What Medium Do You Work In?: Bridget Riley and the Art of Perception

Detail from Pause, 1964. Photograph: Bridget Riley 2019

'Focusing isn't just an optical activity, it is also a mental one.’
Bridget Riley

I recently attended a fine retrospective of the art of Bridget Riley. (The Hayward Gallery, London until 26 January.)

Triangles, curves, rhomboids, stripes and dots. Shapes that shimmer, hover and flicker. Discs that hum, throb and float. Circles that disappear into a fold in time. Dizzying, blurring, rippling contours. Everything moves. Reality warps. The images seem to be shouting: ‘Forget what you know. Don’t trust your senses. Hold on tight.’

'The word 'paradox' has always had a kind of magic for me, and I think my pictures have a paradoxical quality, a paradox of chaos and order in one.’

Born in Norwood, London in 1931, Riley studied art at Goldsmiths College and the Royal College of Art. After her education she spent some time as an illustrator at JWT. Her early work was figurative and impressionist.

Then in 1959 Riley copied Georges Seurat’s pointillist painting ‘The Bridge at Courbevoie’ ‘in order to follow his thought.’ The experience set her on the path to her signature Op Art style, and the resulting work has hung in her studio ever since.

Riley began to paint black and white geometric patterns, exploring the dynamism of sight and the illusions of seeing. She liked to ‘take a form through its paces in order to find out what it can do.’

Riley’s art was disruptive, unsettling, mesmerising. It chimed with the spirit of the ‘60s - an age of doubt and disorientation, of anxiety and apprehension. 

Bridget Riley review. Cataract 3, 1967. © Bridget Riley 2019

'There was a time when meanings were focused and reality could be fixed; when that sort of belief disappeared, things became uncertain and open to interpretation.’

Our eyes travel across a Riley painting, restless, uneasy, looking for a centre. But there’s no place for our attention to settle.

'In general, my paintings are multifocal. You can't call it unfocused space, but not being fixed to a single focus is very much of our time.’

In 1967 Riley introduced colour to her abstract work. She became interested in its instability and interactions, in different couplings and combinations.

'If you can allow colour to breathe, to occupy its own space, to play its own game in its unstable way, it’s wanton behaviour, so to speak… it is promiscuous like nothing.’

Riley’s method involved what she called ‘conscious intuition.’ She explored the intersection between the hard, precise, clinical drive of the rational brain and the unfocused impact of intuition and emotion.

'I work on two levels. I occupy my conscious mind with things to do, lines to draw, movements to organize, rhythms to invent. In fact, I keep myself occupied. But that allows other things to happen which I'm not controlling... The more I exercise my conscious mind, the more open the other things may find that they can come through.’

At the exhibition you can see Riley’s preparatory drawings and studies, precise instructions for her painting assistants. Some look like grand contour maps of new frontiers, of unknown terrain. They reveal the painstaking calculations that the artist invests in her work, the countless decisions about form, colour, structure and scale. 

High Sky, 1991. Photograph: Bridget Riley 2019

'It seems the deeper, truer personality of the artist only emerges in the making of decisions... in refusing and accepting, changing and revising.’

I was particularly struck by a remark Riley made about Seurat’s art.

‘His work gave me a sense of the viewer’s importance as an active participant. Perception became the medium.’

This abstract, conceptual definition of Seurat’s medium seems to suggest fresh possibilities for art, to open up new horizons.

As we embark on a new year, it may be helpful to pause for a moment and reflect on our own core competences. What is it that we do? What are we good at? What medium do we work in? 

Should we define ourselves by our output? By adverts and art direction, design and data, copy and content? There is an admirable, plain-speaking directness to such descriptions. Maybe we see ourselves as artisans or makers?

Or do we deal in something more abstract? Perhaps we are persuaders, curators, cultural commentators, consumer champions, brand spokespeople? Perhaps we create and manage ideas; or nurture talent; or navigate change; or provoke disruption; or stimulate growth?

Or do we, like Riley, work in the medium of perception?

‘Looking is, I feel, a vital aspect of existence. Perception constitutes our awareness of what it is to be human, indeed what it is to be alive.’

'Doctor, my eyes have seen the years
And the slow parade of fears without crying.
Now I want to understand.
I have done all that I could
To see the evil and the good without hiding.
You must help me if you can.
Doctor, my eyes
Tell me what is wrong.
Was I unwise to leave them open for so long?’

Jackson Browne, ‘Doctor My Eyes'

 No 262

‘All the King’s Men’: Observations on a Tarnished Politician and a Jaded Fixer

‘Man is conceived in sin and born in corruption and he passeth from the stink of the didie to the stench of the shroud. There is always something.’ 
Willie Stark, ‘All the King’s Men’

I recently read the American political novel ‘All the King’s Men’ by Robert Penn Warren. Published in 1946, it was awarded the Pulitzer Prize, and in 1949 it was adapted into a film of the same name that won the Oscar for Best Picture.

‘All the King’s Men’ follows the political career of Willie Stark, a liberal populist in the South during the 1930s. His story is narrated by Jack Burden, a reporter who is employed as a personal aide when Stark becomes Governor. 

It’s a tale of infidelity, betrayal and corruption under the throbbing Southern sky; of debt, restitution and nameless despair; of broken promises, broken relationships and broken people.

Sugar-Boy puts the throttle to the floor. The Cadillac speeds along the white slab in the dazzling heat, past the corner drugstore and the tin-roofed, white-framed houses. There’s a smell of sweat, stale cigars and gasoline fumes. There are hushed conversations with men in well-pressed suits and two-color shoes. There’s coarse liquor drunk in shady bars. And an iron bed under the electric fan. 

It’s a compelling read. 

I was struck by a number of themes suggested by the two central characters.

The Tarnished Politician

Willie Stark, 'the Boss,’ starts out as an idealistic lawyer, a humble, well-meaning man looking to represent the ordinary country folk he cares about. 

‘My study is the heart of the people…Your will is my strength.’

Through bitter experience he transforms into a charismatic populist, who can rouse a crowd with his plain speaking, tub thumping oratory.

‘This is the truth; you are a hick and nobody ever helped a hick than the hick himself. Up there in town they won’t help you. It is up to you and God, and God helps those who help themselves.’

Stark climbs the political ladder by exposing the corruption and complacency of the incumbent administration.

