An animated text, made in the form of a screen-saver for the Sunscreen project, curated by Candice Jacobs in association with EM15 at Venice Biennale, went live on April 27th and is now available to download and install by following the instructions on the Sunscreen website. Avant Garde or Last Minute is very loosely linked to an ongoing Robert Holcombe project involving found texts under the title 723 Variations On The Same Theme, and one of around 40 newly commissioned online art-works, including those made specifically for the project by a number of artists I’ve collaborated with or written about elsewhere, not least Shana Moulton, Yelena Popova, Bruce Asbestos, Frank Abbott, Blue Firth and Simon Raven. The full collection of free, downloadable screen-savers by these and many other artists can be browsed here.
A new catalogue essay, Domestic Camouflage: Painting in the Pathless Woods, is now available as part of a publication exploring the paintings of Tristram Aver, tracing their evolution from the digitally-inspired abstraction of Low Fat Meal For One (2007) and Sci-Fi Lullaby (2010) to a more recent body of work rooted in eighteenth and nineteenth century genre painting and decorative arts. The recent commissions discussed in depth include The Chase, made for The Cornerhouse, Manchester, in 2012; There is a pleasure in these pathless woods, shown at the Angear Centre at Lakeside Arts in 2014; and …And stand a ruin amidst ruins, currently on display in the Great Drawing Room at Newstead Abbey, where it will remain until July 5 2015. Copies of the book can be purchased here, and a short extract from the essay follows below:
“The palimpsest is typically a page of vellum parchment whose original text has been scraped or washed off and a new text over-written, its particular value to historians being that the under-writing often remains at least partially legible beneath the new text. These over-writings were often motivated by economic considerations, the straightforward recycling of a valuable and scarce material, as vellum was, but the process could also mark an attempt to erase the evidence of an older political or religious order as, for example, when the Medieval ‘Word of God’ was imposed over the pagan writings of Greek or Roman antiquity.
The palimpsest, then, might offer a fitting metaphor for the layers of historical, mythic and physical materials accumulated at a site like Newstead, whose history, from its foundation as an Augustinian Priory around the year 1170 to the present, has been a constant cycle of reinventions. The building’s ecclesiastical origins were followed by varied fortunes in the hands of the Byron family after 1540, and much of the present structure and décor dates from its time as the residence of Thomas Wildman after 1815, and William Frederick Webb, who bought the house in 1861. The philanthropist Sir Julien Cahn purchased then gifted the site to the Nottingham Corporation in 1931, and the Grade I listed buildings and their extensive gardens remain public property, now managed by Nottingham City Council.
Given this complex history, it seems highly appropriate that in order to get to grips with the significance written into a site like Newstead, Tristram Aver’s And stand a ruin amidst ruins (2015) borrows something of the nature of the palimpsest both technically and conceptually. The three painted panels making up the work, presented as a neon-framed decorative screen inside the ostentatious surroundings of Newstead’s Great Drawing Room, layer figurative passages, drawn from the site’s history and present, with stencilled wallpaper patterns, painterly abstract marks and an array of images alluding to the submerged currents of economic and political violence that under-wrote the grand-scale domestic interiors and lavish decoration we see at Newstead Abbey today.
At Aver’s Third Space studio, the shaped panels were developed using techniques of layering, collage and superimposition. Older paintings and studies might be cut up and sections recontextualised, building on, complementing and obscuring many layers of freshly painted imagery. And stand a ruin amidst ruins deploys an initially perplexing range of marks, from abstract swirls and drips to figurative representations. Period wallpaper patterns are stencilled into the backgrounds and foregrounds, where birds and dogs, lurid explosions and floral blooms, bare-knuckle boxers and red-coated huntsmen, all seem to appear and disappear, rise up from and sink back into that insistent, overall patterning. Snarling dogs strain against or seem to break free of a stencilled decorative mesh; trees and flowers create visual rhymes with explosions; the feathers of fighting peacocks and golden pheasants blur into extended passages of expressive brushwork.
There’s a notable ambivalence about the total effect, which seems simultaneously decorative and charged with coded, often disjunctive, potential meanings. The paintings are variously garish and elegantly restrained, abstract and figurative, seductive and threatening, their tone shifting abruptly between one image, one passage, and the next. I’m reminded of the blend of implied threat and domestic decoration found in Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short proto-feminist novella The Yellow Wallpaper (1892). Gilman’s story centres on a newly married woman taken by her husband to a house – “a colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house” – where her domestic confinement leads to an obsession with the unsettling patterns of a sulphurous yellow wallpaper in one room. This pattern takes on an increasingly menacing presence as she strives to strip it, piece by piece, from the wall while hallucinating other trapped women behind it, until she is finally consumed herself, merging with a double trapped inside the ornate design.
Poised somewhere between supernatural and domestic narrative, a Gothic and Modern sensibility, Gilman’s story echoes the ambivalence of Aver’s recent paintings in its use of household décor, with all its connotations of finely-tuned taste and status, as a vehicle for the exploration of the social, cultural and political functions and purposes of such decoration. The dissonant wallpaper patterns described by Gilman’s narrator, as her eye is drawn deeper into their perplexing labyrinth, parallel the compositional swerves and shifts in technique to be found within the decorative elegance of Aver’s neon-framed triptych when it, too, is viewed more closely and the figurative details, with their overtones of aggression, begin to emerge. As Gilman writes of that insidiously threatening fin-de-siecle wallpaper design:
Looked at in one way each breadth stands alone, the bloated curves and flourishes – a kind of ‘debased Romanesque’ with delirium tremens – go waddling up and down in isolated columns of fatuity. But, on the other hand, they connect diagonally, and the sprawling outlines run off in great slanting waves of optic horror, like a lot of wallowing seaweeds in full chase.
The whole thing goes horizontally, too, at least it seems so, and I exhaust myself in trying to distinguish the order of its going in that direction. They have used a horizontal breadth for a frieze, and that adds wonderfully to the confusion.
There is one end of the room where it is almost intact, and there, when the cross-lights fade and the low sun shines directly upon it, I can almost fancy radiation after all, as the interminable grotesques seem to form around a common centre and rush off in headlong plunges of equal distraction…
[Gilman: The Yellow Wallpaper, 1892]
This passage, with its powerful sense of decorative order laced through with uncertainties and unpredictable visual movement, might be mapped onto the compositional impact made by Aver’s triptych, but perhaps the keyword here is ‘distraction’. The décor of the English country house in the age of the slave trade and British Empire, after all, was often a very literal means of distraction, claiming status at home by laundering money imported from elsewhere, as newly wealthy landowners spent lavishly on artefacts and domestic luxuries that simultaneously belied and exposed their money’s origins…”
More on Tristram Aver’s work can be found at: http://www.tristramaver.com/
Black Glass: New & Selected Poems (Shoestring Press, 2015)
120 pages, paperback, 148x210mm
Wayne Burrows is a poet whose imaginative flair is matched by his readiness to experiment with a variety of forms and themes. Since the appearance of his first full collection, Marginalia, he has published sequences of free-standing poems, often in pamphlet form, and has worked with visual artists as well as on film projects. Black Glass brings together a substantial selection of previously published work and more recent, uncollected material.
