The Airbourne Baby Jesus
If you’re like me you hate Christmases, or at least associated them with gross over-eating and or being reduced to giant earth-worm status and ending up horizontal on the bed with an extended stomach focussing on nothing more profound than digesting as quickly as possible. No matter how much I always vow to avoid such scenarios it always ends up the same way around 4pm on 25th of December.
I’m an agnostic for the record, so the festival has little to no religious significance for me (our family also celebrate Passover and Hanukkah like all good mixed/secular Jewish families), which frankly were also food-orientated hybrid affairs the religious significance of which was always lost on me as a child.
But I do have a great love of symbolism and myth in general and have to profess to a slight fascination for the naivety scene with its dollhouse like elements. In Bilbao last week we visit the cathedral of Santiago and staring down at the barn scene with the three wise men of various races, the cows, pigs, Joseph, angels, Mary and a few tiny chicken, I noticed that the centrepiece- the reason behind all this frenetic gathering - the miniature plaster baby Jesus himself – was missing from the crib. ‘There is a tradition of stealing them recently,’ my Catholic friend Ana murmured reverently over my shoulder. My mind was suddenly flooded with a black Mercedes whose trunk was packed full of kidnapped squealing tiny Messiahs as it roared up into the Basque mountains in the dead of night. Could this be the work of ETA? Or just some fanatic doll collector whose fetishes had taken a strange religious bent. Or maybe even some poor teenager who had been forced to play the baby Jesus as a child and avenging himself ever since?
The other image that came to mind was the tiny plaster Jesus ascending to Heaven independently of its adoring plastic and tin audience. Little pink arms outstretched wistfully, the tiny wire halo wobbling slightly as – barely visible – in the huge silent auditorium of the Cathedral (or perhaps still vibrating with the last notes of the organ as it plays ‘Hark the Herald Angels.’) the tiny celestial, pink and plastic figure floats up through the air, passed the burning candles, pass the gleaming pulpit, the carved plaques, gold crosses and stain glass windows, to a Heaven where a thousand other plaster baby Jesuses have all ascended to – having defiantly escaped the confines of cardboard Bethlehems world-wide.
Call me blasphemous, but wasn’t Jesus a Pisces anyway? I know there has been much debate around his actual date of birth and Christmas; Apparently the original 25th of December was a pagan festival Saturnlia, a festival to celebrate the birth of the Sun god (probably because there is no sun in the northern hemisphere at this time of year). So to marry Roman/Pagan with the incoming new fangled religion of Christianity they fused the two dates. According the web Jesus was in fact born six months after John the Baptist and he was born during Passover – April – that makes Jesus actually born in September the same year. So not a Pisces but maybe a Virgo? Who knows and does it matter?
Which brings me to that other wonderful Christmas message of love and good faith given by the Pope himself this year.
I can’t remember being more dismayed by any statement by any Pope (at least that I can remember) I quite liked the last one, mainly because he was Polish and was involved in the resistance movement during the war, but this guy? What was he thinking? And who is his spin-doctor?
I was reminded of a friend of mine, who died of Aids back in the late 80’s in Sydney. He was gay, twenty-seven years old, a wonderful (and award winning) documentary maker and Catholic. A friend of mine who nursed him had told me how when he knew he was dying he returned to his Catholic faith and how this had been a great source of strength for him. My friend planned his own funeral and his wake with extraordinary courage ( a huge party with his films showing for all his friends and family, he even choreographed the music to be played) and he had a fantastic funeral at Saint Canice’s,
the Catholic church in Kings Cross, which made itself readily available for the gay community and Aids funerals.
Enough said. To all my readers – all of them – have a bloody great Xmas and with a little luck 09 will be better than 08.
Bilbao and other icons
I have taken a couple of days off checking the copy edit of my new novel Sphinx and escaped to Bilbao with a Basque mate. So I’m sitting here in a hotel opposite the Guggenheim museum (incredible building) writing this blog. Initially it was to get some respite from the English weather but inevitably it’s turned out to be rain in Spain and sunshine in London.
Coming from theatre I have always been a very co-collaborative writer and, over the years, I’ve even become aware of a kind of performative dialogue in which when pitching story-lines to commissioning editors or potential audience the actual process of telling the story inspires me to develop the plot or solve plot-points along the way.
