The Lorax and Chris Riddell: The Future is Progress!

Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better, it’s not.

I’ve been to see David Greig and Max Webster’s The Lorax at the Old Vic twice now and both times it blew me away. I have worked in theatre myself and I know how difficult it is to choreograph such a performance and it was so tight, as well as being funny and incredibly moving, too. If you can get out, it’s definitely worth seeing! Along with the pretty overt pro-environmentalist and anti-capitalist sentiment, the whole thing had me thinking about gender equality, too. I’ve been going to events with the Women’s Equality Party and the Lorax’s quavering UNLESS is ringing in my ears because it’s true, if we don’t get off our arses and do something to hold politicians accountable and push gender equality to the top of the agenda, nothing is going to get better, it’s not. My one criticism isn’t even to do with the show. I get that there are children in the audience, but the start time of 7pm is a smidge too early, and I found it difficult to arrive on time.

After the second performance, I went to a post-show talk with children’s laureate Chris Riddell, which turned out to be surprisingly inspiring. The Old Vic hosts these talks featuring prominent figures of the artistic community and this one was about how the Internet has shaped the evolution of illustration. Although Riddell does use Instagram and Twitter to share his work I felt he was a little patronizing in that he kept qualifying that fact with phrases such as I know social media is meant for children. This was a rocky start for someone who was talking to an audience of people mostly in their 20s who use social media daily, many of whom, including myself, only found out about the talk through Twitter. He also failed to address the fact that, while the increase in artists sharing their work online may help to raise their profile or shed light on the creative process, it also contributes to the idea floating in the zeitgeist that artists don’t need to be paid for their work, because they’re providing it online for free. That said, once he got into his stride he was incredibly inspiring. After he spoke, he illustrated answers to the Q&A which was super amusing, and I left feeling motivated to go out and create. Part of this is making a greater effort to post here!

 

Half an Hour

It’s my lunch break. It’s January. I’m making an effort to take 10,000 steps a day, which is proving difficult for someone who leads as sedentary a life as myself. I tell myself I’ll take a walk around Elephant & Castle. Doesn’t seem much of an ask, does it? I walk away from the hulking block of glass that is the London College of Communication, and look across the roundabout. What I see is grey: greyness coats the pavement and the surrounding buildings, clusters of students huddle together exhaling grey plumes of smoke that merge with the foggy cloud of warm breaths against freezing air. The centre of the roundabout—permanently under construction—houses a monstrous mirrored Rubik’s cube. This place is not a destination. It’s a through-point…and one best avoided if possible. People sweep past me, in London’s quick, directional pace. Traffic crawls. A silver Audi waits for the lights to change and they do, from red to green and back again without a break in traffic long enough for it to move.

It’s raining, but not hard. The kind of unassuming droplets that only fall sporadically, irritating enough to ruin your hair, but not enough to force you back inside. This is England, after all. I turn right, anti-clockwise. I quickly realise this was the wrong decision. The underpass that used to provide a rather direct route underneath the roundabout has been filled in since I was last here. I take a newly laid black tarmac path cautiously, is this a cycle path? My fellow pedestrians seem equally as wary. This is not a place for flaneurs. The traffic isn’t getting any better. An unmarked white van slowly and continuously rolls. A two-seater black Mercedes takes a different tack: aggressively starting and stopping as each car inches forward.

I reach the crossing and as I wait I observe a group of fluorescent builders; two diligently hammering, two lazily standing by. The crossing light turns green and I manage to reach the island in the middle of the dual carriageway before I have to wait again. I’m standing opposite the dilapidated structure that is the Elephant & Castle shopping centre, choking slightly on the fumes exhaled by idling vehicles. The blue metal of its shipping container walls is coated in rust stains and bleached by pigeon shit. I catch the scent of sweaty onions, emanating from a kebab shop enclosed by two kiosks, their heavily graffitied shutters drawn. There’s a break in traffic before the light turns again and I risk it, almost getting taken out by the 468 towards South Croyden. From this side, I can see what faces the shopping centre. A sandstone building, pillared. A large sign that reads: Jesus said, “I am the way, the Truth and the life”. My lunch break ticks away.

