Charged Atmospheres

Charged Atmospheres – Alison Marchant

A new exhibition at The Room – 33 Holcombe Road, London N17 9AS

Sat 30 September – Sunday 12 November

 
 Private View – Saturday 30 September from 6pm – 9.30pm.
Alison Marchant presents a selection of found archival photographs dating back to the 1970s. They depict the interiors of dilapidated stately homes and country cottages.The aged, mottled surface of the photographs echoes the walls and ceilings of the interiors. The dressing table has lost its mirror image, its reflection. While on a metaphorical level these derelict empty buildings, symbols of inherited prosperity in ruin, exist along side another suggested world of homelessness, squatting and sleeping rough.
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Biography
Alison Marchant studied at The Slade School of Art UCL. International shows include The Photographers Gallery, London; Camden Arts Centre; Ffotogallery, Cardiff; Manchester Cornerhouse; Franklin Furnace, New York; and Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Art. Collections include : The Arts Council Collection, Southbank Centre London; Maureen Paley, London; The Third Eye Corporation, Tokyo; and Franklin Furnace at MOMA, New York.
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The exhibition includes:
three analogue monochrome 3′ x 4′ prints on colour paper, mounted on canvas and stretchers.
one 2′ x 3′ print on colour paper, mounted on canvas and stretchers.
one 8′ x 10′ monochrome analogue print, wall mounted.
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Viewing by appointment – 0208 801 8577 – 075340 92970
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The Room, 33 Holcombe Road, N17 9AS
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Events: (more details at The Room website/Poetry and Performance)
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XXXXXX7.30 pm Saturday 14 October: Performance Evening with Lee Triming and JoJo Taylor
xxxxxxx x7.30 pm Saturday  4 November: Poetry Reading with
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Donald Gardner – to celebrate Donald’s Grey Suit chap-book – Early Morning

Tim Dooley – to celebrate Tim’s Eyewear publication – Weemoed

Anthony Howell – to celebrate his High Window Press publication – From Insidex

Sarah Wardle will also be reading from her Bloodaxe collection – Beyond

£5 entry, then donation for refreshments – for performance and poetry events.

 

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John Ashbery 1927-2017

Here he is reading for Grey Suit. To find him reading Soonest Mended and other poems, please scroll to 47:31 on Issue 3

Here is my obituary note in the Fortnightly Review.

Here is a link to an interview with J.A.

And here is my essay on the By-ways of John Ashbery

written in 1994

There is also an essay I wrote at the same date on his poetry, that was published in the PN Review, back then, and I will post the link here when I find it. Meanwhile here is the text of that essay:

ASHBERY IN PERSPECTIVE

 

Part 1: His influence and stature

 

It is John Ashbery, more than anyone else, who has been responsible for creating that measure of recognition conceded nowadays to abstract poetry.  Abstraction is a questionable term for a form which insists on the reality of its medium; making us aware of the surface we are looking at, or of the actuality of the words in a text, whatever the content signified by it.  In Ashbery’s case, a laconic acceptance of the ordinary may resemble content; but his detached, amusing, sometimes melancholy tone provides the excuse for a poetry which tunes us in to a consideration of syntax and sentence-construction – the feeling of how things hang together, or could or should or might hang together -just as an intriguing piece of music leads us from its beginning to its end.  The gist of a previous passage may slip away as we read further, but again and again we stumble as if by accident on phrases of deep import: they come upon us like sudden raindrops out of a blue sky.

 

I have heard him referred to as a poet difficult to understand.  However, I have found it easy to appreciate the poems I have got to know. It is hardly a question of comprehension, but simply that the flow of his inspiration is charted by his language – to shape a phrase out of the title of his long poem “Flow-chart”.  Like a landscape, his poetry is to be returned to and dwelt in.  Familiarity in this case breeds respect.

