Between Seasons

As November creeps upon us at a startling rate, I thought it appropriate to look at Anne Sexton's bleak and poignant November poem 'Double Image'. Detailing her feelings of insufficiency as a mother, daughter, and human being (the poem specifically references two failed suicide attempts) 'Double Image' is a thoughtful, troubling poem that locates the difficulties of familial relationships in a barren, autumnal setting. 'Double Image' is more like a triple image, Sexton's mother representing what she could not be, and her daughter representing what she cannot be. Neither stoical nor joyous, proper nor carefree, old nor young, Sexton occupies a transitory space. Like Autumn, suspended in between time, an ephemeral season, ill-defined, middling. Between the hot careless days of summer where days blur into one with no order and no need for order, sporadic. And the reverent chill of winter, with its coats and gloves and things which preserve. Sexton's seasons are blocks of wasted time, affirmations of her insignificance, periods to get through rather than to enjoy. Most importantly, they are markers of the distance between herself and her child; the missed years, missed birthdays, missed steps: the complete lack of Joy. 

I am thirty this November./You are still small, in your fourth year./We stand watching the yellow leaves go queer,/flapping in the winter rain,/falling flat and washed. And I remember/mostly the three autumns you did not live here./They said I’d never get you back again./I tell you what you’ll never really know:/all the medical hypothesis/that explained my brain will never be as true as these/struck leaves letting go./

- Anne Sexton, Double Image.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/238184 

JEM

A little bit of new

Some new music finds that have found themselves wandering my way over the past few weeks...

A.P

I Saw This And Thought of You...

...so said a post office advert a few years back.  Last week Lucian said something similar to me, something like 'I found a book in a charity shop I think would amuse you.'

Here is what it was:

And 'amuse' me it has.  Beginning with the blurb which quotes Maya Angelou:

'A falling leaf could stir her. / A wilting, dying rose / would make her write, both day and night, / the most rewarding prose. / She'd find a hidden meaning / in every pair of pants / then hurry home to be alone / and write about romance'

I have yet to read much, but the section headings promise a lot.  My favourites being 'The clitoris in my throat' and 'Queens of the Underworld'.
To me it seems like the perfect book for public transport.

Bon Voyage.

R.E. C.  x

Wandering

A nice cocktail of african influenced soulful electronica and a nice journey through Ghana and West Africa. 

The Mann

Recently, I've fallen in love. Not just with a boy, but a mann- Sally Mann, to be precise. Specializing in black and white photography, Mann initially photographed her young children, and then evolved into capturing another natural beauty- that of the land. This photographic journey from the capturing of young life, to the age, majesty, and decay of the land, illustrates Mann's attraction to the temporal limitations of nature, as contained within the spatial limitations of a photograph's frame. 

But as her strength lies in pictures, not words, I'll let her take it away...

--A.G.

Ancient Bristol

Map of Bristol, c. 1610.

A lot has changed since then...

~ M.D.

Trippy Thursday...

The first is up there amongst the strangest things I've ever seen. But very cool, I think you'll agree.
The second, Flying Lotus aptly soundtracked once more. Enjoy.
- F.D.

Mo Yan

The (very) recent US Election campaign has put the world's focus very much on America. This post looks not to the US, but to another major world player, China. Arguably, in the past month China has achieved a massive cultural, political and literary milestone. On October the 11th Mo Yan became the first resident of mainland China to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. This award has been a long time coming, Yan has been producing outstanding literature for over 30 years. His style is a hybrid; fusing realism, traditional folk-tales, history and the contemporary. Read one of Yan's books and you become immersed in a hallucinogenic textual universe. Peter Englund, head of the Swedish Academy claimed that 'if you read half a page of Mo Yan you immediately recognise it as him'. Yan has such a unique and engaging style, one which is worthy of an award in itself, and certainly worthy of the praise Englund accords it. 

‘I know I earned the unspoken respect of many of Yama’s underworld attendants, but I also know that Lord Yama was sick and tired of me. So to force me to admit defeat, they subjected me to the most sinister form of torture hell had to offer: they flung me into a vat of boiling oil, in which I tumbled and turned and sizzled like a fried chicken for about an hour. Words cannot do justice to the agony I experienced until an attendant speared me with a trident and, holding me high, carried me up to the palace steps. He was joined by another attendant, one on either side, who screeched like vampire bats as scalding oil dripped from my body onto the Audience Hall steps, where it sputtered and produced puffs of yellow smoke. With care, they deposited me on a stone slab at the foot of the throne, and then bowed deeply.

“Great Lord,” he announced, “he has been fried.”

