Tuesday 7 May 2024

Vigdis Hjorth, Will and Testament

Will and Testament is an extremely powerful book, packed with the messiness of emotion, trauma, memory and family dynamics - it holds nuance and contradiction brilliantly. 



I read this passage in a moment when I was thinking about influence and different paths that lead to different versions of yourself/your life:


Dealing with the aftermath and trauma of childhood sexual abuse, Hjorth makes use of Freudian proposals around exploring repressed memories and containing anger - she examines how people use extreme thinking and lies to justify their actions and render their enemy worse, all bad, to ensure a clear narrative of victim and aggressor. Interwoven with Freud's theories on repression and anger are conversations the protagonist has with a friend on war mentalities - specially in relation to Israel/Palestine. They discuss the slippery slope of abuse, where victim can become aggressor and use justifications for attacks - how victims inherit beliefs and narratives use them to justify self-defence or acts of aggression. 

What would it mean to end the cycle of violence and not to use the comfort of 'victim status' to perpetuate suffering? What might a person have to confront and absorb to ensure they don't become the next aggressor? What is the cost of this absorption and how can a person manage their self-destructive impulses to be freed by the truth, and healed by the recognition of others of this truth? What happens when you don't get the recognition from the people you want it from? 

The protagonist's friend describes his discomfort in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv which mirrors almost perfectly what I felt on my visit in 2018. In sum, the strange atmosphere where a modern and shiny city was built with walls that keep perceived threats or aggressors out - these walls hide the suffering of others and support those inside to try to forget what sits behind those walls and live under illusions of peace, kindness, happiness and fairness. To truly heal however is to acknowledge the blurred lines of victim/aggressor, not to conceal your aggressions behind sophisticated architecture and technology but to endure the ambiguity, acknowledge the suffering and manage this alongside the good without self-destructing acts or shame. 

Sunday 31 March 2024

Zoe Spowage exhibition 'Pet' at Persistence Works

Incredible exhibition of paintings on new motherhood and fantastic blurb by the artist:

“From the start I was using 'Pet' as the title for this body of work: 'Pet' as in a creature you pour your love into; 'Pet' as in the affectionate/patronising touch of an authority (figure?); 'Pet' peeve/theory/name as in 'held dear'. There was something darkly comic about how lightweight the word Pet is in contrast to the seriousness of having a child.

I was considering who my new self would be - postnatally. The female characters in the paintings are all personifications of my musings or anxieties relating to this metamorphosis. Featured, too, is the unruly family pet, the pushed-out dog, displaced by the new child. And a toyed-with frog representing the cruelty and innocence of small children - a duality that no animal could ever understand, or forgive.

Aesthetically, this work is economic in terms of colour, drawing, and surface. It is elegant and filled with open space. Many of these elements feel at odds with my new existence as a mother - which feels chaotic and punk. Babies scoff at elegance.”









Marlen Haushofer, The Wall

The Wall was one of those novels that is at times rather boring, but also deeply fascinating and moving at the same time. Written in 1963, Marlen Haushofer tells the story of a woman with grown children and no husband who visits her cousin Luisa and her husband Hugo in the Austrian mountains when an invisible wall erects overnight whilst the couple are in town, leaving the 40-something year old protagonist as the last human on Earth (to the best of her knowledge). The narrator can see through the wall and identify that everything living has become petrified, people and animals suspended mid-action, but very much dead. Set with the spectre of nuclear war in the background, and the hypothesis that the wall may be an enemy attack, the woman makes the decision to survive. 

The novel is full of details of how she approaches her survival in the most practical senses: how she hunts, forages and plants food to keep herself nourished, how she weathers the elements and changing seasons, the small shifts in climate, the detail of the flora around around her; however, the narrative is centred around her dependency on the animals that she cares for and the role assigns herself to work for them as her primary impetus to stay and keep alive. 

The Wall takes the form of a report the woman is writing on her time after the wall has come up - we are told it has been over two years. The protagonist details her account of endurance, her deep loneliness and depression but also the love and companionship that fuels her will to continue, found in the friendship of the huntsman's left behind dog Lynx, a number of cats who are born and die throughout the story, Bella a pregnant cow who yields milk vital to the survival of the cohort, and eventually Bull, Bella's calf. Working with scarce resources, the woman feels responsible for the survival of her eclectic clan of pets, and with this purpose, industriously develops the skills and solutions to find a way to exist in her new ecosystem. 

