Lunch at the Spaghetti House, Holborn: Making Friends with Failure


New York Resturant - Edward Hopper, 1922

New York Resturant - Edward Hopper, 1922

'If you want to win at life every time, do not step in the ring.’
Anthony Joshua, on regaining the World Heavyweight Boxing Title

One day in the Autumn of 1991 I took my mother to the British Museum. We wandered around the galleries reflecting on Samurai armour and the Sutton Hoo helmet; pausing in front of Ramesses, reliquaries and the Rosetta Stone. Devout and Irish, she was particularly interested in the Celtic crosses and medieval church statues. I was drawn to anything Classical, and the bearded Assyrian man-beasts. I bought her a few postcards from the shop for the collection she kept in scrapbooks back at Heath Park Road.

Afterwards we adjourned to the Spaghetti House in Holborn. I ordered spaghetti bolognaise and told Mum that it wasn’t as good as the one she made at home – with Heinz tomato soup and mince from the local butchers. We chatted affectionately about Dad, her school and my siblings.

I had decided that this was the beginning of a new chapter in our relationship. I would no longer be the sullen, introverted, taciturn youth. I would be solicitous, attentive, considerate. I would take Mum out to lunch, ask her how she felt. I would be an adult.

The day went very well and, as we parted, I told Mum that next time we could visit the National Gallery together. She was surprised and amused. In her own quiet way.

A few months later she was dead.

I had made a mistake. I had left my initiative too late. I would forever be in her debt, unable to pay back all the love and affection of my childhood. And grief and guilt would cast their long shadows.

According to a recent survey of 2,000 people in the UK (Mortar/ KP), we spend 110 hours a year regretting what might have been - the equivalent of 500 waking days over a lifetime. Eight in ten people believe their lives would be better if they had taken more risks. 57% wish they had taken another job. 23% pine for past loves. 

We all walk hand-in-hand with failure and loss, with regret and remorse. And with every passing year our errors add up and accrue. They become life-companions, ghosts that are ready at any moment to tap us on the shoulder and darken the mood.

'Have no fear of perfection - you'll never reach it.'
Salvador Dali

I was nonetheless heartened to read about another recent study, this time from the journal, Nature Communications (November 2019). Scientists at Brown University, the University of Arizona, UCLA and Princeton conducted a series of machine-learning experiments in which they taught computers simple tasks. 

The computers learned fastest when the difficulty of the problem they were addressing was such that they responded with 85% accuracy. The scientists concluded that we learn best when we are challenged to grasp something just beyond our existing knowledge. When a task is too simple, we don't learn anything new; when a task is too difficult, we fail entirely or just give up.

So learning is optimized when we fail 15% of the time. 

This has a ring of truth about it. In the creative arts practitioners have long been familiar with the concept of learning through misstep and misadventure. Failure illuminates the terrain, suggests new opportunities, and points us on the right path. It confirms that we are pioneering something new. It strengthens our resolve.

'An artist's failures are as valuable as his successes: by misjudging one thing he conforms something else, even if at the time he does not know what that something else is.'
Bridget Riley

'I love my rejection slips. They show me I try.'
Sylvia Plath

Similarly in the world of commerce, entrepreneurs and titans of industry have often celebrated the proving ground of trial and error. 

'I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work.’
Thomas Edison

'The only real mistake is the one from which we learn nothing.'
Henry Ford

Indeed the more ambitious a business is to pioneer new categories and sectors, the more it must be prepared to countenance defeat and disappointment. Alphabet’s innovation lab, X, seeks 'radical solutions to huge problems using breakthrough technology.’ X doesn’t just acknowledge the risk of failure; it exalts it:

'If you’re not failing constantly and even foolishly, you’re not pushing hard enough.'

The truth is that failure and how we deal with it define our character. We all look over our shoulders and see a landscape of rash decisions, missed opportunities and wasted time. But, for better or worse, this is our homeland, our mother country. It makes us who we are. 

'Failure is the condiment that gives success its flavor.'
Truman Capote

I have resolved to be more forgiving of myself and others; to be more comfortable with my past errors of judgement. I plan to make friends with failure. 

So from now on I’m aiming to be wrong 15% of the time. That still gives me a lot to work on. I think Mum would have understood. She’d have been surprised and amused. In her own quiet way.

 'I can't eat, I can't sleep anymore.
Waiting for love to walk through the door.
I wish I didn't miss you anymore.’
Angie Stone, ‘
Wish I Didn’t Miss You’ (A Martin / G Mcfadden / J Whitehead / L Huff / I Matias)

 

No. 276

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

Detail from Pause, 1964. Photograph: Bridget Riley 2019

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

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

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