NOTES

Oxford and Cambridge Fresher Sample Issue

Contents

 Front  cover  image  by  Alice  Fiennes.  Back  cover  image,  ‘Elegy’  by  Laurie  Lewis.    

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–  Will  Thomson   1  ‘The  Fox  Calls  The  Logos  Sour’  –  Nick  March   2  ‘Crazy  Flowers’   2  ‘A  Note  On  Art,  A  Question  of  Value:  Emin,  Creed,  and  Hirst’  –  Laurie  Lewis  

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Life  Drawing  –  Jonny  Bruce   8  –  James  McKnight   9  ‘The  Human  Machine  and  Contemporary  Capitalism’   9  ‘Prayer  Flags’  and  ‘Sloth’  –  Alice  Fiennes   12  ‘The  Big  Bang’  –  Will  Burgess   14  –  Matt  Neal   15  ‘Fragmentation’  –  Will  Thomson   16  ‘Speculations  on  ‘The  Celibate  Life’’  –  Jamie  Patel   17  ‘The  Untouchable’  –  Poppy  Damon   19  

23  Photogram  of  a  Lightbulb  –  Matthew  Clifton    ‘‘The  Mistress  of  the  Animals’:  Contrast  and  Continuum  in  a  Theran  Fresco’  –  Florence  C.  Smith-­‐Nicholls  

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‘Swallow’  –  Marc  Shalet   27  –  Jonny  Bruce   28  ‘Orchid’  –  Jamie  Patel   29  

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The Fox Calls The Logos Sour  I cannot penetrate to what it is: juicy on the vine; if I could I would squish it between my toes and press a wine. Slip the world, but in life only the words change and I am an animal, hopping forever, for grape.

by Nick March   Crazy Flowers the crazy flowers bloom there too (Jack Kerouac, On the Road, 1957) flowers on the hillside blooming crazy (Bob Dylan, ‘You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go’, 1975) The influence of the Beat movement on Dylan is clear to see. The surreal imagery of Another Side onwards gestures towards Ginsberg, while the restless spirit of Kerouac deeply marks all Dylan’s work. Here, Dylan echoes Kerouac at the same time as he moves away from Kerouac’s world. Kerouac’s image anticipates some of the significance of the flower in the decade to come. The flowers are ‘crazy’, the movement’s complex relationship with madness finely condensed. Kerouac transforms the city, New York, with an image of nature. Dylan exploits Kerouac’s phonic sensitivity – the way /bl/ responds to /fl/ and the way /aʊ/ moves into /u:/, each reaching in Dylan for the /oʊ/ of ‘lonesome’. And the madness remains. But Dylan has retreated to nature more fully. He echoes Kerouac’s words at the very moment he withdraws from the underlying vision of a community of urban madmen. The ‘flowers’ are no longer crazy companions but the backdrop for one relationship: ‘I could stay with you forever and never realise the time’. The more personal vision of Dylan’s mid-‘70s work is evident here. Of course, the flowers are also more than a setting. They distil a sense of abundance, the abundance of the relationship, blooming in its own way. But as the refrain makes clear that relationship is painfully fragile. The implicit transience of the flowers also reflects the fragility of the relationship. While the prospect of a transcendence of time is raised – of blooming without decay - time painfully reasserts itself in the ringing ‘when’ of the refrain. A Note on the Last British Art of the Twentieth Century A question of value: Emin, Creed and Hirst ‘If I put you in the show it will be patronising because people won’t get your work ‘cause it’s so tiny and it’s so intricate people will miss it and will think that I’ve put you in the show because you’re my girlfriend …. You can’t be in the show” [Carl Freedman, gallery owner, curator, Emin’s boyfriend in 1995]. I was really upset. He said ‘if you can think of a really big idea you can be in the show’ (laughs), is this big enough for you?. I come up with the idea of the

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tent, and that’s what spurred me on…I ended up being the star of the show, well my tent did, it pulled the crowds in, it was amazing, the amount of publicity.” – Tracey Emin, talk with ICA Director Gregor Muir, ‘Culture Show’, 8th April 2011 “It's not… a solo exhibition nor a group exhibition... and in a way the only equivalent I can find, thinking about it, is that it's more like a... degree show than anything else. In the sense that, you know, in the sense that each artist is given the same amount of space... and then in the sense that there's going to be judgment taking place, it seems like a unique kind of show also because over the years I've often watched the Turner Prize on TV and had a laugh at it and, you know, got excited about it, you know?” – Martin Creed “I always ignore money. It’d be nice to make lots of money but it’s quite difficult, because every time I make lots of money I make a bigger piece that costs lots of money” – Damien Hirst

*** For me the quotes above illustrate three problems inherent in the work of Tracey Emin, Martin Creed and Damien Hirst: 1) the role of the gallery in the attribution of value to a specific work of art or artist(s). This includes the power of influence exhibition publicity can have over the viewer’s experience. 2) The way in which Creed’s Turner Prize winning work no. 227, the lights going on and off, (2001) was conceived. 3) The false value given to certain art based on a system of monetary attribution and demand; the viewer’s judgment, intuition and acceptance of a work of art as dictated by a ‘price tag’ mentality. Ever since Marcel Duchamp (1887-1968) submitted his piece entitled ‘Fountain’ (1917) to the Society of Independent Artists in New York, the definition of art has been questioned. By submitting an objet trouvé (a urinal reoriented to a position of 90°) under the title ‘Fountain’, Duchamp subverted the art tradition in one controversial (but arguably necessary) move. It was this questioning of art that was to influence the whole of its development throughout the twentieth century. By presenting the world with an ordinary object placed in an artistic context, Duchamp created a radical new question: what is art? From this moment, art did not have to be constrained to the limitations of painting, sculpture and architecture alone but was liberated into the realms of found objects, conceptual art and, later, installation. This moment ninety-five years ago has come to dictate our contemporary acceptance of art as having few boundaries. The majority of us are content with our consideration and/or acceptance of a ‘crack’ through the floor of the Tate Modern (2007) as a work of art. ‘Fountain’ was a fantastic moment in the history of art; it was a necessary action and one of supreme liberation. However the way in which this revolutionary action has set a standard of acceptance for the ‘Young British Artists’ has been somewhat anti-climactic and completely valueless. There is a considerable difference between Duchamp’s art and the art of Tracey Emin, Martin Creed and Damien Hirst (it is important to note that these are just three selected artists; they do not represent the entire ‘movement’). The difference lies in the fact that Duchamp followed his own idea to create something new and revolutionary whereas the artists mentioned above have not done anything ‘new’. ‘New’ in the sense that they have not tried to bring art into a different realm of significance; all they have done is to take the idea that art can really be anything if it is reinforced by an idea and placed within an artistic context and abused this for personal fame and financial gain. This strikes me as a particularly violent act. In this respect, art can essentially be anything; its artistic value in contemporary society is dictated by a purely financial criterion. The role of the gallery is instrumental in this attribution of value to art. In the talk with Greg Muir (shown above in extract), Tracey Emin explained how her famous ‘Tent’ (Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963-1995) came into being. At the time, she was in a relationship with Carl Freedman the gallery owner who

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put on the showcase of the ‘Young British Artists’ in 1995 entitled Minky Manky (South London Gallery). Emin (who was little-known at the time) was initially refused the opportunity to exhibit her work in the exhibition on the grounds that it was too ‘tiny’ and ‘intricate’. According to Freedman, people would not understand it and would not consider it seriously as Emin was Freedman’s girlfriend. Surely the belief that people would not ‘get it’ should not have stopped Freedman from exhibiting Emin’s initial work. If it was to be a true reflection of the work of contemporary British artists he should not have told Emin that she needed to create something ‘really big’. This instruction would have initially dictated the purpose of the work Emin would have to create. It would have to be a work that would attract crowds and make Emin stand out. The ‘Tent’ was conditioned by a superficial aim; to generate attention, publicity and ultimately money and fame for Emin and Freedman. When the work Emin submitted achieved this, she became ‘the star of the show’. The publicity generated out of the sheer controversy of the situation came to manipulate people’s expectations of the ‘Tent’ as art and Emin as an artist. People going to view the exhibition would have gone expecting something ‘big’ from the work. Regardless of their instinctive reaction, the experience of the ‘Tent’ would have been considerably influenced by this expectation. It seems that the ‘Tent’ was purely an attempt to get noticed.