Dependent on the meaning that this labour gives her, she hunts deer she'd rather not kill and seasonally moves from a hunting lodge in a valley to another property, and describes feeling split off as if into two different people who occupy two different places. This brilliant passage in an example of her psychic navigation of what it means to be in this place and her role in it - how she should neither get lost in fantasies of megalomania nor under state her environmental interventions: 

In her report, she remembers her previous life as a mother as if that person person too is a separate entity, and feels disdain to her grown children, who stopped needing her in the ways she needed to feel needed. With this role given new life through her animals, the company of whom she has come to prefer over that of humans, she reflects how her happiness in early family life with small children faded as they grew older, leaving her insecure and considerably less happy so much so that she writes, "Later on I had never been happy again. Everything changed in a wretched way, and I stopped really living". I found the confessions of anxiety that harm or death would come to her animals extremely moving. Deeply resonant was her acknowledgement that the creatures were wild and needed their freedom even if it meant they would be killed by predatory animals or disappear without explanation. A truth she accepted both in thought and action, her worst terrors were letting them out into the world without supervision, for fear of crisis, separation, loss, her own resulting loneliness and ultimately, the removal of her strongest survival mechanism. 

The book is at once the triumph of physical strength of a woman who decides she needs no other humans (indeed this comes to a head at the end of the novel), and endures an unforgiving wilderness and also a story of the dependency of the will and drive of women to care for and mother others, who find purpose and loss in this mothering. There is a tender moment where Haushofer describes an exchange of mutual mothering: the protagonist continues to stay alive to keep her cow Bella alive and knows that without Bella's milk, she and the others would all starve. In this moment of feeding, Bella is the great mother, in other moments, she is referred to as the protagonist's sister. Acknowledging the interdependency, in this passage the protagonist hopes that Bella dies before her, which would mean an easier death for her beloved cow and the opting into greater suffering for herself instead:

Sunday 10 March 2024

North Circular at the Showroom, Q&A with traditional Irish singer Annie Hughes & film director Luke McManus

North Circular is a 'musical documentary' that takes the viewer on a journey through the North Circular Road in Dublin. McManus interweaves the personal and institutional histories of places along the the road, and documents the recent activism of the folk revival scene against their gentrification of the neighbourhood, which includes the saving of The Cobblestone, a beloved pub, host and haven for folk sessions for local singers and musicians, including Lisa O'Neill. 

The film deals with themes that are hard to nail down and lets the stories of those living around the North Circular settle in ambiguity, much like life itself, where joy and sorrow, suffering and recovery, loss and pleasure sit side by each in acknowledgement, without the need to push the other aside, all the more potent and true for their shadow. More ode than essay, the film's directorial voice is quiet and without argument or agenda, letting those in front of the camera do the talking. 

While the film is overwhelmingly hopeful and foregrounds people's capacity to laugh and joke even in the aftermath of displacement and trauma, there are moments of slight discomfort—a filmmaker's happy accidents—that hint at a darker underbelly of society: two men high on heroin dance alongside two Roma women, making them uncomfortable; casual racist remarks are shared between a man giving change to another. North Circular celebrates pride of place without being nationalistic, and brings to the screen the lives of working class Dubliners without tokenism or fetish – the stories belong to those who have lived through them, who tell it in their way. 

Finally, it was an absolute treat to hear Annie Hughes, who opens the film with her gorgeous voice, sing two traditional Irish tunes for the audience at the Showroom. 


Sunday 3 March 2024

Makenna Goodman, The Shame

It doesn't happen often, but sometimes a book comes to you at just the right time, when you didn't know you needed it most. 

Makenna Goodman's superbly written The Shame was one such story. This novel pierced me and recognised me and this current moment to an uncanny degree that my image of the protagonist Alma's Vermont house and garden merged with the very new, real experience of moving into my new house in and having a garden of my own for the very first time. 

The feeling that a book could have been written with you and your history in mind is curious. The sense of seeing and knowing you get from a person you don't know but who speaks (to you? to a group of yous? to a person they imagined could be like you or completely different from you?) from text on a page is, in rare but precious instances, like magic, a challenge to the time space continuum as well as to the idea that you are individual, unique, in a manner both humbling and disarming.  


Sunday 21 January 2024

Philip Guston at the Tate Modern

Always amazing to see a retrospective of one of your favourite painters - I've loved Gustin's work since I learned about it in a post-war figurative painting seminar at The University of Edinburgh during my year abroad in 2012. I especially enjoyed his tender depictions of his wife, Musa McKim, and discovering their poetic/drawing collaborations. 









Monday 15 January 2024

Painting of a Sicilian Christmas cake


Haven't painted acrylic on canvas since I was 15 so it was a real treat to get back into it!