‘The machine had been operating so long now without serious opposition that ease had corrupted them. They just didn’t bother to be careful.’

But Stark’s own Governorship is tainted by power. Convinced that the end justifies the means, he becomes mired in patronage, bribery and intimidation.

‘Did you ever see the flies stay away from the churn at churning time?’

Let’s consider the fundamentals of Stark’s approach to politics. We may find there are contemporary resonances.

1. Stir ‘em up

The key to Stark’s popularity is his ability to whip up a crowd, to connect with them at a raw and basic level. He realises that it doesn’t matter so much what you say, so long as you can inspire a passionate response.

‘Hell, make ‘em cry, make ‘em laugh, make ‘em think you’re their weak erring pal, or make ‘em think you’re God Almighty. Or make ‘em mad. Even mad at you. Just stir ‘em up, it doesn’t matter how or why, and they’ll love you and come back for more.’

2. Be prepared to sacrifice your dignity

Stark is not afraid of looking foolish or silly. He’s not shy of mockery or ridicule. None of these things constrains him from the pursuit of power.

‘Yeah, I’m Governor, Jack, and the trouble with Governors is they think they got to keep their dignity. But listen here, there ain’t anything worth doing a man can do and keep his dignity.’

3. Write off the costs against the gain

Stark is prepared to make concessions to achieve his goals. He doesn’t realise that compromise can be corrosive.

‘All change costs something. You have to write off the costs against the gain.’

4. Don’t shy away from dirt

Stark had a religious upbringing and he retains a Calvinist conviction that all men are tainted by original sin.

‘Dirt’s a funny thing… Come to think of it, there ain’t a thing but dirt on this green God’s globe except what’s under water, and that’s dirt too. It’s dirt makes the grass grow. A diamond ain’t a thing in the world but a piece of dirt that got awful hot. And God-a Mighty picked up a handful of dirt and blew on it and made you and me and George Washington and mankind blessed in faculty and apprehension. It all depends on what you do with the dirt. That right?’

5. Just fix it

Ultimately Stark becomes a ruthless operator, blind to the ethical responsibilities of office. He believes that every man and woman has a price, and he’s prepared to pay it.

‘My God, you talk like Byram was human! He’s a thing! You don’t prosecute an adding machine if a spring goes bust and makes a mistake. You fix it.’

The Jaded Fixer

'There is nothing more alone than being in a car at night in the rain. I was in the car. And I was glad of it.’

Jack Burden is a student of history, a former journalist who acts as a fixer for The Boss. He’s smart and can be charming when he wants to be. But he’s also a detached, world weary, hard drinking cynic ‘hiding from the present... [and taking]refuge in the past.’

‘Maybe the things you want are like cards. You don’t want them for themselves, really, though you think you do. You don’t want a card because you want the card, but because in a perfectly arbitrary system of rules and values and in a special combination of which you already hold a part the card has meaning. But suppose you aren’t sitting in a game. Then, even if you do know the rules, a card doesn’t mean a thing. They all look alike.’

We come to realise that Burden’s misanthropy and nihilism derive from a broken heart. He is a man who has been in love too long.

'If something takes too long, something happens to you. You become all and only the thing you want and nothing else, for you have paid too much for it, too much in wanting and too much in waiting and too much in getting.'

Stark sets Burden a task: to dig up some dirt on a respected former Judge who has crossed him politically. It’s fascinating to watch Burden in action, combining his historical research and journalistic skills in pursuit of his prey.

Author Robert Penn Warren - 1950. (AP Photo)

1. There is always something

Burden goes into his investigation with the conviction that there is inevitably a clue to be found, a secret to be unearthed, a truth to be revealed. There is always something.

‘For nothing is lost, nothing is ever lost. There is always the clue, the canceled check, the smear of lipstick, the footprint in the canna bed, the condom on the park path, the twitch in the old wound, the baby shoes dipped in bronze, the taint in the blood stream.’

2. Try the obvious first

Burden is conscious not to walk past the simple solutions, the straightforward resolutions to a problem.

‘Finding someone in a city if you can’t call the cops is quite an undertaking. I had tried it often enough back when I was a reporter, and it takes luck and time. But one rule is always to try the obvious first.’

3. Ask it quick and fast

Burden’s interviewing style is forceful and direct. He likes to cut to the chase and surprise a response.

‘I asked it quick and sharp, for if you ask something quick and sharp out of a clear sky you may get an answer you never would get otherwise.’

4. Listen for the hollow sound

Once past the direct questions and obvious explanations, Burden switches to a more speculative approach. He plugs away at a problem looking out for something that doesn’t quite tally.

‘When you are looking for the lost will in the old mansion, you tap, inch by inch, along the beautiful mahogany wainscoting, or along the massive stonework of the cellarage, and listen for the hollow sound.’

5. Sleep on it

Finally Burden leaves room for intuition and gut response. After he’s investigated every highway and byway, after he’s examined every clue, he sleeps on the problem.

‘I had reached that stage of the problem where there is nothing to do but pray. That stage always comes. You can do all you can, and pray till you can’t pray, and then you go to sleep and hope to see it all in the dream, by grace.’

Inevitably Burden’s investigation reaches a melancholy conclusion. ‘All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.’ But there is a sense that Burden ends the story less detached, recognising that we cannot live as isolated individuals: there are connections between us all – between our choices and responsibilities, and between our past, our present and our future. 

'Reality is not a function of the event as event, but of the relationship of that event to past, and future, events… Direction is all.'

Time for a festive break.
Next post will be on Thursday 9 January 2020.
Have a restful Christmas.
See you on the other side, I hope!

'You know that it's the time of year,
When certain things that you see and hear
Remind you of the holidays.
When I hear the bells ring
I think of you, and I start to sing.
You hold me tight all through the night.
Peace and calm is in your arms.
Silent nite
Feels so right, 
All is calm, all is bright.
Silent nite.’

En Vogue, 'Silent Nite'

No. 261

Happy Accidents: Will You Open the Door When Opportunity Knocks?

William Henry Perkin

'Awake! arise! the hour is late!
Angels are knocking at thy door!
They are in haste and cannot wait,
And once departed come no more.’
HW Longfellow, ‘A Fragment' 

I recently attended an exhibition exploring the intimate relationship between art and science. ‘The Art of Innovation’ at the Science Museum, London, considers how creative thought has been integral to many scientific breakthroughs and how technological change has inspired a good deal of great art. (The exhibition runs until 26 January, but you can also listen to a BBC podcast on the same theme.)

