Before you carry on reading this column, please, do the following: stand in front of a mirror, preferably a full-length one and ask yourself this question: what am I? Not, who are you? You know who you are, but what you are will pose a different challenge to answer. Then, come back to my blog and post a short, one- or two-line response below. At some point in the last ten to twelve years I posed a similar question to myself. Before that time, however, I never queried what I was. Or at least, not consciously. If ever the question arose, it came from someone, rather than from me. I would wager (and I am not the betting type) that your answers included categories such as age, race, complexion, body shape and height. Some might have ventured a bit further and included their sexual orientation and politics. How many of you started your response with the phrase: I am a human being? There is no catch in this post. Like you for a long time I described myself as Cuban, male, black, young (still and forever), able-bodied, neither tall, nor short, slim and muscular, straight, leftwing (but not romantic), cynical and pragmatic. Two lines that established what I was. No priority in that list. Yet, at some point the pragmatic has taken over the Cuban. Other times the Cuban has replaced the black as a bigger identity marker. However, hidden under all these thick layers there was one trait that I shared with every other man or woman on Planet Earth: our human experience. What is it about us humans that compels us to “dress up” this essential feature with countless other elements? Our starting point in life, barring location and economic status, is similar. We cry most of the time as we come out of the womb; we immediately gravitate towards our mother’s breast, seeking nourishment. We react warmly to affection. We begin the long, arduous process of living, knowing that our individual choices must not hurt others, that we are responsible not only for ourselves but also for the world at large. The challenge is that at some point in our lives and at a very early stage for some, we also start to layer up our identity. The markers we choose might or might not be of our own volition but the decision to act on them is ours. The reason why I have been thinking about identity markers and our common humanity is the situation of refugees in Europe. The dangers these people face is threefold. First, their situation back home. Second, the journey many have to undertake to reach what they would consider a safe sanctuary. Third, but by no means least, the new life they have to carve out in a land to which they never thought of emigrating in the first place. The thinking on refugees is usually framed in terms of economic cost: how much is it to feed them, clothe them, house them and employ them? The discussion very rarely delves deeper into the reasons why people with reasonable life standards would risk their lives crossing the Mediterranean or war zones to get to Europe. If we did, we would probably find an index finger pointing back at us. On the one hand, our military industry demands that more wars be waged. Otherwise, how on earth would we manage to sell our weapons? On the other hand, our economic choices have a knock-on effect on Third World countries and their capacity for self-reliance. I described myself as a cynic a few paragraphs before. Nevertheless, I have confidence in the world we live. I am also a romantic (not of the “plastic socialist” type, though) and believe that the majority of human interactions involve millions of acts of kindness and co-operation. Part of the reason why I hold these beliefs (note the use of what is commonly seen as religious language. I am reclaiming it) is that many years ago I, too, stood in front of a full-length mirror and asked myself what I was. The first answer I came up with still resonates to this day: human.
The more I look at it, the more the lobster resembles a handset. An impossible handset, I will give you that, but a handset nonetheless. Of course I am talking about Dali’s “lobster telephone”. The surrealist object was on my mind recently because I have been following Sky Arts series “Landscape Artist of the Year”. I have not watched the final yet, so, please, no spoilers, if you, too, are keen on the show. There have not been any surrealist paintings per se so far (well, none that I would call “orthodox surrealism”, which in itself would be an oxymoron, since surrealism was a mould-breaking movement). There have been a few “surprises”, though. This is where the “lobster” comes into the picture (pun almost intended). When it comes to landscaping, we expect the finished work on the canvas to match the view in front of it. In the semi-final, the view contestants had to work on was Tower Bridge. Two of them, however, did away with conventions and came up with bizarre but highly creative pieces. Their risk-taking approach was all the odder when one takes into account that Tower Bridge has been one of London’s most easily recognisable landmarks for almost a century and a half.
