The Creative Kip: An Uncomfortable Incident in My Celtic Beanie

Carl Holsøe - Sleeping Woman

'Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.’
William Shakespeare, 'Macbeth'

Many years ago, whilst wandering amongst the market stalls by the harbour in Dingle, I bought myself a Celtic Beanie. It was knitted with bold horizontal stripes in tones of orange, ochre, brown and yellow. It fitted snugly over my unkempt grey hair and made me look, I thought, rather bohemian.

My Celtic Beanie became something of a comfort hat for me. I would whip it out at the first sign of rain or cold, whatever I happened to be wearing, even a suit. I kept it in my brief case and took it with me on holidays and work trips. I washed it infrequently and by hand, in order to sustain its life.

One Saturday afternoon I was sporting my Celtic Beanie on the tube on the way to watch West Ham. My team were spending one of their accustomed seasons in football’s second tier and we were looking forward to a game against Gillingham. Away fans tend to travel together and I happened to be on the carriage where a fair few Gills supporters had assembled. Everyone was in expectant high spirits.

I confess I have a tendency to fall asleep on public transport. I’d say I’m pretty good at it. I consider travel an opportunity to make up for inadequate hours in bed; as a chance to refresh the tired mind. On this occasion, despite the general anticipation, I sat leaning against the glass partition with my head slumped over a newspaper on my lap. The gentle movement of the carriage set me off and in a moment I was gone.

I woke up with a start. The Gillingham fans, enjoying their day out, were now in full voice. They’d found someone to taunt.

‘Who’s the wally?
Who’s the wally?
Who’s the wally in the hat?’ 
(or words to that effect)

They were making quite a racket and it seemed like the whole carriage had joined in. I looked around to establish the hapless object of their ridicule. I took a moment to assess the situation, and concluded that, yes, it was me. 

I guess I did look rather odd: a middle-aged man in the middle of the day, kipping on the District Line in his Celtic Beanie.

There wasn’t much I could do but smile benignly, stare into the middle distance and long for the arrival of Upton Park station. 

At least the Hammers won 2-1.

'All men whilst they are awake are in one common world: but each of them, when he is asleep, is in a world of his own.’
Plutarch

I read in The Times recently (18 September, 2020) about a study, published in the journal Cell, into inferential reasoning.

Inferential reasoning is when you draw on loosely related events to imagine the outcome of entirely new choices. You’re looking for Sam. You’re told Greg is in the library. You know Sam hangs out with Greg. So you go to the library to see if you can find Sam there. It’s basically an educated guess.

Researchers have discovered that the hippocampus in our brains supports inferential reasoning by computing a prospective code to predict upcoming events. When we rest, the brain applies this code to link memories together. This ‘mnemonic short cut’ enables us, when we’re awake, to ‘join the dots’ between events that have not been observed together but could lead to profitable outcomes. 

‘The brain makes creative connections between apparently unconnected memories, and… these links appear to be solidified in sleep.’

According to the piece in The Times, an opportune sleep prompted the invention of the Periodic Table and the sewing machine, and inspired the story of Frankenstein.

There’s a lesson for us all here. We tend, when confronted with a taxing problem, to address it head-on, to stare it in the face, to burn the midnight oil in our quest to resolve it. It is far better, after a time, to put the intractable task to one side and sleep on it; to allow our natural inferential reasoning to get to work and join the dots. Better to succumb to fatigue and embrace a Creative Kip.

'It is a common experience that a problem difficult at night is resolved in the morning after the committee of sleep has worked on it.’
John Steinbeck

I must report that in recent years my Celtic Beanie has been replaced by a tweed flat cap. This offers all the utility I require (portable, foldable, impermeable) and is a little less eccentric. But I still have my Celtic Beanie. It sits forlorn in a drawer with a collection of old neckties and odd socks. 

Maybe I’ll put dig it out the next time we play Gillingham. 

'When I look up from my pillow,
I dream you are there with me.
Though you are far away,
I know you'll always be near to me.
I go to sleep, sleep,
And imagine that you're there with me.’

The Kinks, ‘I Go To Sleep’ (R Davies)

No. 309

Gaslight: A Case Study in Psychological Abuse

‘I’ve been noticing, Paula, that you’ve been forgetful lately. Losing things…Now don’t be so worried, Paula. It’s nothing. You get tired.’
Gregory Anton, ‘Gaslight’

I recently watched the 1944 version of ‘Gaslight’, a psychological thriller set in Edwardian London, adapted from Patrick Hamilton's 1938 stage play of the same name.

This fine film, directed by George Cukor and starring Ingrid Bergman, Charles Boyer and Joseph Cotton, tells the story of a woman whose husband slowly manipulates her into believing that she is going insane. It gave birth to the term often applied to psychological abuse: ‘gaslighting.’

Paula Alquist (Bergman) has been raised by her aunt in a large house on Thornton Square. When the aunt is mysteriously murdered, Paula is sent to Italy to study music. There she meets and marries accompanist Gregory Anton (Boyer). 

Despite Paula’s understandable qualms, Gregory insists that the newlyweds take up residence in the long-vacant townhouse on Thornton Square.

‘It’s all dead in here. The whole place smells of death.’

Paula’s return to London is unsettling. The old house is cluttered with her aunt’s possessions; with heavy curtains, elaborate ornaments and antique furniture – and all covered in dustsheets. Gregory resolves to clear everything away into the attic. He also determines that Paula is not well enough to go out and gives the servants strict instructions not to admit visitors.

Now that they are established in their new home, Gregory becomes increasingly cold and brusque. In a brief moment of intimacy, he gives Paula a broach that had belonged to his mother and her mother before that. He puts it in Paula’s handbag for safe-keeping as they set off on a rare trip out to visit the Tower of London. However, on their return, the broach is gone.