From Yan’s ‘Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out’ (2008)

In many ways reading Yan recalls a the work of another of my favourite authors, Vladimir Nabokov; both writer's works are enriched by the poly-linguism of their authors, and fully evidence the richness of books which are written by non-English authors or translated from their original language. Yan himself is a firm supporter of Goethe's idea of 'world literature' claiming that 'literature can overcome the boundaries that separates countries and nations.' Yan's work then, is not simply exquisitely written, or darkly humorous; it is a move towards something higher, towards the celebration of literature that transcends politics and is not allied to a particular nation, but is available to all who seek it. So then, Yan's success in winning the Nobel Prize perhaps shouldn't be seen as a victory for China, but a victory for the literary world in general, and a victory for the reading public whose lives will undoubtedly be enriched by exposure to Yan's beautiful and harrowing texts. 

Where the Boats Stay and the Bristolians Live their Days...

The Bristol harbourside. Even as a born and bred Bristolian, I still find myself gravitating towards the familiar sights of the homely canal boats and the gentle sounds of fellow Bristolians pitter pattering, going about their daily business. I am still caught in moments of awe on a crisp, sunny, hazy morning when the river twinkles as if to stay hello, and the sky is of the most dreamy blue, that I feel I could be swept up into it.

 

I have taken many a fellow student from the comfort of the univeristy bubble down  to the harbourside to share with them the delights of my home. Every time, it still astounds me how little people know about, what I believe to be the most beautiful and un-ruined part of Bristol. For this reason I am going to self-indulge and share with you all, the gems of Bristol Harobourside...

 

Bristol Harbourside

 

1. The Arnolfini

All sorts goes on down here, art, theatre, films and it also houses an extensive book and magazine collection. Keep an eye on the website for details of events and exhibitions.

 

2. The Watershed

I have already given the Watershed a heads up in a previous post but it is worth mentioning again. Truly, it is the best place to watch a film. As much as it is a place to go to with a group of people, there is something fairly satisfying about popping along to one of their midday sunday screenings and watching a film in your own company for an afternoon.

 

3. M-Shed

Celebrating the story of Bristol, from the glitzy heights of Clifton, to the furthest 'burbs. The main part is free of charge but they also do temporary exhibitions. At the moment the exhibition 'Real and Imagined Lives: what is fact, what is fiction?' is showing, featuring a rather solemn looking Stephen Merchant....

 

4. SS Great Britain

Fun, in a word. This is further down the river and is the home of Brunel's SS Great Britain, as well as the most friendliest people you will ever meet. You can easily make a day of it down there, whether it is pretending to be a captain for the whole day or losing yourself in the fascinating collection documenting the history of this magnificent ship.

 

The SS Great Britain



5. Weekend Market

It is fairly easy to be distracted by the numerous items on display at this market. I am particularly fond of a book stall run by a man named Keith I got chatting to the other week, who sells boxes upon boxes  of books ranging from Steinbeck to Hemingway, and all at very good prices. I picked up a 1960s vintage John Steinbeck title for a mere £4. A must visit, for the reader who loves their books to have a bit of history indented into the pages.

 

6. The Ferry Services

If you are a bit stuck for time, the cross ferry service runs daily, taking you briskly over to the other side of the river. There are also specialised boat tours, showing you the best of what Bristol has to offer. There are plenty of leaflets down by the harbour (near the SS Great Britain) with listings of  various trips. A good one to keep in mind when the parents happy when they come to visit.

 

7. Under the Stars

A cafe/bar that is as beautiful as it sounds. They certainly try to pack in a lot over the week: friday open mic nights, film showings every wednesday and great food and drink too. Marvellous!

 

8. The Louisianna

Many a successful band has started their days of touring in this small music venue. It is also a great place to catch some local music and mix with some locals.

 

9. The Apple Cider Bar

You are not an initiated student at Bristol until you have sampled some proper Bristol cider. This is the place to do it.

 

10. Thekla

After that you can move a little bit down the river to Thekla, the club on a boat, marked with one of Banksy's famous images. It is also another great place to catch some live music. Their webite has all the details you need.

 

That is just a taste of what this great city has to offer. PLEASE give these places a visit and let the Helicon team know what you think....You can comment on any of these blogs and it would be great to get some feedback from you all about what you think of our posts.

 

A.P

 

 

 

 

Baby Doll

A good two weeks later and Tim Walker's giant dolly, currently residing in Somerset House as part of his Story Teller exhibition, is still haunting me.

R.E.C.