Tracey Emin, ‘Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963-1995’ (1995)

The amount of publicity a gallery generates for an exhibition creates an expectation of quality or interest prior to the actual contact the viewer has with it. Before the viewer has seen the exhibition they have already built up an expectation of quality based on the advertisement strategies of galleries (publicity in magazines, public posters and television coverage). The viewer is less likely to follow an instinctive reaction if a large amount of publicity or positive ‘hype’ has developed around it. In addition to this the (considerable) fee a viewer has to pay in order to experience the exhibition manipulates how they ultimately view the work exhibited. If a viewer were to enter an exhibition with no prior expectation or exchange of money, the reaction would be considerably more genuine. The use of a single work featured in the exhibition for the advertisement posters singles that one work out. It features not only on the posters but on mugs, plates, bags, umbrellas and anything else the image can be printed on (and thus can be sold). Already, this one work has been given superiority over other works in the exhibition and so

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is ultimately viewed in a different light. This is good technique to increase ticket and merchandise sales, but it ultimately attaches a meaning to the work that it never intended to have. The Turner Prize has been a valuable opportunity for contemporary artists to try and create new and often radically challenging work since the award’s conception in 1984. Many previous winners have been elevated from near obscurity to a realm of high critical acclaim. However, since the beginning, the award has been received with scepticism by many and has been the subject of much controversy. All too often the results instigate anger amongst many and seem to be met with fierce criticism. If anything the Turner Prize can be seen as an interesting social experiment; just how far can the artists stretch the boundaries of the art tradition before the public becomes outraged? Often it is those artists who win who cause the most controversy. For me it is Martin Creed who encapsulates all that is uninteresting, lazy and pointless in contemporary art of this ‘Turner Prize’ type. His work 227, the lights going on and off, (2001) which won him the prize was received with a significant amount of outrage, even by previous standards of the award. As the title suggests, it consisted of the lights going on and off in one of the galleries of the Tate Britain (that was it). Throughout this essay I have emphasised my admiration for Duchamp’s questioning of the limitations of the art tradition. However, how far are we willing to go? Can the automatic action of the lights going on and off in a blank gallery space really be considered as art? First we must consider the value that can be gained from work 227. If one of the roles of a gallery space is to provide us with an experience that cannot be obtained in any other environment, then work 227, is completely useless in this respect. If however the point is that this process can be confined to the gallery space but also experienced in other environments (unlike other instillations which physically occupy a space) then work 277 must be credited. However, this is as far as I am personally willing to go. One of the most exciting possibilities opened up by ‘Fountain’ was the possibility for art to be anything. However, for it to be anything it can also be nothing and therefore can become completely meaningless. I am not ready to say goodbye to art, nor am I willing to admit its defeat and render it dead. For it to be anything it must have some inherent purpose which will ultimately benefit our outlook on art. Creating controversial work that is only controversial due to the apparent lack of the artist’s ‘hand’ is not relevant anymore. It has been done many times before and in many far more interesting ways. If art is to be nothing then the work must be exhibited as so. This action must have a significant purpose and must have something significant to say other than the fact that it questions art (this has been done). Instead, Creed presents his work as something else, something we could accept as meaning something valuable to us when in actual fact it is nothing. It is simply too easy, in both its conceptual and physical form. I am perfectly willing to accept art as anything but in order to do so there needs to be some considerable amount of thought behind it, a new way of looking at the world, some conceptual or manual skill required in its production. Creed’s work does not contain any of these qualities. Without submitting myself entirely to the all too often used cliché ‘I could do that, anyone could do that’, never is it more relevant than with the work of Martin Creed. I am not accepting this to be a criterion of art, but there must be a limit; otherwise art will be anything in the sense that it will be nothing. Martin Creed, Work 227 the lights going on and off (2001)

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Creed’s work No. 88 (1995) is possibly even more upsetting to me. It is a sheet of A4 paper crumpled into a ball. Is this art? Can the fact that anyone could do this suddenly provide us with a valuable and interesting interpretation of the meaning of art? No. The sheer subjectivity involved in the work does not give it any more significance as art and neither does the fact that it can be physically made by anyone (I have done so in my own way below). I use the term valuable to replace good in my own analysis of contemporary art. The quality of good can never be objectively understood; therefore it should not be used as a criterion in the judgement of a work of art. Creed’s work may be considered good by many but is it valuable? I do not mean valuable in a financial sense; I use the term to refer to some quality of a work of art that enables us as a collective to recognise something within the work as important, beneficial, significant, revolutionary or different (whilst having a purpose). In this respect, Creed’s work is valueless. It takes the objet trouvé to pointless heights.

This is art but is it valuable art? (2011) Laurie Lewis- In response to Martin Creed work no. 88 (1995) The final quote reproduced at the start of this essay introduces a criticism I have touched upon whilst discussing Emin’s ‘Tent’. This is the role of a system of monetary attribution to works of contemporary art which appear to elevate dead sharks and random coloured dots to the status of masterpieces. Of course I am referring to the work of leading ‘Young British Artist’ Damien Hirst. The hilarity of Hirst’s statement that he ‘always ignores money’ evidently arises from the fact that the majority of his works sell for obscene amounts of money. His sale of a complete series Beautiful inside my head forever at Sotheby’s in 2008 for £111 million achieved record heights for a single artist. This is all very impressive but does it make Hirst’s work significant art? Well, following my line of argument throughout this discussion, Hirst’s work must be considered as art but it is certainly not significant art. Determining the artistic value of a work of art through a system of monetary value completely distorts our experience of it. Thanks to the advertising experience and entrepreneurial skills of Charles Saatchi, Hirst’s work (up to 2003), exhibited in the Saatchi gallery, gained the attention of some significantly wealthy individuals. In our Capitalist society, material objects are given significance based on their monetary value. This is transferred to art as well and is exemplified by Damien Hirst. When going to see a Hirst (if the unfortunate event ever arises) our experience of it is essentially undermined and dictated by the ‘price tag’. If we were to view The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living (1991) without the knowledge that it sold for $10-12 Million, our interpretation of it would reflect something genuine. Our experience of it is distorted by this ‘price tag’ and can never adapt to one which reflects a higher level or authenticity. The