Paula: I know it was here. I can't understand it. I couldn't have lost it. It must be here…
Gregory: Oh Paula, didn't I tell you? How did you come to lose it?
Paula: I must have pulled it out with something, I suppose. Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Gregory, please forgive me…
Gregory: ‘Forgive’ my dear. It’s not as serious as that. It’s not valuable.
Paula: But your present to me, your mother's broach. And I wanted to wear it - always. I don't remember opening my bag, but I suppose I must have. You did put it in there?
Gregory: Don’t you even remember that?
Paula: Yes. Yes, of course I do. Suddenly, I'm beginning not to trust my memory at all.

The relationship that had initially seemed passionate and romantic starts to fray. Gregory reveals himself to be quick-tempered and controlling. He begins flirting with the new maidservant in front of his wife. 

Nonetheless, Paula is delighted when Gregory offers to take her to the theatre. But just as they’re about to set off, his mood darkens.

Gregory: Paula, I don’t want to upset you. If you will put things right when I’m not looking, we’ll assume it did not happen.
Paula: But what, Gregory, what? Oh, please don’t turn your back on me. What has happened?

A small painting has been taken from the wall, leaving an incriminating shadow on the wallpaper where it once hung.

Gregory: Will you please get it from wherever you've hidden it and put it back in its place?
Paula: But I haven’t hidden it. I swear I haven’t. Why should I?… Don’t look at me like that. Someone else must have done it.

Gregory insists on interrogating the servants about the picture in front of the embarrassed Paula. At length, when he sends her upstairs to look for the missing item, she locates it behind a grandfather clock.

Gregory: So you knew where it was all the time.
Paula: No. I didn’t know. I only looked there because that's where it was found twice before. I didn't know, Gregory, I didn't know.
Gregory: Now, Paula, I think you'd better go to your room.
Paula: We’re not going to the theatre?
Gregory: Oh, my dear, I’m afraid you are far from well enough for the theatre. Now come...

After the argument Gregory leaves the house to work in his nearby studio and Paula retreats in tears to her bedroom. But even here there is no respite. The gaslights dim mysteriously and she hears muffled footsteps coming from the attic above. 

Accused of theft and lies, distrusting her memory, feeling isolated and alone, treated like an invalid, unsettled by her husband’s flirting, assaulted by strange sounds in the night, Paula begins to doubt her sanity.

Events come to a head when Paula escapes the house to attend a music recital. Gregory insists on accompanying her. As the pianist holds the audience in thrall, Gregory quietly reveals to his wife that his watch is missing from its chain. When he locates it in her bag, she lets out a shriek of dismay. Gregory takes her home.

Gregory: I've tried so hard to keep it within these walls - in my own house. Now, because you would go out tonight, the whole of London knows it. If I could only get inside that brain of yours and understand what makes you do these crazy, twisted things.
Paula: Gregory, are you trying to tell me I'm insane?
Gregory: It's what I'm trying not to tell myself.
Paula: But that's what you think, isn't it? That's what you've been hinting and suggesting for months now, ever since…since the day I lost your broach. That's when it all began. 

Gregory now reveals to Paula that her mother was insane and died in an asylum. It’s all gone too far. He has asked two doctors to visit in the morning.

Thankfully Scotland Yard detective Brian Cameron (Cotton) is on the case. He has been curious about the unsolved murder of Paula’s aunt and suspicious of Gregory’s behaviour since the couple’s arrival in town. He intervenes in the nick of time.

It transpires that Gregory is in fact the murderer of Paula’s aunt. Plotting to get his hands on the deceased woman’s jewels, he tracked Paula down in Italy. He has been secretly searching through the aunt’s belongings in the attic to locate the missing gems. The flickering gaslights were caused by his turning on the attic lamps, thereby reducing the gas supply to the rest of the house. What’s more, Gregory has been scheming to have his wife institutionalized, so that he can continue his search unhindered. 

The detective explains all to Paula.

‘You're not going out of your mind. You're slowly and systematically being driven out of your mind.’

‘Gaslight’ is a case study in psychological abuse. We may note the many ways in which the evil Gregory goes about his task. He prompts Paula to question her memory and presents her with evidence of her kleptomania. He suggests she is tired and unwell; highly-strung and hysterical. He deprives her of social contact and embarrasses her in front of others. He feigns concern for her wellbeing and treats her like an infant. Even his frequent use of her first name diminishes her.

Of course, we now recognise these as the tactics employed in abusive relationships.

I found myself wondering whether modern businesses could also be accused of psychological manipulation.

Traditionally brands have demonstrated gaslighting traits in the healthcare, beauty and cleaning sectors. Can you pinch an inch? Are you beach body ready? Do you check under the rim? Why do you read so slowly? I suspect that, even in 2020, some brands and influencers are still gaslighting their customers. The endless repetition and gentle insistence. Subtly suggesting, quietly quizzing. Preying on fears and insecurities. Condescending and controlling. Prompting people to doubt their own judgement. Treating them like children. 

Consumers deserve better than this. At its best persuasion is consenting, enjoyable, useful. It is a conversation, a dialogue, an exchange. At its worst persuasion is cynical, manipulative, exploitative. We should all be mindful of this distinction.

At the climax of ‘Gaslight’ Paula finds herself alone in the attic with her now arrested and bound husband. He pleads with her to recall the good times together; to pick up a knife and set him free. At first she seems still to be under his spell. But then she sets down the knife.

'If I were not mad, I could have helped you. Whatever you had done, I could have pitied and protected you. But because I am mad, I hate you. Because I am mad, I have betrayed you. And because I'm mad, I'm rejoicing in my heart, without a shred of pity, without a shred of regret, watching you go with glory in my heart!'

'Every time I get the inspiration
To go change things around,
No one wants to help me look for places
Where new things might be found.
Where can I turn when my fair weather friends cop out?
What's it all about?
Each time things start to happen again
I think I got something good goin' for myself.
But what goes wrong?
Sometimes I feel very sad.
I guess I just wasn't made for these times.’

The Beach Boys, 'I Just Wasn't Made For These Times’  (B Wilson / T Asher)

No. 308

Dora Maurer: Creative Geometry

Seven Twists - Dora Maurer. Tate Photography

‘I never wanted to be an artist. I wanted to be a gardener, or working in a forest.’
Dora Maurer

I recently visited an exhibition of the work of Hungarian artist Dora Maurer (Tate Modern until 24 January 2021).

