Ecuadorian Art: Oswaldo Guayasamin

After a long gap in the blog (oops) this post is a homage to Oswaldo Guayasamin (1919-1999), the much-loved and famed Ecuadorian artist.

                                                             Oswaldo Guayasamin

                                                 Image credit: Guayasamin Foundation

I say famed, but actually, I had never heard of Guayasamin before I stepped foot into Ecuador. In fact, when we signed up to 'The Guayasamin Spanish School' in Quito named after the guy, I was still clueless. I remember asking Murry in a whisper if he knew who this Guayasamin geezer was, in case we were meant to be clued up. He shrugged his shoulders, wandered if it was the name of a river, and we resolved to resort to Google later.

We visited The Guayasamin Museum ('Capilla del Hombre') and house in Quito a week later, and I was very glad of the discovery. So what better now than to share it here with you...

A micro biography

Oswaldo Guayasamin was born in Quito (capital of Ecuador) on 6th July 1919. He was the first of ten children born to his Quechua Indian father and mestiza (mixed race) mother. The family lived in poverty. 

In 1932, at the age of 12, Guayasamin commenced his studies in painting and sculpture at The School of Fine Arts in Quito. Not long after starting Art School, a close friend was killed in the 4 day civil war in Ecuador. This loss at an early age  in such a cruel way was to stay with Guayasamin and influence much of his later works.

                                                       Self-portrait, 1963 (oil on canvas)

                                                      Image credit: Art of Guayasamin 

In 1942 at the age of 23, Guayasamin exhibited his work for the first time. Nelson Rockefeller, an American who chanced by the exhibition was impressed with the work and arranged a grant for him to exhibit work for sixth months in the U.S.

Following his stint in the U.S., Guayasamin travelled to Mexico, where he became assistant to José Clemente Orozco (a Mexican muralist). The following year Guayasamin travelled around much of Latin America. His travel experiences and exposure to the poverty and oppression of indigenous societies all over the continent inspired his art works as well as his view of life and people.

He had many friends who were well known in political and artistic spheres of Latin American culture, including Fidel Castro, Gabriel García Márquez and Pablo Neruda.

Guayasamin died on 10th March 1999 at the age of 79 in Baltimore, Maryland.

During his lifetime he won many prestigious art awards and held exhibitions in the U.S. and Europe as well as Latin America.

What did Guayasamin create?

Guayasamin is pinned as an expressionist painter, sculptor and designer. He is referred to by many as 'the Latin American Picasso'. I can definitely see where this distinction arises. When I walked into the Guayasamin Museum in Quito the first thing I uttered to Murry was "wow, it's a bit like Picasso".

                       Some of the paintings on the first floor as you enter the museum.

                                                       Image credit: tripadvisor

However, Guayasamin deserves entirely his own credit. The style is definitively his own, with his own recurring trademarks, such as his beautiful and expressive way of painting hands.

                                             Las manos de la protesta (The hands of protest)

                                                     Image credit: The Guayasamin Foundation

The paintings housed in the 'Capilla del Hombre' in Quito are huge in size and cover large high walls. There are giant works of sculpture too.The sheer scale creates a moving impact for the viewer. Walking around the gallery I felt like a quiet tiny spectator, dwarfed by these huge silent paintings that seemed somehow to shed screams that bounced and echoed off all of the walls and filled the space, without making a sound. Guayasamin himself wrote:

"I have painted as if I were screaming in desperation, and my screams have joined the screams that express the humiliation of so many, and the deep anguish for the times we have had to live in."

The gallery was designed by Guayasamin, unfortunately he died whilst it was being built and never saw it finished. It is entitled 'Capilla del Hombre' ('Chapel of Man'), as it is designed in the style of a chapel. Guayasamin wandered why men are so ready to build beautiful structures and offering for Gods and religions supposedly higher than themselves, but do not build such sacred structures to honor themselves. This then, was his offering to man and to the unity of Latin America. A domed and painted temple-like roof in the centre of the upper hall creates the 'chapel', with a flame burning underneath on the ground floor.

                                                  The Chapel of Man dome ceiling

                                                   Image credit: Milena Frieden

              The above inscription is printed on a ground floor wall, opposite the chapel flame:

                                        "Keep a light burning because I will always return"

                                                                  Image credit: blog

Another inscription in the same print as above is figured on the opposite wall. In translation it reads 

"He cried because he did not have shoes, until he saw a boy who did not have any feet."

Guayasamin is considered an important figure in Latin America not only for his unique style, but also for his role in recording the politics, history and struggle of the indigenous cultures of the continent. Beyond that, he is also important on a universal level for his interest and compassion in mankind and human nature as a whole.

                                                            The Bull and the Condor, 1957 

                                                           Image credit: www.twoyangs.com

This painting depicts an Andean ritual and also holds deeper meaning. The bull often symbolised Spain (the coloniser) and the condor represented the Inca (indigenous) . Here, we see the Inca fighting back against colonial takeover in Latin America.

Guayasamin held an unforgiving dedication to express human pain and suffering, torture, loss and war. Themes depicted extend beyond Latin America and reach out to the world and all of its pockets of suffering. Many of the works may seem depressing and morbid at first glance; twisted faces with eyes widened in horror and gaping screams feature a lot. What I read into these mangled figures begging for viewer attention, was Guayasamin's refusal to turn a blind eye. His attempt to pay homage to human suffering shows both his underlying compassion for mankind, and also his frustration at the pain we inflict upon one another. He sees all humans as united, and yet distressingly fractured by the boundaries we inflict upon and between ourselves.

Some of the recurring motifs and themes evident in his work are indigenous suffering at the hands of imperialist colonisers, war (civil, world and genocide), torture, relationships and bonds, death, emphasis of hands as instruments of action and emotion.

