revolution every day; elias khoury interview 2005

Elias Khoury’s Yalo was one of my stones stepped in 2009 [see Categories] and it’s on the long-list for The Independent’s Foreign Fiction Prize, announced here. Competition is stiff, needless to say, but I hope it wins.

I posted a link to the interview-based piece I did around the seminal publication in English of Bab-al shams [Gate Of the Sun] in 2005 -the first of its kind in English- and now post it below. Gate of the Sun is a monumental work of fiction; a brilliant creative achievement which is both important and highly accessible. That is, it’s so compelling that there’s no excuse for not realising the necessity of reading it.

In the US Archipelago Books is promising two new Khoury titles; a novel called White Masks in 2010 and another novel As Though She Were Sleeping in 2011. There are already two more works of fiction published in the US by university presses. I’m looking forward to the day when his critical writing becomes available to the English-speaking world.

Wherever you start with Khoury [an earlier novel, Little Mountain Collins Harvill 1990 is out of print] you’ll be hungry for more.

The Independent

Elias Khoury: Myth and memory in the Middle East

Lebanese writer Elias Khoury is one of the leading lights of Arab literature. Guy Mannes-Abbott meets him

Friday, 18 November 2005

Elias Khoury is the kind of writer who wins the Nobel Prize for literature to sneers from the English-speaking world. When the Egyptian novelist Naguib Mahfouz was greeted in this way in 1989, the late scholar and activist Edward Said remarked sagely that “Arabic is by far the least known and the most grudgingly regarded” of major world literatures. At the same time, Said pointed to the future, celebrating the promising achievements of Khoury – a “brilliant figure” – and Mahmoud Darwish: a Lebanese and a Palestinian writer respectively.

The word “brilliant” is etched across Khoury’s new novel, Gate of the Sun (Harvill Secker, £17.99) and on my mind when we meet in London for lunch. His reputation as a novelist, critic, commentator, editor and academic with real political commitment is formidable. Khoury came to prominence in Lebanon – and therefore the Arab world – in the mid-1970s. Still in his twenties, he was working in the Palestine Research Centre, editing the literary pages of its journal and writing his second novel, Little Mountain, which re-worked his experiences in the Lebanese civil war of 1975-1990 almost as they happened.

“It’s meaningless!” he thunders, when I ask him what it means to be Lebanese. Then, speaking rapidly, he develops a characteristic response which ends with a modified repetition of the phrase. In between, he sketches a history of Lebanon’s many civil wars since the 19th century, describes similarities in dialect and cuisine between Syria, Lebanon and Palestine, and asserts that “I feel more Beiruti. If you are a Beiruti, you are an Arab. You are open to all types of cultures, and to innovating in the Arabic culture at the same time. You are in the Lebanese dilemmas and you are so near to Palestine”. So you feel “that the Palestinian tragedy is part of your life.”

By this he means sheer physical proximity – “It’s a matter of 100 kilometres” – but also that he has grown up with the Palestinian refugees who arrived in 1948, the year of his birth. All of this is the subject of the epic Gate of the Sun, which has already been cheered in Arabic, Hebrew and French editions during the seven years it took to arrive in this elegant English translation by Humphrey Davies.

Gate of the Sun, or Bab El Shams, is an attempt to render the Palestinian nakba – or “catastrophe” – of 1948 and its tortuous aftermath. Specifically, it contains the stories and lives of people whose ancestral villages in Galilee, now in northern Israel, were “wiped out of existence”, forcing them into desperate flight by land and sea to Lebanon.

“Actually,” says Khoury, “I was writing a story about Galilee, because it’s in-between” and home to many Palestinian writers, including Darwish. “I was not writing a history of Palestine. Of course, many ask why it was a Lebanese not a Palestinian who wrote this story. I really don’t know. What I know is from the experience of the Palestinians I worked with,” he explains.

The nakba of 1948 was “a shame, a total defeat; it’s a disaster, a real personal disaster. There are stories here about the woman who left her child, about a woman who killed her child. So it’s not easy to talk about. The Palestinians did not realise, and if they realised they did not believe that this could happen, because actually this is something unbelievable.”

Khoury had the initial impulse to turn stories he heard in refugee camps into a memorial narrative in the 1970s. He spent much of the 1980s gathering “thousands of stories” before writing this extraordinarily accomplished novel. Gate of the Sun is essentially a love story set in a world turned upside down. It involves a dying fighter called Yunis and his wife Naheeleh, an internal refugee in Galilee, whose relationship forms during stolen visits across the border to a cave renamed Bab El Shams. The cave is “a house, and a village, and a country”, and “the only bit of Palestinian territory that’s been liberated”. It produces a “secret nation”: a family of seven children who have borne four more Yunises by the end of the book.

However, this is no parable. For Khoury, “Yunis, of course, is a hero. He used to go to Galilee, he used to cross the borders… but in the end we discover that he was nothing, that Naheeleh was this whole story; her relationship with the children, and how she actually defended life. In the refugee camps I met hundreds of women like Naheeleh. Then it’s no more a metaphor. It’s very realistic.”

This reality is the “revolution of actual work carried out by our mothers”, which the poet Mourid Barghouti articulates so well in his memoir I Saw Ramallah. It is “realised every day, without fuss and without theorising”.

Khoury’s story of love and survival is told by Khaleel, an untrained “doctor” at a redundant hospital in Shatila refugee camp. Shatila was the site of a notorious massacre in 1982, overseen by an Israeli army commanded by Ariel Sharon. During the months that Khaleel attends to Yunis’s lifeless body, he stitches together his honorary father’s stories in order to bring him out of coma. Gradually, Khaleel’s own story emerges: of his love for a female fighter called Shams, and his experience of the camp massacre.

If this evokes the Thousand and One Nights, in which Scheherazade tells stories to keep herself alive, it’s the structure and act of telling that are important. Edward Said praised Khoury’s innovations in Little Mountain and the author takes the compliment, but says that “when I came to write Little Mountain, I discovered that real experimentation is not intellectual”. Instead, you have to “go deep to your own experience”.

In 1967, aged 19, Khoury travelled alone to Amman to join the Palestinian resistance after Israel occupied the West Bank and Gaza. In 1970 he finished his studies in Paris before writing his fictional debut, a nouveau roman. In 1975 he fought for revolutionary change in Lebanon, his disillusionment captured elegantly by Little Mountain. These years involved “a very deep engagement about what is justice, what is a human being and what is life”.

It is this experimenting with life, combined with such testing experience of it, that makes his writing less “experimental” in the literary sense than naturalistic. Crucially, he developed a faith in oral narratives; encompassing both the colloquial forms used in telling a story, and the non-classical type of Arabic that such stories are told in. “I don’t think there is any story we live from the beginning to the end,” he says. In this novel, “the structure is oral telling – openness. That is, you begin a story, you enter another story, and then you come back”.

In the novel, Khaleel complains about fugitive “snatches” of story that he’s struggling to remember and narrate. He blames the influence of tarab, the ecstasy generated by the rhythms of Arabic music and – by extension – poetry for the sidelining of descriptive skills. Khoury elaborates: “It’s repetitive, but every time you repeat, you change. Also in prose you create music, repeating the same story three, four, five times, and every time it’s a very slight difference. This is the Thousand and One Nights, this is the musicality of the oral and this is tarab.”

One of the results is that it produces “suspense from a totally different perspective. If you want to know what will happen to Yunis, he will die, so close the book and go home; but it’s another type of suspense.” It is this rhythmic accumulation of story that makes Gate of the Sun so unexpectedly compelling. It’s also this democratic form of telling which has enabled Khoury to approach the subject; to piece together fragments into a masterfully executed novel. The resulting mosaic of suggestive truths complicates any simple metaphorical reading while returning over and over again to discrete realities.

“Reality,” he summarises, “can become metaphor or a myth. But a myth, if it will become a reality, it’s the most savage thing in the world. The Israeli project is to make a myth into reality. This is the problem.”

Khoury’s iteration of inconvenient realities is rigorously ethical. It is there in his responsibility towards Jewish history as well as to Palestinian dispossession, and in his novel’s investigation of love’s work. It informs his efforts to modernise Arabic by means of colloquial speech, and his commitment to grassroots democratic movements in Lebanon and Syria.

Khoury’s experience of life has generated a sophisticated optimism. He takes the long view, having resettled in the ancestral home in Beirut from which he was driven in the 1970s. He is both worldly and warm, a man of heart as well as passionate intellect. Nothing is off-limits and he answers every question fully even though we have, literally, eaten into preparation time for an evening reading. Before parting, though, I must ask the author of Gate of the Sun about the theory that “to narrate is to return”.

“No, I think that to narrate is to reconstruct, to appropriate but,” he breaks into a story from one of his novels before resuming, “one of the biggest, er, pleasures of the Palestinians was to regain your name, to be Palestinians. And once you regain your name – and I think this is narration, to regain the name – then you prepare yourself to go: that is, to create a Palestine, not to return to a Palestine which was.” These paradoxes and “pleasures” find potent resolution in Gate of the Sun. It’s a novel that will outlive us.

Biography: Elias Khoury

Elias Khoury was born in Lebanon in 1948, to an Orthodox Christian family in the East Beirut district known as Little Mountain. As a sociology undergraduate, he volunteered for Fatah, the military wing of the Palestinian revolution. During the 1970s he worked in PLO organisations in Beirut, and helped found the journal al-Karmel with the poet Mahmoud Darwish. He speaks Arabic, French, English, Syriac and “a little Hebrew”. Author of 11 novels, four non-fiction books and three plays, he also scripted a film of Gate of the Sun. The novel is published by Harvill Secker this month. Khoury is now an editor with the Lebanese newspaper An-Nahar and Global Distinguished Professor at New York University. He lives with his wife in his great-grandfather’s house on Little Mountain.

james salter; readers revenge & last night 2006

James Salter photo

I wonder if anyone really cares or wants to linger with what Norman Mailer thought or wrote about sex, nor what any of the Jonathans haven’t thought or written about it.

I’m intrigued however by the way that Kate Roiphe’s much-blogged piece in the NYT left out any mention of the great and complex James Salter’s thoughts and writings about it. Of course, it’s because he doesn’t fit the schema; old existential roisterers and silly braggers vs new pseudo-feminised feyboys/merchants of self-mortification.

The key line is this one comparing the old with the weary:

“In contrast to their cautious, entangled, ambivalent, endlessly ironic heirs, there is something almost romantic in the old guard’s view of sex: it has a mystery and a power, at least. It makes things happen.”

Roiphe’s not-mentioning Salter maps too neatly over the way that his many non-mentioners perceive him as nothing more than a 2-D ClassicMan served in pricey after/over dinner sauce. Or as marginal old-school, perhaps? Instead, sticking with the schema, I think that Salter knows that sex can make things happen, but that those ‘things’ involve plenty of entangling ambivalence too, no? [Who isn’t weary of cautious irony?]

Salter’s non-readers also think of him as typical New Yorker product when, just for instance, he was far too much, too singular, too difficult for the New Yorker for decades while producing brilliantly crystalline short stories [hunt down Dusk and other Stories]. The same non-readers managed to dampen the fact that Salter’s fiction is now in Penguin Modern Classics where it belongs [amongst books not to be approached with cliché, at least] and what isn’t is well published in the UK in Picador paperback.