 

However, there are differences between an American way of going about writing and a way dear to the British, whether we are considering narrative or abstract work.  F.T. Prince has expressed it to me as the difference between poetry and poems.  American modernists often skip our literature and espouse that of Europe.  Unlike us, they appreciate philosophy and hypothetical aesthetics.  A way of writing, based on a novel perception of where literature should be “at” may matter more to them than any specific felicities engendered by that style.  Whitman began this trend with “Leaves of Grass”, and it persists in the work of Ezra Pound, William Carlos Williams and Charles Olson.  British poets and critics, representing a nation of shop-keepers, wish to examine the goods more closely.  They do not buy poetry “in bulk”.  What matters to them is the particularity of the poem itself, rather than the style in which it is written.

 

Ashbery’s style is so pervasive that it often swamps our appreciation of individual poems.  Nevertheless there are plenty of gems to be found in his oeuvre: “The Instruction Manual”, “Thoughts of a Young Girl”, “Rivers and Mountains”, “Farm Implements and Rutabagas in a Landscape”, “Soonest Mended”, “Street Musicians” and “At North Farm” should satisfy the most fastidious British taste.  Still, it is style which dominates the issue when the poet’s influence is considered.  Today’s abstractionists perceive Ashbery as their maitre: from their semiological stand-point his way is the correct, indeed the only, way to approach poetry.  It denies individualism, since it makes no choice, picks up on anything, from Baudelaire to Daffy Duck, like a radio antenna at the mercy of the air-waves – as Burroughs once described his own brand of anti-narrative writing.  Sense is shattered, like the world from which it emerges.  There is no picture, only the tesserae garnered from diverse mosaics. These are what Ashbery pieces together so that each seems to fit its neighbour, although no new picture appears; his language casting a spell of coherence despite the absence of a tangible narrative thread.

 

The trouble with this belief in his “correctness” is that it leads his acolytes into a single role, which is that of imitation.  All of them sound hopelessly like him.  And because they are not prepared to admit this palpable limitation, it is unlikely that their work will stand the test of time.  A philosophical perception, like some mathematical formula, may prove true forever; but in poetry it only sounds true when first stated – repetition falsifies it by turning its expression into cliche.  Among American writers who might admit Ashbery’s influence, perhaps only Clark Coolidge and Douglas Crase emerge from it with a distinct style of their own; though Coolidge’s style, more fiercely disjointed than Ashbery’s since he is the Jackson Pollock of poetic abstraction, has its own host of imitators; Bruce Andrews being the first to climb aboard, followed in time by the entire brood of language poets.

 

A weakness dogs abstraction in poetry which has not affected its manifestion in painting.  Paint is a stuff, a substance, and its plastic actuality admits of a wide variety of perceivable sensations.  Language, however, is a signifying system; and as such it is abstract by nature: a series of marks which amount to signs.  It remains this, whether the signs are conceived as transparent, “framing” some extrinsic reality, as in narrative usage, or presented as phenomena in their own right.  While perceptions of space, shape and density may be borrowed from visual art, as in concrete poetry, there is very little to differentiate one poem from the next, so far as perceptible, physical changes are concerned.  Most poems happen on the page, and are made up of words.  Because language is an abstraction in itself, abstract poetry operates on too narrow a band to admit of much differentiation between its practitioners.

 

Ashbery’s poems continue to set themselves apart from their imitations, however; and they arouse the reader, while language poetry very soon becomes a wordy blur.  It is because they perform a balancing act between meaning and its absence.  They “seem to mean” – and this gives many of them an urgency generally lacking in their field.  In the most traditional sense of the term, Ashbery has a voice.  His is not merely an optical poetics.

 

It took me many years to find a way of writing which was not heavily influenced by him, on the one hand, and systemic music on the other.  I remained intrigued by abstraction, though, or at least by the notion of some material truth to be gleaned from language itself.  Then I visited Australia and began to engage in description; for this often produced surreal results, in a land where north is hot, and where trees lose their bark instead of their leaves – at least it seemed to do so from my deciduous perspective.  Breton noticed a similar effect when he visited the Caribbean.