                                                 Lágrimas de sangre (Tears of blood)

                                                    Image credit: Guayasamin Foundation

                                                     Madre y niño ('Mother and child'), 1989

                                                  Image credit: The Guayasamin Foundation

Guayasamin's paintings are not all doom and twisted gloom. In his later years, he entered what he called 'La Ternura' ('The Age of Tenderness'). From 1988 - 1999 his paintings embraced the bonds between humans and the love and compassion imminent in human nature. They inspired hope for things to come, rather than focusing on the destruction of the past.

                                                El arbol de la vida ('The tree of life')

                                                    Image credit: Rem Sapojnikov

Guayasamin's house sits next to the gallery and we visited here too. It is a beautiful and peaceful spot in a quiet suburb on the outskirts of Quito, with a breathtaking view of the city and volcanoes that surround it. Guayasamin's ashes rest in a clay urn underneath a tree in the garden. The tree has been decorated with numerous lanterns and windchimes and is known as 'el arbol de la vida' ('the tree of life').

I have included a few paintings in this post, but Guayasamin's work has a much broader range and is worth looking into. If you ever happen to find yourself in Quito, Ecuador, I strongly recommend a visit to the 'Capilla del Hombre'. It is an experience and discovery that will stay with me for years to come, especially the hands! Guayasamin's beautiful, expressive hands were truly extraordinary.

Questions of Authenticity

If an alien came down and landed on earth and tried to address and understand our world as one, he would see that we all look and act much the same. But if the alien was to stay for a long time, (say he was like an 'exchange student' on earth), he would likely be treading the most confusing obstacle course of juxtaposed truths. A big web. We have so many lines and boundaries. There are boundaries in race, culture, religion, sex, class, politics, morals...to name but a few.

I often think one of the hardest and most frightening tasks for a stand-up comedian must be in their duty to judge boundaries. The scary part is not knowing whether you've pulled it off until you've done it live in front of an audience. You could be laughed off the stage, or it could go completely tits-up. Part of the thrill of comedy I suppose? I commend all stand-ups out there to be honest, even the shit ones. Just for taking the mic. It's a terrifying position.

A lot of good comedy dances tremendously on a tightrope, tipping into the dangerous territory of what we consider 'un-pc', and then regaining balance on the tightrope again. Most of us love 'un-pc' in comedy. That's if it is achieved with a certain edge and expresses a truth that we recognise. We are all different after all. As much as we learn from and respect each other, so are we all rooted in our own upbringings and perspectives to a certain extent. There has always and will always be tension between different nations, cultures and classes. Fear of the unknown and protection of our own is an animal instinct, and we're just animals really.

When comedy jumps over these boundaries, it often explores the thoughts many of us subconsciously have but are afraid to express; the worries that preoccupy us where boundaries are concerned. By overstepping the mark, whether it be social, moral, racial, political or other, a comedian opens up a dialogue into that 'dangerous territory'. That's why it's so funny, when done well. And so soul-achingly embarassing when it's done badly.

Take Ricky Gervais' sitcom pilot for 'Derek' as a prime example. It was aired on Channel 4 in April 2012, to a mixed reaction. There was outrage and serious debate over Gervais' choice of main character; a vulnerable man portrayed as having learning disabilities. Gervais has found success with cringe-comedy in the past, but was he going a step too far by preying on disability for cheap laughs? When questioned by disability campaigner Nicky Clark about whether Derek was disabled, Gervais answered:

"Derek is a fictional character and is defined by his creator. Me. If I say I don't mean him to be disabled then that's it. A fictional doctor can't come along and prove me wrong."

Nicky Clark is actually in favour of the sitcom and her full interview with Ricky and article are well worth a look: click here .

  Ricky Gervais as 'Derek Noakes', with Karl Pilkington who plays 'Dougie' in the new sitcom.                           

                                                    Image credit: NME 

The boundary Gervais tackles on this one is dangerous then, but he seems to have pulled it off as Channel 4 have commissioned a full series of 'Derek'. It will be interesting to see the reaction when it is aired later this year.

A writer also treads a dangerous type-space when writing about what is outside their own frame of knowledge and reference. This has been playing on my mind a lot. Sometimes I feel tied to a very small frame of reference in my story writing. Isn't art meant to be about freedom, imagination, going anywhere, even if you haven't in reality, or the place does not really exist?

How important is authenticity? And what does it mean to be authentic? Is it a case of who we are and where we were born?

I read an interesting piece in The Guardian back in June, called 'How not to write about Africa in 2012 - a beginner's guide' by Binyavanga Wainaina.

The tone of the piece was clearly set in the sub-heading:

'The booming continent is ripe for new partnerships, but with those who address us as equals not in aid bullet points'. 

The article employed scathing sarcasm to criticise Western notions of Africa. It painted Western journalists and charity-workers (as well as the wider public) as self-proposed martyrs, who dither outside the battlezones of Africa, professing to help with aid work and charity money. It drew up the modern Western man as an unprogressed echo of his colonial history: unaware, patronising and downright eurocentric in his thinking of the wider world and how to approach other nations. Wainaina seemed to ask, what makes Westerners so smug and supreme in even feeling entitled to 'help' another nation?

The article is well worth a read, as well as the debate it sparked from readers in response. One reader points out that in making his case, Wainaina utilises the same sort of stereotypes about Westerners that he accuses them of making in Africa. Perhaps this is Wainaina's aim? The satire is an attempt at holding up a mirror for his audience. But in doing so, he brings the argument on to an 'us and them' level, which surely just means drawing the battle lines. It's not helping anything is it? It's just another tiresome boundary.

As illustrated by Wainaina's anger, there is a fine line when we consider how we write about other cultures. Others often become very critical when we try to write about cultures outside our own. If we were born in a culture, and had lived outside it all our lives, I imagine having it in our blood would still allow us to write about it. But it depends how.

What qualifies us to write about something?

