Tag Archives: art

Can One Place A Value On Artistic Creations?

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“Cecil Graham: What is a cynic?

Lord Darlington: A man who knows the price of everything, and the value of nothing.

Cecil Graham: And a sentimentalist, my dear Darlington, is a man who sees an absurd value in everything and doesn’t know the market price of any single

thing.”

(Oscar Wilde. Lady Windermere’s Fan).

 

According to the above, I am a sentimentalist for I had no idea what price to attach to my book, “Dalliance; A Collection Of Poetry And Prose”. Indeed I must confess to finding the attaching of monetary value to artistic creations rather distasteful. For me literature and art more generally possesses a value in and of itself which can not be reduced to a matter of pounds, shillings and pence. Food feeds the stomach while art nourishes the soul. While the former is vital to the survival of the species, once food is eaten that is an end of the matter while, with art exposure to it continues to feed the spirit long after the creation in question has vanished from view. Poems I read as a boy continue to resonate with me today while countless meals are long since forgotten. Of course one may remember a dinner for the excellent companionship of friends but only on rare occasions will the food consumed figure in one’s recollections.

Having said all that, I do, of course accept that man does not exist by consuming fresh air alone. Authors must earn (and deserve to earn) a crust. Consequently it is necessary for me and other authors to attach monetary value to our creations. In the case of “Dalliance” I discussed the matter of price with several colleagues and friends who had read the book. None where of much help. One colleague suggested a price range of between £8 to £20. Given that “Dalliance” runs to 68 pages I felt that £20 was much to high. Eventually I consulted the man who owns my local bookshop, Bookseller Crow. He suggested a price of £7.99 which we agreed upon. This will cover the cost of producing “Dalliance” and, I hope allow both myself and the good purveyor of books to earn a crust.

In conclusion, books do possess an inherent value which can not be translated into purely monetary terms. However in the real world it is necessary (as with other artistic creations) to assign a price to them. However, deep in my soul I feel that it is sacreligious to place a financial value on Keats “Ode to A Nightingale” or Arnold’s “Dover Beach”.

 

The Rules Of Poetry

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I came across this entertaining piece on the rules of poetry while browsing the web, (http://www.improve-education.org/id49.html). The writer argues there are, in fact no rules or rather if the poet does follow rules they should be of their own making. Rules do, in the view of the writer stifle creativity, replacing vibrancy with the dead hand of uniformity.

Don’t Judge A Book By It’s Cover

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An interesting article on Mail Online’s site about unusual Kindle book covers (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3004823/Try-not-judge-books-covers-world-s-worst-hilarious-Kindle-ebook-artwork-revealed.html).

Uncle Vanya By Anton Chekhov Review

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Last night I attended a production of Uncle Vanya performed by the Richmond Shakespeare Society, at the Mary Walace theatre in Twickenham. The Richmond Shakespeare Society introduces Chekhov’s play in the following manner,

 

“I always used to think cranks were ill or abnormal, until I realised that to be a crank was man’s normal condition”

Uncle Vanya is arguably the first great modernist drama, full of ambiguities and contradictions, delicately balancing the tragic and the absurd, the farcical

and the hauntingly poetic. Maxim Gorky wrote that “its ideas are huge, symbolic and its form original, incomparable”. Certainly its themes, particularly

the passing of time and the process of ageing, are universal. Trapped in the claustrophobic depths of rural Russia, Chekhov’s assortment of all-too-human

characters drive each other mad, as the arrival of two outsiders forces the incumbents to re-examine the choices they have made. Old wounds are reopened,

passions awakened, thwarted ambitions bubble to the surface and lives are turned upside down. Our adaptation is by Oscar-winning playwright Christopher

Hampton, who has said, “Uncle Vanya doesn’t have a suicide, like The Seagull, or an adulterous couple and a duel like Three Sisters. All it has is a series

of ludicrously bungled attempts at murder and suicide and adultery. Perhaps these failures are what makes it feel the saddest and most truthful” of Chekhov’s

great tragi-comic masterpieces”. (http://www.richmondshakespeare.org.uk/).

