Adding to the cyber-noise

View of Hastings Old Town from East Hill

When I started this blog a year ago I circulated friends and contacts to tell them about it.  In the email I said I was going the blog route because Facebook was a step too far.  Subsequently, however, I put the odd entry on Facebook to promote the blog.  I even managed a tweet or two.

As time has gone by I've become increasingly disenchanted with both Facebook and Twitter.  I've followed a number of people on Twitter - poets mainly - and found that their tweets are a rather pathetic form of self-aggrandisement.  Similarly, Facebook encourages an alarming amount of posing.

But Facebook and Twitter are obviously meeting a demand.  Interest is created and satisfied.  At the same time, I've been reading in the press about how young people can feel under increasing pressure as their screen identities and lives fail to match reality.  How daft is that?  It's as if they're being sucked into a parallel and disassociated world that isn't satisfying their real needs and aspirations.  Scarily, research now shows that spending an excessive amount of time at a computer screen extinguishes those parts of the brain that use and develop social skills.  In other words, if you're lacking social skills get off the computer and into real life.

In parallel with the development of social media, the cyberworld is becoming more and more invasive.  Scarcely a day goes by without my unsubscribing from some trade circular or other.  You can't buy anything online without being added to a mailing list.  The most extreme manifestation was when a burglar alarm company I contacted sent me a follow-up email asking for feedback on the call I'd had with them, which was just to arrange an appointment for their surveyor.  The delete button came into action again.  

This blog was started to keep in touch with friends in other places - both in the UK and elsewhere.  Strangely, it's been developing a life of its own, and having started off with a few hundred page-views a month I've now just passed the milestone of a thousand.  Nothing in comparison with the number of Sally Bercow's followers on Twitter, but still a source of wonder to me.  At the same time, I'm a tad concerned at the fact that I'm adding to the very hubbub that I myself find irritating.  My only consolation is that if the blog fails to interest people they're not obliged to look at it!

Antony Mair

  

Downsizing - a sobering experience

Not exactly Christie's - Gorringes' auction rooms in Lewes

If there's one thing I've learnt in the course of the lengthy downsizing process that has taken most of the past eighteen months, it is: buy at auction rather than from dealers.  A lesson learnt rather late in the day, but brought home by the sad experience of disposing of surplus items as a result of moving to the Shoebox.

We sold some furniture and paintings with the house in Ribérac.  Before doing so, we had obtained estimates from auctioneers in Bergerac.  The sums estimated were fairly risible, but the amount we needed to get rid of was substantial enough to consign some items to them, most of which sold.  We brought the more valuable items back to the UK, and sent some paintings to Christie's in South Kensington.  In the best case the sale price was more or less what I'd paid about twenty years ago.  In the worst case it turned out that a pair of paintings I'd treasured as a decent investment, and which had been valued by Christie's on a previous occasion, were not by the artist I'd thought, so were worth about a tenth of what I'd anticipated.  I brought them back to the Shoebox.

Buying from a dealer and then selling at auction is likely to be a loss-making process in any event, since a dealer may well have bought at auction and then added his mark-up and cost of restoration.  You hope that prices in the meanwhile will have risen sufficiently to cover the difference.  Alas, this is to reckon without changes in fashion.  The fall in value of "brown furniture" - those cherished mahogany pieces from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries - is little short of scandalous.  Great if you're buying - you can pick up a fine chest of drawers, two hundred years old, for the cost of a flatpack from Ikea.  But not much good if you're selling.  You're likely to have a similar experience with early nineteenth-century porcelain,which is now seriously out of fashion.  

My experience of sales at Christie's in South Kensington, Lots Road auctions in Chelsea, Burstow and Hewett in Battle and Gorringes in Lewes has been a dispiriting exercise.  On the other hand, we simply don't have the room any longer for the bits and pieces concerned, and I've just had to conclude that the return on the original investment has to be  measured in the enjoyment I've had from them, rather than in the (catastrophic) financial context.

In the greater scheme of things, of course, none of this is important: objects are just that.  But it's a little heartrending, nonetheless, to see one's small treasures disappear for a trifle.  My only consolation is that we need four dining-room chairs for the Shoebox, and I'm hoping to pay not very much for some sturdy eighteenth or nineteenth century items that are currently out of fashion but still appreciated by old fogies such as yours truly.  

Antony Mair

  

One year back in the UK

We left France a year ago yesterday, arriving off the Channel tunnel train with the dogs and trundling along the coast road to our new quarters in Hastings.  Much has happened since that time, with extensive building works, getting used to a country that we had half-forgotten, coping with new doctors, vets, tradesmen etc. 