I suppose the fundamental rule to remember here goes back to that old chesnut of writing wisdom - 'write about what you know'. 

But I find this premise limiting. Surely the whole point with writing, is not to have rules. Rules exist as guidelines, advice for good practise. But if you really want to try your hand at writing from the point of view of a Tibetan monk, or a Nigerian electrician, or an Indian business man etc, do your research and then have a go...

Although, I warn you, it's bloody hard.

When writing stories, I find that mine are either obviously rooted in my own culture and class, or vaguely rooted in that culture without naming, or otherwise totally surreal stories that exist in otherworldly places. I sometimes find this annoying. Particularly now, when I am travelling.

I am in Colombia, and before that I was in Ecuador for a month. I see things daily that inspire me. I have a notebook where I collect images in words. Things that I see that I can use later. Details that I like, that I think could translate nicely between life and art. These aren't necessarily specific to a new Latin American culture. Just characters, people, places, things, a scene or exchange between people.

I have tried to start writing a story based on a man I liked who I passed everyday in Ecuador. His workshop was open to the street. He was old, and he sat every day at a machine. It looked like he was weaving. It took me a few days to figure out that he was making washing up brushes. After a few days there was a stack of finished brushes on the floor next to him in different colours. He was there when we walked to our Spanish school in the morning, and there in the same position, working away, when we walked home. Sometimes his family were around him in the workshop, eating dinner or talking with him, sometimes he was alone. But, in writing the story, I am finding it difficult to root it. How do I authenticate him? What voice do I use? What name and what characteristics to place him in his culture? My attempts are crass and inauthentic. In which case, I have attempted to lift him into an unnamed, unknown, universal place. But this seems too general at the moment to stick. The art is, after all, in the detail.

So, I don't really have an answer. But I do know from trying, that writing about other cultures is pretty tricky and maybe sort of impossible. If you do some extensive real-life research and find real people to slip on the skin of your characters, then maybe, just maybe...

We must remain aware, however, that if we choose to take such risks, we put ourselves up for higher criticism. Such is the nature of tribes, cultures and people. We are all protective of who we are and where we come from. If someone is trying to write about us, and they have not lived in our shoes, we of course, feel entitled to shoot them down at the first sign of weakness.

Oh, and as a final word, hats off to Zadie Smith. She writes bravely and authentically about race and the intermingling of cultures in Britain. 'White Teeth' (which I wrote about in a previous post) sees her confront the melting pot of British culture head-on. She succeeds in writing from the vantage point of three different cultures at once, because her characters are so authentic and recognisable. They come off as real. The art is is in the detail and she nails it. So maybe it can be done...

Goodbye Ecuador, thanks for all the volcanoes

The time has finally come to say goodbye to this old 1990s musical chestnut! Thank God. It has been whirling around my head all month.

                                                   Sash! - Ecuador (press play at your own risk)

Our month (and a bit) learning Spanish in Ecuador is up. Tomorrow, Murry and I are off to navigate our way across the Colombian border at Tulcan. When I say 'navigate', we won't really do much. We will probably be groggy from sleep on a bus, perhaps watching some strange film or other, maybe featuring a wolf. 

We are heading for Popayan, a town close to where the 7.1-magnitude earthquake hit in south west Colombia last Sunday. Luckily the tremor was deep enough underground not to cause too much damage. 

The previous earthquake to hit Popayan in 1983 was not so kind. At 5.5 on the Richter scale, it destroyed/damaged many homes as well as old Colonial buildings and churches. Over one hundred deaths were counted, and many citizens were left homeless. The quake occurred at 8.15am during Easter Week, and as a result, sadly, many died due to damage caused at the main Cathedral, where Holy Friday Mass was underway. After careful and costly restoration, the city retains its old colonial charm. 

If the news is anything to go by, fingers crossed not much of the restored city has been ruined again by Sunday's earthquake. We shall see. How frustrating it must be to build a city on unhappy fault lines? All that work, and then the earth moves, and you have to go again and rebuild it all like a game of lego, except far less fun. 

I've been thinking the same about some of the other towns and cities here, built menacingly close to volcanoes. Beautiful places, but dangerous places for town planning, no? Quito is the most obvious example; a sprawling, thin capital city that stretches itself like a cat in the valley between the Andes and at the foot of Volcan Pichincha. It's huge and developed. I imagine it as a cat that's getting all cosy and doing that morning-cat-stretch-thing where they remarkably change shape completely and become really thin and twice as long. Yet, it is the only city in the world, supposedly, to be nestled at the foot of an active volcano. 

          That's Quito the cat down there somewhere, poking out from below Volcano Pichincha

Volcan Pichincha has many peaks, we climbed to the top of one of them: Rucu Pichincha (4700m). Guagua Pichincha is the active peak. The largest eruption occurred in 1660, when ash covered the city. The most recent eruption was in 2003. Fingers firmly crossed that Quito never has to have a full on brawl with the volcano. I think we know who's likely to win. 

                                           At the top of Rucu Pichincha (4700m)

If you look straight ahead between the clouds, you can make out the mighty snow-peaked Cotopaxi volcano in the distance.

In other volcano related news, we stayed in one of the only inhabited and farmed volcano craters in the world. Pululahua Geobotanical Reserve is not far from Quito and up the road from the Mitad del Mundo (Equator monument). 

            Looking down into Pululahua crater from the top before hiking down for the night

It was quite eery in the crater at night as it seemed deserted, bar the quite creepy chef in our hostel. We couldn't get the horror film 'Wolf Creek' out of our minds as we tucked ourselves up in bed. And then the cows outside started screaming, which didn't help. At first it sounded like a human man letting loose the most piercing scream, and then we realised it must be cows. I think they were having sex, I hope it was more enjoyable than it sounded.