Female vocalists

My music is usually stuck on loop. That I've-just-bought-a-new-album sound that probably makes my housemates a bit sick of passing my room and hearing the same ceaseless songs. It takes me a good few days before growing bored of a good song - I can be named and shamed for my habit of incessant clicking on the YouTube repeat button. However, a few bands that have recently been the constant substance of the sound waves in my room are certainly worth a share. Rocky, poppy, indie bands (call it what you will) headed by women with rapturous vocals, in the footsteps of Stevie Nicks and Annie Lennox, seem to be catching my attention at the moment. Hitting notes that, if attempted by myself, could only be likened to chalk on a blackboard, but are beautiful from the throats of these ladies. Have a listen...

From the album My Head is an Animal

From the album Prisoner by The Jezabels

L x

Drizzly weekend fun

Rain, rain, go away, come again another day.

SOLIPSIST from Andrew Thomas Huang on Vimeo.

A.A.H

Goldsworthy

One of the first artists who inspired me to create was Andy Goldsworthy, whose work proves that a simple journey through nature can be sufficient to provide the materials and inspiration for a lifetime of art. Goldsworthy breaks free from the usual artistic practice of creating work within an indoor studio, instead using his surroundings to make art which blends seamlessly with its setting and looks like it could have grown naturally from its environment. The work pictured above is entirely static, yet the meandering shape suggests dynamic movement as it weaves its way amongst the trees, eventually coming to an end by immersing itself entirely under water. It is imbued with a life of its own, creating the impression that it has made the conscious decision to move from one place to another, and thus the artist physically represents with the wall of rocks the journey which the linear shape undertakes takes through the forest. 

Yet Goldsworthy's art is primarily concerned with a less tangible type of journey - that of  the passing of time which all living things on this earth are subject to and affected by. This is reflected in the work called Rain Shadow (below), where Goldsworthy himself lies on the ground during a rainstorm, protecting the ground below him from the rain. The work is made as a result of the time spent lying on the ground, and it too will eventually disappear when the ground surrounding it dries. All his works are therefore temporal pieces, made to be viewed for a brief moment before they become victim once again to the cycles of nature.

~ M. D.

You need an umbrella in this kind of weather

Last Thursday the writer Will Self came to the Arnolfini, Bristol to promote his new novel, Umbrella. Shortlisted for the Booker Prize which Hilary Mantel won with Bring Up The Bodies, Self's novel has mainly been discussed as a work of modernism.  Indeed, last week's edition of Start the Week on Radio 4 posited that whilst a modernist work may now be nominated for the Booker, something more conventional like historical fiction would always win it.

This comparison annoyed me and, moreover, struck me as erroneous.  Modernist writing is a form or way of writing with strong connections to a particular historical period (making Self's 2012 offering more unique).  It is not de facto simultaneously the narrative or genre or subject of a book.  Virginia Woolf's The Lighthouse, Faulkner's The Sound and The Fury or Eliot's The Wasteland are not at all about the same thing just because they are written in various modernist styles.  Therefore to say 'Mantel's book is about Cromwell and Self's is a modernist novel' is making a weak comparison.

As it is, Self does deal with many aspects and concerns of modernism and the modern period in his text, perhaps explaining why he self-consciously chose to also write in the style.  He also discusses hospitals, London, families, odd diseases, ageing and many other things. Self's book is modernist in two ways.  Firstly it is written in a modernist style and secondly it explores the modernist period by making the main protagonist, Audrey Death, representative of the mechanisation of the 20th century in Britain.

Too little of this has so far been discussed in criticism of the book.  Instead, as with all discussions about modernism, a trite comparison is made between the new text and Joyce's Ulysses - frequently succeeding in scaring potential readers away by implied ideas of it being impenetrable - and then little more.

When Self read a section from Umbrella, he did so in multiple voices.  Once I had got over how exciting it must have been to have him as a father who could 'do the voices' at bedtime, I also realised how much it added to the text.  Roughly, each piece of italicised text is said in a different accent - frequently cockney.  'Momentarily sandwiched between two sandwich men' with the sandwiched said in a cockney accent reads very differently to the entire sentence read all in RP.  A member of the audience had earlier made reference to Thomas's Under Milk Wood, and it is a good comparison to make.  Once Umbrella is read as a montage of all these different voices and sounds it is the very opposite of impenetrable, it bubbles up and out and around your ears.

Umbrella has a lot to say about modernism, the majority of which can only be accessed by those who bother to walk within the text rather than make one blanket comment about its surface structure.