Born in Budapest in 1937, Maurer grew up under a Communist regime that was suspicious of progressive thinking. She trained in graphics, and in the 1960s joined a group of radical artists who met and exhibited in private flats, culture centres and student clubs. 

‘It was a grey life. It was no view to the future.’

Maurer worked in film and photography, in painting, performance and sculpture. She was fascinated with series, systems and sequences; with patterns, rhythms and repetition. 

In rudimentary black and white, Maurer films a cylinder from a swinging camera, on a swaying table, with a swooping light source. She shoots her studio sliced into three horizontal sections, and makes the sections rock backwards and forwards to a woozy, out-of-kilter rhythm. She records the infinite small gestures of a hand; the habituated motion of a man sitting on a chair. She runs along the balcony of a block of flats photographing another artist who is doing exactly the same thing, at the same time, on the opposite balcony. 

'My work has been based on change, shifting, traces, temporality from various perspectives.’

Dóra Maurer, Reversible and Changeable Phases of MovementsNo.6 1972. © Dóra Maurer.

There’s a quiet subversion in much of Maurer work. A young girl tramps out red circles on crumpled newsprint. It is May 1st when workers traditionally join organised collective parades. In another piece Maurer wraps and unwraps a paving stone, cradles it, washes it and ties it up. For Cold War Hungarians paving stones had a particular resonance because they were often pulled up and thrown in street protests.

‘As conceptual art came into the eastern part of Europe it was for me an opening. Everything I couldn’t use as an art object before I could use as an art idea... It was much more open. The world was open.’

With limited resources available to her, Maurer’s work is simple and conceptual. She is more concerned with process and technique than with a finessed end product.

‘Generally I am not as interested in the finished work as I am in the way it comes about, which is to say the question of realising a task I have set myself, the idea.’

Maurer’s ideas often begin with mathematics. She employs formulae to organise lines, equations to calculate sizes, rules to establish colour sequences. She carefully scratches, folds and bends; doubles, redoubles and divides. 

‘The identicalness and difference between objects, their seriality aroused my childhood interest in calculus and arithmetic. Geometry provides the framework for arrangement.’

Dóra Maurer Relative Quasi Image 1996 © Dóra Maurer Photo: Vintage Galéria / András Bozsó

What, you may ask, has mathematics to do with art? Surely calculation and computation are a world away from creativity and invention. Maurer sees that there are rhythms, patterns and sequences in nature and everyday life. Routine and repetition are at the root of all our behaviours and beliefs.

Many characterise creativity as something chaotic and disordered that emerges out of nowhere, that occurs in a vacuum. But Maurer points out that new ideas are often a response to established attitudes and conventional practices.

‘From an order it is possible to jump out. From chaos it is not possible to jump out because it has no direction. The play has an order.’

In the creative professions we too can have an uncomfortable relationship with mathematics. We regard it as too cold and clinical, too dry and rational. And yet I have found that it helps to regard communication campaigns as exercises in theme and variation, rhythm and repetition; to think of brands as managed patterns of actions and ideas.

In the 1980s, as the Cold War thawed, Maurer embraced vibrant colour in her work. She became fascinated by the way colours change in different light conditions, and images are distorted by perception. She painted geometric grids - in red, blue, orange, purple and black - that shimmer and shift the longer you look at them. They warp on the walls.

Overlappings 38 by Dora Maurer

More recently Maurer has created her Form Gymnastics. Blue, yellow and green shapes flutter weightlessly across the gallery. Bold overlapping colours fly elegantly through space, creating impressions of rhythmic movement on curved surfaces. They’re really rather beautiful.

In a recent interview Maurer was asked to describe her work. In reply the still vigorous Hungarian artist, now in her 80s, quoted the poet Walt Whitman.

'I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.’

Walt Whitman, ‘Song of Myself'

No. 307

The Barber’s Party: Negotiating from Areas of Agreement Towards Areas of Disagreement

Edward Hopper - The Barber Shop, 1931

'Hair is the first thing. And teeth the second. Hair and teeth. A man got those two things, he's got it all.’
James Brown

I knew when I first met my barber Simon, some time in the late ‘80s, that I would remain a loyal customer for many years to come. He talked animatedly about football and soul music. And he never asked me about my holidays.

Simon is an excellent hair cutter. He once styled George Best’s barnet, and he has over the years endeavoured to give me a look somewhere between Davids Soul and Essex. Nonetheless, I can’t really hold him accountable for my hair, as I tend to ruin it myself with wilful mismanagement. 

Neat and dapper in his carefully selected vintage-wear, Simon sets about his business with confident dexterity, offering insight and opinion as he goes - about Tania Maria, Lamont Dozier, Bobby Womack and Harry Kane. He talks with wit and dry humour, and is prone to occasional bouts of melancholy - perhaps related to the fact that he supports Spurs. He has always avoided red clothes, furnishings and vehicles. 

In the early days I followed Simon from salon to salon, travelling half way across London to make an appointment. There was a memorable period when he cut my hair, along with my flatmates’, in our ramshackle apartment in Turnpike Lane - a truly courageous act. 

'Some of the worst mistakes in my life were haircuts.'
Jim Morrison

Eventually Simon set up his own studio in Crouch End, and decorated it discreetly with engine parts, a ‘70s wig and a vintage eye test machine. A year or so later, with the business doing well, he held a small celebration. 

I arrived at the venue on my own, greeted Simon and congratulated him on his achievement. But I soon realised he was the centre of attention and I had to move on. I looked around the room at an assortment of awkward middle-aged men with artisanal jackets, Red Wing boots and Heineken bottles. Some were nodding their heads to the rare groove sound track, some were engaged in earnest conversation, some were looking intensely at their phones.

The trouble was I knew no one here. I felt a wave of social discomfort wash over me. Like a teenager at a disco, I had no idea what to say or who to say it to. And so I decided I just had to approach someone and dive in.

 ‘I like what Simon’s done with your hair.’

‘Oh, thanks, yours looks a bit like David Soul.’

