughter of a New York supreme court justice her background allowed easy access to those in a position to encourage progress into the art world; as she attended only the ‘best schools’ it was perhaps inevitable people would pay attention. However, maybe this helps explain why her work is bland, without intent or connection to a state of mind that requires realisation of deeper connotation.

James Rizzi is by contrast a 3-dimensional painter of jumbled and seemingly chaotic scenes of a style that was been termed ‘urban primitivism’ by Tina Weymouth of Talking Heads fame after he completed the cover for the first album of her offshoot band The Tom-Tom Club. His paintings are filled with images of people and buildings surrounded by stars and palm trees and radiant suns all bursting with activity and colour to create mesmerising panoplies of gratuitous excitement. His unique approach includes raising a number of the figures in each painting away from the canvas by gluing identical copies of the component onto the surface using wire, producing an interesting caricature effect of depth. In 1996, he became the first official artist for the Summer Olympics in Atlanta and the following year the Montreux Jazz Festival. In 1998, he made the official posters for the Football World Cup in France. I had the opportunity to purchase one of his fabulously energetic paintings in the late 80s, although at the time it was already out of my financial reach and I can only suppose that they will now extend far beyond my modest budget – however, I look forward to the coming retrospectives.

So, when the New Year rolls around again, when the midnight chimes wake you to the reality of the blank canvas of life, that tabula rasa that awaits a brushstroke in the form of paint or pencil, spatula or fingertip, remember that what you portray is a reflection of the sweat or tears or blood or laughter and love you represent as an individual. We are all the canvas that is filled with images and memories of the emotions and actions of existence, and every day is an opportunity to shine the light of truth across the empty space of tomorrow.

We are merely travellers through the pages of a book that has many characters and plots. This grand story of life that fills our world with dreams and hopes, sadness and mirth, pain and ecstasy, is neither pre-determined nor exclusive, but it does follow a narrative. The story is our perception of the knowledge we gain on the trip, though those events may not adhere to traditional chronological rules. There are hints of the levels of realities that we inhabit in every organism and molecule of life and light that surround us and it is up to us to reach out to touch the esoteric form, to connect with the human situation, allowing faith in the fragmentation of shape and structure to redefine us as we continually imagine new ways to create the future in hope and dreams and the art we bring into being that informs the journey. Make the memories and dreams you create worth the trouble of the adventure and activity.

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Seasonal Greetings: Of Quaaludes, Quinine, the Quad and Quixotic Quests

“I’m a sinner,” he shouted tossing the Black Beauty into the back of his throat while letting the Quaalude dissolve under his tongue in a bubbling swirl of lager. She was feeding him lust in chemical form and he ate hungrily, a wolf at Red Riding Hood’s door. With enough speed in his system to keep him going all night the ‘lude would settle him nicely into that dreamy tantric state where music becomes soft as clouds.

“We’re all sinners, honey,” she idly offered swigging a caramel coloured soft drink.

“Qui dormit non peccat,” he slurred.

She looked up at him through pupils the size of roses under eyelids drooping as dew-laden petals and said, “You’re mocking me?”

“No, no, it’s Latin for ‘the sleeper does no sin,’” he replied, sensing his misplaced authority. “Basically one of those sentimental medieval phrases designed to hold people in place through inactivity”

“Uh huh, well baby, this here is Latin too,” she drawled, turning back to the foil containing thousands of tiny granules of the finest bean Colombia exported.

Alright, alright, that’s just a ploy, a ruse, a pointless piece of misdirection and inane dialogue as a segue to discuss freedom of speech .. Yeah baby! Freedom of speech .. and, well, growing up in confined spaces ..

Not long ago I received the following message on Facebook: It's National Book Week. The rules: Grab the closest book to you. Go to page 56. Copy the 5th sentence as your status:

Here is the line from the book I opened: “She’s already passed around Quaaludes, offering one to every person but me.” It is from the book A Visit from the Goon Squad (winner of the Book Critics Circle Award 2011) by Jennifer Egan, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction 2011. In it she openly discusses the so-called recreational substances her characters encounter throughout the decades without allowing that to become the focus of the characters’ motivations.

This past summer I read the best- selling novel ‘Stories We Could Tell’ (2006) by Tony Parsons (he of NME fame and author of ‘Man and Boy’) for the second time, and was not surprised by the drug taking behaviour of its 70s protagonists. I’ve read many an SF novel and seen enough films to be frequently confronted with the characters altering their reality with mind expanding chemicals, from Valley of the Dolls to the Matrix (an entire reality built on the blue pill or the red pill). Whether the reckless endangerment of Trainspotting, the soul searching of Man With the Golden Arm or the groovy self-discovery of Easy Rider, a culture of exploration and experimentation has been prevalent in entertainment for several generations.

The psychedelic music of the sixties, the speed and ‘ludes of the self-indulgent seventies, the cocaine fuelled rise of the yuppie in the 80s are only indicators of the common experience of the times. Unfortunately, in our current age we seem to be going through a period of alcohol depressed apathy that disguises itself as morality and the ordinariness of convention.

Not long ago I watched Jonathon Ross interviewing the actor Jeff Bridges about his drug preferences. Bridges was on the show to talk about his film ‘Men Who Stare at Goats’ which is concerned with the military’s use of LSD as a tool for creating specialist soldiers who can kill using mind control. Bridges discussed his own regular use of LSD for recreation and an aid to improved meditation, and asked Ross what he thought about it. Ross claimed in ‘hey I still work for the BBC’ mode, much to the chagrin of Bridges, that he’d never tried it.