The production left me feeling a deep sense of sadness at the futility of the characters lives which is, no doubt precisely what Chekhov intended. Uncle Vanya who is, in essence a kindly man has become cynical and depressed due to his long residence on a provincial country estate in 19th century Russia. Vanya’s love for the professor’s young wife is not reciprocated and Vanya cuts a half comic, half pathetic figure in his fruitless pursuit of her.

The Professor spends much of the day in bed malingering and much of the rest working on books about art which, as Vanya notes no one will read. His young wife flutters like a trapped bird wishing to escape her cage but, as with the Professor’s daughter fears to break away and, ultimately remains imprisoned. The Professor’s daughter is infatuated and, possibly in love with the provincial doctor but her feelings are not returned, the Doctor being attracted to the Professor’s beautiful young wife who, as noted earlier can not break out of her cage.

In Uncle Vanya one witnesses the death of idealism. The Doctor speaks passionately about planting forests which in centuries to come will give joy to the people, however his love (perhaps better described as lust) for the Professor’s wife causes him to abandon his forestry projects leaving the young trees to be damaged by the animals of the peasantry.

Matters come to a head when the Professor tries to persuade Vanya who has been managing the estate on his behalf to sell it. Vanya makes an unsuccessful attempt to shoot the Professor who leaves with his wife followed, shortly after by the Doctor who’s attempts to draw the Professor’s wife into adultery have failed.

The household returns to “normality” with Vanya and it’s other members waiting for the release which death will in time bring.

 

In order to attend productions at the Mary Walace it is necessary to be a member of The Richmond Shakespeare Society although members can purchase tickets on behalf of non-members. My thanks goes to Emily, my friend Brian’s partner, for bringing my attention to this production and inviting me along). Bleak and profoundly sad and brilliantly performed.

A Modern Wasteland

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Last night I dreamed of a library. I wandered around unable to locate what I was looking for although, as is frequently the case with dreams it was not at all clear what, exactly I was in search of. Looking back on my dreaming I can not, in point of fact recollect having encountered a single work of literature.

Loud music filled the institution making concentration all but impossible. I approached the librarian asking that the volume be turned down or, preferably silenced completely. She informed me that the people liked it. That this was, in fact the modern way.

Are we living in a culture so devoid of meaning that my dream is fast becoming the reality? I avoid reality TV like the plague however, while in doctors surgeries and other similar venues one can not but help coming across shows such as Jeremy Kyle in which inadequate individuals launder their dirty clothes in public. The audience (both that present in the studio and those viewing remotely) are treated to the unedifying spectacle of supposedly rational human beings frequently screaming abuse at one another.

“You slept with my sister”

A woman yells at her boyfriend – etc, etc.

Doubtless many of those who appear on programmes such as Jeremy Kyle do require help. However the assistance needed is that furnished by relationship counsellors, social workers or other professionals. Such shows are modern manifestations of a dessicated culture. One in which entertainment is substituted for serious thought. In the past the Romans watched gladiators fight to the death or “enjoyed” the spectacle of Christians being thrown to the lions. Today the audience cheers, boos and laughs as those in search of their fleeting moment of fame make fools of themselves on television. T S Eliot’s Wasteland seems so very appropriate for our times (http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html).

Girl Builds Herself Boyfriend Out Of Soap Bubbles

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Now that would avoid arguments about who should do the housework, or any other kind of disagreement (although conversation might be somewhat limited …)! http://en.rocketnews24.com/2013/11/29/girl-builds-herself-a-boyfriend-out-of-soap-bubbles/

Whats in a Word?

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I am registered blind. Recently I was in a room with a group of other people with various disabilities when one of those present refered to people “suffering” from dyslexia. I let the use of the word “suffering” go unremarked, however when he continued to employ it during the course of the meeting I politely remarked that I considered it’s utilisation to be inappropriate, a view endorsed by several others present.