The ice had been broken. Now the salon walls were echoing to vibrant debate and lively discussion. And I was right in the thick of things.

‘That’s almost a contemporary mullet.’

‘When I was younger I had a flick-head.’

‘It was salt-and-pepper, but I think now it’s mainly salt.’

‘Do you use conditioner?’

David Soul

David Essex

Of course, though we were all strangers, we had one thing in common: our hair. And this was enough to establish some social currency; to catalyse conversation; to get the ball rolling. Sprinkling my chat with the occasional ‘Mate’ to sustain my masculinity, I found I was having rather a good time. Eventually we even got onto subjects other than tonsorial.

'Too bad that all the people who know how to run the country are busy driving taxicabs and cutting hair.’
George Burns

Despite age and experience I have retained an awkwardness around strangers, a discomfort in certain social settings. I am nervous about first impressions, unconvinced by the magnetism of my conversational gambits. I fear sharp words and blunt remarks; hot heads and cold shoulders. I’m afraid of being alone in a crowd.

Of course, as my experience at the barber’s party illustrated, we can usually get along with anyone if we start with what we have in common. No matter the seeming distance between our backgrounds and lifestyles, our personalities and points of view, we usually share some interest or other: children, football, dogs, music, even hair.

This simple lesson applies as much to the commercial and political worlds as it does to everyday life. It pertains to challenging negotiations as much as it does to awkward conversations. As the American diplomat Henry Kissinger advised:

‘Build confidence by negotiating from areas of agreement towards areas of disagreement.’

So often in business we approach a dispute with our minds focused on conflict and contention, dissent and discord. We embark on arbitration obsessed with the distance between our positions, the difference between our points of view. 

This gets us nowhere. We should always begin by seeking common ground, shared interest, mutual benefit. The route to resolving disagreement starts with recognising agreement.

I’m still Simon’s loyal customer. Occasionally I book his last appointment and we afterwards adjourn to a local restaurant. We talk animatedly about football and soul music. And he never asks about my holidays.

'Oh, hairdresser on fire.
All around Sloane Square,
And you're just so busy.
Busy, busy.
Busy scissors.
Oh, hairdresser on fire.'

Morrissey, ‘Hairdresser on Fire’ (S Morrissey / S Street)

No. 306

Seeing Without Being Seen: Vivian Maier and the Issue of Hidden Talent

New York, NY September 10, 1955 © Vivian Maier/John Maloof Collection. Courtesy Howard Greenberg Gallery, New York

‘I’m a sort of spy.’
Vivian Maier

The splendid 2013 documentary ‘Finding Vivian Maier’ tells the story of the posthumous discovery of one of the twentieth century’s great street photographers.

In 2007 John Maloof, a Chicago-based local historian, was attending an auction of goods repossessed from storage lockers. He bought a box of negatives for $380, having in mind to use some of the photos in a forthcoming book.

On developing the images, Maloof discovered records of Chicago and New York in the ‘50s and ‘60s: quotidian scenes of suburban affluence - beach trips, parades and family days out; depictions of bustling downtown street life – commuters, shoppers, hucksters and hawkers; bleak encounters with inner city poverty. 

Maloof found the name Vivian Maier written on some of the boxes, but was unable to establish anything about her. When he subsequently posted a selection of the photographs online, they became something of a viral phenomenon. The pictures were intimate, affectionate, perceptive and playful. Experts recognised a real talent. 

Maloof traced some of the other purchasers from the storage locker sale, and bought their boxes too. Eventually a Google search picked up Maier’s death notice in the Chicago Tribune. She had passed away in April 2009.

So who was Vivian Maier? Why had her ability hitherto never been recognised? What was the tale behind this treasure trove of imagery?

Gradually Maloof pieced together the story. 

Vivian Maier - Girl In Car

Maier was born in New York in 1926, the daughter of a French mother and Austrian father. She spent her childhood moving between the United States and a small Alpine village where her mother’s family originated. Having been employed for a few years in a New York sweat shop, aged 30 she moved to Chicago's North Shore area. She worked there as a nanny and carer for the next 40 years.

According to her employers and the children she looked after, Maier was intensely private and fiercely independent. She spoke with a clipped French accent, was eccentric and opinionated, formal and strict. Wearing loose clothes, floppy hats and sensible shoes, she marched purposefully about her business. 

Maier had purchased her first Rolleiflex camera in 1952. Since it was held at waist level, the Rolleiflex enabled her to shoot people without looking them straight in the eye. It was less intrusive, more furtive. During the day she took the children on long walking adventures, often beyond the suburbs into the centre of town, all the time on the lookout for interesting subjects. 

‘Street photographers tend to be gregarious in the sense that they go out on the street and they’re comfortable being among people. But they’re also a funny mixture of solitaries… You observe and you embrace and you take in, but you stay back and you try to stay invisible.’
Joel Meyerowitz, Photographer

Vivian Maier - Chicago, IL

A young couple kiss on a crowded beach. People gather at the railway station and busy themselves at the supermarket. As they make their way home from church, a loyal spaniel waits expectantly. There are scuffed shoes by the doormat, flip-flops by the pool. There are cigarettes on the dashboard next to Jesus. 

‘Stop and shop.’ ‘Say ‘Pepsi, please.’’ 

Some smartly dressed women chat outside the diner. A pair of old ladies in their Sunday best look on disapprovingly. A man grips a mysterious small parcel behind his back. A stern matron holds onto her hat to save it from the wind. A nervous child clasps his hands to his ears to keep out the noise of the trains. 

Maier photographs herself reflected in the mirror, in the shop window; her shadow cast across the lawn; her bike standing forlorn at the roadside. She is there, but not there.

Let’s check out the street market, nose around the junkshop. A kid on the corner sells wind-up toys, as a blind man plays blues guitar, hoping for small change. A melancholy woman has her hair in curlers. A desolate teenager has his head in his hands. There are unshaven down-and-outs sleeping on park benches, kipping in the waiting room. In tatty clothes they sit on a hydrant, on a stack of newspapers, on a suitcase. Soaking up the sun, waiting for something to happen. There are discarded liquor bottles on the sidewalk, rejected flowers in a refuse bin. 