 

I still wanted to write with the same intentionless quality I admire in Ashbery; for ultimately the difference between traditional writing and that influenced by abstraction may reside in its relation to significance.  However innovative it may be in form, the traditional poem sets out with a purpose.  It is an emphasis on this aspect which makes conservatives out of both Leavis and Eagleton.  The former insists that writing should serve some function extrinsic to itself; the latter that no value judgement can be made, that writing can only be held up for examination by a methodology that assesses its social awareness.  Both adopt what amounts to a moral view, whether that be Christian or Marxist.

 

Once one swallows either of these lines, one lands in a dish set between Queen Victoria and the Red Queen of cultural studies; but what is interesting about modernism, from Mondrian to Morandi, is not so much the abstraction as the resolute absence of symbolism, significance, or any purpose extrinsic to the essentially plastic concern: this is what unites Roussel and Stein.

 

In order to evacuate significance or purpose, I evolved a usage of narrative description which was ironically abstract – in that the description was offered for no end.  I merely described what I saw until there was nothing left to describe.  This is what makes my Australian poems as opaque as any by my American mentor.  Meticulous description, as Roussel proved in A View, can be read as if it were devoid of anything “meant”, simply for the way its sentences achieve their agreement with the form in which they are cast; this in itself being a reason for employing some regular scheme.

 

It was in Australia that I first came across the poetry of Les Murray.  Murray is an emphatic, if laid-back, Catholic who writes with a specific narrative purpose.  His poems are significant by intention, but his work sprawls into Rabelaisian excesses, and suddenly it appears to tip over into a glorious abstraction, a delight in language for its own sake.  In his work I find a similarity to Ashbery which is not detrimental, for Murray arrives at sheer syntax from the opposite direction.  He has so much to say that occasionally he writes a sentence of the purest poetic nonsense, like this one from Equanimity: “That it lights us from the incommensurable, that we sometimes glimpse, from being trapped in the point,(bird minds and ours are so pointedly visual), a field all foreground, and equally all background, like a painting of equality..”  Conversely, Ashbery’s Pythic phrases condense their import out of a steam of incomprehensible verse.

 

These are both poets of stature, and Frank Prince is a third.  His admirers include Ashbery, who admits that Prince, along with John Wheelwright, exerted an influence on his work.  While firmly rooted in meaning, there is an emphasis on form in Prince’s poetry, a delight in rich vocabulary, especially in the early poems, and a desire to experiment which appeals to post-war poets searching for a greater emphasis on language.  He is the only poet of our time to have successfully brought about an innovation in form.  His six-line stanzas often employ a syllabic count to structure equivalent line lengths, thus breaking with the notion of “feet which has become the orthodoxy of our prosody.  Often the stanzas only demand two pairs of rhymes, so that the other lines may remain blank.  The issue of his formal innovations is too complex to detail here (and deserves a separate essay).  However, their overall effect has been to introduce some “slack” into the taut rope of versification, allowing elbow-room and providing literature with a vehicle which mediates between traditional poetics and vers libre.

 

This reconciliation brought about between the verse of previous centuries and the poetic revolutions of the more immediate past is more significant than we yet realise.  For modernism’s freedom has resulted in far too great an emphasis on subject-matter.  Eliot’s dictum that for the man who wants to do an honest job there is no “free verse” has not been seriously attended to.  Where Victorian writing “bottomed out” into vacuous schemes of versification, the twentieth century now excretes elephantine and immobile mounds of (largely significant) content.

 

Ashbery’s innovative abstract poetry evades this feculence by presenting us with diaphanous veils of language and by endorsing construction for its own sake.  Murray delights in a traditional descriptive vein which is so sanguine and torrential that it carries everything with it: rhythm, meaning and colour tumbled together like debris washed down the gullies in a tropical storm.  Prince offers us a verse once more aligned to music, where a formal duality is constantly refining and enhancing the meaning while lending his poems an object quality which the more open verse of Ashbery and Murray may sometimes lack.  He mediates between innovation and tradition.  As the most original and energetic exponents of these values – innovation, tradition and mediation – Ashbery, Murray and Prince may well be seen by history as the three key poets of the English language during the latter part of the twentieth century.

 

Anthony Howell, Cardiff, 1994.