Less is More: The Total Experience Exhibition

Last Thursday, I went to the Ai Weiwei exhibition in London, but I engaged with the show long before I arrived in the courtyard of the Royal Academy. I’ve noticed the same tendency in other exhibitions I’ve been to see: We begin consuming them in various ways before we even set foot in the art-space meant to contain them. It’s a feature of the contemporary art experience; it always seems to extend beyond the walls of the exhibition itself.

Before I went to Ai Weiwei, I watched Alison Klayman’s film “Ai Weiwei: Never Sorry,” and I spoke with my artistically inclined friends to try and gauge an idea of who the artist was to the art world. Just glancing at the Royal Academy’s website offered up a cornucopia of information, and that’s just scratching the surface of the media surrounding Ai Weiwei that is available for us consume. I learned that the effort to transport ‘Tree’ from China was crowdfunded by 1,319 disparate backers, and doesn’t that resonate with the work itself, which is pieced together from diverse fragments of dead trees? I learned about Ai Weiwei’s history, his activism and his previous work. I downloaded an extract of the audio guide to the exhibit and took a virtual tour of the space by browsing its official photographs. I even entered a competition to win a 10 day trip to China (although not without noting the irony of such a promotion given the controversial message Ai Weiwei’s work sends about his native country)!

The totality of the satellite media surrounding Ai Wewei went into my building an expectation of the exhibition in the run up to my actual visit. As I entered, I was just continuing the experience I had begun several weeks before. And after I left, I knew that my Ai Weiwei experience didn’t have to end just yet. Maybe someone would ask me about my ‘Raise Your Finger’ umbrella (available as you exit through the gift shop), or perhaps I would engage with others at #AiWeiwei on Twitter. In their seminal article The Experience Economy (1998), James Gilmore and Joseph Pine advanced their theory that contemporary businesses no longer sell physical products, but instead curate a memorable experience, which then becomes the product. So the £11 you drop on a ticket to the Ai Weiwei show buys you the whole of this experience, which is extended and enhanced by the variety of supplementary media products that accompany it.

Great value for money, huh? Here’s the rub. Ai Weiwei said “An artwork unable to make people feel uncomfortable or to feel different is not one worth creating.”

Thanks to my research, when I entered the Royal Academy, I knew which part of the exhibition I was most excited to see. I wanted to see ‘Coloured Vases,’ which consists of ten Neolithic vases Ai Weiwei has painted over and, of course, the famous ‘Han Jar Overpainted with Coca-Cola Logo’. But I’d already read about these pieces and thought hard about whether or not his statement about the destruction of antique objects and ancient Chinese buildings during the Cultural Revolution in China justified further desecrating historical artifacts. I’d considered whether being used in his art made these vases palimpsests with value added or if he was taking his statement too far. So when I stood in front of those pieces, I waited for something special to happen. I waited for shock. I waited to feel different. But nothing happened. I found that having read and thought about the exhibition to the extent that I had, actually dulled the experience of being there. The artwork failed to shock me in the same way it could have if I had come to the exhibition with a fresh mind. In fact, standing in front of this art I had thought so hard about, I had the uncanny feeling of deja-vu.

So what then of Ai Weiwei’s statement that if a work of art doesn’t make you feel uncomfortable or different it isn’t worth anything? Is this focus on the total experience, on bombarding us with media to consume before and after the exhibition actually detrimental to the goal of the art in the first place? Perhaps instead of spoon-feeding us an experience, galleries should focus on letting the art speak for itself. Which is not to say that they shouldn’t be able to advertise their exhibitions; we are a capitalist society, after all. It’s just that the spectator should be given a chance to discern what they think a work of art means on their own. The way things are currently set up, it’s almost impossible for us to avoid participating in the consumption of the supplementary media that takes ownership of the art, telling us exactly what it means before we get a chance to ask ourselves how it makes us feel. Allowance must be made for the subjective dimension of art interpretation, otherwise what is the point in going to see it at all? I have no problem with the extension of the experience after the exhibition as it encourages debate, but I think the preemptive influx of information actually stifles it. If people are never given the chance to consider a work of art in isolation they can’t know how it really makes them feel, or come up with an interpretation other than what they have already been told the work is trying to say.

