The Nun in the Cathedral: Beware the Inclination to Go with the Flow

Diego Velasquez, ’The Nun Jeronima de la Fuente'

'Most of our assumptions have outlived their uselessness.'
Marshall McLuhan

I’m not sure I consider myself a holiday expert. I don’t really like the heat or beaches or exotic food; the awkward new acquaintances, scatter cushions and exacting shower mechanics. And I’ve never quite mastered the flip-flop.

I am nonetheless partial to an Italian Tri-Centre Break. This vacation format works on the assumption that every Italian town has some decent restaurants and a couple of charming churches; an agreeable piazza filled with old folk drinking coffee, a gallery stocked with unfamiliar Renaissance art - entirely sufficient to merit a couple of nights’ stay. And if you cluster a few of these towns together, you arrive at a very satisfactory holiday. Bologna-Ravenna-Parma; Cremona-Mantova-Verona; Vicenza-Padova-Ferrara. Ideal!

Like everyone else, I try to be ‘a traveller, not a tourist.’ Not easy for a bloke from Essex. One tactic I occasionally employ is to attend Sunday Mass at the local Cathedral. For an hour I can blend in with the natives in a space devoid of sightseers. I can feel like I belong. 

On a visit to Parma some years ago, having ascertained from my hotel the times of services, I arrived at the Duomo just as they were clearing out the tourists. With a confident gesture I signalled that I was there for Mass and settled into a central pew with my fellow Parmensi. I took some time to observe my neighbours, sat back and admired the impressive architecture. I fitted in.

A small elderly Nun handed me an Order of Service and mumbled some words of welcome in Italian. ‘Bene grazie’ I replied with a smile and what I’m sure was a very convincing accent.

The church gradually filled up. It was quite a big place and we had a pretty good turnout. At ten o’clock precisely, with the toll of a bell and a short procession of candles, thuribles and priests in colourful vestments, the Mass began. Although the service was in Italian, of which I know only a few words, it all progressed along familiar lines. I was aware when to nod and bow and cross myself and so forth, and felt an all-consuming sense of belonging. 

Then a peculiar thing happened. When it came to the time for the Readings, the whole affair, which had been going so smoothly, suddenly ground to a halt. No one had taken up a position at the lectern. People began looking round at the other attendees. The Duomo echoed with confused whispering. 

At length the Nun I had met at the outset - who was now sitting in the front row - turned right round in her bench and, with a formidable glare, pointed towards the centre of the congregation. I followed the line of her arm, carefully calculating the geometry of her posture, and concluded, with a certain amount of anxiety, that she was pointing squarely in my direction.

It was at this juncture that I glanced at my Order of Service and realised that no one else around me had been given one. Perhaps those mumbled words from the elderly Nun had been more than a welcome. Perhaps they had been an invitation to read the Lesson.

I promptly hid the incriminating paper under my seat, looked intently at the floor and began to sweat profusely. I could sense that the eyes of the whole congregation were now upon me. I was determined not to budge. 

After what seemed like an eternity, the Nun herself took the stand and delivered the Readings. Order was restored and the Mass regained its impetus. At the end of the service I made a quick bolt for the exit. I didn’t quite feel that I belonged any more.

'It is useless to attempt to reason a man out of a thing he was never reasoned into.'
Jonathan Swift

So much of what we do in life is based on false assumptions, outdated suppositions, wrong information. Yet we are driven by inertia, carried along by our own momentum, floating on a cloud of misplaced confidence. We want to fit in. We want to belong. We follow the crowd and go with the flow. We nod our assent. We unthinkingly conform. We laugh at jokes we don’t really comprehend. We agree to actions we don’t really endorse. We say ‘yes’ when we should really be saying ‘no’.

It takes conscious effort, an act of will, to dismiss the urge to belong; to resist the force of momentum in our lives; to stop for a moment, reflect and ask: ‘Why?’

‘No, no, no.
You don't love me
And I know now.
No, no, no.
You don't love me,
Yes I know now.
'Cause you left me, Baby,
And I got no place to go now.’

Dawn Penn, ‘You Don’t Love Me’ (Cobbs / Mcdaniel)

No. 300

‘Find Hungry Samurai’: Team Building Lessons from a Japanese Master

‘Of course you’re afraid of the enemy. But don’t forget: he’s afraid of you too.'
‘Seven Samurai’

‘Seven Samurai’ is a 1954 epic drama set in sixteenth century Japan, co-written and directed by Akira Kurosawa.

A small village has been repeatedly ravaged by bandits, and the inhabitants learn that their tormentors plan to return after the harvest. 

'Is there no god to protect us? Land tax, forced labour, war, drought and now bandits. The gods want us farmers dead!’

The villagers send a delegation into town to hire rōnin, masterless samurai, in the hope that they may provide some protection. Lacking money to pay for the warriors, the farmers are initially treated with contempt. However eventually they find Kambei, an experienced samurai with a noble spirit. 

With his help they recruit six more men: a trusted former comrade, a youth who’s keen to learn, a taciturn master swordsman, an amiable strategist, a hearty joker and an enthusiastic fraud.

When the warriors arrive at the village they are greeted with suspicion. The locals’ previous experience of samurai has been violent and exploitative. 

'All farmers ever do is worry, whether the rain falls, the sun shines or the wind blows. In short, all they know is fear.’

But the samurai gradually earn the villagers’ trust and they set about converting meek farmers into a fighting force. Soon the villagers are learning combat technique, battle tactics and how to operate as a unit. 

'This is the nature of war: collective defence protects the individual; individual defence destroys the individual.’

Kambei surveys the village with a map, plotting where to expect the enemy assaults; where to build barricades and moats.

‘Defence is more difficult than attack.’

At length the stockades are constructed, the training is completed and the crops are harvested. The villagers begin to speculate that they may be lucky this time: perhaps the bandits won’t come after all.

'A tempting thought. But when you think you're safe is precisely when you're most vulnerable.'

Of course Kambei is right, and soon the hostilities commence. Central to his strategy is his intention to lure the bandits into the village one by one.

