Archive for the ‘london’ Category
I read papers. I subscribe to two (in the old fashioned paper version – I subscribe to six on the iPad) which are dropped every early morning through my mailslot in a wake-me-up kind of way. And I read one on the way home – the Evening Standard. I like living in a city that has an evening paper, a rare thing nowadays. And I was happy when it went free, although it did occur to me to consider the horrific changes in my home metropolis’s weekly paper, The Village Voice, when the same happened to it.
But I think I’m about to stop reading The Evening Standard, as much as a habit and sometimes a pleasure it is. What they tried to do to Labour in the city was one thing, despite what happened with the actual vote. And you know, I could do without daily updates on what’s happening in the capital’s poshest private schools. (Doesn’t seem to be on-line, but there’s an article today on page 8 about “muck-up day” at £14,000 a year City of London. Last week, there were two articles in the first 10 pages about Westminster School and its parents and pupils).
But what’s really making me throw the towel in – and make a decision to read something better on the way home tomorrow and for the tomorrows to come – is Lebedev’s, and thus the paper’s, weird edit-free support of the Tory candidate for London mayor, Ivan Massow.
An article praising him seems to appear every day. (As with the potential of a Labour national victory, feels as though Lebedev is a bit terrified of what might happen to him and his extended stay in London were Labour to win, though with the mayoralty, I doubt it’d be anything as bad as the end of the non-dom exemption). Massow seems like an OK guy – despite the fact that he seems to have a lot to get out in front of with today’s article, entitled “I’m a gay, dyslexic ex-alcoholic… vote for me.” (One suspects that a left candidate with the same “credentials” might get a different treatment from the Standard – take for instance the fact that he seems to have impregnated his lesbian roommate. One wonders whether Sadiq Khan would get a calm “explainer” opportunity if that was the case with him.)
But anyway, what’s annoyed me today is a single sentence in the latest puff piece they’ve run for Massow. The paragraph in which it’s contained runs:
“It’s been true since Dick Whittington that anyone can come to London and make it even if they have nothing in their pockets. In New York it’s all about what university you went to. In Paris you have to be Parisian. But London is a city that loves outsiders.”
That sentence about New York is simply a lie. If anyone was editing this rubbish, or even mildly “curating” it, that sentence would have to come out. Let’s take a look at the facts.
London has had two mayors. One was Independent-Labour, who – it is true, never went to university. The other, the Tory, well, yes, he went to Balliol College, Oxford. Which is about as “what university (and secondary school of course) you went to” as you as could possibly get.
On the other hand, let’s do a (relatively) recent list of New York City mayors and their undergrad alma maters:
Bill DeBlasio – New York University
Michael Bloomberg – Johns Hopkins University
Rudy Giuliani – Manhattan College
David Dinkins – Howard University
Ed Koch – City College of New York
Abraham Beame – City College of New York
So we’re back to 1974 with that. There’s one “elite” university on the list (Hopkins- though it’s not really a “king-maker”) and another one (NYU) that’s become very expensive now, but certainly wasn’t considered elite when DeBlasio attended it. In other words, what Massow’s said is complete bullshit – propagandistic bullshit that at once shines his own “self-starter” badge as well as shimmies up to his “aspirational” audience. So… whatever, it’s a throwaway line, right? Well, if I’m going to read a newspaper, and if even if it’s going to pimp for a candidate, I’d like there to be at least a semblance of honesty, objectivity, and backchat-upon-factual-error. Massow’s simply wrong in his claim – and no one at the Standard cares. Or they do, but they’re wise enough to know that crossing their oligarchical boss is probably a very, very bad career move.
I don’t think it would ever be reasonable for us to expect the Standard to present an “unbiased” portrayal of national or local politics, what Lebedev is doing for Massow is over the line. But the point is, they opined against the beliefs the constituency they pretend to journalistically represent. And now, they’re stumping for another one of the same sort. Watch forwhat they’re about to do to any Labour or further left candidates that run for the London office.
For myself, I’ll not be picking up a Standard tomorrow – and won’t be again until the London election is over. I encourage you not to too.
PS. If you want to read a weird wikipedia page, read Lebedev’s. According to it – brief as it is – he’s the strange sort of lucky, but simple, pub owner and restauranteur who also happens to own an 800,000 circulation newspaper. Thinking about buying my local, so that I can do that sort of thing too…
What else does the novel, by the very nature of its elemental form, teach us than that there is some relation, or at least should be, between our internal subjective states and the world in which we move. Foreground / background. Protagonist / context. Romance / history. The family / the city. Wires run between the one to the other, from the outside in and back again. Almost every name of a novelistic subgenre or period movement (realism, naturalism, modernism, postmodernism, to name just a few of the recent ones) names a different mode of wiring. Shifts in genre represent new ideas about how to write the machine. How tangled or untangled it is, how many wires run hither and how many yon, what buttons there are to push to control the voltage and wattage of the link up, how much bandwidth in total is carried.