I’m not saying that art needs to emerge from a vacuum to allow it to affect you, just that there is something to be said for opting out of the ‘total experience’ to allow for the engagement with the art on your own terms. There’s no two Weis about it: sometimes less really can be more.

On GENREFICATION

I’ve noticed a tendency in Trinity’s student literary spheres to dismiss contemporary genre fiction as unworthy of critical attention. As a science fiction lover this irks me a little. There are many examples of genre texts that have had an incredible shelf life, proving that just because a text doesn’t require an accompanying dictionary doesn’t mean it is bereft of artistic merit. Even Orwell recognized the survival value of novels like Sherlock Holmes and Dracula in making the point that there can be good ‘bad books.’ “Art,” Orwell reminded us, “is not the same thing as cerebration.” With modern reading lists featuring the likes of Philip K. Dick and Stephen King, any student of literature worth their salt should concede that much. Last term, I devoted several hours a week to Raymond Chandler, Dorothy B. Hughes and James M. Cain as part of my degree in “Literature-with-a-capital-L”. And yet literary snobs still refuse to engage seriously with genre fiction as it is emerging.

I am snorted at by Trinity’s (self-denominated) literati for enjoying the page-turners that populate the best seller lists. On more than one occasion, I’ve found myself fibbing in response to queries about what I’m reading on my Kindle. “Oh just making my way through Finnegan’s Wake,” I say, when actually the Neitherlands are collapsing around me and I’m frantically galloping through dimensions trying to put together a puzzle that will unwind the apocalypse. Back in 2009, Lev Grossman acutely noted in an article for the WSJ that “plot makes perverts of us all,” but I’m tired of hiding Ernest Cline beneath the dust jacket of The Sound and the Fury. Do I really have to wait a few decades until some higher-up deems my literary taste worthy of academic pursuit before I can admit to it?

You don’t have to look too far back in history to find a time when reading any fiction was a source of shame. Early works of long prose fiction were sneered at by critics with as much venom as some of my colleagues have for contemporary genre fiction. Even in the 19th century, readers were encouraged to curb their consumption of popular novels, not in favor of more ‘valuable’ fiction, but of non-fiction. So where does the specific prejudice against genre come from? I did a bit of research and I’ve decided to blame the modernists. Genre fiction was sitting pretty until Ezra Pound & co. decided that the Victorian novel with its realist plot, straightforward chronology and optimistic conclusions no longer spoke to an ordinary mind on an ordinary day in the 20th century waste land. Traditional narrative style was switched out for the cunning passages and contrived corridors of works like To the Lighthouse and Ulysses.

Today, when students hold emerging fiction to the standard of the modernists and insist that genre fiction be left to the layman, they are missing out on an enormous body of worthwhile literature. The kind of works that demand the diligent interpretive work the modernists did can now be fitted into their own genre, whether you want to call that genre “literary fiction” or “neo-modernism” or whatever. But before close analysis and considered argumentation, it should not be assumed that those novels outrank others that fall into different genres such as romance, detective, or science fiction. Authors like Donna Tartt and TCD’s own Tana French are, to borrow from Grossman’s article again “grafting the intensely aware literary language of Modernism onto the sturdy narrative roots of genre fiction”. Literary fiction is being genre-fied. It is being pumped with the suspense and storytelling that has made novels like The Hunger Games and Gone Girl so immensely popular and the result is the merging of the once separate spheres of ‘high’ and ‘low’ culture. John Green is imbuing young adult fiction with complex intertextual references, Haruki Murakami is writing about parallel universes and Cormac McCarthy is catching serial killers. Plot and literary merit are no longer mutually exclusive. So, instead of Eliot’s lofty reverence for the classical deities, try Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. If you want a peppering of magic as a force on human emotions, swap your Garcia Marquez for Game of Thrones. And if you don’t like it, at least you’ll have an argument that’s more considered and relevant than disparaging bad examples of genre fiction that came out over a decade ago, ahem, Twilight.