'A good fort needs a gap. The enemy must be lured in. So we can attack them. If we only defend, we lose the war.’

All goes to plan. The mounted bandits can only break into the village in ones and twos. And once inside they are picked off by groups of farmers armed with bamboo spears. 

But the fighting takes its toll on the villagers too. With their strength fading and their numbers dwindling, they prepare for the final all-out attack. Kambei orders that the remaining thirteen bandits be allowed into the village all at once. 

The magnificent climactic scene takes place in a torrential morning downpour. Confused horses twist and turn in the mud, stamping and snorting. Determined villagers crowd around desperate bandits, screaming their battle cries, goading them with their spears. Fearsome samurai wade in the water, swinging their swords, slashing through the enemy armour. It’s chaotic and brutal.

‘Seven Samurai’ was an international success and was adapted into the 1960 western 'The Magnificent Seven.’ It inspired many subsequent action and adventure films, and is credited with establishing the 'assembling the team’ motif that has become familiar in so many war, caper and heist movies.

‘Seven Samurai’ suggests lessons for anyone in business engaged in recruiting and managing a team.

Kambei didn’t just sign up the six most talented samurai. In the first place the villagers couldn’t afford them. But also he knew that the best individuals don’t necessarily make the best team. Rather Kambei recruited a balance of youth and experience, of strategic and fighting skills, of swordsmanship and archery. He embraced hard-nosed puritans and eccentric mavericks. He recognised the need for humour to build morale. And he drilled the team tirelessly before they faced the enemy.

I was particularly struck by the words of the village elder at the outset of the drama.

'Find hungry samurai. Even bears leave the forest when they are hungry.’

I couldn’t claim to have been the best leader of a Planning Department. But I was conscious of the need for diversity of skills and character; for building community and delivering value. And I tried to avoid the obvious hires - people with big reputations, big wage demands and low motivation. I liked to find talent in unfamiliar places; to fish in less popular ponds. I always hired people I liked, admired and trusted – people with appetite. I found hungry samurai.

Though the samurai emerge triumphant from the conflict, their victory comes at a heavy price. At the end of the film the three surviving warriors look on from the funeral mounds of their comrades as the villagers joyously plant fresh crops. 

‘So. Again we are defeated. The farmers have won. Not us.’

'When you come to me
I'll question myself again.
Is this grip on life still my own?

When every step I take
Leads me so far away.
Every thought should bring me closer home.

There you stand making my life possible.
Raise my hands up to heaven,
But only you could know.

My whole world stands in front of me.
By the look in your eyes.
By the look in your eyes.’

David Sylvian,’ Brilliant Trees’ 

No. 299

Marina Abramovic: Creativity Is a State of Mind

'Art is not just about another beautiful painting that matches your dining room floor. Art has to be disturbing, art has to ask a question, art has to predict the future.’
Marina Abramovic

I recently watched a documentary about the Serbian performance artist Marina Abramovic (‘Marina Abramovic: The Artist Is Present’, by Matthew Akers, 2012). 

Creating work since the early 1970s, Abramovic is considered ‘the grandmother of performance art.’ Using her own body as her medium, she has explored themes of physical endurance and mental strength; artistic and female identity; the relationship between performer and audience. It’s pretty challenging stuff.

Abramovic jabbed a knife between her splayed fingers. She kneeled naked before a large industrial fan. She took psychoactive drugs in front of an audience. She set fire to a wooden five-pointed Communist star, lay inside it and fainted from the lack of oxygen. She placed 72 objects on a table - a rose, a feather, honey, scissors, a scalpel, a gun, a single bullet - and informed spectators that they could apply them to her in whatever way they wanted - to give her pleasure or inflict pain - without being held responsible for their actions. 

‘The veneer of civilisation is very thin, and what’s absolutely terrifying is how quickly a group of people will become bestial if you give them permission to do so.’
Chrissie Iles, Whitney Museum of American Art

In 1976 Abramovic teamed up with German performance artist Ulay. 
They ran into each other repeatedly. They sat back-to-back, tied together by their ponytails for sixteen hours. They drove a van around a square shouting numbers through a megaphone. They stood naked in a narrow doorway and invited the public to squeeze between them. They sat silently across from each other. They yelled at each other. Ulay pointed an arrow at Abramovic’s heart.

'Performance is all about state of mind.’

In 1988, in a piece called ‘The Lovers’, Abramovic and Ulay walked the Great Wall of China, starting from the two opposite ends and meeting in the middle. After this experience the couple separated.

It’s easy to dismiss or mock performance art. It’s daft, unhinged, attention seeking. But let’s pause for a moment to reflect on what the artist is trying to convey. What are we to make of such bold and provocative staged events? 

Firstly Abramovic doesn’t want her art to be easy. She actively embraces the disagreeable and uncomfortable.

'From a very early time, I understood that I only learn from things I don’t like. If you do things you like, you just do the same shit. You always fall in love with the wrong guy. Because there’s no change. It’s so easy to do things you like. But then, the thing is, when you’re afraid of something, face it, go for it. You become a better human being.’

One can’t help but be struck by Abramovic’s fierce determination, her stamina, her willingness to address her vulnerabilities and fears. Indeed she talks more about the mental process required to create the work than about the output itself.

'Artists have to be warrior. Have to have this determination and have to have the stamina to conquer not just new territory, but also to conquer himself, and his weaknesses. So, it doesn't matter what kind of work you're doing as an artist, the most important is from what state of mind you're doing what you're doing.’

Some of the meaning behind Abramovic’s work may reside in her childhood. She was born in Belgrade, former Yugoslavia, in 1946.  Her parents, renowned Partisan fighters during World War II, gave her a strict, disciplined, religious upbringing.

‘So basically you are looking at many Marinas. You are looking at the Marina who is product of two Partisan parents, two national heroes. No limits. Willpower. Any aim she put it in the front of her. And then right next to this one you have the other one who is like a little girl. Her mother never gave her enough love. Very vulnerable and unbelievably disappointed and sad. And then there is another one who has this kind of spiritual wisdom and can go above all that. And this is actually my favourite one.’