                                        Waking up in Pululahua volcano crater

                                            Volcanic rock

   We found a geothermal pool where you could see bubbles rising to the top of the water from    the earth's core

Volcanoes aside, Ecuador has much more to offer. I might write about that another time though...will let the volcanoes have their say for now...

Back to school

At midnight last night it was our one week anniversary in Quito - yeaah, congrats to us and to you Quito, and we haven't even been mugged yet! :)

Being a couple can make travel really relaxing and easy-going. It can however mean it's harder to meet other people. We are staying in the Old Town, full of impressive colonial churches and steep cobbled streets. It is about an hour away from La Mariscal Sucre (dubbed 'gringolandia' by locals) - the main tourist centre of bars and hostels.

We have however met some lovely people at our Spanish school. Swiss, Swedish, British and American so far. There's a young American couple living here and planning to adopt a baby. The Swiss guy was here for the climbing - he told us altitude-induced horror stories that made us all want to get down and kiss the safe ground we were on.

Our best friend, by far though, here in Quito is Pedro. He hovers over the bushes and flowers outside our window every morning as we eat breakfast. It's pretty much a solid friendship. He usually turns up just as we are having our first sip of (weak and rubbish) breakfast tea. He is a tiny electric blue and green hummingbird.

Pedro looks just like this violet-bellied hummingbird. Thank you to Paul Pratt who I borrowed the image from and who has many other beautiful images of the Hummingbirds of Ecuador on his site:

http://www.netcore.ca/prairie/Pauls_Web_pages/Hummingbirds_of_Ecuador.html

Trying new fruit is also fun, and all the 'exotic' stuff you'd fork out a few quid for in Britain is obviously the cheap way to eat here, as it is native. The discovery of 'maracuyas' is my favourite find so far. They are giant passionfruits.

Breakfast fruit - bananas, pineapple, maracuyas and dulce tomates ('sweet tomatoes' that taste a bit like papaya). 

In India, Carla and I got addicted to eating fresh green-fleshed passionfruits that you could buy from street vendors. They were hacked in half and you could suck out the insides. They were much tastier fresh, than the purple-skinned passionfruits we get at home in Britain. Over shipping time, they grow old wrinkly skins and extortionate price tags. So the discovery of these fresh GIANT passionfruits that cost 50 cents for two, was pretty exciting.

We found a great Spanish school (Guayasamin Spanish School) directed by an Ecuadorian guy with a moustache called Luis. We are doing four hours intensive Spanish Monday-Friday with our teacher Kenia. It is fun but intense. We also get about an hour of 'la tarea' each night, aka homework. So it's pretty much like being back at school. Except with more of an urge to learn.

All ready for our first day of school. The 'Experto' bit turned out not to be true, but we're working on it.

Some pictures of our walk to school, through the Old Town to La Mariscal:

                                                                On our road

                                                Basilica del Voto Nacional

                                                    Most days we walk through El Ejido Park

                                                         Quito's Boris-bike equivalent

Walking back home again. If we ever get lost, all we do is look for the Virgin Mary. Literally, not spiritually. El Panecillo is the hill that stands behind us with the Virgin Mary on top.

I love old people!

I have changed continents, and so far, the above is what I have learnt.

Murry and I woke up at 5am in London on 1st September, and ended up in our rented apartment in Quito, Ecuador exactly 24 hours later.

Flying into Quito was exciting. It was 10pm so the night outside was dotted with those glittering white and yellow city lights that always look so inviting from the sky - a bit like a man-made attempt to recreate the stars up above. What made it really exciting though, was the contours. Quito is all hills. On the outskirts of the city, where the lights stopped, we could just about make out the dark looming triangles of volcanoes.

This morning we woke up to a view of Pichincha volcano outside our window. The hills above us, and below the volcano, were scattered with whitewashed houses. What is it about hills and mountains? I can't get enough of them.

  View from our bedroom window, Quito, Ecuador

 Then there's the steep ups and downs of the cobbled streets in The Old Town, where we are staying. When we arrived we had to crouch with our arms out ready to catch our bags, by the car boot, as the steep hill would have seen them tumble out the boot and straight down the hill. 

After a big wander around Quito's Old Town today, I can confirm that my other instant love in this city is the old people.

The old people here are amazing. I have gathered this much just by watching them, like some kind of creepy reverse paedophile. I think I have a fetish. I am already scheming some kind of 'grab a granny/ adopt a grandpa' plot. The old faces here are so weather-beaten and wonderfully wrinkled. Maps of lives and stories to be told. The grandmas look so kind and wise; really open faces and lots of toothless grins. Many of them have shrunk to tiny proportions, and oh my! Their feet! Old people in Ecuador have the smallest feet I have ever seen!! Their shoes are tiny.

My favourite grandma so far is an old lady I spied in The Plaza Grande who can't have been more than 3 feet tall. She was wearing a white dress and a big colourful woolly cardigan with slippers on her feet (tiny slippers of course). She was wandering around eating an ice-cream cone. That was it really. I didn't speak to her, I just fell a bit in love from a distance.

Murry sometimes gets annoyed when I say old people are cute. They are, after all, much older, wiser and more experienced than we are, so it's pretty patronising. But I mean cute in a lived, totalled, whole, shrunken again, and 'they-don't-give-a-shit' kind of way. They tend not to rush about like us younger folk, preoccupied with forwards and back, ups and downs, ego worries and life strains. They are sort of done with it and let go. Sometimes it seems people revert to a sort of childlike form in old age. Maybe we shed all of those other layers, keep the lessons we have learned and perhaps just learn to be a bit still with it all? 

Anyhow, still a bit jetlagged. I had a huge siesta earlier (could get used to this lifestyle).

Tomorrow we are going to look for a Spanish school to try and get our tongues rolling out the lingo. Then perhaps, once the language is on my side, I can start making my moves on some of the old folk...

All very wrong, I apologise. I really just mean have some innocent chatter with them.

