And through the drizzle; the slate-grey day; this: outside Victoria Station, entrance to Manchester Arena, scene of the bombing in May. Bringing some colour to a building site.
The first storm of the season, named Aileen, is due to hit tonight. For perspective, Aileen is no Irma, but still. I’ve taken down the hanging baskets and an outside lantern which is as much as I can do with no hatches to batten down.
The afternoon I spent working on a second poetry collection I’m trying to put together, while listening to a group from my favourite music period.
I have a friend who loves the eighties, and would instantly recognise the nod given by the title of this post. My own go-to listening preference stretches from the mid-sixties to early seventies. The Beatles; The Doors; The Kinks; The Rolling Stones; Tim Buckley; Cream; Cohen; Dylan, I love all of these and more.
Being born in 1971 means that in my youth I’ve never been in vogue, musically. And don’t even mention my dress sense!
Listening to music helps when I’m writing. The group I was listening to today was Jefferson Airplane. Why do I like these?
Go and ask Alice. When she’s ten feet tall.
Salted Maybe there are choices to be made the cawing crow doesn't seem conflicted undisturbed by harbingers of the future I will roll up the hill drift out to sea taste the salt on my tongue a seasoning to keep me for tomorrow ©AndrewJamesMurray #workinprogress
A few months ago I read The Noise Of Time by Julian Barnes, written from the perspective of the composer Shostakovich in Stalinist Russia. I remember thinking at the time how difficult it must have been for creatives living under such regimes. Often it is the writers and the poets who are the first among the disappeared.
I woke in the early hours of this morning with the remnants of a dream clinging to the shirt tails of my emerging sense of self. The dream was of an artist-a painter, who was living in a country that was under some kind of communist or military rule. He had been called to be conscripted into the army, but his passion was for his art. He was stood before a desk being questioned by a seated officer, a strict disciplinarian, who was giving him the party line about what his duty to his country was, and what an honour it is to serve the ‘leader’ and to give your life for the cause.
The young man replied that he had no intention to die for the cause, but rather to live for his art.
This provoked a concerted effort from the officer to bring the young man around to the official way of thinking.
The artist replied “I’m not going to be a soldier anymore than you are going to be my psychologist.”
That was it. I woke up with that last line rattling around my brain, a film with no closure, a story with no end.
It has been some months since I read The Nosie Of Time, and haven’t really thought of it since, so I’m not too sure if that was where the seeds of my dream were sown. And to be honest the storyline was not really the same as that in my dream.
But I feel a little cheated. I was filled with admiration for my conjured character, whoever he was. Maybe he served as an archetype for all of those creative types that I spoke about at the start of this post. I feel like I really need to know what happened to that young artist, and what price he paid for his courageous stance.
I probably will never know. Perhaps I should write it myself.
This is a post by Swedish artist Anna that was inspired by a conversation on one of my posts-some light hearted comments on a dark-subject post. Our newly fledged Anglo-Scandinavian peace movement. In Polyester or fleece 🙂
A comments thread that maybe went wild?
You can read the post and the comments to get a picture of what happened. Here’s the link.
This is the comments that made me create an image in my head
Thanks Andy for the inspiration to the drawing!
Thought I would share this with you guys. Anna is a Swedish artist, and from a throwaway comment that I made on one of her posts she created this cool picture. So be careful what you say here on WordPress-you never know what it will lead to! There are many ‘weird heads’ out there!! 🙂
A conversation with Andy from City Jack daw come to be about sleepwalking.
He said something about difficulties to sleepwalk in a hammock.
Those words immediately made a picture in my weird head.
It can’t be easy to rise up and sleep walk in a hammock. Have you tried?
Have a great day all of you!
I watched Woman In Gold today, the true story of an Austrian-Jewish refugee (played by the great Helen Mirren) living in America who launched a legal campaign against the Austrian government to reclaim paintings by Gustav Klimt that were stolen from her family by the Nazis during the war.
In particular was a portrait of her beloved aunt, Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer l, later changed to Woman In Gold to disguise the sitter’s Jewish identity. And maybe to obscure how the painting ended up in an Austrian gallery, too. As part of the national identity, it was described as ‘the Austrian Mona Lisa’.
The film finished with a line stating that it is estimated that over 100,000 works of art are yet to be returned to their rightful owners.
I am no expert when it comes to art, but when you look at the image of the painting, enlarged, close up, can’t you just feel the warmth on your skin?
And all those eyes in the dress, maybe looking at us from history, perhaps inflicting a judgement.