So, while for many years it was hard to get at or read his classics; A Sport and a Pastime [published in the UK 20 years after the US!], Light Years and Burning the Days, it no longer is. At the same time, his almost impossible to find earlier or less concentratedly Salteresque/Salterine books, The Hunters and Solo Days are now also in print. Easily available, not to be missed.

Readers can get one over critical and consensual incuriosity and, frankly, ignorance, by reading books like Solo Faces and forming their own judgment on exactly how good it is in Salter’s mini canon of greatness. A tip; get over the first few pages up on that church roof and you’ll find yourself finishing it at a sitting -on a ledge thousands of metres above the ground.

Salter’s non-mention in the story of 20th American sex-writing came at the same time, slightly unfortunately, as the issue on DVD on a film he scripted for Robert Redford, Downhill Racer. I haven’t seen it yet but the combination demonstrates a rare breadth of ability  no less and generated attention in places like GQ on the one hand and Slate on the other.

Any trigger to read Salter is welcome, but I think GQ’s notion that he is [‘merely’] a great sex writer is wrong. No no it’s more than that; he’s a great writer of desire, in the theoretical and quotidian sense. This is why his 50s, 60s, 70s and 80s writing feels so alive, generating ambivalence with a very particular nakedness of the spirit -and very much more.

So every time Salter is not-mentioned, take the reader’s revenge and enter a world founded not on comfortable certainties, leering vantage points or, I’m afraid, sexual possession/disgust, but on what a character in his earliest fiction describes as “indigenous doubt”; a world of conflicting desires, ideas, roles, intentions, hopes and expectations. One very like how we all experience being alive in 2010, no?

I’m posting a short celebratory review I wrote as Salter’s second collection of stories, Last Night, was published in the UK in 2006, when his other work was still very hard to get hold of.

Early in 2007 he was in London and gave an irresistible reading at the LRB bookshop. By then I’d drafted a highly singular and -dare I say- pretty authoritative essay called Meeting James Salter.  I sent my 7000 word essay to one or two people with sufficient appetite in London. That led indirectly to me actually meeting JS and then to him mailing substantial comments and factual corrections to my essay.

I haven’t succeeded -or tried hard enough- in ‘placing’ Meeting James Salter, surprise, surprise. The only journal in the UK that publishes at any such length told me they’d done something on him recently, meaning an ill-read review from the this-man-is-a-sexist-cliché school in 2004. Such things are telling if forgivable for a young critic; not so for the well-seasoned publication itself.

For now, anyone interested in reading or publishing my essay can email me at the address in About: queries [at] g-m-a [dot] net.

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Last Night. By James Salter

Penetrating tales about life from an American master of fiction

Review by Guy Mannes-Abbott

Thursday, 30 March 2006

“Aplomb” is a favourite word of James Salter’s. He praises Virginia Woolf for hers, adds it to the physical glories of a busy mistress, and, in Nedra Berland, heroine of his novel Light Years, wrote a study of it. He uses it like this; “I liked the way he spoke, the speed of his conclusions, the breadth of his scorn, the exactness of his references. Also his aplomb.”

Famously, albeit not famously enough, Salter is the Jewish-American fighter pilot and film writer/maker, transformed in mid life into a master of ecstatic prose fiction and non-fiction. Even this legend has a singular footnote containing two early novels, straighter accounts of airborne daring-do, recently revised. Literary canons are risible, as Harold Bloom’s choice of Light Years and Solo Faces for his parade, The Western Canon, demonstrates. However, Salter has written three books that everyone should read before they die; A Sport and a Pastime [1967], Light Years [1975] and his book of recollection, Burning the Days [1996].

Death and the life achieved against it is Salter’s obsession. As a fighter with more than 100 missions over Korea in the 1950s you might expect as much. Similarly hard earned experience helped make Solo Faces a brilliantly authentic portrait of mountaineering. Both pursuits promise much and demand absolutely everything of you. Aplomb incorporates this dauntlessness as well as Nedra’s “self conquest”, a freedom gained only by risking all. Otherwise, she adds, “life is only appetites until the teeth are gone.” Salter’s world, most obviously the idyll memorialised in Light Years, may appear exclusive but is shaped by “lives achieved in agony”, gamblers who have lost, a peculiar dissidence.

All of this is exemplified in his new collection of ten short stories written since the early 1990s. Last Night follows Dusk and other stories, a collection which began with Am Strande von Tanger from 1968. From the first Salter was fully present in stories which have all the precise interiority and penetrating perspective of his novels. They share something else. At least half of Dusk’s stories are milestones of the form, yet were spurned by The New Yorker, for instance, and remain out of print. His novels have struggled to find publishers, only to immediately fall from view. Now, two of them will shortly become Penguin Modern Classics.

Last Night opens with Philip and Adele’s marriage, their fifth -jointly. Around a Salteresque dinner table with friends, Philip resists the consensual reaction to news of infidelity. Then, while Adele guts her husband’s failed marriages he holds to their joys; he’d do it all again. Outside Adele finds him staring at a comet; “It won’t be there tomorrow. One time only.” She turns away, shrinking as she recrosses the lawn “reaching first the aura, then the brightness, then tripping on the kitchen steps.”

Elsewhere a young couple’s agreement to correct irritating flaws in each other with a ‘give’ founders when Anna asks Jack to “stop the sex” with Des, their semi-resident poet and child’s inspired friend. In Platinum we encounter the downside of aplomb, when Brian and his powerful father-in-law find themselves sharing the “forbidden happiness” of busy Pamela. In Bangkok, a book dealer shucks off a former lover’s fantasy offer, preferring his settled existence: “It was not a pretend life.”

Salter has described finding part of “one’s never complete mosaic … abroad” -as seductively elaborated in A Sport and a Pastime. Similarly, his characters are made whole by their secrets and deceptions. This is true even of Walter Such in Last Night -first published in The New Yorkerwho is to administer a lethal injection for his terminally ill wife, Marit, after dining with their young female friend. Classic Salter and as good as living writing gets, the story collides with a comet, ricocheting unpredictably.

Last Night tops a beautifully weighted collection fully the equal of Dusk. These stories, like Solo Faces, have been written with the sun directly overhead, in contrast to the angular, retrospective veils of evening light which are so much Salter’s style. The recognisable present occasions some stylistic dilution but no loss of exactitude or exquisitely crafted velocity. Last Night is an urgent and deeply gratifying reminder of what reading is for.

PICADOR, £14.99. ORDER FOR £13.99 (FREE P&P) ON 0870 079 8897

gujarat, while baroda burns; TANK magazine 2004

while baroda burns

by Guy Mannes-Abbott

In 2004 TANK reprinted extracts from my extensive notebooks on Gujarat in western India.  They’re taken from the days of “mass massacres” when I was locked up under curfew in my room on the 4th floor of a hotel, forbidden to leave the building or even to go as low as the 1st floor.

The whole story of witnessing state-sponsored pogroms while trapped with Bhupen Khakhar in his car on the outskirts of Gujarat’s second city and its various contexts form part of my forthcoming book A Gram of Gujarat. A part, but only a part. A part along with many other equally vivid, penetrating and suggestive parts! Taken together they provide a unique insight into Gujarat and contemporary India which enables a proper grasp of these signal events.

These particular extracts reflect something of the raw experience of being trapped in a room [tall building, complicit city and bone-shaking witness] looking out of a window onto a building usually only ever animated by women. I watched discretely as the traditional rhythms of everyday life went on in an abstracted way. Above rose black impressions of the terror being inflicted on Baroda’s old city; common, abstract again [literally framed by my window] but presumably at least as intense as those I’d been caught in. Otherwise; silence.

After two or three days it occurred to me to take photographs [some of which are poorly repro’d here], as the oddity of life in the building and the realisation that the smoky evidence was likely to stop if or when the army eventually took control of the city dawned. Obviously I was as visible as the people opposite and didn’t want to impose on them, so each image was snatched and for me condenses hours of the life it captures. Similarly, I only took one image of the smoke at the end and with confused reluctance; a feeble effort all around.

The politicians and authorities responsible for the massacres believe that the subcontinent is both Fatherland and Holyland; that the very dust is bound up forever with the dharma/spirit of each and every Hindu. Hindutva is a terrifying ideology, drawn from European fascism and Nazism specifically and these “mass massacres” a direct and logical result of it. Followers believe that a Hindu never loses their dharma and so India’s 150 million Muslims must recover theirs and renounce Islam -or they can ‘leave’.

Press PDFS to Enlarge

This is the same India that has a secular constitution and which was once the proud centre of the Non-Alignment movement but which has never reconciled itself fully with several centuries of Islamic dominance and conquest. Not even though a consequently rich Islamic heritage forms just one part of the subcontinent’s definitively syncretic culture. This is part of the specificity of hindutva, and why it’s worth reading VD Savarkar on the subject and understanding what there is of substance beyond the shudderingly crude race hatred that so corrupted his mind and thought.

The same India where some of the nicest people I met, seasoned secularists of various stripes, were the most complacent/deluded about the pressing actuality. It’s distressing to listen to someone making fun of their own Muslim upbringing, poo-pooing any intimacy with Islam or its wider culture, laughing at the notion that they would have any insight into such a subject when their own work, memoirs and even academic cv contradicts them. Frustrating when the point is simple; ‘they’ perceive you to be Muslim whatever your self-image. This is the nature of racism, fascism and lest we forget Nazism specifically.

Any conversation of that kind contains the unmistakable presumption that as a Foreigner I can’t possibly understand. It’s all a very complex, internal affair and only one of us can really appreciate it. In such instances they were clearly mistaken. In one exemplary case, when politely listening to an excited account of brief passage through a ‘secret’ outpost on the edge of the Rann of Kutch, I kept to myself the knowledge that I’d ridden out to the same particular outpost four times, found a floor to stay on inside its walls, a cave to sleep in beyond them.

Such an intense, ‘deep’ encounter with place and people was the yardstick I developed , which is why I was able to contextualize just how much or little right-minded, out of touch secularists of this kind understood about their neighbours [and to contextualise their insulting and short-sighted presumptions]. It’s for this reason that what happened to that particular individual and to other Muslims [religious or otherwise] across the State was profoundly shocking to me, but not a surprise. This is why it all made a horrible kind of ‘sense’.

Whilst ‘Metro’ secularists disown, deny and delude themselves about what “mass massacres” meant for India, I’d been encountering it in mud and urban kitchens, chai stops in deserts and forests, main roads, side streets and camel tracks, mandirs, dharamsalas and masjids, chellahs, tirths and tuks, Bohra wads, mohallas/pols and Societies, forts, havelis, universities and cool alleyways across the state. I listened to barots and charans, dalits and Brahmins, shia and sunni, professors and ‘local’ historians, ram sewaks and their Big Men financiers, MPs and MLAs, victims and perpetrators, writers and architects. I’d witnessed what it meant for months before this discreet horror and for months afterwards.

Understanding requires a real engagement with a wide range of things, places, peoples and times. It requires the articulation of distinct and interrelated elements in an authoritative portrait of a people and their place. Such a portrait would enable understanding of these particular events but also a much wider context. If it succeeded it would reveal the interiors of  Gujarat as a whole and provide a unique insight into subcontinental India. This is what I’ve attempted to do with A Gram of Gujarat.

gujarat, on silence and massacres; raj kamal jha fireproof 2007

On Silence and Massacres.