Wise Teabags

As an aspiring writer, it's no surprise that I enjoy writing. Sometimes I forget, or decide that being lazy beats writing.

So it's always nice when your teabag can remind you to do some writing :)

I think most herbal teas taste like bath soap scraped into a teabag to be honest, but Yogi Tea is something else. Delicious!

There are 60 blends, so you're bound to find one you like. I love many of them. I recommend the 'Licorice', which actually tastes less like licorice, and more like Christmas.

The tea I am drinking now is the 'Women's Energy' variety (yes they all have suitable hippy names). The water turns dark pink after a few minutes of brewing, making it that bit more girly. It has tasty stuff in it including peppermint, hibiscus, ginger, raspberry leaves, black pepper and cardamom.

The fun part is that these hippy teas each have a little piece of wisdom to share with you. Personally, I am a big fan of any advice departed by a teabag. I can't think of a better source of knowledge and insight than a little guru sitting in my bedtime cup of tea.

Each box of tea also has a picture and explanation of a yoga pose if that sort of thing floats your boat (it does mine, I'm an all round hippy it seems).

Most chilled out, insightful tea I know of...hits the spot every time.

P.S. They are not paying me for advertising, I just genuinely love the stuff and recommend it to all.

P.P.S. I am especially enjoying this pre-bed cup of Yogi because I'm in bed, listening to the best Spotify playlist made by the best friend. This particular song is beautiful - thank you Laura.

Tiken Jah Fakoly - Ouvrez Les Frontières

Beer Babies and Fishing Boats

It's incredible. The biggest fish I've ever seen. Bigger than anything that Captain Birdseye has ever caught, and he's a proper fisherman with a uniform. The fish has scales of silver, grey and black in a great patchwork across its belly. Its long, sleek body glistens in the sun and winks at me. The shine rubs away at the tail, where the scales become dusty and clouded, like flakes of limescale.

"That is one big ass fish", Dad breathes over my shoulder.
"It's mine." I don't even want him to look at it.
"Alright son" Dad chuckles, "plenty to go round, look at the size of the bugger!"
I don't want it to go round. Nobody else is going to hold him, or touch him, or eat him. I caught him and I want him all to myself.
"He's my friend and not yours", I whisper, my eyes still pinned on the fish. Dad doesn't say anything.
When I do turn around, he is sitting at the other end of the boat, next to the motor, sipping from a can. Oh no, I think, but then I recognise the cream and red striped pattern and I know it's ok because it's just Ginger beer.

I look back at the fish.
My fish.
The tail is still. Only a moment ago it was thrashing wildly against the bench and flicking up into the air. The eye bulges and the little black dot in the middle seems to be looking right at me. Its mouth opens and closes a few times like a spaghetti hoop, gasping for air. Then everything stops. Even the gills cease their subtle movement and lapse against the fish's cheeks. The fish lies quite still on the wooden bench, it's eye fixed on me. Fat drops of water slip from its scales to the wooden floor of the boat, making dark stains.

The fish is dead.
The eye is still looking, although it is dead, so it can no longer look at anything. But it looks like it's looking.
It dawns on me that the fish is dead because I have killed it. I wander if it has a family? Do they notice it is missing? Will they be putting up 'Missing' posters in the sea below our boat?

I turn away from the fish and take a step towards Dad.
"Dad, you can share it with me if you like?" My voice comes out shaky.
"No, no, all yours, you caught it after all." Dad shakes his head and takes another slurp of Ginger beer.
"I know Dad...but you can have it, actually. I changed my mind. You can have it and do what you like with him. If you want to eat it, that's ok. In fact, I think you should eat it."
Dad cocks his head and frowns.
"It's your first ever catch Henry, I'm proud of you. You should eat it mate, celebrate. Don't worry about me." Dad smiles reassuringly.
"No, no, I don't think...well, I...I think you should eat it Dad. I don't want to, really." I find myself looking down at my blue wellies as I say it.

Dad puts his hands on his hips. He looks over my head at the fish. I'm trying to read his face, and the creases in his forehead mean he is either frowning or confused.
Has the fish moved? Maybe it's jumped back into the sea? I don't want to look incase it hasn't, and the eye is still staring at me, following me around the boat. I stare at Dad's navy wool jumper with a hole in it instead. The hole is right in the middle of his beer belly, probably in the place where his belly button is underneath his t-shirt.

Dad used to drink a lot of beer. His belly is so round that he looks pregnant. You're not meant to drink if you are pregnant, because it might damage the baby. I hope Dad's not pregnant, because the baby would probably be in a very bad shape if he is.

Dad says he has given up beer now anyway.
"Dad, please, have the fish." I am nearly begging now, I can hear it in my voice, it's gone all high-pitched.
"I know what we'll do. We can gut it and cook it, and we'll have a right feast, eating it together!" Dad looks excited.
I chance a look at the fish.
It's still there, still staring.
"I DON'T WANT THE FISH!" I shout it as loud as I can and sit on the floor of the boat and pull my sweatshirt over my head. I don't want the fish to see me. Even if it is dead and can't see.
I want to get off the boat and I never want to see the fish again.

I remember how excited I was about this fishing trip with Dad this morning. I woke up early and ended up having to wait for Dad and eat three bowls of coco pops because I was up early, and he was late. Dad wouldn't leave until he had checked the weather forecast on the BBC. I wish there had been a storm and we had stayed in.

The Reading List - July 2012

Here is an update on what I have been reading and what I thought of the books...

When God Was a Rabbit - Sarah Winman

Winman's debut novel is narrated by Elly, the daughter in a family of four living in Essex. She looks up to her older brother Joe and he protects her from the unknown world that looms, often menacingly, beyond the safe boundaries of home. Elly is at odds with many of her classmates, but she makes one strong and endearing bond with 'Jenny Penny', the girl with frizzy hair and an equally wild Mother. She also finds solace and comfort in her pet rabbit, 'God'.