Few of us would put ourselves through the trials that Abramovic has inflicted on herself. But many may share her conflicted identity. Her work prompts us to consider the resonances that childhood experience have throughout our lives: our fragmented selves.

'I realized that this is the theme I return to constantly - I'm always trying to prove to everyone that I can go it alone, that I can survive, that I don't need anybody.’

The documentary follows Abramovic as she prepares for a 2010 retrospective of her work at The Museum of Modern Art in New York. At that show she introduces a new piece, ‘The Artist Is Present.’

'The hardest thing is to do something which is close to nothing because it is demanding all of you.’

Abramovic sits at a table in the museum atrium in a long monotone gown, and invites audience members to take turns to sit opposite her for a few minutes before being moved on. She remains at her station for seven and a half hours, six days a week, for three months - in silence, without food or water.

‘The inability to keep going, the potential of giving up, will become part of the performance if it occurs.’

Abramovic stares serenely at the visitor in front of her. The visitor smiles back and blinks and fidgets a little. There are furrowed brows, intense gazes and deep sighs. Occasionally a woman holds her hand to her heart. Time slows. People are very conscious of their breathing. Many burst into tears.

‘There are so many reasons why people come to sit in front of me. Some of them they’re angry, some are the curious. Some of them just want to know what happens. Some of them they are really open and you feel incredible pain. So many people have so much pain. When they’re sitting in front of me it’s not about me any more. Very soon I’m just a mirror of their own self.’

With a month to go Abramovic removes the table and so creates an even more intimate experience. As the show gains celebrity, it attracts long queues, repeat visitors, cultish fans, eccentrics and exhibitionists. A man has scored 21 onto his arm to mark the number of times he has sat with the artist.

I felt sorry for one woman who disrobes as soon as she gets in front of Abramovic. She is immediately removed by Security, but explains after that she was only trying to make a respectful tribute.

‘I wanted to be as vulnerable to her as she makes herself to everyone else.’

I found ‘The Artist Is Present’ rather moving. I was struck by the intimacy that can be created so suddenly between two strangers, the power of the eyes to convey feeling, the magic of interpersonal chemistry. The work suggests the preciousness of silence and time; the craving we all have for human connection; the need to be loved.

There’s a touching moment in the documentary when Ulay joins Abramovic at the MoMA event. He settles opposite her, arranges his jacket and stretches his legs. She looks up, at first surprised. She smiles, sighs and stares intently. He shakes his head reassuringly. She breathes deeply, gulps for air and slowly turns to weeping. They reach across the table and hold each other’s hands.

'If you experiment, you have to fail. By definition, experimenting means going to territory where you’ve never been, where failure is very possible. How can you know you’re going to succeed? Having the courage to face the unknown is so important.' 

'Why don't you look up once in a while?
The sky is bright, the time is here.
Why don't you call him just to say hello?
Oh, the light was right, we all thought so.
I don't want to take anything from you.
I want to see you living.
I want to see you through.’

Nadia Reid, ‘I Don’t Wanna Take Anything from You'

No. 298

My Starring Role in the Primary School Play: ‘Listening Isn’t the Same as Waiting to Speak’

The other day I came across a photo of myself on stage when I was at primary school.

I was playing the Mayor in a musical called ‘Edelweiss’ which we performed in front of the local old folks’ home. There I am in my velvet jacket, medal of office and tricorn hat, executing a vibrant dance number flanked by my chums Paul and Arthur. There’s a rather impressive backdrop of snowy mountains, fir trees and flowers. And a good few of my classmates are arrayed across the stage in their Alpine gear - looking somewhat disinterested.

I recall there was also a rom-com element to the show. This entailed me singing a song to fellow pupil Tracey.

‘Oh, I love your eyes of blue and I love your kisses too.
But most of all I love your custard pies.’

Given that pies and custard are two of my favourite things, this refrain could well have been written for me.

The curious thing about ‘Edelweiss’ is that I don’t recall anything about the plot, the cast or the other characters. I just remember my starring role.

In his splendid autobiography, ’The Moon’s a Balloon,’ David Niven tells a story of his early years as a struggling actor in Hollywood. He’d just played a small part in the 1938 romantic comedy ‘Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife,’ and Charlie Chaplin was attending a private screening. After the movie Niven was gratified to receive compliments from those in attendance, but he was particularly keen to hear what the great man thought of his performance. Chaplin paused for a moment.

John Springer Collection | Credit: Corbis via Getty Images

‘Don’t be like the great majority of actors… Don’t just stand around waiting for your turn to speak – learn to listen.’  

Niven took Chaplin’s criticism on the chin, and indeed felt it ‘constituted the greatest advice to any beginner in my profession.’

I’m sure that’s true. So often we see actors on stage or screen that seem disengaged from the other characters around them, or indeed from the scene they’re performing in. They’re just waiting for the moment when they get to deliver their lines. 

I think this is the case in commerce too. I recall being told once that we all go into a business meeting with a fair idea of the amount that we are likely to say. Juniors will speak seldom, but will hope to play a significant supporting role. Middle ranking people will say a good deal, sustaining the bulk of the agenda. And they will vie with each other to dominate the speaking parts. Senior people will talk less, but will swing in towards the end with illuminating wisdom and definitive conclusions.

If we go into a meeting already understanding the role we’re about to perform, what are the chances we also know the lines we’re going to deliver?

Despite the fact that nowadays we are endlessly encouraged to be active listeners, I suspect that most of us still struggle to attend to the other participants in our meetings. They’re holding us up, distracting our attention, delaying the moment when we’ll deliver our pithy analysis, our penetrating insight. 

Too often life is a drama in which we’re only interested in one of the characters. Surely we’d make a bigger impact, and enjoy ourselves a good deal more, if we paid proper attention to the other roles that populate our play, to the plot that drives it and the themes that sustain it. As Chaplin observed, listening is the key to a great performance. And listening isn’t the same as waiting to speak.

