Shape of Friendship

Shape of friendship. I went to my friend, David Finnigan’s, performance piece at the Barbican Theatre, last week.

I took my 10 year old. From what I could tell, there were no other young people in the audience which was a shame in many respects.

A shame because this form of theatre is more relevant, more exciting, more dramatic than, say, a standard piece of Shakespeare performed in a standard type of way.

A shame because if we want to engage young people in live performance, we are still an art form where liveness and vividness counts.

You can observe this in the music gig scene which is still strong.

I also think you can engage young people in serious, fun and thoughtful art from a very young age and that’s better for everyone. In a world where rich nations are - in part - moving more digital and remote, then the importance of liveness and vividness increases.

The Barbican is a living piece of visual and performing art history. Considered a brilliant example of Brutalist architecture, it was considered by the Queen in 1982:

“...one of the wonders of the modern world”

The Barbican is built from and atop ruins from World War 2, atop ruins which stretch to Roman times, atop ruins which stretch back further.

The site is within a javelin distance of where a Roman Amphitheater used to be. There is history that stretches back and back…

Performers and audiences on occasion are sensitive to this history. I have worked in and around the Barbican area, on and off, for 20 - 30 over years.

By no means, do I see even a small sliver of everything at the Barbican but the space has held some of the most profound pieces of human expression that have occurred in modern times across music, dance, theatre and arts.

And so into that space we walk.

David is a friend and we have collaborated. You can listen to us/read on podcast here and below.

It’s a privilege then to see how a show develops (I saw it in one of its earliest incarnations) and live with its creative’s hopes and fears.

Shows performed by friends then have a special resonance. You can not watch them as strangers any more than you can watch friends kiss differently from strangers arriving at a station.

This echo plays into the lives of those who create – and we all create – so plays into all our lives.

My son can have a level of emotion and experience richer for knowing David. Especially in a piece such as this which plays to stories in David’s life.

The show I saw might well be the last time the performance is ever staged.

Certainly, it is the last time it will be staged in that time and place and audience (and so we can suggest all performance is fleeting like this). There is an aphorism which comes about in Open Space and UnConference that people in the room are the ones that matter and thus we can only have the conversations we can have.

Live performances have these lives and these lives are mostly short-lived.

There is a sensation joyous and deep in experiencing live and vivid art with other humans in a fashion never to be repeated.

At its best an urgency and richness which changes you and leaves you changed forever more.

Unlike books or even visual art, performance is not an object to last, performance is a shared experience.

Books and paintings, arguably, are not completed without a reader or a viewer but they can have a life of their own.

Performance lives when experienced together. Anything else is mostly only rehearsal.

Perhaps that is partly why performance through storytelling or dancing seems to have been around before writing and likely at the dawn of homo sapiens.

There is a sadness as well for events that can not be replayed. There is a part of us that wishes to capture part of that dream and bottle the feelings as keepsakes.

Therein lies all the countless visual snaps and videos of live gigs and events hardly ever to be viewed again. The liveness was in the moment and – if we were to be honest – never to be captured again. Live performance shared is a singular experience. Those video snaps are wasted. (Be like the lady at the top photo).

I am both happy and sad then to be part of a final showing. There near the beginning of its journey. There near its end.

David is a newer friend. We first met in the tail end of the last decade. I cherish being able to make new friends and create experiences together.

I cherish that we collaborate deeply in making art.

But, we also tell ourselves the myths that all our types of friendship last forever. Relationships form and crumble. Made and re-made.

Some burnout due to their intensity, others fade due to accidental or intentional neglect. We can be sorry for these things too.

I still have friends from school, but I think I have lost many more. That is not to devalue the friendships when those relationships are alive.

And like that – friendships also are like live performance – they thrive in shared experience, they can end in sadness and in joy, they can go on long lifetime journeys.

We can fool ourselves about them too because someone always dies, and shows always end. 

Still – we can and should nurture and celebrate them where we have them.

Tend, repair and grow – and dare I say perhaps prune – like flabby parts of performance – parts which are already dying

But, if possible, in full recognition of the joy they gave while alive.

What are the shapes of our friendships and relationships? Pocket-shaped, world-shaped, love shaped?

We would not think to measure and manage them.

And so… my tangent into “ESG” - these are the intangible (though sometimes tangible) often difficult, sometimes impossible to measure parts of business, they have a shape and importance, but exactly what that shape is… well perhaps like the shape of friendship.

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Vanishing Asia, Kevin Kelly photos of the past looking forward

I have bought one of the most extraordinary travel photo books. 9,000 photos of a current and vanishing Asia.

On travel photos. The average photo of Kevin Kelly’s is not as “artful” as the equivalent from - for instance - a Magnum photographer (such as Steve McCurry) but this is more than outweighed by the breadth of photographs and its glimpses of the “ordinary”.