The novel spans four decades, and moves between Essex, Cornwall and New York. Elly's narrative voice is so distinct, it really drew me in to her character. It echoed with the hopes and fears of any child and reminded me of the excitements and disappointments of growing up. Elly takes us on a journey from childhood to adulthood. She maps the nature of a world that is often frightening, but can always be triumphed by love. The book is essentially about family, and connections; love in all its forms. It is about the power of our relationships and their ability to see us through the trials and tribulations that life has to offer. I was going to try not to use the word 'heartwarming', but it sort of is.

Habibi - Craig Thompson

Having read 'Blankets' (2003), I was excited about this graphic novel from the same author. I wasn't disappointed. It was totally different, but I found myself once again in awe of Thompson's craft.

I found this book more impressive than 'Blankets'. It took Thompson seven years to complete. The illustrations are incredible. They are in black and white, and so intricate in design. Panels illustrating the narrative are enhanced by layers of scripture in calligraphy and decorative mosaics.

The story too is ambitious. 'Habibi' translates as 'My Beloved'. The book unfolds the story of Dodola, an Arab girl sold into child marriage by her poor parents. Her husband produces script and teaches Dodola to read. Her love for stories blossoms, and weaves its way through the narrative. Dodola elopes with Zam, a young African child slave. They set up home in a derelict ship in the desert and Dodola raises Zam as her own. Dodola's story-telling sessions with Zam provide a device through which Thompson explores the similarities between the faiths of Islam and Christianity.

The book occurs in a timeless Middle East and explores the roots of Christianity and Islam as well as the love between two characters brought together by fate from different backgrounds. They are ultimately everything to each other: brother, sister, mother, father, lover, friend. It's all there in the one true, trustworthy relationship either of them are ever able to experience in life. A beautiful book, and such an accomplishment for Thompson.

Click here for a lovely peek at the making of the book and the creation of the illustrations.

White Teeth - Zadie Smith

This book has been sat on my bookshelf since it was first published in 2000. It came to Uni with me, to a new flat, and now home again. I knew it received rave reviews, and I loved 'On Beauty' (which followed 'White Teeth', and somehow I got round to reading first). I knew I liked Smith's writing. All in all, I'm not sure why it became such a chore to pick this book up. Sometimes when a book sits on a shelf for too long, it loses appeal.

Anyhow, I am glad I finally got to grips with it and devoured the thing. It was worth it. It tells of the post-war friendship between Samad Iqbal (of Bangladeshi descent) and Archie Jones (of English descent). The men meet whilst serving in the British army during World War II. Both men marry  following the war. Samad's wedding is a traditional arranged Indian affair to Alsana. Archie marries  the Jamaican Clara, much younger than he is. Clara is keen to escape the cluthes of her devout Jehovah Witness mother, Hortense.

Both families live in Willesden, where they raise their children. The story maps the lives of the two families, as well as introducing another, quintessentially English, and annoyingly egotistical family who fly into the web of the two aforementioned families.

Smith has been prized simply for her ability to write, for one. Secondly, for her balls and tenacity in doing so. She writes about multicultural London and its immigrant communities with honesty, humour and no sense of eggshell stepping or cracking. There are in fact, no eggshells, because she doesn't see the topic as a risk or a problem. She just talks about it, and evokes each culture, as it is. Perhaps her own multicultural roots allow her a wider frame of reference and authenticity to do so. Or perhaps all of that is bullshit too. Does it matter where she comes from? The story speaks for itself because the characters seem authentic and true.

It's a good read and as suggested by many critics, a pretty impressive debut for a 24 year old fresh out of University. In all honesty, I finished it feeling a little pinch of jealousy.

Pedro Páramo - Juan Rulfo

Rulfo was born, lived and wrote in Mexico. This was his only novel, written in 1955. The book pre-empted the 'boom' of Latin American literature that occured in the 1960s and 1970s. The boom saw many writers drift away from the realist narrative modes adopted from Europe, and the birth of the magical realist genre. The mixture of magic with the everyday characterises much of Latin American literature during this period. 'Pedro Páramo' was one of the first novels to embrace the genre and it is up there with the likes of  Jorge Luis Borges' 'Fictions' (Argentina) and Gabriel Garcia Marquez's 'One Hundred Years of Solitude'(Colombia).

Juan Preciado sort of forms the protagonist of 'Pedro Páramo'. I say 'sort of', because although the book opens in his voice, there are constant switches in narrative perspective and  between the third and first person format. The book opens with Juan returning to his Mother's birth town 'Comala'. Upon her deathbed, she has asked that Juan returns to the village, and makes his father Pedro Páramo pay 'for all of those years he put us out of his mind'.

From the moment Juan arrives in Comala, the story melts into a confusing thread of scattered voices. We learn that the people Juan comes across, are actually dead. The town, is quite literally, a 'ghost town'. The voices and episodes he encounters echo through the streets and are relived by ghosts rattling eternally through the town in purgatory.

The book was so unusual that I could understand why it was hailed as such an achievement. What a great concept, and there was some beautiful prose to boot. I think a second read would root it in my mind, as the first just left my head swimming with shipwrecked voices. No doubt, this is a successful result, considering the premise of the book.

Juan's take on Comala near the beginning of the book:

'This town is filled with echoes. It's like they were trapped behind the walls, or beneath the cobblestones. When you walk you feel like someone's behind you, stepping on your footsteps. You hear rustlings. And people laughing. Laughter that sounds used up. And voices worn away by the years.'

The novel doubles up as a reflection of life in rural Mexico during and after the Mexican Revolution and the Cristero Rebellion. Rulfo also wrote a notable short story collection in 1953 called 'The Burning Plain and Other Stories' that relate to similar themes.

Keep the Aspidistra Flying - George Orwell

I have been meaning to read this book for ages, so I finally bought a £2 battered Penguin copy in Hay-on-Wye recently.