In 1959 Maier inherited a small amount of money and embarked on a solo trip around the world. She took pictures in Manila, Bangkok, Shanghai, Beijing, India, Syria, Egypt and Italy. When the expedition was over she returned to nannying in the Chicago suburbs. 

During her lifetime Maier took more than 150,000 photographs. And yet she rarely showed her pictures to anyone. And she left the vast majority of her work unprinted.

Vivian Maier

'The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.’
George Eliot

Watching the documentary, one can’t help wondering about hidden talent. Maier went about her art quietly, unobtrusively. She had an extraordinary gift for seeing without being seen. She was not fuelled by reward or recognition. She just wanted to take pictures.

How many Vivian Maiers are out there pursuing a private passion, nurturing a natural gift – unseen, unappreciated, unknown? Perhaps to her it was more important to take the photos than for them to be shared, or even developed. Perhaps that’s just the way she wanted it. But it seems such a waste. 

In the past businesses made their fortunes mining natural resources – gold, oil, precious minerals. In today’s knowledge economy, where value is to be found in original thought and different perspectives, the increasing imperative is to prospect for talent; to search out unusual abilities in unexpected places; to find the diamonds in the rough.

As Maier aged she grew more eccentric. She adopted subtle variations on her name and accent. She piled up newspapers and hoarded boxes of negatives in her loft room - to the point that there was barely a way through and the ceiling creaked under the weight. She could be cruel and quick tempered with her charges.

When Maier was no longer able to find work, she lived in a series of cheap apartments on the edge of town and destitution. In 2008, having slipped on ice and hit her head, she was taken to hospital but failed to recover. The following year she died in a nursing home.

Vivian Maier

Beyond her photographs we have very little record of Maier’s thoughts and feelings. She is a ghost. She did however make a few audiotapes of conversations with her subjects. In one she reflects on life’s transience.

'Well, I suppose nothing is meant to last forever. We have to make room for other people. It’s a wheel. You get on. You have to go to the end. And then somebody has the same opportunity to go to the end and so on.'

'Baby, baby, baby,
From the day I saw you,
Really, really wanted to catch your eye.
Somethin' special 'bout you
I must really like you,
'Cause not a lot of guys are worth my time.
Baby, baby, baby,
It's getting kind of crazy
'Cause you are taking over my mind.
And it feels like,
You don't know my name.
I swear, it feels like,
You don't know my name.
Round and round and round we go, 
Will you ever know?’

Alicia Keys, ‘You Don’t Know My Name’ (A Keys/ K West/ H Lilly/ J R Bailey/ M Kent/ K Williams)

No. 305

Artemisia Gentileschi: An Eye for Drama

Artemisia Gentileschi, Susanna and the Elders (1610–11). Courtesy of the Schloss Weißenstein collection, Pommersfelden, Germany

‘I will show Your Illustrious Lordship what a woman can do.’
Artemisia Gentileschi in a letter to Don Antonio Ruffo

I recently visited a splendid exhibition dedicated to the Baroque painter Artemisia Gentileschi (The National Gallery, London, until 24 January 2021).

Artemisia was born in Rome in 1593, the eldest child of the artist Orazio Gentileschi. Having lost her mother when she was 12, she studied painting in her father's workshop and developed a style influenced by Caravaggio, the master of light.

‘Susannnah and the Elders,’ Artemisia’s first recorded work, was painted when she was just 17. While Susannah is bathing in the garden, she is surprised by two elders. The lecherous men, intent on seduction, threaten to accuse her of adultery if she refuses them. Susannah resists. 

In Artemisia’s painting the elders lean in from above, leering, menacing. In hushed voices they conspire against the naked Susannah. She turns away in disgust, recoiling from their foul breath. It is an extraordinarily vivid scene.

A year after she painted ‘Susannnah and the Elders,’ Artemisia was raped by Agostino Tassi, an artist who had been working with her father. To clear her name she had to endure a public trial and judicial torture. As the brutal rope instrument tightened around her fingers, she stood by her testimony:

‘It is true, it is true, it is true.’

The court found in Artemisia’s favour and, a month after the trial, Orazio married her off to another artist. The couple settled in Florence. 

Artemisia Gentileschi, Judith Beheading Holofernes, 1620

It is easy to see Artemisia channelling her anger into her most famous work, ‘Judith Beheading Holofernes.’ The city of Bethulia is under siege by an Assyrian army. Judith has put on a fine dress, entered the enemy camp and dined with the general Holofernes in his tent. He has fallen asleep drunk.

In the darkness Judith and her maidservant Abra set about their grisly business with grim determination. Abra pins Holofernes to the bed. Judith rolls up the sleeves of her gold brocade gown to reveal strong forearms suited to the task. With one hand she grasps Holofernes’ hair and holds his head steady. In her other hand she clutches the sword with which she slices through the general’s neck. The suddenly awoken Holofernes reaches up in terror. Blood spatters over the bed sheets below and onto the arms of the two women. It is like a scene from a horror movie.

Artemisia returns to the theme of Judith and Holofernes a number of times. In other works she paints Judith and Abra immediately after the execution. Abra crouches over Holofernes’ head, bundling it into a sack. Judith stands at the entrance to the tent, illuminated by a solitary candle. Staring out into the black night, she plots their escape. She grips her sword tightly, blood still dripping from its blade. She may have to use it again.

Artemisia clearly has an eye for drama. She carefully chooses ‘the decisive moment’ in a story, presents the characters in compelling relation to one another, considers every nuance of their emotions and lights the scene to accentuate the tension. It is as if time stands still. 

Artemisia Gentileschi, Judith and Maidservant with Head of Holofernes c. 1623–1625

Artemisia does this repeatedly, often celebrating the fortitude of female characters in history and myth. Nymph Corisca escapes the embrace of a lustful Satyr. Persian Queen Esther, pleading for the fate of the Jews, faints into the arms of her two ladies-in-waiting. Jael kneels over Canaanite general Sisera while he is sleeping, and serenely drives a tent peg through his head.