Raj Kamal Jha is one of the most interesting and risk-embracing of his generation of Indian writers of fiction in English. His report on the mass murders and vast internal displacement of Muslims in the state of Gujarat in the spring of 2002 was brave in the context; a nuked up hyper-Nationalist government led by the same party which ruled in Gujarat at the time, the Nazi-inspired BJP.

When he came down from Delhi -albeit two months later- he ‘joined’ those of us not targeted by the officially sanctioned killers but trapped in extended curfews, in my case for days on the 4th floor of a building in central Baroda. Jha wrote a stunned and peculiarly angular piece for The Indian Express, a cutting from which I’ve scanned and posted. His discoveries as a “riot tourist” [‘riot’ is a common euphemism in India for racist massacres or ethnic cleansing, like ‘conflict’ elsewhere] inspired the novel Fireproof, which I reviewed for The Independent below.

Jha reprimanded his readers [urban, majority-community, new-India class] in the mildest of terms; imagine the surreal boot on the other foot. He was addressing those who quietly allowed this to happen, however, and if you won’t credit him with bravery at least understand the relative unusualness of his addressing a class of readers impatient with older Indian verities like those espoused by Nehru -let alone Gandhi! [both of whom happily allied themselves with the chauvinist Vallabhai Patel, India’s ‘Iron Man’ from Gujarat.]

Elsewhere, the hero of the day was Siddharth Varadarajan who expressed his visceral horror in regular reports for the Times of India, while the heroine was Dionne Bunsha reporting for Frontline magazine, [see her site/blog]. Varadarajan also edited the first and still best book on the massacres; Gujarat; The Making of a Tragedy [Penguin India 2002] [look inside] drawing in part on an excellent issue of Seminar [‘Society Under Siege’ from May 2002 is online but not link-to-able] and has a blog here.

What happened in Gujarat is not a matter of substantive dispute [though it’s ostensible trigger, the fire in a train carriage outside Godhra is, even though extensive investigations concluded that the fire which began within the carriage was a tragic accident], there are plentiful witness reports, accounts, proofs, burnt out buildings and neighbourhoods, bodies, refugees and subsequent changes across the state. What happened persuaded urban Gujaratis in particular to reward the government of the day with two further election victories.

So despite what happened no-one has been held to account: Narendra Modi remains Chief Minister of Gujarat. He is the BJP’s only current ‘star’ and commands a state that is India’s real powerhouse once more. A state that is as ever leading the way in new India, for good and ill, and rehearsing what the coming global power will look like. Modi’s mentor, LK Advani, is also a Gujarati MP and the octogenarian leader of a much humbled BJP. However, India’s national elections are three years or so away -if the present Congress administration lasts out its second term- and everybody loves a ‘winner’.

I witnessed some of what happened in Gujarat; I saw armed policemen in uniform holding one end of a street that was being systematically ‘cleansed’ for the second time in 24 hours by a group of 25-30 neatly dressed men, vehicles used to block the various roads and escapes routes and set on fire, as remaining stores, shacks, gadis/trolleys and possession of the neighbourhood Muslims were being dragged out onto the road within sight and smell of the same uniformed accomplices and set on fire.

I witnessed it from inside Bhupen Khakhar’s car as we were trapped by these same men in a near-deserted Manjalpura, Baroda, during a one-day bandh or shut-down. They weren’t after us at that time [though BK’s paintings and sexuality had been the focus of their maddened hatred] and we managed to escape through a series of already laid road blocks and away from the scene before the neighbourhood mosque was burnt down with three men trapped inside it. I was close enough to look hard into their faces as they indulged their fantasies and it’s a sight I’ll never be able to forget.

Then I witnessed the silence, the smoke stacks and discomfort at my front-row presence on the few faces I glimpsed in the coming week locked away [anger, too, once the curfew relaxed]. A silence indistinguishable from the way that such a massacre is possible in India, because what the black milk rising from the eery quiet of Baroda beyond my window proved was that this was long coming and represented something that didn’t need words.

Gujarat’s “mass massacres” only needed silence;  official permission, wider complicity, neatly printed official records of who lived where, who exactly owned what and enabling nods … ram ram

NB Incidentally, I don’t relish criticising India from afar; my view is simply that Modi should face justice in his own country. However, Indian justice is staggeringly slow and precedent  suggests that even if it catches up with Modi before he dies it won’t have any bite. Indeed, it is as likely that he might be the next PM or PM-maker. Things do change however; the case is very much live at this very moment [see here for example].

I support universal jurisdiction; if Modi wants to travel he should be willing to face trial wherever he lands, just like Pinochet and forces’ sweetheart Tsipi Livni and gang. Meanwhile, though, he rule’s India’s most interesting state and is free to roam a subcontinent of bottomless marvels. I remind you that Modi’s BJP forged alliances with the US and Israel when in power: sometimes it’s necessary to tell the truth whatever the distance…

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Fireproof, by Raj Kamal Jha

The perpetrators of Gujarat’s holocaust escape unscathed – as they did in life

By Guy Mannes-Abbott

Wednesday, 11 April 2007

Raj Kamal Jha’s third novel is based on the “mass massacres” that began on 28 February 2002 in the Indian state of Gujarat. Jha visited a smouldering Ahmedabad in May 2002, and wrote a taboo-breaking article for The Indian Express.

He found Gujarat’s old capital with 80,000 Muslim refugees, a thousand dead and many thousands of homes and businesses burnt. This “remarkable restraint” was applauded by Gujarat’s Chief Minister after the “grave provocation” of an unexplained fire on a train carrying Hindu pilgrims, in which 59 people died.

I read Jha’s article gratefully in the disturbing quiet following Gujarat’s pogroms. I had witnessed armed police smiling as clean-shaven men sent their neighbours’ livelihoods – and later their lives – skyward in blackening towers. Five years later, Fireproof disrupts another silence: just 10 convictions have resulted from 4,252 cases filed with police.

Fireproof focuses on three killings, elaborating on the article with statements from dead characters, a playlet, footnotes and talking street-fixtures. Jha’s narrator, Jay, is awaiting the birth of a child in Ahmedabad. The hospitals choke with charred bodies as the city burns; a malformed baby, which Jay believes is his own, forces him to confront events and himself. As the truth looms, the sky rains bodies, and he loses all bearings.

Fireproof is written in Jha’s signature style; elliptical fragments accumulate sense while incidental things and words are mined for effect. This worked well in his debut The Blue Bedspread, rooted in a modernist Bengali literature. But Fireproof’s problem is dramatised in the word “betrayal”, used by a credible Indian critic. The betrayal is twofold. Jha’s novel obtains substance by revisiting the notorious rape and murder of a pregnant woman. He pays witness to this horror in accomplished passages before losing its import in a gratuitously distended novel.

He also betrays himself, as acts of ethnic cleansing by Nazi-inspired Hindus become human tragedies. Jha folds responsibility for events into individual excess and the power of “the mob”: the banality of evil minus the Nuremberg trials. He has lost sight of any original outrage.

The story in Fireproof began in Islamophobia and led to Gujarat’s ovens. Its perpetrators were not “hangers-on”, but “confident and educated”: I saw this myself. In Jha’s novel, these men and their allies emerge fireproof – as in life.

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gil scott-heron; redone

I’m New Here is a great one; not just a new one but a riverrunning reconnection with the cool and conscious coming poet. Music stripped back to and built from words, no over-production of the moment [80s reggae sauce] but yet a 110 st 70s flavour. One which vies with all and everything before.

There’s the broken home of 125th and Lenox and ‘B-Movie’ ghetto get outs, a fine version of ‘I’ll Take Care of You’, which Mark Lanegan ‘owns’ as far as I’m concerned, even the title track’s perfectly tempered cover of a Bill Callahan song [if only it were ‘Dress Sexy at My Funeral’ -but heh?].

I don’t know about you, but I had all that right bang mid-horizon… Anyway, this is good but no longer hot news.

Then I noticed this:

A ‘secret’ collection of Angus [Fairhurst]’s very earliest work from the 1970s! I’d never realised it before, nor asked him about it… Peace go with you brother, from now on.

From South Africa to South Carolina here includes ‘Johannesburg’ on it -amongst  a range of gotta move on lovely days. For the first time I actually read the lyrics, heard often in the open-air and in tighter, warmer corners, Clapham Common [was it?!] to Portobello Road, being earnest, not being earnest:

I know that their strugglin’ over there
ain’t gonna free me,
but we all need to be strugglin’
if we’re gonna be free
Don’t you wanna be free?

One long day boycotts are laughed at, rejected, not noticed and seem peculiarly futile, the next day every one is suddenly on their weeping knees, wearing the t-shirt for a TV special.

‘Soft water vanquishes the mighty stone’; cup hands, pour!

susan sontag ‘in america’ 2000; revisited/residue

Susan Sontag‘s brand of earnest enthusiasm is completely redundant, right? The idea that you might live with a body of work [ha!] -especially written work [ha! ha!]- for a long time and then find a way to articulate what it means to you and perhaps us/we too is obviously ridiculous. Isn’t it?

I don’t think these things stand or fall around Sontag and I don’t think that it’s any easier to do the work of exception now; to stand back, up or out enough to be willing and able to celebrate, polemicise, passionately engage, act commitedly, work with words, difficult though they ought to be. No easier, no harder, no more necessary. No less.

Sontag is not the tool or resource I reach for either; she was historicised/historical, boringly everywhere and thus to be avoided as well as out of sync with some of what she was celebrating when I first encountered her ‘great’ essays on the ‘great’. I didn’t start with Sontag, but if you did, my only question was where you went afterwards? -because you did go ‘on’, no?

Then there are all the obvious ways in which she does incarnate American culture’s definitive civilisational moment, which I’m not going to call by any name or term, but which she surfed and was flooded with. Commodity/celebrity. You know, if you endlessly tell everyone every day that you are greatly detained with greatness, difficulty and authority, the wise will only listen awry. If you do it in the literally shiny pages of Vanity Fair, the wise become a little deaf. And yet. Flooded and surfing means that it is not contradictory. It is what it is.

So, I tried to critique Sontag’s In America honestly and for what it’s worth this little review called it right. I don’t mean to be dismissive, though, which is partly why I’m re-archiving it here and now. Nor do I mean to be seen to be right! [agents on the Estate Express don’t make ‘right’ either, nor my critique wrong, obviously.] Sontag’s novel may well be so bad in a way that it exemplifies the badness that is also its subject; American commodity/celebrity, in a perfectly condensed single volume.

Sontag worshipped books as possessions, brains as fetishes, writers and thinkers as gods/goddesses. There are admirable aspirations in there, residue beyond the packaging. All I can now recall about her going to Sarajevo and putting on Waiting for Godot in the late stages of a brutal siege is that she did it. It’s irreducible. While western powers contorted themselves to look the other way for year after year and so-called radicals corrupted themselves to ignore the mass murder of Bosnian Muslims before the world, she was there. She was there, being there, doing being there. I don’t care exactly why, or exactly what measurable impact it made, but I note that she went, stayed, knew what it was like. Just another person, not just another person.

There is something similar about the way her critical writing could work; the breathless intensity of baptismal enthusiasm for a book or a writer felt convincing [or not] while reading, generated an appetite for her object or a sugary rush and desire for more Sontag. It’s true that nothing of hers materially altered or even impacted on [made Sontagian] its object or my lasting understanding of it. Rather it enacted Sontag’s urgent appetite for it [of course], was a convincing herald for the work, took it so seriously that it could butterfly it all over again. The residue is urgency and appetite.