A return to the UK was necessary for Paul, who felt isolated in a country where he couldn't master the language to his satisfaction.  Had we stayed, the effects of exile would have worked their way through into depression.  Nor was I an unwilling passenger: having left the legal profession to spend time writing, our time in France had diverted me into estate agency, which was not what had been intended, so the chance to get back on track in the UK was welcome.

And those primary objectives have been achieved.  Paul is back in a country where, although different from his native Ireland, he can blend into local life.  I've been able to get back to writing, and am due to start my MA in Creative Writing in October. 

But at the same time, there is quite a lot in this country that I heartily detest, and quite a lot in France that I miss.  I find the insularity of the British more irritating than the nationalism of the French.  The climate is pretty awful, and unlikely to get better.  British politics seem largely governed by ad hoc policies rather than an overall view of rights and duties, and the French concept of "solidarité", however defective in practice, is vastly preferable to the hideous divisions of the British social structure.  Intellectual life in the UK seems to have retired into obscure places, leaving us with television of the Berlusconi bread-and-circuses type, Radio 4 a tedious series of pontificating drones, and Radio 3 dumbed down.  The National Health service appears to be falling apart, and the poor increasing in number.

Had we remained in France there would have been other things to lament: the sad decline of rural life; the corruption of local authorities; the inexorable rise in taxation - all of which goes to show that everything's a compromise in the end.  What has tipped the balance for me is the ability to meet other writers again and get back into the literary world in some form.  But I'd sometimes kill for a decent local market, and a blaze of sunshine. 

Antony Mair

Eurocamp in Malmö

The Eurovision song contest has evolved in extraordinary fashion since it was started more than half a century ago.  In its early years it was a charming portrayal of the different European cultures, with each competitor singing in their own language.  As the number of participants grew, so the spectrum of cultural differences widened.  I recall one year when there was a weird combination of Eastern European folk dancers in national costumes one minute, then a Eurogoth extravaganza of Vikings in helmets the next.  In the UK, self-styled hub of the pop world, we could be quietly condescending about the antics of our underdeveloped neighbours.

All of that has now changed.  Apart from Greece's quirky entry last night, there wasn't a folk dancer in sight.  On the other hand, there was an incredible amount of flashing lights and glitter.  In an arena of Olympic size, a rapt audience of 11,000, comprising most of the continent's gay men, waved flags and had a ball.

There was some weird stuff, of course: Romania fielded a sort of Dracula meets Phantom figure, who started off with quite a nice voice then surged into a countertenor;  the Ukrainian singer arrived on stage in the arms of a giant seven foot tall, who apparently has size 24 feet (and I thought I had problems with size 12!); and the dancers accompanying the eighteen-year-old from Belgium kept clutching their groins as if they had a bad attack of cystitis.  Finland seemed to be aiming at the lesbian vote, with their singer having a discreet kiss with one of her female dancers at the end - enough to cause a tiff with the Turks, who banned the programme from their national network.

But it was generally professional and good fun.  Ironically, the British, producers of so many pop icons, lost the plot completely.  Bonnie Tyler looked like a granny doing karaoke - old, drab and dull.  Somehow the UK scraped some sympathy points.  But the message was clear enough - bring out the razzle-dazzle, strobe lights, thumping rhythm and above all a young singer, or you might as well forget it.

Antony Mair  

London versus the provinces

Waterloo Bridge and the City

 

 

London has always been a very different place from the provinces.  You get a flavour of it even in the novels of Jane Austen - one of my favourite quotes is from Emma, where the heroine's "very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken...by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to have his hair cut."   

In our own time, London is not just the centre of sophistication and style portrayed in Jane Austen's novels: it is almost a separate country - a place where other languages are spoken as much as English, and where the quiet rhythms of rural life are entirely alien.

This is not in itself surprising, but the increasing gulf between London and the provinces strikes me as giving rise to a variety of concerns.  I was made to think of these when reading an article today in the Guardian  about the rise of UKIP which argued that the reason why the main political parties are losing out is because of a general disenchantment with the professionalisation of politics - the slick party machines and presentation that emerged above all with Tony Blair.  It was argued that people in the country generally feel that politicians are no longer in touch with them and their concerns - whereas Mr Farage, with his pint and cigarette, is.

