Surreal Sunday 1 : Vorticist Composition

In an experiment to determine whether or not surreal art can be produced by someone without any artistic merit or skill, over the coming six weeks I will be featuring art from the British Surrealism in Context Exhibition. Five of the works featured will be genuine reproductions taken from the exhibition catalogue. The sixth work of art will have been produced by someone without any artistic ability or experience (me) on my kitchen table in less than an hour. Your task is to spot the surreal fraud. You can comment as we progress through the six works or wait until the end to give your verdict.

No 1. Vorticist Composition

In this composition the artist uses the shape of two picture easels to mimic human positions and produces a clear indication of a man striding out of the painting.

Ludwig Wittgenstein Gets Some Hearing Aid Batteries

I am all in a tizzy today, behind with all my jobs and unable to either present my promised post in the Family Six Pack series or get around to all the other Theme Thursday participants and view their interpretations of rhythm. It is partly that we have decorators in and the house is in chaos. It is partly that I ran out of the batteries that power my cochlear implant and had to get some more. And it is partly the fault of the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein.

Many years ago I used to do some guest lecturing on a University of London course called "Education in England". Another of the guest lecturers hired for a three week stint in the middle of the summer was a retired philosophy professor from Belfast called William McClure. Bill was a wonderful old chap with a store of tales to fit every occasion. Whilst our students were off enjoying a taste of the cultural sites and sounds of London in the evening, Bill and I used to retire to the pub and get slowly and satisfyingly drunk. One evening I was delayed for my meeting with Bill in the Public Bar of the pub opposite the Institute of Education and when I eventually arrived I apologised for keeping him waiting for almost an hour. His reply - in a soft and rolling Irish accent - was "Sure, it doesn't take me long to wait an hour". Over a pint or four he told me how he had heard an old farmer use this expression in a village in the Mourne Mountains when he turned up at the post office one morning a good hour before it opened. Bill went on to explain how the phrase perfectly summed up the theory of time as postulated by Ludwig Wittgenstein. I have to confess that the detailed philosophical explanation got lost in clouds of Fullers Best Bitter, but I remember the phrase well.

So this afternoon as I queued up at the hearing aid clinic to get a new supply of batteries (all free on our splendid NHS will all my American friends note) and the technician came out to apologise for the long wait, I simply put on my Bill McClure smile and even a bit of a Bill McClure accent and said "Sure, it won't take me long to wait an hour". The technician smiles and went off to write something in my notes. I sat there thinking vaguely philosophical thoughts. The clock moved on. I eventually got my batteries but it was too late to post my Family Six Pack piece. If you want to complain, direct your complaints to old Ludwig Wittgenstein ... wherever he may be.

Theme Thursday - Rhythm

Although sound may come to an end, the need for rhythm does not. As many of you already know, some 25 years ago my hearing began to fail. Over a period of many years I lost my ability to hear - and therefore comprehend - at first complex sounds like music, and then human voices and eventually even my own voice. One of the very last things to go was rhythm and, the need for rhythm never went at all. You don't have to hear rhythm, you can feel it. Even though you may not get any audible feedback, tapping your fingers or your feet to some internal rhythm is still a satisfying activity. During those years of deafness I would sometimes twitch and jerk my body to the sound of some unknown melody like a gauche teenager, desperate to feel the rhythm - any rhythm - even though I could never hear it.

But the particular memory of rhythm I would like to share with you this Theme Thursday comes from a few years before the total deafness set in. It was during the years of declining hearing and illustrates my desperation to cling on to rhythm as long as I possibly could. When my ability to follow complex music declined I discovered that I could still appreciate relatively simple rhythm. Simple drum solos would work but I also found was that I was able to lap up the rhythm from a decent tap-dancing solo like a thirsty kitten lapping up cream. Not knowing any tap dancers I went in search of a collection of tap dancing solos on record, which - understandably I suppose since tap dancing is partly a visual art form - was difficult to source. I eventually found a compilation of Fred Astaire hits which contained a good few of his tap dancing routines. For months they kept me happy. I would drive to work each day with the record in the car stereo, pounding out the sound of Fred's feet. Perhaps my feet would occasionally tap in unison to the pulsating rhythm. Which is why, if you happened to drive on the M18 regularly in the 1990s, you might have seen a car jerkily make its progress eastwards as the drivers feet tapped out the rhythm on the brake and accelerator.

To see how other people interpret this weeks' theme, visit these LINKS.