I also tend to over-write early drafts and then pare back massively with each draft (there are usually 7 or 8 drafts – 4 or 5 of them major rewrites). There are advantages and disadvantages to this, one advantage is often one can arrive a more concise and rhythmically original sentence by paring back the adjectives. The disadvantage is by writing so many drafts one had often having trouble seeing the wood for the trees; Hence the importance of stepping back and looking at the whole shape. I guess it’s my training as a sculptor that has had a big influence. But usually by the time I get to the copy edit I’m having fun. The copy edit is the marked up manuscript the publishers deliver back to the author just before final cut-up with all grammar, fact checking, spelling and sentence structure checked and marked up.
There are several schools of thought on copy editors. A clumsy and unsympathetic copy editor can altered the ‘voice’ of an author quite considerably in an insidious and sometimes quite subtle way. However a publisher might argue that a copy editor is absolutely essential in rendering a convoluted plot accessible and the final product more commercial. A very important factor in these economically pressured times.
It is a delicate balance, particularly when the author had already an established voice and her/his readership have expectations of that particular style. I think where the great danger lies is when there is confusion (or a mismatch) between the vision of the author from the publisher and the vision the author has of her/himself – whether the author has grandiose literary aspirations or whether the publisher is a callow salesman just interested in placing as many books as possible is a moot point.
Again, we live in extraordinary times and the pressure on publishers from booksellers to develop franchises or clearly marketable ‘genre’ has never been greater. It’s the same dilemma around final cut for film directors. The producers have to answer to the studios if the film doesn’t make back its money and everyone wants the film to reach as broad as possible an audience without compromising the vision. More importantly the punter needs to know what he’s paying to see.
So the more one writes the more one because aware of one’s voice. Re-phrasing sentences through-out a book can actually destroy the natural onomatopoeia of that author’s voice. The pliant author walks a fine line: of acknowledging the finesse and clarity of good editors, yet having vision to know when to fight for their particular essence - Nice to have the three days off before going back in to battle.
Bilbao is a small but sophisticated city fully of fiercely proud (and humorously direct – no niceties here from waitresses etc) Basque people. Once a huge shipbuilding centre but much of the local industry (iron ore and steel was also part of this) has closed down. The notion of building an extraordinary city both as a gallery but also to primarily create a massive tourist attraction was a stroke of genius. Apparently Gehry’s building has already paid for itself. The titanium is a third of a millimetre thick and is meant to last a hundred years. It certainly has an extraordinary reflective quality and the soft hues add greater to the sense that this is an organic building. Gehry has also obviously felt out the location and must have spent time understanding the impact the juxtaposition of such a building in loco. All of this is as powerful a visual statement as the building itself. No mean feat. Norman Foster’s metro is less successful (and I’m a Foster fan - particularly of the Bundestag in Berlin).
Being a Sydneysider (and having lived within walking distance of the Opera house) I am very aware of magnetism of such icons. The opera house is utterly beautiful close-up as well as at a distance. The tiles actually look like finely veined insects wings. And to link this back to copy editing, I guess you could argue that this is a fanatic example of an original vision that benefited greatly by being compromised against the wishes of its creator. Danish architect Jorn Utzon’s original design had far sharper and higher ‘wings/fins’ to echo sails on the harbour. Personally I think the finished product is far more sublime. Maybe there’s a need for editors after all!
It takes an extraordinary amount of vision and energy to galvanise any local government into supporting such a venture and then, of course, the exhaustive process of actually finding an architect who can design just a timeless monumental structure. I can certainly think of a few disasters. Federation Square in Melbourne would be at the top of my list of hugely expensive well-intended mesh-mash that now looks like Barney Rubble meets Disney.
Function is as important as aesthetics and my only criticism of Gehry’s Guggenheim is it could have embrace music as well as art and had a few more concert halls as public spaces.
Winter of our discontent
The count-down to Xmas is on, yet the economic news seems to get grimmer and grimmer (as I am currently in London) this seems to be emphasised by the perennial lack of sunlight – the Big Grey – this time of year that extends from Nov to around April and, in my mind, a major contributing factor to the misanthropic and insolent nature of the English. It is hard not calcify over with the cold and short daylight hours especially if you are Australian or Californian.
