Planning Is What a Planner Does: Bruce Nauman and a Solution to Imposter Syndrome

Bruce Nauman's Human Nature/Knows Doesn 't Know (1983/1986) at Tate Modern Photo: D. Palmer

‘What I am really concerned about is what art is supposed to be - and can become.’
Bruce Nauman

I recently visited a fine retrospective of the work of artist Bruce Nauman (Tate Modern, London, until 21 February).

Nauman was born in Fort Wayne, Indiana in 1941, the son of an engineer at General Electric. He studied mathematics and physics at the University of Wisconsin, and art at the University of California. He went on to set up studios in Northern California and then Pasadena, before settling in New Mexico in 1979. His work covers a broad range of media: sculpture, photography, neon, video, drawing, printmaking and performance. 

Nauman films himself stepping carefully through a narrow corridor, walking around the perimeter of a square ‘in an exaggerated manner’, falling backwards onto a corner wall. He films his studio at night when he’s not there.

Nauman records a scream, puts it on a reel-to-reel tape machine and covers it in a concrete block. He makes a cast of the space underneath his chair. He pinches his flesh as if curious about its material properties. 

‘You may not want to be here.’

Nauman plays a violin tuned to the notes D, E, A and D. He washes his hands vigorously and repeatedly at a studio sink. A cup of coffee tumbles and spills, over and over again. Neon instructions flash on and off:

‘Laugh and Die, Play and Live, Speak and Live, Play and Die, Feel and Die, Sleep and Live.’

he True Artist Helps the World by Revealing Mystic Truths (Window or Wall Sign) 1967 Kunstmuseum Basel (Basel, Switzwerland)

Nauman’s world is disturbing and disorientating. Our anxiety is enhanced by the murmur of projectors; by the hum of neon and amplified footfalls; by distant yelling and screaming clowns.

On a collection of monitors the same bald disembodied head rotates while shouting aggressively: 

‘Feed me, Eat me, Help me, Hurt me.’ 

Nauman seems to be concerned with the big questions: with truth and lies, agency and chance, life and death. He wants to rouse us from our stupor; to shake us from our habituated norms. 

‘You have to kind of not watch anything, so you can be aware of everything.'

Nauman returns repeatedly to the theme of children’s games. We are invited to consider card tricks, balloon dogs, hangman and musical chairs. 

Bruce Nauman (October 7, 2020-February 21, 2021) at Tate Modern, London: installation view featuring “Anthro/Socio (Rinde Spinning)” (1992); (photo: Tate Photography (Matt Greenwood); artwork © Bruce Nauman / ARS, NY and DACS, London 2020)

‘Somebody is always left out. The first one to be excluded always feels terrible. That kid doesn’t get to play anymore, has nothing to do, has to stand in the corner.’

Nauman seems to be asking: Is there some secret in the inherent cruelty of these games; in the unfairness, the deception, the repetition? Isn’t this what life’s about?

'My work is basically an outgrowth of the anger I feel about the human condition. The aspects of it that make me angry are our capacity for cruelty and the ability people have to ignore situations they don't like.’

We are being watched by a camera as we walk along a wall. As we turn the corner we catch a glimpse of ourselves on a monitor. And then we are gone. There’s a wire mesh cage with a narrow claustrophobic corridor. Do we want to go in? A woman takes instructions from an unseen man.

'Sit down, lie down, roll over, play dead, sit up, stand up.’

This is a dark, dystopian place of concrete and cages; of surveillance cameras and flickering screens; of brash neon signs and black marble blocks illuminated by sodium light. It suggests themes of disorientation and disempowerment. It prompts paranoia.

‘Learn to recognise when you need to know something.'

I left the exhibition in awe of the diversity of Nauman’s thoughts and provocations. He refuses to be constrained by conventional subjects, materials and practice. He continually explores what an artist and artwork can be. 

I was particularly struck by Nauman’s description of his evolving relationship with his craft.

'When I was in art school, I thought art was something I would learn how to do, and then I would just do it. At a certain point I realized that it wasn't going to work like that. Basically, I would have to start over every day and figure out what art was going to be.’

Nauman gives a compelling definition of the relationship between art and the artist.

‘If I was an artist and I was in the studio, then whatever I was doing must be art. At this point art became more of an activity and less of a product.’

I wonder, can we learn something here about Planners and Planning?

Still from 'Clown Torture', 1987, by Bruce Nauman. https://theartsdesk.com

In the early years of my career I spent a good deal of time in search of the definitive course, the critical text, the rules and regulations that would qualify me as a Planner. I wanted to learn how to do it. 

I was troubled by imposter syndrome. I had arrived in the trade in a roundabout way, via Market Research. I lacked the classical BMP education and I doubted that I had all the skills, talents or accomplishments of a Proper Planner. It said Planner on my business card, but was that justified? I anticipated that ultimately I would be exposed as a fraud.

I’m not sure I ever got the education I was craving. I doubt it ever existed. Indeed, when I reflect on what we did as a Planning community at BBH over those years, there comes to mind a vast disordered array of methods, styles and approaches to our quest for understanding. 

We interviewed semioticians and psychologists, ecologists and economists, fashionistas and futurists. We sought to comprehend the pioneer spirit, the colour yellow, the meaning of play. We researched in nightclubs and briefed in safari parks. We visited archives, farms and factories. We observed people in shops and doing the laundry, went on roadtrips and barhops. We examined changing definitions of human progress and female heroism, the language of cool and the craft of choreography. We conducted blind taste and deprivation tests. We watched parents watching their children, and asked children to draw their parents.  We commissioned statistical models, regression analyses and price elasticity studies. We created brand planets and media ecosystems, mood edits and manifestos. We drew pyramids, conveyor belts and stadium charts. We rebranded milk and redesigned jeans. We constructed a teenager’s bedroom.

To be fair, while some of these exercises were illuminating and fruitful, others were illusory and futile. But all were embarked upon in earnest endeavour; with a curiosity to find fresh perspectives and compelling answers. 

Planning is a discipline that is constantly seeking to define itself; endlessly striving to delineate and circumscribe, to classify and set limits.

Nauman prompts us to be more liberal in our understanding of our trade. Planning is an activity, not a product. It is not something we learn how to do. Planning is what a Planner does. And we should start every day trying to figure out what that can be.

Nauman’s preoccupations are perhaps best summed up in his piece ‘Clown Torture.’ The artist examines the jester’s obligation to perform; his or her determination to obscure their true self. He is drawn to the fears of a clown.

A clown repeatedly enters a room and a bucket of water comes crashing down on top of him. A clown jumps up and down screaming. A clown sits on the toilet reading a magazine. A clown recites a nursery rhyme.

'Pete and Repeat were sitting on a fence. Pete fell off. Who was left? Repeat.’

'Now if there's a smile on my face,
It's only there trying to fool the public.
But when it comes down to fooling you
Now, honey, that's quite a different subject.
But don't let my glad expression
Give you the wrong impression.
Really I'm sad.
Oh I'm sadder than sad. 
You're gone, and I'm hurtin' so bad.
Like a clown, I pretend to be glad. 
Now there's some sad things known to man,
But ain't too much sadder than the tears of a clown,
When there's no one around.’

Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, ’The Tears of a Clown’ (H Cosby, S Robinson, S Wonder)

Wishing everyone a Happy New Year and an improving 2021.
Look after yourselves. 

No. 312

A Love Supreme: The Spiritual Journey of John Coltrane

'I start in the middle of a sentence and move both directions at once.'
John Coltrane

I recently watched a fine Netflix documentary considering the life and work of saxophonist and composer John Coltrane (‘Chasing Trane’).

Coltrane traveled all the way from bebop to free jazz. He gave us rapid runs and complex chord progressions; cascades of notes forming ‘sheets of sound.’ He embraced experimentation and improvisation; exhibited boundless curiosity and transcendent spirituality. He created ‘Blue Train’, ‘Giant Steps’ and ‘My Favorite Things.’ He was ‘A Love Supreme.’

Coltrane teaches us how to handle the uneven contours of a creative journey; to keep learning, practicing and exploring; to search for a higher purpose.

1. Learn in the Minor Leagues

Coltrane was born in 1926 in Hamlet, North Carolina. A quiet only-child, when he was 12 his father, aunt and grandparents died within a few months of each other. 

In 1943 Coltrane’s mother took him to Philadelphia and bought him his first saxophone. He played in high school and community bands, and gained his first professional work in a cocktail lounge trio. At 19 he enlisted in the Navy and played in his base swing band in Hawaii. 

The first recordings of Coltrane from this time do not suggest that he was a particularly special talent. Yet once out of the Navy he set off on the road to learn his trade: working with all kinds of ensembles, playing all kinds of styles.

‘I wanted to find my own way, but I wasn’t ready. There was so much to learn yet… I accepted work from all kinds of groups, even if I didn’t agree with their musical tenets - because I could learn something while making a living. They were, in comparison to baseball, like the Minor Leagues.’

2. Practice Compulsively

In 1945 Coltrane saw Charlie Parker perform. The virtuoso saxophonist became an idol for him, and they played together occasionally in the late 1940s.

‘Charlie Parker did all the things I would like to do and more.’

Parker set the bar high. Coltrane practiced obsessively, ’25 hours a day’. While on tour, a fellow hotel guest complained about the noise. Coltrane simply removed the saxophone from his mouth and carried on playing in silence. He would practice a single note for hours on end and fall asleep with the horn at his side.

‘He was such a compulsive practiser, like he wanted to practise all the time…When you start doing that you get a connection to the instrument… It starts to feel like an extension of yourself.’
Kamasi Washington

3. ‘Be as Original as You Can Be’

From 1955 to 1957 Coltrane played with Miles Davis in the ‘First Great Quintet’. Though Coltrane was still relatively green at this stage, Davis recognised in him a pioneering spirit with an appetite for invention. 

‘Why he picked me, I don’t know. Maybe he saw something in my playing that he hoped would grow. I had this desire, which I think we all have, to be as original as I could be.’

4. Open Yourself Up to a ‘Spiritual Awakening’

The jazz community at that time was plagued with drugs, and in 1955 heroin killed Charlie Parker. When Coltrane himself became addicted, Davis fired him for his unreliability.

Coltrane, determined to kick his habit and clean up, locked himself in his room and went cold turkey. He emerged, through phenomenal strength of will, with a clear head and a fierce commitment to his music.

‘When I stopped drinking and all that other stuff, it helped me in all kinds of ways. I was able to play better right then. I could play better and think better. Everything.’

Above all Coltrane now had a luminous spirituality.

‘During the year 1957 I experienced by the grace of God a spiritual awakening which was to lead me to a richer, fuller, more productive life. At that time in gratitude I humbly asked to be given the means and privilege to make others happy through music.’

5. ‘Tune Yourself’

Once clean, Coltrane worked with Thelonius Monk and recorded a number of albums under his own name, including ‘Blue Train.’

‘I just started to do what I wanted.’

By 1958 Coltrane was back with Miles Davis’ group, and he participated in the recording of the classic ‘Kind of Blue.’ Davis was a brooding presence, but he gave Coltrane space to express himself. On one occasion Davis challenged Coltrane.

‘Why you play so much?’
‘I can’t find a good place to stop.’

In 1959 Coltrane recorded the album ‘Giant Steps,’ which contained only his own compositions and demonstrated his growing self-confidence. 

‘Writing has always been a secondary thing for me, but I find that lately I’m spending more and more time at it. I’m trying to tune myself, to look to myself and to nature and to other sounds in music, and interpret things I feel there.’

6. ‘Keep Experimenting’

Next Coltrane formed his own quartet, and in 1961 the album ‘My Favorite Things’ was a major hit. It incorporated elements of Indian music, modal and free jazz. 

‘I’ve got to keep experimenting. I feel that I’m just beginning. I have a part of what I’m looking for in my grasp, but not all. I like Eastern music, Africa, Spain, Scotland, India or China. It’s that universal side of music which interests and draws me. And that’s where I want to go.’

7. ‘Have Great Confidence in One Another’

Coltrane worked with a number of different musicians in this period, and eventually settled on his ‘Classic Quartet’: with McCoy Tyner on piano, Jimmy Garrison on bass and Elvin Jones on drums.

‘I’m very lucky. I work with very fine musicians. They’re very inventive. I don’t have to tell anybody what to do. We have a great confidence in one another. That’s essential. They’re with me in always wanting the band to move into new areas. We don’t believe in standing still.’

Tyner bears witness to the Quartet’s team spirit.

‘We were like brothers. We were there for a reason, which was to create beautiful music…We were committed.’

8. Resist All Categorisation

Coltrane shut himself away in a room above a garage at his home in Long Island. He emerged ‘like Moses from the mountaintop’ with a fully formed masterpiece.

‘It’s the first time I have everything ready. I’ve completed the project. I know exactly what I’m going to do in the studio.’

Released in early 1965, ‘A Love Supreme’ was a four-part suite expressing the purity of Coltrane’s faith and love of life.

‘I think the main thing a musician would like to do is give a picture to the listener of the many wonderful things he knows of and senses in the universe. That’s what music is to me. It’s just another way of saying: this is a big, beautiful universe we live in that’s been given to us, and here’s an example of just how magnificent and encompassing it is.’

By now Coltrane was casting off the shackles of traditional definitions, assumptions and expectations.

‘I myself don’t recognise the word jazz. I mean, we’re sold under the name, but to me the word doesn’t exist. I just feel that I play John Coltrane.’

9. ‘Have No Fear’

Coltrane expanded his band to a quintet: with Pharaoh Sanders on tenor saxophone, his second wife Alice Coltrane on piano, Jimmy Garrison on bass, and Rashied Ali on drums. He determined to push on again.

'Damn the rules, it’s the feeling that counts. You play all 12 notes in your solo anyway.’

When touring, numbers would last up to an hour and include 15-minute solos. Some critics and audience members were confused by this ‘speaking in tongues’, but Coltrane was not deterred.