The novel centres around Gordon Comstock; aspiring poet and staunch anti-capitalist. Gordon's family are at the poorer end of middle-class. They slave away to the tune of the 'money-god', who never really fills their pockets enough for them to make an impression on the world (as Gordon sees it). As the 'clever' son of the the family, the Comstock's invest their limited funds in a good education for Gordon, in the hope that he can make something of himself and lift the family to higher status. At school, Gordon becomes aware of his poverty in relation to the other boys and comes to resent money. As a consequence he later walks out of a well-paid job because he wants out of 'the system'.

The novel is really a coming-of-age story. Gordon muses throughout about the effect of money and simultaneously despairs at his lack of it. He lives as a would-be poet in poverty because  he disagrees with his job in advertising, which he describes as 'the rattling of a stick inside a swill bucket'. By trying to sidestep the 'money-god', Gordon actually becomes painfully more aware of and obsessed with money. The dreary aspidistras seated in every window he passes, come to represent 'mingy, lower-class decency' to him. They are a symbol of the dreary submission of every lower middle-class man to the system he was born into ('creeping like unclean beetles to the grave').

'Gordon had a sort of secret feud with the aspidistra. Many a time he had furtively attempted to kill it - starving it of water, grinding hot cigarette-ends against its stem, even mixing salt with its earth. But the beastly things are practically immortal. In almost any circumstances they can preserve a wilting, diseased existence.'

I won't give away the ending, but the story is one everyone can relate to in some sense I think. I am sure I'm not the only one, who as a teenager, rebelled (at least in thought) against the 'money-god', the futility of consumerism and 'the system' in general. As Gordon himself references in the book, 'every intelligent boy of sixteen is a Socialist. At that age one does not see the hook sticking out of the rather stodgy bait'. The difference here, is that Gordon acts on his principles and hangs on to them well into his twenties. Unfortunately, the vision of the consequence of living in accord with one's principles isn't triumphant, but actually, pretty dreary and depressing. Gordon is rendered minute and insignificant compared to the might of the 'money-god'.

Worth a read, and in keeping with the autobiographical depiction of poverty that runs through 'Down and Out in Paris and London' (published three years earlier in 1933).

 

The Case for Working with Your Hands: Or Why Office Work is Bad For Us and Fixing Things Feels Good - Matthew Crawford

I usually prefer fiction over fact when it comes to reading, but this title jumped out at me in a bookshop and I invested and enjoyed it. I even found myself absorbed in the technical parts about fixing motorbikes!

Crawford is a philosopher and a mechanic. He has worked as an electrician, and in academic circles and offices including a well-paid job in a 'thinktank', before opening his own motorbike repair shop, which he still runs today. He is, then, more than qualified to draw comparisons between 'white collar' work of the 'thinking' man and 'blue collar' work of the tradesman.

Crawford is not a spiritualist, but a practical man, looking for a lifestyle that fulfils him. Anyone who has worked an office job, has upon occasion, felt that tinge of the 9-5 groundhog day vacuity; the feeling that you're on a roundabout and getting sort of dizzy, seeing the same thing day in, day out. Crawford aims to articulate and explore that niggle that many of us have felt about our work and its worth.

Crawford highlights the importance of 'thinking and doing' as an integrative process. He pinpoints the introduction of mass production lines in Britain in the early twentieth century as the time where 'thinking and doing' started to become divorced in our working lives. Building a car for example no longer required all-round experts in the field, but merely men who could repeat one stage of the process over and over again. In this sense, the pride and achievement that come with working through a project until the end also diminished. Men became like machines. The mass-production conveyor belt spread into every field that it could, including office work.

'The activity of self-directed labor, conducted by the worker, is dissolved or abstracted into parts and then reconstituted as a process controlled by management - a labor sausage.'

Such compartmentalisation of the work process diminished independence and job satisfaction. Wages became compensation for drudgery. Moreover this divorcment of thought from action is reflected in our passive relationship with objects today. We are encouraged furthermore by advertising to buy replacements, rather than fix things. We are under the impression that our 'things' are too complicated for us to fix, or it is simply 'not our job'. We are dependent.

Crawford goes on to reverse the concept that trade work is second rate to an office job. Who says a job at a desk is more intellectually demanding than a job under a bike with a wrench? Working with your hands in such a way on a machine that was built by an outside source demands constant problem-solving, learning and trial and error techniques. It is a consuming and rewarding (although at times frustrating) practice. It also relies on the ability to look at a problem outside of oneself, thus diminishing the narcissism imminent in the modern man today.

With the current economic climate, and the influx of graduates with extortionate student loans to repay and no job prospects, this book is timely. As capitalism totters on its platform stilettos and struggles to walk any further, and we head towards a post-industrial society, isn't it high-time we re-thought our work and atttitudes towards it? If nothing else, because that dissatisfaction has been breeding for some time like yeast in rising dough for many of us. Crawford suggests looking for the gaps in which we can encourage knowledge and practise excellence in the world.

How to Understand Israel in 60 Days or Less - Sarah Glidden

This graphic novel recounts Sarah's experience of a free Birthright tour of Israel in 1997. Any Jew between the age of 20-26 is able to apply for this free supervised tour of Israel as I understand it. Sarah is a young left-wing American Jew. She has prepared for the tour by reading extensively about the Israel-Palestine conflict and the liberal newspaper Ha'aretz. Sarah is smug at the outset, and armed against attempts at 'brainwashing' participants into pro-Israel mindsets on the tour. She feels her background knowledge and opinions against the State of Israel and their treatment of Palestinians will protect her.

As the book unravels, we see the complexity of the situation in Israel send Sarah into a tailspin. Sarah's stubborn opinions are questioned as she realises nothing in the Middle East is black and white. The history of Israel is such that it demands empathy on all sides. Who is in the wrong? Is anyone really in the wrong? And can there be a solution to satisfy all parties?