On reflection, I’m not sure the Mayor was the starring role in ‘Edelweiss.’ It was probably just a bit part.

'Why fool yourself?
Don't be afraid to help yourself.
It's never too late, too late to
Stop, look,
Listen to your heart, hear what it's saying.
Stop, look,
Listen to your heart, hear what it's saying.
Love, love, love.’

The Stylistics, ‘Stop-Look-Listen’ (J Abbott / T Bell / G Black / L Creed / C David)

No. 297

‘The Man in the White Suit’: What Will We Do When We’ve Nothing to Make?

‘You’re not even born yet. What do you think happened to all the other things?
The razor blade that never gets blunt, the car that runs on water with just a pinch of something. No, they’ll never let your stuff on the market in a million years.’
Member of the Works Committee to Sidney Stratton, 'The Man In The White Suit' 

'The Man In The White Suit' is a fine 1951 Ealing comedy directed by Alexander Mackendrick. Whilst gently satirising the English class system, the film also asks some profound questions about the impact of technology and innovation on labour and capital.

‘Flotsam floating on the flood tide of profits. There's capitalism for you.’

'The Man In The White Suit' is set in the world of northern textile manufacture. Alec Guinness plays Sidney Stratton, a brilliant young research chemist who has been dismissed from jobs at several mills.

‘One day there’ll be someone with real vision… It’s small minds like yours that stand in the way of progress.’

Stratton finds a role in the laboratory of Birnley Mill. Here he constructs a complex apparatus of clamp stands and spiral condensers; a tangle of flasks and funnels, beakers and burettes, that periodically emits beeps and steam. Inspired by new fabrics like rayon and nylon, he sets about designing long chain molecules that form into an incredibly strong, dirt-resistant fibre.

‘He’s made a new kind of cloth. It never gets dirty and it lasts for ever!'

To demonstrate Stratton’s new discovery he has a suit made from the new material. Since it cannot absorb dye and contains radioactive elements, the garment is brilliant white and luminous. He may look a little eccentric in his new threads, but the fabric passes every test. He is congratulated by the owner of Birnley Mill who sees the potential for huge profits, and by the owner's daughter who imagines huge social good.

‘Don’t you understand what this means? Millions of people all over the world living lives of drudgery, fighting an endless losing battle against shabbiness and dirt. You’ve won that battle for them. You’ve set them free. The whole world’s going to bless you.’

However, the broader community of mill owners realises that this new cloth could ruin the textile industry.

‘Are you mad? It’ll knock the bottom out of everything right down to the primary producers. What about the sheep farmers, the cotton growers, the importers and the middle men? It’ll ruin all of them.’
‘Let’s stick to the point. What about us?’

The bosses endeavour to keep Stratton’s invention a secret, and to buy the formula in order to suppress it.

‘There’s only one thing that’ll pull the market together. That is denial backed with suppression. Total and permanent.’

At the same time the local trade unionists realise that the invention could deprive them of their jobs. They take matters into their own hands and lock Stratton up.

‘If this stuff never wears out, we’ll only have one lot to make.’

At length management and workers recognise that they are united in their desire to see Stratton’s innovation checked.

‘What are we arguing for? Nobody wants to market it. My dear friends, you must see that our bone of contention is non-existent. Capital and labour are hand-in-hand in this. Once again, as so often in the past, each needs the help of the other.’

The Man in the White Suit 1951

'The Man In The White Suit' explores themes that are very much relevant today: Should science pursue innovation that improves people’s lives regardless of the impact it may have on industry and employment? How do we deal with the concentration of capital that results from such disruptive change? How do we accommodate the workers who have lost their jobs? 

What will we do when we’ve nothing to make?

Some have argued that this industrial revolution, like every previous one, will ultimately create employment in new sectors and businesses. Some see opportunities in areas where emotional intelligence trumps artificial intelligence - in the caring and creative professions for instance. Some have put the case for global tax regimes and Universal Basic Income. 

Or will our most pressing problem, as Keynes predicted in 1931, be finding how to fill our newly abundant leisure time?

'For the first time since his creation man will be faced with his real, his permanent problem—how to use his freedom from pressing economic cares, how to occupy the leisure, which science and compound interest will have won.’
John Meynard Keynes, 'Economic Possibilities'

We all want to be on the side of progress. None of us longs to be a Luddite. But it would help if we could agree on some credible answers to these fundamental questions.

When Stratton escapes capture, he is chased by an angry mob through the streets of the town. He encounters his elderly washerwoman.

‘Why can't you scientists leave things alone? What about my bit of washing when there's no washing to do?’

At this point we become aware that there is a fault in the invention: after a period of time the fabric deteriorates. When the bosses and workers finally corner an exhausted Stratton, they see that the white suit is beginning to fall apart. Delighted, they rip what remains of it to pieces. The misunderstood inventor is left standing in his underwear. 

'They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot.
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot.
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
'Till it's gone.
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot.

Joni Mitchell, ‘Big Yellow Taxi'

No. 296

‘It’s About Not Blinking’: The Unfiltered Truth of Steve McQueen

‘Ashes’ still from film - Steve McQueen

‘The fact of the matter is I’m interested in a truth. I cannot put a filter on life. It’s about not blinking.’
Steve McQueen

I recently visited the excellent Steve McQueen exhibition at Tate Modern (until 6 September 2020).

We’re greeted by the Statue of Liberty. She is filmed from a circling helicopter, and beyond her there are factories, warehouses and skyscrapers; bridges, barges and cruise ships - arrayed across New York Harbor, glistening in the sunlight. And yet she looks grim-faced, tired perhaps from holding her golden torch aloft for so long. Her garments of oxidised copper, in places caked in guano, seem somewhat tatty. The Dream she represents has achieved so much for so many. But now it is frayed around the edges.