‘I have no fear about my music being too way out. My goal remains the same. And that is to uplift people as much as I can, to inspire them to realise more and more of their capacities for leading meaningful lives. Because there certainly is meaningful life.’

10 ‘Keep on Cleaning the Mirror’

Coltrane was both mystical and intellectual. He believed his music should articulate raw, unfiltered thought, pure emotion and true feelings; and that in so doing we could all learn about ourselves. This required the artist to maintain ongoing self-discipline: ‘to keep on cleaning the mirror.’

'There is never any end. There are always new sounds to imagine; new feelings to get at. And always, there is the need to keep purifying these feelings and sounds so that we can really see what we've discovered in its pure state. So that we can see more and more clearly what we are. In that way, we can give to those who listen the essence, the best of what we are. But to do that at each stage, we have to keep on cleaning the mirror.’

11. ‘Be the Force Which Is Truly Good’

Coltrane died tragically young, of liver cancer, at the age of 40 in 1967.

By the end of his spiritual journey his music had become an articulation of his true self, drawing from deep inside his soul.

'You can play a shoestring if you're sincere.’

Coltrane encouraged us to think of life and nature as beautiful and precious; to dedicate ourselves to purity of expression. He wanted us to be a force for good in the world.

'To be a musician is really something. It goes very, very deep. My music is the spiritual expression of what I am - my faith, my knowledge, my being. I know that there are bad forces. I know that there are forces out here that bring suffering to others and misery to the world. But I want to be the opposite force. I want to be the force which is truly for good.’

Time for a festive break.
Have a restful Christmas. 
Next post will be on Thursday 7 January 2021.
See you on the other side, I hope.

'Oh my thoughts, I
Return to summer time.
When I kissed your ankle,
I kissed you through the night.
All my gifts I gave everything to you.
Your strange imagination
You threw it all away.
Now my heart is
Returned to sister winter
Now my heart is
As cold as ice

All my friends, I
Apologise, apologise.
All my friends, I've
Returned to sister winter.
And my friends, I've
Returned to wish you all the best.
And my friends, I've
Returned to wish you a Happy Christmas.’

Sufjan Stevens,'Sister Winter'

No. 311

The Fallen Idol: ‘We Make One Another’

‘You know what happens to little boys who tell lies…’
Mrs Baines, ‘The Fallen Idol’

'The Fallen Idol' is a fine 1948 drama directed by Carol Reed, based on a short story by Graham Greene.

The film is set in and around the French Embassy in London over a weekend when the Ambassador is away. We watch events through the eyes of Phillipe, the Ambassador’s eight-year-old son (Bobby Henrey). Phillipe observes from the balcony, through the banisters. He spies from the fire escape, through the hall window. He has only a restricted view of the adult world and he only partially comprehends its complexities.

Phillipe idolises Baines the butler (Ralph Richardson), a reserved, gentle man who keeps him entertained with exotic stories and imaginative games. But the boy is not so keen on Baines’ wife (Sonia Dresdel), the cold, strict and joyless housekeeper.

Baines, trapped in a loveless marriage, has been secretly courting a secretary who works at the Embassy. Phillipe stumbles into the couple meeting in a teashop.

Phillipe: Funny, isn't it? Julie working for the Embassy and all this time she was your niece.
Baines: Yes. It's a scream.

Baines asks Phillipe to keep their encounter to himself. It will be their little secret.

‘Give me your handkerchief. It's things like that give secrets away.’

Events come to a head. There is a quarrel and Mrs Baines falls down the Embassy’s grand marble staircase to her death. The police are called. Impressionable young Phillipe wants to protect his friend, but at the same time feels compelled to tell the truth. He must reassess his fallen idol.

The film concerns itself with secrets and lies. Baines lies to Phillipe about his adventures in Africa. Phillipe lies to Mrs Baines about his pet snake MacGregor. Baines lies to his wife about his affair. Mrs Baines lies to Phillipe to find out what he knows. It’s a picture of a social order sustained and corrupted by falsehood.

Phillipe must learn that some lies are well intentioned and innocent, while others are all-consuming and corrosive.

Baines: There's lies and lies.
Mrs. Baines: What do you mean by that?
Baines: Some lies are just kindness.

At a critical point in the story Baines endeavours to explain to Phillipe the failure of his marriage.

Baines: There are faults on both sides, Phile. We don't have any call to judge. Perhaps she was what she was because I am what I am. We ought to be very careful, Phile. 'Cause we make one another.
Phillipe: I thought God made us.
Baines: Trouble is, we take a hand in the game.

I was quite taken with this idea: ‘we make one another.’

We spend a good deal of time nowadays asserting our individual freedom and personal responsibility. But sometimes we neglect to consider that personal responsibility extends to the impact we have on others. By our words and actions we shape the way people think, feel and behave. We set the tone, determine the norm. We create context.

This applies as much in business as it does in ordinary life. Leaders must recognise that their role is not just to fix corporate vision and strategy; to meet commercial targets and goals. They must also define corporate culture and values: establish the ethical environment in which staff can perform; set the standards by which colleagues are expected to behave. We are making one another.

It’s sometimes believed that to succeed in commerce you have to be hard-hearted and cold-blooded. And yet I read recently about a study conducted by researchers at University of California that challenges this assumption. 670 students were asked to take a personality test. Ten years later the subjects were interviewed again, along with their respective work colleagues. It transpires that those students who had been aggressive, manipulative and selfish progressed no further in their careers than the kind and generous ones. Indeed the selfish students’ failure to form good relationships with their colleagues had constrained their advancement. In an interdependent world nice people don’t finish last.

In the middle of the police investigation into the death of Mrs Baines, a smart little man interrupts proceedings to adjust one of the Embassy’s ornamental clocks. When asked to come back later, the man persists, and explains that the procedure really must be carried out on the first Monday of every month.

‘They behave much better if they’re looked after.’

'You can't hide your lyin’ eyes,
And your smile is a thin disguise.
I thought by now you'd realize,
There ain't no way to hide your lyin' eyes.’
The Eagles, ‘Lyin’ Eyes’ (D Henley / G Frey)

No. 310

The Creative Kip: An Uncomfortable Incident in My Celtic Beanie

Carl Holsøe - Sleeping Woman

'Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.’
William Shakespeare, 'Macbeth'

Many years ago, whilst wandering amongst the market stalls by the harbour in Dingle, I bought myself a Celtic Beanie. It was knitted with bold horizontal stripes in tones of orange, ochre, brown and yellow. It fitted snugly over my unkempt grey hair and made me look, I thought, rather bohemian.

My Celtic Beanie became something of a comfort hat for me. I would whip it out at the first sign of rain or cold, whatever I happened to be wearing, even a suit. I kept it in my brief case and took it with me on holidays and work trips. I washed it infrequently and by hand, in order to sustain its life.

One Saturday afternoon I was sporting my Celtic Beanie on the tube on the way to watch West Ham. My team were spending one of their accustomed seasons in football’s second tier and we were looking forward to a game against Gillingham. Away fans tend to travel together and I happened to be on the carriage where a fair few Gills supporters had assembled. Everyone was in expectant high spirits.