'I am enough of the artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.’
Albert Einstein

Observe how the train revolutionised timekeeping, how the study of botany precipitated the first photography book, how Polaroids inspired David Hockney. Learn about experiments with laughing gas, about orreries, artificial limbs and delta wing jets. Examine John Constable’s records of the clouds over Hampstead Heath, Eadweard Muybridge’s photographic studies of ‘The Horse in Motion’, and Ada Lovelace’s illustration of the first algorithm - the unassuming Note G. It’s fascinating stuff.

I was particularly taken with the story of mauve.

In 1856 the 18-year-old student chemist William Perkin was experimenting in his shed in Shadwell, East London. He wanted to see if he could synthesize the anti-malarial drug quinine from aniline, a derivative of coal tar. The experiment failed and he was left with a black sludge. Still curious, he determined to dry this sludge into a powder, which he then dissolved in methylated spirit. This process produced a rich purple solution. The inquisitive Perkin then tried dipping a piece of white silk into the solution and was struck by how well the fabric took the purple colour.

Most fabric dyes at that time were extracted from plants and lychens, and were expensive and limited in variety. The industrial revolution had created a booming textile industry and an increasing demand for new, more affordable colours.

Assured by dye experts that this new compound could function well as a commercial dye, Perkin and his family built a factory near Harrow and marketed the dye under the sophisticated French name ‘mauve’. The British public, the great and the good, and even Queen Victoria, were delighted with the new, vibrant purple fabrics. Mauve became the most fashionable colour of the 1850s and 1860s. It was the first of a new generation of cheap, high quality synthetic dyes.

‘The mauve complaint is very catching: indeed, cases might be cited, where the lady of the house having taken the infection, all the family have caught it before the week was out.’ 
Punch, 1859

Of course the history books are filled with great scientific discoveries and inventions that began with a chance event, a happy accident.

Penicillin was discovered by Alexander Fleming after he returned to his lab from a two-week holiday to find that a mould had grown on some of his culture and killed the staphylococci he’d been investigating.

The Kellogg brothers invented corn flakes after boiling wheat for too long in a sanatorium kitchen.

Velcro was conceived by Swiss engineer George de Mestral after he got burrs stuck in his clothes when he went hiking.

The microwave was created by engineer Percy Spencer after his chocolate bar melted while he was testing a new vacuum tube.

Silk dress dyed with William Henry Perkin’s mauve aniline dye. Photo by SSPL/Getty Images.

‘One sometimes finds what one is not looking for.'
Alexander Flemming

We can all probably think of instances in our own careers when an unexpected occurrence has produced a fortuitous outcome – a random experience, a misguided experiment, a serendipitous conversation. The unforeseen consequences of unplanned events often deliver breakthroughs and revelations. Chance can play a key role in innovation.

But we have to be agile and alert to respond to a happy accident. We have to be curious, open to distraction, prepared to take a different path. The window of opportunity rarely remains open for very long.

Perkin was probably not the first scientist to conduct that particular experiment on aniline. But whereas others had thrown away the black sludge, he persisted, sensing there was something worthwhile further down the line.

I suspect that sometimes we’re too focused on achieving our objectives to be distracted by the unplanned and unexpected. We may be too time-constrained to pursue our curiosity; too disciplined to redirect our resources. We’ll never know how many chances have passed us by because we were cautious, blinkered or blind.

Of course we all want to be beneficiaries of random good fortune. But we have to ask ourselves: Are we sufficiently open-minded to spot a happy accident? Are we willing to pursue a possibility even when it’s not what we originally envisaged? Will we open the door when opportunity knocks?

'Getting stuck on you, baby,
Was the last thing I had in mind.
But now you got me wanting you, baby,
Want your love all the time.
I slipped, tripped and fell in love,
Fell in love with you, baby.’
Ann Peebles, ‘Slipped, Tripped and Fell in Love’ (G Jackson)

No. 260

When Revolutionaries Become Reactionaries: Alfred Munnings and the Disenchantments of Age

‘My Wife, My Horse and Myself’ - Alfred Munnings

‘The most radical revolutionary will become conservative the day after the revolution.’
Hannah Arendt, Philosopher and Political Theorist

I confess I’m partial to the art of Alfred Munnings. 

In the first half of the twentieth century Munnings painted East Anglian life in bold, bright colours: race meetings, horse fairs and hunting; farm hands, gentry and gypsies. Mostly he just painted horses, for whom he seemed to have a greater affection than he had for people. He titled one painting ‘My Wife, My Horse and Myself’ and the horse takes centre stage.

To modern eyes Munnings’ paintings are not particularly challenging or thought provoking. But in his youth he was part of the progressive art colony based on the south coast of Cornwall, the Newlyn School, and he served as a war artist during the First World War. His work is honest, open and true. It is rooted in the English countryside and English painting tradition. It is in its own way rather beautiful.

‘Every hero becomes a bore at last.’
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essayist

Sadly Munnings’ reputation in the art world is tarnished. As he grew older he developed a passionate dislike of modernism. In his late sixties he served as President of the Royal Academy of Art and, in a speech broadcast live on the BBC in 1949, he drunkenly accused his fellow painters of ‘shilly shallying in this so called modern art.’ He suggested that Cezanne, Matisse and Henry Moore had corrupted art, and he joked that he’d like to join Churchill in kicking Picasso up the arse.

’The Start at Newmarket’ - Alfred Munnings

‘A great scientific truth does not triumph by convincing its opponents and making them see the light, but rather because its opponents eventually die.’
Max Planck, Nobel Prize-winning Physicist

I was prompted to think about Munnings by a piece I read in The Times (Rhys Blakely, 17 September 2019). A recent study by the Massachusetts Institute of Technology tracked the careers of 13,000 elite scientists, looking at their funding, published papers and citations. The research suggests that ‘superstar scientists,’ once they have achieved a position of authority, tend to suppress new ideas from other quarters. After their deaths their field of study is often invigorated by younger rivals, who suddenly publish research at a faster rate, and by scientists migrating from other adjacent subject areas. 