Somehow, to me, the ‘hibernation’ season always feels as if it lacks a future whereas sunshine (whether it be minus 10 and in NY) always has the promise of hope. This winter is bleaker than ever even Dickensian in nature with more beggars and homeless in the street, a strange austerity settling like dust over the bling and glitz of Piccadilly, presumably now still there for those who are left with some money to spend – the Russian oligarches.
I am reminded of ringing my better half (who, amongst other things is a trained economist) on ‘black Tuesday’ in early October when Merrill Lynch and Washington Mutual went down (the first of many as we now know) who told me then, in an ominous prophetic tone that it wasn’t 1989 nor 1929 but 1890. There are some parallels – in 1893 banks suddenly collapsed due to the over extension and over funding of railroads – which was made worse by the fact that the US dollar was pinned to gold and silver values. This lead to the worst economic crisis to date at that point in US history.
Traditionally its usually war driven by the rise of nationalism, fear and general xenophobia, as well as (some believe) industry itself looking for a new machine (war) to produce for that has pulled the Western world out of dire economic times. But I’m hoping the raise of a new global sensibility – the profound understanding that we really do now live in a global economy - will break this historical cycle. This leads me to a wonderful editorial that was in The London Times, 11/11/08 by David Aaronovitch entitled ‘Black, white or neither – The Mixed race dilemma’. It was brave article about the history of mixed race marriages in the US and the importance of Obama having such a heritage in terms of a global sensibility.
Like myself, Mr. Aaronovitch is part Jewish. He talks about the particular perspective this gives one - to be slightly on the outside looking in. In terms of Barrack Obama, he is not only half black; his father was African making him (arguably) potentially one of the most cosmopolitan US presidents to date.
Being of mixed heritage, colour, religion gives one much more of a world view and inevitably throws one into an empathic understanding of diversity – an absolute necessary if one wishes to counteract the usual contraction both politically and psychologically in times of fear.
I would argue we are all of mixed race. Anyone who has scratched the surface of their own family history in any depth will find they are far more mixed than they realised. The evidence is in the genome; as a well-known extreme right-wing Australian politician (no longer in politics but I’ll keep names out of this for legal purposes) found out to her chagrin. Confident she was 100% English stock (an oxymoron in itself if one knows anything about the history of the constant waves of migration of Britain, not to mention the Pics and the Celts) she discovered her genetic heritage stretched as far as Southern Italy and beyond. No surprise there and one in the eye for that old chestnut ‘racial purity’. They have found ancient groups of blond, blue-eyed traders in the Gobi desert – thousands of years old. Even the ancient Greek father of all history - Herodotus - speaks of blond prisoners of war being paraded in Ancient Persia.
Language itself reflects this – for example the languages of Europe, Britain and Northern Indian language groups all spring from one parent language known as Indo-European. This link is reflected in the Celtic myths and deities. The sacred Hindu texts the Vedas are named from the Sanskrit root vid meaning ‘knowledge’ This same root occurs in Old Irish as uid meaning ‘observation, perception and knowledge’ and is one of the two roots of the compound Celtic word Druid (Dru-vid) meaning ‘thorough knowledge.’ Fascinating. (Note: thanks to author Celtic specialist Peter Berresford Ellis for the above information).
A lot of so-called history is revisionist in terms of race. For example, when researching the early Australian colony of 1815 I discovered it was far more mixed racially then the traditional Australian history books would lead you to believe. Polynesians, Americans, Germans, Jews, Poles all mingled with both the first generation Australians and the convict classes (not all of whom were Irish Catholics.) Political prisoners were mixed in with the petty thieves as well as religious refugees and freeborn entrepreneurs. There were even prominent African Americans evolved in the later Australian Gold Rush – and a Jewish outlaw who became famous when he was granted his life through a ‘divine intervention’ clause when they tried to hang him publically three times and on every occasion the rope broke. Great theatre and probably a great con (although I guess he might have been really fat).
Certainly in recent years there was as much push under the former John Howard regime (Howard was voted out in 2007), (reminiscent of the Menzies era = Australia’s McCarthy period) to present both contemporary and historical Australia again as an white Anglo-Saxon British outpost. It was never that simple.