I confess I have a tendency to fall asleep on public transport. I’d say I’m pretty good at it. I consider travel an opportunity to make up for inadequate hours in bed; as a chance to refresh the tired mind. On this occasion, despite the general anticipation, I sat leaning against the glass partition with my head slumped over a newspaper on my lap. The gentle movement of the carriage set me off and in a moment I was gone.

I woke up with a start. The Gillingham fans, enjoying their day out, were now in full voice. They’d found someone to taunt.

‘Who’s the wally?
Who’s the wally?
Who’s the wally in the hat?’ 
(or words to that effect)

They were making quite a racket and it seemed like the whole carriage had joined in. I looked around to establish the hapless object of their ridicule. I took a moment to assess the situation, and concluded that, yes, it was me. 

I guess I did look rather odd: a middle-aged man in the middle of the day, kipping on the District Line in his Celtic Beanie.

There wasn’t much I could do but smile benignly, stare into the middle distance and long for the arrival of Upton Park station. 

At least the Hammers won 2-1.

'All men whilst they are awake are in one common world: but each of them, when he is asleep, is in a world of his own.’
Plutarch

I read in The Times recently (18 September, 2020) about a study, published in the journal Cell, into inferential reasoning.

Inferential reasoning is when you draw on loosely related events to imagine the outcome of entirely new choices. You’re looking for Sam. You’re told Greg is in the library. You know Sam hangs out with Greg. So you go to the library to see if you can find Sam there. It’s basically an educated guess.

Researchers have discovered that the hippocampus in our brains supports inferential reasoning by computing a prospective code to predict upcoming events. When we rest, the brain applies this code to link memories together. This ‘mnemonic short cut’ enables us, when we’re awake, to ‘join the dots’ between events that have not been observed together but could lead to profitable outcomes. 

‘The brain makes creative connections between apparently unconnected memories, and… these links appear to be solidified in sleep.’

According to the piece in The Times, an opportune sleep prompted the invention of the Periodic Table and the sewing machine, and inspired the story of Frankenstein.

There’s a lesson for us all here. We tend, when confronted with a taxing problem, to address it head-on, to stare it in the face, to burn the midnight oil in our quest to resolve it. It is far better, after a time, to put the intractable task to one side and sleep on it; to allow our natural inferential reasoning to get to work and join the dots. Better to succumb to fatigue and embrace a Creative Kip.

'It is a common experience that a problem difficult at night is resolved in the morning after the committee of sleep has worked on it.’
John Steinbeck

I must report that in recent years my Celtic Beanie has been replaced by a tweed flat cap. This offers all the utility I require (portable, foldable, impermeable) and is a little less eccentric. But I still have my Celtic Beanie. It sits forlorn in a drawer with a collection of old neckties and odd socks. 

Maybe I’ll put dig it out the next time we play Gillingham. 

'When I look up from my pillow,
I dream you are there with me.
Though you are far away,
I know you'll always be near to me.
I go to sleep, sleep,
And imagine that you're there with me.’

The Kinks, ‘I Go To Sleep’ (R Davies)

No. 309

Gaslight: A Case Study in Psychological Abuse

‘I’ve been noticing, Paula, that you’ve been forgetful lately. Losing things…Now don’t be so worried, Paula. It’s nothing. You get tired.’
Gregory Anton, ‘Gaslight’

I recently watched the 1944 version of ‘Gaslight’, a psychological thriller set in Edwardian London, adapted from Patrick Hamilton's 1938 stage play of the same name.

This fine film, directed by George Cukor and starring Ingrid Bergman, Charles Boyer and Joseph Cotton, tells the story of a woman whose husband slowly manipulates her into believing that she is going insane. It gave birth to the term often applied to psychological abuse: ‘gaslighting.’

Paula Alquist (Bergman) has been raised by her aunt in a large house on Thornton Square. When the aunt is mysteriously murdered, Paula is sent to Italy to study music. There she meets and marries accompanist Gregory Anton (Boyer). 

Despite Paula’s understandable qualms, Gregory insists that the newlyweds take up residence in the long-vacant townhouse on Thornton Square.

‘It’s all dead in here. The whole place smells of death.’

Paula’s return to London is unsettling. The old house is cluttered with her aunt’s possessions; with heavy curtains, elaborate ornaments and antique furniture – and all covered in dustsheets. Gregory resolves to clear everything away into the attic. He also determines that Paula is not well enough to go out and gives the servants strict instructions not to admit visitors.

Now that they are established in their new home, Gregory becomes increasingly cold and brusque. In a brief moment of intimacy, he gives Paula a broach that had belonged to his mother and her mother before that. He puts it in Paula’s handbag for safe-keeping as they set off on a rare trip out to visit the Tower of London. However, on their return, the broach is gone.

Paula: I know it was here. I can't understand it. I couldn't have lost it. It must be here…
Gregory: Oh Paula, didn't I tell you? How did you come to lose it?
Paula: I must have pulled it out with something, I suppose. Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Gregory, please forgive me…
Gregory: ‘Forgive’ my dear. It’s not as serious as that. It’s not valuable.
Paula: But your present to me, your mother's broach. And I wanted to wear it - always. I don't remember opening my bag, but I suppose I must have. You did put it in there?
Gregory: Don’t you even remember that?
Paula: Yes. Yes, of course I do. Suddenly, I'm beginning not to trust my memory at all.

The relationship that had initially seemed passionate and romantic starts to fray. Gregory reveals himself to be quick-tempered and controlling. He begins flirting with the new maidservant in front of his wife. 

Nonetheless, Paula is delighted when Gregory offers to take her to the theatre. But just as they’re about to set off, his mood darkens.

Gregory: Paula, I don’t want to upset you. If you will put things right when I’m not looking, we’ll assume it did not happen.
Paula: But what, Gregory, what? Oh, please don’t turn your back on me. What has happened?

A small painting has been taken from the wall, leaving an incriminating shadow on the wallpaper where it once hung.

Gregory: Will you please get it from wherever you've hidden it and put it back in its place?
Paula: But I haven’t hidden it. I swear I haven’t. Why should I?… Don’t look at me like that. Someone else must have done it.

Gregory insists on interrogating the servants about the picture in front of the embarrassed Paula. At length, when he sends her upstairs to look for the missing item, she locates it behind a grandfather clock.

Gregory: So you knew where it was all the time.
Paula: No. I didn’t know. I only looked there because that's where it was found twice before. I didn't know, Gregory, I didn't know.
Gregory: Now, Paula, I think you'd better go to your room.
Paula: We’re not going to the theatre?
Gregory: Oh, my dear, I’m afraid you are far from well enough for the theatre. Now come...

After the argument Gregory leaves the house to work in his nearby studio and Paula retreats in tears to her bedroom. But even here there is no respite. The gaslights dim mysteriously and she hears muffled footsteps coming from the attic above. 

Accused of theft and lies, distrusting her memory, feeling isolated and alone, treated like an invalid, unsettled by her husband’s flirting, assaulted by strange sounds in the night, Paula begins to doubt her sanity.