‘Our results suggest that, once in control of the commanding heights of their fields, star scientists tend to hold on to their exalted position – and to the power that comes with it – a bit too long.’ 
Pierre Azoulay, MIT

This conclusion may resonate with people working in business today. The senior ranks of industry are quite often filled with individuals who in their youthful prime were high-achieving radicals. However, with the passing of the years and the accrual of status, recognition and rewards, these same people can become increasingly conservative, set on defending their turf from new people and new ideas. They can’t help regarding the world through the prism of their own talents and beliefs. In time most revolutionaries become reactionaries.

’Morning Ride’ - Alfred Munnings

Speaking from experience, as you get older you can feel marginalised. The world seems to be reinventing itself around the needs and tastes of new generations. It’s easy to resent change. And conservatism creeps over you like a comfortable blanket. We all occasionally suffer Luddite leanings.

‘All sorts of allowances are made for the illusions of youth; and none, or almost none, for the disenchantments of age.’
Robert Louis Stevenson, Writer

I’m not sure it’s wise to ‘rage against the dying of the light.’  At least not in the reactionary way that Munnings did. We may not want to run at the future, but we certainly shouldn’t run away from it. The grumpy old man or woman is rarely attractive, seldom makes for an effective leader, and should probably avoid the sauce when speaking in public.

'Old man, take a look at my life
I'm a lot like you.
I need someone to love me
The whole day through.
Ah, one look in my eyes
And you can tell that's true.’

Neil Young, ‘Old Man'

No. 259

Breaking the Fourth Wall: Advertising that Acknowledges it is Advertising

The Great Train Robbery (1903)

It has recently been reported that the first filmed Western was ‘Kidnapping by Indians,’ an 1899 short shot just outside Blackburn, England (The Times, 1 November 2019). Classically the status of first Western has been allocated to the 1903 silent film ‘The Great Train Robbery,’ written, produced, and directed by Edwin S Porter.  It is this latter movie that I’d like to consider.

‘The Great Train Robbery’ begins with bandits breaking into a telegraph office and forcing the operator to stop the train. Once on board, the villains steal the passengers’ valuables, and cash from the security box, killing a guard, a fireman and a fleeing traveller in the process. They transfer to their horses, and disappear into the woods. The telegraph operator escapes and, interrupting a dance, raises the alarm. A posse catches up with the bandits while they are splitting the loot. They are all shot.

Lasting only 12 minutes, ‘The Great Train Robbery’ was one of the first films to use cross-cutting to show what was happening at the same time in different locations.

At the very end, in a short additional sequence, the leader of the bandits, played by Justus D Barnes, looks directly into the camera. He sports a spotted neckerchief and a flamboyant moustache, and his hat is pushed back over his head. He also carries a six-shooter, which he fires repeatedly point-blank at the audience. 

It’s quite a startling moment.

This scene is sometimes cited as the first instance of cinema ‘breaking the fourth wall.’ 

The fourth wall was originally a theatrical convention: an imaginary barrier separating the actors from the audience. While the audience can see through it, the actors behave as if they cannot, remaining absorbed in the drama. 

Since the earliest theatre, playwrights have chosen occasionally to break the fourth wall by having their characters step forward to address the audience directly - as in Greek tragedy, Shakespearean soliloquies or pantomime. Bertolt Brecht lit the theatre with bright lights to encourage the public to acknowledge that they were watching artifice rather than reality. He also had his actors play multiple roles and rearrange the set in full view. Some dramatists have gone further and scripted their characters discussing the play as a play, or considering the nature of their characterisation. Pirandello’s ‘Six Characters in Search of an Author’ explores such themes, as does Laura Wade’s ‘The Watsons’ (which will play at the Harold Pinter Theatre, London from 8 May).

Breaking the fourth wall suggests that author, actors and audience are all complicit in the theatrical deception. We know that you know... It can be disarming. It shakes the audience out of our passivity, and prompts us to engage, to participate, to lean in and take notice.

As a device it is perhaps most familiar to us from movies like ‘Alfie’, ‘Annie Hall’ and ‘Amelie’; and from TV shows like ‘House of Cards’ and ‘The Office.’ Of course latterly we’ve had ‘Fleabag’s’ side-eye.

‘What is that? That thing that you’re doing?’

Taken aback by the impact of this technique in a film from 1903, I was prompted to wonder what would be its equivalent in the world of commercial communication. 

We’re accustomed of course to brand spokespeople addressing viewers directly in advertising. This is so commonplace as to be mundane. But just occasionally a campaign steps out of the conventional mode of salesmanship and acknowledges the fact that it is advertising; that we the viewers know what’s going on; that we understand the transaction.

I’m reminded of Molson’s subversive ad from the late ‘80s:

‘Jim Dunk says ‘don’t drink it.’’

Or the classic VW 1996 ‘affordability’ campaign:

’We are withholding a Volkswagen ’surprisingly ordinary prices’ ad until we receive confirmation that a Volkswagen Polo L does indeed cost £7990.’

More recently KFC has drawn attention to the shortcomings of its own fries:

‘Dear KFC. No one likes your fries. Yours sincerely. The Entire World.’

These ads assume that we know that we’re looking at commercial communication, that we appreciate the process. They’re post-modern perhaps. And they have the ability to stop us in our tracks; to make us think. We have to do some work to decode them. 

Of course, making ads about ads can be a risky business. It can come across as narcissistic and self-regarding, as oblique and indirect. But used strategically, with wit and insight, breaking the fourth wall disrupts the inertia of conventional advertising. It creates impact and intrigue, collusion and compulsion.

As Bertolt Brecht observed:

'Art is not a mirror held up to reality, but a hammer with which to shape it.'

'Robbin' people with a six-gun,
I fought the law and the law won.
I fought the law and the law won.
I lost my girl and I lost my fun,
I fought the law and the law won.
I fought the law and the law won.’

The Clash, ‘I Fought the Law’ (S Curtis)

No 258

The Industrialisation of Storytelling: Have We Lost the Plot?

Arthur Darvill as Dave in The Antipodes at the National Theatre (Photo: Manuel Harlan)

‘I just wanted to remind all of you that what you’re doing is important. We need stories as a culture. It’s what we live for. These are dark times. Stories are a little bit of light that we cup in our palms like votive candles to show us the way out of the forest.‘
Sandy, ‘The Antipodes’

I recently saw Annie Baker’s excellent play ‘The Antipodes’ at the National Theatre, London (until 23 November).

Baker’s writing is thoughtful, funny, full of nuance and intrigue. She seems more interested in character than narrative; in atmosphere than plot. Her dramas unfold naturally, in their own time, enigmatically. Critics have called her work ‘slow theatre’.