Has there ever been a “terrorist attack” as uncanny as the one that happened yesterday in Woolwich? And uncanny is the right word – utterly familiar (tropes of beheading, tropes of “bringing the fight back to the oppressor,” the visibility of violence) yet at the same time utterly not (the refusal of both escape or self-immolative martyrdom, the implicit invocation of the laws of war when it comes to “innocent bystanders,” the further refusal to “let the event speak for itself,” or be spoken for by leadership organisations far away and ex post facto, or through pre-recorded statements aired after the event, and the immediate extinguishing of the fear of further attacks, at least by the same actors, as per Boston). With this one, we seem to slip from the genre called “terrorism” to something else: a gruesome morality play about the calculus of war, the algebra of carnage. Street theatre allegory that trades the fake blood for the real.
So was it the “genre shift” that explains the strange reactions of the bystanders who observed the attack and its aftermath? Women reportedly ran over, in the course of the attack itself, to attempt to help the dying or dead soldier, thinking that the three actors in this play were rehearsing an all-too-common everyday scene we call “a car accident.” Who was it, and why was it, that someone stayed to film a man whose arms were drenched in blood, who carried a knife and a cleaver in his left hand, while he delivered his final soliloquy? What to make of these recorded conversations between the killers and their audience?
Is there a better answer than that a genre had been disrupted or reinvented, and thus the rules that normal apply (murders try to escape, bystanders flee, etc) were unavailable for consultation?
Genre is also another name for myth. While it sometimes postures as science, it has far more in common with superstition. Throw salt over your shoulder, and lucky will occur. One character says something, the other, naturally, touches wood. We now, in our pharmacologically-lexiconed period, are far more likely to call superstitious practices the symptoms of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. One has to check, and check again, that the water’s not running in the bathroom before one leaves the flat. Push hard three times on the front door to make sure it’s locked… or else another storyline will ensue, the one that has an evening return to a gaping door, the laptop gone, the bedroom drawers dumped. This is literally it – some sort of chemical depletion or superfluity occurs, some traumatic event takes place, and then an almost mystical belief in certain irrational storylines takes over. To disobey the mandates of genre is to open oneself to an unhappy ending.
Last night: this news-story. On television and especially on the web. Fraught conversations about the arithmetic of death. And then a phone call. Bad news of the sort that late night phone calls usually bring. The trope of the middle-aged son and the ailing parent. The novel teaches us to think of the one thing as related, if complex, to the other. At least metaphorically, or even just formally. What is happening out there of course is a prelude to what is about to happen right in here, in the space of the family home and especially the skulls (and bodies) of those that inhabit it.
Think of the script. The call in the night in the movie. The early middle-aged son who ignores the call momentarily, caught up as he is in an argument about the gruesome news on television. The politics of violence, the physics of the world system. The cigarette whose space allows a second thought, a second glance at the mobile phone. Ominous – we can imagine what will happen next. The film that will play out from its start in a graphic sequence of news images morphs into a dark family drama. How does one cope when the worst comes home to roost?
A fallacy (a word quite close to “myth” and “superstition”) that doesn’t have a name, one that is hardwired into the DNA of the novel as a form. I’ve tried to name it in things that I’ve written, in seminars that I’ve led. Sometimes it seems to have more to do with temporality. What happens after what, or at the same times as each other. We could call it presumptive fallacy. Retro-prospective fallacy. The fallacy of coincidence. Sometimes it’s simply about the structural mandate that the foreground be read in the light of the background and vice versa. Contextual fallacy? Flaubert, disrupter through over-fulfilment of so many genre mandates, so early in the game, was aware of the problem. Think of Frédéric waiting for Madame Arnoux while the revolution kicks off a few blocks away in L’Éducation sentimentale. The New Critics liked to label fallacies on the part of the reader. I am more interested in the fallacies inherent in artistic forms themselves, even though obviously these can turn into the former and often do through the sort of training that novels provide.
But of course, myths are also true in a very serious sense. I don’t simply mean that what we believe we are. What we think is the only thing there is. Although that may well be true. In this case, it is also useful to think of myth or superstition or even fallacy as a customary practice, a mode of operation, running orders against confusion. The world, as we know, lives out the demands of its many operative genres every single day. Perhaps now as much as ever. A myth is habitus, generated by practice, an operating manual written and re-written each time we act.