Halloween in Isla Vista

Halloween in Isla Vista was crazy. I mean the lead up to it was pretty terrifying as well…there was talk of horses and riot gear, roadblocks were put up and the buildings on my street were fenced off for protection. That said, Instead of the apocalyptic mess that these precautions had lead me to expect, when the 31st did eventually roll around, I had a pretty good time. From the confines of a couch on my side of the property line I could sip my gin and tonic whilst being treated to what I can only describe was a sort of drunken parade. It was like a carnival as everyone traipsed down DP in some awesome (Jesus and a Viking hoisting a drunk Caesar over their heads) and less so (Miley Cyrus x 8000) costumes. Needless to say the Miley Cyrus spot-shot game quickly got old. I got to watch people getting silly and having a great time and I got to laugh at people getting arrested for provoking the police. Later, as the high heels came off and the faint score of retching in the bushes began, I got to watch as the foot patrol attempted to wind down the party by strolling along arm in arm, treating us to a delightful rendition of ‘Closing Time.’ It was great.

I must say though, people wore so few clothes it was a bit ridiculous. Even for my Irish standards it was pretty cold and I felt quite sorry for the girl in the silver thong bikini with a fishbowl over her head (astronaut, duh). I can’t even tell you how many times I heard the mean girls refrain that Halloween is a free pass to dress like a skank and it annoyed me because a) people were still judging those people proclaiming ‘thou shalt not judge!’ and b) we should have a free pass to dress however the hell we want any day of the year and not get slut-shamed for it. I was also annoyed because I really like dressing up and I didn’t like the pressure to make my jellyfish costume sexy. It wasn’t meant to be sexy. It was meant to be a jellyfish.

Anyway, Halloween in Isla Vista was awesome and if you’re around Santa Barbara next year you should check it out!

Peace.

P.S. Seeing as I’d written an article when I first got here about how much more awesome and efficient the US is about things than Europe, I thought I’d even the scale a bit, so click to read about some things I’ve found to be worse in the US.

Meta Monday

I had a pretty awesome weekend— one of my friends from Brussels came to see me and we revelled in the gloriousness that is my life now. We went to a carnival and ate lots of free food and signed waivers on our lives before clambering into a rickety Ferris wheel that in combination with the fear from the previous night’s activities was maybe not the smartest thing to do…but hey, we’re young. But now it’s Monday and we all know how I feel on Mondays because I wrote this last week and never posted it but it’s pretty much still valid:

I had an amazing weekend. Not only are the injuries I sustained whilst pit-biking on one of my earlier days here now almost fully healed but I got to spend it with one of my best friends who, until I moved just two hours from LA, lived several thousand miles away from me. Among the things we got up to were some Pinterest-based crafts and attending the Goleta Lemon Festival. Unfortunately it’s now Monday morning and, having wiped all the remnants of glitter unicorn off my face I’m starting to suffer the consequences of my weekend. What do I do? Here is a list of ten things to do to combat the mean reds.

a)Eat. Whatever floats your boat. Right now I’m altering between peanut butter, crisps and super healthy açai bowls.
b)Watch shitty TV, preferably in combination with a). This should not be confused with wallowing, and someone may only scold you on this one if it is a Friday or Saturday evening. If anyone tries to interfere with this activity you must give them the timeless ultimatum: ICOGTFO (ice cream or get the fuck out)
c)Buy things online. Of course this is only recommended if you actually have money in your account as it can very quickly lead to mascara stains on the old pillowcase if not. So check your balance first. If in doubt only buy it if it’s on sale and tell yourself you’ll return it if it doesn’t fit.
d)Read a book. It’s great, you should try it. When I’m feeling this way I might reach for some Hardy or some Tolstoy but unless you enjoy hurling things across the room screaming “WHY TESS/ANNA/SCARLET/insert heroine here, WHY??” Then I suggest you play it safe and reread Harry Potter, just make sure you skip the sad bits.
e)Talk to your friends. It’s the best way to counteract that “I have no friends” feeling.
f)Under no circumstances whatsoever are you to contemplate the universe or its greater meaning, or your life and where the hell it’s going, or basically anything that requires sustained thought. No. N-O. Not even if you have an assignment. That’s for Tuesday to deal with, OK?
g) Pretend you can fly.
h) Look at pictures of cute animals.
i) Manipulate someone into giving you a massage, or if that fails, pay someone to give you a massage.
j) Remind yourself that your life isn’t always Monday.