To suffer is to endure pain or discomfort. While some disabilities may entail suffering, for example a person who has broken their leg will suffer pain during the course of their temporary disability, many disabilities do not involve suffering. The fact that I, as a blind person can not see to read a newspaper is an inconvenience (I’d love to be able to buy a paper, sit on public transport and read my newspaper along with my fellow commuters, however my inability to read print does not entail suffering. I can go online and access the newspapers using access software which although not as convenient as being able to read a print paper is, none the less far better than not being able to access a newspaper at all.

Societal barriers rather than a disability in and of itself can cause people with disabilities to face inconveniences. For instance the lack of ramps affording access to buildings may make it difficult or impossible for wheelchair users to access them. Any inconvenience “suffered” is, in this case down to the lack of access rather than to the fact that the wheelchair user is unable to walk or, at any rate is only able to walk for very short distances before having to return to their wheelchair.

Not all issues surrounding disability are capable of being resolved by society making adjustments. I can not see paintings and however good my friends description of a picture is their descriptive powers will not furnish me with the capacity to appreciate visual art as a sighted person does. However, in my view I do not “suffer” through my inability to admire paintings. Granted I feel regret but that is not the same as “suffering”.

I am not arguing in favour of policing the English language. People should be able to express themselves freely unless their words are aimed at inciting racial or other hatred. However we all should consider whether our use of language is appropriate.

 

My collection of short stories, “The First Time” is free in the Kindle store until 8 October. Please visit http://www.amazon.com/The-First-Time-ebook/dp/B00FJGKY7Y/ref=la_B00CEECWHY_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1380885715&sr=1-4

A Forsaken Garden By A C Swinburne

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I first came across Swinburne’s “A Forsaken Garden” while listening to BBC Radio 4’s Poetry Please! It is one of those poems to which I return frequently and lines from which pop unbidden into my head

 

—

 

In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,

At the sea-down’s edge between windward and lee,

Walled round with rocks as an inland island,

The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.

A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses

The steep square slope of the blossomless bed

Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses

Now lie dead.

 

The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken,

To the low last edge of the long lone land.

If a step should sound or a word be spoken,

Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest’s hand ?

So long have the grey bare walks lain guestless,

Through branches and briars if a man make way,

He shall find no life but the sea-wind’s restless

Night and day.

 

The dense hard passage is blind and stifled

That crawls by a track none turn to climb

To the strait waste place that the years have rifled

Of all but the thorns that are touched not of time.

The thorns he spares when the rose is taken ;

The rocks are left when he wastes the plain.

The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken,

These remain.

 

Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not ;

As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry ;

From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not,

Could she call, there were never a rose to reply.

Over the meadows that blossom and wither

Rings but the note of a sea-bird’s song ;

Only the sun and the rain come hither

All year long.

 

The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels

One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath.

Only the wind here hovers and revels

In a round where life seems barren as death.

Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping,

Haply, of lovers none ever will know,

Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping

Years ago.

 

Heart handfast in heart as they stood, ‘Look thither,’

Did he whisper ? ‘look forth from the flowers to the sea ;

For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither,

And men that love lightly may die―but we ?’

And the same wind sang and the same waves whitened,

And or ever the garden’s last petals were shed,

In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened,

Love was dead.

 

Or they loved their life through, and then went whither ?

And were one to the end―but what end who knows ?

Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither,

As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose.

Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them ?

What love was ever as deep as a grave ?

They are loveless now as the grass above them

Or the wave.

 

All are at one now, roses and lovers.

Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea.

Not a breath of the time that has been hovers

In the air now soft with a summer to be.

Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter

Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep,

When as they that are free now of weeping and laughter

We shall sleep.

 

Here death may deal not again for ever ;

Here change may come not till all change end.

From the graves they have made they shall rise up never,

Who have left nought living to ravage and rend.

Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing,

While the sun and the rain live, these shall be ;

Till a last wind’s breath upon all these blowing

Roll the sea.

 

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble,

Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink,

Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble

The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink,

Here now in his triumph where all things falter,

Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,

As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,

Death lies dead.