Books and Dust

As the axe prepares to fall, I speak to Nicola Dellow, a postgraduate library student at UCL, about the cuts being made to library services.

Could you please sum-up the recent nationwide cuts made to libraries?

Public library services are being cut up and down the country as local councils attempt to keep to the budget cuts put in effect by the current government.

Do you feel these cuts are justified?

Of course not, I wouldn’t be a very good library school student if I did. I think it is completely tragic to be honest, as libraries have such a positive effect on a community. What I find most appalling is the cuts to outreach library programmes, such as mobile libraries and visits to the housebound. Many housebound users have little contact with the outside world and enjoy the chance to have a chat with a friendly member of staff and have books brought to them.

What are the long-term implications?

If public libraries shut, I do not think they will re-open in a better economic climate. I think this is why there have been so many campaigns to save libraries, initiated or endorsed by such a wide range of people. Education and literacy levels are likely to be affected and there is every chance that there will be a de-professionalisation of librarians working in the public sphere. 

Do libraries still have a useful role in today's culture given the ease of information access provided by the internet?

Of course. I think that both libraries and librarians have suffered in the past through stereotypes represented in the media. It is important to realise that libraries are not just about the physical space, but the services they can provide. The internet has not stopped parents taking their children to ‘rhyme-time’ at their local library, as a chance to learn and socialise with other children. It has not necessarily made people turn to online forums for book groups instead of attending them at the library to experience debate and the opportunity to meet new people. Public libraries essentially provide a democratic space for all members of the public.  

There is so much information available on the internet, but not all of it is relevant and search engines have certain limitations. At a library, it is likely that you will come into contact with someone who really knows about information retrieval, who can help you find relevant information from any number of sources.

Do the rise in e-book sales signal a natural evolution away from physical texts, or are such claims greatly exaggerated?

This is a tough one. The codex has had enduring popularity for centuries and it is a trusted form. I think that the e-book reader, like the codex, is a format for information retrieval and everyone has a personal preference about the ways in which they read. In a society where our working and private lives are increasingly exposed to computers, smartphones and other kinds of technology, then it is natural to want to carry 100 books around on an e-reader. However I think that the relatively slow uptake signals scepticism about storage capability and the chance of e-books reconfiguring as technology progresses, in the same way that early computer games cannot be played on today’s consoles. I certainly don’t think that in a decade’s time, book binders will be out of business.

In your opinion do such changes, both in terms of cuts to library services and the introduction of new technology, affect the types of books we read?

I don’t think changes to technology affect the types of books we read, but I do think they change the ways in which we read. I am not sure how it has the potential to affect the types of books we read, as e-books have the same diversity of genre as printed books.

I think that cuts to library services will really affect those who cannot afford to buy books and DVDs from internet sellers, or are unwilling to take a chance on ordering something that they cannot really browse first. In a public library, you can borrow material that you may not usually invest in and can read all sorts of books knowing that you can bring them back. I think that cuts to library resources will mean that people may be more careful about their reading choices because there is likely to be a monetary investment.

What do you make of Michael Goves' '50 book challenge'?

I think it is somewhat hypocritical to propose this figure when the government you are part of is essentially cutting the resources that will allow children access to reading material. This aim fails to account for any individual reading habits, such as pace. I think that Anthony Browne’s response in The Guardian has it spot on really; it is about the experience of reading, not the quest to complete a certain number of books within a year. 

Immersive Theatre

(Originally written for IdeasTap.)

Leaning in the dark, I touch the tip of my shoe against an empty bottle on the floor and calculate the series of events that would be set into motion if I rolled the glass under the feet of Banquo’s ghost.

I would never do it – I’d be an idiot if I did – but I’m still stood there with the bottle and eyeing up his legs...

Down the dark vaults of Clerkenwell House of Detention, Belt Up Theatre are putting on Macbeth, the cells of this 19th-century prison transformed into the mind of Shakespeare’s Scottish king.

Belt Up specialise in immersive, site-specific performance; immersive being a large umbrella-of-a-term that encompasses everything from one-on-one interaction to large-scale promenade theatre. This type of performance promises its audience something different from a traditional stage-play; the chance for direct bodily involvement in the action of the piece.

But being lowered into the bathwater is one thing; feeling like you’re able to splash around is another. Immersive theatre, more so than a platform for sensory play, has the potential to explore something else: the audience’s desire for involvement and a frustration of that desire.

As its popularity has risen, audiences have grown accustomed to the styles of immersive performance and purchase their ticket with certain sensory expectations. In her blog, playwright Sarah Grochola compares last year’s You Me Bum Bum Train, in which each audience member is made the protagonist in a range of disjointed scenes, to the act of shoe shopping.

This year’s One-on-One festival at the BAC catered for the personal tastes of its audience by setting up the event as a series of “menus”, with performances based on flavours such as “reflective” or “dreamy”. We consume this style of performance with eager bellies, but who serves us our dinner?

For a character, the opportunity to escape the traditional stage is a potential movement towards independence: autonomy. Now don’t get me wrong, the world is over-populated enough without an infinity of fictional stomachs to fill and I’m not saying we should give them the vote, but breaking from the walls of a traditional stage could, to some degree, present a chance for self-authorship.