We enter a room with a screen scrolling through old FBI files. They detail the surveillance carried out in the ‘40s and ‘50s on the singer, actor and Civil Rights campaigner Paul Robeson. Trivial observations and banal insights. Heavy type and crude redaction. A voiceover reads from another set of similar documents. We are immersed in a world of paranoia and anxiety; of secrecy and bureaucracy. The wary speculation of suspicious minds. The film runs for over 5 hours.

McQueen asks us to stay a little longer, to reflect on what’s going on around us - the mysteries, curiosities and injustices; the political intrigues and personal tragedies; the unvarnished truth. Stop, look and listen.

‘7th November’ - Single 35mm slide, sound, 23 minutes. Steve McQueen

'As far as I’m concerned, it’s all about the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. End of. To get to that, you have to go in close, uncover what’s been hidden or covered over. Obviously, the easy thing is not to go there, but I have a need to go there.’

McQueen takes us by the hand through the world’s deepest goldmine, the Tau Tona in South Africa. We encounter Tricky immersed in a recording studio. We reflect on the images NASA selected in 1977 to represent the human condition to possible alien life forms. We pause to examine McQueen’s nipple, Charlotte Rampling’s eye. 

Here’s a young man named Ashes, sitting on the prow of a boat in Grenada, where McQueen’s father was raised. Ashes looks fit, handsome, self-assured - completely at ease with the blissful, open-skied world around him. We pause for a while and take in the azure beauty of it all. There’s a curious scraping sound - metal on stone perhaps? - coming from the other side of the room. We realise the large screen we’ve been watching is double-sided. On the reverse there are two workmen preparing a grave. It is Ashes’ tomb. The seemingly carefree young man got caught up in a drugs incident. Memento mori.

Born in 1969, McQueen grew up in Shepherd’s Bush and Ealing, West London. He was an undiagnosed dyslexic, relegated to the lower stream at school, and he had to wear a patch to cover a ‘lazy eye.’ He felt isolated. 

'What I do as an artist is, I think, to do with my own life experience. I came of age in a school which was a microcosm of the world around me. One day, you’re together as a group, the next, you are split up by people who think certain people are better than you.’

Steve McQueen. (Photo: Thierry Bal)

McQueen studied art and design at Chelsea College of Arts and then fine art at Goldsmiths College. Increasingly he specialised in short films, and in 1999 he won the Turner Prize. In 2006, commissioned to visit Iraq as an official war artist, he commemorated the deaths of British soldiers by presenting their portraits as sheets of stamps. 

Since 2008 McQueen has created feature films. ‘Hunger’, ‘Shame’, and ‘12 Years a Slave’ considered an Irish hunger strike, sex addiction and slavery. With ‘12 Years a Slave’ he became the first black director to win a Best Picture Oscar.

For McQueen close scrutiny of the world frees us from the indifference and detachment of our comfortably numb, accelerated modern lives.

‘You want to cause a bit of trouble, stir things up a bit. We’re all a bit numb right now, so that’s even more important. It’s like, ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ Let’s make some noise.'

McQueen makes the point that the better we see - the more we bear witness - the more we are seen.

'It’s not just about anger. It’s about seeing, contemplating, serious consideration. It’s about being seen, and heard and recognised, so as the years pass they can’t make you invisible.'

We encounter Marcus, McQueen’s cousin, lying with his close-cropped scalp facing towards us. A scar runs from one end of his head to the other. Marcus relates the chilling story of how he shot his younger brother. A small mistake leads to another bigger mistake. And so, in an instant, one life is ended and another changes forever.

'Easy, Natty, easy.
Nah take it so rough.
Easy, Natty, easy.
Babylon too tough.
Them a walk, them a shoot, them a loot.
Babylon them a brute.
Them a walk, them a loot, them a shoot.
But we know evil by the root.’

Gregory Isaacs, ‘Babylon Too Rough’ (G Isaacs / W G Holness)

No. 295

The Triumph of the Frustrations: Sometimes We Need to Star in Our Own Movie

Walter Richard Sickert - Brighton Pierrots 1915, Tate

Well, yes, since you were asking, I can sing. I have a sweet voice, but it has a narrow range and a tendency to go a-wandering. At school I found my appropriate level as a rank-and-file member of the choir. I appreciated that there was safety in numbers. I knew my place.

Nonetheless, I always hankered after greater things. I yearned for the spotlight, for centre stage, imagining that there was a sensuous soul singer lurking deep within my awkward, apprehensive exterior.

The Pembroke College Talent Competition provided the ideal opportunity to test my mettle. And so I teamed up with my mate Thommo, who could both sing and play guitar. Conscious of my more limited skill-set, I suggested it would be best if he concentrated on the instrumental side of things.

We called ourselves The Frustrations, the idea being that we were ‘the thwarted Temptations.’ But to be honest we didn’t have too much in common with David Ruffin and co.

We put together a concise set of covers that would appeal to a broad range of student tastes. Iggy Pop’s ‘The Passenger’ had a menacing monotone verse and a rousing ‘la-la-la’ chorus. The Smiths’ ‘Please, Please, Please’ signalled a pale-and-interesting, wistful melancholia. And Andy Williams’ ‘Can’t Get Used to Losing You’ implied a certain supper-club sophistication.

'Guess there's no use in hangin' ‘round.
Guess I'll get dressed and do the town.
I'll find some crowded avenue,
Though it will be empty without you.
I can't get used to losin' you no matter what I try to do,
Gonna live my whole life thorough, loving you.’

Andy Williams, ‘Can’t Get Used to Losing You’ (J Pomus / M Shuman)

On the big night Thommo and I donned our shiny vintage suits, with pressed shirts and slim silk ties. As usual, I had my hair slicked back with Black & White coconut oil - I think I was channelling Spandau Ballet – and, of course, we both wore white towelling socks. We were from Croydon and Romford, and ours was the true sound of the suburbs.

The College bar was small, smoke-filled, dark and dingy, the only comfort supplied by the tatty orange-brown banquettes. Tonight it was crammed with students in combat jackets, pyjama tops and greasy Docs; with studded belts, ripped jeans and soaped-up hair.