‘The Antipodes’ is set in a brainstorming session amongst a group of creatives trying to come up with an extraordinary story. No medium is specified.

Most of us recognise the large characterless conference room with its grand glass table and carpet reminiscent of ‘The Shining’. There is the industrial quantity of mineral water, the obsession with food – ordering it with great ceremony, eating it with quiet intensity. There is the reverence for authority and process, the dominant masculinity, the awkward silences, the vainglorious Boss. There is the arrogant veteran, the patronised PA, the eccentric knitter, the selective note taker. The participant who is ‘disappeared’ half way through the process. There is the mythologizing of the company’s Golden Age. The lanyards and the NDAs. The liberal use of ‘awesome’ and ‘genius’. The swearing.

It’s all painfully familiar.

‘The most important thing is that we all feel comfortable saying whatever weird shit comes into our minds so we don’t feel like we have to self-censor and we can all just sit around telling stories. Because that’s where the good stuff comes from.’

Of course, only the Boss is allowed to use his phone in this brainstorm, and he is constantly leaving the room, distracted by domestic concerns. A conference call with senior management begins with a chat about the weather and then lurches uncomfortably into technical difficulties. Despite promises to respect participants’ time, as the project proceeds the sessions become longer and later, until finally the creatives are sleeping in the conference room. 

 ‘The stories we create teach people what it’s like to be someone else on a visceral level. As storytellers we know how to shift perspective and inhabit different viewpoints. Imagine what would happen if everyone in the world could do every once in a while what we already do on a daily basis. It would be revolutionary.’

Baker seems to be asking us to question the value of storytelling and its relevance to contemporary issues and anxieties.

We all know that stories make sense of the world. They teach our children about cause and effect, freedom and responsibility. They enable us to articulate our brightest hopes and darkest fears. They provide understanding and escape. They help us walk in other people’s shoes. They bind communities together.

But we have turned storytelling into an industry. We classify and codify it. It is a course we can take at college, a craft we can learn, a process we can teach. It’s a commodity, a business, an algorithm.

Baker quotes Christopher Booker’s 'The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell Stories.'

Annie Baker, Photo: Zack DeZon

1. Overcoming the Monster
2. Rags to Riches
3. The Quest
4. Voyage and Return
5. Rebirth
6. Comedy
7. Tragedy

Baker wants to remind us that storytelling is not entirely benign. Stories can mislead and distract, exaggerate and embellish. Stories can obstruct truth and defer action. And our individual ‘journeys’ can be contrived and self-deceiving. One of the characters expresses concern that personal experiences shouldn’t simply be translated into material for storytelling. Surely some episodes are too precious to be broadcast.

‘I guess I’ve always felt like my personal life is the part of my life that I don’t want to turn into a story.’

We become aware that, while the creatives are struggling to invent the greatest story ever told, all is not well in the real world beyond the conference room. There seems to be an escalation of storms and natural disasters out there. Towards the end of the play the Boss questions the relevance of stories to a world facing existential crisis. 

‘I think maybe there are no more stories. Not that we’ve told all the stories. Or that there are only six types of stories or something. But I think maybe it’s the end of an era. Or maybe it should be the end of an era. Like maybe this is the worst possible time in the history of the world to be telling stories.’

So where does this lead us? 

Well, despite the compelling provocation posed by ‘The Antipodes’, I still believe in the power of stories to convey understanding, to create community and to inspire change. I still believe therefore that they have a role in tackling our current concerns. But I also think we need to protect the intimacy and magic of storytelling from commoditisation and industrialisation. We need to ensure storytelling prompts action rather than postpones it.  And we need to be cautious about the ends to which we deploy it.

 ‘We tell ourselves stories in order to live.’
Joan Didion

'But if you disguise
What these things are doing to me,
If you criticize them,
I'll know that you can see.
Until you realize,
It's just a story.
Until you realize,
It's just a story.’

The Teardrop Explodes, 'Treason (It’s Just a Story)’ (G Dwyer / N Michael / J Cope)

No. 257

Seeing Yourself from Unexpected Angles: Truth Telling by Lucian Freud

Reflection with Two Children (Self-Portrait) - Lucian Freud

‘With self-portraits ‘likeness’ becomes a different thing, because in ordinary portraits you try to paint the person in front of you, whereas in self-portraits you’ve got to paint yourself as another person.’
Lucian Freud

I recently attended an excellent exhibition of Lucian Freud’s self-portraits (at the Royal Academy, London, until 26 January 2020).

Freud is renowned as a portraitist of quiet intensity. He engaged in what he called ‘biological truth telling,’ endeavouring to capture the physical reality of his sitters: his wives and mistresses, daughters and dogs, friends and acquaintances.

‘I work from the people that interest me and that I care about and think about in rooms that I live in and know.’

Typically Freud painted in his studio standing at his easel, applying thick layers of paint to the canvas with his large hog’s-hair brushes. He had his subjects sprawl naked on the floor, on a sofa or bed, at unusual or uncomfortable angles. His process involved long sittings and could take weeks or months. One woman needed osteopathy after her portrait. His conversation was light and witty, but his gaze was direct, frank and sometimes unsettling.

Freud  was particularly adept at capturing the texture and colour of flesh, employing Cremnitz White to suggest the skin’s luminous qualities. 

‘I want paint to work as flesh.’

Startled Man: Self Portrait, 1948. Photograph: © The Lucian Freud

Freud believed that, even when he painted other people, he was always painting himself – his perspective, his point of view, his particular relationship with the sitter.

‘My work is purely autobiographical. It’s about myself and my surroundings.’

And so when Freud painted his son Freddy we see the artist’s own reflection in the window. When he painted ‘Flora with Blue Toenails’ his shadow looms ominously over her in the foreground. And look, there are Freud’s feet at the foot of that sofa. There are a couple of his self-portraits leaning against a wall. He is ever present. 

'I thought, after putting so many other people through it, I ought to subject myself to the same treatment.'

Freud painted or drew his own image throughout his life. He holds up a white feather to us, a gift from his first girlfriend. He regards us through a houseplant, from the side of his wife’s bed. He looks startled and surprised - open mouthed and wide eyed, as if he has seen himself for the very first time. His lips are fleshy, his nose slightly twisted, his stare piercing. He appears sceptical, challenging. His face is covered in shadows that suggest the contours of his soul: a landscape of doubt, misgivings and resentment.

