Marching and Consensus
Consensus and Marching.
With the whirling winds of the zeitgeist whipping us all into a global emotional depression I was taken by an article in New Scientist (7/2/09) entitled ‘How to control your herd of Humans.’ Again another epiphany from the psychologists and neuro-scientists– apparently marching or dancing in large group creates both a sense of loyalty and a blinding sense of community – go figure. The article draws a connection with the huge political rallies and marches held by fascistic leaders and the kind of blind adoration and fantastical love such events stirred up in people. It also suggested such events could be used to the positive – for peace as well as war. Certainly some of the recent political rallies in the United States have these hallmarks – the savvy political leader is a preacher and the slogan’ Yes, we can!’ was an inspirational chant both uniting millions of people but also personifying a great unspoken hope utterly appropriate for the current political climate - Genius in terms of turning a negative to a positive.
– I had only surmise that UK’s prime minister Gordon Brown’s swan song might be ‘No, we can‘t!’ - or ‘No, I couldn’t’ - again this is another example of the cultural differences between the US and the UK – the UK is a very secular country built from divisions whereas many of original settlers of USA were religious refugees fleeing Europe – they were already idealists in search of hope. My experience of both countries is that it is hard to be openly nationalist in Britain without being met with a certain derision or suspicion (football being the exception) whereas the Americans have a natural inclination to such sentiment.
But back to the article, it made me to think about some of the group events I’d attended and the psychological impact they’d had upon me. As an atheist humanitarian without children there hasn’t been that many enforced by religion, community or by law. But several came to mind – one was the huge ‘Rock against racism’ marches I attended in London in the 1970’s. Massive marches that stretched literally for hours in the streets. Completely peaceful, there was a strong overriding sense of being united on a simple spiritually satisfying premise – all men were equal – and as one marches chanting passed the barriers, glancing across at the watching pedestrians, one also has a strong sense of both inclusion and exclusion.
Rock concerts, festivals, sports events, more grimly standing in a Sydney street in 2001, having been out of the US for two months, watching the twin towers come down on a large public TV screen in the CBD surrounded by men in suits watching men in suits falling – another unforgettable occasion when the individual psychology suddenly becomes an collective one. In this case horror and grief.
But another far more recent occasion was a Leonard Cohen concert last year at the O2 stadium in London. Largest live music venue in the world we were close to the front and Mr. Cohen’s performance (as well as the backing band) was absolutely spellbinding; a truly inspiring mixture of prophet, poet, self-depreciating aging womaniser and most impressive of all - utter humility. That 75 year old man had the audience eating out of his hand and there was overwhelming sense as I looked back out towards the darkened auditorium and the thousands of filled seats arching back (to the point of vertigo) into the shadows that we were all one swaying animal caught up in the grip of the same catharsis. It was phenomenal that this one tiny man managed to create the sense that he was relating intimately to each and every member of that audience and yet, at the same time, throw them into a collective memory of past love affairs, poignant heart break and those rare life experiences in which we call upon our higher selves. Power indeed. Again, the lovely sense of belonging to a positive collective washed over me – and when (this was in the weeks before the Obama election) Mr. Cohen broke into that song the chorus of which runs:’ Democracy is coming…to the USA’ the whole audience spontaneously broken in cheers and applause.
Another great collective experience is the sports event. Interestingly enough the culture of this experience varies greatly from country to country. For example I was used to Aussie rules being very much a family event, one that women and children attend almost as much as the men. The Americans have a similar attitude toward baseball – which sometimes I feel is as much about the peanut guy as the game (especially if you’re a Padres fan like my family). No one writes better about baseball than Don DeLillo (Underworld is still his best book in my humble opinion). I’m not suggesting the Americans do not take their baseball rivalry seriously but I’ve never seen a police escort for the visiting fans at the stadium like I have at an English football.
The first time I went to an football (‘soccer’ to my US/Australian readers) game I was shocked at the multitude of men in the stadium, it seemed the women were far and few between (there are a few but they kind of come into focus later). It was as if the very stadium seats were sweating testosterone. Actually I suspect they were, because, until you get used to it, as a woman you initially have a kind of pheromonal response to walking into that mass of masculinity, which is one of apprehension. No doubt an instinctive survival response – re: attack, or worse…. Now I love it and I scream along with the rest of the men around me. But the difference as far as I can tell is that the English fans take loss and triumph intensely personally and all the frustration in their personal lives is imposed on the game. Hence the violence one feels especially when one thinks the refugee has unfairly ruled against your team or there has been fouls on the field. To my chagrin I, myself, have found myself swept up by waves of outraged aggression in such situations (for the record I’m a Chelsea fan).