I was caught up by this when reading one of her last pieces; Loving Dostoevsky, in At The Same Time 2007. It recounts her accidental discovery of Leonid Tsypkin’s Summer in Baden-Baden and in essence her passionate admiration for the book [as well as “the incomparable” Dostoevsky, a sentiment I claim as my own]. I don’t want to say anything about Tsypkin, his book, or her critique, only to recall how affective her voice was within the first and last line of her piece. It excited me, I panicked about what else I didn’t know, whether I knew the author or not who now sounded so different, relished the sheer thrill of it all -as she presented it- and felt more alive and clarified in all I thought during those minutes of reading.

It’s easy to sneer about Godot resistance in Sarajevo -even if raised to the challenge of Camp Gaza today- easy to sneer about bursts of enthusiasm and gushing celebration of [dead] writers. Is anything much easier than such a sneer? In fact, it’s notably hard to articulate an agility of intellect or thirst in place of being merely academic and especially difficult to keep the words alive, generative.

The problem is legacy, or residue: if I can appreciate Sontag’s championing of under-recognised figures at one cultural moment, their subsequent ubiquity -or just belated recognition- belittles her effort. It’s forgotten/forgettable and, fatally, it’s polemical need to foreshorten makes it less critically robust after its assimilation too.

Did she know or realise this? Did she hope that the passion might out live the historicising correction? I know it isn’t that she didn’t care! Then again, it’s Calvino’s celebration of Fourier that lingers with me more than all the rest. Zizek’s introductory interpretation in English of Badiou too [yes!]. Then de Quincey’s short text on Kant is a tattoo of truth almost as lasting as Joseph Frank’s staggeringly good five volumes on Dostoevsky. Yet again, look at her perspectival acuity with regard to the Twin Towers and Abu Ghraib…

NB; Speaking of Dostoevsky and Frank, I missed the abridged version of his light-footed monument Dostoevsky: A Writer in His Time, published by Princeton UP in December 2009. The publisher has a good page here, including contents and a pdf of the first chapter. There is an interview with 91 year old Frank here in which he says of Dostoevsky that “He poses questions in such a way that, whether you agree or not, it makes you think about them.”

Which reminds me of David Foster Wallace’s acute, urgently honest and revealing review of Frank’s Dostoevsky [orig. Feodor’s Guide VV 1996] in which the big questions asked by Dostoevsky of his world and of writing clearly formed a big brick in the wall that DFW must have hit at about that time*, finding himself perhaps on the wrong side of the only question/line that matters. Which reminds me, in contrast, of William Gaddis…

*It’s not online now, so I quote: “… we have abandoned the field … who is to blame for the philosophical passionlessness of our own Dostoevskys? The culture, the laughers? But they wouldn’t–could not–laugh if a piece of passionately serious ideological contemporary fiction was also ingenious and radiantly transcendent fiction. But how to do that–how even, for a writer, even a very talented writer, to get up the guts to even try?”


Screenshot 2018-03-12 10.30.56

Famous for 35 years

In America by Susan Sontag (Jonathan Cape, £16.99, 387pp)

Saturday, 27 May 2000

As a literary brand the name, Sontag is a synonym for serious. So the phrase “Susan Sontag’s new book” is a promise of significance. The writer has long grown accustomed to a state of “perma-profile” involving, on the one hand, recent battles with her good conscience in Sarejevo and against traumatic injury, as well as a second brush with the cancer she famously defeated in the 1970s. On the other is the dubious realm of critical sanctification and the Vanity Fair puff.

Sontag, born in 1933, earned a reputation in her thirties with the essay collections Against Interpretation and Styles of Radical Will. Her writing influenced what we think about camp, photography and illness, and helped make icons of European men such as Barthes, Canetti, Artaud, and the saturnine Walter Benjamin. She has long been “the most intelligent woman in America”, and countless column inches have been spent on the miles of book-shelves that line her Manhattan apartment.

She returned to fiction in 1992 with a well-received historical romance, The Volcano Lover: a novel invested with the matured intellectual vigour that fuelled her reputation. It was a gamble, and it revealed a problem: not the predictable cynicism of the intellectual, but the way that Sontag’s profile precedes, envelopes and smothers her work. It does so in the sense not just that In America is “Susan Sontag’s new book”, but also by her presence, which is felt on almost every page – sometimes deliberately, but rarely appropriately.

In America is the story of an actress and her successes in her native Poland and adopted America. In between, Maryna Zalewska, with an entourage that includes her husband the Count and another close admirer, gives up acting to found a utopian community in California – a brief experience of failure. The novel is set during the 1870s and is “inspired by” a historical figure. The actual actress’s exhaustingly researched biography has spurred on Sontag’s fascination with artistic celebrity, which she treats as an American story.

Marina’s stage genius is unrivalled in America, and Sontag writes at devoted length about her Shakespearean cameos, her fizzing fame and its endorsements – from fans and of products. At the end of her previous novel, the volcano lover himself, Sir William Hamilton, was judged against Sontag’s criteria of originality, discipline, invention and zeal. Hamilton was found wanting, but these are Marina’s possessions. Sontag celebrates them with this novel about one woman’s specialness.

In America is a bold attempt to inhabit the experience of success. The problem is that Sontag is rarely able to animate the past or, in particular, her characters. Sontag is essentially a collector, the figure she has so often written about, and her novels are the product of fascinations. The result here is inventive non-fiction awkwardly parading as a novel. Sontag’s appetites, perspectives and exactitudes would sparkle in almost any other form.

In The Volcano Lover, Sontag produced a vivid portrait of late-18th-century Naples. Her fascination with Neapolitan society in the age of Nelson and Napoleon was so effective that it compensated for the absence of a pumping heart in her story of Nelson and Emma Hamilton’s love affair. For In America, the equivalent object of fascination is the actress’s mobile world of veils, feints and flaming egotism. When the book is over, this leaves almost no residue. Further, Sontag has attempted to re-jig the 19th-century novel, which must teem with life, but cannot sustain the required imaginative autonomy.

Marina wonders whether “she had used up the allotted number of impossible feats her will could make possible”. Sontag writes often and well of American “willing”, the knowledge “that I can triumph by sheer stubbornness, by applying myself harder than anyone else”. Which is laudable – until the rigid fruit of such stubborn labouring is before you.

So few writers will risk their intellectual ambitions in the form of a story now that it’s tempting to minimise the failings of this attempt. But Sontag, aiming for absolute achievements, deserves more than tempered praise. The way that In America re-stages the American dream speaks urgently to the present; combined with Sontag’s abilities, it could be a triumph. Yet it fails because of her limitations as a fictionaliser, as she proves unable to free her narrative voices from authorial echo and prod – and, dare I suggest, a blinding self-regard.

Copyright 2009 Independent News and Media Limited

nasreen mohamedi; to basel 7 feb – 5 april

Nasreen’s Notes – Reflections on Indian Modernism [Pt 1] has now settled at the Kunsthalle Basel until the 5th of April.

More on the show is here. More on Nasreen Mohamedi is in an earlier post here and the current issue of Bidoun. Catch her work live if you possibly can.

The Estate of Nasreen Mohamedi is represented by Talwar Gallery NY here.

Where next? What next!

This image is one of several in the show, in which she has reframed high contrast photographs of the street, backyard and classroom furniture at Baroda where she taught. No direct link to her drawing, plenty of indirection…

mc is … [michael clark sadlers wells 2001]

Michael Clark Before and After: The Fall

Sadlers Wells 2001

‘mc is …’ was a specially commissioned publication sold in place of a programme during the performances at Sadlers Wells. It included the text that follows, a ‘poster’ of images/stills by Tom Gidley and was designed by hyperkit.

mc is …

by Guy Mannes-Abbott


mc is.

mc is not.

mc is contrary.

mc has “the quirk that makes him innovate,” as Mark E. Smith once said.

mc is alive!

mc is a soft and muscular, polite and prankish, economical but very present presence in person. He’s calm, still, focused, good humoured and yet at the mercy of temperamental appetites.

mc is an utterly mesmerising dancer with a unique physical presence on stage. For two decades, dancing solo or leading his various companies, he’s done things like no one else and like no-one else can. Surrounded by the exceptional dancers of his own companies -boy friends and good friends- he’s all on his own: a singular and therefore solitary figure.

mc is consistent/inconsistent.

mc is a dancer whose earliest choreography famously mixed elements from his schooling in classical and contemporary ballet with traditional Scottish dancing, as well as the pogo -punk’s incarnation. I see untrained gestures like the sashay and other camp elements in his work from the mid 1980s. I see traces of voguing and break dancing in his work from the late 1980s and early 1990s. All the work bears an enabling influence from visual art, both in terms of the languages of installation and performance art as well as in terms of licence. But there is spirit in his dance and it’s something more, something other than all these things.

mc is a choreographer.

mc can be astonishing.

mc sits close to Jean Cocteau in my mind. I was reading Francis Steegmuller’s biography of the director of Orphee and Blood of the Poet in the summer of 1986. It tells a story of the precocious but unformed Cocteau and his pursuit of Diaghilev, the charismatic impresario behind the Russian Ballet, in 1912. Diaghilev repelled Cocteau in a Parisian street with two politely chosen words: “Astound me!”

mc performed No Fire Escape in Hell at Sadlers Wells in September 1986, dancing to music by The Fall and with Laibach performing on stage. It was a stunning performance that met the command to “astound me” head on and is one of the most remarkable artistic events I have witnessed. It was a privilege to be there then.

mc is sashaying.

mc is perfectly poised, turning dance inside-out with immaculate precision.

mc is getting away with it.

mc can be disappointing. In 1986, he also performed in Mark E. Smith’s drama, Hey Luciani, along with Leigh Bowery and friends. Here mc explored the other end of the same spectrum as brilliance: getting away with it.

mc was pushing into, creating, new territory and discovering how much he could achieve and how little he needed to wing it. One is the obverse of the other; they are the twin-products of creative necessity at its most ambitious. It’s about creating space that becomes uniquely yours to maneuver in with complete freedom.

mc was a peculiarly pretty young man.

mc is a peculiarly pretty middle aged man, whose face retains a kind of angelic innocence even though age has leveled back its striking features, in particular that kissed-ripe mouth.

mc possesses a miraculous smile. It cracks open his pretty head with a dash of ear to ear bliss. It seems to express an ecstatic beatitude. It is a remarkable thing: if it also conferred love it would melt you on the spot.

mc is no angel but he retains a complex and necessary innocence that generates and protects the faith in him required to do what he must.

mc is a Sex Pistol.

mc is no longer wearing the big nappy pin in the top of his right ear that he wore through the 1990s, his 4th decade. Good with journalists, he told one that it was a reminder of his punk roots. This is obviously not simply true nor simply a joke but a sassy remark that ricochets off the truth, giving it angles. This is why, at an age when some people start wearing leather trousers, he could get away with it.

mc is a Sex Pistol. Bored but quick-witted he’s responding to a question posed, safety-pin-in-cheek, by The Face. It’s the summer of 1992 and Michael Clark’s Modern Masterpiece [Mmm], including a dance choreographed around ‘Submission’, hits London. Asked which Sex Pistol he would want to be, he said “Myself. I am a Sex Pistol.” It’s a more telling response than it appears. Rather than accepting a likeness, he’s insistent on taking the place of the original.