Underlining A Ford Focus With A Smudgy Biro

Another lucky dip into the vintage postcard collection put together by my mother's Uncle Fowler brings up an unused card dating back 90 or 100 years showing two engines of the Caledonian Railway Company. The earliest engine, we are told, was built by George Stephenson himself whilst the latest was "now running on 2pm Corridor Train from Glasgow Central to London Euston". Whenever I pick these cards at random I am always tempted to turn them into exam questions for unsuspecting students of economic and social history - "using the above picture as your source discuss trends in inter-city transport in Britain over the last 100 years". It is the kind of exam I would quite enjoy sitting : indeed I suppose that this blog is, at times, nothing more than am expansive answer-book to such an exam.

I am not very good on trains. Like all boys of my age I served an apprenticeship as a train-spotter, stood on windy railway bridge underlining engine numbers with a smudgy Biro in my Ian Allan Trainspotters Guide. But it was more out of tribal loyalty than a collector's enthusiasm. But what red-blooded human does not feel a thrill course through his or her veins when a real steam train passes close?

But I am getting sentimental and maudlin. Too many dusty old postcards. Time to look forward rather than back. Was that a Ford Focus that just drove past? Must go and mark it up in my car spotter's guide. .... Not the same feel to it, has it?

The Meaning Of Life In A Waste Paper Bin

There has been some degree of speculation over recent weeks - both on my blog and on others such as Chairman Bill's - on the meaning of life. It reminded me of a project I started a couple of years ago entitled : "The Meaning Of Life And Other Intractable Problems ... in Diagrams". It was part of a submission to a publisher who was looking for an idea for one of those books people keep in their toilets for browsing when there is little else to do. I submitted three projects - none of which I have to say were selected. Because I had been yet again ignored by the great outside world I lost interest in the project and never got past the first page. However, it was quite a first page and revealed the meaning of life in a single diagram.I reproduce it here because it might amuse you, it might interest you, it might annoy you - and too much work went into it for it to stay at the bottom of a publishers' waste bin for ever. Unless you have magnifying eyes you will probably have to click on the image to read it. (Note : It seems that the picture is reluctant to click-and-enlarge and therefore I have added this LINK to an on-line version)

A Gangrenous Thumb And A Surrealist Umbrella

Some weeks ago in his splendid blog, Tony mentioned visiting the British Surrealism in Context exhibition in Leeds. Always eager to take a trip into the surreal I organised an outing, and so last Friday the Lad, our good friend Tim, and his friend Lizzie met up in Leeds to sample what the American writer Susan Sontag once called "the contents of a meagerly stocked dream world: a few witty fantasies, mostly wet dreams and agoraphobic nightmares".

The exhibition is based on the collection of the Leeds collectors Ruth and Jeffrey Sherwin and represents one of the largest collections of British surrealism in the UK. In his blog, Tony commented on incongruity of a surrealist exhibition in Yorkshire and posed the question as to whether Yorkshire people were the least surrealistic of any race. One could almost pose the same question about the general concept of "British Surrealism" but there is probably a point at which eccentricity and surrealism merge and it is at that point that you will find the British contingent have established their camp.

I will not attempt to describe the exhibition in detail - it is at Leeds Art Gallery until 1 November 2009 so you can always see it yourself - but I was left with a few impressions at the end of the day. The first was that although wandering through a surrealism exhibition to me is a bit like trekking through the Amazonian jungle with a street map of Birmingham as a guide, it was still possible to recognise works I liked and ones I didn't. The second thing was the frames many of the works were displayed in : these were obviously the original frames dating back to the 1930s and 40s, but they looked so out of place (indeed almost surreal in themselves). If you buy the exhibition catalogue you see the same works without the embellishment of fake plaster cornices and I have to say that I prefer them in their embellished state.

Finally one is always left with the question : is this art or is it a rather elaborate con-trick (or is it both)? There is, of course, a strong theme of mockery which runs throughout the surrealist movement so one can imagine that the surrealists themselves would welcome mockery. Could anyone produce such strange shapes and twisted images? To try and find an answer to this question I have decided to instigate the "Surreal Sunday" project. For the next six Sundays I will present a series of surrealistic images. Five of them will come from the exhibition catalogue and therefore will represent the very best of British surrealism. The sixth - in whichever order it appears - I will concoct on the kitchen table. I suspect (and hope) that the fake will stand out like a gangrenous thumb - but we will see. When the images start appearing feel free to comment as to whether it is a genuine image or a fake.

After the exhibition we gathered at the splendid Victoria Family and Commercial Hotel for lunch and a pint. We talked about madness, life and death as all good surrealists should. By the time we were ready to return to the station it had started to rain. Luckily I had packed my surrealist umbrella, so - as you can see - the party was able to remain perfectly dry.

