Certain seasons arrive all of a sudden: in later years winter (especially the Christmas period) has been summoned earlier than usual by mince pies that go on display at the end of August; spring showers turn up unexpectedly and summer is like a Houdini act: now you see it, now you don't. Or rather, now you're wearing four layers of clothes, now you're wearing almost nothing.
Autumn, however, floats about, hovers and finally comes down in a choir of rustling leaves. I first notice its appearance when the air takes on a crispy, metallic feel. Not cold, but cool, comforting and translucent. I, then, look around to see the changes. The victorius heather that reigns supreme in summer with its pinkish-purple flowers, sees its territory decimated. The hustle and bustle of June, July and August give way to a slower pace, the better to savour the stillness around you.
This year, September started strangely. Then, again, the weather has been most unusual of late. As I write, temperatures in London are predicted to rise to 27-28 degrees (Celsius). Earlier this month, the remnants of a hurricane that had swept through the eastern coast of the US reached the UK and gave us gales that wouldn't have been out of place on a tropical island in the Caribbean in the middle of October. But still, autumn is here.
Whereas for me winter's monochromatic landscape resembles a painting by Jackson Pollock on LSD, autumn seems to be the product of the soft brush stroke of a Degas or Monet. In the case of the former, an exhibition has just opened at the Royal Academy under the name "Degas and the Ballet: Picturing Movement".
The pieces on display prove my point about autumn resembling an impressionistic painting. Degas captured hundreds of positions from various angles. Autumn works in shades. Hundreds of them. A leaf is not just either orange or yellow, but auburn and chestnut at the same time. Rumour has it that when asked why he was so interested in ballet dancers, Degas answered that it was because the dance form was all we had left of the combined movement of the Greeks. Autumn is Mummy Nature's last annual plea for life before it is plunged into the darkness of winter. That's why after a slow start, autumn suddenly explodes into a multitude of colours. It's nature's way of saying "I'm still here, still, alive and this is what I have to offer". The same happens in a ballet show when the soloist (man or woman) pirouettes endlessly in the middle of the stage. It's their own way to stand out.
There's a third element. Degas's paintings don't normally depict performances but rehearsals. The effect is a frank, revelatory, behind-the-scenes exposé of the workings of a dance company. To someone, like me, who's been involved in the performing arts for a number of years, Degas's ballet pieces convey a feeling of Nostalgie. Likewise, autumn is synonymous with melancholy and memories. This leads to a contrast between the gold carpet laid out in front of our eyes and the cyan pigment that adorns our insides. Blue might not be the ruling colour in the surrounding landscape (unless you include the sky), but when it comes to soaking up the fresh, morning breeze stirring the coppery leaves above, enjoying the spectacle of nuts-munching squirrels and watching enviously the acorn-collecting children, you're damn right I've got the blues.
As I write these lines two thousand people are believed to have been killed and forty thousand displaced by the conflict in Kyrgystan. A few weeks ago, Israel's raid on a Gaza-bound flotilla caused the death of eight Turkish activists. And David Cameron's recent apology to the victims of the Bloody Sunday massacre caused a veteran correspondent, who covered the event, to claim that the Prime Minister would be a worthy recipient of the Freedom of Derry tartan. In a bookshop, in Kuala Lumpur, I held Amartya Sen's 'The Idea of Justice' in my hands, wondering whether to buy it or not.
The first three events are linked. The fourth one is not prima facie. But it is indeed, and I will explain to you how.
Amartya Sen is a name that has cropped up very often in articles I've read in The Economistmagazine, The Guardian and The New Statesman. Although I had never thought of buying any of his books, a recent feature by this Nobel Prize winner on how justice can address powerlessness made me think a great deal about that subject and ultimately hold his 'The Idea of Justice' in a bookshop at the airport on the day (or night, rather) I was coming back from Malaysia.
For Sen the hypothetical contract entered by the state and its people in which both parties are involved in identifying the institutions they need is flawed. In contrast, he believes that it's people's actual lives and circumstances that ought to shape up the justice system.
This is where the first of the three examples I mentioned before comes in. Is justice a byword for fairness, too? The crisis in Kyrgystan is not rooted in the violence unleashed by the pro-president Kurmanbek Bakiyev brigade, but in the ethnic carving up in which Stalin indulged right after Lenin kicked the bucket in 1924. After the disintegration of the ex-Soviet Union, the justice system was modified, but ethnic divisions were not addressed. The question is, then, can there be a structure based on moral principles that ignores - or even encourages, sometimes - bias and prejudice?
This is where the Gaza flotilla raid comes into the picture. And no, I'm not interested in whether you, reader, are pro-Israeli or Palestinian, but rather in whether you think there can ever be a body of laws that seeks to enforce the moral principles I mentioned before whilst atempting to be fair. When the Israeli forces attacked the Free Gaza Movement's boat, they claimed the organisers' intent was violent. Ties with global terrorist groups were given as the justification for their actions. But was their excessive use of force fair? Even if we take their excuse that they were acting in self-defence at face value, their response looked disproportionate. This is where Amartya Sen's assertion that 'If our concentration has to be on the actual lives of people, the question that immediately arises is how to understand the richness and poverty of human lives. The approach I have tried to pursue has largely focused on the freedoms, in various forms, that people enjoy' comes into play. The problem is when people have been denied that freedom for a long time.