Events come to a head when Paula escapes the house to attend a music recital. Gregory insists on accompanying her. As the pianist holds the audience in thrall, Gregory quietly reveals to his wife that his watch is missing from its chain. When he locates it in her bag, she lets out a shriek of dismay. Gregory takes her home.

Gregory: I've tried so hard to keep it within these walls - in my own house. Now, because you would go out tonight, the whole of London knows it. If I could only get inside that brain of yours and understand what makes you do these crazy, twisted things.
Paula: Gregory, are you trying to tell me I'm insane?
Gregory: It's what I'm trying not to tell myself.
Paula: But that's what you think, isn't it? That's what you've been hinting and suggesting for months now, ever since…since the day I lost your broach. That's when it all began. 

Gregory now reveals to Paula that her mother was insane and died in an asylum. It’s all gone too far. He has asked two doctors to visit in the morning.

Thankfully Scotland Yard detective Brian Cameron (Cotton) is on the case. He has been curious about the unsolved murder of Paula’s aunt and suspicious of Gregory’s behaviour since the couple’s arrival in town. He intervenes in the nick of time.

It transpires that Gregory is in fact the murderer of Paula’s aunt. Plotting to get his hands on the deceased woman’s jewels, he tracked Paula down in Italy. He has been secretly searching through the aunt’s belongings in the attic to locate the missing gems. The flickering gaslights were caused by his turning on the attic lamps, thereby reducing the gas supply to the rest of the house. What’s more, Gregory has been scheming to have his wife institutionalized, so that he can continue his search unhindered. 

The detective explains all to Paula.

‘You're not going out of your mind. You're slowly and systematically being driven out of your mind.’

‘Gaslight’ is a case study in psychological abuse. We may note the many ways in which the evil Gregory goes about his task. He prompts Paula to question her memory and presents her with evidence of her kleptomania. He suggests she is tired and unwell; highly-strung and hysterical. He deprives her of social contact and embarrasses her in front of others. He feigns concern for her wellbeing and treats her like an infant. Even his frequent use of her first name diminishes her.

Of course, we now recognise these as the tactics employed in abusive relationships.

I found myself wondering whether modern businesses could also be accused of psychological manipulation.

Traditionally brands have demonstrated gaslighting traits in the healthcare, beauty and cleaning sectors. Can you pinch an inch? Are you beach body ready? Do you check under the rim? Why do you read so slowly? I suspect that, even in 2020, some brands and influencers are still gaslighting their customers. The endless repetition and gentle insistence. Subtly suggesting, quietly quizzing. Preying on fears and insecurities. Condescending and controlling. Prompting people to doubt their own judgement. Treating them like children. 

Consumers deserve better than this. At its best persuasion is consenting, enjoyable, useful. It is a conversation, a dialogue, an exchange. At its worst persuasion is cynical, manipulative, exploitative. We should all be mindful of this distinction.

At the climax of ‘Gaslight’ Paula finds herself alone in the attic with her now arrested and bound husband. He pleads with her to recall the good times together; to pick up a knife and set him free. At first she seems still to be under his spell. But then she sets down the knife.

'If I were not mad, I could have helped you. Whatever you had done, I could have pitied and protected you. But because I am mad, I hate you. Because I am mad, I have betrayed you. And because I'm mad, I'm rejoicing in my heart, without a shred of pity, without a shred of regret, watching you go with glory in my heart!'

'Every time I get the inspiration
To go change things around,
No one wants to help me look for places
Where new things might be found.
Where can I turn when my fair weather friends cop out?
What's it all about?
Each time things start to happen again
I think I got something good goin' for myself.
But what goes wrong?
Sometimes I feel very sad.
I guess I just wasn't made for these times.’

The Beach Boys, 'I Just Wasn't Made For These Times’  (B Wilson / T Asher)

No. 308

Dora Maurer: Creative Geometry

Seven Twists - Dora Maurer. Tate Photography

‘I never wanted to be an artist. I wanted to be a gardener, or working in a forest.’
Dora Maurer

I recently visited an exhibition of the work of Hungarian artist Dora Maurer (Tate Modern until 24 January 2021).

Born in Budapest in 1937, Maurer grew up under a Communist regime that was suspicious of progressive thinking. She trained in graphics, and in the 1960s joined a group of radical artists who met and exhibited in private flats, culture centres and student clubs. 

‘It was a grey life. It was no view to the future.’

Maurer worked in film and photography, in painting, performance and sculpture. She was fascinated with series, systems and sequences; with patterns, rhythms and repetition. 

In rudimentary black and white, Maurer films a cylinder from a swinging camera, on a swaying table, with a swooping light source. She shoots her studio sliced into three horizontal sections, and makes the sections rock backwards and forwards to a woozy, out-of-kilter rhythm. She records the infinite small gestures of a hand; the habituated motion of a man sitting on a chair. She runs along the balcony of a block of flats photographing another artist who is doing exactly the same thing, at the same time, on the opposite balcony. 

'My work has been based on change, shifting, traces, temporality from various perspectives.’

Dóra Maurer, Reversible and Changeable Phases of MovementsNo.6 1972. © Dóra Maurer.

There’s a quiet subversion in much of Maurer work. A young girl tramps out red circles on crumpled newsprint. It is May 1st when workers traditionally join organised collective parades. In another piece Maurer wraps and unwraps a paving stone, cradles it, washes it and ties it up. For Cold War Hungarians paving stones had a particular resonance because they were often pulled up and thrown in street protests.

‘As conceptual art came into the eastern part of Europe it was for me an opening. Everything I couldn’t use as an art object before I could use as an art idea... It was much more open. The world was open.’

With limited resources available to her, Maurer’s work is simple and conceptual. She is more concerned with process and technique than with a finessed end product.

‘Generally I am not as interested in the finished work as I am in the way it comes about, which is to say the question of realising a task I have set myself, the idea.’

Maurer’s ideas often begin with mathematics. She employs formulae to organise lines, equations to calculate sizes, rules to establish colour sequences. She carefully scratches, folds and bends; doubles, redoubles and divides. 

‘The identicalness and difference between objects, their seriality aroused my childhood interest in calculus and arithmetic. Geometry provides the framework for arrangement.’

Dóra Maurer Relative Quasi Image 1996 © Dóra Maurer Photo: Vintage Galéria / András Bozsó

What, you may ask, has mathematics to do with art? Surely calculation and computation are a world away from creativity and invention. Maurer sees that there are rhythms, patterns and sequences in nature and everyday life. Routine and repetition are at the root of all our behaviours and beliefs.

Many characterise creativity as something chaotic and disordered that emerges out of nowhere, that occurs in a vacuum. But Maurer points out that new ideas are often a response to established attitudes and conventional practices.

‘From an order it is possible to jump out. From chaos it is not possible to jump out because it has no direction. The play has an order.’

In the creative professions we too can have an uncomfortable relationship with mathematics. We regard it as too cold and clinical, too dry and rational. And yet I have found that it helps to regard communication campaigns as exercises in theme and variation, rhythm and repetition; to think of brands as managed patterns of actions and ideas.