The other occasions I’ve noticed the hypnotic power of certain group activities would be voice exercises with actors design to create group trust. We used to use them before performing. Any group chanting, humming or merely holding hands, eyes’ shut sensing when the group are going to shout together - is surprisingly powerful. As is any group chanting.
But I have never experienced such dramatic collective waves of emotion in any other arena – theatre, political rally or festival as the football game.
No doubt this is already re-enforced by the surrounding iconology of the club and the sense of belonging; The tribes of Britain, so to speak – perhaps this is where English nationalism really lies.
Interesting the New Scientist article finishes with a conclusion of how dopamine (a feel-good reward chemical) is released more in the brain when we fall into group consensus in contrast to opposing it. An argument to acknowledge the importance of such individuals prepared to stand up and be a lone voice. Equally I would argue that there is a need for more group activities orientated to well being, higher self and peaceful communication as well as just celebration of just plain joy….Bring back some of the bacchanalian rites I say sans the tribalism.
On The Dark Side
I’m in New York this week seeing my agents and refuelling psychologically and creatively before plunging into the next manuscript. One of my most favourite cities there’s nothing like walking around Manhattan (although I’m also a big fan of Sth Williamsburg across the bridge) endless and anonymously through the streets, pounding the concrete until your total identity has blended into landscape then the ideas flood in.
I’ve also crammed in as much exhibitions and shows that I can possibly handed but a few really stand out.
One was at the museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology (okay, it’s fashion week in NY), there’s two shows on here, one is called Seduction and is a very loose (and in my opinion not very well researched) collection of clothes ranging from the early 19th century through to contemporary around the theme of seduction – (figure hugging, lacy, short you get the picture.) Far more exciting and thought provoking (and stay with me here, male readers) is the show Gothic: Dark Glamour.
An exploration of gothic literature and imagery on fashion it touches on many other themes, and also includes a couple of costumes from the movie Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Naturally being an old punk myself and having a fascination for structured theatrical design I was captivated by several of the dresses - particularly McQueen, Tischi and Westwood - Demeulemeester was a stretch however. And the curator’s Walter Benjamin’s quote – “Fashion mocks Death” because it inherently celebrates ethereal youth against inevitable decay, and that, according to the philosopher, the essence of fashion is fetishism because it is based on the sex appeal of the inorganic, is beautifully illustrated in the exhibition. So what is essentially a shallow display (it is after all clothes!) becomes both thought provoking and poignant.
I was reminded of my experience writing a screen play based on background/love story behind the writing and publication of ‘The Story of O’ by Dominique Aury sometime in the late ‘90’s for HBO (alas it went into turn-around and a crappy movie based on the same story was made, released and died ‘Writer of O’ in 2004). I was amazed to discover that when it was originally in the 1950’s under the pseudonym Pauline Reage that, because of the implicit and sadomasochistic sexual nature of these scenes, everyone assumed it was written by a man, or possibly a group of men.
In reading as an author myself again (I had read it as a teenager) it was quite apparent to me that it was written by a woman. Why? - the graphic and very implicit descriptions of both the costume and dress; this was written by a woman who knew how it felt to be wearing a very tight corset and how that both empowered and disempowered. The sensuality of such descriptions work as a deliberate erotic foreplay but it is a lingering and (in my humble opinion) female gaze.
I did get to meet the authoress that year (and give her a signed copy of Quiver), she was in her eighties and still beautiful and had the exact appearance of a well-dressed librarian. There was a slight severity about her dress that made you think she was very precise in her choices. Dominique Aury only ‘came out’ as the identity behind Pauline Reage - writer of The Story of O - four years before her death in 1998, which is a good indication of how long it has taken feminism and Western society in general to acknowledge the rich complexity of female sexual expression/female sexuality. Now, things have accelerate so fast it would almost be considered blasé.
Back to the exhibition, again, I was also struck by the current rise of the ‘Vampire’ (both on television and in bookstores) and the current political climate. Perhaps we are all looking for the swoon and surrender (although the Twilight series has a particularly extended foreplay).