Enter then, the Saville inquiry. Justice was finally done. And Sen would be happy, because it was the powerless, in this case the families of those killed on that fatal day ('Sunday, Bloody Sunday', remember that song by U2?), who benefited more from this significant victory. The hurdle was overcome. However, the relatives of those murdered and injured on the streets of Derry had to wait thirty-two years to see a prime minister making the following statement to the House of Commons: 'On behalf of our country, I am deeply sorry'. Is it fair? Thirty-two years? Is that with what the family of Ian Tomlinson will have to contend?
Justice, fairness, powerlessness, freedom. Big, abstract words, but terms with which we come into contact very often. As a parent, I've had to mete out punishment to one or both my children every now and then, only for one party to retort: "It's not fair". Do you recognise the scenario, fellow parents? In this case, I think, the course of action to take is not to highlight distinction ('your action was different') but remark on the quality and equality of punitive measures ('why do you think I did this?'). The goal would be to eliminate any persistent notion of deprivation or low self-esteem.
It is those two last symptoms to which Amartya Sen refers in his piece. The Uzbeks fleeing southern Kyrgystan were already suffering deprivation of freedom, denied to them both by the former Soviet Union and by their current government. The Palestinians living in Gaza are caught in a crossfire between Israel and Hamas. The families of those killed on Bloody Sunday have had to wait for more than three decades to see their claims vindicated.
That's why I half-agree with Amartya. Half, because I do believe that the hypothetical contract entered by state and people ought not to be severed. A body of laws and the means to enforce them are necessary not just to safeguard democratic principles, but also to avoid an abrupt descent into chaos. However, when this system of moral codes does not work, or works only for a selected group, we need, then, to look closer to people's behaviour and their demands. It's one of the ways of reversing powerlessness, giving people the freedom (even if it's relative) they ask for, strengthening justice and acting fairly.
Pandora's World Cup Box
Madame Tussauds moment of the tournament so far: French coach Raymond Domenech in the game between his team and Mexico. Pandora had to pinch herself several times to make sure she wasn't dreaming and that the beleaguered manager was not the latest wax addition to the aforementioned museum. But no, everytime the camera zoomed in on him, there was the same 'Je ne sais pas quoi faire' expression on his stony, immobile face. It was only when Nicolas Anelka buzzed past him shouting out: 'Eppur si muove' that Domenech came out of his stupor, but by then it was too late. France had lost. Pandora believes that as she writes this post Raymond's measures are being taken so that he can take his place alongside the likes of Shrek and Tony Blair (please, insert your own joke here).
Eagle hats, feathered serpents and faces covered in green and white paint. And that's just the Mexican fans. Really, who needs Milan and New York when we have the World Cup, Pandora asks? Rumours that catwalks from London to Paris will emulate the once-every-four-years tournament and look to stage their shows in a similar way are not unfounded. South Africa 2010 has set the bar really high for the fashion world (and that includes the Bavaria brigade, who would have thought that orange was such a fun colour?). No wonder Lady Gaga is nowhere to be seen. Upstaged doesn't even begin to explain it.
Best fans of the tournament so far? Not the loud Brazilians, Portuguese and Argentinians, goalfest notwithstanding. Or the crafty Dutch. No, the best supporters this cup has seen, ipho (that means In Pandora's Humble Opinion), are the Bafana Bafana brigade. Rain or shine, hot or cold, the South Africans have come out en masse to cheer on every team. Even if they have set the uncomfortable record of being the first host nation not to have qualified for the last sixteen. Pandora cannot have been the only one who heard vuvuzelas being blown in unison as the Mexicans scored the equaliser in the opening game against the Safa team. And no, the horns were not coloured green and white. The South African football fans remind me of the drunkard one meets at a dinner party and who's so jolly and inebriated with happiness that he won't leave you alone until you see the scar from his hernia operation. Likewise, the cacophony of cheers and vuvuzelas around stadia is impartial. Which goes to show how mighty the English fans' boos were when they showed their disgust at their national team after the disappointing goalless draw with Algeria. To shout down one vuvuzela is impressive, to overpower a whole symphony orchestra of lepatatas is Herculean.
Pandora's good luck sees no signs of abating. Accidentally (well, these things happen), she was Cced into a recent message from the Queen to Fabio Capello: 'One has already had one's seat booked. I'll be playing midfield on Sunday'.
Memo to Norah Jones re today's clip: that's how you sing the blues, dear. Thanks and have a nice week.
Certain seasons arrive all of a sudden: in later years winter (especially the Christmas period) has been summoned earlier than usual by mince pies that go on display at the end of August; spring showers turn up unexpectedly and summer is like a Houdini act: now you see it, now you don't. Or rather, now you're wearing four layers of clothes, now you're wearing almost nothing.
There's a third element. Degas's paintings don't normally depict performances but rehearsals. The effect is a frank, revelatory, behind-the-scenes exposé of the workings of a dance company. To someone, like me, who's been involved in the performing arts for a number of years, Degas's ballet pieces convey a feeling of Nostalgie. Likewise, autumn is synonymous with melancholy and memories. This leads to a contrast between the gold carpet laid out in front of our eyes and the cyan pigment that adorns our insides. Blue might not be the ruling colour in the surrounding landscape (unless you include the sky), but when it comes to soaking up the fresh, morning breeze stirring the coppery leaves above, enjoying the spectacle of nuts-munching squirrels and watching enviously the acorn-collecting children, you're damn right I've got the blues.