Wayne Burrows was born in Derbyshire, grew up in Mid-Wales, then lived in Sheffield and East London, where he worked mainly as an editor and freelance journalist. Recent publications include Spirit Wrappings: Some Notes on the Rashleigh Jackson Family Collection (2012), Marine: A Story in Eight Objects (2013), The Holcombe Tarot (2014) and Exotica Suite (2015). He has also made several short collage films, including Disturbances (2010), The Serendipity Loops (2012) and Subliminal (2015), and created fictional retrospective exhibitions under the entirely fabricated identity of the British artist Robert Holcombe (b.1923 – d.2003).
“Marginalia is a book about being in love in our increasingly weird world, transformed by the scientific view and the bombardments of the media. It’s exploring a new feeling of being human, registering the survival of love in spite of everything.” – Ambit
“The power of the genuinely surreal comes together here with a different kind of haunting (Dutch) painterly perspective.” – TLS
“Marginalia is a considerable achievement.” – Poetry Wales
“Baroque manipulations of natural imagery set his work well apart from writing in the green affirmative mode.” –Poetry Review
Contents: Black Glass: New & Selected Poems (2015)
from Marginalia (2001)
A Recipe For Insanity
Stanzas for the Harp
from The Protein Songs (2005)
The Protein Songs
from Emblems (2009)
A Trick of the Light
The Archway Altarpiece
from The Apple Sequence (2011)
The Apple Prologue
The Apple Migrations
The Roots Of The Apple
(i) East Malling, 1912
(ii) Herefordshire, 2011
The Apple’s Song In Autumn
Things That Are Not Apples
A Grubbed Orchard (Does Spring Come…?)
The Order of Seasons
Uncollected Poems (2006 – 2014)
Lines After Abbas Ibn Al-Ahnaf
The Blue Wolves and The Wheelbarrow
Zeropolis, or Shelley in Las Vegas
Instructions for Baking the Nottingham Golem
A Simultaneous Translation (April 10 2013)
The Second Time As Farce
By Way Of Digression…
Mnemonic To Aid Understanding Of Public Debate Concerning The Fiscal Deficit
Sonnets in the Aftermath and Anticipation of a Financial Meltdown
(ii) The Commandments
(iii) A Prayer
On A Very Small Planet, Not Too Far Away
A Cycle of Songs from the Body’s Interior (2013)
Prologue: Panis et Circensis (Bread and Circuses)
(i) The Leukocytes
(ii) The History of the Red Cells
(iii) The Origin of the Heart Beat
(iv) Electrical Changes in the Heart
(v)Perfusion of the Excised Heart
(vi) The Circulation
(vii) Skin Sensations
(viii) The Lachrymal Apparatus
(ix) The Properties of Nerve
(x) Nerve Regeneration
(xi) The Peripheral Nerves
(xii) The Endocrine System
(xiii) The Semicircular Canals
(xiv) The Primary Organs of Sex
(xv) The Physiology of Reproduction
(xvi) Pregnancy and Parturition
(xvii) The Quadrants of the Breast
(xviii) The Deep Layers
(xix) The Arterial Pulse
(xx) The Cortical Structures
(xxi) Examination of the Tongue
(xxii) Supplementary Physical Signs
(xxiii) The Degeneration of Tissue
(xxiv) Disorders of the Heart
(xxv) The Coats of the Eye Ball
April 8th, 2015: Jazz & Poetry at The Guitar Bar, Hotel Deux, Sherwood, Nottingham, 8pm – 11pm. Launch of ‘Black Glass: New & Selected Poems’, with Helen Tookey (‘Missel-Child’, Carcanet).
May 7th, 2015: A Night With Shoestring Press, Five Leaves Bookshop, 7 – 8.30pm: Wayne Burrows (‘Black Glass: New & Selected Poems’) with Rod Madocks (‘The Rising Flame: Sidney Keyes, Memoir & Selected Poems’).
June 27, 2015: Lowdham Book Festival (3.30pm), Wayne Burrows (‘Black Glass: New & Selected Poems’) with Mahendra Solanki (‘The Lies We Tell’) and John Killick.
Some short films and related found footage will be showing alongside the Truth & Lies nights upstairs at Rough Trade, Nottingham, over the next few weeks. The first selection, themed around the Cold War, screened on Friday 19th Dec, the second – films linked by an interest in Exotica – is on Jan 9th, and the final set of films, built around Disturbances and Design – plays on Jan 16. Crate Diggin‘ is a regular slot hosted by Joff & Ex-Friendly at Rough Trade and covers soul, funk, jazz and anything else the DJs feel like spinning from 7 – 11pm every Friday. The following post offers a few comments on the material selected (note that films are screened at Crate Diggin’ without sound, for obvious reasons, so I will add links to versions with their original scores and soundtracks intact to this post after each event).
Part 1: The Serendipity Loops and the Cold War (19 December 2014)
The Serendipity Loops (Wayne Burrows, 2012)
This film runs in six sections, made up entirely of still images, and draws on a large archive of print material produced on both sides of the Iron Curtain during the Cold War period, sequencing Western and Eastern Bloc material in ways that emphasise their essential similarities. Each section is edited to accompany a piece of music, ranging from Tom Dissevelt’s ‘Whirling’ and Dick Mills’ ‘Purple Space & White Coronas’, early experiments in sequenced and atmospheric electronic music; to the late Graham Dalley’s ‘Pacifico’ and ‘Surf Ride’ (both from his privately pressed 1966 LP ‘Graham Dalley At The Barn Restaurant, Solihull’); ‘Elusive’, a Studio G production for an Avon marketing flexi-disc narrated by Patrick Allen (who also did voice-overs for the British Government’s notorious ‘Protect and Survive’ series of 1970s Nuclear fall-out public information films); and the anonymously produced Radiophonic Workshop alien invasion scenario of The Cimex Corporations’s advertising 7” extolling the value of their industrial cleaning services. The introductory sequence, built around machine-like heartbeats and Andre Bazin’s 1946 comment about cinema returning to its origins, reflects this film’s own status as a kind of digital magic-lantern slideshow.