In the 1980s, as the Cold War thawed, Maurer embraced vibrant colour in her work. She became fascinated by the way colours change in different light conditions, and images are distorted by perception. She painted geometric grids - in red, blue, orange, purple and black - that shimmer and shift the longer you look at them. They warp on the walls.

Overlappings 38 by Dora Maurer

More recently Maurer has created her Form Gymnastics. Blue, yellow and green shapes flutter weightlessly across the gallery. Bold overlapping colours fly elegantly through space, creating impressions of rhythmic movement on curved surfaces. They’re really rather beautiful.

In a recent interview Maurer was asked to describe her work. In reply the still vigorous Hungarian artist, now in her 80s, quoted the poet Walt Whitman.

'I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.’

Walt Whitman, ‘Song of Myself'

No. 307

The Barber’s Party: Negotiating from Areas of Agreement Towards Areas of Disagreement

Edward Hopper - The Barber Shop, 1931

'Hair is the first thing. And teeth the second. Hair and teeth. A man got those two things, he's got it all.’
James Brown

I knew when I first met my barber Simon, some time in the late ‘80s, that I would remain a loyal customer for many years to come. He talked animatedly about football and soul music. And he never asked me about my holidays.

Simon is an excellent hair cutter. He once styled George Best’s barnet, and he has over the years endeavoured to give me a look somewhere between Davids Soul and Essex. Nonetheless, I can’t really hold him accountable for my hair, as I tend to ruin it myself with wilful mismanagement. 

Neat and dapper in his carefully selected vintage-wear, Simon sets about his business with confident dexterity, offering insight and opinion as he goes - about Tania Maria, Lamont Dozier, Bobby Womack and Harry Kane. He talks with wit and dry humour, and is prone to occasional bouts of melancholy - perhaps related to the fact that he supports Spurs. He has always avoided red clothes, furnishings and vehicles. 

In the early days I followed Simon from salon to salon, travelling half way across London to make an appointment. There was a memorable period when he cut my hair, along with my flatmates’, in our ramshackle apartment in Turnpike Lane - a truly courageous act. 

'Some of the worst mistakes in my life were haircuts.'
Jim Morrison

Eventually Simon set up his own studio in Crouch End, and decorated it discreetly with engine parts, a ‘70s wig and a vintage eye test machine. A year or so later, with the business doing well, he held a small celebration. 

I arrived at the venue on my own, greeted Simon and congratulated him on his achievement. But I soon realised he was the centre of attention and I had to move on. I looked around the room at an assortment of awkward middle-aged men with artisanal jackets, Red Wing boots and Heineken bottles. Some were nodding their heads to the rare groove sound track, some were engaged in earnest conversation, some were looking intensely at their phones.

The trouble was I knew no one here. I felt a wave of social discomfort wash over me. Like a teenager at a disco, I had no idea what to say or who to say it to. And so I decided I just had to approach someone and dive in.

 ‘I like what Simon’s done with your hair.’

‘Oh, thanks, yours looks a bit like David Soul.’

The ice had been broken. Now the salon walls were echoing to vibrant debate and lively discussion. And I was right in the thick of things.

‘That’s almost a contemporary mullet.’

‘When I was younger I had a flick-head.’

‘It was salt-and-pepper, but I think now it’s mainly salt.’

‘Do you use conditioner?’

David Soul

David Essex

Of course, though we were all strangers, we had one thing in common: our hair. And this was enough to establish some social currency; to catalyse conversation; to get the ball rolling. Sprinkling my chat with the occasional ‘Mate’ to sustain my masculinity, I found I was having rather a good time. Eventually we even got onto subjects other than tonsorial.

'Too bad that all the people who know how to run the country are busy driving taxicabs and cutting hair.’
George Burns

Despite age and experience I have retained an awkwardness around strangers, a discomfort in certain social settings. I am nervous about first impressions, unconvinced by the magnetism of my conversational gambits. I fear sharp words and blunt remarks; hot heads and cold shoulders. I’m afraid of being alone in a crowd.

Of course, as my experience at the barber’s party illustrated, we can usually get along with anyone if we start with what we have in common. No matter the seeming distance between our backgrounds and lifestyles, our personalities and points of view, we usually share some interest or other: children, football, dogs, music, even hair.

This simple lesson applies as much to the commercial and political worlds as it does to everyday life. It pertains to challenging negotiations as much as it does to awkward conversations. As the American diplomat Henry Kissinger advised:

‘Build confidence by negotiating from areas of agreement towards areas of disagreement.’

So often in business we approach a dispute with our minds focused on conflict and contention, dissent and discord. We embark on arbitration obsessed with the distance between our positions, the difference between our points of view. 

This gets us nowhere. We should always begin by seeking common ground, shared interest, mutual benefit. The route to resolving disagreement starts with recognising agreement.

I’m still Simon’s loyal customer. Occasionally I book his last appointment and we afterwards adjourn to a local restaurant. We talk animatedly about football and soul music. And he never asks about my holidays.

'Oh, hairdresser on fire.
All around Sloane Square,
And you're just so busy.
Busy, busy.
Busy scissors.
Oh, hairdresser on fire.'

Morrissey, ‘Hairdresser on Fire’ (S Morrissey / S Street)

No. 306

Seeing Without Being Seen: Vivian Maier and the Issue of Hidden Talent

New York, NY September 10, 1955 © Vivian Maier/John Maloof Collection. Courtesy Howard Greenberg Gallery, New York

‘I’m a sort of spy.’
Vivian Maier

The splendid 2013 documentary ‘Finding Vivian Maier’ tells the story of the posthumous discovery of one of the twentieth century’s great street photographers.

In 2007 John Maloof, a Chicago-based local historian, was attending an auction of goods repossessed from storage lockers. He bought a box of negatives for $380, having in mind to use some of the photos in a forthcoming book.

On developing the images, Maloof discovered records of Chicago and New York in the ‘50s and ‘60s: quotidian scenes of suburban affluence - beach trips, parades and family days out; depictions of bustling downtown street life – commuters, shoppers, hucksters and hawkers; bleak encounters with inner city poverty. 

Maloof found the name Vivian Maier written on some of the boxes, but was unable to establish anything about her. When he subsequently posted a selection of the photographs online, they became something of a viral phenomenon. The pictures were intimate, affectionate, perceptive and playful. Experts recognised a real talent. 

Maloof traced some of the other purchasers from the storage locker sale, and bought their boxes too. Eventually a Google search picked up Maier’s death notice in the Chicago Tribune. She had passed away in April 2009.

So who was Vivian Maier? Why had her ability hitherto never been recognised? What was the tale behind this treasure trove of imagery?

Gradually Maloof pieced together the story. 

Vivian Maier - Girl In Car

Maier was born in New York in 1926, the daughter of a French mother and Austrian father. She spent her childhood moving between the United States and a small Alpine village where her mother’s family originated. Having been employed for a few years in a New York sweat shop, aged 30 she moved to Chicago's North Shore area. She worked there as a nanny and carer for the next 40 years.