When you think about the ordinary you can look at the work of - say - Martin Parr looking at the life of typical British people; their food, their culture, their breakfasts. Or, in the US, deceptively normally, or artfully plain work of William Eggleston. Eggleston influenced Parr and many of those who came after (see image below for glimpse). Touches of Kelly’s photos capture these influences and his look at design, clothing, doors and the like. There is a touch of the pattern book. It does not step into the kitsch or the high (?)  art of Eggleston but it steps into an important area of documentary, nevertheless.

Part of a Parr photo, left; Part of Eggleston’s photo, right.

In the US, there is the work of Diane Arbus for those who are more off-mainstream, or Robert Frank in the Americans. Or further back, Doreathea Lange. Or in another way, Cartier-Bresson. These capture the human portrait and way of an older American life. I see echoes of these in Kelly’s work.

Arbus, left (part of female impersonators). Frank, right (from Americans).

I view all of these photographers as important in the history of visual art and photography and on their influence on culture (partly because of the artists and creatives they influence).  I think this history is understudied. 

In parallel, you have documentary of culture and people as the world has globalised.  This is perhaps less serious for art collectors but no less important for our understanding of the world. 

Kevin Kelly to my mind has photographed perhaps one of the single largest collection of visuals of Asia by a singular individual person over this time. (Selection below, found at Petal Pixel also including essay on his books)

A professional travel photographer such as Steve McCurry has perhaps a wider range of images. I would suggest Magnum and “professional” travel photographers are perhaps more artful in their final selections.

But, Kelly has specifically sought out a vanishing Asia. He has looked for places in people with traditional clothing, clothes and language. And so, in capturing stories, ideas and documentary his books are equal, or arguably, in advance of these travel photographers - as Kelly is capturing a different set of ideas.

He observes that the first items to vanish are traditional costumes, then architecture then music, then food then language. 

He notes while often beautiful, this way of traditional living is often undesirable.  It’s bad for health (indoor fires, poor heating and cooling). It’s bad for liberty and choice. Ornate clothing and jewellery restrict movement and freedom.

He suggest despite the pollution, neglect and chaos of cities, the transformational leap in opportunities for wealth and choice has driven 1 billion Asians to leave their traditional ways to join the cities. Exchanging beautiful homes built by their own hands, organic food grown themselves, dressed in fabrics made by their own hands too.

He ponders that he too would make the same shift. Kelly is a futurist and technologist. Arguably, also one of our great future thinkers  (as befits the founder of Wired, a curator of the Whole Earth Review, creator of cool tools). Perhaps, rarely and counterintuitively, Kelly is keen on remembering these old ways even as he is a supporter of modernisation.

The future never leaves the past behind; it carries the old forward. To steer this future, we need to recall and employ the richness of the past. … I made this book to help transmit this ancient richness into the future.

I agree with much of Kelly’s thinking. His pictures not only tell stories - as mine have done in, for instance, a part of Indonesia even Kelly - has not yet visited, eg Sulawesi - but they record designs, and patterns and ways of life. And with an eye for this, the book is something more than simple travel photos, part pattern book, part history, Kelly documents something more than a vanishing beauty.

Almost $300 dollars / GBP200+ for the collection but worth it, there I think will only be around 5,000 copies and over half (maybe most) have sold already. Amazon link here, but will come from third party sellers if any have stock.

Death Haiku

There is a tradition with Zen monks and Chinese, Japanese poetry to write a poem when you are dying. In the Japanese tradition, this has ended up being a death haiku – although some have been written in other traditions, like a Chinese poem rather than a haiku. Many of the stories relate to the very final few minutes of life. For instance, 

Goku Kyonen died on Oct. 8, 1272. He was 56. Here is his death poem:

The truth embodied in the Buddhas 

Of the future, present, past;

The teaching we received from 

the Fathers of our faith 

Can be found at the tip of my stick.

And the story:

When Goku felt his death was near, he ordered all his disciples to gather around him. He sat at the pulpit, raised his stick, gave the floor a single tap with it, and said the poem above. When he finished, he raised the stick again, tapped the floor once more, and cried, “See! See!” Then, sitting upright, he died.

Perhaps the story is “fake news” but it does seem to be handed down.

I think I am going to write my own death haiku to put in my next performance of Bigly | Death, if I do it again this year.

Death Haiku, Chogo

People I long for

People I loathe

End of autumn

I like this one as it centres around people. The image zings out to me. The sentiment is one I feel clearly, and so many of my friends and loved ones seem to feel at times.

We really miss and want to be with people.

Yes, sometimes, we really do not want to be with people.

And this can be the most important thing of a moment.

JP will often articulate this to me.

I do not want you with me, Daddy.

Sometimes, I want you.

But now I want to be alone in good fortune.*

JP has this with people. The presence of others is sometimes too much for him to bear.

(*This is a reference to Walt Whitman’s poem ‘Song of the Open Road'“, which JP often quotes phrases from.)

But, other times, company is enjoyed. Like most of us.