And so it came to our turn at the microphone, and we edged onto the makeshift stage located neatly between the darts board and the jukebox. What we lacked in ability we made up for with youthful brio. And soon we had them swaying on the banquettes and singing along with the chorus. Our friends Rob and Doug enhanced the authentic gig experience by pelting us with plastic glasses.

No surprise perhaps that the Frustrations triumphed at the Pembroke College Talent Competition. The Holsten Pils bottles were cracked open, the jukebox was cranked up, and Thommo and I danced jubilantly into the early hours. ‘The sky was made for us tonight.’

'Get into the car.
We'll be the passenger.
We'll ride through the city tonight.
See the city's ripped backsides.
We'll see the bright and hollow sky
We'll see the stars that shine so bright.
The sky was made for us tonight.’

Iggy Pop, ‘The Passenger’ (J Osterberg / R Gardiner)

Many of us are naturally shy, polite, reserved. We are team players, happy to participate and contribute, without being centre stage. But that’s not always enough to sustain us. Sometimes it seems like we’re just extras or bit-part actors; as if we’re performing a supporting role in someone else’s film.

Just occasionally it serves us well to write our own script, to step into the spotlight, to deliver our own lines, to play the romantic lead – regardless of the constraints of talent. Sometimes we deserve to live life like the star of our own movie.

Subsequent to our success Thommo and I resisted the siren call of a music career and slipped quietly back into our erstwhile roles as geeky Classicists. We were happy enough with this outcome. We had got what we wanted. This time.


'Good time for a change.
See, the luck I've had
Can make a good man
Turn bad.
So please, please, please
Let me, let me, let me,
Let me get what I want
This time.'

The Smiths, ‘Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want’ (J Marr / S Morrissey)

No. 294

‘A Face in the Crowd’: The Dark Journey from Popularity to Populism

'I'll say one thing for him, he's got the courage of his ignorance.’
Mel Miller, 'A Face in the Crowd' 

'A Face in the Crowd' is a 1957 satirical drama that considers the power of modern media to create celebrities, and the influence that those celebrities can wield in contemporary commerce and politics.

Directed by Elia Kazan and written by Budd Schulberg, the movie stars Andy Griffith as Larry ‘Lonesome’ Rhodes, a drifter musician. At the outset, Rhodes is discovered in the county jail by Marcia Jeffries (played by Patricia Neal), the producer of a radio station serving rural northeast Arkansas. She is taken with his combination of raw musical ability, earthy charisma and homespun humour, and she gives him a slot on her show.

Rhodes comes across as a mix of Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash and Billy Graham. He quickly wins a following with his straight talking, folksy wit and sardonic criticism of local politicians.

'How does it feel?... Just saying anything that comes into your head and being able to sway people like this.'

Rhodes’ growing celebrity earns him a slot on a Memphis TV network. As he is waved off from the railway station by a crowd of wellwishers, he reveals to Jeffries his contempt for the small town that made him.

'Boy, am I glad to shake that dump.’

Once in Memphis Rhodes soon proves himself a natural in front of the camera.

'Hey, Mr. Cameraman, move that old red eye a little closer.... I wanna talk face-to-face with them friends of mine out there.’

He seems to have a fundamental understanding of the lives of ordinary people. 

'You know one thing I could see right off about a big city. There's a whole lot of people in trouble out there.’

Rhodes is indiscreet and outspoken on-air. When he ridicules his sponsor, the Luffler Mattress Company, they pull their advertising. This prompts his adoring fans to burn mattresses in the street, and the sponsor discovers that Rhodes' clowning actually increased sales by 55%. 

Rhodes becomes aware of the power of his celebrity.

'I'm not just an entertainer. I'm an influence, a wielder of opinion, a force... a force!’

Rhodes’ ascent continues. He gets a gig fronting a New York TV show and recommends that the sponsor Vitajex, a worthless dietary supplement, should be repositioned.

'Hey, I got an idea. Let's make 'em yellow. Yellow's the color of sunshine and energy. Gives a fella that get-up-and-go that sets him up solid with the ladies.’

The Madison Avenue executives representing Vitajex are sceptical of Rhodes’ expertise.

‘Why, we've spent tens of thousands of dollars to find out the key words like 'bracing' and 'zestful.' Rhodes has the audacity to tear our copy to shreds right in front of the audience.’

Nonetheless Rhodes impresses the wealthy Vitajex owner, who commissions the TV star to consult Senator Worthington Fuller in his bid for the Presidency. Fuller favours isolationism, small government and reduced social security. His incumbent advisors suggest their candidate is broadly respected, but Rhodes doesn’t think that’s enough.

'Respect? Did you ever hear of anyone buying any product - beer, hair rinse, tissue - because they respect it? You gotta be loved, man. Loved.’

Rhodes’ fame and influence spread, and soon his face is all over the nation’s magazine covers: ‘The Legend of a Folk Hero.’ He becomes a tyrannical, manipulative egomaniac, as untrustworthy in love as he is in business. 

'This whole country's just like my flock of sheep!… Rednecks, crackers, hillbillies, hausfraus, shut-ins, pea-pickers - everybody that's got to jump when somebody else blows the whistle… They're mine! I own 'em! They think like I do. Only they're even more stupid than I am, so I gotta think for 'em.’

Eventually Jeffries becomes horrified by the monster she has created. At the end of a national TV broadcast, when Rhodes thinks the microphones are off, she turns them back on. And the American public hears what he really thinks of them.

'Those morons out there? Shucks, I could take chicken fertilizer and sell it to them as caviar. I could make them eat dog food and think it was steak. Sure, I got 'em like this... You know what the public's like? A cage of guinea pigs. Good night you stupid idiots. Good night, you miserable slobs. They're a lot of trained seals. I toss them a dead fish and they'll flap their flippers.’

‘A Face in the Crowd’ was a remarkably prescient movie. It warned of the risk to democracy when the lines between politics, entertainment and commerce are blurred. It predicted the magnifying power of modern media to turn celebrities into ‘influencers’ and demagogues; to transform popularity into populism - pitting the virtuous masses against a corrupt elite.