Switching Sides

So I’ve been in California for about a month now and I think it’s fair to say that it’s awesome. There are so many things that are great about America and since no one thus far has understood the meaning behind my sounding my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world I’ve compiled a short list of things that particularly rock about the US compared to Europe.

1. The Food. So yeah, anyone who knows me could pretty much have predicted that I was going to start by exalting the cuisine here in the US. I don’t even know where to start. The portions? So I know most Europeans come over and they’re like “oh no wonder the Americans are obese” (which incidentally is pretty rich coming from the British who are rapidly eating their way into extinction) and yeah, if you can’t finish it all it is a waste of food, and maybe some people prefer quality over quantity but if you’re someone like me who is sick of being able to count the number of fries on my plate you will be extremely content with the artery-clogging vastness of fatty goodness on offer. That’s not to say that I don’t still appreciate, you know, real food. I’m just admiring America for what it’s good at. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups in particular. Or just peanut butter in general. And Tater Tots. And IN ‘N’ OUT Burger. But not bran muffins, they’re gross.
2. The Drink. I mean it costs restaurants next to nothing for soda and actually nothing for water so it makes sense that there are free refills everywhere, right? If only Europe would catch on I’m sure the number of deaths by dehydration every year would decrease dramatically. I asked for tap water once in Paris and the waiter almost threw up on me. On that note, I’m so glad that I turned 21 before I moved out here.
3. Air Conditioning. It exists. Sometimes it’s even TOO cold inside. The warm places in Europe need to get on that.
Things being open. I mean I know that giving me 24 hour access to dining establishments is probably not the best way to get me to lose that 15 pounds I’ve been talking about losing for the past two years but dear Thor it is fantastic to not have to worry about things shutting. Things are even open on Sundays, Sundays! Places are actually open when they say they will be open! I can now go out on Saturday night and not have to cry the whole next day for lack of food/drink/ibuprofen!
4. The view. This here one might be California beach town specific but it is a fine thing to be able to wake up, sun beating down, and look out at the ocean, or mountainous terrain or half-naked sexy people riding around on skateboards (unironically. and they’re not 12). It’s pretty sublime. I now understand why the word ‘awesome’ is used so often here.

There are more things that I might add later on, and there are also some less great things but this post is already too long and I’ll wait for a rainy day to share any negative thoughts with y’all.

Shamrock Shuffle

Saying goodbye has never really been my thing. Growing up the way I did had people dipping in and out of my life all the time because they were often only brought to Brussels on short term contracts with the European Institutions. You might think that would make me a pro at saying goodbye but it’s actually made me realise that actual goodbyes are seldom ever necessary. This is because if you’re truly so attached to a person that saying goodbye is this heart-rending experience then it’s probably not actually going to be a goodbye. Goodbye suggests something final; in French adieu literally means “to God” and seems like a seriously permanent thing to say.

As many nasty things as we have to say about the French I think for once here they’ve actually got it right. More commonly used than adieu is the French au revoir which, loosely translated, means “till next time, bro” and I thoroughly believe this is a better take on the whole goodbye thing. In this day and age with travel and the internet being what they are, there really isn’t a whole lot keeping you from seeing or talking to someone if that’s what you really want to do. As many brave new world-esque comments that can be made about the distracting noise of our time it does, at least, facilitate communication. Two of my best friends were people I’d met under unusual circumstances; one I crashed into on a ski slope and the other and I bonded over being awkward teenagers 4000 miles from where she actually lived. I’d never expected to see either again and yet where there is the will there will often follow a way and I actually see both surprisingly often.

When I left Dublin I realised that I hadn’t actually bothered to say goodbye to manyone and it only just occurred to me that without some sort of explanation people just might take it as a bit of a snub. I mean, it’s fair to say that I complained about Dublin quite a lot; the winter was just too damn long. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy my time there, nor that I will not miss the people I bonded with, nor that I will not be glad to see it again when I come back. It was just really obvious to me that this was an au revoir situation because September 2014 I will be right back talking to them all again, maybe with the addition of a very welcome tan and perhaps a not so welcome accent. But yeah, not much will have changed. So anyway, I guess this post can be seen as a late au revoir to Dublin.