Out Of This World (General Motors, 1964)
A beautifully made commercial film produced by the Frigidaire division of General Motors and based on their exhibit at the 1964 World’s Fair in New York – a piece of corporate Cold War marketing that seems to echo the identical tendency in the Soviet Union at the same moment to promise a utopian future. Its vision is – as such visions usually are – both seductive and slightly terrifying.
Village Sunday (Stewart Wilensky, 1961)
In contrast to General Motors’ corporate and technological vision of the future, another strand of the Cold War narrative is seen in an early form here, as Jean Shepherd narrates a whimsical portrait of New York’s Greenwich Village, just on the cusp of its decisive transformation into a counter-cultural byword. Painters, small theatres, musicians, beatniks and drop-outs – all ending with some great footage of the Beatnik/Surrealist poet Ted Joans giving a recital with free improvised jazz-flute accompaniment at a Greenwich Village artists’ hang-out.
Part 2: Entropicalia and Exotica (09 Jan 2015)
Biological Camouflage: Entropicalia (Wayne Burrows/The Soundcarriers, 2013)
Something of an experiment, this film is made up of still collages from various iterations of the ‘Biological Camouflage’ series, made by fictional British artist Robert Holcombe between 1974 and 1978, set to music by The Soundcarriers, then punctuated with a short, repeated animated photo-sequence of a sleeping woman. The song – to whose propulsive rhythm the images are cut – is ‘Entropicalia’ from ‘The Other World of The Soundcarriers’, issued on The Great Pop Supplement during 2013 (a vocal version is available as the title track on the band’s first release on the Ghost Box label, released in May 2014).
Afro Mood (Unknown Director, c.1947)
A short burlesque film in which the dancer Amalia Aguilar pulls some incredible moves to some hot Afro-Cuban jazz. ‘Afro Mood’ is one of two numbers that she also performed in a movie entitled ‘A Night at the Follies’ (1947) which perhaps helps to date this particular clip, which was produced as part of an ‘exotic’ series, ‘Joe Bonica presents the Movie of the Month’, possibly intended for viewing as individual segments on reels sold for private entertainment and parties.
Exotica Fragment (Wayne Burrows/Paul Isherwood, 2014)
A very short loop of re-edited footage from a variety of public domain sources, ranging from a 1920s adaptation of The Lost World to undersea documentaries, Cheerios commercials, burlesque films, a study of ants and an advertisement for a wall street consultancy. The score includes an incantation from an Egyptian son-et-lumiere recording of the 1960s and an early sketch of a track made by Paul Isherwood for a forthcoming project, Exotica Suite, set to be released as a book, vinyl LP and series of films in late June 2015, financially supported by New Art Exchange and Arts Council England.
Disturbances and Design (16 January 2015)
Disturbances (Wayne Burrows/Jon Brooks, 2010)
‘Disturbances’ is a short film compiled from found 35mm slides and it was originally screened with a recorded score made for the purpose by Jon Brooks, then narrated with a live voice-over as part of an Annexinema event at a disused cinema. Brooks is best known for his work with Ghost Box records, under the identity The Advisory Circle, though he has also released two LPs – ‘Shapwick’ and ‘52’ – on Frances Castle’s Clay Pipe imprint under his own name.
Design For Dreaming (General Motors, 1956)
A visually incredible long-form musical commercial advertising the General Motors Motorama of 1956, presenting consumerism as a fabulous dream world. It’s likely that this was exactly the kind of film that inspired the early days of British pop and youth culture, as seen in exhibitions like the Independent Group’s ‘This Is Tomorrow’, staged at the Whitechapel Gallery the same year.
Film Strip: 1966 (Wayne Burrows, 2012)
A digital reconstruction of a sequence of still images compiled in a concertina book by the fictional British artist Robert Holcombe in 1966, with a score by British electronics pioneer F.C. Castle.
Bonus Programme: the Beats, Smoke & Pickles New Year’s Eve party at Rough Trade, Nottingham, will involve a further set of films, 35mm transparencies and more screening alongside music from Truth & Lies, Dealmaker & Can’t Stop Won’t Stop DJs and street food by Kimberley Bell (of Small Food Bakery). All free, and running from 8pm till 2.30am.
‘Exotica Suite’ (New Art Exchange, 16 April 2015)
New Art Exchange and Arts Council England are currently supporting Exotica Suite, a collaborative work by Wayne Burrows (text) and Paul Isherwood (music) exploring the ‘Exotica’ craze of the 1950s – and the threads connecting its play with real and fictional cultural artifacts and identities to artists like Sun Ra and E.A. Markham. To explore the themes raised by this new work, Wayne Burrows has invited a panel of artists to take part in a conversation. All address questions of identity and authenticity in their own work, but each does this in their own way and to a different purpose.
Fawzia Kane uses the voices of real and mythical characters to explore history and storytelling in poems and fictions set in London and Trinidad, with nods to traditions of Carnival masking. Kashif Nadim Chaudry grounds his sculptural work in his own experience as a gay Muslim male, born and raised in the UK, working with fabrics to create objects that are opulent and uncompromising. Maryam Hashemi, a London-based painter who grew up in wartime Tehran, regards her work as an interconnected autobiographical sequence, rooted in experiences that are simultaneously real and symbolic, magical and imaginary.
Notes on the panellists:
Fawzia Muradali Kane was born in San Fernando, Trinidad & Tobago, at the cusp of the country’s change over from being a colony to full independence. She came to the UK on a scholarship to study architecture and now lives and works in London where, along with Mike Kane, she is co-director of KMK Architects. Her poetry has been widely published and is collected in Tantie Diablesse (Waterloo Press, 2011) and Houses of the Dead (Thamesis, 2013). She has also written a novel, La Bonita Cuentista.
Kashif Nadim Chaudry is a sculptor whose work focuses on negotiating an identity as a British born, Pakistani, gay Muslim. His installations bring together a family history of tailoring, borrowing from historical periods such as Mughal India and Tudor Britain, and draw on the creative disciplines of sculpture, architecture, interior design and Bollywood cinema. His work is both opulent and abject, including luxurious fabrics, human hair and animal bones. Recent exhibitions include Memes (Djanogly Gallery), Nads (Lace Market Gallery) and Swags & Tails (Asia Triennial, Manchester).