Bur despite his famous grandfather, Freud resisted psychological interpretations of his work. He was seeking physical not spiritual truth. He often drew his own image in his notebooks. Here we see his roughly sketched face surrounded by cryptic words: Prudent Miss, High Authority, Time To Reflect. We think for a moment that this may signify something rather important. And then realise he’s calculating his next bet on the horses. 

'Self-Portrait with a Black Eye' - Lucian Freud

On one occasion Freud came away from an argument with a taxi driver with a black eye. He rushed back to the studio to capture his disfigured face, the dark swollen mess that his left eye had become.

‘I don’t accept the information that I get when I look at myself and that’s where the trouble starts.’

Freud painted himself with the aid of mirrors rather than photographs. He preferred natural light. Although he avoided having mirrors about the house, he set them up at various places around his studio, so that he could catch himself from unexpected angles. For ‘Reflection with Two Children’ he placed a mirror on the floor. He towers over us, his body foreshortened, sinister and threatening. Two of his children stand outside the composition. Are we seeing a child’s eye view of their father?

Of course, most of us nowadays are given to self-reflection in some form or another. We like to consider and compare our appearance, our character, our achievements. But for the most part we tend to look in the mirror square-on. We see a consistent picture of ourselves, from just one perspective. It is merely selfie-awareness.

Freud suggests that we should be sceptical of this image; that we should try to capture ourselves unawares; to see ourselves as others see us. If we want a proper reflection of our true self, why not ask our friends and colleagues, our partners and families? How do you see me? What do you make of me? What are my strengths? Where am I going wrong? We should seek to see ourselves from unexpected angles.

'I don’t want to retire. I want to paint myself to death.’

When he was 70 Freud painted himself nude for the first time. With unflinching frankness he conveyed the frailty of his ageing body, posing with unlaced boots, brandishing his easel and palette knife, proud of the tools of his trade. He kept reworking the portrait over several months, never quite satisfied.

‘I couldn’t scrap it, because I would be doing away with myself.’

'One day you're going to have to face
A deep dark truthful mirror.
And it's going to tell you things that I still love you too much to say.’

Elvis Costello, ‘Deep Dark Truthful Mirror'

 No 256

Not Just Teaching, But Learning: Co-Creation with Pam Tanowitz

Everyone Keeps Me by Pam Tanowitz: Anna Rose O’Sullivan, Hannah Grennell and Beatriz Stix-Brunell. © Foteini Christofilopoulou, courtesy the Royal Opera House

‘It’s not just me teaching them. I’m learning from them.’
Pam Tanowitz

I recently attended a talk and rehearsal given by the inspiring New York choreographer Pam Tanowitz. She was creating a work with the Royal Ballet to mark the centenary of legendary American choreographer Merce Cunningham. 

With his clean lines and fast footwork Cunningham made dance that was independent of music, narrative or concept. He collaborated with artists, designers and musicians, and experimented with new technology. He also embraced the possibilities of chance: rehearsing pieces in segments that could be reconfigured just before the show in an order determined by rolling dice or flipping a coin. 

Like Cunningham Tanowitz begins by rehearsing without music. Like Cunningham no step is off limits. She also embraces chance. In a recent work the third movement became the first after it was mixed up on her computer.

Tanowitz explains that her approach is more about task than character; more about structure than story; more about movement than music.

In the piece Tanowitz has created with the Royal Ballet, ‘Everyone Keeps Me,’ dancers twist and turn, hop and spin, shake and judder, wave and salute. Their moves are elegant, but on the edge of awkward. Sequences are consciously dislocated and out of joint. Sometimes they dance together and sometimes alone. Sometimes they stare into each other’s eyes and sometimes they look away. Sometimes they lounge on the floor and regard the action from a distance. 

You may want to see in the dance the ebb and flow of human relationships, the erratic interaction of people’s fortunes. But Tanowitz insists that the meaning is in the movement.

‘The meaning is in the structure, the steps, the dance and the people. I want it to be viscerally compelling.’

Choreographer Pam Tanowitz Photo by Ted Hearne

Tanowitz usually works with her own company, with dancers who are articulate in her distinct grammar and way of working. When she choreographs with a new company, as here, she is keen to make use of the particular physicality and style of movement that fresh dancers bring.

‘The dancers’ personality and technique, the ballet history in their bodies.’

In rehearsing the material Tanowitz takes a phrase, then reverses it, manipulates it, and makes the dancers travel across the floor with it. She explores the many ways in which a sequence can evolve.

‘I like choices. I want to see all the options.’

Tanowitz characterises her process as conversation. They are talking dance.

‘It’s about who’s in the room with me. It’s a conversation between me, the dancers and the audience.’

In the commercial creative sector we could learn a good deal from Tanowitz - about embracing chance, non-sequiturs and abstraction. But I was particularly interested in what she teaches us about co-creation - something we discuss a good deal nowadays.

For Tanowitz co-creation inevitably entails a certain amount of letting go, of giving collaborators room to explore, to experiment, to express themselves. 

‘I’m not interested in micromanagement.’

She is opening herself up to her partners, to their characters and ideas, responding to their particular styles and ways of working. She is actively listening and being attentive, learning and being inspired. Her process is built on dialogue and trust. 

But by no means does Tanowitz concede authorial control. Far from it. Having investigated permutations and possibilities, she then edits, selects and makes choices. She adapts, arranges and assembles. 

Tanowitz reminds us that if we want great output, we need to think seriously about our input.

‘Process is my favourite part. The show is my least favourite.’

Tanowitz seems a smart, articulate, humble person, with a natural rapport with her dancers and a dry sense of humour. She ponders problems of movement like an architect poring over a complex set of plans.

‘I like solving logistical problems artistically.’

At one point in the rehearsal Tanowitz struggles to find the appropriate instruction for two dancers. She hesitates.

‘What’s the word I was looking for?’

The dancers resolve the puzzle intuitively with a new and different movement. Tanowitz turns away, satisfied.

‘Good. I didn’t need the word.’

'Time won't change you.
Money won't change you.
I haven't got the faintest idea.
Everything seems to be up in the air at this time.
I need something to change your mind.’