Petrichor

I have nothing interesting to report as I’m still in exams but, really, when has that ever stopped me? I feel so dull and awful because most of everyone else has finished exams and they are just having a better time of life than me. It’s not even like I’m working extremely hard or anything, it’s more like this constant guilt that looms over me if I do anything but sit and procrastinate, occasionally staring at my work. Well, with the exception of sunny days, always. A sunny day is such a rare thing in Dublin that it would be pure foolishness to waste it indoors, even if it does mean I mightn’t do as well keeping my head above the Kantian waves as I could. Man I can’t wait until I live in California. I went to a rooftop BBQ the other day and we had to sit inside the stairwell to wait for the five minute intervals of sunshine between showers. Despite the slightly soggy burgers, I maintain that if the sun is shining all studying vibes can go to…wherever they go when I’m not working. I just need to TACP, sometimes. I get way too anxious about exams that realistically I am not going to end up failing (touch wood). Sometimes I have to sort of shake myself and say “Naomi, relax. Those extra X hours of ‘work’ which, let’s be honest here you probably would have spent watching reruns of Veronica Mars anyway will maybe, maybe make the difference of one or two percentage points in your exam. Honestly, will you get as much pleasure out of those few points as you would out of actually living life like Lady Gaga tells you to?” No. The answer is no. On sunny days I let the guilt monster get lost but he always finds his way back sooner or later. Probably because I’ve micro-organised my time so vigorously that all he has to do is look for the trail of post-it notes and hot diggity he’s back on track. Doesn’t stop me procrastinating though. No one can take that away from me.

At least I now know what Texidor’s twinge is.

That’s not to say I don’t enjoy what I study. Sure, I don’t enjoy the pressure and the stress and the time constraints but I guess it’s kind of the push I need to actually read the texts I want to have read. On a slightly unrelated note, there was a fire alarm today (which incidentally was the most hilarious thing. The ear-splittingly loud alarm went off for a good five minutes before most people decided to move at all. Like people didn’t want to lose their seats or something. Like people would rather BURN TO DEATH than just take a five minute study break. Seeing people like that that kind of makes me feel better about my own situation) and I was shuffled outside the library where I overheard two people talking.

Person 1: I’m so tired of this, no matter what I do nothing is going in.
Person 2: Yeah imagine what it’s like for me doing a real degree. I can’t pull it out of my ass on the day if I don’t learn it now.

That kind of exchange just grinds my gears. I mean I get that it was only a banterous remark but I am just so tired of hearing people say that about “Arts degrees”. To begin with it’s such a generalisation and there’s an immense variety of degrees that come out with that letter that it’s ignorant as well as annoying. Just flip it around and imagine if you were about to get heart surgery and the ‘scientist’ walks in and it turns out he’s just a marine biologist but he’ll have to do because you were too busy being snooty to make any real distinctions in life. Secondly, If it is true that it’s harder to fail an ‘arts’ exam than a ‘science’ one, it’s definitely harder to do well in ‘arts’ subjects than in exams that have straightforward answers. So just can it. Actually, while I’m complaining about this let’s talk about some of the people that actually do an Arts degree because sometimes they’re just as bad. It’s no secret that many of us aren’t doing vocational degrees so just stop complaining about how you’re “never going to get a job” afterwards because a) if you look hard enough, you will find a job and, more importantly, b) getting a job is obviously not why you picked your degree. If all you wanted was to get a ‘job’ you would have gone to a technical college or applied to SPAR as soon as you graduated highschool. I know I chose my degree because I wanted to study something that I enjoyed while becoming a more critically thinking person who can make educated decisions about my life and how to be happy. Hopefully it will lead to a job I enjoy, too, and maybe helping other people to also make better decisions and be happy. So you guys can also can it.

Yeah that’s all for now I think. I finish on the 23rd so I’ll probably be feeling less bitchy then.