Maryam Hashemi’s work is rooted in her wartime childhood in Iran, layered with everyday, subconscious and often absurd events. She studied Graphic Design at Azad University in Tehran, held her first solo exhibition in 2001 at Haft Samar Gallery and was selected for a group show of Iranian female painters in Brussels the same year. She moved to the UK in 2002 and recent exhibitions include ImaginHer (198 Gallery, Brixton), Inner tales of my outer shell (Westminster Library) and Edinburgh Iranian Festival. In May 2014 she featured in a BBC 2 documentary, Making Art.
Filmoteka was a moving image installation curated by Emma Moore, bringing together a group of post-war Polish films in The Space at Nottingham Contemporary to give a glimpse into the rich history of experimental Polish film. The selection took its cues from the themes explored by Agnieszka Polska’s exhibition in the main galleries. What follows are the rough notes made in preparation for a walk-through talk and discussion, designed to highlight the various ways in which fiction, appropriated documentary footage and artists’ distorted reflections on those who had influenced them, were all used in the featured works to subvert official and media versions of the truth.
The five films in this installation span both the Communist and Post-Communist periods in recent Polish history, three made under Communist rule, between 1971 and 1980, two under the Neo-liberal conditions prevailing between 2001 and 2009. This said, it’s the continuity between the films rather than any notable distinctions that seems most interesting. I’d suggest this might be because both periods are equally marked by the dominance of a particular ideology, and the artists – whether working under the constraints of a controlling state bureaucracy or within the constraints of a privatised market bureaucracy – use similar approaches to suggest possibilities, histories and potentials that have been suppressed or forgotten. The particular aspect I’d like to focus on is the tendency in all of these films to use the features of documentary as a medium for the reinvention of history in a wider sense. The artists on both sides of the 1989 divide seem acutely conscious that any society’s sense of what is possible, imaginatively and politically, is limited by what is omitted from official accounts or simply forgotten. Often, what is erased are precisely those stories and events from the recent past whose potential was not realised at the time but remains suggestive. Official narratives invariably claim that ‘there is no alternative’ to the prevailing order but the stories and artifacts at the centre of these five short films all, in their different ways, seem intent on undermining that claim.
Alina Szapocznikow, the artist whose works are the ‘actors’ in Helena Wlodarczyk’s ‘Slad’, was the most important sculptor of her generation in Poland. As the title suggests, the film explores the idea of what ‘traces’ remain when an artist disappears. Wlodarczyk had been a student of her film’s subject and her portrait was made on the occasion of a retrospective exhibition held in the city of Lodz a few years after Szapocznikow’s death from breast cancer in 1973. When Szapocznikow’s sculptures appear, her own absence is belied by the very literal presence of her body in the works themselves, which often incorporate her own mouth, legs and breasts as resin, plaster and polyester casts, making much of her work a kind of oblique self-portraiture. The body is a key symbol in Szapocznikow’s work: hers had miraculously survived internment in three concentration camps during the Second World War and tuberculosis in the early 1950s, and much of her later output deals with themes of physical fragility and resilience, often using pop aesthetics and materials in a way that retains some continuity with Surrealist ‘black humour’. In Wlodarczyk’s very personal vision of Szapocznikow and her work, the normally static sculptures escape the museum to occupy streets, animated by camera movement and set free to browse shopping arcades or rampage through the urban environment in sequences that are occasionally framed like shots from ‘Godzilla’ or ‘King Kong’. The extraordinary sound of the film, using electronic music by Jan Freda, adds to the overall effect of ‘Slad’ as a kind of science fiction in which alien presences have escaped the unconscious and manifested themselves in the real world.
The quality of a dream also pervades this 20 minute portrait of Austrian Olympic skier Franz Klammer, who at the time the film was made had already dominated the sport of downhill skiing for several years and won Olympic gold medals. Dziworski films Klammer in a manner that echoes Wlodarczyk’s treatment of Szapocznikow’s sculptures in ‘Slad’. The athlete’s body becomes sculptural. Odd cuts, in-camera effects and angles, all work to reshape the film’s initially familiar ‘sports documentary’ idiom into a non-linear sequence of set pieces that come to seem more influenced by the 1970s work of Ken Russell and Luis Bunuel than documentary. Often, ‘Ski Scenes with Franz Klammer’ seems to anticipate the kind of pop video and fast-cut commercials that MTV would make obligatory in the West during the following decade, with Klammer filmed practising his sport, but also as an archetypal 1970s ‘playboy’ living the high-life of success. Women, film crews, gilded opera houses and ornately decorated restaurants all feature here – but none of these things play out as they should. Klammer’s meal is continually dropped by a waiter who seems trapped in a slow motion time-loop; his skis tumble from the roof of his car and fall clattering down a sheer concrete wall; his world becomes a hybrid of slapstick comedy and unreal dream. That the figure at the centre of all this really is Franz Klammer himself merely adds to the strangeness, and his perpetually bemused expression never reveals whether he knew, at the time of shooting, what kind of film he’d agreed to participate in. Throughout the film, we see advertising’s fantasies of aspirational lifestyles and official propaganda’s veneration of sporting prowess slipping repeatedly and suggestively into realms of hallucination and unreality.
A very different but equally unstable kind of documentary portrait – this time of the conceptual artist Pawel Freisler, who cuts up images of himself to make puppets, which he then takes out to ‘perform’ in the streets – makes up this student film by Piotr Andrejew, made in Lodz during 1971. It begins with Freisler playing music on his recorder, cutting out legs, arms and torsos from photographs (much as Alina Szapocznikow cast from her own body to make the sculptures in ‘Slad’) then shows these small puppets evolving into objects that are used to publicise the artist’s existence to passers-by in the city outside his studio. At the film’s conclusion, Freisler explains how the construction of stories and objects creates reality: “For many people in Poland a man named Pawel Freisler does not exist. I must therefore inform them”, he says. “Not only in Poland, but in other places around the world”. The film makes us aware that Freisler (and his puppets) existed and layers Freisler’s performance of himself for the camera with the director’s view – a view that Freisler’s handwritten introductory note to the film both accepts and disowns simultaneously. For ourselves, we have only the evidence of the film to go on, and while the visual style assures us that we are not watching a fiction, within this, Freisler’s interest in the oral transmission of ideas might also suggest that Andrejew’s film is merely one more rumour or anecdote to set beside those we might imagine circulate among the people we see him performing his puppets for in the streets. The score, with excerpts played from songs by Pink Floyd and The Beatles, perhaps also hints at a countercultural ethos for Freisler’s actions, corresponding to much found in the West at the same moment.