mc looks like a punk ballerina in Charles Atlas’ film, Hail the New Puritans [1985]. In a sweetly funny scene, his friends Leigh Bowery and Trojan are dressing to go out with fantastic flare and mc appears in his bleeched mohican, Destroy t-shirt and leather jacket, kilt and big DMs and says “I feel under-dressed”. Amidst friendly flurries of angular, multi-dimensional bitching Trojan says in a voice oozing camp: “Punk’s dead Mi-chael!”

mc is routinely described in boxing’s tabloid terms. So, he’s not The Dark Destroyer or The Louisville Lip but endlessly and forever The Punk Ballerina, etcetera, ad nauseum. It’s a one-dimensional, laughably reductive approach.

mc is not a Sex Pistol.

mc is an original.

mc is a choreographer.

mc’s originality is visible in his movements, his rhythms, his use of space as well as time. It’s there in the coming together and his taking apart, the explosive vitality and negative moves, shapes and forms he conjures.

mc’s originality is embodied in the elegant awkwardness, the creative undoing, that is his dance. It’s in the anti-gestures and movements and the way they amass to form something affirmative of life lived dangerously. It’s there in the attitude it projects though not in the way that critics identify with such knowing certainty: loving it, hating it. To the extent to which there is attitude in his dance, it’s an attitude that refuses distinctions between dance and life, ugly and beautiful, etc. A strategic, side-stepping attitude that rejects the obvious and so should make you suspicious of signals, especially anything overt.

mc is, for example, a wanker.

mc is a wanker. Penises, phalluses: painted onto costumes, held tauntingly in the hand or taking the form of glittering Leigh Bowery costume teapots [in Because We Must 1987], abound in his work. In New Puritan from 1984, which forms the first part of Before and After: The Fall, and in the new work for which Sarah Lucas has made a huge cast of mc’s fisted hand, there is -to be precise- choreographed masturbation. This is the kind of thing that people describe as attitude, but that expresses a certain blindness. These in-your-face signals are meant as distractions, but rather than diverting from a lack of seriousness, they achieve the opposite and allow mc to indulge his serious commitment to making art. The diversion is really a psychological sleight of hand. So, the badges of attitude do signal a kind of insecurity but not in the way that is commonly presumed.

mc has got unusually strong, extending feet. They are the enablers and foundations of his athleticism, grace and control. They give him singular elegance and height on stage. Without them, off stage, he is much smaller.

mc is brilliantly reptilian as a gobbing Caliban in Peter Greenaway’s deadening pratfall of a film, Prospero’s Books [1991].

mc moves in time and space like no one else -even confined to a fake rock in a movie.

mc is, you see, a choreographer.

mc says: “Stop there, you should stop there before you move on … You have to go down, you have to go up, you have to go down … I’m not convinced you’ve got the rhythm … Look! Did you see that? I want you to do more there … There ought to be someone else with you there to get the rhythm right, ba dum … ba dum … ba dum.”

mc says these things warmly, sharing hearty laughter and staccato giggles with his dancers.

mc says these things very precisely, totally committed to solving flaws in movements -in terms of the body and the stage- and rhythm in particular. It’s a matter of finding a way to do something that has not been done before and to do it perfectly.

mc says these things about choreography that is exceptionally difficult and which has been danced with impeccable sublimity before. You wouldn’t want to fail him.

mc’s voice is soft and yet it’s the sound of him stripping everything to the bone of something particular which it is seeking. Something irreducible. So, it’s soft and hard. It’s also just there, it doesn’t project or thrust itself over distances. It’s a voice used to intimacy, shaped for close quarters and indulged by listeners. In that way it’s quite indistinct. It does contain notable emphases but they’re softening ones: o’s are elongated into black holes, words like “doin’” are marshmallowed. The accent is mostly urbanised, apart from a gentle Scottish burr on the r’s and very occasional intrusions of non-urban sound-slips.

mc is and always was a choreographer.

mc is anxious.

mc is probably, possibly, evidently, certainly entitled to be, anxious. For the first time the Michael Clark Dance Company is going to perform without him on stage. For a temperamental risk-taker this is a supremely risky, up-for-auction, moment of truth. Previously mc has pushed the bounds knowing that his own dancing is so startling that it can rescue a performance, if necessary.

mc is not dancing.

mc is no longer dancing. Now we will all see if there is an imprint left after his own feet have been removed from the performance.

mc will not be dancing. For Before and After the 5 female dancers that make up his new company are performing the Before work from New Puritan. New Puritan uses music by The Fall from the early 1980s from Dragnet, through Slates to Hip Priest and Kamerads. At the time, mc and company performed for the band on The Old Grey Whistle Test, and these dances are the centrepiece of Hail the New Puritans.

mc explodes with startling energy in these dances. Aged 22 and with his newly founded company mc has everything to play for, nothing to lose, complete faith in what he’s doing and good fortune is his ally. There are loopy sets designed by his intimate friend Trojan, also the inspiration behind faces painted with misplaced noses and mouths. There are Taboo-era costumes by Leigh Bowery. mc is all glitter boots, green vinyl hat, proto-Madonna tits, and assless trousers. He’s surrounded by wigs and lipstick, y-fronts and Sue Barker tennis knickers, mohicans and more bare-assed cheek.

mc says about The Fall and his choreography: “I enjoy the simplicity of the actual music of The Fall, because it gives me a broader canvas as it were, to make whatever I want to on.”

mc dances butt-naked -to be precise- before fried egg tree-plants, half a lemon and huge hanging y-fronts.

mc is unarsed, not arsed.

mc displays his ambition before us and we see all the stretch marks of making. These dances captured an extraordinary promise.

mc doesn’t care and cares very much. Mark E. Smith squeaks “unclean! unclean!” ‘Spectre vs Rector’ is a circus display of nerve and confidence; graceful set pieces are cut against mc and partner dancing wildly together, the entire company wear gorgeously excessive costumes. Scratching his own arse, licking and biting his dance partner’s, mc sashays in catwalk, dance floor style.

mc is bare-arsed, pirouetting slowly just so’s you know. So’s you know what?

mc is signaling something beyond the critic-blinding arse to other dimensions. And the signal is the thing that is absent, the critical hole in the trousers, where everything beyond dance is. It tells us that there is more to dance than mere dance itself. Sometimes it takes brazen nakedness and club-couture to do it. This is a performance-event that contains dance as well as something else, and the something else is extremely important. It is life -with things beyond the sealed world of dance, elements that exceed the strict execution of technique- that is being staged here. Those improper, contingently intrusive elements circle out and around, returning to reinvigorate the dance itself.

mc is, in a complex and convoluted sense, “tarrying with the negative” as Slavoj Zizek describes it.

mc is dancing along the pavement which becomes a beachy stage. I’ve seen it myself.

mc is dancing the street onto a staged beach. Seen that too.

mc dances solo, bare-arsed again in a short wide frilly apron, blond wig and make-up. It’s ‘Prole Art Threat’ and movements are fast, frantic, with backward jerks and characteristic reversals. It starts to look like tape played backwards, and in the film of it, it is. It’s ‘Gramme Friday’ and movements are stiff, twirling, sober and finally resolved in symmetrical formations. They’re interrupted by mc doing The Candid Camera, with a bowl of goldfish carrots, plucked, wiggled and swallowed, with a shimmying wink.

mc is dancing to The Fall, of all the music ever produced in the world. Their trademark is jerky, jagged, awkward, refusing, deliberately discomforting, belligerent, pissed-off music. Music by the man whose head expanded, who is sticking to a gang of one, will cut a hole in the rain for you and likes people who live in kitchens and halls.

mc develops these qualities into movements that are jagged and broken, sudden and quotidian, as well as very difficult to do. He choreographs dance listening to the rhythms in his own head. He does it because he can: one of the many subtexts is that if you can dance to this you can dance to anything. And you can!

mc is alive!

mc is dancing to life, expressing an appetite for living it dangerously.

mc is dancing to live, to feel alive and because it’s what being alive is for him.

mc approaches life with dance, it’s all he has to say about it, to it, of it.

mc is a choreographer. When he danced these pieces there was a perfect naturalness to his movements, an amazing poise amidst the perversity. In the more complex dances, for ‘Ludd Gang’ and ‘Copped It’ in which the whole company dances, your eye begins and ends on mc. Other dancers are exceptional, other dancers can perform these awkward moves, other dancers can do attitude. But there is and was something else about mc’s performance.

mc has unique presence on stage.

mc is a choreographer and the ‘something else’ is partly in the dance, the natural awkward brilliance of it is embedded in the choreography. If you subtract mc from his choreography you lose his unique physical presence but you’re left with his thinking, his rhythms, his approach to space and appetite for newness.

mc is in rehearsal with dancers who are about the age he was when he formed his first company in 1982. They’re serious, committed, ambitious and eager to prove it but they’re about to dance mc’s role and seminal early work. They’re all in this together, huddled around a video playback monitor, laughing and joshing. It’s an endearing sight.

mc has swum oceans of publicity.

mc often talks football to journalists. Talking about Mmm and the pivoting of much of the dance on the pelvis he compares the severe angles and speed achieved to the footwork of Maradonna. He’s often talked of dancing at Ibrox stadium at half-time.

mc can be candid about his self abusing usage of drugs, in particular. He says; “I don’t know how much choice there was involved,” during his years of addiction. “I mean; it was beyond my control.” Candid too, about falling through the floor after Leigh Bowery’s death in 1994. About the years living incognito with his mother back home in Scotland. About losing people and things. About being broke. About surviving.

mc reminds me of a Will Oldham song, ‘I am a cinematographer’, performed by Palace Brothers on Days in the Wake from 1994. Will sings “I was a big old bear once … I walked away from everything that shone … only to find that everything had gone. Now I am a cinematographer.”

mc talks often about Bessie Clark, their closeness, her spunky solidity. He’s proud of the central importance of their relationship. She’s there in the films, and on one occasion -in Mmm– he literally pulled her into his work.

mc often talks of self destructiveness: that of his alcoholic father and of artists compelled to explore new horizons in their work. Everything is at stake in that compulsion to innovate.

mc’s own words contain elemental truths and consistent claims for his work. No-one else’s words get very close to conjuring what he does, what is witnessed in his dance, what it is.

mc says quite often that he wants to remind himself why he needed to dance in the first place. Every new piece is built from this recovered need.

mc says that he and Bowery would egg-on each other to over extend themselves in various ways. This odd English construction: ‘egging-on’, is a key note in his work and was bound up with the great friendship which ended at the time of Mmm.

mc believes dance involves a language that can’t be reduced to black and white. Hence the difficulty in finding words for his dance’s awkward shapes, turned-inwards back-to-front movements and promiscuousness. He talks of the challenge this poses and of wanting to recover the first human impulses to dance.

mc believes in the necessity of dance.

mc believes it’s the artist’s job to report back from those dangerous regions of life: the outer limits.

mc lives his dance fully, adventurously, recklessly.

mc is an artist. This is the highest compliment I could pay him as a dancer and I’ve thought hard and long about it.

mc admires Nijinsky and in particular the way he rejected what he knew as a dancer to choreograph Stravinsky’s The Rite Of Spring in 1913.