There's a degree of truth in this.  But there's also a feeling that things are being decided in a city-state that is itself so different from the rest of the country that it's almost like being governed from abroad.  This brings out another area of concern.  The question of climate change and its impact on energy usage and agriculture is far more important than how many Romanians or Bulgarians will be permitted to enter the UK.  But if you live in a massive capital city, far from the elemental forces of nature, you are likely to consider the priorities reversed.  

London is a wonderful, fascinating and stimulating place to live.  But 80% of the UK's inhabitants live outside it.  Sometimes that needs to be remembered.

Antony Mair 

View of Hastings from East Hill

In praise of the Jerwood

There's a tendency for Hastings residents to carp about the Jerwood Gallery.  Letters still appear in the local paper lamenting the disappearance of the old coach park.  But as a regeneration project it's been a quiet success.

Still Life by Duncan Grant

The building itself is beautiful, though arguably a tad neo-brutalist.  The exterior is clad in black ceramic tiles, which succeed in being contemporary as well as blending in with the black clapboard of the fishing huts next door.  Inside there is a sequence of light and airy spaces, with two galleries on the ground floor being devoted to temporary exhibitions.  Upstairs is a selection from the Jerwood Foundation's permanent collection of 20th and 21st century British art, with paintings by such luminaries as Keith Vaughan and Duncan Grant - the latter represented by a particularly beautiful still life.  We've got so used to the shock tactics of the Young British Artists that the quieter palettes of the mid-20th century painters take a bit of getting used to - but after a few minutes they start working their magic.  
 

Locals also complain that it's not possible to visit the Gallery's café without paying the admission fee for the Gallery itself - which means that the caff is probably missing out on custom, since entrance is £7 for adults from outside Hastings - £2 if you're a local.  The café is worth a visit since you have the best view of the fishing beach in town - though sunning on the terrace is subject to the local hazard of passing seagulls with their projectile habits.  I have mixed feelings about this particular moan: you can't adjust the design to allow people to visit the café in any other way, and if the owners of the café concession are happy with the arrangements I think that on balance it's probably right to oblige people to view the art as well as indulging in a capuccino.


This new gallery space, with its accompanying events - talks about exhibitions and one-offs such as the impending evening with the Chapman brothers - adds a new dimension to the eclectic mix of this seaside town, aligning it with similar developments in Eastbourne and Bexhill along the coast.  Visitor figures for the first year have been more than satisfactory, which arguably means that the town is attracting people who might not have considered visiting it before.  And at weekends I see no sign of shortage on the tripper front elsewhere.  But I suspect that the letters to the Hastings Observer will continue for a while yet.

Antony Mair

Bank Holiday bikers

 

You would be excused for thinking that the Bank Holiday Jack in the Green weekend in Hastings is all about folklore and Morris dancing.  But no - the other side to the day is the arrival of literally thousands of motorcycles, which are then parked for the day on the seafront while their leatherclad owners wander around in the sun.  It's a tribal occasion, completely devoid of aggression, and happily coexisting with the crowds of people dressed in green and watching Morris dancers.  

The bikers themselves are not in the first flush of youth - which is scarcely surprising, given the value of many of the bikes.  Harley-Davidsons are there in droves.  The trend seems to be in the direction of customised motor-trikes, such as the one pictured above.  I'm assuming that these give added comfort to the aging posterior, as well as some back support, while preserving the essential experience of wind gusting in your face at sixty miles an hour.  

The rumble of motorbike engines down the roads to the front and along the shoreline was something to hear.  It seemed to be largely a bloke thing.  But I did manage to get a picture of a group of bikettes in high heels and skin tight leathers, seen below.  I'm not quite sure what the man on the right is looking at, but I don't fancy his chances.

Antony Mair

 

Jack in the Green - Hastings dresses up again!

More jollity took place in Hastings this Bank Holiday Monday, with Jack in the Green - a celebration of the arrival of summer.  Fortunately, after weeks of dire weather the sun kindly burnt off the morning sea mist and shone on the crowds.

Hastings Mad Jack Morris dancers

According to the website devoted to Hastings' annual Jack in the Green event, the festival goes back to May Day celebrations in the eighteenth century and before, when trade guilds vied with each other in parades with garlands.  The chimney-sweeps took the matter furthest, with a garland that covered the entire man, known as a Jack.  Hastings revived the custom in 1983, and it is now a major event in the town's calendar, with a procession full of Morris dancers, papier mâché giants, drumming groups and anyone who is prepared to put on a costume that is elaborately green.