Bruce Checefsky: Pharmacy 
Bruce Checefsky’s ‘Pharmacy’ is, on the surface, a straightforward reconstruction of ‘APETKA’, the first of several important experimental films made by the lifelong collaborative partnership of Stefan and Franciszka Themerson. Checefsky’s research into the archives and his remaking of the Themersons’ lost film is, by his own admission, both meticulous and unreliable: “Before a single frame of film is exposed issues arise: do I remake the film as one might imagine or reconstruct the original from found film stills? The limits on available artefacts in a film remake, especially for a lost film, can undermine its past, resulting in a radical shift in meaning for the new film…” All prints and negatives of the Themersons’ original 1930s film disappeared during the Nazi occupation of Poland in World War Two, after the couple themselves had left its avant-garde circles behind to move first to Paris, then – after a period of separation – London, where they worked on illustrated books, designs for opera and theatre (including a celebrated staging of Alfred Jarry’s ‘Ubu Roi’), and further films, among them ‘The Eye and The Ear’, a 1945 Polish Film Unit production exploring the visualisation of sound set to compositions by the Polish composer Karol Szymanowski. Checefsky is himself displaced, living and working in the US, where he has remade many other lost films, including Maya Deren’s ‘Witch’s Cradle’ (which exists, but in an unfinished version) and unrealised scripts like ‘Bela’ (by Hungarian Dadaist Georgy Gero) and ‘A Woman And Circles’ (by Polish avant-garde poet Jan Brzekowski), reinventing history as a fiction by restoring to it things that either vanished or were only partially completed in their own historical moment.
The final film in this installation, by Agnieszka Polska, shares with ‘Pharmacy’ an impulse to document something lost, in this case a performance and exhibition by the artist Wlodzimierz Borowski (1930 – 2008). Polska’s short film-essay shows us seemingly authentic documentation of an exhibition in which works made from hair, string, bed-springs, flickering light tubes, an ashtray and other everyday materials are present. Borowski’s works appear to be meticulously documented, but Polska’s footage is almost entirely reconstructed, as are the works themselves and their gathering in the exhibition the film describes. Polska leaves open the question of whether she is restoring the artist to a history from which he had begun to vanish, or fabricating his contribution to that history. A central motif is a photograph of Borowski with its eyes drilled out, a relic of one of his own performances, turning the artist himself into an inscrutable presence for whom the visual had become of decreasing importance. Perhaps there is an allusion to Walter Benjamin, with Borowski cast as a sort of ‘Angel of History’ looking inward for evidence, rather than out, much as Benjamin’s Angel walked backwards rather than forwards into the future. In his later years, Borowski’s work became increasingly concerned with language and the spiritual and he made many installations in churches and other symbolic and sacred sites – a point that suggests the objects documented by Polska’s film have taken on the aura of relics animated by some non-specific, perhaps materialist, version of magical or religious potential.
On October 6th 2014 I was invited by NWS director Pippa Hennessy to deliver a short talk about the origins of the fictional artist Robert Holcombe, and the shift in my general approach to writing since around 2010, as part of the regular ‘social’ event held every month at Nottingham Writers’ Studio. As I’d got the notes already written down and the images gathered for the slides used on the night, it seemed worth preserving an outline of the talk here, if only because it might help to explain what it is I think I’m doing and how I ended up doing it…
At the start, writing poetry for the most part, I worked in the generally accepted way. That is, I mostly did things other than writing for a living (in my case, working in retail, picture framing and other similar trades) and sometimes got to write things in my spare time. I sent these things out to the magazines I knew about, who would sometimes publish them. At a certain point – around 1997 – I had gathered a book’s worth of poetry that seemed both OK in itself, and gave an impression of coherence, so this was sent out to publishers. Marginalia appeared from Peterloo Poets in 2001, and after several years focused on a day job in freelance journalism, compiling a fragmentary book about money called Shrapnel and projects like a sequence about genetics written for a dance company in 2005, a second short poetry collection, Emblems, emerged in 2009.
It’s worth noting that I still work this way, though I’ll admit that I’ve been negligent about sending things to magazines since 2010, perhaps because I edited one, called Staple, between 2007 and 2011, and needed a very long break from the endless round of envelopes, stamps and emails by the time its natural life-span and funding expired. Even so, a series of poems written in response to woodcuts by Alan Dixon were included in the anthology Wood & Ink last year, and a further chapbook, A Cycle Of Songs From The Body’s Interior, is forthcoming from Shoestring sometime during 2015. But there was also a turning point, where a new way of working became possible, and this was probably a 2010 commission to work with Neville Gabie on a project built around the redevelopment of Sneinton Square, a historic fruit and vegetable market on the Eastside of Nottingham city centre.
This project became known as Orchard and my contribution to it was a book-length series of poems called The Apple Sequence, a 64 page publication distributed free to an audience not usually engaged with the arts, but with a stake in the future of the site: market traders and their customers, activists involved in urban food production on the many allotments and city farm nearby, tenants and residents of the Sneinton and St Ann’s areas more widely. The commission included money to cover production of an artwork, so I used this to create a book from scratch – designing, typesetting and writing it simultaneously, to a tight deadline and with a definite public purpose. This seemed a more interesting way of working than the standard literary and publishing industry model. More to the point, it seemed to work, with The Apple Sequence widely read by those we’d hoped to reach.
Yet the fact that this book was directed not at the poetry world in the standard way, but addressed to a very different readership, seemed to mean that as far as conventional literary acknowledgement went The Apple Sequence barely existed. Perhaps this was partly delayed response: no reviews, for example, but one of the few literary events the Apple Sequence poems were presented at was a Nine Arches Press reading in Leicester soon after publication – so the apple-themed anthology that appeared from Nine Arches this year may not be entirely unrelated to the 2011 project. At any rate, The Apple Sequence proved liberating in terms of the control it allowed over the design, format and speed at which the book could appear, and for the readership it was able to find while by-passing the usual literary channels. It is probably not insignificant, either, that the work of writing poems was, for once, reasonably well paid upfront.
I’ve been exploring the possibilities of this way of working ever since, in poetry and various kinds of non-mainstream fiction, the resulting work mostly distributed outside the channels of traditional publishing. A couple of these later projects might include Spirit Wrappings (2012), which was produced as a short, beautifully designed fiction chapbook by Nottingham Contemporary, commissioned in response to an exhibition about a collector named Rashleigh Jackson by visual artist Simon Withers and curator Abi Spinks, and The Disappearances/The Peel Street Codex, commissioned by Jo Dacombe and Laura Jade Klee of Sidelong to be performed in caves, then made into booklets for A Box Of Things (2014), a limited edition publication documenting a project based on the myths and legends of Nottingham’s cave network.