There is a lesson for us all here. If we want to create drama, we should select a precise point in time; stage it; frame it; light it so as to heighten the tension. Set nerves jangling, pulses racing. Make viewers feel the urgency of the occasion.

After the travails of her youth, Artemisia became a successful court painter in Florence, enjoying the patronage of the Medici, and she was the first woman accepted into the artists’ academy. She learned to read and write, socialised with the great and the good, including the polymath Galileo, and embarked on an intense relationship with a local nobleman. She had five children, four of whom died, leaving her to raise her surviving daughter as an artist. In all she had a 40-year career, working in Rome, Florence, Venice, Naples and London. She died around 1654 in her early 60s. She had lived a full life.

'As long as I live I will have control over my being.'

From the court papers of Artemisia’s trial and a bundle of her letters found in 2011, we gain a sense of a strong, defiant, proud and passionate woman. Her vitality and lust for life also leap out from her paintings, not least because in many of them she uses herself as a model.

In ‘Self Portrait as the Allegory of Painting’ Artemisia depicts herself as the embodiment of the painterly art. She wears a green silk gown and a gold pendant hangs from her neck. Her hair is organised neatly in a bun, a few strands falling over her cheeks and forehead. In her left hand she grasps the palette, and with the brush in her right hand she reaches for the canvas in front of her. Ignoring us, the viewers, she is a picture of quiet confidence and intense concentration.

Artemisia Gentileschi, Self-Portrait as the Allegory of Painting, 1638–39, Royal Collection

 'Oh, I am a lonely painter.
I live in a box of paints.
I'm frightened by the devil,
And I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid.
I remember that time you told me, you said,
"Love is touching souls."
Surely you touched mine, 'cause
Part of you pours out of me,
In these lines from time to time.’

Joni Mitchell, ‘A Case of You'

No. 304

A Club Biscuit Foregone: Keep Your Eyes Off the Prize

'We gain the strength of the temptation we resist.'
Ralph Waldo Emerson

On occasion I have wondered whether I might have been genetically predisposed to a career in advertising. Inevitably my thoughts turn to my Dad to whom I’m indebted for a capacity to drink and an inclination to discourse on all manner of triviality. But then there was my Mum, a gentle soul who had an uncanny talent for branding. 

Mum would often make me a very particular sandwich – white-sliced Sunblest, some lettuce leaves, a couple of slithers of tomato and a dollop of Heinz Salad Cream. Perhaps aware that this combination held only a moderate appeal to a growing lad, she called it Jim’s Sandwich Special. And I became an avid enthusiast.

Sometimes, when Martin was invited to a party at a friend’s house, Mum would console me by organising A Treat. A Treat entailed asking a few of my own local chums round for fractious games of Ludo and a tea of Sandwich Specials, Swiss Rolls and orange Club Biscuits.

I’m ashamed to admit to a certain amount of scheming at these events. Mum would allocate one orange Club Biscuit for every attendee, and I knew that, if I waited long enough, one of my friends would purloin mine. At which point I could report to Mum for pity and sympathy.

All rather manipulative, I know. But even at a very young age I had calculated that there were rewards to be had from a pleasure foregone.

'Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it.’
Søren Kierkegaard

The much-celebrated Stanford Marshmallow Experiment, led by psychologist Walter Mischel in the early 1970s, examined the dynamics of deferred gratification. A number of children aged between 3 and 5 were offered one marshmallow, but promised two if they waited 15 minutes. The researchers then left the children alone in the room with the two marshmallows. 

The youngsters found themselves in a muddle of temptation and denial. Mischel originally thought that the presence of the two marshmallows would motivate them to resist and hang on. But the proximate prize only increased their frustration. Some succumbed pretty quickly. Others endeavoured to endure by distracting their attention from the tasty treat.

'They made up quiet songs…hid their head in their arms, pounded the floor with their feet, fiddled playfully and teasingly with the signal bell, verbalized the contingency…prayed to the ceiling, and so on. In one dramatically effective self-distraction technique, after obviously experiencing much agitation, a little girl rested her head, sat limply, relaxed herself, and proceeded to fall sound asleep.’

Mischel concluded that success in the test was correlated with the ability to distract oneself: not thinking about a reward enhances one’s ability to earn it. 

In this respect the Stanford Marshmallow Experiment does not seem to conform to conventional wisdom. In challenging times we are encouraged to keep our eyes on the prize; to focus on our goals. Athletes often talk about visualising the finish line; imagining themselves on the victory podium. 

However, at least within the realms of a creative business, I’m with Team Stamford. When Pitching I found that considering the scale of the account to be won, the glory of potential victory, only served to predispose teams and leaders to cautious choices and conservative proposals. At best the prospect of success was deeply stressful. At worst it induced paralysis.

Far better in my experience to concentrate on the work in hand; to address the task regardless of the reward. Better to keep your eyes off the prize.

'The gratification comes in the doing, not in the results.’
James Dean

The Stanford Marshmallow Experiment is best remembered for the follow-up studies conducted 10 years after the original investigation. Researchers found that children who were able to wait longer for their treat tended subsequently to have better life outcomes, as measured by such things as SAT scores, educational attainment and body mass index. They concluded that the ability to discipline oneself, to delay gratification in the short term in order to enjoy greater rewards in the long term, is an indicator of future success in work and life. As a result many educationalists set about training self-control and will power in schools.

No doubt patience is indeed a valuable life skill. However, when the experiment was restaged in 2018, with a bigger, more representative sample, it arrived at a quite different set of results, contributing to what some have called a 'replication crisis' in the field of psychology. In the repeat experiment researchers concluded that the capacity to hold out for a second marshmallow is determined in large part by a child’s social and economic background. For poorer kids a marshmallow in the hand is worth two on the table.

None of the studies mentions if any children eschewed the marshmallows entirely in anticipation of emotional compensation. They would have represented an altogether more troubling category.