’There’s nothing as trustworthy as the ordinary mind of the ordinary man.'
‘Lonesome’ Rhodes’ campaign slogan

We should hope that present day populists will, like Rhodes, ultimately be betrayed by their own cynicism. 

'Oh, goodnight, moon.
Moon, you just fade, fade
Fade, fade away.
Oh, goodnight, moon.
Moon, you just fade away.
And hurry up, Mr. Sun.
Bring on new day.
Gonna be a free man in the morning
Free man in the morning
Free man in the morning

Andy Griffith, 'Free Man in the Mornin’’ (T Glazer, B Schulberg)

No. 293

Clarence Avant and the Necessity of Networks: ‘I Don’t Have Problems, I Have Friends’

Clarence Avant by Charley Gallay©Getty Images for NAACP

‘Say Clarence Avant’s name, and the doors open and the seas part.’
LA Reid

I recently watched a Netflix documentary relating the compelling life story of Clarence Avant (‘The Black Godfather’). 

In a long and illustrious career Avant has been a salesman, agent, manager and producer. He has been a successful entrepreneur, owning record companies and a radio station. He has been a gatekeeper, an orchestrator, a mediator and a negotiator. He has been the mentor and mastermind of countless careers in the music and entertainment industry. To many he is known simply as The Black Godfather.

Avant teaches us a great deal about the critical role of relationships and networks in work and life. He represents a particular style of leadership, one that exerts influence through human connections and emotional intelligence; and one that doesn’t seek the spotlight.

‘You either join the country club or you remain a goddamned caddy. I’m not a f***ing caddy. Period.’

Avant was born in 1931 in Greensboro, North Carolina, and raised in poverty in nearby Climax. He was the oldest of eight children. Not getting on with his stepfather, he put rat poison in the abusive man’s food. He left home soon after.

Avant moved to New Jersey and eventually found work as a manager at Teddy Powell's Lounge. Louis Armstrong’s representative at the time, Joseph G Glaser, took a shine to Avant, and hired him to manage R&B and jazz acts like Little Willie John and Jimmy Smith. 

Avant moved to LA and helped Argentine pianist-composer Lalo Schifrin get into the movie soundtrack business, in which capacity he wrote the theme tune for ‘Mission: Impossible.’ In 1969 Avant founded Sussex Records, and his signings included singer-songwriters Sixto Rodriguez (later celebrated in the documentary ‘Searching for Sugar Man’) and the great (recently departed) Bill Withers. 

'Lean on me, when you're not strong
And I'll be your friend,
I'll help you carry on.
For it won't be long
'Til I'm gonna need
Somebody to lean on.’

Bill Withers, ‘Lean on Me'

Avant’s career inevitably had its ups and downs. In 1973 he bought an LA radio station, thereby becoming one of the first black station owners in America. However, he was overstretched and KAGB folded, taking his record company with it.

But Avant was rarely out of work. He helped major labels recruit and develop African American talent. And in 1977 he launched Tabu Records, which - fuelled by the production genius of Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis - had success with the SOS Band, Alexander O’Neal and Cherrelle.  He subsequently became Chairman of Motown and the first African American board member at PolyGram. 

This may sound like a conventional music business success story.

What’s fascinating about Avant is the relationships he was forging and the deals he was making throughout his career. He seems always to have been on the phone, in one-to-one meetings, making suggestions, offering advice, negotiating agreements. He was equally comfortable talking to heads of studios, politicians and Mafia dons; equally at home at charity fundraisers, in the offices of the President of Coca-Cola and at the White House.

When Cleveland Browns football star Jim Brown was approaching the end of his athletic career, Avant helped him transition into the movie business, a path that included roles in ‘The Dirty Dozen’ and ‘Ice Station Zebra.’ When Atlanta Braves baseball legend Hank Aaron broke Babe Ruth’s record of 714 home runs, Avant helped him realise the true commercial value of his achievement. 

‘Making the money is the creative side. Keeping the money is the Clarence side.’
Lionel Richie

Although not the type of person to go on marches, Avant contributed to the Civil Rights struggle in his own particular way. When Don Cornelius’ TV music vehicle ‘Soul Train’ – of iconic importance within the African American community - was threatened by Dick Clark’s competing dance show, Avant persuaded the ABC network to drop the pretender.

‘My job is to move us forward.’

The "Soul Train" Line, circa 1980.Credit...Soul Train Holdings LLC

In his role as executive producer of major entertainment events - like the 1973 ‘Save the Children’ concert and the 1975 TV tribute to Muhammad Ali - Avant insisted that black talent work behind as well as in front of the cameras.

When Civil Rights leader Andrew Young ran for Congress, Avant helped get his campaign off the ground by organising an Isaac Hayes concert. 

‘If you’re crazy enough to run, I’m crazy enough to try to help you.’

Avant is not given to smooth talk and rhetoric. He doesn’t articulate grand visions. Rather his manner is direct, his tone is gruff and his vocabulary is colourful. And much to friend Quincy Jones’ annoyance, he insists on putting ice in his Chateau Petrus.

‘I can’t make speeches. That’s not my life. I make deals.’

Avant claims to be unemotional, suggesting that life is fundamentally an exercise in accounting.

‘If you don’t ask, you don’t get. Life is about one thing – numbers – nothing else. What did Tina Turner say? ‘What’s love got to do with it?’ Not a f***ing thing, man. That’s why I tell people ‘Life begins with a number and ends with a number.’ Love ain’t got nothing to do with shit. It’s all about numbers and nothing else.’

But the more you listen to the beneficiaries of Avant’s wisdom, the more you realise that his skills extend far beyond raw mathematics. He is warm-hearted and trustworthy. He is a natural negotiator and counsellor.

‘He finds a common ground between people who are different.’ 
Andrew Young

Avant reminds us that the ability to develop and sustain relationships is critical to personal and commercial success. We talk a good deal about networking as if it were a wretched obligation, a cynical skill. Avant demonstrates that networking is a necessary, fundamentally human talent - one that overcomes problems, resolves differences, creates opportunities and builds communities.