A great read. As someone who knew little about Israel to begin with, this is a great introduction to a complex country and history. It left me wanting to find out more.

 

Travel Writing Workshop

I attended a travel writing workshop held at the Indian YMCA in central London last Saturday. The workshop was an all day affair organised and carried out by Peter Carty, a successful journalist and editor. Peter has almost twenty years of experience in the sphere of journalism. He contributes to many well-known publications, including The Guardian, The Independent and Conde Nast Traveller.

I have very little experience in travel writing. I entered The Guardian travel writing competition in December 2011. A friend sent me a link to the competition, and as a keen writer who had recently returned from a four month trip to India, Borneo and South East Asia, I figured why not give it a go? I didn't get anywhere with it, but I enjoyed writing the piece about the Keralan Backwaters in South India (posted previously).  When I saw this workshop advertised I thought it would be a good thing to do before quitting my job and heading off to South America...If I can write an article or two out of it, I'm all for that!

                                    iStockPhoto

The workshop cost £115, and I felt that it was worth it. Peter shared his wealth of knowledge willingly, and set us tasks to hone in on and practice our travel writing. Following the workshop we all received an extensive set of notes. Peter also informed us that we could e-mail him drafts of potential travel features for an unlimited period of time and he would provide feedback. This was an appealing bonus.

Looking over my competition entry after the workshop, I spotted many errors that I didn't pick up on before. As Peter explained to us, travel writing is a craft. You don't have to be a literary genius to do it successfully, you just need to know how to market a piece towards a particular publication and tick the boxes that come with the form. Above all, the feature must be captivating to read.

Much of the work in creating a travel piece should actually be done before the writing commences. It is important to scope out the publication you intend to pitch your piece to, as well as research the destination and perhaps come up with an angle for your piece before visiting/ whilst at your destination.

Peter gave us many technical and stylistic pointers to aid our writing and in the afternoon we learned how to pitch our features to a commissioning editor, what travel publications we should submit to, and rates of payment.

All in all I came away from the workshop well informed and excited at the prospect of getting a travel feature published (fingers crossed). Excitement aside, I also felt that Peter gave us a realistic view into the world we were dipping a toe into. When we read out our ideas/ short pieces during exercises Peter set us, he often said 'not sure about that' or 'ok, that's fine', without sounding overly enthusiastic about too many of them. Realistically, in writing, this is how it is. There are so many wannabe writer's out there, that average ain't gonna cut it. This is a craft that needs to be practiced, revised and agonised over a little if you want to be any good.

The satisfaction when a piece is finished should be the motivation to keep you working through it.

For further info please visit the website for Peter Carty's travel writing workshop here: http://www.travelwritingworkshop.co.uk/

John Cleese on Creativity

John Cleese's 1991 lecture for Video Arts on the nature and process of creativity is well worth 36 minutes and 10 seconds of your time.

Here is why...

Light bulb jokes aside (watch and you will know what I'm on about), Cleese expresses some enlightening views on the process.
He opens his talk with a disclaimer for the audience:
'I can state categorically that what I have to tell you tonight about how you can all become more creative is a complete waste of time.'

Why is Cleese going to waffle on if it's a waste of time? Because, he continues, creativity simply 'cannot be explained.' I agree with him here. The definition of creativity is as follows:
'the ability to transcend traditional ideas, rules, patterns, relationships, or the like, and to create meaningful new ideas, forms, methods, interpretations, etc' 
Essentially the very fact that I just looked up 'creativity' in the dictionary proves Cleeses' point; trying to pin it down is ridiculous.

 

The process entails making something that does not yet exist from what does exist before us. It is the development or rearrangement of an idea. It is the unexplained, the force outside knowing and science and all that can be pinned down and labeled by humans. It is a willingness and openness to connect with the unknown elements and play with them; enter them fully and try not to be afraid or conscious of the time or pressure for a decisive outcome.

Cleese agrees with American psychologist Donald Mackinnon's analysis that creativity is not a talent or an inherent skill, but 'a way of operating'. It has nothing to do with IQ, or the sort of person you are.It merely depends on an individual getting themselves into a certain 'mood'. Mackinnon believed that this mood was strongly based around a state of 'playfulness'. Creativity involves play for the sake of enjoyment, rather than merely a practical need to solve a problem.

Cleese reckons there are five factors that must be met in the transition from the everyday 'closed' state many of us inhabit in the workplace etc, to the 'open' state where we are exposed to the unknown and free to make new connections and play. I have summarised the five factors Cleese speaks about below:

1. Space - a quiet space where you will be undisturbed and cut off from the pressures and demands of everyday life.
2. Time - we must decide on a time that we will inhabit our quiet, sealed-off space so that we can indulge in play, which is entirely separate from everyday life.
3. Time - not a typo, time is important again here in a different sense. Time was utilised above to create a period for play. Now it forms an important factor during play. The longer we are prepared to spend on a creative idea, the better it is destined to become. The discomfort of staying in this 'open' mode with no decisive sealed off answer rewards us with a greater outcome at the end.
4. Confidence - the fear of 'making a mistake' will stifle creativity. In the 'open' mode, it is essential to stop censoring ourselves. Play requires the confidence to be open to anything; to realise that any 'drivel may lead to the break-through'. 
5. Humour - This is a key factor to playfulness. If we are too 'solemn', play will be stifled. Cleese emphasises the difference between 'solemn' and 'serious'. He attributes solemnity to ego and pomposity. We may on the other hand, consider a 'serious' problem or issue, but we should not be afraid of humour in such situations. It relaxes us and frees us into play.

After listening to John Cleese speak, I am more positive than ever about the merits of creativity. What better way to spend ones time than playing and making something new? The process has the ability to refresh us entirely and knit together the reality of the everyday and the magic of the unknown.