mc takes risks and a typically bold one was his remodeling of Nijinsky in Mmm. In particular, he remade the ‘dance to the death’, the choreography for which drew critical praise for the show. For mc this was a dance of life, of change, seasonal and otherwise. Cocteau was obsessed with Nijinsky who was the star of Diaghilev’s company, and it was on hearing Stravinsky’s original music for The Rite of Spring that he said he understood the “state of surprise” that Diaghilev must have meant when he instructed him to “Astound me!”

mc generated that same state of surprise in me when I saw Mmm at the Kings Cross Depot in 1992. It thrilled me with its possibilities, potency and sheer vigour as well as the difficult precision of the dance. It was a gorgeous event. There are other criteria for excellence of course, but this was again astounding, exciting, exhilarating to witness and to feed from.

mc is a choreographer. His choreography has become cleaner, more concentrated, stripped back and more to do with the body itself. This was particularly evident in current/SEE [1999] in which he performed to the music of Big Bottom, a 5-piece band of bass guitarists. In much of that work it seemed that the dance had come home to mc’s body, and he had come home to his most elemental appetite for dancing.

mc’s work is about being alive.

mc’s work is the work of an artist. However, of course, dance work has its own very particular rigours and disciplines. To work hard at dance is to mean something very specific. It’s almost unique in its combination of ancient disciplines -mountains that have to be climbed- and a chronologically early cut off point that is more the domain of the pop singer or the model. An old dancer is no longer a dancer. They are, if they’re lucky or brilliant, a choreographer.

mc is a choreographer.

mc is choreographing new work.

mc is in uncharted territory: choreographing work that he will not dance. It may prove a liberation. Now that complex accumulated style, rhythmic intelligence and innovating appetite can focus on the thing in front of it, as opposed to things around it. It can shape the material it has before it, force it to do the highly particular thing that it wants. Find solutions for difficult movements, rhythms and sequences.

mc is choreographing new work around old musical favourites.

mc is making work which has expanded away from the body again while still evincing new concentrations and clarities.

mc is cheating probability with this new work. He still feels the necessity to make dance. He’s facing forwards and has things to prove, challenges to meet, solutions to find in the form of other people’s perfectly-tuned bodies.

mc is a choreographer.

mc is not dancing.

mc is alive in the imprint of his feet that have left the stage.

mc lives in the shapes, the rhythms before you. They are many things, including unmistakable. This is mc’s leap into the future. This is his new horizon, to be approached with sashaying, awkward, difficult, funny brilliance.

mc is not.

mc is.

mc was.

mc is.

© The Author. 2000.

‘forting’ london: rebel city 2001

AA Files Issue 42 Spring 2001 Architectural Association School of Architecture London

[‘Forting’ was published with a number of critically important images, maps and illustrations, some of which I’ve added to the text as it appears/ed in my now archived site. It’s part of the published residue of research and lectures given at the AA- work which is ongoing, never-ending, in fact central to two upcoming ‘projects’.]


by Guy Mannes-Abbott

hyper mobile mud//

… authentic politics is… the art of the impossible – it changes the very parameters of what is considered ‘possible’ in the existing constellation.

Slavoj Zizek, The Ticklish Subject

We have grown very poor in threshold experiences… The threshold must be carefully distinguished from the boundary. A Schwelle [threshold] is a zone. Transformation, passage, wave action are in the word schwellen, swell…

Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project

I find something which consoles me a bit for having walked… this road of the impossible… I find something as immaterial, yet earthly, terrestrial, in the shape of a circle… a meridian.

Paul Celan, Collected Prose

Preserved on a very small piece of paper is an image, yet another image – the latest in an endless stream – of one of the world’s greatest cities: London. But this one – like striking beauty glimpsed and repeatedly conjured up – is memorable, vivid, indelible. It is a fresh London face – with all the ethical force that that implies – drawn by George Vertue1 and entitled ‘An Explanation of the Several Forts on the Line of Communication’ which were built around London during the English Civil War of 1642-3.

Vertue’s make-over of the capital first appeared in Maitland’s huge History of London (1738)2 and it remains the best – and almost only – map of the fortifications that so impressively protected the city. The forts were a system of colossal defences, dug from London earth which was formed into mounds, walls, ditches and trenches to defend the city from attack. The attackers were King Charles I and his royalist army, determined to regroup and recover London, the city of Parliamentary revolt. The enclosing ring, or ‘Lines of Communication’, was the connecting tissue between forts – sightline, defence, message route and an early stab at a network for the disparate capital.

As with Paris, there are countless unrealized plans for the formalizing, restructuring and organizing of the growing metropolis of London. Unlike Paris, smashed into classical shape by Baron Haussmann, London – ‘its only identity a lack of a clear identity’3 – never received the imprint of the large-scale urban planner (not, at least, after its Roman inception). Not Wren’s post-Great Fire plans, not Queen Anne’s Fifty Churches Act, not various GLC plans, not Richard Rogers’ riverizing plans (all of which were partial in any case). London developed piecemeal, not ad hoc so much as ‘in hock’ – to the private estates and enterprising interests of the court, the church and the aristocracy. Burnt, bombed, unclassical, unwritten London is the greatest example of an unruly bursting-forth – a hand-made mess of a world city.

So Vertue’s image is an image of the only achieved formalization of a city that remains the epitome of unreadably chaotic expansion. This image, this piece of paper, these century-late estimations of the locations of thousands of tonnes of soil and wood, is all that remains of London’s greatest stab at form. It’s an image of London’s largest-scale construction, a defining monument to the city. A city and its spirit of hope.

This is mid-seventeenth-century London, a time and place of intense political, cultural and social activity, a people in the process of constructing an international identity as an Imperial power, with all that flows from that – not least literally, along the Thames, that pre-industrial conveyor belt of Empire-to-come.

This is the London of the old Old London Bridge, the thundering north-south route through Southwark and the City, rain-forested by churches and encrusted with the palaces of the court and the church. It is London before the Great Plague and Fire, of Old St. Paul’s, Westminster and Lambeth Palaces. A London of horses, river-boat crossings and tanneries, open sewers and spas, duels and archery, windmills and toll-gates, Marvell and Milton, of Dissenters and Levellers. It is a London on the cusp: the rigidities of feudalism melting into the more participatory democracy of constitutional monarchy and mercantilism.

This is the densely signifying heart of London shorn of the later suburban sprawls of Islington, Hackney, Clapham, Bloomsbury, Chelsea or Kensington. A London without docks and associated industries, with marshland in Lambeth and Wapping, reservoirs in Chelsea, pesthouses for early plague victims out on a limb in the fields of Victoria and Clerkenwell, with open brooks cutting to the river banks north and south. This map contains the magnetic, hypnotic, addictive locus of all that we mean by the fabulously rich word ‘London’. Above all else, this is an image of Utopian enclosure, a city barricaded all around in support of a revolutionary new form of government, a circle of defiance, lines of commitment that forced life-and-death decision-making on its populace. It is an image of revolution and sudden change, with London as its home and closer than ever before to its people.

It is also a map of something actual but no longer traceable, and this absence of physical trace rehearses the properly Utopian element of such an enclosure which is, strictly speaking, a non-place or un-place. And it is made mobile – mobilized – as a result. Today this en route Utopianism chimes perfectly with our contemporary experience of nonphysical – but, contra Paul Virilio,4 no less actual – virtuality. Just as we understand consciousness differently – no longer locked away in internal or inner space, but encoded and fluid (out there) – so too is reality infested with virtuality and vice versa.

This enables us to conceive of new, mobile, dirty Utopian enclosures whereby limits are drawn and theorized within in ways that are physically traceless (but no less potently actual for that). This is a Utopianism written in time (time in space rather than space in time). It is a Utopianism, therefore, of dynamic form – as opposed to prescriptive schema. A Utopianism that is broken-down, miniaturized, cobbled together, as light and mobile as digital space, an insistent and necessary hope against hope. It is a dirty Utopianism that can take something elemental (like time) and transform it.

In Wong Kar-Wai’s film Days of Being Wild5 the lead character eventually persuades a woman who is resolutely refusing his advances to spend a random minute with him in silence. After huddling together watching the seconds pass, he declares that from 16 April 1960 ‘we’ve been friends for one minute. This is a fact you can’t deny. It’s happened’ – he will always remember it. This act of memorializing forms the film’s narrative dynamic and it does prove unforgettable in peculiar ways. But it is also an act that exceeds its context; the political instability in Hong Kong at this time, and the totally dissolute, incoherent, listlessly ‘in-between’ lives that characterize the film and the period in which it was made – the 1990s (so brilliantly staged in Kar-Wai’s classic pair, Chungking Express and Fallen Angels).

This is an ‘act proper’ in the Zizekian sense – a hysterical, decontextualizing act that precipitates qualitative change. This is so in terms of the film itself but also in terms of Kar-Wai’s reworking of the experience of the millennial city and its globalized cultural spaces. It is a Utopian act in a form and of a material available to us all. It is a bursting forth, highly mobile, unanchored Utopianism, technologically and spatially contemporary: a generative, radical act. It also invokes a notion of threshold in which such an act involves the destruction of what is (in this instance, the shiny static junkyard of postmodernity). It is modest but potent, elemental not sophisticated, individual yet incorporative. It is dirty Utopianism.

Vertue’s image is one in which a revolutionary Utopia is identical with the city itself. It is an enclosure, a London with a very clear – and notably widely shared – image of itself as something formally new, something worth fighting for. It is a battleground, a potential tabula rasa – since the city was threatened with an obliterative ‘sacking’ – as well as an example of how to think through the notion of London as a whole in the present, because what it involves is a mobility of mind, a proper grasp of the potential spaces of historical mud and contemporary virtuality.

Fort-building or forting is synonymous with fighting: the construction of a shared identity worth fighting for. No one in seventeenth-century London was in any doubt as to the stakes involved in forting – this leap into the muddy dark – and no one knew where the first insurrectionary step would lead. We can and should understand future-talk as exactly this, a fuel of change, a strategic necessary projection and a formal dynamism that is enabling and generative. Today, George Vertue’s representation of London will enable me to construct the city as a threshold zone – a site where everything is at stake and everything becomes possible again. Through an uncanny relationship with other forms of Utopian enclosure and the communal investment of actual change, we will arrive at the present, equipped with technologies that are defined by their mobility in the realms – or threshold zone – of the potential/actual; a threshold zone that is multi-directional, constructive and destructive, unlimited, virtual, non-physical and ferociously effective against the world that we actually experience.

the threshold zone//

His equipment was meagre: the shovel, the pick, the wagon, the trowel, the wheelbarrow – the simple tools of every race … before the mechanical age. His achievement was truly admirable.

Le Corbusier, on Haussmann, Urbanisme

In place of grand narrative it [Thomas Carlyle’s Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell, 1845] …offered a politics of the personal, in which spiritual economy – or what Carlyle… called ‘soul-effort’ or ‘soul-striving’ – replaced constitutional progress as the measure of worth.

Raphael Samuel, Island Stories: Unravelling Britain

I approached to make the tour around about and descending to the lower end of Wapping there I beganne my circuit… close by the houses and the River Thames’ [10] Lithgow encountered a ‘seven angled fort… erected of turffe and watles and earthenworke [as are all the rest] having nine portholes, and as many cannon; and near the top, round about pallosaded with sharpe wooden stakes, fixt in the bulwarkes, right out, and a foot distant from another, which are defensive for sudden scalets, and single ditched below, with a court du guard within.