The novel makes us stupid in one sense, solipsistic, tends to make us look for our angle on things, what does this mean to us? What were the attackers yesterday, in both his words and deeds, and deeds both during and after the attack, trying to say to me? Or at least us? There is a counter-instinct, for those disciplined a certain way, to try to climb up the ladder of transcendent wisdom, to disavow the inwrought narcissism of our conditioned response. To gasp and yell when the news commentators reduce a global to a local question, an a serious question to a matter of insanity or unanchored spite. They might think what they want, but they have no right to act it out here. To force us into these stringent attempts to adjust the genre back to something we’re comfortable with.
But the attempt to climb out of the fray of self-interest, however complex, however Wallace-ianly convoluted and self-reflexive, is of course a trope in yet another sort of story, another sort of myth, one that – we need to remind ourselves – has the deepest affinities with an imperial mindset, one that takes the world panoptically, one for whom impersonality is a transferable skill.
What retards political development – and really contemporary thought as a whole – more right now than an inability to come to terms with the relationship between the self, located wherever it might be, and the world-system as a whole? At least here where we are? What are we, sequestered in the posh uptowns and suburbs of the global system, meant to think or say when we are in the wrong jurisdiction? We know not to fall into the ethical mode, charity is of no use, but there may be an exitless cloverleaf, a highway cul de sac, ahead if
Despite all the complicities of the novel, these generic demands and the demands of its sub-genres, the promise remains that the bad faith strictures themselves make space for revelatory manipulation, clarifying detournage. They even, potentially, lead us toward the formulation of simpler questions, question more pressing in their semi-solipsistic simplicity. Like this one, that with the little revision, some shifts in seemingly inevitable consequence, the script I outlined above could be made to ask:
Who has to die in the prime of life, and who is afforded the luxury of death that comes at an actuarially appropriate stage?
It’s hard for me to understand how anybody reads this sort of thing as anything other than a strange form of ad copy, a surreptitious pro-bono for the forces of gentrification themselves:
But after the cameras have gone, as the recession grinds on and the Eurozone spirals further into meltdown how will the Lea Valley look in 2013? 2013 is Year Zero, it signifies the beginning of new spaces opening up, of new possibilities emerging from riots and abandoned construction sites. The Masterplan will be eroded by the persistence of nature and the desire of the young to take back territory from the overarching boredom of the Westfield aesthetic . . . I imagine stalled housing projects, empty flats in yuppiedromes across the capital reactivated. I envisage stadia and velodromes covered in ivy, occupied and surrounded by transient and nomadic architecture, like Constant’s New Babylon, moving cities, interlinking, nomadic structures. I think this new ‘park’, the result of a corporate land grab, will, after the two weeks of televized spectacle, return to the physical reality of the wilderness.
It’s the same effect as Ballard – although I rather think that Ballard was far more fully aware of the dialectical perversity of his work than Ford is. A block of posh condos, a new megamall of the periphery, the traffic-locked Westway – all of these things become more interesting when someone encourages us to imagine them as anteriorly or futuraly haunted by outbursts of primal sex, violent agitation, or eroticised Michael Bay-type fireballs. Did you think Ballard was critiquing these things, given how appealing you find them in their gory transfigured forms? No more than marketing firms are critiquing the products they shill. Cars are more interesting – and thus more salable – when their utilitarian functionality receives, via the ad campaign, some Bukkake shots of sex and death, when they’re rolling you around the end of the world scenes of late capitalism.
Think about it: what if Ballard wrote a novel about what really goes on in the up-market high rise? And what if those who are selling the condos and buy-to-lets couldn’t rely on the residual grime as both an edgy selling point, a marker of victorious progress, and a feigned tell that the punter is going to get a very good deal indeed. The logic of the paragraph above is the very logic of gentrification – the edgy is valued as authentic but also as a good investment. The fact that the Lea Valley was first encountered by the artist “through the rave scene of the early 90s” is a consumer testimonial, might as well be a part of a branding operation.
In truth, the reality will be, I imagine, much more boring than in the quotation above. Flats will fill Stratford, the mall will continue to expand, the fringe areas nearby will be swallowed, until school catchments and distance from the transport hubs put a cap on the encroachment. There won’t be squatters – no more than there are in Canary Wharf. But in our flats – after all, “we” are the demographic who are meant to occupy these things, right? – paintings of the previous inhabitants, wasted ravers, decorative drunks at a shitty bar, post-coital squatters in dirty bedrooms, empty bottles and over-flowing ashtrays, will hang on each and every reception room wall.
The sounds of singsong anger and general tautness. But in little girls’ voices, voices that have somehow been wrecked for the adult world. That have receded or regressed somehow.
Out the window, then, two women seated on the stairs leading into the building across. They are squabbling, it seems, but then the squabble turns into a sort of sexual rubbing, the one frantically rubbing the crotch of the other.
Are they both women or not?