Ghost stories

I feel a bit awkward interrupting Alan's superb social history researches, but I feel a need to display this picture.

As AB knows, Jane is due to publish on October 31st. a set of ghost stories based on locations on the South Oxford Canal. (It'll be available on Amazon.) There have been many discussions, Jane's even been to see Colin Dexter (of inspector Morse fame) to read him some of the stories (he loved them - as he should, they are absolutely superb. Of course people assume I say that because Jane's my wife - not so, I'm really rude if I don't like something she's written!)

However, the discussions included that there really should be a map. Jane was so worried about this I foolishly said "I'll do that!" Since I can't really draw, the remark came out of sheer male protective bravado and landed me with the awful problem of how to to create something suitable.

Eventually I found a method. I think it'll do - hope you all agree.

The stories themselves are much more fun mind you - I've just re-read the lot because Jane's sort-of-publisher had some suggestions were.... (woops, nearly wrote a rude word.) No question Jane's original (bar a couple of tiny things) was far better.

Only my opinion, of course. Just as it's my opinion AB's postings deserve an even wider audience.

A Family Six Pack : Part 4 - John Arthur Burnett

John Arthur Burnett 1899 - 1967

Looking at the six faces on that 1917 family photograph, perhaps the most compulsive is that of my Uncle John. In his face we see something of the uncertainty of a young man about to go to war, a young man just about to cross the very threshold to adulthood. Looking through the various photographs I have of Uncle John I have only just realised that this is the only one where he wasn't smiling. Knowing what he was to face within a year of the photograph being taken, he cannot be blamed for his pensive look. If it had been me, I would have been terrified.

John Arthur was born in the last year of the nineteenth century, the eldest child of Enoch and Harriet Ellen Burnett. He was brought up in a working class district of Bradford and is listed in the 1911 census as a "school usher". As he was only 12 at the time it would appear that this was one of those unpaid supervisory posts you gave to kids in their final years before leaving school and starting work - what in my day was called a school prefect. By the time he joined the army in 1917 - at the age of 18 - he was listed in his British Army Service Record as a warehouseman. John joined the West Yorkshire Regiment almost as soon as he was of age and following a period of initial training in England he was posted to the Western Front in February 1918. According to his war record he seems to have managed to keep his head down - that is until the battle of Aisne/Chemin Des Dames in May 1918. On the 27th of May, amidst heavy fighting, he was captured by the Germans just outside the village of Pontavert. He was held prisoner in Stuttgart and didn't find his way back to England until January 1919. The service record provides a detailed chronology - he was reported missing in action on the 5th June 1918 and it wasn't until December that it emerged he had been taken as a prisoner of war. It must have been a chronology of misery for my grandparents - six months of hoping for the best but fearing the worst.

By 1920 John was married and has started a family. He was now working as a wagon driver and - in typical Burnett fashion - he would happily spend his time under the bonnet of his wagon trying to work out how it worked or, more likely, why it didn't work. I know little of his married life, little was ever said in the family. But the marriage must have had problems because by 1936 he had left his wife and family and returned to live at home in Arctic Parade, Bradford. No contact with his children was maintained and therefore I never knew the only three first cousins I had. A few years ago I was contacted by e-mail by the son of one of those cousin's who was doing research into his family and we were able to exchange information and reconnect two parts of the family seventy years after the split had taken place.

John married again in 1946 however his marriage to Doris produced no further children. But he was a happy man, with a well-developed sense of fun. When I was quite young he once took me to a football match to watch Bradford Park Avenue play Halifax Town and fed me with boiled sweets throughout the match. His life and mine - connected by our shared memories - span the centuries in a way that is almost beyond belief. He was born in the nineteenth century, fought in the First World War, drove ancient wagons during the 1920s, fed boiled sweets to his young nephew in the 1950s. And here he is - in the twenty first century - on the web.

Parts of this post are based on earlier posts dating back to 2007. If you have read the earlier posts I apologise for the repetitions (but admire the way you have stayed loyal to the blog over the years!). To read the earlier installments of this "Family Six Pack" mini-series you can follow these links:

Me And My Family On Tenterhooks

A Family Six Pack Part 1 : Auntie Annie

A Family Six Pack Part 2 : Enoch Burnett

A Family Six Pack Part 3 : Harriet Ellen Maxfield

Theme Thursday - Beginning

I suppose the beginning of my adventure was when I heard on a recent radio programme that Herodotus of Halicarnassus (484 BC - 425 BC) went in search of the source of the River Nile. By searching for the beginnings of such a momentous waterway, Herodotus hoped to discover something about the beginning of life itself. This sounded like a noble cause and one worthy of Theme Thursday so I decided to follow in his footsteps. Unfortunately I had neither the time, nor the energy, nor the spare cash to go in search of the source of the Nile but I reasoned that if I went in search of the beginnings of our local River Calder I could expose myself to the same philosophical truths. And so an adventure was born.