This is not a lobster
From a layperson’s point of view, when I see a painting of a land-, city- or sea-scape, I unconsciously expect it to resemble the geography it represents. I should clarify that that was maybe thirty-odd years ago before my first brush with impressionism. Ever since I discovered that movement I began falling more for the “mood” of a piece than for the painter’s “loyalty” to their surroundings. If we are to believe arts specialists – and I see no reason why not to occasionally – visual art began as an aesthetic response to the artist’s environment. Look at those drawings in caves and think of our ancestors attempting to capture the exact physical features of bisons, perhaps without the skills that evolution would provide them with in years to come. Nevertheless, the intention was there already. The impulse to leave a mark behind, a mark that was faithful to the landscape that gave them shelter and food. This is what art did for so many centuries. It created reality-based patterns that were easily recognisable. Familiarity won over risk-taking. Impressionism, Dadaism, surrealism and modernism brought new challenges to the game, not just for practitioners, but also for us, art lovers. Suddenly, a pipe was not a pipe and a urinal could be displayed in an art gallery. Back to Sky Arts’ “Landscape Artist of the Year” and what I have enjoyed the most is how contestants have been given free rein to “ruin” a perfect view. I am joking, of course, for all works have been, in my humble opinion, of the highest quality. Yet, a few have defied convention and their owners are the ones who have been rewarded with a place in the final and the opportunity of a ten-thousand-pound commission from the National Trust. Reminds me of that lobster somewhat and the role of crustaceans in the development of visual arts in human history.
It’s that time of the year again when the lines of Stevie Wonder’s dream-like and timeless melody, Visions, make me fall into a seasonal reverie: “I'm not one who makes believe/I know that leaves are green/they only change to brown when autumn comes around”.
Autumn is here. The colourful annual showcase to which nature treats us all and only it (she, maybe? I’ve always seen nature as female) can deliver. Nature, the wise artist who uses her hands deftly to leave behind minute, thin and barely perceptible brush strokes in the landscape. Mamá natura, whose clever fingers manipulate light (including the winding of the clocks back one hour) and give us glorious sunrises and unforgettable sunsets.
This time around the arrival of autumn was unintentionally enhanced by my reading a beautifully crafted essay in the latest issue of Intelligent Life, the bi-monthly lifestyle and culture magazine published by The Economist. Entitled “The Uses of Difficulty”, the article purported to explain the reason(s) why some people placed hurdles in their way to achieve their goals. To quote two examples from the article, Ian Leslie the author, states that “In 1966, soon after the Beatles had finished work on Rubber Soul, Paul McCartney looked into the possibility of going to America to record their next album. The equipment in American studios was more advanced than anything in Britain, which had led the Beatles’ great rivals, the Rolling Stones, to make their latest album, Aftermath, in Los Angeles. McCartney found that EMI’s contractual clauses made it prohibitively expensive to follow suit, and the Beatles had to make do with the primitive technology of Abbey Road.”
Leslie’s conclusion in the essay was that this technological obstacle, far from hindering the band’s development, encouraged them to create their most groundbreaking work. He certainly has a point. The Beatles’ Revolver and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band are probably the Fab Four’s finest hour, with the latter topping the list as the all-time best Beatles record.
The second example involves the poet Ted Hughes. Hughes sat on the judging panel of an annual poetry competition for British schoolchildren for more than two decades, beginning in the 60s. During the 80s he noticed how some poems became longer. They were still fluent and inventive, and yet, they were in, Ted’s opinion, “strangely boring”. He later found out that many of these pieces had been written on computers, some of which had just surfaced in people’s houses for the first time.
On analysing Hughes’ response to this phenomenon – for him putting pen to paper was meeting “the terrible resistance of what happened your first year at it, when you couldn’t write at all” – Ian Leslie resorts to scientific research. Apparently there’s evidence that handwriting activates more of the brain than keyboard writing.
Leslie’s essay will come as a surprise to those who think that the quicker and easier an obstacle is overcome or removed, the better we’ll feel about ourselves. Actually, as human beings, we’re perfectly equipped to deal with difficult situations, especially those that require more time, concentration and effort. And even though sometimes we feel frustrated when we’re incapable of solving these situations, the thought processes we apply to the solution of these problems help us develop skills of which we might not have been aware before.
The article also made me ponder if this notion of “desirable difficulties” was only applicable to human beings. That’s when I thought of autumn and nature. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve been asked by well-meaning folk if I don’t find the grim and grey weather in the UK a too stark and unbearable contrast to the sunny and warm temperatures in my native Cuba. “I hope you didn’t relocate to London for the weather”, they usually say. Well, surprise, surprise! The number one reason why I live here is that I fell in love with a British woman and we decided to settle in Great Britain. But if I hadn’t met my wife and still had had the opportunity to move here, I would have done it. For the weather. There’s nothing like waking up in the morning to the first rays of warm spring sunshine after a harsh winter.