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nature of Hirst’s work as dictated by money cannot be a contribution to its artistic value otherwise anything which has a large monetary value can also be considered art. As art, Hirst’s work must be viewed as separate from its sale at auction. Unfortunately this is somewhat impossible; therefore Hirst’s art has no intrinsic value. I do not think that Art should be seen as a system of progress in which artists are constantly trying to create better things. I do however feel that Art should be perceived as a system of change in which artists should be concerned with the creation of the new. The new cannot simply be defined as that which has not come before as everything created must reflect on the past. It cannot be characterised as valuable purely on the grounds of being new alone (new for the sake of being new). Therefore the new must contribute something of value to our understanding of Art and the context in which it is created as well as providing us with a new and interesting frame of reference. Duchamp’s ‘Fountain’ did precisely this; it made people consider the role of art in contemporary society and it questioned the tradition of art. It was an immensely valuable work in terms of the significance it had on Art History. It stimulated change and presented the world with a different way of looking at Art. From this grew the idea that art can be anything. This can be pursued in creative and influential ways, for example the work of Anish Kapoor or Anthony Gormley. I feel that the way these two artists have approached their work has been of considerable benefit to our society and time. Their work breaks out of the confinement of the gallery space (on many occasions) and into the public space creating new ways of approaching art. It has changed our experience of art for the better as exemplified by Gormley’s Another Place (2006) on Crosby beach or Kapoor’s Sky Mirror (2001 initially unveiled). These works are optimistic and break the boundaries of art in a valuable and interesting way. Emin, Creed and Hirst have not done this. If Art is to change it must follow the example of Kapoor and Gormley in the way in which both artists create an experience for the viewer that cannot be compared to anything previous. It is pure and magnificent artistic creation that puts Emin, Creed and Hirst to shame. Laurie Lewis

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Jonny Bruce, Life Drawing

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This the blush—this its draining this the season’s bluntish rain on the bluish kiss my seafared vein and crest in vain so long with stretch and run in stripling ruin panting at the bark of moon. This the bay—this its wailing kiss the waves that stress that throng on bruised bark curse the flagging skin to furl and smith its light so long in vain the changeless flux to swim do scales counting fed the loom. This the stretch—this its failing how its panting backs of cradle stick the kissing bruise to taste its sparrow future—wait so long embarked with waste of bluish wasting swallowed days starve out the soon.

By James McKnight

The Human Machine and Contemporary Capitalism Capitalism  has  always  subordinated  human  activity  to  machines.  In  the  last  thirty  years,  however,   there   has   been   a   qualitative   change   in   the   nature   of   this   relationship.   The  machine  has   increasingly   ceased   to  have  a  physical   existence  outside  of   the  brains  and  bodies  of  the  workers  and  it  has,  instead,  become  integrated  into  the  organic  structures  of   the  working-­‐class   itself.  The  aim  of   this  article   is   to  analyse  the  nature  and  effects  of  this  change  and  consider  some  means  by  which  this  condition  can  be  resisted.  This  article  engages  throughout  with  the  work  of  the  thinkers  associated  with  post-­‐Operaismo,  who  have  been  active  in  developing  ideas  in  this  area.        Let  us  first  consider  how  Marx  conceptualised  machines.  For  Marx,  the  machine  (or  fixed  capital),   though   in   one   sense   the   technical   means   by   which   the   proletariat   produces  surplus  value,  is  also  the  congealment  of  the  social  knowledge  of  humanity.  Machines  do  not   spring   from   nature,   and   are   rather   the   “organs   of   the   human   brain,   created   by   the  human   hand;   the   power   of   knowledge,   objectified”   (Marx   1973:   p.   706).   In   this   way,  knowledge,   or   the   ‘general   intellect’,   can   be   accurately   described   as   a   direct   force   of  production   when   objectified   in   a   system   of   machinery.   The   conditions   of   social   life  therefore   “come   under   the   control   of   the   general   intellect   and   [are]   transformed   in  

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accordance   with   it”   (p.   706).   In   a   similar   fashion,   workers   operating   technological  apparatuses   become   appendages   to   the   machine.   In   contrast   to   the   tool,   which   the  individual  worker  animates   through  his  or  her  own  skill,   the  machine   comes   to  posses  the  strength  and  skill  of  the  workers  and  “is  itself  the  virtuoso,  with  a  soul  of  its  own  in  the   mechanical   laws   acting   through   it…The   worker's   activity,   reduced   to   a   mere  abstraction  of  activity,   is  determined  and  regulated  on  all  sides  by  the  movement  of  the  machinery,   and   not   the   opposite”   (p.   693).   Machines   oppose   the   workers   as   an   alien  property,  and  subordinate  living  labour  to  objectified  labour.        However,  Marx’s  conception  of  the  machine,  though  providing  some  important  analytical  insights,  cannot  in  itself  explain  the  relationship  between  human  activity  and  machines  in  the   current,   post-­‐Fordist,   stage   of   capitalism.   Production   is   no   longer   primarily   or  exclusively  based  on  physically  identifiable  machines,  the  “locomotives,  railways,  electric  telegraphs,   self-­‐acting   mules   etc.”   which   Marx   describes.   Instead,   knowledge,  information,  affect,  and  communication  have  become  direct  sources  of  productive  wealth  without  becoming  physically  congealed  and  objectified.  In  this  way,  the  human  faculty  of  thought  is  put  to  work.  Paulo  Virno’s  adaptation  of  Marx’s  concept  of  the  general  intellect  is  important  in  this  regard:  “It  seems  legitimate  to  maintain  that,  according  to  the  logic  of  economic  development,   it   is  necessary  that  a  part  of  the  general  intellect  not  congeal  as  fixed   capital   but   unfold   in   communicative   interaction,   under   the   guise   of   epistemic  paradigms,  dialogical  performances,   linguistic  games”  (Virno  2004:  p.  65).  The  machines  that   now   command   live   labour   and   make   the   worker   produce   are   not   to   be   found   in  physically  identified  objects,  and  are  instead  located  within  the  workers  themselves.  It  is  in   this   way   that   humans   can   be   described   as   becoming   machinic   (Marazzi   2011,  Pasquinelli   2011).   Capital,   through   the   flash   of   the   computer   screen   or   the   ring   of   the  mobile   phone,   can   at   any   moment   activate   the   machine   within   the   workers   (i.e.   their  linguistic  and  communicative  ability).  The  human  machine,  understood   in   this   sense,   is  never  turned  off.    The   absorption   of   the   machinic   into   the   working-­‐class   themselves   necessitates   a  fundamental  change  in  the  way  capital  interacts  with  the  organic  structures  of  the  human  body.  In  the  Fordist  stage  of  capitalism,  which  was  characterised  by  operative,  repetitive  and  material   labour,   the   bodies   of   workers   were   worn   out   through   their   engagement  with  machines.  Once  the  body  was  worn  out,  the  worker  was  either  replaced  (by  a  fitter  worker)   or   repaired   (through   the   accessible   health   services,   which   emerged   with   the  welfare  state).  However,  these  mechanisms  for  the  maintenance  of  the  working-­‐class  are  no  longer  sufficient  for  post-­‐Fordist  capitalism.  Instead,  in  this  stage  of  capitalism,  a  clash  develops  between   the  abilities  of  humans  and  needs  of   capital,   leading   to   the   rewiring,  reformatting  and  upgrading  of  human  brains  and  bodies.  The  nature  of   labour   in  post-­‐Fordist   capitalism,   with   the   immersion   of   the   worker   in   the   hyper-­‐stimulating  information   flows,   reacts   back   on   the   functioning   of   the   brain.   Franco   ’Bifo’   Berardi  argues  that  it  has  become  increasingly  necessary  for  capital  to  inhibit  sensibility,  i.e.  the  ability  to  interpret  signs  which  are  non-­‐verbal  and  which  cannot  be  codified  into  binary  systems.   This   form   of   communication,   which   deals   with   empathy   and   emotion,   is  dangerous   to   contemporary   capital   as   it   slows   down   the   flow   of   information,   thus  undermining  the  productivity  of  the  worker.  By  inhibiting  sensibility  the  human  machine  becomes   fully   integrated   into   communicative-­‐productive   systems,   resulting   in   the  