What little I could discover about the beginnings of the River Calder suggested that the quest should centre on an area of moorland to the north-west of Todmorden called Heald Moor. So on Tuesday morning I shook my son Alexander awake and told him that we were going on an adventure in search of the source of the River Calder and the beginning of life itself. He gave me one of those knowing but slightly pitying looks that they teach them at Medical School but, Power Of Attorney form in hand, he agreed to accompany me to make sure that I didn't get into trouble.

Space does not allow me to fully describe the journey we had to undertake just to get to the area where we expected to find the head-waters of the river. We travelled through strange lands (Hebden Bridge and Todmorden) and met with exotic natives (unfortunately, Tony was not around that day). We followed the river as it left the comfort of the last trans-Pennine track and dissected the black mountain crags. We climbed up steep hills and clambered over bracken-fringed slopes. As we made our way higher and higher we discussed the philosophical concept of beginning. Could their be a single source, a single beginning to a mighty river? Was the source for an identifiable beginning merely a cartographers' dream. Perhaps there is no beginning and if this is the case perhaps there is no end.

The end of my strictly limited store of energy occurred as we climbed over a rocky ridge and sighted an enormous waterfall in the distance. The water seemed to be cascading down from heaven itself. "We have found the source, we have discovered the beginning", I said to the Lad. He suggested we climb even further and discover what occurred before the waterfall. I said that this was like asking who created God or what set the Big Bang in motion. I reminded him that good old Herodotus got as far down the Nile as Aswan and then simply said that that was more or less the source because he didn't have time to go any further.

After further strenuous efforts we eventually got down the near mountain and back to where we had parked the petrol donkey. As we walked across the car park the Lad pointed out a storm drain out of which a continuous stream of water was flowing. It flowed down the road and eventually into the stream. Finally we had discovered the beginning, the source and indeed the meaning of life. It came not from the waterfall from heaven but from a storm drain in the ground.

Click here to see how others have approached this week's theme.

Archive Of The Week : A Little So And So In The Old Bailey

My archive of the week is Old Bailey Online - The Proceedings of London's Central Criminal Court 1674 - 1913. This wonderful site provides full details of almost 200,000 criminal trials held at the Old Bailey and constitutes perhaps the largest body of such texts ever published. It is fully searchable and therefore you can have great fun checking back to see what your great, great, great, grandfather twice removed was transported to Australia for. But you don't need to be searching for a long lost great aunt or a felonious second cousin : you can just pick a date and dive in. The water might not be warm but you will be guaranteed a truly fascinating insight into life in previous centuries. For the purposes of this post I have chosen just one page (p.7) of the record for just one day (7th April 1725). The illustration at the top of this piece is of that page but I have provided the transcriptions of two of the trials covered so that you can get a flavour of what is available.

Elizabeth Mason And A Bit Of So And So;

The short text tells its own story and what a story it is. William Cowen (the prosecutor) claims that Elizabeth Mason stole 15 yards of cloth from him. Elizabeth claims that the cloth was given in exchange for a little "so and so". The cloth was undoubtedly handed over but Elixabeth wasn't forthcoming with the "so and so" and therefore he took his case to the court. The details are set out in the following extract. I think most fair minded people will be pleased to note that Elizabeth was not convicted.

"Elizabeth Mason , of Shadwell , was indicted for stealing 15 Yards of Cloth, Value 9 s. 6 d. the Goods of William Cowen , on the 10th of March last. William Cowen thus depos'd: I carry Cloth to sell about Streets. I met the Prisoner's Husband, who was my Ship-mate: He bade me call upon his Wife, to see if she wanted nothing in my Way, which I did. I afterwards miss'd a Piece, which I found where she had pawn'd it. The Prisoner thus made her Defence: When the Prosecutor came to my House, he was very rude, threw me upon the Bed, and swore that he would do so and so, whereof I would not let him; and then he said he would give me a Piece of Cloth to pawn, and he would spend all the Money upon me, and be merry, and do so and so; whereof he gave me the Cloth, and I pawn'd it, and we spent the Money; and then, because I would not let him do so and so, he said he would swear a Robbery against me, whereof he did. The Prosecutor was contradicted by his own Witnesses, and the Jury acquitted the Prisoner".