This is unofficial history, where sources are anecdotal, contingent and unstable. There is no trace of the forts built around the city of London to defend the parliamentary revolution from the King, because Parliament itself ordered their removal before Charles I was executed in 1649 (their erasure was completed by the Restoration of Charles II’s monarchy in 1660, which saw the disinterring and decapitating of Cromwell’s body, and produced the constitutional settlement that we inhabit today). So, while there are Acts of Parliament that protect sites of vital cultural heritage – such as the numerous remains of royal palaces – there is none that marks the system of defences built to protect that very same Parliamentary will. In trying to pin-point the historical matter we enter a philosophical loop in which we go back to a beginning only to find it is not there.

To be precise: I have the word of one man prone to exaggeration – William Lithgow (successfully prosecuted for lying about his experience of the Spanish Inquisition); [6] an extremely loosely drawn map by William Stukeley (whose recovery of stone patterns at Stonehenge and Avebury for a Druid culture has long been controversial) [7] published in 1720; a series of fake drawings of the forts by a captain in Cromwell’s army; [8] glimpses by the reliable Daniel Defoe [9] of extant earthworks half a century later; and then street names, anecdotes and deduction based on what these clues tell combined with the certainty that the forts did exist, and that locations can be estimated from contemporary maps and records.

This matters. As soon as you recognize the London in Vertue’s map you want to superimpose it on London today, but quickly you find that the sites and lines are contested. They exist in a domain of radical interpretation. It matters because this event and story is so fundamental to the story of the English and Britain, an identity that is up for grabs, on the cusp again.

In the mid-seventeenth century the constitution was literally being fought over, the House of Lords vanquished, relations with Europe molten; in the early twenty-first century we see the dismantling of the English Empire in the UK, the beginnings of the end of the Lords and relations within Europe molten once more. Then and now, new national and pan-national identities emerge. Then and now new ways to think about identity in cultural, political and social terms develop. Notions of self, of citizenship, the relationship to a collectivity (today uniquely mobile but nevertheless still there), of what the emergent crowd is exactly, demand rearticulation. How such things are embodied in political terms (and so in terms of collective rights and responsibilities which are reinvested in projects such as social housing) becomes urgently significant as a result.

insurrectionary matter//

The constructions of history are comparable to military orders that discipline the true life and confine it to barracks. On the other hand: the street insurgence of the anecdote. The anecdote brings things near to us spatially, lets them enter our life.

Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project

I found the grasse growing deep in the royall Court of the King’s House.

William Lithgow. The Present Surveigh Of London and England’s State

The resolution of the parliamentary Common Council provided for a bulwark and a half, with a battery at the north end of Gravel (now Wapping) Lane – close to the site of Hawksmoor’s church St George-in-the-East, completed in 1726 – Fort No. 1 on Vertue’s map. Lithgow proceeded northwards along the trench dyke ‘for all the Trenches are deep ditched about’, on through the fields towards the road leading to Essex via ‘Myle’ End Green (where he saw two other small defences), at Whitechapel. Here was a ‘nine angled fort only pallosaded and single ditched and planted with seven pieces of brazen ordinance, and a court du guard composed of timber and thatched with tyle stone as all the rest are’ – Fort No. 2.

Turf, wattle, thatch, earthworks, timber stakes and ditches – the stuff of insurrection. Wapping Fort is the perfect example of insurrectionary mud. Elsewhere on London’s westside were the more urban chains and guarded road-blocks that are associated with the later rebellions in Paris. In the French capital it was more a case of insurrectionary cobble: in the 1830 revolution, over 4,000 barricades were built from 8,125,000 paving stones.[11] Indeed this form of rebellion was one of the things that Haussmann aimed to end by the construction of wide, strategically connective boulevards throughout the city of Empire. In Paris, cobbles and furniture were missiles of protest on one side, while, on the other, organized spades and picks were agents of structural change. In London these came together to revolutionary effect centuries before Paris.

Wapping, whose development had just begun, certainly had plenty of mud on its low-lying flooded river banks. The fort’s exact location is disputable, but one vital clue is a note, handwritten by Cromwell Mortimer, on a copy of Vertue’s map held in the King’s Topographical Collection at the British Library.[12] Mortimer’s 1746 notes describe several forts (including White Chapel Fort) either still in existence or with visible remains, and advertise a distinction between dry and wet ditches according to variously coloured inks. While colours fade and, unlike ageless botanical specimens, cannot be revived, it is clear from this print that Vertue has shaded some sections of the lines that connect to the Thames in the same way as he shaded the river.

An archaeological report by the Museum of London,[13] confirms evidence of ‘wet’ ditches – 5.5 m wide and 1.4 m deep – at Newark Street where it meets New Road, part of the line of communications along the modern Cannon Street Road from Wapping Fort to White Chapel Fort (or Mount) immediately to the west of the Royal Hospital, at Mount Terrace.

The wet ditches, which used the defence capabilities of re-routed Thames water, appear to have extended from halfway up Cannon Street Road to the river, then all the way along the South Bank’s notoriously marshy stretch, before heading northwards again to Tothill Fields (halfway up Vauxhall Bridge Road and to the east of Chelsea’s reservoirs). Since the purpose of the forts was to defend an expected attack, their sightlines were vital. The topography of the city was therefore a factor in their location and although it is not possible to recover completely the sense of seventeenth-century landscape, a number of the fort sites do reveal their virtues in this respect.

Wapping Fort (which, like Tothill Fort, would have been as close to the river as was practicable) was probably located on the ridge (once known as the Rad/Redcliffe Highway) that the Highway cuts along today. The natural topography would have given the fort a commanding view over miles of the surrounding fields. It would also have had access to the river water while avoiding the mudflats.

In talking about the Utopian enclosure of London, we are talking about the most basic things: the blood, sweat and fears of attack. Earth, turfs to bind, spades to move it, hands to hold, steady and push, anecdotal memory to sustain the fear, the conviction and our knowledge today. Put yourself in the collapsing footwear of one of the thousands of city porters who were seen digging the trenches by witnesses including the Venetian ambassador in May 1643. [14] Put yourself in their heart and feel the thrilling pull of change, feel the drama of possibility, of something better than what is, and push, encourage, fight on.

Let’s scroll northwards, along the lines as they dry out towards White Chapel Mount (or Fort), at the meeting place of Whitechapel Road, New Road, and Vallance Road. We are back at Mount Terrace, the little green inclines to its north on the main road west of the Royal Hospital. Today, the corner of the hospital is a helipad, which services the NHS air ambulance and offers astonishing views of the east face of the City. From here the topography and sense of landscape of the seventeenth century is, in a sense, recovered.

Directly to the south is St George-in-the-East alongside the towers of St George’s Estate set around Swedenborg Gardens. In between looms the Southbank, with the final fort site, off Jamaica Road, visible to the west of modern Rotherhithe, and stretching towards South London’s distant hills. Looking north-west along the communication lines, the eye follows the spikes of Hawksmoor’s Christchurch and the Truman Brewery chimney on Brick Lane itself, to St Leonard’s Church at Shoreditch just above the red roofs of the Boundary Street Estate – alongside the site of Shoreditch Fort. Immediately to the east is Sivill House, designed by the great Utopian architect and planner of London’s mid-century, Berthold Lubetkin. From Whitechapel’s helipad the top flanks of Sivill House reach skywards from Lubetkin’s Dorset Estate, with its two propeller-plan towers connected by a circular public library.

What did Lithgow see here? Well, he didn’t see the hospital that was founded by voluntary subscriptions in the middle of the eighteenth century. He didn’t see William Beller’s 1752 visualization of it, set in open fields, nor Chatelain’s wider-angled etching (based on Beller’s painting) a year later. The etching’s south-easterly view of the Mount, from the corner of modern Vallance Road, shows it looming over the hospital, its flat top crowned with mature trees and a folly. The folly’s views south – of St George-in-the-East and perhaps the river itself – were from almost exactly the same angle and height as views from the helipad today.

So, what Lithgow could have seen from the top of the White Chapel Fort, a century after it was built, is uncannily related to what is visible today. Below were open fields on both sides of the main road, a ducking pond to the north and another pond to the south, but, as yet, no St George-in-the-East or St Anne’s – despite their statuesque presence in the etching. Neither would he have seen Sir Christopher Wren’s plans to develop Lady Wentworth’s land east of the Hospital site in 1673, which also show the defensive mount. [15] Indeed, the fort itself was smaller than the mount we have images of, which was used to dump materials from the Great Fire of 1666, and was referred to as ‘The Dunghill’ on a parish map of 1715. [16]

Lithgow would have seen something similar to what John Rocque saw a century later, when preparing his London map of 1746, which shows a number of likely Civil War earthworks. He would have seen a field east of White Chapel Fort, an earthwork built in all probability on a rocky outcrop like that running along The Highway to Tower Hill with ‘the ground thrown up in digging the trenches used to enlarge it’. [17] The mount’s size became an issue when the City decided to develop it in the mid-nineteenth century. The hospital fought off plans to build on top of it, and forced the City to remove it before building Mount Street, of which Mount Terrace – with its City badges – is the remnant.

White Chapel Fort, one of a planned system of defences and communication networks, is linked to another site where Utopianism, war, defence, mud and a notion of collective consciousness cohere; another site loaded with a consciousness of London as a whole. I am referring to Finsbury Fields and work that sprang from the 1930s Finsbury Plan – so fully embraced by Lubetkin and his Tecton colleagues. [18] Although these are extraordinarily rich interlocking histories, I will focus on just one aspect: the plans for a system of defences against the Blitz. This link is triggered by the location of the strongest section of the seventeenth-century fortifications, built in expectation of a Royalist attack from the north. Waterfield Fort was at the top of St John’s Street, exactly where Spa Green Estate stands today, linked eastwards by trenches running along Sebastian Street to a huge fort at Mount Mills off the Goswell Road. Westwards, the lines cut to New River Head’s circular reservoir and on to Mount Pleasant, east of Black Mary’s Hole and another city dump. In between, a covered walkway was cut up the hill that is now Amwell Street, to Islington Pond, which would soon became the extant reservoir in Claremont Square.

The forts mark an area known for its spas and radical reformers and which, in the seventeenth century, Wenceslaus Hollar represented in a series of etchings showing extensive earthworks. They protected an area that would become the site of the largest and most ambitious plan ever for the social regeneration of London and which remains a paragon of what could be achieved with social housing. Spa Green, Bevin Court and Priory Green just north of Finsbury are all positive manifestations of a politically committed and revolutionarily ambitious approach to collective works, but – conscious of what there was to fight for – Tecton also produced a plan for an elaborate system of defences and network of communications with uncanny echoes of the Civil War forts.

Faced with the threat of aerial bombardment as a prelude to invasion by the Nazis, Tecton devised a plan to protect the Finsbury ‘crowd’ that was as radically ambitious as its housing plans. No expense would be spared to protect the people for whom the war was being fought, whose relatives were fighting the war, who produced the supplies and morale to defeat Fascism. It therefore involved the same principles and soul-striving that created the need for, and actuality of, the Civil War defences. Tecton’s scheme is extraordinary, [19] putting every citizen within easy reach of deep shelters housing up to 7,600 people. These inverted forts were little circular Utopias in themselves, as Tecton’s visuals suggest. They were also part of an elaborate system of interconnected circles and lines – a complex analysis of the utilities and future uses of the area that was taken into consideration in the planning.