One of the "giants" in the procession

The procession starts at the Fishermen's Museum and winds its way through the Old Town until it finally arrives on the top of West Hill.  This year a stage had been erected for the participants to strut their stuff.  It was impossible not to enjoy the spectacle of Morris dancers - at least half a dozen groups (or sides, as they call them) - waving their handkerchiefs or knocking their sticks together, joining up with dramatic drummers and a variety of people dressed from head to foot in elaborate green costumes worthy in some cases of the Venice Carnival.  On West Hill, with its breathtaking view over the sea, happy crowds sprawled on the grass listening to the music and watching the spectacle - all in temperatures that we had virtually forgotten since last summer.

The particular virtue of this event is that it has arisen entirely from local initiatives, and although there is a degree of sponsorship from the town council it is insignificant by comparison with the huge local effort put in by volunteers.  The result is a win-win situation - local traders benefit from the visiting crowds, volunteer activity strengthens the sense of community, and everyone has a good time.  And when the sun shines on the whole event, it is - to quote Pop Larkin - just perfick.

Antony Mair

     

Reinventing Morris dancing

Clerical Error in action

 Morris dancing has always been linked in my mind to village greens, half-timbered pubs selling real ale, cricket matches - the general rural idyll that is now largely preserved in the stockbroker belt.  As a result, it has acquired a sort of UKIP tinge in my mind - red-cheeked men singing Rule Britannia and waving Union Jacks.  Then there's all that handkerchief waving and general fol-de-rol.  It's a bit like buying free range eggs in Waitrose - being in touch with the earth without getting your hands dirty.

But I've had to change my mind as a result of the Morris dancing today in Hastings - part of the Jack-in-the-Green weekend, which is a generally pagan celebration of Spring.  A variety of troupes were performing outside Saint Clement's church in the High Street and subsequently in a space known as Butler's Gap in George Street.  We had the usual costumes of white shirts and trousers and bell-hung gaiters, plus waving handkerchiefs.  But we also had two troupes that were seriously different.  Clerical Error had come all the way from North Wales.  Wearing dog collars and tail-coats with daffodils wound round their hats and their faces blacked up, they were like African natives mimicking missionary clergy.  Although their dancing was much the same as the others, they knocked sticks together instead of waving handkerchiefs.

Musician and dancer from Steam Punk Morris

What I liked about this was the ironic take on Morris dancing - it brought in a new dimension of fantasy.  Taking the process a step further was Steampunk Morris from Rochester, whose costumes were a surreal vision of how the Victorian period might have been or might be in the future - at least that's what they told me..  And although they had similar musical instrument to the others, they danced to the tune of "We will Rock You".  The steps seemed to be much the same, but the experience was different - a wacky combination of Gothic Horror and Monty Python.  

What was stimulating about both groups was the way they had subverted the genre to create something entirely new but good fun.  I'll never be able to see Morris dancing in quite the same way again.

Antony Mair

The microcosm of eyewear

Specs illustrated courtesy of Rockoptica, Hastings

Remaining nostalgic for France, I've taken to listening to France Info on my car radio - it gives me a quick insight into what's happening across the Channel as I drive to the supermarket.  This was how I learnt the other day about the recent report on pricing in the French spectacles market, which said a lot about the slightly surreal world of French business.

The report found that the average price of a pair of glasses in France is €470 (at present exchange rates, about £410), giving a hefty profit margin to opticians.  The reason for this is not - as you might think - that demand exceeds supply.  It is because there has been such an expansion in the number of opticians that the individual shops have been obliged to raise their prices in order to remain in business.  In most countries competitive forces are such that prices are forced downwards.  In France, on the contrary, prices can be maintained at an artificially high level because of the lack of price competition.  Demand falls off? raise your price!

We've had an inside view of the eyewear industry as a result of meeting Tom Herrington in Hastings, founder and owner of Rockoptica, suppliers of frames to - initially, a limited public, but now - such celebs as Liam Gallagher and Graham Norton.  We discovered Rockoptica's premises in Hastings' George Street on our arrival back in the UK, and acquired frames that we took along to our ophthalmologist in the wilds of Surrey.  He was sceptical at the start, but was then so impressed that he's included the range in the frames he supplies from his several branches. 

Tom has now closed his retail outlet in Hastings in order to focus on wholesale distribution, which has to be the right move for him.  We tease him about the convertible Bentley that he'll be able to buy before too long.  It's great to see someone start up a business with a really good product and make a go of it.  The irony is that our trendy frames were made in France.

Antony Mair