The creation of Robert Holcombe, an alter-ego who could be put to many different uses, was almost accidental. He first appeared in a novel I’d been writing, Albany 6, which traced an alternative history of the late 20th century, where he was the author of a handful of pulp science-fiction stories that had shaped the obsessions of the book’s main protagonist, a Chicago musician named Thomas Satz, and grew from there. His public debut was as the subject of a fictional lecture during 2010, expanding on one of those pulp stories, Not smoking can seriously damage your health (1976). More fake lectures have been delivered since, among them a fabricated paper exploring the invented connections between Holcombe and the leading post-war Polish sculptor Alina Szapocznikow, presented at a Nottingham Contemporary symposium on the meaning of disgust in November 2013.
So who is Robert Holcombe? An exhibition hand-out written in early 2014 gives the basic facts of his fictional biography: “Robert Holcombe is an entirely fictional British artist (b. Leeds 1923 – d. Exeter 2003) whose fascination with collage was first discovered when he began cutting up magazines and rearranging the parts whilst convalescing from injuries sustained in 1944, during active service in Malaya. He was a radio engineer, a contemporary of Richard Hamilton at the Slade School of Art between 1948 and 1951 and, from 1955 until 1988, a planning officer in the city of Leeds. His early, if oblique, involvement with the Independent Group continued into the 1980s, and he maintained a long correspondence with Eduardo Paolozzi, whose interest in elaborate fictions and alternate realities he shared. Although Holcombe did not exhibit publicly during his lifetime, he made most of his work under two pseudonyms – Gene and Michael Harrison. It’s also notable that many of his images, particularly those featuring material rooted in fashion, advertising and technology, show a more ambiguous enthusiasm for the world of the Post-War era than was generally usual at the time. His works are marked by a fascination with consumerist excesses, inscrutable apparitions of surgical, sexual and folkloric symbols inside modernist interiors, and unsettling disturbances of ordinary space”.
Another lecture on Holcombe’s work was improvised at a closing event for the fictional retrospective exhibition, The Family Bible & Other Fables: Works From The Holcombe Collection 1948 – 1978, staged at Syson Gallery in January 2014. This outlined links between the fabricated collages on the gallery walls and their literary sources, some fictional, like Holcombe’s own pulp SF writings and letters, others, like Angela Carter’s The Infernal Desire Machines Of Dr Hoffmann and JG Ballard’s The Atrocity Exhibition, very real. A quote from Ballard’s The Atrocity Exhibition perhaps gives a flavour of the literary origins of Robert Holcombe: “These mental polaroids form a large part of our library of affections”, writes Ballard. “Carried around in our heads, they touch our memories like albums of family photographs. Turning their pages, we see what seems to be a ghostly and alternative version of our own past, filled with shadowy figures as formalized as Egyptian tomb-reliefs.”
The first time all of these literary, historical and visual threads had come together in a single place was with Marine: A Story in Eight Objects, commissioned by Nottingham Castle and Fermynwoods Contemporary Art to be part of Make Believe, a series of interventions in the collections and grounds of Nottingham Castle during the summer of 2013. The exhibition explored the blurring of fact and fiction in the site’s real and legendary histories and Marine combined a 30-page print publication, tracing the actual and imaginary resonances of a sea voyage from England to Hawaii aboard HMS Blonde in 1824; a film remix setting fragments of that published text to 1950s ‘exotica’ music and sequences of visual images; and an installation featuring a Holcombe work inside a high security case (another collage appeared as the book’s frontispiece and the opening image of the film).
The Marine film and publication were also presented at two venues during the inaugural Pilot Festival in Brightlingsea, suggesting that they did not depend on the site specific context they were devised for. Site specificity could also arise by accident: with Holcombe having been partly inspired by JG Ballard, it seemed a good omen that the second fictional retrospective – Folklore, Ritual and The Modern Interior: 1955 – 1975 – was shown at a London gallery named (by the curators, Pil & Galia Kollectiv) after three ‘psychic projections’, Xero, Kline & Coma, who appear in several of Ballard’s books. Even more pertinently, Folklore, Ritual and The Modern Interior’s opening night accidentally coincided with a major Richard Hamilton retrospective at Tate Modern and the presence of Hannah Hoch’s work just down the road at the Whitechapel, both of which added a certain additional resonance to the work on display.
Holcombe’s Performing The Curtain Rituals series, supposedly made in 1966, directly references work by both artists, a fact that earned the show a small place in a dissertation on the politics of parafictional art published by Keren Goldberg at the RCA in summer 2014. This seems apt, as chance meanings were the subject of The Holcombe Tarot, a series of 78 collages made between 2011 and 2014 in which a few classic Tarot symbols, like Death, The Tower, The Lovers and The Priestess, were vastly outnumbered by such oblique images as The Mirage (some banknotes hovering above a glacier), The Source (a seemingly gigantic chrome tap standing in a ruined abbey), The Purge (a burning rice field, suggestive of the Vietnam War context in which the cards were supposedly made) and The Nest (a classical marble column protruding from a birds’ nest). Devised to appear meaningful, while remaining largely open-ended, the curious thing is how the drawing of one of these cards can still feel significant.
These cards were first shown (as a selection of 12 collages) at Xero, Kline & Coma and have since been prototyped as a working Tarot pack and launched on Kickstarter, so a limited edition of 100 packs of The Holcombe Tarot will be produced in November 2014. The Holcombe Tarot also, I suppose, works as a kind of mutated poetry collection: a gathering of images that seem to relate to one another, can be ‘read’ in sequence or dipped into at will, each card freestanding but dependent on the others. Perhaps this is the thread connecting these bodies of written and visual work. Collage and poetry, after all, both operate through the selection and recombination of images and details from multiple sources. In a poem it might be a written recollection or voicing where a view of an apple orchard merges with a memory of factory machinery; in a collage it might be some photographic combination or overlay of the two things. The effect, either way, is similar.
A project currently in its early stages of development is Exotica Suite, a collaboration with the musician Paul Isherwood (look up The Soundcarriers’ back catalogue for some examples of his work). At this point Exotica Suite is not planned as a Holcombe project but a sequence of new texts exploring identity as something constructed, both for us, socially, and by us, in response to assumptions made by others. Inspirations are figures like Sun Ra, Yma Sumac and Jack Bilbo, who each in some way refused or complicated authenticity and rebuilt reality around themselves (as Holcombe notes in a 1984 letter: “We resist the effort to shape us by a refusal to accept the stifling conformity of being ourselves.”). Where all this will lead is not yet known, but the results will be released as a vinyl LP and download and a print publication. There will be events at New Art Exchange to introduce the ideas and influences behind the project and discuss the issues it raises. I think it is going to be interesting.