‘I don’t have problems, I have friends’

As he grew older, Avant continued to exercise a huge influence on the careers of music and entertainment talent behind the scenes. He mentored Kenneth ‘Babyface’ Edmonds and LA Reid; Sean Combs, Snoop Dogg and Jamie Foxx. In 2004 he helped introduce Barack Obama to the American public by securing him a prime time slot at the Democratic National Convention.

Obama sums Avant’s expertise thus:

‘There are different kinds of power. There’s the power that needs the spotlight. But there’s also the power that comes from being behind the scenes… Clarence exemplifies a certain cool, a certain level of street smarts and savvy that allowed him to move into worlds that nobody had prepared him for - and say: ‘I can figure this out.’’

Avant expresses his approach in more direct terms.

‘Alright motherf***er. Let’s get paid.’

'Friends tell me I am crazy,
And I'm wasting time with you.
You'll never be mine.
It's not the way I see it,
'Cause I feel you're already mine.
Whenever you're with me
People always talkin' about
Your reputation.
I don't care about your other girls,
Just be good to me.’

The SOS Band, ‘Just Be Good To Me’ (J Harris / T Lewis)

No. 292

Shaving in the Dark: No Worker Is an Island

Man Shaving by Thomas Setton

'No man is an island entire of itself; every man 
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.’
John Donne

In the early nineties I decided to focus on my work. I determined to reduce my socialising and increase my industry. I would rise early and return late. I would put my nose to the grindstone and my foot to the floor. 

I was living on my own in a one bedroom flat on Peckham Rye. It had no pictures adorning the magnolia walls, no lampshades to soften the harsh electric light, no curtains to shut out curious eyes. But I had everything I needed for the limited time I planned to spend there: a big floral sofa and a modest TV; a rudimentary hi-fi and a substantial record collection arrayed in cardboard boxes across the floor.

At night I dined on cream crackers and cheese, or takeaway curry washed down with cans of Breaker. I became obsessed with domestic efficiency. In a bid to cut down on washing-up, I took to using paper plates and plastic cutlery. I’m not sure I was too environmentally conscious in those days.

Sometimes, late at night, the number 12 would pause at the junction outside my flat, and the occupants of the top deck would look in on me, isolated and alone with a tray on my lap.

Every day I got up at an ungodly hour to catch that same bus into work. The early bird catches the worm. However, at length I was confronted by my downstairs neighbour, Jerry. My dawn rising had been waking him and his wife, and he wasn’t happy. In particular he found the extractor fan in my bathroom thoroughly irritating.

The offending fan was synchronized with the bathroom light, and it’s fair to say it did make something of an industrial racket. However, rather than getting it fixed, silenced or disconnected, I determined that it would be best to conduct my ablutions on tiptoes without illumination - anything to avoid another awkward encounter with an irate Jerry. After a few attempts it seemed perfectly possible to shower and brush my teeth in the gloom. But shaving in the dark proved particularly challenging.

As I slumped into my seat on the top deck of the number 12, with tissue paper stuck to my wounded neck, I reflected that maybe I was spending too much time on my own.

'A great fire burns within me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it, and passers-by only see a wisp of smoke.'
Vincent Van Gogh

I read recently about research into longevity carried out by science journalist Marta Zaraska ('Growing Young: How Friendship, Optimism and Kindness Can Help You Live to 100’, featured in The Guardian, 22 June 2020).

Zaraska, having reviewed the many academic papers on the subject, has learned that how long we live is only 20% to 25% determined by our genes. Of course, food and nutrition also play their part in prolonging life - a Mediterranean diet (rich in fruit and vegetables; using olive oil instead of butter) reduces the risk of premature death by 21%. But, significantly, having a large network of friends cuts that risk by 45%. Indeed one study claims that each extra person in one’s social circle lowers the chance of dying within five years by 2%. 

In short, happy sociable extroverts tend to live longer than unhappy antisocial introverts. 

'So many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them.'
Sylvia Plath

The particular importance of sociability in determining longevity is illustrated by the case of Roseto, Pennsylvania. In the early ‘60s the inhabitants of this small district were found to have very low rates of heart disease. Researchers discovered that the population of predominantly Italian immigrants had, since arriving in the States, largely given up their traditional Mediterranean diet. But they had retained their sociable community lifestyle, and this was the critical factor in their superior health. 

As Zaraska observes:

‘Maybe the life-prolonging aspect of the Mediterranean diet is not the amount of vegetables and olive oil it contains, but the way these foods are eaten: together with others.’

I was considering Zaraska’s insights in the light of our recently enforced embrace of Working From Home. 

Many argue that the new model should be sustained beyond lockdown. There’s no doubt that technology now enables more fluid, more efficient work practices. Individuals are rejoicing at the prospect of an end to commuting, to mundane water cooler conversations and tiresome sandwich lunches; at the opportunity for a superior work-life balance. And industry is jumping at the chance of reduced rents.

But businesses may find that they still need some social glue to transfer corporate knowledge and culture, to sustain brand loyalty and coherence. And individuals may yet yearn for physical interaction - to progress their careers, to preserve their sanity, and indeed to prolong their lives. A company is as much a community as it is a means of creating wealth.

'It is important for us to know if we are alone in the dark.'
Stephen Hawking

By the end of the ‘70s, many Rosetans had moved on to more spacious, more remote homes, and were travelling around by car rather than on foot. Sadly, as their sociability diminished, their mortality rate fell into line with the rest of the United States.

I’m pleased to say my own period of solitary confinement was ended - before I went completely off the rails - by the arrival of my now wife.

'Mother I tried please believe me,
I'm doing the best that I can.
I'm ashamed of the things I've been put through,
I'm ashamed of the person I am.
Isolation, isolation, isolation.’
Joy Division, ‘Isolation’ (B Sumner / I Curtis / P Hook / S Morris)

No. 291