The change of seasons in the UK is probably one of the most beautiful spectacles I’ve ever witnessed in my life. Living here for close to fifteen years now has convinced me that nature is the living proof of those “desirable difficulties” Leslie mentions in his essay. In order to have an explosion of life and colour in spring we need the barrenness of winter which usually starts with autumn’s impressionistic wild brush strokes. These are nature’s own barriers.
It’s almost as if every year nature challenges herself to end life in order to start it all over again. The obstacles nature places in her own way – fallen leaves, naked trees, monochromatic landscapes, cold temperatures – are a way of boosting her creativity, in my view. Without what John Keats called the “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness/close bosom-friend of the maturing sun” we wouldn’t be able to appreciate summer’s warm weather and clear, blue skies.
That might be the number one reason why I fell for autumn’s charm many years ago. Because just like The Beatles had to make do with rudimentary equipment or Jack White – formerly of The White Stripes – uses inexpensive guitars that won’t stay in tune, autumn is nature’s first step in remodelling and rebuilding our landscape. It is a barrier, not the kind that blocks progress, but the kind that encourages creativity. If you don’t believe me, look outside your window now and tell me. What’s your take on that beautiful and colourful kaleidoscope? Does it put a spell on you? Because it already has on me.
The first forty seconds of Nina Simone's "Feeling Good" are probably the best intro in the history of music. I know, I know. Please, bear with me. I'm not someone who is in the habit of handing out superlatives like RSPCA volunteers on the high street giving out flyers informing you that dogs are not just for Christmas. Yet, the way that voice, that voice, breaks through the empty space a capella sends shivers down my spine. There's a steady and progressive build-up, like a bird of prey soaring effortlessly up high in the sky, spotting its future victim and hovering for just one nanosecond before dipping one of its wings and dropping down into the grass to capture its food. That food is you and me, reader: the listeners. Nina's version of Feeling Good is one of those rare moments when I abdicate the use of my mental faculties in favour of a much more raw and emotional rapport. This is the type of art that asks nothing of us, offers no explanations and still manages to hold us captive. The way Nina sings Feeling Good is as if someone were saying: Listen to this song if you want to know what the human voice can do. Enough for me to go down on my knees, place my hands together, lace my fingers and worship it at a temple. Any temple. Even one for atheists.
Alain de Botton is a nice fellow. I don't know him personally but I do seek out his pieces on philosophy and human behaviour. His byline photo conveys amicability, understanding and acceptance. I suppose that his recent book Religion for Atheists is a good read. But somehow his idea of creating a place of worship for non-believers in the City of London doesn't really cut the mustard with me. According to Mr de Botton, he wants to build a 46-metre tower as an antidote of what he terms as an "aggressive" and "destructive" approach to faith. More specifically, Alain wants to counteract the effect Richard Dawkins has had on the conversation on religion.
His motives are laudable, albeit naive. First of all, is the cost of the building: £1m, in the middle of the worst cuts to public and voluntary sector organisations. The location of his project is understandable; bang amongst the international banks, hedge funds and private equity firms. The message couldn't be clearer: money is not the most importan thing in life, spirituality is. Therein lies his first fundamental flaw in my opinion. If you plan to fight Mammon, why use the same tool it wields against you, i.e, money? Why not utilise the best temple we have? This one (points at head), and this one (points at heart). I don't need an awe-inspiring building to worship a melody like Feeling Good. Everytime the song comes on, I open the doors of my own place of worship and allow the music to turn me into a believer once more for approximately one-hundred and eighty seconds.
The second mistake Alain de Botton makes is in supposing that the construction of a temple like the one he proposes is important in order to highlight human feelings such as love and friendship. Again, he overlooks the evidence around him. Parks in London in the summer fill up with happy families playing with frisbees, cycling or improvising a five-a-side. Go to the City of London to pay my dues to the God of Friendship? Nah, mate! I'd rather go down to my local. Even for a teetotal like me, there's still the food, the ambience and the camaraderie.
The third flaw in de Botton's project is that he falls into the same trap that's been laid before by those of a godly disposition. It's the one that has religion as almost the sole source of certain human feelings and emotions such as: amazement, perspective, sympathy, empathy and understanding. There are many more, but these are the ones that come to mind now. Religion is not responsible for any of these natural and innate traits any more than it is responsible for the wars waged in its name. We can do rituals, ceremonies and communing without believing that there's a supernatural force that created the world in six days (and rested on the seventh, although very often I feel as if it was the other way around; so messy it gets on planet Earth these days).