Just for Kicks

The Happiness Machine

‘The Invisible Circus produces unique circus theatre experiences in a wide variety of unusual locations, from circus big tops and traditional theatres to site specific and promenade performances in disused industrial and historical buildings.’ The Invisible Circus

As a treat to ourselves for our hard work and fourth year endurance, we decided to take a trip to the circus. The Happiness Machine, seemed a promising title because we all deserved a smile on our faces.  Indeed it did make us grin, but it also made us ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ and gasp and think and reflect.  I have been to plenty circuses in my time, and in my childhood years, the only things that I was left with were sticky fingers and popcorn leftovers stuck to my jumper. The Happiness Machine provides much more than just a showcase of bumbling clowns, silly gimmicks and cheap laughs. It is a symbolic and powerful performance criticizing how we have become slaves to the commercial world.

The main stage is taken over by a set of two-storey houses and their brightly lit windows gave us a sneak peek into the personal lives of the main characters whilst they are not on stage.  The first scene follows the story of an over-worked office worker as he teeters and staggers along a tight rope wire whilst trying to reach all of his deadlines. His skill becomes more visible as more work is piled into his inbox and it all becomes incredibly stressful. The choreography is a smart way of expressing how our work lives are at times overwhelming, all encompassing and exasperating.

The next few scenes are focused upon our consumerist society, sparkly ruby slippers and golden cleaning gloves are on all of the girl’s wish lists. Beautiful models take to the main stage, mincing around, lifting off into the heights of the tent on aerial hula hoops and show off the products in all of their glory.  But the poor old house wife is devastatingly let down after hoping and dreaming that the products will transform her into a new version of herself.  

In the final scene the couch-potato character finally appears on his favorite TV game show and the stage turns into a golden and glittery roller disco. His life is completed; he has won a chance to go through the ‘magic door’. The message ultimately comes down to the fact that we live in a sad world in which we dedicate much of our lives to television. We specifically put off social events because we have to be at home at 9pm to watch the next episode of our favorite soap.

It is quite a dismal reality, we can all relate to the scenes in some kind of way and I respect the Invisible circus’ attempt to provide a critical outlook on society. It is a smart technique to title the circus, The Happiness Machine because we really are happy. We are watching silly and entertaining stunts and tricks, our mouths wide open in amazement or in hysteria. The production copies the way in which television switches our minds off and subliminally forces us into zombie mode.  The final irony is that even though we are laughing, the happiness machine converts and transforms itself throughout the performance into the commercial marketing machine without us even realizing. 

A.A.H

The buzz word.

This week sees the announcement of the short-list for the TS Eliot prize for poetry. Amongst stalwarts such as Simon Armitage and Sharon Olds there is newcomer Sean Borodale, nominated for his poem-journal ‘The Bee Journal’, which was published in July. 

Borodale’s journal reminded me of the prolific amount of poems devoted to bees. I recently attended a reading by Carol Ann Duffy, who has also written a collection on Bees (‘The Bees). Duffy spoke of Bees as inspiring her with their productivity, community and naturalness. Duffy also made mention of another poet who wrote of Bees: Sylvia Plath. 

In the work of Borodale, Duffy and Plath we have three generations of poetry on Bees. Although Britain has changed substantially in that period, the nature of their poems remain somewhat similar. There is something about Bees then, which is unchanging, persevering, and resistant to outside influence. Their pre-historic preservation again the whirring wheel of time makes them a subject which I envision poets will write of for generations to come. 

‘27th August’

The spider's season opens,
rat tooth-marks appear;

almost just a tempering of vision.

So, in a coat
I go up to the ochre house of you in there.

How bees touch and re-align their touch.

Light in migration;
noise of a body in continual repair ...

by Sean Borodale.

‘The Bee Carol’

Silently on Christmas Eve,
the turn of midnight’s key;
all the garden locked in ice -
a silver frieze -
except the winter cluster of the bees.

Flightless now and shivering,
around their Queen they cling;
every bee a gift of heat;
she will not freeze
within the winter cluster of the bees.

Bring me for my Christmas gift
a single golden jar;
let me taste the sweetness there,
but honey leave
to feed the winter cluster of the bees.

Come with me on Christmas Eve
to see the silent hive -
trembling stars cloistered above -
and then believe,
bless the winter cluster of the bees.

by Carol Ann Duffy.

Sylvia Plath ‘The Arrival of the Bee Box’ - http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/sylvia-plath/the-arrival-of-the-bee-box/

JEM.

A beastly beauty

With the sky soon to fall under the weight of Bond, it seems strangely perfect that a film narrated from the perspective of a feisty six-year-old from 'The Bathtub' should pull us with a mighty, unrelenting, "thump" back  to earth. With a Pan's Labyrinth-esque air of fantasy which entangles the imagination of a child with the dark depths of the reality in which they live, the film gains it's momentous strength from the way in which it's young protagonist, 'Hushpuppy', handles with great ferocity the collapsing world around her.