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smooth  and  rapid  production  and  exchange  of  symbols,  signs  and  abstract  codes  (Berardi  2011).  This  new  condition  moves  far  beyond  a  change  in  what  people  think  (in  terms  of  ideological  conditioning)  and  instead  involves  a  change  in  how  people  think.    How  can  the  condition  described  above  be  resisted?  Guy  Debord  observed  in  1957  that  “the  passions  have  been  sufficiently  interpreted;  the  point  now  is  to  discover  new  ones”  (Debord  2006:  p.  43).  The  hitherto  existing  passions  have  not   simply  been   interpreted,  however,   but   also   denied.   The   insertion   of   the  machine   into   the   organic   structures   of  humanity   must   therefore   be   resisted   on   an   emotional   level,   with   innovative   passions  being   collectively   cultivated.   Experimental   forms   of   behaviour   and   intense   sensation  become  ways  of  disrupting  the  productive-­‐communicative  systems  of  capitalism.  In  this  sense,  an  outburst  of  emotion  represents  the  post-­‐Fordist  form  of  sabotage,  the  ‘wooden  shoe’  of  the  new  bionic  working-­‐class.  Although  this  is  a  project  that  could  conceivably  be  attempted  in  the  virtual  sphere,  it  is  clear  that  a  collective  element  in  the  corporeal  sense  is   fundamental.   The   physical   appropriation   of   space   by   real   existing   human   beings  provides  the  basis  for  the  development  of  precisely  those  forms  of  behaviours  and  types  of   feeling   that   capital   attempts   to   suppress   (such  as   sensibility).   Establishing   collective  ambiences  conducive   to   the  cathartic  and  emotional  expulsion  of   the  machine   from  the  body  is  therefore  an  important  aspect  of  resistance  to  contemporary  capitalism.        Bibliography   Berardi,  Franco  ‘Bifo’,  After  the  Future  (Edinburgh,  2011)   Debord,  Guy,  ‘Report  on  the  Construction  of  Situations’  in  Ken  Knabb  (ed.)  

Situationist  International  Anthology    (Berkeley,  2006)   Marazzi,  Christian,  Capital  and  Affects,  The  Politics  of  the  Language  Economy  (Los  

Angeles,  2011)   Marx,  Karl,  Grundrisse  (London,  1973)   Pasquinelli,  Matteo,  ‘Machinic  Capitalism  and  Network  Surplus  Value:  Notes  on  the  

Political  Economy  of  the  Turing  Machine’,  http://matteopasquinelli.com/docs/Pasquinelli_Machinic_Capitalism.pdf  (2011)  

Virno,  Paulo,  A  Grammar  of  the  Multitude  (Los  Angeles,  2004)    

 

   

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Alice Fiennes: Prayer Flags (rotated 90° clockwise)

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Alice Fiennes: Sloth (rotated 90° clockwise)

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   The  Big  Bang            

by  Will  Burgess              Here’s  how  this  works.  I  have  a  gun  here  in  my  right  hand  –  no,  don’t  get  up  –  stay  right  there,  I  know  it’s  hard  to  believe  but  I  think  you’ll  like  where  this  is  going.  Anyway,  I’m  holding  the  gun  –  a  six  chambered  revolver  actually  –  and  in  my  left  hand  are  five  bullets.  Yes  I  know  you  can’t  see,  you’ll  just  have  to  trust  me.  Do  you  know  how  a  revolver  works?  The  bullets  are  loaded  into  six  chambers,  mounted  in  a  circle.  Once  the  gun  is  cocked,  one  of  these  bullets  will  line  up  with  the  barrel.  After  this  round  has  been  discharged,  the  circle  rotates  to  the  next  chamber  and  the  second  bullet  is  ready  to  be  fired.            So  here’s  the  plan:  I’m  going  to  load  the  gun  so  that,  you’ve  guessed  it,  one  chamber  will  remain  empty.  I  will  then  randomly  spin  the  chambers,  cock  the  gun  and  fire  at  your  head,  Russian  roulette  style.  Please  sit  down,  I  know  how  nervous  you  must  be  feeling  about  this,  in  fact  I’d  go  so  far  as  to  say  you  hate  me  right  now,  but  believe  it  or  not  there  is  a  point  to  this.  Contrary  to  first  impressions,  I’m  not  a  madman.  Where  was  I?  Oh  yes,  so  I’m  going  to  fire  the  gun  at  your  head.  You’ve  probably  worked  out  that  there’s  a  one  in  six  chance  of  survival,  added  to  the  possibility  that  I’ll  miss,  or  that  I’m  lying  about  the  whole  thing.  If  you  would  like  proof,  I  will  discharge  at  the  wall  thus…  I’m  sorry,  that  must  have  been  terrifying  –  I  should  have  given  you  more  warning,  but  there  we  are:  the  gun  is  loaded.  The  fact  is  that  what  I  am  describing  to  you  I  have  every  intention  of  carrying  out.  And  the  gun  will  be  pressed  against  your  temple  –  I  won’t  miss.              So  –  a  one  in  six  chance  of  coming  out  of  this  alive.  Just  like  rolling  a  dice.  Oh,  but  with  one  exception;  once  I  have  fired,  I  will  spin  the  chambers  again  and  take  another  shot.  I  intend  to  repeat  the  process  ten  times.  By  my  calculation,  your  chance  of  surviving  is  now  one  sixth  to  the  power  ten  –  about  0.00000002%.  Then,  if  you  do  survive,  I’ll  take  you  outside  and  set  you  free  –  the  world  will  literally  be  yours.  Right  then,  are  you  ready?            Number  one…  Oh  stop  whimpering,  that  was  alright  wasn’t  it?  You’re  still  alive.            Number  two…  There  –  now  sit  up  straight,  I  know  it’s  difficult,  but  you’ll  thank  me  later.            Number  three…  You’re  starting  to  get  the  hang  of  this  now  aren’t  you?            Number  four…  This  is  just  like  that  Clint  Eastwood  film.            Number  five…  Do  you  feel  lucky?            Number  six…  Well,  do  you,  punk?            Number  seven…  Now  you’re  thinking  he  hasn’t  loaded  the  gun,  has  he?  How  can  this  be  possible?            Number  eight…  Now  you’re  utterly  convinced.  I  can  tell  you  you’re  wrong,  but  what  does  it  matter?            Number  nine…  After  all,  you’ll  be  handsomely  rewarded  if  you  survive.  I  think  you  deserve  it.  Crikey  –  I  bet  the  tension’s  killing  you  now  –  you’re  shaking  like  a  leaf.  Well,  you’ve  made  it  back  up  to  one  in  six,  that’s  an  achievement  in  itself.  I  must  say  you’re  incredibly  lucky  –  but  how  can  that  be  a  coincidence?  One  in  fifty  million?  Surely  that’s  more  than  luck.  Are  you  religious?  Because  I  bet  you’re  thanking  someone  for  keeping  you  alive,  for  putting  you  here  right  now  after  nine  shots.    