Which brings me to the reason for this little rant; censorship of art in the media. Particularly that which a few simpletons might find offensive. A little while ago I posted a comment on a friend's art Blog, mentioning the beauty and serenity of a photographed scene in four sections as being trance inducing, soft and fuzzy - using a reference to Quaaludes. Although she appreciated the comment, she was unsure about having a ‘controlled drug’ mentioned on her Blog, and asked me to resubmit deleting the analogy. Just so you get it, here’s the comment in its entirety:

These are stunning photographs (name omitted) .. I like the way you’ve placed the sky at the top and the sea at the bottom creating a vertical panorama .. the sunset is as brilliant and powerful as you mentioned. When I first looked at the central photo collage I thought of a phrase around the idea of a quadrant and the connection between the other pics, however on ensuring myself of its meaning I came across the word ‘Quaalude’ which is a pharmaceutical, a hypnotic sedative, the trade name is derived from the words ‘quiet interlude’ .. so in an odd way I thought that was more appropriate for these photos of your tranquil and yet illuminating walk along the beach .. nice work. KW

Obviously I was asserting that the beach walk was like a ‘quiet interlude’ and that I had come across the definition while looking up the word ‘quadrant’ in relation to the layout of the photos. Now, of course it’s her choice to publish or not, each person is free to censor their own Blog as suits them – but personally, I think most people in this day and age are mature enough to understand this pharmaceutical reference in context, especially with the provided explanation.

Every day a significant proportion of the population is prescribed tranquillisers, sedatives, anti-depressants, inhibitors, uppers and downers and all around the towners. I think almost everyone is aware of the difference between over the counter remedies, prescription medication, illegal narcotics and shady street deals.

Not so many years back the British Council, and your mother’s doctor, recommended a glass of Quinine a day to keep malaria at bay, as well as other tropical illnesses, upset tummies and low sex drive. Now, Quinine is available in most countries, including the UK, as a drink mixer, yet it’s still a controlled substance in the United States. And who can forget that Coca Cola originally contained the ‘pep me up’ additive, cocaine?

Damien Hirst famously printed pictures of tablets, capsules and medications of various colours and shapes onto Plexiglas light boxes to illuminate the fascination we have with curatives in this age of addiction, and completed a series of pharmaceutical-style advertising posters for such foodstuffs as baked beans and sausages. So, let’s not avoid the reality we live with daily and that we can and should approach wide eyed.

Maybe I’m wrong, but surely artists need to be open to experience, open to life, open to the truth – however you want to define it. If we hide from the realities of life, the hidden aspects as well as the brighter moments- we give strength to those who would draw us into an age of darkness where speech is monitored and suppressed to maintain control over our thoughts, and visual art becomes a propagandist tool to sway public opinion.

Language is the way we define ourselves, whether that is spoken or visual there are inherent meanings and interpretations in linguistic structure and expression that allow freedom to grow and spread, responsibly and without restriction, for real people are capable of filtering their own experience.

However, just this week it happened again on the Ross show (now moved to ITV due to his anger at being censored and suspended by the BBC for making an on-air lewd phone call to an elderly actor) as the witty and intelligent Tim Minchin was edited out of his Friday 23^rd December show for singing a song that might be offensive to the feeble-minded community of fundamentalists (or just mental, I’m not sure). I’ve posted the song in this Blog as it was to appear so you can judge for yourself if it is offensive or was justifiably cut from a “pre-Christmas” show.

Clearly the editors of Mr Ross’s show feel we are not capable of determining our own position on the satirical elements of comedy. I am a grown up – it is my duty to engage with and challenge the wrongs in this world and also to reveal and illustrate the incongruities and hypocrisies of the social construct.

As an artist I want to entertain, amuse or enlighten in an imaginative manner. So while Jonathan wants to hide his personal party habits behind a screen of denial or bemused superiority, those who seek to construct a world of truth open their lives to scrutiny so as to inform others that they are not alone. It is a function of art to transmit a message of contemporary humanity through creative means. And, I’ve read and studied the Gospels, and in my opinion Jesus quite liked a party and therefore one would think, He enjoyed a bit of a giggle – so, I think He would’ve found this song amusing, and the debate over it’s offensiveness a storm in a teacup – which He would’ve easily quelled.

Where are today's artists on the issues that affect all of us? Do they have anything to say on the issues of world importance or are they too busy congratulating each other on yet another pointless postcard exhibition where the only people attending are those showing work?

Over the past few years funding for the arts and the buildings and services offered by various local councils has been dramatically reduced. In Derby, the city I resided in for the past six years in the UK, the funding has been slashed so severely that the arts council will soon be a ‘team’ of one and the new centres for the arts, the Quad and DeDa  (both spaces I have performed and exhibited in and attended many events at) will have their funding entirely cut within the year – this after spending 20 million pounds ($30m) on building and funding these centres a few years ago.

Self-concerned individuals worried about the crumbling of the Arts Council in the UK or pleased with Mr President's declaration of funding for artists who create works that support the "cultural self-image of the United States" are typical in this community of late (While overall funding for the National Endowment for the Arts is being reduced, contrary claims are published on his website). Is government funded art propagandist - or so pathetically weak in its vision that the result is not challenging to intellectual thought, or so highbrow that the general audience is left cold by it's self-indulgence? Perhaps a serious discussion on the artist’s role in this maelstrom of ideas and ideologies is necessary: the technocracy of a saturated media? A wikimedia?

I certainly hope those rights that my father, my sons and I and all the people of every nation and generation previous and since rallied for, protested for and spoke out for are never stifled, silenced or softened. When we begin to respond through fear – fear of what others will think, fear of our own flaws, fear of the power of confrontation, the fear of what lays within, then we slide into a shallow and quivering state of ignorance.

A world of art that does not engage with the issues of our time and contributes nothing to future social understanding of what it means to be human in our age – that, my friend, is what we really should fear!

“Think more openly. That’s the point.” 

– Gilbert and George

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.. and no, I didn't resubmit the comment!