The Late John Guy And The Three Fallow Deer

Life was certainly cheap 280 years ago and if the case of John Guy was anything to go by it was worth about 30 shillings. That was the value of the three fallow deer he was accused of killing, a crime for which he was sentenced to death. The shocking details of the case are recorded as follows.

"John Guy , of Tuddington , was indicted, for that he, after the 1st of June, 1723. that is to say, on the 1st of September last, did feloniously hunt and kill three fallow Deer value 30 s. in a Paddock or inclosed Ground where Deer are usually kept, belonging to Anthony Duncomb Esq ; Charler George thus deposed: As I lay in the Lodge, I heard a Noise in the Park like the Squeaking of Deer, about Five in the Morning, and looking out of the Window, I saw the Prisoner and Biddesford (an old Man) standing together. I know not whether they saw me or no, but they presently parted and went towards the Pales. I slipt on my Cloaths, and follow'd with my Gun. The Prisoner stept to me with a Pistol in his Hand, and swore if I did not go back, he'd shoot me. I was not sure that my Piece would go off, and so I retreated, and found two Deer lying dead, and they look'd as if they had been torne by Dogs. In the mean time the Prisoner and Biddesford got over the Pales. It fell out that some Countrymen were coming by soon after without-side the Pales, (for there's no Foot-Path thro' the Park.) I cry'd out Thieves, and they join'd together to assist me. I got over the Pales, and there found another Deer with his

Throat cut, and not quite cold. The Prisoner and old Biddesford took their Way towards Roger's Ferry, and we pursued them. When they came to the Ferry, they turned about, presented their Pistols, and swore we were dead Men, if we came a Foot nearer. However, when they were gone off, we took a Boat after them: They landed at the Half-Mile Tree, (about half a Mile from Kingston) and we were not far behind them. Biddesford was shot in the Fields, and the Prisoner was taken in Kingston, with a Powder-Horn and naked Knife in his Pocket. The latter Part of this Deposition was confirmed by the three Countrymen that assisted C.George in the Pursuit. Guilty . Death" .

There are another thirteen cases on the same page, most of which result in someone being transported to Australia for stealing a pocket handkerchief or the like. They are shocking, the are disgusting (do not read the final case report on the page, I warn you!) but they are absolutely engrossing. Just about all the things a good archive should be.

Napster 0 - Good Old Shellac 1

I am writing this post to a musical accompaniment : the Radio Syncopators are playing "Beyond The Blue Horizon" from the film "Monte Carlo". You may not be familiar with the song, I certainly wasn't until I bought the record on Saturday. If you do know the tune it is probably due to one of the many cover versions that have been issued over the last 75 or so years. But the version I bought goes back to the beginnings of the song in 1930. It is an old 78 rpm 8 inch record. And it is a thing of joy.

I haven't bought any records (or CD's or call them what you will these days) for years. I am a subscriber to Napster and get my music from an endless flow of legal downloads, It's all very technological, all very clean, all very sanitised. And what choice you have! You can have symphonies or salsa, opera or house, disco or dixieland jazz. You don't have to put up with what might be available - anything and everything is available. You don't have to leaf through record boxes hoping that you just happen to find the treasure you have been in search of for most of your adult life : you just enter the title in the search box and press a button. Wonderful. Encyclopedic. Faultless. .... Boring.

I was reminded of how things used to be when we were visiting an antique market on Saturday. There on the floor was a box full of old 78 rpm records marked up at 50p each. Whilst Isobel searched for the silver dog bowl - or whatever it was she was hunting for - I spent a delicious ten minutes or so leafing through the stock. There might have only been 50 records to choose from but they were substantial things made out of heavy shellac and wrapped in colourful cardboard covers which often advertised the local record shop.

I came away from the antique centre a happy man having spent £1 and acquired "Buttons and Bows" sung by Diana Shore and "Beyond The Blue Horizon" by the Radio Syncopators. As luck would have it, my brother got me an old wind-up gramophone from e-Bay a few years ago and repaired it for my birthday (my brother inherited all the technical ability from grandfather Enoch and my father). So here I sit. Napster is nowhere in sight. I keep having to pause and wind the handle again, but that counts as exercise and is cheaper than gym membership. I have just double checked on Napster to see if they have "Beyond The Blue Horizon" and I'm glad to say it is nowhere in sight. Napster 0 - Good Old Shellac 1.