And yet what tends to happen is the very opposite. Characters are often reduced to tableaux; figures that blend into the architecture of the site and serve only to compliment the aesthetic atmosphere of the piece. It would seem that, crushed under the boots of the newly empowered audience, characters run the risk of being reduced to facilitators for sensory experience.

The real power of immersive theatre is the conflict that crops up when there is a clash between audience and character; both parties detached from the traditional rule-book, both hungry for action, yet both unsure where the power lies.

The real question is how should emerging companies work with this uncertainty? It would be unfair to describe Belt Up’s Macbeth as tableaux, but at the same time, the unwillingness to sever the audience from Shakespeare’s text seems to be a missed opportunity.

Should audiences disrupt these narratives, and what happens when characters fight back? Maybe if I roll that bottle just slightly forward…

07:35 23/04/11

The Rash

Five days to launch and all Alice could think about was the pink rash that had formed on her right arm. There was a press event at one tomorrow afternoon but, Jesus, what the hell was it? Just above the elbow on the back of her forearm, a fat pink line. It didn’t sting or anything but it was a nuisance and, let’s be honest, it can’t have looked particularly attractive. Especially now the weather was getting hotter and she would start wearing dresses. She turned her arm over to get a better look, straining the muscles in her shoulder and involuntarily opening her mouth just a bit. Christ, bloody annoying to have something like that come up now, just as the days were getting longer. She was going to wear that nice short-sleeve top for the event tomorrow but would now need a jacket as well. Those PR things are always so sticky and she knew the jacket would just make her sweat, especially when she would have to field questions from mental paranoids about dangers to human nature. And then all that hand-shaking afterwards with the knowledge that her palms were moist and she would probably smell a bit. Terrible, as if the press needed anything else to pounce on. The Sweaty Tech Witch.

She didn’t really understand the need for another PR meeting, it was only for the company to defend themselves against needless worries and in her opinion it came across as weak. All that crap about mind control and intrusion of human boundaries. It’s only a new sensor and, Christ, if they hadn’t developed it Apple would have. Then we’d be using our eyes to sweep across the pages and download useless aps. This way there was so much more we could do, the release titles were a great example of that. In her opinion the developers had done an amazing job integrating her technology in innovative ways, the first time she played the FPS she even surprised herself how smoothly the sensor detected minute eye movements. With the contraction of her iris the program was able to adapt and shift the game-play accordingly, and the resulting papillary response encouraged the narrative to increase the intensity of its content. As she blew a hole through the head of a Nazi the personal tailoring of the game’s action to her own mental state made her heart beat faster and, if she was honest, she had uncrossed her legs and pressed herself forward and down, just slightly, on the leather board-room chair.

Fuck, this rash was growing, she was sure of it, in the past five minutes alone no less. The phone started ringing and she used her left hand to pick it up, keeping focus on the back of her right forearm. It was her PA, he wanted to know what she would like for lunch tomorrow as the conference centre was booking the meals from the catering service in advance. Chicken was fine. She rested the phone between her shoulder and ear and moved her left hand to the rash. Roast potatoes were fine as well. Her fingers lingered above the pink blotch and she told her PA that yes she would be drinking wine and yes she was planning on getting a taxi home. She touched the rash with the tip of her forefinger. It was fine, she didn’t want him to give her a lift home, she was happy to get a taxi. She pressed the finger into the skin and it slowly eased into her arm, the surface opening around her nail and allowing her to push further, right down to the knuckle. Her PA wanted to know if she was sure about the lunch, as once he’d booked it she would be unable to change her mind. She worked her finger further into her arm and, with a bit of effort, was eventually able to slide a second finger in also. She uncrossed her legs and felt the cold phone against her neck. Yes, it was absolutely fine.     

A Quick Pint With Fran

Fran Copeman is a 25 year old painter and illustrator. She’s exhibited both locally in London and internationally, in Italy, Germany and Manchester. Her work, mixing hyper-realism and abstraction, often depicts disfigured and restricted bodies sunk in a thick painted landscape. I met her outside the John Snow in Soho for a pint.

How was the toilet?

Piss off. Actually, appropriate word. Why the fuck do we pay for water? It just goes straight through you.

What inspires you?

Shall we wait for this environmental services truck to pass?

 A dustbin truck moves past the pavement edge where Tom and Fran are sitting.

Okay.

Well.

Generally I’m interesting in relationships and our relationships with each other. Obviously that gets much more complicated when you’re living in such a busy place, y’know?

No. What do you mean when you say relationships?

I mean the way I react with my external world, simple as. I had an early project, crudely called ‘The City’, I was reading Walter Benjamin and all that, but the idea of the city is still an important metaphor of me.

Do you work a lot in metaphors then?

Yeah definitely. I wouldn’t work in a completely representational way – I mean I do often use the human figure but that’s because it’s a form that I can identify with.

Is that identification important?

All I can say from my personal experiences of exhibiting is that I haven’t seen a single recent piece that has been ‘essentially’ conceptual. There’s always been a narrative or something which gives the audience the ability to see what the artist is doing without having to read a manual. Which is nice.