Talking Heads, ‘Mind’ (D Byrne / J Harrison)

No 255

‘Stimulating Enemies’: Career Lessons from Katharine Hepburn

By Alfred Eisenstaedt/The Life Picture Collection/Getty Images

‘I think I was born in the right year for my personality. Pants came in, low heels came in, the terrible woman who spoke her mind came in. I was born absolutely at the right time. That’s the story of me – great timing.’
Katharine Hepburn

Katharine Hepburn was one of Hollywood’s brightest stars. Over a 48-year period, from 1933 to 1981, she won four Academy Awards for acting, and she was nominated for eight others. In all she appeared in 42 films. She teaches us a good deal about independence of thought and courage of convictions.

‘I don’t think I’m an eccentric. No, I’m just something from New England that was very American and brought up by two extremely intelligent people who gave us the greatest gift that man can give anyone – and that is freedom from fear.’

Katharine Houghton Hepburn was born in 1907, in Hartford, Connecticut, the second of six children. Her father was a physician who campaigned for legislative reform and public education about venereal disease. Her mother was a leading figure in the women’s suffrage movement. 

'I remember as a child going around with ‘Votes For Women’ balloons. I learnt early what it is to be snubbed for a good cause.’

The Hepburn children were encouraged to speak their minds and express themselves. They were somewhat unruly, unconventional outsiders, and they were often taunted by the other neighbourhood kids.

‘It gave me a nice chip on my shoulder, so I thought goddammit, I’m going to go out and amount to something.’

When she was 13 Hepburn’s beloved older brother, Tom, hanged himself. She discovered the body. Thereafter she adopted Tom’s birthday as her own.

Hepburn is often characterised as having had a privileged upbringing. But one can’t help observing the number of setbacks she encountered on her journey to stardom; and the way that she consistently turned negative experiences into positive motivation.

Hepburn was a somewhat reluctant student at the elite Bryn Mawr College. It was there that she developed an interest in theatre. After graduating in 1928, she got parts in small touring companies and then Broadway. Her early efforts had mixed results. In two years she was fired from four productions during rehearsals.

‘I was too tall, too fast, too loud, or just not very good… I blame them. I think they wanted something typical.’

Eventually after a breakthrough performance in ‘The Warrior’s Husband’ in 1932, Hepburn was signed by RKO Pictures and taken to Hollywood. With her third picture ‘Morning Glory’ she won her first Oscar.

Hepburn was not the typical Hollywood actor. She was tall and fresh faced, with red hair, freckles and sharp cheekbones. And she had a patrician accent that actor Tallulah Bankhead said sounded like 'nickels dropping in a slot machine.' 

'I have an angular face, an angular body, and, I suppose, an angular personality, which jabs into people.'

Hepburn gained a reputation for being ‘difficult.’ She refused to sign autographs, rarely gave interviews to the press, and was fiercely protective of her private life. Wags took to calling her ‘Katharine of Arrogance’. She didn’t participate in the Hollywood social scene, and never picked up an award in person

‘I don’t believe that wildly in prizes… I mean, how good is the part?’

No sooner had Hepburn hit the heights than she was out of favour. In 1933 her performance in the Broadway production of ‘The Lake’ was poorly received, and she had to pay to extract herself from her contract. Dorothy Parker observed:

‘Miss Hepburn runs the full gamut of emotions all the way from A to B.’

Between 1934 and 1938 Hepburn appeared in a series of mostly weak and unsuccessful movies. Even Howard Hawks' screwball comedy classic ‘Bringing Up Baby’ was a box office flop. She was turned down for the part of Scarlett O’Hara in ‘Gone with the Wind.’ In 1938 the president of the Independent Theater Owners of America published an article listing Hepburn, among others, as 'box office poison.'

Hepburn’s fortunes turned when she was approached by playwright Philip Barry with a script that had been written specifically with her in mind: ‘The Philadelphia Story’. Performing in the role of society girl Tracy Lord, she took the show to Broadway, bought the film rights and then sold it to MGM.

‘I bought the play ‘The Philadelphia Story’ when it opened because I’m practical, you see. I have common sense. And I knew that all those beautiful successful Hollywood ladies would want it. And I thought, if I owned it, they couldn’t have it.’

‘The Philadelphia Story’ was one of the biggest hits of 1940. Hepburn was back.

Hepburn’s next chapter was marked by a series of nine films she made with Spencer Tracy. In comedy classics like ‘Woman of the Year’, ‘Adam’s Rib’ and ‘Pat and Mike’ she tended to play a smart, sophisticated but cold aristocrat, opposite Tracy’s down-to-earth, warm-hearted everyman. The partnership culminated in 1967 with Tracy’s last film,  ‘Guess Who's Coming To Dinner.’ She was given an Academy Award for this movie and went on to win further Oscars for 1968's The Lion In Winter’ and 1981’s ‘On Golden Pond.’

One can’t help being struck by the force of Hepburn’s personality. She could be tough and soft, aloof and intimate, casual and glamorous. She had an impish smile and a sharp tongue, an independent spirit and a lust for life.

If Hepburn were with us now, these are six career lessons she might want to pass on:

1. Be Yourself

Hepburn was proud to be different and she had a strong sense of who she was.

'If you always do what interests you, at least one person is pleased.'

As well as having a unique personality, Hepburn had her own distinctive look: wide legged trousers, flat shoes, silk blouses and blazers. No make-up. She claimed not to own a dress, and some credit her with the invention of the sports casual look. 

'I wear my sort of clothes to save me the trouble of deciding which clothes to wear.’

2. Be Independent

Hepburn always gave the impression that she didn’t really need other people. And she believed fundamentally in personal responsibility.

'As one goes through life one learns that if you don't paddle your own canoe, you don't move.’

In 1928 Hepburn married Ludlow Ogden Smith, a friend from her college days. She didn’t take him to Hollywood with her and they divorced in 1934. After that she resisted being tied down.

'If you want to sacrifice the admiration of many men for the criticism of one, go ahead, get married.'

Hepburn was always happy to play the role of the outsider.

‘I never bought a house in Hollywood. I didn’t want my bones to lie in that dry ground.’

3. Be Energetic

‘There’s no laurel worth resting on.’

Hepburn had tremendous energy. As a child she took ice cold baths every morning. She rode, swam and cycled, and played golf and tennis to a high level throughout her life.

‘I was never easygoing. I was supercharged. I have a lot of energy.’

Her relentless dynamism propelled her forward and preserved her from nostalgia.

‘I don’t like to be reminded of the past. I just think onward, onward.’