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         Then  again,  it’s  hardly  surprising  that  you’re  still  there,  quivering  in  that  chair,  after  nine  shots.  It  sounds  ridiculous  I  know,  but  how  could  you  experience  anything  different?  If  I  had  shot  you,  it  would  be  impossible  to  experience  anything  at  all.  You  see,  the  fact  that  you’re  still  here  means  this  was  the  only  possible  outcome.  I  can’t  see  why  you’re  panicking  really.  After  all,  you  repeat  a  process  enough  times  and  you’re  guaranteed  to  get  lucky  once  –  you’re  special,  you  do  know  that  don’t  you?            Anyway,  I  digress  –  here  it  is  Adam,            Number  ten…         This should be so much about you it’s not even about love. Why spill ink on abstract maxims when to think on you’s enough? Form I’m through with now my writing has to do with you, not it; Given lately less to rhyme-angst since we'd make the perfect fit. Metre too trips freely, blithely now my heart skips ev’ry beat; And of diction what’s best said is: all art’s fiction – you’re real sweet. Poets had they brass to grant it would at last say life’s like that: More complete when lived, not laboured;

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but that’s preaching - change the tack. Retract though? No. For art like the Heart has its Reasons. And If too tall its first intentions I, for all it did not do, Seek this late my song’s redemption that’s to say I seek for you.

by Matt Neal  

Fragmentation – by Will Thomson

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Speculations on ‘The Celibate Life’ The dust from a four-day affair is now landing all over the floor and your brown legs, the gold-plated legs of my rival, whose eyes had no reason to fall. You’ve led no celibate life. No skirt while chemicals danced on your head. You stole the keys to this ride, and your fables are falling tonight. Because of your struggle to make them their taste for your pastime is fading. Remember the girls in the middle are always the first to fall off. You’ll learn to live like a mouse, searching the cracks in the walls to remember all of the dregs in the crowd you barely recall. You’ve led no celibate life. No skirt while chemicals danced on your head. You stole the keys to this ride; you’re falling tonight.

- ‘The Celibate Life’, The Shins, Oh Inverted World (2001). Lyrics By James Russell Mercer.

*** “This is another case of dumbing down. It seems the examiners are trying to be

trendy rather than ensure that the exam covers traditional classical literature”, said Nick Seaton, of the Campaign for Real Education, on hearing that Amy Winehouse’s ‘Love Is A Losing Game’ was to be compared to Walter Raleigh’s ‘As You Came From The Holy Land’ in an English Part II paper. There is not much more to be said about this tenuous distinction between music lyrics and “traditional classical literature”. See Christopher Ricks’s Dylan’s Visions of Sin, Giles Foden on why Eminem is a brilliant poet (The Guardian, Tuesday 6th February, 2001), search “Akala – Hip-Hop & Shakespeare” in YouTube. If I said that poetry can exist in song lyrics, that the definition of poetry – or in particular, what is poetic – is difficult, and that any use of language which is in any way effective to anyone is an artistic act worthy of at least some critical attention, I would not be saying anything new. Nothing in this essay is new or original. I simply wish to direct some energy of the close-reading of lyrics onto one musically and linguistically brilliant song.

One of the definitions of the word “fable” in the OED is “a short story devised to convey some useful lesson; esp. one in which animals or inanimate things are the speakers or actors; an apologue.” This is now “the most prominent sense”. The subject of this song is a woman living “no celibate life”, one that is characterized by

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superficialites (the “chemicals” that “danced on [her] head” can refer to hair-dye, drugs, or hormones, possibly but not definitively at orgasm). She is one who justifies her activities with “fables”. The fable is a form in which the non-human portrays the human; in which while no humans are involved, the allegory always points to human experience. The subject’s vision and desires are constantly being characterized by the inanimacy of chemicals: the chemicals of “gold-plated” (the product of a process of electrolysis), and the “chemicals” that dance on her hair. The way in which her “fables” fall before her peers is in the lapse of allegorical interpretation; there is no lesson behind her entirely chemical-based actions. In the fourth verse, we see a certain fable-of-a-fable, a metafable. We are introduced to a different and prophesied fable, the narrator’s fable, where the subject will “learn to live like a mouse”. While her future experience conveys to the lyricist and to us a moral lesson, she is one trapped inside a fable where even other people still retain a fragmented, inanimate or animal form (“dregs” carry on this line which extends from “dust”, “chemicals”, the “legs” and “eyes” of the fragmented body). Her life is always related in terms of a moral lesson (“the celibate life”) which is always absent to her: “no celibate life”. Her own fallen fables lead her to be trapped within another’s, from which she cannot escape.

The reason she cannot escape is due to the impossibility of organizing her own experiences, of creating a narrative which she can interpret and learn from as in canonical fable and therefore finish the fable. Anamnesis of a life based on physical experience is as fragmented as the body engaging in them; the experiences of “chemicals danc[ing] on her head” - whether they be drugs, or the hormones of the “four-day affair”, fake tan, or hair-dye – and the unintegrated “eyes” and “legs” give way to their remnants and sediments, “the dregs”. Similarly, her living like a mouse on the floor is already adumbrated in the dust that falls on the floor and “her brown legs”. Sedimentation is strongly emphasized in the song: the “landing” of dust; the eyes which resist “falling” on account of her beauty; the “falling” of the fables; the girls being “always the first to fall off”; the “dregs”; her eventual “falling”. “Remember the girls in the middle | are always the first to fall off” provides us with an interesting image. It allows us to imagine a metaphorical structure of experience – whether a wall or anything else – which upholds a group of people, and those in the middle – most affected by inward pressure – are most likely to be pushed out of the structure, like the subject. The “cracks in the walls” are the outcome of this structure; one in which the subject will eventually have to search within in order to make something of her own fragments of memory, within some structure of experience that was relied upon by a group in the past, but is now worn. We have a necessary coming-to-terms with the earthen, the dusty, the sedimentation that is the residue of the chemical; the broken fixities after a life of flux.

by Jamie Patel

       