But your figures aren’t representational?

Well apart from the idea.

Is that idea frustration? It seems to be something you frequently work with.

When I left university I wanted a lot of things, but that all turned to shit really – a lot of people seem frustrated like that at the moment. I was also interested in frustrating the aesthetics of the piece to the point of distortion, and that got me looking at what makes something look distorted; ugly.

Why ugly?

It’s always a nicer challenge to make something that isn’t pretty.

Do you consider your work to be ugly?

Yes, it’s pretty ugly, but the image itself I find quite beautiful because of the detail created by the restriction.

What’s the process of getting that restriction?

Basically tying people up and getting them to break out of things.

Right.

Like with rope. Mainly on the face and hands.

Okay.

That’s where the most gesturing happens. Basically it started off as me imitating artists I admire, like Robert Longo who was active in the 80’s during the yuppie era. I did nick his style a bit but it’s mine now. (Laughs) History repeats itself anyways. We all forget things.

Fran drinks.

Is there a political element to your work?

I suppose the way you feel is based on a lifestyle created for you, which is politically created. Maybe if you lived on the top of a hill on Mars then you wouldn’t have that problem; you wouldn’t have inter…interwhatsitcalled?

Intercourse?

Yeah, that. None of that. Fran finishes her drink. I was watching a film and they were saying that women make up the majority of the population.

Your subjects are often women, or yourself.

People say they look androgynous. I really only use females because they’re normally the people I have at hand. I’d probably feel more on-edge getting a man to do it. Well, especially the type of man I’d be looking for…getting him to go crazy in front of the camera like that. At the moment it’s just androgynous me. I think it looks strong though. A bang is heard from across the road.
I’d like to just stand up and punch someone in the face. That would make me feel strong.

Why don’t you?

What?

Punch someone in the face.

Could do.

Are your paintings about people not being able to do that?

Yes, well, no. It’s the fine line; a specific place where someone has seen their restriction and is now at the point where they’re trying to break out of it. My hope is that they’re at a point of rebellion.

What are they rebelling against?

I don’t know, it’ll sound convoluted. I guess their limited channels of expression. Here, look, there’s a big environmental services truck coming.

The same dustbin truck from earlier slowly drives past.

How do you feel about trucks?

That wheel is as big as my body.

The sound of an engine is heard, low and guttural.

Words by Thomas McMullan.
Find out more about Fran and her work on her blog.

(via @MintMagazineUK)

even the bell, the namesake.

...

Another rumble is heard, it passes.

Greensides:                   I was supposed to see her tomorrow and give her the present then, maybe I should’ve waited until the morning.

                                                     

            Pause.

                                    I only give her things because she needs them. I hate seeing her upset.

                                   

            A distant explosion is heard.

            The dog whines and barks.

Greensides lights a cigarette and begins to smoke.

Silence.

Boyce:                         What was it like?

Greensides:                 What?

Boyce:                         Tonight, what was it like?

Greensides:                 Dark.

On the train I sat opposite a man with a dog...Collie I think. It had its black eyes on me the whole way, quiet and still as we sped past the estates near Bermondsey.

Charing Cross was packed to burst…a lot of people being moved by police back into the trains but the place was so busy and chaotic…

Outside there were horns, car horns of course but a brass band must’ve been there somewhere because I caught glimpses of men and women in red uniforms, all playing trumpets and trombones and tubas...God knows why they were there, but I followed them all down Whitehall to Parliament Square...and never in my life...the size of it all there, all those faces glowing in the light, all staring up at the clock-face and that music hanging in the air. People lined the statues, draped around Churchill and Mandela while the crowds pushed together on the grass. Blue lights flashed from the edges, a few faint sirens, but it felt like nothing, all of us anxiously watching the tower. My phone said five to ten.

A woman, must’ve been in her fifties, pressed up close to my side. I could feel the back of her hand against mine, her skin warm and I felt her move it up and down, just slightly but it was such a tender thing…so small in that place. 

                                    My lights gone out.

Boyce:                         Help yourself.

            Greensides helps himself to Boyce’s lighter, re-lighting his cigarette.

Greensides:                 It was a minute to ten; I could see people checking the time on their phones. I don’t know what we expected, nothing I guess.

Just a glowing circle up there with twelve numbers, no countdown, no movement, nothing. I could hear the woman next to me breathing, deep and low against my neck, her hand still pressed against my own…If I’m honest I felt myself get hard, just a little but hard nonetheless…all the blood down there tightening up like a knot….It was ten o’clock…and then, above our heads… the sound of it…The noise shot from the empty face…like thunder cracking amongst the sounds of its wound, split down the looming form; Big Ben’s open mouth choking on all that came from that hole.

            Greensides puts the cigarette out on the ashtray.

I tried to go back to the station, but it was too late then.

I didn’t see the woman again.                       

Boyce walks towards the floor and begins to pull up the boards with his hands.


Greensides moves to stop him.

...

"During the Vietnam War, every respectable artist in this country was against the war. It was like a laser beam. We were all aimed in the same direction. The power of this weapon turns out to be that of a custard pie dropped from a stepladder six feet high." - Kurt Vonnegut