'Tempted by the fruit of another.
Tempted, but the truth is discovered.
What's been going on?
Now that you have gone,
There's no other.’
Squeeze, ’Tempted’ (C Difford / G Tilbrook)

No. 303

Complacency Corrodes: Remembering to Resell Our Relationships

'I've always heard that the ideal marriage should be something of a mystery. That your husband should remain a kind of stranger to you. Someone whose acquaintance you'd like to renew every day.’
Jill Baker, ‘That Uncertain Feeling’

'That Uncertain Feeling' is a fine 1941 romantic comedy directed by Ernst Lubitsch. 

Merle Oberon stars as Jill Baker, a society woman in her mid 20s who has developed intermittent hiccups. At a friend’s recommendation, she visits a psychoanalyst. He suggests Jill’s problem may be more than physical.

Psychoanalyst: Most people know nothing about themselves. Nothing. Their own real personality is a complete stranger to them. Now, what I'm trying to do is to introduce you to your inner-self. I want you to get acquainted with yourself. Wouldn't you like to meet you? Don't you want to get to know yourself?
Jill: No. You see I'm a little shy. 

After an exploration of Jill’s condition, the psychoanalyst concludes that her hiccups derive from irritation with her husband Larry.

Jill has been happily married to insurance salesman Larry, played by Melvyn Douglas, for 6 years. However, she reflects on the fact that she can’t get to sleep at night because of Larry’s heavy breathing and she is woken every morning by his gargling. She resents that he considers it unnecessary to shave before dinner if they don’t have guests; that when she’s on a diet, he eats steak. She is vexed by the affectionate poke in the stomach he gives her every now and again. And she notices that their conversation when he returns from the office is mostly monosyllabic.

Moreover, when Larry does engage Jill it’s to discuss his less than fascinating work issues. The final straw comes when he asks her to host a dinner for prospective Clients at the recently merged Universal Mattress and United Furniture companies.

'Success in business is fifty per cent hard work and fifty per cent the right cigar.’ 

Jill determines that her relationship with Larry has run its course. Soon her head is turned by eccentric pianist Alexander Sebastian.

Alexander: Let me warn you that I say what I think. I'm a complete individualist… I'm against Communism, Capitalism, Fascism, Nazism. I'm against everything and everybody. I hate my fellow man and he hates me.
Jill: It sounds rather amusing.

When Jill embarks on an affair with Alexander, Larry is mortified. His colleague advises him to apply his talents in salesmanship to win her back.

‘There’s only one thing you have to sell - yourself. The most important Client you ever had in your life is waiting for you. And her name is Mrs Baker. Now you’re the best salesman in the business. There’s nothing wrong with your marriage. You just have to resell it once in awhile.'

And so Larry plots a series of schemes to defeat the maverick pianist and regain Jill’s affection. 

‘You’re going to accuse me of something which I’m going to deny and you’re not going to believe.’

‘That Uncertain Feeling’ is something of an undervalued screwball gem. It’s fascinating to see a mid-century depiction of psychoanalysis, and indeed I was quite taken by the thought of meeting myself. An awkward encounter, I imagine. No doubt we’d find each other rather annoying.

In particular I was impressed by the film’s characterisation of complacency corroding a seemingly happy relationship. 

We take each other for granted. We cease to demonstrate interest or solicit opinion. We make assumptions about our present based on our past. We become absorbed in our own plans and preoccupations. Our conversation becomes monotonous, repetitive, predictable. We fail to recognise and rein in our irritating habits. 

Complacency can be a variegated condition. I had a colleague who thought he was on tip-top form: engaging, charming, full of bright ideas. But in fact he was only luminous and appealing when he was at work. At home he was an exhausted, inarticulate lump slumped in an armchair watching telly. Eventually it all came to a head. 

I’m sure complacency can be just as damaging to professional as personal relationships. On reflection I’m not sure I was the best office mate. I now regret the piles of paper with which I surrounded myself, the communication by Post-It note, the Boots Meal Deal consumed in silence at my desk every lunchtime. 

I had a Client once who came in to complain. He was thinking of putting the business up for Pitch. It wasn’t that the team was doing anything wrong exactly. But the meeting that he should have been looking forward to each week had become rather tedious. And he found the ‘metabolism’ of the relationship was just incredibly slow. 

'The tragedy of life is often not in our failure, but rather in our complacency; not in our doing too much, but rather in our doing too little; not in our living above our ability, but rather in our living below our capacities.'
Benjamin E. Mays, Civil Rights Leader

Of course complacency can be conquered. We can wake up and be attentive. We can commit our time and invest our attention. We can be interesting and interested. Like Larry, we can resell our relationship.

Perhaps we should all pause to reflect - maybe even book an appointment with ourselves. Those intermittent hiccups we’ve been suffering could indicate a more fundamental malady.

'Conversation don't come easy.
But I've got a lot to say.
If you look at what we once had
Well, it feels many moons away.
But I came for you.
I've dreamt names for you.
It's true.
No one makes me high like you do.
And I craved for you.
I lost sleep with you.
No one loves me quite like you do.’

Lucy Rose, ‘Conversation'

No. 302

Looking for the Heart of Saturday Night: The Imaginary World of Tom Waits

‘Well with buck shot eyes and a purple heart
I rolled down the national stroll
and with a big fat paycheck
strapped to my hip-sack
and a shore leave wristwatch underneath my sleeve
in a Hong Kong drizzle on Cuban heels
I rowed down the gutter to the Blood Bank
and I'd left all my papers on the Ticonderoga
and I was in bad need of a shave
and so I slopped at the corner on cold chow mein
and shot billiards with a midget
until the rain stopped
and I bought a long sleeved shirt
with horses on the front
and some gum and a lighter and a knife
and a new deck of cards (with girls on the back)
and I sat down and wrote a letter to my wife
’Tom Waits, ‘Shore Leave’

I recently watched a documentary on the musician Tom Waits (‘Tales from a Cracked Jukebox’, BBC4).

In his gruff, gravelly voice, Waits sings about loneliness and longing in the wee small hours; about outsiders and outcasts - lowlife at the liquor store, in cocktail bars, strip joints and tattoo parlours; about the one that got lucky and the one that got away; about dreaming to the twilight and drinking to forget; about forlorn lovers looking for the heart of Saturday night.