And in terms of the UK there were also Africans in the court of Elizabeth the 1st and small communities in some of the Northern ports in the 16th, 27th and 18th centuries.
Now is the time for us to acknowledge similarity not difference and to take collective responsibility as one race – humanity.
In the eye of the Beholder
I went to a stimulating lecture at the London School of Economics last night that was entitled ‘Ancient Adversaries, Modern friends.’ It was a generalised (and very genteel) analysis of the relationship between the Ancient Greeks and the Persians; a relationship which covered a number of wars, invasions and massacres including the subject of the film 300.
The moral responsibility of historical accuracy (apparently 300 was a gross misrepresentation of history as was Braveheart, another example of historical misrepresentation brought up by a Scottish academic on the same panel) from storytellers was brought up by one of the speakers – a rather monosyllabic delivery from Dr Nigel Spivey. His argument was that there is a moral responsibility for the fiction maker to be as accurate as possible. As an intellectual and humanist I completely agree, however as a storyteller and practitioner this is far harder than one imagines.
I dedicate months to my historical research, visit the location, interview historians, glean as much as I can through diaries of the era (for example I access the diary of Glukel of Hameln – a 17th German Jewish woman about two years younger than my protagonist Ruth bat Saul - for tone and systems of belief) as well as books of the era even some of the birthing ointments etcs come from a 17th century actual book on midwifery.
But as I write fiction and not autobiography there is the tightrope of dramatic license. Life as we know, is invariably stranger and non-linear in plot (thank Christ) and to make a really exciting, gripping and epic narrative one has to invent some events. The way I get around this is to place fictional characters against actual events and beside real living characters (the Archbishop in the book existed, his brother did not) and sometimes fictional events that have their basis in actual events of those years, i.e. the pogrom in Deutz. There was a student riot in Cologne that crossed the river in a wave of anti-Semitism in those years. Jews were blamed for the plague and there was a pogrom in another German town in which the Jews were locked in their houses, later burnt to the ground . To place these facts together in a fictional event at least gives the event both an authenticity and plausibility. It’s a long way from 300 (which, by the way, my step-son who is doing classics at Oxford – loved). I also enjoyed Brave Heart, not because it was historically accurate or inaccurate but because as an English woman I knew something of Scottish nationalism but not much. And frankly what I did know was tainted through an English lens; in other words the notion that all men north of the border were great brutish uneducated heathens, tribal and perhaps not capable of rational governance. Braveheart, although unabashedly sensationalist and full of powerful emblems (boy, does Mr. Gibson make great cinematic emblems – he’s kind of like the U2 of the movie world), did depict some of the Scottish P.O.V, which, I suspect, for the broader audience, made it an illuminating experience.
This leads into another aspect of history telling. All of it is partisan, all of it. Obviously some telling more than others. Another of the speakers in this debate reminded me of this when describing her French primary education then an English secondary education in which she learnt of two very different accounts of Napoleon. I too had this experience after hanging out with a Dutchman. What I’d been taught was that Napoleon was an egoist tyrant who invaded most of Europe, almost conquered Britain, and was uncouth, aspiring, short and he loved the way his lover smelt. What I learnt from my Dutchman was that Napoleon liberated a number of countries from antiquated legal and educational systems, and that his brother was very loved in Holland. Later I also learnt that Napoleon had also liberated a number of the ghettos.
I had a similar experience in South Ireland upon viewing an exhibition about the tyrant Oliver Cromwell – a man I’d grown up believing to be the leader of the only English revolution and whom campaigned for the equality of all men. Thereby lies the rub.
There is also the more prosaic issue for the professional story teller which is the rocky navigation one embarks on when sailing between publisher, editor and the final draft –likewise in film - the producer, director and final draft. The road to hell is paved with well-meaning edits, and many an editing suite has ended up with historical nuances, important exposition and factual material.
As a historical fiction writer there are a number of moral challenges; one to be as accurate as possible given the limitations of fact, two; to try and be as even handed as possible and constantly review oneself for any inherent historical bias (learnt or otherwise) and finally to create a story that is both entertaining and educational and keeps the reader turning the page.