I really do wish Alain de Botton luck with his project. And who knows? Maybe when the centre opens, if it does open, in 2013, I'll pay it a visit. If only to find out what it's like. In the meantime, my piece of advice to Mr de Botton is to put the stereo on and allow Ms Simone's opening verses to unleash the spiritual power within him: Birds flying high you know how I feel/Sun in the sky you know how I feel/Breeze driftin' on by you know how I feel/It's a new dawn/It's a new day/It's a new life/For me/And I'm feeling good. I'm already down on my knees, my hands are placed together and my fingers laced. Alain, I am worshipping at my own temple.
Talking of temples, music and spirituality there's a CD I've been playing nonstop for the last fortnight. As debut albums go, Un solo Palo No Hace Monte (A Single Tree Does Not a Forest Make) by the London Lucumi Choir, is one of the more promising ones I’ve come across in a long time. From their choice of tracks to the cover design, the record exudes passion and dedication aplenty. The opening salvo is Eleguá, the orisha that traditionally kicks off festivities in Yoruba culture in Cuba, played on both bata drums and güiro and led expertly by Daniela Roselson De Armas on vocals. The second track introduces us to Ogún, the second of the four warriors in Ocha and performed on bata drums again and bembé. The latter rhythm could have come straight out of a slum in Havana. Changó, the third song builds up slowly until it reaches a well-worked and upbeat climax; a strong reminder of the fire and thunder that are said to be owned by this orisha. The güiro returns for track number four, Oyá, a short melody that is charmingly sung by Sheila Ruiz and Nana Aldrin Quaye. The Yoruba presence, then, gives way to its Arará counterpart with Masé, the fifth number, the equivalent of Ochún in the Lucumi culture. Variety is the key word in the Choir’s output and this is evident in the guaguancó El Mayoral (The Foreman) with its strong message of rebellion and freedom and the yambú El Pan de Piquito, a nice musical spin on a popular Cuban phrase. The record’s coda Cantos Espirituales (Spiritual Chants) finds the aforementioned Nana alongside singers Mish Aminoff, Olga Baglay and Anita Chakraborty reviving a lesser-known genre of the Afro-Cuban canon.
The London Lucumi Choir (“Lucumi” is a Cuban variation of the word “Ulkumi” or “Ulcumi”, one of the former kingdoms in Yorubaland) was founded in 2006 and is one of the few community ensembles in the British capital that doesn’t audition future members. The choir is the brainchild of percussionist Jorge Amando de Armas Sarria, singer and arranger Daniela Rosselson de Armas and master drummer Javier Campos Martínez. The group focuses mainly on performing songs dedicated to the orishas (Yoruba deities), plus other rhythms belonging to the rich Afro-Cuban tradition. The London Lucumi Choir was recently shortlisted for the Folkloric Act of the Year by online magazine Latino Life. It will officially launch Un Solo Palo No Hace Monte on the 24th April at the Rich Mix as part of the La Línea Festival.
Sometimes I wish I was a bird and glide over the throng of cars populating our avenues, roads and streets. To be able to work out whether car A will move into the space that car B just vacated. To witness the amalgamation that occurs whenever there is heavy traffic near a roundabout. The red car will join the green car even though the driver forgot to signal left as the law dictates. Motorists changing minds at the last minute. Unpredictability galore.
Music is like that. And as I get older it is this type of music, bastardised, mulattoised and mixed that I drift towards. This is not a post for those purists who swear by unadulturated music, but then again, this is a blog that celebrates difference with a difference. Recently and on another blog I was discussing Silvio Rodríguez' song 'Melancolía' and how the tune is based on Beethoven's sonata 'Pathétique'. Amazing.
My first offering has the wrong name for this time of year. Yet, here's one of the better versions I have ever heard of 'Summertime'. In fact, it's my favourite one. Thanks, Janis. Spellbinding.
A classically-trained musician, Nina Simone started singing by accident and yet it was that kind of accident that turned many of us into devotees of this exceptional singer because of her strong stage persona. I would dare to say quite boldly that not many artists have been able to match the Great Nina in vocal prowess and piano-playing skills. Stunning.
My last track comes courtesy of a singer I came across the other day whilst reading the paper. She is Israeli, yet sings in Spanish in a style known as Ladino, very popular amongst Jewish groups in the Iberian peninsula. I was immediately captivated by her voice and by the fact that Yasmin Levy is living proof of the amalgamation process different cultures and by default their music go through. Touching.