The carnal world of 'The Bathtub'- a patch in the marshy Louisiana Lowland- which is under the ominous possibility of flooding, becomes the startling, unnerving, yet heart-warmingly endearing, soil from which the film burgeons with monstrous  power. It is a film in which the characters and the world around them are inextricably linked- survival of one depends on survival of the other. The story line tumbles out of the screen in the most unpredictable of fashions, continuously drenching the stunned audience with loose music and stark images until we are left at the closing credits finally seeing through hindsight the film's puzzle-like cohesiveness.

This is a brilliant journey of survival, made all the more adventurous by the raw innocence of the perspective from which it is told. Go sea it.

--A.G.

The humble bicycle

In Vittorio De Sica's film Bicycle Thieves (1948) our beloved and most humble form or trasportation is for the central character Antonio Ricci, his means of survival. The only way in which this depraved husband and father of young son Bruno can fulfill his job as a poster-sticker, is if he owns his own bicycle. A greatest and most tragic dilemma occurs when on his first day of his newly acquired job, his bicycle, his life line, is stolen. Desperate and helpless, Antonio and his devoted son pace the streets of Rome in an attempt to recover this item that is most precious to the both of them. The Bicycle.

A Scene from Bicycle Thieves

The journey to find the bicycle becomes more than a rescue operation to discover the wherabouts of their captured item; the father and son relationship is tested and ultimately rocked. Antonio, in his angst steals a bike, resorting to the very act that deprived him of a livelihood. As a consequence, this bit of metal with two rickety wheels, handle bars and an un-comfortable seat; this 'thing' to get from place to place challenges the trust and faith between the two sorrowful characters. Antonio is humiliated and scorned by the un-sympathetic public and Bruno is left completely devastated and inconsolable; the great man he believed in is no longer. And what for? A Bicycle.

It is easy to forget the meaning of 'things.' Their place in our lives looses it's significance. We become accustomed to them, they are always reassuringly there, waiting for us at the end of the day, just as we left them. In an age when we have so much and are able to add to this 'muchness' at the swipe of a plastic card, or even a simple click of a button, we should take a thought for the 'things,' because one day we might actaully need them, and they may just not be there.

 A.P

Escaping the Body

My favourite fashion blogger Susie Bubble recently completed the Nike Women's Half Marathon:

http://www.stylebubble.co.uk/style_bubble/2012/10/run-for-life.html

Susie's description of the journey from panting through 3 kilometres in her first training session to sobbing over the finishing line in San Francisco chimed true with experiences of my own. Since having a major back operation to correct scoliosis in September, 2010 the route back to making my body function again has been frustrating and arduous.

I abjectly hate my body much of the time.  Perhaps more so because adages about health mattering more than looks do not ring true.  I can cover my skin in pretty material, but I can't make my skeleton work properly.  X-rays of a body full of metal do not appear to represent me, maybe since although I know it is there, I cannot physically see the scar that covers it.  Boyfriends are used to tell me what it looks like.

However, one of the rare opportunities I get to experience feelings of appreciation for my body and test its limits is when I cycle.  Before my operation I became quite obsessed with cycling and getting fit..I used it as a way to exert some control over the body that was rebelling against me.  I lived on salads and always pushed myself to go as fast as I could over the 14 miles (7 miles each direction) I went through to work and back each day.  Toned legs and protruding clavicles let me pretend I could control and shape my body as I wished.

Nowadays - as those who know me will attest - I eat cake, drink beer and have clothes in my wardrobe I can no longer fit into.  I don't want to go back to starving myself.  I will never be remembered for being skinny and I cannot write (the thing I live for) if I am hungry.  What I still crave though, is the adrenaline of going slightly too fast down hill after getting dizzy fighting my way up the other side.

I have recently began cycling again and, like Susie, I am quite a wreck when I do so.  Gone are the days when I floated daintily along on my dutch bike in a floral flock.  These autumnal mornings I wheeze and wimper as I cut through the sludge of cold air.  My legs feel like they are wading through trench mud and I hate myself, curse myself, for being made of chubby beer fat and assorted aches and pains.

But I will get there.  Perhaps by next summer I will be able to enjoy half falling off my bike, a sweaty mess in the late afternoon heat, and diving into the shower.  After flummoxing through two years of pain, only imagining it as a means to an end, the aim is now to enjoy the journey once more.

Rosemary Ellen Cherry