According to her employers and the children she looked after, Maier was intensely private and fiercely independent. She spoke with a clipped French accent, was eccentric and opinionated, formal and strict. Wearing loose clothes, floppy hats and sensible shoes, she marched purposefully about her business. 

Maier had purchased her first Rolleiflex camera in 1952. Since it was held at waist level, the Rolleiflex enabled her to shoot people without looking them straight in the eye. It was less intrusive, more furtive. During the day she took the children on long walking adventures, often beyond the suburbs into the centre of town, all the time on the lookout for interesting subjects. 

‘Street photographers tend to be gregarious in the sense that they go out on the street and they’re comfortable being among people. But they’re also a funny mixture of solitaries… You observe and you embrace and you take in, but you stay back and you try to stay invisible.’
Joel Meyerowitz, Photographer

Vivian Maier - Chicago, IL

A young couple kiss on a crowded beach. People gather at the railway station and busy themselves at the supermarket. As they make their way home from church, a loyal spaniel waits expectantly. There are scuffed shoes by the doormat, flip-flops by the pool. There are cigarettes on the dashboard next to Jesus. 

‘Stop and shop.’ ‘Say ‘Pepsi, please.’’ 

Some smartly dressed women chat outside the diner. A pair of old ladies in their Sunday best look on disapprovingly. A man grips a mysterious small parcel behind his back. A stern matron holds onto her hat to save it from the wind. A nervous child clasps his hands to his ears to keep out the noise of the trains. 

Maier photographs herself reflected in the mirror, in the shop window; her shadow cast across the lawn; her bike standing forlorn at the roadside. She is there, but not there.

Let’s check out the street market, nose around the junkshop. A kid on the corner sells wind-up toys, as a blind man plays blues guitar, hoping for small change. A melancholy woman has her hair in curlers. A desolate teenager has his head in his hands. There are unshaven down-and-outs sleeping on park benches, kipping in the waiting room. In tatty clothes they sit on a hydrant, on a stack of newspapers, on a suitcase. Soaking up the sun, waiting for something to happen. There are discarded liquor bottles on the sidewalk, rejected flowers in a refuse bin. 

In 1959 Maier inherited a small amount of money and embarked on a solo trip around the world. She took pictures in Manila, Bangkok, Shanghai, Beijing, India, Syria, Egypt and Italy. When the expedition was over she returned to nannying in the Chicago suburbs. 

During her lifetime Maier took more than 150,000 photographs. And yet she rarely showed her pictures to anyone. And she left the vast majority of her work unprinted.

Vivian Maier

'The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.’
George Eliot

Watching the documentary, one can’t help wondering about hidden talent. Maier went about her art quietly, unobtrusively. She had an extraordinary gift for seeing without being seen. She was not fuelled by reward or recognition. She just wanted to take pictures.

How many Vivian Maiers are out there pursuing a private passion, nurturing a natural gift – unseen, unappreciated, unknown? Perhaps to her it was more important to take the photos than for them to be shared, or even developed. Perhaps that’s just the way she wanted it. But it seems such a waste. 

In the past businesses made their fortunes mining natural resources – gold, oil, precious minerals. In today’s knowledge economy, where value is to be found in original thought and different perspectives, the increasing imperative is to prospect for talent; to search out unusual abilities in unexpected places; to find the diamonds in the rough.

As Maier aged she grew more eccentric. She adopted subtle variations on her name and accent. She piled up newspapers and hoarded boxes of negatives in her loft room - to the point that there was barely a way through and the ceiling creaked under the weight. She could be cruel and quick tempered with her charges.

When Maier was no longer able to find work, she lived in a series of cheap apartments on the edge of town and destitution. In 2008, having slipped on ice and hit her head, she was taken to hospital but failed to recover. The following year she died in a nursing home.

Vivian Maier

Beyond her photographs we have very little record of Maier’s thoughts and feelings. She is a ghost. She did however make a few audiotapes of conversations with her subjects. In one she reflects on life’s transience.

'Well, I suppose nothing is meant to last forever. We have to make room for other people. It’s a wheel. You get on. You have to go to the end. And then somebody has the same opportunity to go to the end and so on.'

'Baby, baby, baby,
From the day I saw you,
Really, really wanted to catch your eye.
Somethin' special 'bout you
I must really like you,
'Cause not a lot of guys are worth my time.
Baby, baby, baby,
It's getting kind of crazy
'Cause you are taking over my mind.
And it feels like,
You don't know my name.
I swear, it feels like,
You don't know my name.
Round and round and round we go, 
Will you ever know?’

Alicia Keys, ‘You Don’t Know My Name’ (A Keys/ K West/ H Lilly/ J R Bailey/ M Kent/ K Williams)

No. 305

Artemisia Gentileschi: An Eye for Drama

Artemisia Gentileschi, Susanna and the Elders (1610–11). Courtesy of the Schloss Weißenstein collection, Pommersfelden, Germany

‘I will show Your Illustrious Lordship what a woman can do.’
Artemisia Gentileschi in a letter to Don Antonio Ruffo

I recently visited a splendid exhibition dedicated to the Baroque painter Artemisia Gentileschi (The National Gallery, London, until 24 January 2021).

Artemisia was born in Rome in 1593, the eldest child of the artist Orazio Gentileschi. Having lost her mother when she was 12, she studied painting in her father's workshop and developed a style influenced by Caravaggio, the master of light.

‘Susannnah and the Elders,’ Artemisia’s first recorded work, was painted when she was just 17. While Susannah is bathing in the garden, she is surprised by two elders. The lecherous men, intent on seduction, threaten to accuse her of adultery if she refuses them. Susannah resists. 

In Artemisia’s painting the elders lean in from above, leering, menacing. In hushed voices they conspire against the naked Susannah. She turns away in disgust, recoiling from their foul breath. It is an extraordinarily vivid scene.

A year after she painted ‘Susannnah and the Elders,’ Artemisia was raped by Agostino Tassi, an artist who had been working with her father. To clear her name she had to endure a public trial and judicial torture. As the brutal rope instrument tightened around her fingers, she stood by her testimony:

‘It is true, it is true, it is true.’

The court found in Artemisia’s favour and, a month after the trial, Orazio married her off to another artist. The couple settled in Florence. 

Artemisia Gentileschi, Judith Beheading Holofernes, 1620

It is easy to see Artemisia channelling her anger into her most famous work, ‘Judith Beheading Holofernes.’ The city of Bethulia is under siege by an Assyrian army. Judith has put on a fine dress, entered the enemy camp and dined with the general Holofernes in his tent. He has fallen asleep drunk.

In the darkness Judith and her maidservant Abra set about their grisly business with grim determination. Abra pins Holofernes to the bed. Judith rolls up the sleeves of her gold brocade gown to reveal strong forearms suited to the task. With one hand she grasps Holofernes’ hair and holds his head steady. In her other hand she clutches the sword with which she slices through the general’s neck. The suddenly awoken Holofernes reaches up in terror. Blood spatters over the bed sheets below and onto the arms of the two women. It is like a scene from a horror movie.