4. Be the Best

Hepburn was demanding of herself and of others, and she always aimed for the best.

‘I hate the feeling of doing half as well as I can do. Perfection is thrilling.’

Inevitably setting high standards required discipline and self-control.

‘Without discipline there’s no way to live. There’s one person you can correct in life and that’s yourself. I can’t worry about your own character, but I can improve my own.’

5. Be Fearless

Hepburn consistently demonstrated personal courage in the management of her career. 

‘If you have been taught basic freedom from fear and a basic belief in what you’re doing, that is sufficient to carry you when everyone else and his uncle thinks you’re wrong. And you still think well goddammit I don’t think I’m wrong. I think I’m right and I’m gonna do it!’

She was never afraid to break the rules if she didn’t agree with them.

'If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.’

6. Be Resilient

‘My attitude invites sharp criticism and I’m perfectly willing to accept it.’

Hepburn had a strong point of view and she was assertive in putting her case. From her negotiations with studios to her dealings with directors she was consistently firm, tenacious and tough.

‘They’ve got to know you mean what you say. So don’t argue, take it or leave it. Do it.’

Hepburn was well aware that her personality and strident views could provoke animosity in others. But she was not in any way uncomfortable with that.

'Enemies are so stimulating.’

I was reminded of Hepburn when I was judging this year’s APG Creative Strategy Awards. 

We often talk freely nowadays about the need for brave thinking and daring work. But in the modern environment bold ideas first have to navigate caution and conservatism from corporate stakeholders, and then criticism and carping in the public realm. Courage has consequences. The modern Planner must be genuinely tough and resilient to defy ‘the haters.’

I was struck in the judging process by the fact that often quite understated and self-deprecating individuals had displayed admirable tenacity in the pursuit of excellence and change. It’s part of the charm of the Planning community perhaps.

‘Cold sober I find myself absolutely fascinating.’

In 1973, at the age of 66, the publicity shy Hepburn gave her first TV interview, on The Dick Cavett Show. It lasted two hours and was split over two evenings. Online you can see the complete recordings of this conversation, including the preliminary exchanges when Hepburn turns up at the studio, unaware that the cameras are on, and makes sure she’s comfortable with the set. 

She’s wearing slacks and sandals, a white polo neck and black shirt, collar up. No make-up. She is clearly a little nervous. But she’s also absolutely sure of what she wants. She tries out the two chairs. She asks for her hair to be adjusted, but doesn’t want a mirror. (‘Never face the truth.’) She requests that a small table be replaced by a more robust one. We realise that this is so she can conduct the whole interview with her foot resting raffishly on the table. And then she demands that a rather garish carpet be removed. Production crew mumble things in the background. Hepburn remarks:

‘Don’t tell me what’s wrong. Just fix it.’

That’s exactly right, Miss Hepburn!

No 254

‘Not the Same, But Similar’: A Lesson Learned at My Local Dry Cleaners

Moroni, ’The Tailor'

I have always imagined that my life would be considerably enhanced by longer legs.

I’d acquire a dash of elegance, a certain swagger. I’d walk down the road with a more confident gait. I’d dance with more grace, jog with more poise. I’d all of a sudden look good in loose linen suits and loafers. And I’d enjoy curling up comfortably on the sofa, tucking my long legs beneath me. Everything would be in proportion. All would be well with the world.

I recently found myself trying on a new pair of jeans. Examining the available sizes, I noticed that they didn’t come any shorter than a 30’’ inside leg.  I was convinced that I couldn’t possibly reside on the absolute extreme of short legs. (I may have short legs, but I’m not a short person.) So I selected a 32’’ pair. I tried them on and took a brief glance at my reflection in the changing room mirror. On a cursory assessment, this pair seemed fine. 

‘Yes. They’re OK. Let’s buy and be gone.’

Back at home, in the privacy of my bedroom, the jeans gathered horribly round my ankles. I found myself examining their length in the wall mirror, trying to hike my belt further up my waist. When out and about I took to scrutinising the ankles of fellow pedestrians, assessing them for hangs, folds and crinkles. 

My concerns were confirmed. With the exception of a few East London hipsters, most people’s jeans stopped appropriately half way down their heels. When I did see someone with a similar ankle-gather to mine, they looked wretched - sort of juvenile and unkempt. 

I determined to have my jeans adjusted at the local dry cleaners. I was aware that this was no straightforward task as my mother had butchered several pairs of flairs when I was a kid – too much fabric left folded inside above the hem; no tight brown stitching to finish them off. 

Ali is a gentle Turkish chap whose English vocabulary is limited to those words he needs to sustain him in his work. Looking him straight in the eye, I said: 

‘Take up 2 inches, Ali? Is OK?’ 
‘Yes, is good.’ 
‘With brown stitching like this?’ 
He nodded. 
‘The same’, I said, pointing at the hem of the jeans.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Not the same. But similar.’

Clearly Ali, though he had few English words, had learned that it was important never to promise the same. That was a claim that could come back to bite you.

Not the same. But similar.

Many’s the time in my advertising career that we were approached by Clients wanting the same. The same as Levi’s, or Boddingtons, or Audi. The same as the one we did for the UK market. The same as the mood edit. The same process, the same team, the same ad. The same as before. 

I confess I often found it easy to say: ‘Yes, of course. We’ll give you the same. No problem at all. We can do that.’ 

But I knew deep inside that you can’t deliver the same chemistry, the same magic, the same impact; at a different time, in a different place, on a different category.

Teams must find their own way of doing things. Sectors require their own language. Brands need their own signature style. And campaigns have to evolve and move on.

So we should all take a tip from Ali’s book. Never promise the same. It’s fool’s gold. All we can do is disappoint. 

But perhaps we can do something similar.

Ali did an excellent job on my jeans. I guess, if you look closely, you can tell that the stitching sits a little too far above the hem - just marginally. But then again, that’s what we had agreed: not the same, but similar.

'You always won every time you placed a bet.
You're still damn good, no one's gotten to you yet.
Every time they were sure they had you caught,
You were quicker than they thought.
You'd just turn your back and walk.

And you're still the same.
I caught up with you yesterday.
Moving game to game,
No one standing in your way.
Turning on the charm,
Long enough to get you by.
You're still the same,
You still aim high.’

Bob Seger, ‘Still the Same’ (Seger Robert Clark)

No. 253