A LOST DAY, A NEW PROJECT, AND THE PHYSIOLOGY OF ANGELS

Have you ever lost a day? I don't mean wasted it but entirely misplaced it? Well, that's what I did, last week. Entirely convinced that it was Wednesday I was blithely into normal Wednesday rhythm until around 4 pm when the phone rang and a voice from the dentist's practice in Salisbury said that I had an appointment at 2:15 pm. "Yes, I know," I said blithely, "It's for tomorrow, Thursday." The voice went quiet and several degrees colder. "Today is Thursday," it said. Astonishment, abject apology and embarassment rushed in, transforming innocent Wednesday into guilty Thursday. And what's more I lost my pre-booked train ticket, no refund allowed. My excuse is that I didn't go out on Monday or Tuesday so I couldn't tell what day it was because I am so concentrated on the new project I'm working on. 

The new project is Unfolded Books, a forthcoming exhibition to open in June at the National Library of Wales and possibly to tour elsewhere after it ends in September. It is being organised by artist and curator Mary Husted, a friend of Clive Hicks-Jenkins who is one of the artists invited to participate in this project and it is through his very kindly introducing her to my work that I am included. There are eight artists from Wales, three from Hong Kong, two from Australia and one from England (me). All, with the exception of myself, are personally known to Mary but we are meeting next month to remedy this. Each artist has received one or two of the concertina/accordion books which Mary bought in Hong Kong for this purpose and each is free to fill it however she/he chooses. 

My book arrived last week. Below is a photo of it - a tall narrow 33cm x 11.7cm when closed. It's over 2metres long when fully unfolded and I am going to fill both sides of the accordion - that's 52 panels. I've decided on a theme and a technique but both shall remain secret until finished. The deadline is end of May - that's almost tomorrow and I have a huge amount of work to do.

What of the physiology of angels? Probably nothing to do with the above. It came from a dream I had on Wednesday, 8th February (famously not Thursday). It was a long and intricate dream but the relevant bit is that a girl who had contacted me on the internet asked me to come over and advise her on a book she was making. So I went to her house, carrying my breakfast, and sat at her table eating it while she chatted to me about herself. She seemed bored and in a hurry and I wasn't very interested in her but to be polite, I said: what do you really want to do? Her answer amazed me. She said: I want to research the physiology of angels. I replied that there is a team of scientists in outer space who are studying the particles we are made of. 

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IT'S THAT TIME OF YEAR

IT'S THAT TIME OF YEAR...

when everything accuses:

YOU'RE LATE LATE LATE AGAIN!!! 

The calendar, the weather, the people streaming in and out of shops, the seasonal cards arriving already, the Things To Finish This Year list I made last year and all the lists I've ever made....my whole life suddenly seems like one big end-of-year guilt-ridden apology to myself and others: 

SO SORRY I'M LATE!

No. Not true that I'm sorry. Can't be true. If it were true I wouldn't keep on being late. Lateness must be a state I enjoy. A state I prefer to the state of punctuality, the state of finishing things, the state of satisfaction. Lateness must be what I'm really good at. If I annoy, disappoint or inconvenience others with my lateness, my unfinishedness, that's their problem, isn't it? And if I disappoint, enrage, inconvenience myself that's my problem, isn't it? 

Yes. That is my problem.

(I did the drawing below using the wondrous HARMONY application created by Mr.doob, Ricardo Cabello).

To round off my last post, I must say something about Snow which I have just finished reading. I now have no doubt that the mythological KA or double was present in the author's mind when he worked out the structure of this book. 

First of all, the fictional narrator 'Orhan' is the double of the real author, Orhan Pamuk. Secondly, Orhan tells the story based on his dead friend Ka's diaries and re-traces Ka's journey, trying to see things as the poet did four years ago. The 'double' theme is taken up again in the close relationship between the two teen-age boys, Necip and Fazil, who read each other's minds. After Necip is shot, Fazil says to Ka: "It's possible that Necip's soul is now living inside my body." 

Other instances of doubling, as well as of duplicity, are scattered throughout the story. This is particulary intriguing to me because I was searching for the lesson implied in my dream. I have yet to figure that out but never mind the dream - was I impressed by Snow? 

Impressed, yes. It's an impressive achievement. If it was a sculpture, it would be a public monument standing in a town square. A realistic sculpture but with modernist touches, lots of intricately crafted detail and symbols. Was I moved by it? No. Its monumentality, its intention to be an important novel creates a distance like those barriers not letting you get too near valuable works of art in a museum. While I admire Pamuk's grasp of the complex politics and beliefs of his compatriots and the tremendous skill with which he weaves them into a story, he doesn't make me care about individual characters. Apart from being told repeatedly that Ka's love-object, Ipek, is stunningly beautiful, what do I know about her personality? It has less substance than the snowflakes which dominate the setting. I feel the same about the other protagonists (perhaps Necip is the exception). They are all actors on a stage, reading their roles, and once I've left this theatre, I forget them. The other factor which alienates me from this novel is the surfeit of information: too much, too much! Just when my attention is captured by an incident or conversation, I'm immediately pulled away to look at something else, some irrelevant detail. This is infuriating.

Voilà. I'm obviously not going to join the ranks of those who adore Orhan Pamuk's writing but I will, definitely, take my hat off to him.

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