Artemisia returns to the theme of Judith and Holofernes a number of times. In other works she paints Judith and Abra immediately after the execution. Abra crouches over Holofernes’ head, bundling it into a sack. Judith stands at the entrance to the tent, illuminated by a solitary candle. Staring out into the black night, she plots their escape. She grips her sword tightly, blood still dripping from its blade. She may have to use it again.

Artemisia clearly has an eye for drama. She carefully chooses ‘the decisive moment’ in a story, presents the characters in compelling relation to one another, considers every nuance of their emotions and lights the scene to accentuate the tension. It is as if time stands still. 

Artemisia Gentileschi, Judith and Maidservant with Head of Holofernes c. 1623–1625

Artemisia does this repeatedly, often celebrating the fortitude of female characters in history and myth. Nymph Corisca escapes the embrace of a lustful Satyr. Persian Queen Esther, pleading for the fate of the Jews, faints into the arms of her two ladies-in-waiting. Jael kneels over Canaanite general Sisera while he is sleeping, and serenely drives a tent peg through his head.

There is a lesson for us all here. If we want to create drama, we should select a precise point in time; stage it; frame it; light it so as to heighten the tension. Set nerves jangling, pulses racing. Make viewers feel the urgency of the occasion.

After the travails of her youth, Artemisia became a successful court painter in Florence, enjoying the patronage of the Medici, and she was the first woman accepted into the artists’ academy. She learned to read and write, socialised with the great and the good, including the polymath Galileo, and embarked on an intense relationship with a local nobleman. She had five children, four of whom died, leaving her to raise her surviving daughter as an artist. In all she had a 40-year career, working in Rome, Florence, Venice, Naples and London. She died around 1654 in her early 60s. She had lived a full life.

'As long as I live I will have control over my being.'

From the court papers of Artemisia’s trial and a bundle of her letters found in 2011, we gain a sense of a strong, defiant, proud and passionate woman. Her vitality and lust for life also leap out from her paintings, not least because in many of them she uses herself as a model.

In ‘Self Portrait as the Allegory of Painting’ Artemisia depicts herself as the embodiment of the painterly art. She wears a green silk gown and a gold pendant hangs from her neck. Her hair is organised neatly in a bun, a few strands falling over her cheeks and forehead. In her left hand she grasps the palette, and with the brush in her right hand she reaches for the canvas in front of her. Ignoring us, the viewers, she is a picture of quiet confidence and intense concentration.

Artemisia Gentileschi, Self-Portrait as the Allegory of Painting, 1638–39, Royal Collection

 'Oh, I am a lonely painter.
I live in a box of paints.
I'm frightened by the devil,
And I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid.
I remember that time you told me, you said,
"Love is touching souls."
Surely you touched mine, 'cause
Part of you pours out of me,
In these lines from time to time.’

Joni Mitchell, ‘A Case of You'

No. 304

A Club Biscuit Foregone: Keep Your Eyes Off the Prize

'We gain the strength of the temptation we resist.'
Ralph Waldo Emerson

On occasion I have wondered whether I might have been genetically predisposed to a career in advertising. Inevitably my thoughts turn to my Dad to whom I’m indebted for a capacity to drink and an inclination to discourse on all manner of triviality. But then there was my Mum, a gentle soul who had an uncanny talent for branding. 

Mum would often make me a very particular sandwich – white-sliced Sunblest, some lettuce leaves, a couple of slithers of tomato and a dollop of Heinz Salad Cream. Perhaps aware that this combination held only a moderate appeal to a growing lad, she called it Jim’s Sandwich Special. And I became an avid enthusiast.

Sometimes, when Martin was invited to a party at a friend’s house, Mum would console me by organising A Treat. A Treat entailed asking a few of my own local chums round for fractious games of Ludo and a tea of Sandwich Specials, Swiss Rolls and orange Club Biscuits.

I’m ashamed to admit to a certain amount of scheming at these events. Mum would allocate one orange Club Biscuit for every attendee, and I knew that, if I waited long enough, one of my friends would purloin mine. At which point I could report to Mum for pity and sympathy.

All rather manipulative, I know. But even at a very young age I had calculated that there were rewards to be had from a pleasure foregone.

'Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it.’
Søren Kierkegaard

The much-celebrated Stanford Marshmallow Experiment, led by psychologist Walter Mischel in the early 1970s, examined the dynamics of deferred gratification. A number of children aged between 3 and 5 were offered one marshmallow, but promised two if they waited 15 minutes. The researchers then left the children alone in the room with the two marshmallows. 

The youngsters found themselves in a muddle of temptation and denial. Mischel originally thought that the presence of the two marshmallows would motivate them to resist and hang on. But the proximate prize only increased their frustration. Some succumbed pretty quickly. Others endeavoured to endure by distracting their attention from the tasty treat.

'They made up quiet songs…hid their head in their arms, pounded the floor with their feet, fiddled playfully and teasingly with the signal bell, verbalized the contingency…prayed to the ceiling, and so on. In one dramatically effective self-distraction technique, after obviously experiencing much agitation, a little girl rested her head, sat limply, relaxed herself, and proceeded to fall sound asleep.’

Mischel concluded that success in the test was correlated with the ability to distract oneself: not thinking about a reward enhances one’s ability to earn it. 

In this respect the Stanford Marshmallow Experiment does not seem to conform to conventional wisdom. In challenging times we are encouraged to keep our eyes on the prize; to focus on our goals. Athletes often talk about visualising the finish line; imagining themselves on the victory podium. 

However, at least within the realms of a creative business, I’m with Team Stamford. When Pitching I found that considering the scale of the account to be won, the glory of potential victory, only served to predispose teams and leaders to cautious choices and conservative proposals. At best the prospect of success was deeply stressful. At worst it induced paralysis.

Far better in my experience to concentrate on the work in hand; to address the task regardless of the reward. Better to keep your eyes off the prize.

'The gratification comes in the doing, not in the results.’
James Dean

The Stanford Marshmallow Experiment is best remembered for the follow-up studies conducted 10 years after the original investigation. Researchers found that children who were able to wait longer for their treat tended subsequently to have better life outcomes, as measured by such things as SAT scores, educational attainment and body mass index. They concluded that the ability to discipline oneself, to delay gratification in the short term in order to enjoy greater rewards in the long term, is an indicator of future success in work and life. As a result many educationalists set about training self-control and will power in schools.

No doubt patience is indeed a valuable life skill. However, when the experiment was restaged in 2018, with a bigger, more representative sample, it arrived at a quite different set of results, contributing to what some have called a 'replication crisis' in the field of psychology. In the repeat experiment researchers concluded that the capacity to hold out for a second marshmallow is determined in large part by a child’s social and economic background. For poorer kids a marshmallow in the hand is worth two on the table.

None of the studies mentions if any children eschewed the marshmallows entirely in anticipation of emotional compensation. They would have represented an altogether more troubling category.

'Tempted by the fruit of another.
Tempted, but the truth is discovered.
What's been going on?
Now that you have gone,
There's no other.’
Squeeze, ’Tempted’ (C Difford / G Tilbrook)

No. 303