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The  Untouchable      Unthinkable  There  are  many   things   that   I’ve  been   told  are  unthinkable.  Murder.  Violence.  Rape  (I’m  not  entirely  sure  what  rape  is  but  the  news  makes  it  sound  dreadful).  But  obviously  they  are  thinkable  because  people  think  them.  Then  do  them.  So.    On   the   news   the   other   day   I   watched   an   item   that   described   a   man   who’d   kept   his  daughter  in  his  basement  for  fifteen  years.  They’d  had  kids  (the  dad  and  daughter).  Those  kids  had  never   seen  daylight.   The   reporter   called   it   an   ‘unthinkable   act’.   But   I   couldn’t  help   thinking  that   that   just  didn’t  make  any  sense.  Maybe  the  man  didn’t   think  about   it  when  he  drugged  her.  Maybe  it  didn’t  cross  his  mind  that  it  was  wrong  when  he  put  up  wall  paper  in  the  annex  where  he  kept  her.  Or  when  he  put  food  through  the  trap  door  for  their  dinner.  Every  night.  For  15  years.  Maybe  what  the  reporter  meant  was  he  couldn’t  have   thought  about   it,   and  have  done   it.  Maybe  he  put   it   in  a  different  box   in  his  head.  Like  when  people  are   ‘absent  minded’.  Like  when  I’m  talking  and  I  take  apart  whatever  I’m  holding;  pens,  phones,   figurines.  Maybe   it’s   like   that.   So   that’s  how   the  unthinkable  act  happened,  and  we  on  our  sofas  have  to  think  about  it  instead.  We  think  about  it  a  lot  if  you’re  like  me.  Dr.  Phistine  says  I’m  ‘easily  affected’.  But  I  don’t  think  a  man  imprisoning  his  daughter  for  fifteen  years  is  me  being  easily  affected,  I  just  think  about  how  bad  it  is.  How  I’m  glad  I’m  not  her.        Untouchable.    When   I  was   real   little,   I   used   to   play   a   game   called   Untouchable.   It  was   a   bit   like   Tag  except  if  you  got  touched  you  had  to  act  out  a  really  dramatic  death  that  was  really  gory.  You  stayed  dead  until  the  cure  man  (usually  me)  came  and  heeled  you.  Like  Jesus  I  guess.  Although  I  didn’t  believe  in  him  then  and  I  don’t  believe  in  him  now.  So.    In   India   there  was   a   caste   system.  There   still   is   one  kinda   today.   Some  people   are   real  high  up  like  a  celebrity  and  they’re  the  best  you  can  be.  Then  there  are  a  few  mid-­‐  range  like  doctors,  then  teachers  then  builders.  Then  there  are  ‘The  Untouchables’  that  no  one  notices,  or  looks  at  or  smells  or  speaks  to  or  tastes.  They’re  nothing.  If  you  believe  that  if  a   tree   falls   in   a   forest   and   no   one   hears   it,   it   doesn’t  make   a   sound.   That’s   philosophy  though  and  I’m  not  really  sure  if  it  isn’t  just  making  out  how  important  humans  are.  Mum  used  to  say  it  was  self  indulgent.  That  people  should  just  get  on  with  life.        When  I   found  all   that  out  about   India  I  used  to  have  dreams  where  Mum  was  there.   I’d  scream.  Not  in  fright.  I’d  scream  so  she  could  hear  me.  I’d  scream  as  loud  as  I  could.  And  jump  up  and  down,  and  rub   fish  on  me  and  put  nettles  on  my  hands.  But   she  wouldn’t  notice  me.  It  was  like  she  was  in  a  bottle,  or  underwater  or  on  TV  and  she  couldn’t  hear  me.  It’d  be  like  that  I  guess,  if  you  were  an  Untouchable  in  India.    

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But   then   I   got   to   thinking.   There  would  be   other  Untouchables  who   could   touch   you.   I  even  asked  Dr.  Phistine  and  he  said  I  was  very  perceptive.   I   thought  I  was   just  pointing  out  the  obvious.  But  it  made  me  think  it  was  stupid  to  call  them  Untouchable  when  they  could  hug,  kiss  and  smell  and  taste  and  stare  at  each  other  at  least.  It’d  be  like  being  on  the  outside  with  friends.  All  looking  at  Mum.  She  was  the  true  Untouchable  then.        Dysfunctional          ‘My  pen  is  unfuntional,’    ‘Dysfunctional’,    ‘Huh?’,    ‘You  said:  my  pen   is  unfunctional,   you  meant   to   say  dysfunctional,   you  used   the  wrong  prefix’,    ‘I  did  what?’,    ‘Never  mind.’      A   dysfunctional   family   is   one   that   doesn’t   work.   Most   of   the   time   people   mean  unconventional,  rarely  do  they  mean  dysfunctional.  Where  the  family  sit  or  sleep  all  day,  where  it’s  an  empty  house  or  no  house  because  they  stop  paying  bills,  or  going  to  work,  and  everyone’s  just  beings,  even  the  Grand-­‐pop  and  the  kids  and  the  mum  and  dad.  All  of  them  as  individuals  don’t  function.  Until  they  die.    If   there   are   problems   or   you’re   just   not   nuclear   that’s   different.   Real   different.  ‘Dysfunctional  family’  is  the  kind  of  thing  they  put  on  ads  for  sitcoms.      ‘Watch   everybody’s   favorite   dysfunctional   family   next  Monday,   in   ‘All   Under   the   Same  Roof!’  Right  here  on  SBS.’    Their  biggest  problem  is  the  dad  doesn’t  like  the  mother  in  law  and  the  mum  isn’t  a  good  cook.      But  they  function.  They  do  it  with  big  smiles.    ‘I’m  unfunctional’,    ‘What  do  you  mean?’    ‘I  don’t  sleep,  I  don’t  eat,  I  don’t-­‐  ’,    ‘You  do.  You’re  just  sad  while  you  do  them.’    That’s  when  I  saw  the  difference.    Unspeakable    Here  are  all  the  things  that  I  think  but  don’t  say:    

1. I’m  scared  I’ll  be  like  you  2. I  don’t  want  anyone  to  touch  me  and  everyone  to  touch  me  all  at  the  same  time.  

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3. Please  stop  looking  at  me  like  that.  I’m  fine.        Here’s  what  I  always  say:  ‘I  have  a  tooth  ache.’    Dr.  Phistine  says  it’s  to  ‘deflect’.    ‘Why  don’t  you  go  to  school?’  ‘I  have  a  toothache.’    ‘You’re  deflecting’  Sorry.    ‘What  do  you  think  of  your  Mum?’  ‘She  had  a  tooth  ache?’    ‘You’re  doing  it  again.’  ‘What?’    ‘Deflecting.’  ‘Huh?’    Sigh.  Raises  eyebrows.  Clicks  pen.  Writes  something.  Sometimes  I  imagine  what  he  writes  down.    Deflects.  Can’t  use  prefixes  correctly.  Easily  affected  by  current  affairs.  Perceptive.    When  I  got  home  I  switched  on  the  news  man.    ‘The   girl  was  discovered  because  of   a   neighbor   invited   to   the  house  by  Mr.   Fritzl   for   a  drink.  Mr.  Hurtz  said  that  he  didn’t  notice  anything  wrong  at  all,  until  he  noticed  a  crack  in  one  of   the  walls.  When  he  peered  closer,  he  saw  a  glimpse  of   the   imprisoned   family.  That  chance  sighting  lead  to  the  rescue  of  Fritzl’s  daughter  who  is  now  30  years  old.’    What  makes  some  things  unthinkable  and  some  unspeakable?  When  can  I  think  ‘I  want  to  marry  you’  and  when  can  I  say  it?  When  can  I  not  think  ‘I  hate  you’?  When  can  I  not  speak  it?  When  can  I  yell  so  loud  my  lungs  sag  because  I’ve  used  up  all  the  air  yelling  I  hate  you?    How  do  people  know  what’s  an  unthinkable  act  and  something  just  really,  really  bad?    In  India  they  have  psychics  read  your  star  sign  when  you’re  born  and  decide  where  you  are  in  the  caste.  Your  parents  pray  you’re  not  an  Untouchable.      (Unless  their  untouchable  I  guess.  Or  maybe  they’d  want  a  better  life  for  their  kids  than  what  they  had.  Unless  they  liked  being  Untouchable  because  it  was  like  when  I  wear  my  sunnies  and  I’m  invisible.  But  I  guess  no  one  would  want  to  be  like  that  all  the  time.)    