The other week, Pieter Last from Rammel Club sent me a message to see if I’d be up for playing some Eastern Bloc vinyl records early doors and between the first couple of band changeovers at the two sold-out homecoming gigs by Sleaford Mods in Nottingham, a question to which there was only ever going to be one answer. I’d seen them play at least twice before, once in the days before Jason Williamson’s hook-up with Andrew Fearn, once after it, and the change between 2010 and 2012 had been remarkable. In 2010, Williamson’s persona, observations and potential were all there, but with Fearn on board, things had become very different. However great a joke it seems that Fearn just pushes the ‘play’ button on his laptop and stands back when they’re onstage, it’s clear that offstage, making the loops, something miraculous is at work – one after another, Fearn’s loops are so brutally memorable that it’s as though he’s hit on the dance music equivalent of The Ramones’ early catalogue of primal guitar riffs.
More recently there’s been something else, too, and that’s the energy that comes with being heard. Put bluntly, it’s hard to sustain things when your focus is chopped up by other commitments, one gig every few months, or weeks, between office jobs and the usual kinds of everyday shit the world at large dishes out. Even when that’s your subject – as it is very much Williamson’s – the energy of those two gigs in Nottingham were the product of that long struggle plus the sharpening of tools that has come from playing more gigs, getting the records out and heard – the purpose that comes with a sense that someone out there, after all the hard slog, is listening. The attention won by Austerity Dogs in 2012 has been consolidated in spades with this year’s Divide & Exit, both records full of on-point take-downs of three decades of political and pop-cultural bullshit. Songs like Tiswas and Jobseeker will make this clear to anyone who isn’t too invested in the present mess to acknowledge it.
One of the joys of witnessing Sleaford Mods in a packed small venue, in front of a home crowd, and not once but twice, was being reminded of other things I hadn’t thought about for awhile. The Welsh language post-punk of Datblygu came to mind, and if you haven’t heard Datblygu before, their 1988 masterpiece Gwlad Ar Fy Nghefn (‘Land On My Back’) is a good starting point, well worth a listen almost 30 years on from the band’s inception in Cardigan. Even if you don’t speak Welsh, the message will communicate itself loud and clear, much, I suppose, as some in the US and Germany struggle with following Williamson’s East Midlands streams of consciousness and UK specific references, even as they respond to the sheer force of what he and Fearn are doing. Looking up Datblygu last month I was pleased to discover that their mid-nineties vanishing act appears to have ended: an interview by Sarah King with core members David R Edwards and Patricia Morgan covers the band’s history, while a new documentary (in Welsh, but with English subtitles) emerged in 2012.
If the attitude and way with words of Sleaford Mods appeals, then there will be much to delight you in Datblygu’s extensive back catalogue and uncompromising stance, not least David R Edwards’ thoughts on being considered a poet. As King notes, “when I ask him if he sees himself as a poet the answer is an emphatic No. I fucking hate poets.’’ His full elaboration on the theme strikes a definite chord:
‘The Welsh national anthem says land of poets and singers. Well I’m neither. I’m not willing to put myself in one camp or the other. I like poems, I just don’t like the label poet…Creative Writing courses just keep the stupid universities open, making themselves and their professors rich and their students poor. Personally I write by observing the world, and by thinking aloud my own thoughts, via a pen, on to a piece of paper. This then reaches the recording studio which is simply a modern cave for modern cave people. I draw on the walls using modern technology. The music Datblygu create then makes a connection with other people. Large amounts of tobacco, and small amounts of alcohol, help oil the creative machinery. If I was gainfully employed, married with a mortgage, car and children, I probably wouldn’t be a writer. But I would rather be a writer than have any of that…’ It’s good to have them back.
Hearing Sleaford Mods run through Tied Up In Nottz brought another sound I’d not thought about for years back into focus, this time triggered by the loose resemblance between Fearn’s bassline and the one used on Manchester based King Of The Slums’ Vicious British Boyfriend (1989). Any resemblance is probably coincidental – it’s a pretty standard post-punk bassline, after all – and KOTS’s distinctive feature was always, anyway, the play between the distorted viola of Sarah Curtis and the tabloid-skewering lyrics of Charley Keigher. Like many late eighties bands, their recorded output is often patchy, the production doing their live impact a disservice, but there are tracks that still hint at what they were capable of. Bear With Me ventures into a strange territory somewhere between abrasive psychedelia, hypnotic rave and blunt realism: “Bear with me,/my best is yet to come,/and I am a liar/with a lot of material…/la, la, la…I got loads/la, la, la…I got loads”, sings Keigher, over and over, while Curtis merges the spirit of the Velvet Underground’s Black Angel’s Death Song with a feeling of having lived through one lost decade, just as another throws its shadow over the near horizon.
How that next decade turned out has been the subject of predictably anodyne media reminiscences, a fake nostalgia neatly deflated in Sleaford Mods’ A Little Ditty, but it’s worth remembering that much has already been half lost to that reductive Britpop story of 90s UK music. Next year marks the 20th anniversary of Tricky’s 1995 debut LP Maxinquaye, a record that managed the peculiar feat of being sufficiently avant-garde to feel like something we’re still trying to catch up with (if you doubt this, watch the video he and Martina Topley-Bird made to accompany Hell Is Round the Corner and consider how far ahead of the curve it looks and sounds even now) while also finding itself adopted as a dinner party soundtrack staple. “As I grow, I grow collective…till then you have to live with yourself”, drawls Tricky, aka Adrian Thaws, perfectly articulating the movements of a mind caught between political consciousness and outright paranoia: “We’re hungry, beware of our appetite…My brain thinks bomb-like, bomb-like”. All the while, Topley-Bird’s voice underscores the presiding mood of psychic fragility and potentially explosive threat.
If Tricky’s Maxinquaye built its unsettling, alienated atmospherics from seductive harmonies, and found itself too often misread as a kind of hip easy listening as a result, Vent, the opening track on Pre-Millenium Tension (1996) made it clear that he wasn’t planning on letting that particular misunderstanding happen twice. Raw, abrasive, claustrophobic, like a panic attack in sound, Vent is an unequivocal nineties update of one of the founding statements of hip-hop, Grandmaster Flash and The Furious Five’s The Message. Its ‘don’t push me’ refrain is transformed from the socially-conscious statement of 1983 to a cog inside an internal monologue, a phrase circling a mind that’s coming apart under pressure. Just as Williamson and Fearn articulate the internal monologues of that post-crash underclass created by a fabricated (and entirely misnamed) ‘austerity’, so Tricky articulates the psychic chaos of the years that laid the foundations for this post-crash world, with its discredited institutions, corruption and increasingly dangerous demagoguery.