'Oh and the things you can’t remember tell the things you can’t forget 
That history puts a saint 
In every dream.’
‘Time’

Waits pores over the underbelly of American city life, telling tales of warped relationships and withered dreams, cracked aspirations and doomed love; the determined self-delusion of the hopeless case.

'Well I've lost my equilibrium and my car keys and my pride.’
‘The One That Got Away’

Waits is a master of characterisation. He gives us fragments from the lives of damaged veterans, worn out waitresses and escaped criminals - seen through the bottom of a beer glass; refracted through early morning tears. His stories are interwoven with incoherent conversations in a late-night drugstore, the elusive dreams of advertising, the insistent pitch of the whiskey preacher.

‘Don't you know there ain’t no devil, 
There's just god when he's drunk.’
‘Heartattack and Vine’

Waits teaches us a good deal about the alchemy of storytelling; about drawing on a rich set of influences, infusing personal experience with invention and memory; about creating our own imaginary worlds.

Interviewer: Do you have a philosophy about writing?
Waits: Never sleep with a girl named Ruby and never play pool with a guy named Fats.

1. ‘Create Situations in Order to Write About Them’

Waits was born in 1949, in Pomona, California. His parents were teachers, his father an alcoholic. They separated when he was 10 and his mother took him to suburban San Diego. He dropped out of High School and did a variety of low-paid jobs.

‘It was a choice between entertainment and a career in air conditioning and refrigeration.’

Waits turned to music as an escape. He progressed from writing Dylan-influenced folk songs to jazz compositions inspired by the Great American Songbook. In 1972 he moved to LA, settled into a cluttered two-room apartment and hung out in the downtown bars, diners and pool halls. 

‘You almost have to create situations in order to write about them, so I live in a constant state of self-imposed poverty.’

Album cover: Blue Valentine

2. ‘Combine Imagination with Experience and Memory’

'I like beautiful melodies telling me terrible things.’

Waits took notes of late night conversations with barflies and Bohemians; of dialogue overheard in taxis, at newsstands and gas stations. And then he set his imagination to work. 

‘I remain in all of my stories, but at the same time I think that the creative process is a combination of imagination and experience and memories. By the time a story or song is finished, it may or may not resemble wherever the story came from.’

Importantly, Waits blurred the line between experience and invention.

'Mostly I straddle reality and the imagination. My reality needs imagination like a bulb needs a socket. My imagination needs reality like a blind man needs a cane.’

3. ‘Try to Discover That Which Has Been Overlooked By Moving Forward’

Waits grew up surrounded by the emerging hippie culture, but regarded himself as ‘a rebel against the rebels.’  He drew his inspiration from a previous age: from ‘50s Beat writers Kerouac, Ginsberg and Burroughs; from film noir, Hitchcock and ‘The Twilight Zone’; from detective novels and the art of Edward Hopper. He was a man out of time. 

‘Sometimes you find yourself going back in time just to locate something that you can’t find in the future. You’re trying to discover that which has been overlooked by moving forward.’

4. Write About People, Places and Things

Waits avoided hollow generalisations. He peppered his work with incidental details; with references to particular streets, brands and weather conditions – to Kentucky Avenue, Burma Shave and ‘that bloodshot moon in that burgundy sky.’ He always wrote about specific people, places and things.

'I think all songs should have weather in them. Names of towns and streets, and they should have a couple of sailors. I think those are just song prerequisites.’

Waits recognised that small events can create big dramas.

‘It’s the little things that drive men mad. It’s the broken shoe lace when there’s no time left that sends men completely out of their minds.’

5. Keep Evolving

Waits’ songwriting style changed over time.

'You have to keep busy. After all, no dog's ever pissed on a moving car.’

In the early ‘80s he became fascinated by Captain Beefheart, by the pioneering contemporary composer Harry Partch, and by Weimar artists Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht. His song settings moved increasingly from the bar and diner to Vaudeville and the stage, the freakshow and the fairground. His writing explored themes of salvation and damnation. And his instrumentation embraced experimental brass, percussion and found objects

'Oh, I'm not a percussionist, I just like to hit things.’

6. ‘The Way You Affect Your Audience Is More Important than How Many of Them Are There’

'They say that I have no hits and that I'm difficult to work with. And they say that like it's a bad thing.’

Though Waits was much admired by critics and fellow artists, his commercial success was modest. Nonetheless he is regarded as one of America’s greatest songwriters. He has always focused, first and foremost, on the work. 

'I would rather be a failure on my own terms than a success on someone else’s. That’s a difficult statement to live up to, but then I’ve always believed that the way you affect your audience is more important than how many of them are there.’

Waits reminds us that reward and recognition should not be objectives, but effects.

'I worry about a lot of things, but I don’t worry about achievements. I worry primarily about whether there are nightclubs in Heaven.’

The documentary left me reflecting particularly on the imperative for creative people to immerse themselves in incident and adventure. If we don’t expose ourselves to diverse people and rich experiences, how can we create compelling characters and original narratives? If we live conventional lives, how can we come up with unconventional ideas?

There is perhaps one other lesson suggested by Waits’ approach to creativity. 

His vision is bleak, his themes are melancholy and his heroes are resolutely unheroic: the failing lounge singer, the desperate door-to-door salesman, the down-at-heel prostitute and the grubby private investigator.

'Most of the people I admire, they usually smell funny and don't get out much. It's true. Most of them are either dead or not feeling well.’

But these are real people with compelling stories. Waits has genuine empathy and at heart he is a romantic. He paints his pictures with respect and affection. And he always affords his characters a certain nobility.

'And I wondered how the same moon outside over this Chinatown fair
Could look down on Illinois
And find you there.’
‘Shore Leave’

'Wasted and wounded, it ain't what the moon did
Got what I paid for now.
See ya tomorrow, hey Frank can I borrow
A couple of bucks from you?
To go waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda
You'll go a-waltzing Mathilda with me.’
‘Tom Traubert's Blues’

No 301

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