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Imagine  that  much  power  if  you  were  a  psychic  in  India.  Imagine  if  you  just  didn’t  go  to  the  meeting,  and  you  didn’t  know  if  you  were  a  celebrity  or  an  Untouchable.   Imagine   if  you   were   one   thing   and   your   parents   another   and   you   lived   together   but   had   to   be  separate.   That’d   be   almost   dysfunctional   if   they   couldn’t   take   care   of   you.   That’s  what  parents  are  supposed  to  do.      Unthinkable  Last  week  I  switched  on  the  news.  Last  week  I  ate.  I  slept.  I  just  did  them  all  sadly.  Then,  today,  I  did  the  unthinkable.  I  went  to  school.  It  wasn’t  so  bad  I  guess.  But  we  treat  some   people   as   Untouchables   and   some   like   celebrities.   I’m   not   sure   how   we   decide  though  because  as  far  as  I  know  none  of  us  are  psychics.      I  keep  lists  now.  Unspeakable.  Unthinkable.  Untouchable.  Dysfunctional.  Unconventional.  I  also  keep  a  ‘To-­‐  do-­‐  list’.  On  the  top  of  the  list  is  ‘smile’  next  ‘live’  then  ‘un-­‐smile’,  ‘sleep’.  I’ve  written   it  over  and  over.  My   family’s   functional,  we’re   just  unconventional  because  we  function  sadly.  Like  we’re  all  in  separate  castes  and  sometimes  I  want  to  rub  fish  on  me  and  put  nettles  on  my  hands  and   say   ‘I   hate  you!’   until  my   lungs   sag.  But   instead   I  watch  the  news.      At   least   I’m   not   in   a   cellar.   At   least   Dad   didn’t   forget   to   think   ‘don’t   imprison   my  daughter’.  He  can  forget  other  things,  like  Mum.  Just  never  think  the  unthinkable.  Say  the  unspeakable.   Touch   the   Untouchables   or   be   dysfunctional.   These   are   the   rules.   We’ve  followed  them  for  centauries  and  they’ve  worked  pretty  well  so  far,  right?  So.        Gandhi  didn’t  like  the  caste  system,  he  thought  it  was  dysfunctional.  I  did  a  project  on  him  last   week.   He  was  wrong.   It   functioned.   It   functioned   for   ages.   It   was   just   bad   for   the  Untouchables.  It  worked.  It  looked  good  to  some,  but  inside  it  had  cracks.      It  was  just  chance  that  someone  saw  them.      Smile.  Live.  Unsmile.  Sleep.        

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‘The  Mistress  Of  The  Animals’:  Contrast  And  Continuum  In  A  Theran  Fresco      

           

                     

Florence  Smith  Nicholls    Approximately  1600BC:  a  volcano  on  the  island  of  Thera  in  the  Aegean  sea  erupted,  destroying  the  Cycladic  civilisation  there.  Often  referred  to  as  the  “Bronze  Age  Pompeii,”  the  settlement  known  as  Akrotiri  was  caught  up  in  this  cataclysmic  event.  Ironically,  it  was  the  anaerobic  conditions  caused  by  pumice  and  other  volcanic  debris  smothering  the  town  which  preserved  it  for  present  study.  Thera,  one  in  a  chain  of  Cycladic  islands,  may  be  just  one  sickle  moon-­‐shaped,  seemingly  insignificant  land  mass,  but  it  also  provides  some  of  the  best  examples  of  Aegean  Prehistoric  Art.    To  conceptualise  ‘art’  is  never  a  straight-­‐forward  process-­‐in  this  case  I’m  specifically  referring  to  wall  frescoes  in  houses,  the  subject  matter  of  which  is  hardly  transparent  in  nature.  Loaded  with  ambiguous  imagery,  the  Theran  frescoes  have  been  the  subject  of  protracted  academic  debate  since  they  were  first  discovered  in  the  1970s.  In  order  to  avoid  surfeiting  on  rhetoric,  I  will  instead  approach  the  subject  of  Aegean  Bronze  Age  art  through  a  case  study  of  one  particular  Theran  fresco:  ‘The  Mistress  of  the  Animals.’    It  is  necessary  first  to  contextualise  Thera  further  both  geographically  and  culturally.  The  island  is  often  considered  to  have  been  linked  at  least  to  a  certain  extent  with  the  Minoan  civilisation  on  Crete,  not  least  because  their  weight  system,  syllabic  script  and  similar  fresco  artwork  have  been  found  on  the  island.  However,  it  is  difficult  to  equate  Minoan  civilisation,  which  is  known  mostly  from  ‘palatial’  excavations,  with  the  settlement  at  Akrotiri,  the  status  of  which  is  currently  undecided.      

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Conscious  of  the  inevitably  limited  analysis  and  artificial  nature  of  such  a  pursuit,  my  study  of  an  individual  fresco  will  hopefully  elucidate  some  of  the  major  themes  and  issues  surrounding  the  interpretation  of  Aegean  Bronze  Age  fresco  artwork.  Theoretically  speaking,  trying  to  understand  any  piece  of  ancient  art  is  always  fraught  with  issues  of  imposing  anachronistic  values  onto  an  image,  or  assuming  that  ‘art  imitates  life.’  Thus,  this  piece  will  be  highly  speculative  and  should  be  read  as  such.    ‘The  Mistress  of  the  Animals’  fresco,  or  ‘Saffron-­‐gathering’  fresco,  as  it  is  often  referred  to,  is  located  within  a  building  known  as  ‘Xeste  3’  on  Akrotiri.  The  function  of  the  structure  itself  has  not  been  conclusively  determined,  though  there  are  suggestions  it  perhaps  performed  a  ritual  or  cult  function.  In  the  eastern-­‐most  section  of  Xeste  3  there  is  a  ‘lustral  basin:’  a  square  room  at  a  lower  level  to  other  rooms  surrounding  it.  Arthur  Evans,  the  original  excavator  of  Knossos  on  Crete,  believed  these  features  to  be  indicative  of  purification  rituals.  However,  Evan’s  traditional  theories  have  been  called  into  question  frequently  over  the  last  few  decades,  and  a  case  in  point  is  that  the  lustral  basin  in  this  building  does  not  have  a  waterproof  floor.  The  fact  that  no  cooking  pots,  but  small  jars  containing  remnants  of  food  were  found  in  the  building,  is  perhaps  stronger  evidence  of  communal  activity  in  a  structure  which  was  not  residentially  occupied.    A  short  description  is  necessary:  ‘The  Mistress  of  the  Animals’  fresco  shows  a  female  figure,  seated  on  a  platform,  being  offered  crocus  flowers  by  a  blue  monkey  in  front  of  her,  and  being  pawed  by  a  griffin  behind  her.  Behind  the  monkey  a  young  girl  or  woman  holds  a  basket;  she  is  involved  in  crocus  gathering.  The  first,  and  most  obvious  point  which  can  be  made  from  the  fresco  is  that  a  clear  differentiation  is  being  made  between  the  central,  seated  female  figure  and  everything  else,  animal  or  human,  in  the  scene.  Being  positioned  at  the  highest  point,  one  would  assume  she  is  being  designated  as  symbolically  superior.  Furthermore,  she  wears  more  elaborate  clothes  and  jewellery  than  the  other  female  figure  in  the  picture.  The  next  step  is  to  identify  her:  is  she  a  leader,  a  priestess,  a  goddess?  Nanno  Marinatos,  the  daughter  of  Spyridon  Marinatos  who  originally  excavated  Thera,  maintains:  “That  this  figure  is  a  goddess  is  a  sure  thing.”  However,  the  only  evidence  she  cites  for  this  are  the  observations  detailed  above.  The  nature  of  leadership,  as  well  as  religious  leadership,  is  one  of  the  most  contentious  subjects  in  Aegean  archaeology.  No  definitive  images  of  leaders  have  yet  been  discovered.  Though  it  is  difficult  to  ascertain  the  reason  for  the  seated  woman’s  differentiation,  an  exploration  of  possible  interpretations  of  the  three  other  figures  in  the  scene  may  at  least  introduce  further  possible  theories.    Griffins  are  often  associated  with  indications  of  centralised  power  in  the  Bronze  Age  Aegean.  The  most  well-­‐known  example  of  this  is  the  fresco  with  two  griffins  flanking  the  ‘throne’  discovered  at  Knossos.  As  this  particular  fresco  is  much  later  than  the  one  in  question,  no  direct  link  can  be  made,  but  it  is  also  true  that  there  are  numerous  other  representations  of  woman  associated  with  griffins,  including  a  gold  finger  ring  from  Phourni,  Archanes  dating  to  1600-­‐1500BC.  This  particular  example  is  also  concomitant  to  elite  status-­‐such  an  item  will  have  been  prestigious.  Of  course,  the  griffin  is  a  mythological  creature  and  its  inclusion  in  the  fresco  is  arguably  indicative  of  the  seated  woman  having  a  preternatural  power.  Speculation  aside,  it  is  also  important  to  note  that  griffins  can  be  classed  as  part  of  the  corpus  of  Near  