Perhaps it felt relevant to play tracks from 1970s Czechoslovakia, Hungary and Poland at those Sleaford Mods gigs in September precisely because what their music describes is life, as lived at the fag end of a discredited ideology whose adherents still cling to power despite barely believing their own words, let alone expecting anyone else to. The reigning assumptions of the 2014 political conference season must feel not unlike those imposed by Party bureaucracies in the former Eastern Bloc: badly scripted rituals, determined to miss the point at any cost. The substance of a dissident essay like Vaclav Havel’s The Power Of The Powerless seems as applicable to the here and now of the UK as it did to its original context of Czechoslovakia in the late 1970s. Meanwhile, as all this plays itself out, we will be subject to increasing quantities of bullshit to defer the inevitable reckoning. Luckily, wherever there is bullshit there are antidotes to bullshit, ready to be heard if we only care enough to seek them out and listen.
Footnote: Jason Williamson played Arthur Seaton in a voice-over recorded for James Walker’s Slap and Sickle, a film essay about Alan Sillitoe’s links to Russian dissidents in the 1970s, screened as part of a link up between Nottingham Writers’ Studio and English PEN, designed to promote the national Catechism campaign on behalf of Pussy Riot on November 12 2012.
“The Tarot has always intrigued me, not because I believe it has any supernatural, occult or divinatory properties, but for precisely the opposite reason: that its symbols are empty, ambiguous and contradictory, and in being so seem to absorb whatever meanings or interpretations we wish to project into their random alignments. In this, they have something of the same quality found in art works that transcend the time and context of their making – not because they contain anything innately transcendent but because they remain ambiguous and open to interpretation for all times and potential viewers. Perhaps my own Tarot series is an exercise in this kind of randomness. The cards it contains mean nothing, in themselves, and any reading of their faces is as valid as any other, beyond a few very rudimentary cues and prompts. Yet in meaning nothing they may also be open to the kind of interpretation that will seem to signify psychological and personal insight…”
[Robert Holcombe, unpublished letter to Cy Albertine, 1975]
Since November, these questions about Woolford and her highly ambiguous play on identity have became of somewhat more particular interest. After exhibiting at the Nottingham Castle Open in 2013, Robert Holcombe received the accolade of a new commission from New Art Exchange, which meant he’d be making a new work in the context of a venue where the questions of identity already implicit in the project (indeed, the very ability to choose an identity) required deeper consideration. Mainly focused on issues of class and post-war British history – what Fabricated Archives had defined as his ability to bring about “a distancing from the present and an estrangement of the recent past” – Holcombe’s is a parallel history, grounded in the actual but unrealised potential of the real one, then deployed as a means of countering claims that ‘there are no alternatives’ to our present state. This construct is now entering a context where willed suspensions of reality and, by implication, re-writings of the very real struggles factored into the construction of identity, are likely to be questioned.For that reason, I’ve been grateful to my colleague at Primary, Kashif Nadim Chaudry, not only for his bemused comment on hearing about the commission (“What colour is Robert Holcombe?”) but for several conversations since, in which questions about how we might be responsible for a real identity, while challenging those identities imposed on us from outside, might all be navigated and addressed. I’d very deliberately conceived Holcombe to be of a similar profile to myself (white, male, raised in Midlands/Northern factory and mining towns, Methodist upbringing, working class) but displaced in time: he’s of my grandfather’s generation rather than mine, though my grandparents imagined as having had some of the opportunities my own never did. The decision to keep his profile close was pragmatic (I knew this world well enough not to need research to make it convincing) but perhaps also unconsciously linked to some felt responsibility to an actual identity.
Within that, however, are other threads and influences that I’m fairly sure I hadn’t been conscious of at the time, including the fact that I spent several years studying in Sheffield with E.A. Markham whose own career was marked by the adoption of a series of fabricated identities. Markham spent much of the 1970s and 1980s Living in Disguise (his collection owning up to these ‘other persona’ works used this title in 1986) most notably as a younger generation Black British poet, Paul St Vincent, and as a feminist poet, Sally Goodman (“She is Welsh, is young, is white, is blue-eyed, is blonde; is very much, in a way, like me”, he wrote of her). His personae appear to be responses to a feeling that voices and identities are malleable, and extending them extends our own understanding of others. It’s hard to ignore the fact that the licence to be other than oneself granted by Markham (the responsibility, even) had one source in Sheffield, though the link made by James Proctor between Markham’s use of “play and personae with his interest in Anancy, the trickster Spider-god of African and Caribbean mythology” just complicates things further.
That said, another thread leads back to that mythology, by way of a very formative work (a work that will, I think, be a touchstone for anything produced at New Art Exchange). This is the Nigerian writer Amos Tutuola’s The Palm Wine Drinkard (1952). I first stumbled on a copy (for ten pence) in a sale in the unlikely setting of Heanor library at the age of nine or ten and still regularly re-read it today. To those who know Heanor, this area of South East Derbyshire, and their reputations, the place where I spent much of my first decade has long been notorious as a stronghold for the National Front, the BNP and (currently) the likes of UKIP. That Tutuola’s book turned up there, and opened these other possibilities – the kind of possibilities that led, ultimately, and in very indirect and tangled ways, to working with E.A. Markham, making the work of Robert Holcombe, and thinking about the issues raised by the fabrication of Donelle Woolford – is almost too neatly poetic.Today, I don’t remember how I visualised the characters in The Palm Wine Drinkard in my head that first time I read it: did I even know the book was Nigerian or understand what that meant? What I do know is that I fully immersed myself in its story, and identified with its characters, even as I almost certainly failed to understand any of the book’s real context or meaning. In the same way, whatever my own take on Holcombe’s work might be, and whatever framework I construct around it to facilitate that meaning, there is a near inevitability that it will, eventually, escape that context and be seen as it is, just as ‘real’ works invariably lose the cultural and temporal contexts that define them and find themselves read against the grain of their makers’ specific intentions. Any parafictional project is ultimately founded on the belief that shifting the context changes and extends the work’s meaning and such work aims, however briefly, to make itself appear real, to conjure a mirage or hallucination even as its fabricated nature remains explicit. What happens when our fictions escape those framing contexts might be largely out of our control, but remains our responsibility.
Note: *I have no idea if this is the case or not: it’s entirely possible (and wouldn’t be the first time) that a project had been oblivious to its own potential, or had been made for banal or spurious reasons.