Oh, and by the way, Dominique Aury originally wrote ‘The Story of O’ to re-inspire her long term married lover the famous French publisher Jean Paulhan, it really was an extended love letter of sorts and it was he who persuaded her to publish.
Apologies for the no-show posting last week – I was ill.
Memory, Friction and Fiction
This week readers of Quiver and Tremble will be pleased to know I have started a new collection of short stories called ‘Impossible Loves.’ Originally I planned for this to be a series of stories about the relationships we don’t have in our lives, or rather the near misses that, after a certain age, seem to haunt us as ‘what ifs…’. Years ago I wrote a play called ‘Seven Acts of Love (as witnessed by a cat), which touched upon this theme. It was seven acts of love – one of which was the reunion of two older people who almost had an affair when university students and have re met in their forties, both now married and committed to other people. Although tempted they decide not to make love out of respect and love for their spouses and the ensuing chaos they can envisage the affair will cause – the ‘evolved ‘choice I guess although I’m happy to concede that sometimes the forces of nature are greater.
The act is really about nuance and subtext – what is not said and the terrible poignancy of missed opportunity as well as the preservation of memory and projection. Impossible Loves is really a further investigation of this – although somewhat more bawdy and visceral.
In the writing of the first story I began to think about how writers draw upon their own autographical experience and elaborate pushing observed fact into fiction. It’s interesting what one remembers and why and the methods to access memory. First of all I should clarify that usually I rarely (if ever and certainly not consciously) write autobiographically. There are a few exceptions when I have been asked specifically – the most notable was a short story called ‘27th of August’ which was written for a collection of short stories by women the proceeds of which were to go to troubled teenage girls in Australia. I wrote about the day my father was killed in a road accident. I was aged 16 at the time and it seemed deeply appropriate as I did then go onto a wild and troubled adolescence (grist to the mill!).
Another time was when I was asked to contribute a story to a collection of short stories by Jewish Australian writers. I decided to write about both my grandfathers – my English/Polish grandfather (my father’s father) and my mother’s father, also Polish but from a far more recent migration out of Poland (narrowly missing the holocaust, unlike a lot of his relatives, father and brother). My mother’s father was an absolute character - a very handsome and short pastry baker who loved women. In the short story I had added a wonderful paragraph about how, after burying his third wife (in Sydney in about 100 degrees) my grandfather (with myself sitting in the back) my social worker mother at the wheel, - probably due to shock and a strange grieving - started a wonderful soliquy (in a thick Yiddish/Polish accent) about all the women he’d ever slept with, started with my grandmother (his first wife) – both of them virgins not knowing a thing about lovemaking. with his mother-in-law sleeping on the couch a foot away on the other side of the bedroom door for nights, waiting for the bloodied sheet to hang out the window to prove the marriage was consummated. He then continued through a liturgy of women, ending up (far later when I guess he was in his sixties) with a description of an act performed sans false teeth. Meanwhile my mother (only half-listening) in social worker mode kept nodding and answering Yes abba, yes abba, as the monologue got funnier, darker and increasing obscene until I asked her to tell him to stop. It was above and beyond Portnoy’s Complaint and was, in some ways, a very poignant insight into a man who was both a sensualist and an incurable romantic. He was forever in falling love (god bless him) right up until he died in his late eighties. When I showed this earlier draft to my mother she threatened to disinherit me, claiming it was disrespectful – maybe it was, however the intention certainly wasn’t. I pulled the paragraph from the finished short story and the experience put me off ever writing directly about my wonderful, eccentric family. Yet there is a certain authenticity in autographical writing that the readers seem hungry for – hence the current spate of false autobiography most of whom have been outed. Inevitably fact is stranger than fiction, but in my case it is usually based on some experience teased out into fully fiction – a montage of friends and projection. Even so I was amazed by the number of friends who claimed they recognised themselves in Quiver when it came out (they weren’t!). I think it all comes down to the writer’s powers of observation, imagination and ability to create empathic characters. This probably reflects on how vividly they have or haven’t lived.
One method to recall memory or a specific experience one might want to write about – an experience that might be buried due to trauma or simply forgetfulness – is self-hypnosis. I find that this can throw up all kinds of remembered experience – from light thrown up from a surface: the actual visuals of the memory, to scent and emotion. Memories you thought you’d lost forever. Useful when one is trying to ‘channel’ a character, or throw oneself back to the experience of first passion, adolescence and loss.