A silent slideshow, drawn with the eyes closed. Part of the LIW Project: a revisiting of a myth:
Venus, Vulcan her husband and Mars, her lover.
Vulcan trapped them in flagrente – in a golden net.
The tavern had a large parlour located at the back of the building, while the tavern itself was located about five miles away from the border.
This parlour was where the life class Pavel was teaching took place. At the time of the conflict, about fifty people were engaged in drawing there. The model was a lovely young woman who was the wife of one of those who were participating. The parlour was not very large, and although there was a waiting list for it, there was simply not enough room to take any more than fifty in the class at any one time. Apart from the model, all those taking the class were men.
The tavern was the last before the border, and the only one between the border and the cities to east of it. Those cities were a considerable distance away, and the border was only to be reached via a gorge. The tavern was located at the end of this gorge, or at its threshold – were you to be travelling from the border towards those cities. However, nobody was travelling in that direction. Everyone was heading for the border.
In this sector, the major responsible for the efficiency of the recruitment squads had learnt that Pavel was an artist from the sergeant of the squad which had dragged him out of his studio; a studio located deep in the woods.
Pavel had hoped that his studio would never be discovered.
When the major learnt that Pavel was an artist, he was removed from the armoured troop transporter just before this vehicle, packed with fresh recruits, left for the front to the east of the cities.
‘Although some might consider me a cold-blooded authoritarian, I do appreciate art,’ the major told Pavel. ‘And I will take it upon myself to delay the recruitment of any man who displays a talent in this regard. But how are we to discover which men are talented and which are not?”
It was thus that the life class had come about.
Everyone knew that this class was a risky business. Heat-detecting sensors in the drones used efficiently by the enemy might well pick up on the warmth generated by fifty men in the back parlour of a tavern, however remote that tavern might be. However, the chance of a direct hit on the tavern was less than the chance of extermination in the grey zone into which the recruits were to be herded at gunpoint, so the option to join the class was popular among those apprehended in the woods, or at the exit to the gorge.
Once a day the major inspected the class and its results. If a drawing struck him as displaying talent, the major appropriated the drawing and the man responsible for it was allowed to continue participating. Only one talentless individual was suffered to remain in the class. This was the husband of the lovely woman who displayed herself naked to the sketching men.
Though lucky in his wife, the man had not an iota of artistic talent. He drew her either as a medley of sticks or as a more or less rotund shape with some sticks attached.
His ineptitude did not go undetected. And so the major had ordered that the man be ejected from the class and sent to the transporter with immediate effect.
At this, his wife had relinquished her pose and begun to put on her clothes.
The woman was indeed lovely. The wives of the other men fleeing from the cities were thick ankled, overweight and plain.
While priding himself on his appreciation of art, the major had a somewhat naïve grasp of aesthetics. Much to the chagrin of other talentless individuals, her husband’s lack of ability continued to be tolerated, both by the major and Pavel.
You could say, such is life.
Imruil – A naturalized version of his ode-book – one of the seven ‘suspended odes’ of pre-Islamic Arabia – came out in 1970 from Barrie & Jenkins, whose editor at the time was Christopher Maclehose.
A SELECTION OF LYRICS FROM IMRUIL Where She Dismounted Droppings like pepper-tree pods, these courtyards Haunted by the white gazelle. Place between here and there and there and here. Nothing takes root now, nothing. Only the sand may nibble these flagstones. Vanity builds such effective monuments. Look, as much as north wind covers South wind reveals. There is never enough sand. One Who Slices Bitter Gourds Friends who depart have their caravan routes To keep them occupied. Platitudes are all one may expect. Patience is a virtue. Soothe the heart with tears. Listen, I have wept patiently. Where may I sleep among these ruins? The pale thorn throws scant shade. Even in the few hours left me. The wind brings tears to the eyes. Remote Caravanserai Mother of Cloud, the maidenly rains Drift westwards; to the east An emaciated crone hoes the topsoil. This is grief, the legendary, tears Of desire for what is, after all, Hardly lamentable: the wail That greys a man’s fine beard, Drenches his girdle, rusts his sword. Feasting the Girls Idiocy! My camel sank to its knees, Stabbed in a frenzy induced by the giggles. My saddle was made their trophy. Well May you blush, sir, just as I would, Were I younger, teased with the meat, Garlanded with tassels of fat. Delicious! Pleiades Plump eggs are nested in those litters Few design to raid - as if they were Stone cold or not for the asking To be had whenever the hen and her brood Go peckety over the vast dark yard. Unaizaki threads the brilliants, Taking care to match them all in order, So they form a necklet. “Wear it And feel feathery.” Behind the screen She shivers in her nightie. “Who?” Ridge above Ridge “Paws to yourself, please. What’s so clever In going on your belly beneath the goatskins, Nosing for goods the ostrich buried? I’ll carry the lamp: when we’re dazzled You make the blunders, but who takes the risk? The vixen. She has to drag her brush To cover the traces. Don’t play the fool If you want me to do the same with the fringes Of my cloak. What is out here But dunes, and dunes more firm by far Than any mounds a girl like me can offer? And you still haven’t told me what we’re after.”
This led to a life-long interest in Arabic poetry and ultimately to my versions of the Iraqi poet Fawzi Karim – published by Carcanet.
Much art concerns experience. What we know. But at the same time we need to express what we feel about what we hear about, or see on our screens, the hyper-real. So although we may often be advised to “write about what we know about”, it is also important to write about what we don’t know about but by which we are moved. Calamity should not be deemed out of bounds because not directly experienced. The most terrifying novel of World War 1 was written by Walter Owen from a sanitorium – The Cross of Carl (Grey Suit Editions).
I have feelings that result from the horrific images, the suffering I see. It is the duty of my imagination to manifest my unease, my loathing of war. To free my imagination, I often rely on chance: drawing on old blotch-covered sheets or drawing with the eyes closed. I am only partially in control, I accept my inexperience. I can only try. Click on each image to expand.
War – a short video slideshow drawn with the eyes closed.
I first posted this in 2020. Still one of my favourite posts, though it didn’t get much attention at the time.
Hillary matching James Nares.
Hunter Biden and his art.
References:
https://edition.cnn.com/style/article/hillary-clinton-washington-home-photos/index.html
There’s a new artist in Town. The name is Biden.
Adam Popescu, New York Times, February 28, 2020
I am very excited that the libretto I wrote for a performance opera that was inspired by the great early Christian church in Aquileia has now been set to music and recorded.
See also Shadow of a Campanile.
More details to follow. I now have to create the accompanying performance. I will need five performers. Anyone interested should contact me.
My thanks to all involved so far. Below are the first audio takes.
The only evidence of invisible women,
These anatomical vaginas form themselves
From stalks that have grown out of leaves.
Aberrant blooms that have got it all wrong?
x
Or are they the next delicious thing –
More alluring than the vampires of Berlin?
Each one a purple vial to drown a rat in,
Patiently ingesting its remains. Time-honoured
x
Transformation! Protein changed to lush vegetation.
Quintessential females, lidded so as to prevent
Premature exit, who float above their dais of moss.
Urns presented in chorus: a choir of harpies
x
Making up an exhibit in a tent more sweat-inducing
Than any rain forest. Their low-level chandeliers
Actually remind me of the milking machines
That get attached in parlours. Just as effectively
x
They squeeze the goodness out of their nutrients.
Clearly their role is to further promiscuous metaphor
Rather than resemble any other plant
On show here at a sweltering Hampton Court.
x
First published 2014 in Silent Highway, Anvil Press Poetry – now available through Carcanet
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