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Eastern  iconography.    In  Egypt,  the  griffin  first  appears  in  Middle  Kingdom  artwork,  and  is  elaborated  in  the  New  Kingdom  with  a  solar  disc  on  its  head.  The  inclusion  of  a  griffin  in  this  fresco  highlights  questions  of  possible  Near-­‐  Eastern  affinities  and  the  possibility  that  the  seated  figure  draws  her  power  from  this.    The  blue  monkey  also  has  exotic  connotations.  Obviously  monkeys  are  not  indigenous  to  the  Aegean,  so  it  could  be  surmised  that  contact  must  have  been  maintained  with  the  Near  East  in  order  for  Cycladic  artists  to  have  had  any  conception  of  what  they  looked  like-­‐whether  in  a  direct  trade  in  animals  or  through  the  diffusion  of  Near  Eastern  art.  The  blue  colour  of  the  monkey  likely  suggests  a  highly  idealised  and  possibly  symbolically  significant  manifestation  of  this  creature.  Certainly,  its  representation  is  anthropomorphic.    Blue  monkeys  also  appear  in  the  House  of  the  Frescoes  at  Knossos,  which  could  suggest  a  common  Aegean  artistic  koine  of  imagery.    Lastly,  the  other  female  figure  needs  to  be  considered.  She  is  often  assumed  to  be  more  juvenile  than  the  main  female  figure  because  of  her  hairstyle.  Scholarship  on  this  subject  has  often  referred  to  the  Egyptian  practise  of  designating  age  according  to  a  partial  shaving  of  the  head:  the  young  girl  appears  to  only  have  a  short  pony  tail  and  closely  shorn  hair.  Within  the  context  of  the  other  frescoes  in  Xeste  3,  this  observation  makes  more  sense.  The  building  contains  numerous  frescoes  of  woman  with  various  hairstyles  evocative  of  Egyptian  equivalents,  either  involved  in  crocus-­‐gathering  or  other  inexplicable  activities.  The  general  atmosphere  of  these  frescoes  is  one  of  exclusively  female  activity  (though  it  should  be  remembered  there  are  also  representations  of  males  in  the  building).  Did  Cycladic  and  Minoan  society  reserve  a  special  place  for  certain  women,  perhaps  in  a  ritual  context?  Women,  specifically  young  women  are  very  prominent  in  the  Xeste  3  frescoes,  but  that’s  all  that  can  be  confidently  asserted.    An  overall  synthesis  of  all  the  aspects  of  the  “Mistress  of  the  Animals”  fresco  must  be  attempted.  Themes  of  Near  Eastern  influence,  female  power  and  the  blending  of  the  natural  and  preternatural  world  have  reoccurred  in  this  discussion.  The  main  point  I  wish  to  make  is  that  the  fresco  can  be  interpreted  along  two  lines:  either  in  terms  of  contrasts  or  a  continuum.    It  could  be  said  that  the  pre-­‐eminence  of  the  enthroned  woman  is  demonstrated  through  the  contrast  between  her  and  all  the  other  figures  in  the  fresco,  between  woman/  goddess  and  animal,  between  woman/goddess  and  young  girl.  Marinatos’  analysis  is  strongly  along  these  lines:  “The  goddess  is  symbolically  separated  because  her  animal  attendants  are  exotic  and  one  is  fabulous.”  I  would  disagree:  the  positioning  of  the  figures  could  actually  suggest  a  continuum  of  relations.  The  griffin  and  monkey  do  indeed  both  appear  part-­‐way  up  the  tri-­‐partite  platform  the  woman  sits  on.  The  monkey  acts  as  mediator  in  offering  to  the  elite,  and  the  griffin  is  able  to  touch  her.  The  girl  however,  is  completely  separate.  Perhaps  this  is  the  strongest  evidence  for  the  divine  status  of  the  seated  woman.  Yet,  instead  of  construing  status  from  a  power  over  animals  and  beasts,  it  could  be  said  that  the  seated  figure  is  dependent  upon  these  flanking  creatures  in  order  to  appear  superior.  In  his  “Enquiry  into  Living  Creatures”  Aristotle  spoke  of  a  “continuum  between  the  animal  and  human  worlds”  in  which  humans  were  the  “most  complete.”  Of  course,  referencing  Aristotle  in  relation  to  Bronze  Age  artwork  is  completely  anachronistic,  but  I  mention  him  to  further  

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conceptualise  a  theoretical  reading  of  the  “Mistress  of  the  Animals”  fresco.  Dichotomies  can  be  constructed  from  the  imagery,  but  I  wish  to  suggest  a  more  inclusive  perspective,  whereby  all  the  elements  of  the  composition,  whether  divine,  fantastical,  human  or  animal,  operate  on  an  inter-­‐related  continuum  which  should  not  be  read  in  terms  of  straight-­‐forward  hierarchies.  The  fresco  as  a  whole  depicts  a  group  invested  in  the  activity  of  saffron-­‐gathering;  whether  mortal,  human  or  not,  they  are  all  inter-­‐dependent.    Bibliography  Cartledge,P.  2002.The  Greeks  A  Portrait  of  Self  &  Others  Marinatos,N.  1984.  Art  and  Religion  in  Thera  Recontructing  a  Bronze  Age  Society  Marinatos,  N.  2010.    Minoan  Kingship  and  the  Solar  Goddess  A  Near  Eastern  Koine      

Swallow    

As  nightfall  looms  the  swallow  shears  the  air  A  passenger  held  aloft  by  the  gloaming  The  gloaming,  an  all  consuming  terror  The  insect.  A  turn.  A  switch.  A  fatal  error.  

I  look  with  a  hungry  gaze  at  an  idea  in  bloom.  The  last  drop  of  days.  The  vestiges  of  life.  

A  soul  on  the  blade  of  a  knife.  Poetry  shall  be  elided    

When  creativity  and  mortality  collide.  Like  the  entangled  metal  of  a  car  crash.  

The  gaping  maw  of  a  dying  man.  I  chew  through  my  idle  tongue.  A  holy  man  walking  on  fire.  A  thousand  burnt  out  suns.  

All  things  transpire  as  thoughts  peculiar.  I  swallow,  humbled.  

When  the  gloaming  is  born  must  everything  die?  Awoken  to  a  new  day  and  a  new  self  The  all-­‐consuming  guilt  of  survivors.  

The  swallow  is  the  carrier.  Carrying  carrion,  lost  souls,  across  that  river  of  light.  

The  insect  skewered  by  a  pin  The  swallow  in  a  bell  jar.  

Eternal  life  from  the  taxidermist's  knife.      

Marc  Shalet  

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by Jonny Bruce

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Orchid by Jamie Patel

Lucretius Pendens, poet and his lady’s jester, let his love, like a half-plucked orchid, fall and fester.

End.

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