One jumps from the stairs and darts between two parked cars. She drops her trousers and squats and a circular puddle forms on the street.
Passers-by do not look, do not stop to look, even though assuredly they can hear what she is doing even though they do not stop to see it.
She moves back to the steps, to her companion.
On these steps, each a week just before the weekend, a couple – posh and white, tenants of the building – sit and await the arrival of a delivery. He repeatedly checks his phone until two others roll up on bicycles – a man and a boy. There is some small talk, some awkward attempts at customer-service and good-customership in the form of feigned racial cross-toleration, and then an exchange of goods for a wad of cash.
But today, the woman in the flat across the street and one story down leans out of her window to look. She is blonde, in her late thirties, and a window peeper without the excuse of smoking. Normally when she sees that she is seen in her peeping she pulls back and yanks the curtain across. As she does now.
More playground noise. They are in the course of a transaction of some sort. Then one of them – not the one who peed on the street – pulls tight to the area railing and from her hands comes a massive flame. Though she is smoking crack, she sits back to chat as she tugs on the pipe. Casually, like an office-worker on her break, chatting with a colleague.
Another arrives. This one, unlike the others, is white. And apparently elderly, or at least looks that way. She is wearing enormous fluffy slippers on her feet and she walks with an injured shuffle. She shuffles down the middle of the street toward the pair on the stoop and stops to complain or cajole and then begins to weep. The tears of a little girl.
The curtain across the street is drawn again and the blonde woman reappears, extends her head out the window, as well as an arm whose hand grips a mobile phone tightly.
The tears of the old-looking woman continue as the pipe runs out and is returned to the smoker’s backpack. There are more faces visible at more windows. A man – overweight and of a certain age, but still in his way dashing in his way – exits the door behind them. With arthritic difficulty, he negotiates the steps and then heads south on Great Titchfield Street.
Now the two black women are taunting the white woman. Laughing at her and then laughing harder when she extends an open hand toward them, palm up, imploring them to share with her. The tears continue; the black women embrace wildly, again as if to show the other her place in this association. A man passes, and then a well-dressed woman. Someone is setting up tables outside the pub at the corner.
The woman at the window across draws the curtains again and disappears. She will not reappear during the course of this vignette.
The women on the stairs stand and begin to walk down the sidewalk, past the puddle and below the window of the woman who just now was watching. More tinkling taunt talk, more weaving and some rail-grabbing for steadiness’s sake – and more tears from the white woman who shuffles slowly in her slippers, too slow to keep up.
Only when the two in front turn to taunt does she make up ground on them. If they were to walk normally and ignore her they would quickly leave her behind.
Owen Hatherley has an excellent piece on the riots and “urban regeneration” on the Verso website. Here’s a bit:
Look at the looted, torched places, look at what they all have in common. Look at Bristol, a port where you could walk for miles and wonder where its working class had disappeared to, which seems to have been given over completely to post-hippy tourism, ‘subversive’ graffiti, students and shopping. Well, those invisible young, ‘socially excluded’ (how that mealy-mouthed phrase suddenly seems to acquired a certain truth) people arrived in the shiny new Cabot Circus mall and took what they wanted, what they couldn’t afford, what they’d been told time and time again they were worthless without. Look at Woolwich, where the former main employer, the Arsenal, is now a vast development of luxury flats, and where efforts to ameliorate poverty and unemployment centre on a giant Tesco, just opposite the Jobcentre. Look at Peckham, where ‘Bellenden Village’ pretends to be excited by the vibrant desperation of Rye Lane. Look at Liverpool, where council semis rub up against the mall-without-walls of Liverpool One, whose heavy-security streets were claimed by the RIBA to have ‘single-handedly transformed Liverpool’s fortunes’—as if a shopping mall could replace the docks. Look at Croydon, where you can walk along the spotless main street of the central privately owned, privately patrolled Business Improvement District and then suddenly find yourself in the rotting mess around West Croydon station. Look at Manchester’s city centre, the most complete regeneration showpiece, practically walled-off from those who exist outside the ring-road. Look at Salford, where Urban Splash sells terraces gutted and cleared of their working class population, to MediaCity employees with the slogan ‘own your own Coronation Street home’. Look at Nottingham, where private student accommodation looming over council estates features a giant advert promising ‘a plasma screen TV in every room’. Look at Brixton, where Zaha Hadid’s hedge-funded Academy has a disciplinary regime harsher than some prisons, and aims to create little entrepreneurs, little CEOs out of the lamentably unaspirational estate-dwellers. Look at Birmingham’s new Bull Ring, yards away from the scar of no-man’s land separating it from the dilapidated estates and empty light-industrial units of Digbeth and Deritend. This is urban Britain, and though the cuts have made it worse, the damage was done long before.