 

 

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THE THEATRE OF MISTAKES

Welcome to the blog of The Theatre of Mistakes

Several new posts, documenting our recent exhibition and its performances.

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THE NEW BEAUTY

 

Click the link for THE NEW BEAUTY

This is a new essay published by The Fortnightly Review.

 

For a complete list of links to other reviews of poets and my previous articles click here: The Fortnightly

 

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THE THEATRE OF MISTAKES at RAVEN ROW

Here are some lovely images from our workshops at Raven Row – Summer 2017

And here is a link to the Blog of The Theatre of Mistakes

The Theatre of Mistakes at Raven Row

Artists’ group The Theatre of Mistakes (1974-81) pioneered a structured performance art traversing architecture, choreography and poetry as well as visual art. They formed in London in the early 1970s from a series of open workshops at which instructional and games-based exercises were the focus. These came to inform The Street (1975), a performance with the residents and environment of Ascham Street in Kentish Town.
Fiona Templeton and Anthony Howell distilled the performance exercises into a publication, Elements of Performance Art (1976), arguably the first manifesto for performance art in the UK. A core group of six performers (Mickey Greenall, Glenys Johnson, Miranda Payne, Peter Stickland as well as Howell and Templeton) then agreed to produce contained and systematic works for a five-year duration. Later, ‘mistakes’ were explored through a series of trios, duets and solos and Julian Maynard Smith joined the core group.

The live element in this exhibition will commence on the opening night with a ‘Free Session’ by The Theatre of Mistakes, including early members. Throughout the exhibition, Anthony Howell will run performance workshops every afternoon, while each Friday and Saturday evening there will be performances of Going (1977). Directed by Fiona Templeton, a cast of five will play out mannerisms of departure in five tightly choreographed acts, whilst attempting to be each other.

The Theatre of Mistakes logged its working life, practice and processes in detail. The exhibition reveals this unique legacy of documentation and notation, and includes videos, photographs, a great variety of spatial and choreographic notations, as well as diary texts.

The exhibition is curated by Jason E. Bowman. For further booking information about Going and information about participation in the workshops, please see Raven Row.

 

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THE READIES

 

 

It starts in tantrum’s pram; those tears for treats withheld –

Unfair and inexplicable. And then there is the wonder of it all:

The pocket money tripled by that cheque from uncle –

 

Lack of it feeds the will to cheat one’s way to habitual

Special treatment. The compulsion is hereditary.

How support the life-style that goes with it without it?

 

As with gear, having it takes over from all

Other aspirations, indeed the noblest, most personal,

Get jettisoned in favour of accumulating a stash.

 

What to acquire at the apposite time soon seems second nature,

But the dominant characteristic is that dependency on

Squirreling it away into off-shore purses, paranoid

 

About some rainy day that precedes a deluge. The ark

Must be loaded with cash.  More is what’s needed, and never enough.

The rich don’t buy their shoes in bargain shops.

 

 

 

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WAY BACK WHEN

We could all just tumble into bed together.

We could make love not war,

And then we couldn’t any more.

Now there’s terror everywhere – and condoms.

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Look, you could just head off across Iran

Into Afghanistan, accommodate the border guards

At each check-point and douane

You passed through in your camper van,

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Stoned out of your mind, regretting nothing that you left behind

In Europe, sampling the local grass,

And so what if they felt you up the arse

In each bazaar you came across? The Troglodyte

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May be our totem these days, aggressive and possessive.

Back then it was the Bonobo

Who defined our spirit. Openly lascivious,

The species doesn’t go for any power hierarchy

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Such as we hanker after now with our lust for weaponry.

Now we don’t just tumble into bed

But check beneath it first for some incurable disease

Raising its ugly head. It is perhaps

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The sex-plague of our time which has engineered

An anger that has turned the paradise of foreign clime

Into some no-go area, as things just go on getting

Scarier and scarier; touch, smell and taste

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Senses that are banned, as we scrutinise each other,

And as we face the fears that really do have to be faced.

Penetrative intercourse? Why bother?

Brood on how you differ from your neighbour,

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Wary of any invasion of personal space.

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