Lubetkin, let us not forget, was a revolutionary, whose exasperation with the persistent vandalism of his publicly funded Lenin memorial led to its investment in the foundations of Bevin – originally Lenin – Court. As a result, the organizer of the Russian Revolution is now only commemorated by a plaque that marks his visits as a refugee to neighbouring Percy Circus. Tecton’s revolutionary scheme caused an outcry – press attention and governmental panic, which ended with them being branded subversives who were threatening to bankrupt the war effort with such ambitious schemes. The plan was spurned, the people evacuated and these defences joined their Civil War ancestors as traceless, virtual Utopias.

a revolutionary circuit//

I descend at once to… the vilest. I can descend no lower.

Jeremy Bentham, September 1796

If a place could exist in no neighbourhood, that place would be Tothill Fields.

Jeremy Bentham, 1798

It should not surprise us that a zest for a brightening Utopia is necessarily bound to the muddiest mud, the zeros of death, devastation and obliterating war. It should not surprise us that Parliamentarians built a Utopian enclosure out of mud, that Jeremy Bentham planned to build his quasi-Utopian Panopticon – the over-theorized icon of all-seeing circularity – in the ‘no neighbourhood’, no-place of Tothill’s swampy fields. It should not surprise us that the most Utopian and politically vigorous social-housing enclosures were built on the rot or rubble of nineteenth-century dereliction and Nazi bomb sites.

What of this Utopian circle? What of this figure that links underground particle accelerators in Swiss mountains with the formations at Stonehenge and Avebury (reinvested with Celtic significance by William Stukeley)? Let us draw together the research and trace out our revolutionary circuit up to 1999.

Like Vertue, we shall start at Wapping Fort [1 on his map] and follow the Lithgow line in an anti-clockwise direction to finish at Redriff Fort, opposite Wapping, on the Southbank. Wapping Fort is well placed at the top of Wapping Lane, adjacent to St George-in-the-East. From there, lines are well documented going north along Cannon Street Road to the second fort, at Whitechapel[2]. This was still visible until its removal in 1830, and its sheer size reminds us that these earth mounds cover a large area on a modern map.

From here, things become less settled. There are claims for a fortification halfway up Brick Lane – located by scaling Vertue’s map to a modern A-Z and putting a pin in the heart of Kray Brothers’ [21] territory. In the absence of accumulated evidence we shall scroll to the well-documented site at the very top of Brick Lane. Most records place this fort [3] just to the north of Shoreditch Church (which antedated it), close to Hackney and Kingsland Roads (the latter of which was a major northward route for the King’s mail and was probably fortified [4]). Other clues here are the former Mount Street – now Montclare Road – on the eastern perimeter of the Boundary Street Estate, up to Virginia Road, previously known as Castle Street. Castle and Mount Streets met north-east of the Boundary Estate and Shoreditch Church, immediately south of Hackney Road. There is a marked incline in Montclare Road here, which is where I would place Shoreditch/Brick Lane Fort [3], immediately beside one of London’s finest experiments in Victorian social housing, the protective enclosure of Arnold Circus.

Haze regathers here, with no definitive lines connecting these forts as they passed north of Moorfields, up until the next well-documented fort at Mount Mills. Archaeologists have reported possible seventeenth-century ditchworks along the southern rim of Hoxton Square, [22] which was developed from fields after the Restoration in 1660. This is consistent with the overall line and a suggestive nexus of clues that place the fort described at Hoxton close to where City and New Roads split, north of Old Street roundabout. This was open land in the seventeenth century and Rocque’s eighteenth-century map reveals the notably angular lines of ducking ponds and a Pesthouse Lane – both common features of fort sites. Then there are the associative names: Castle Street, Mount Row and Oliver’s Yard that have congregated here too. So, Hoxton Fort [5] could well have been here – near Ebenezer Street – protective of the City and its northwards flank.

Next is Mount Mills [6], apparently a large fort and the first to be built – between Goswell Road and Central Street, north of Seward Street. A century after the fort’s construction, both Thomas Pink [23] and Mortimer mention a very large mound at Mount Mills. [24] The site was also a burial pit, windmill, plague pit and a public laystall – like Mount Pleasant. Today, Mount Mills is a slip road behind the Pheasant and Firkin pub on Goswell Road and opposite the Triangle Estate – a most fort-like example of social housing.

From Mount Mills, evidence points to lines running along Sebastian Street towards St John’s Fort [7]. Lithgow described ‘footing along the trench dyke (which is three yards thick and on the ditch side twice as high)… [at] the lower end of Islington where there was a ‘strong and large strength called Waterfield Fort,’ with the largest ‘court du guard’ that he had as yet seen, ‘larger than two ordinary churches’. I believe this to be the site of Lubetkin’s Spa Green Estate. This claim has not been made before, and is based on three pieces of evidence: a combination of old local maps; the name of the Fort being Waterfield; and, most crucially, the discovery of an engraving of the new Toll Road and Gate linking St John’s Street with Rosebery Avenue. [25] That print shows a mound exactly where Spa Green is, a location once known as Waterfield, and the estate bears a plaque commemorating the toll-gate itself.

Finsbury’s Forts are well documented. From St John’s Fort the lines went to New River Head, a circular reservoir at the end of the New River that Sir Thomas Myddleton built linking it to Amwell in Hertfordshire. In 1739, Maitland himself records visual evidence of lines across these fields, linking the fort at Black Mary’s Hole, or Mount Pleasant, with Merlin’s Cave just west of New River Head. A covered Line, he wrote, went up to the Upper Pond. This is now Amwell Street, which follows an old pathway, and the Upper Pond is Claremont Square. ‘A little farther on’ (‘about ten pare buts’ from St John’s Fort) Lithgow came to Strawes Fort [9], or Fort Royal, on Islington Hill. This was a very elaborate fort with ‘eight angles and a spacious interlacing distance between each of the covered bulwarks’. It was a specially high ground, ‘marvellous perspicuous and prospective both for the City and country, commanding all the other inferior fortifications near and about that part of the enclosing ground’. [26] The natural topography here, rising to the plateau of Islington, makes the importance of this fort obvious, and concludes this part of the defences.

Mount Pleasant Fort, sited underneath the modern Post Office sorting office, was also known as Wakefield or Pindar’s Fort. This is a frequently described location, and the Mount itself was an ironic name given to a notorious dung hill. Soldiers were known to camp immediately north of here in fields typically used for archery and duels. From Islington, Lithgow descended to Holborn Fields where he came to Pindar of Wakefield’s Fort [10], evidently on the right of Gray’s Inn Lane, and the one styled by Vertue ‘a Battery and Breastwork on the hill east of Black Mary’s Hole’. It is a natural site for a garrison and defensive position.

From here we go west through the old Conduit Fields, more or less along Great Ormond Street, land owned by Rugby School, to a clearly documented fort [11] at Southampton House. Several maps show a fortification in the rear gardens of Southampton House – which opened on to fields – for at least a century. The site is now beneath enclosed gardens south of Russell Square, which remain part of the Bedford Estate. The fourth Earl was a fierce Royalist, which makes what is the reliable siting of this fort ironic and pleasing. Bloomsbury Square was developed by the Earl as the first such square in London (and the world), as well as the origin of the now notoriously feudal – but extant – law of leasehold (established as a means of developing land around the square).

From Southampton Fort, the lines went below the modern British Museum, to St Giles’ Fort [12], variously located along Tottenham Court Road, north of Centrepoint – the site of the Pound – and east of the high street at Bayley Street (where Rocque shows earthworks). It is unclear how many forts guarded this vital northwards route. The Common Council ordered two defences here, and records put a ‘Crabtree Fort’ in the fields opposite modern Bayley Street. From here, various forts are described in locations that range from the north end of Wardour Street to ‘Maribone Fields’. I would place Wardour Fort [14] at Market Place, which has Castle Street impaling it on an east-west axis and inclines to suggest an ideal defensive position in this vicinity – near Crabtree Fields en route to Maribone Fields.

From Wardour Fort the lines are again unclear but head to Mayfair and the next reasonably well documented fort. Mount Street Fort [15], or Oliver’s Mount is best sited at Mount Street itself. It was probably where Carpenter Street meets Mount Row as it rises from the south to a plateau in the Grosvenor Estate – then just fields. The subsequent history of names – Mount Street (or Row), Oliver’s Mount pub and the Mount Coffee House – bolsters this (and links the site to England’s poet of Romantic dissent, P. B. Shelley). [27] Today, the only public memorial to London’s forts [28] takes the form of a couple of sentences recounting the story of Oliver’s Mount on a notice-board in Mount Street Gardens, a notably pleasant enclosed space between Farm and Mount streets, east of South Audley Street’s chapel.

From here, part of the lines have been established as they venture towards, and then across, modern Park Lane to Hyde Park Fort [16], which cannot be conclusively located. It was probably in the south-east corner of the park, in an area between the circular fountain opposite the Grosvenor Hotel and the west end of South Street – a link traced today by Lovers’ Lane. Lithgow wrote of ‘departing thence shortly encroached upon Head [sic] Park Corner fort, which is a main great strength having one fort above and within another; another third fort closing the roadway standeth breasting the other two’. More recent research [29] describes a very considerable fort, matching Stukeley, Lithgow and others, as well as making much of extant earthworks mapped by Rocque in 1746. This is the only fort site that has retained its essential topographical relationship to the city from the seventeenth century, opening up to the whole western flank of London as it dips away and protecting the two main roads westwards to Oxford and Reading in this perfect defensive position.

There was also a Fort at Constitution Hill [17], at the top of the route that leads from Buckingham Palace, now the site of Hyde Park roundabout where the Wellington Arch, originally designed as part of a grand entrance to London itself, pairs the arched entrance to Hyde Park to the north. The arch’s history [30] is full of architects, including Soane, disappointed in the quest to create a new face for London, opposite Wellington’s home, No. 1 London. It arrived at its present site in the 1880s, in yet another re-jig of this crucial junction, and is now being restored for use as an information centre, which will offer a view down Constitution Hill towards St James’s Park, Westminster and the Millennium Wheel. The arch presently houses a ventilation shaft for the underpass in the space of old prison cells, a residue of its use as a police station for many years. The high symbolic loading of this site is further increased by its use as a route for the changing of the guards housed at Basil Spence’s nearby Knightsbridge Barracks and it will be the pivot in a figure-of-eight memorial walkway for Diana, Princess of Wales.

Constitution Fort was linked, via small defences on the Chelsea road (now the greenery of Grosvenor Gardens), to another large Fort [19] in Tothill Fields. (Tothill or Toot Hill means ‘the highest ground in an area which could be used as an observation post for the erection of a beacon’.) [31] Here was a large, open field with pesthouses, ducking ponds and, later, a maze, the no-place of Jeremy Bentham, an excellent vantage point that reached as far as modern Tachbrook Street. Lillington Gardens Estate now occupies the likely site of the fort. Bentham never did build his reforming panopticon prison, but a crude and notoriously grim version was built nearby: the Millbank Penitentiary. On the map its starred circular form resembles Arnold Circus and, after it was torn down, a part of the site became social housing modelled on the Boundary Estate – with blocks named after artists including Hogarth – the remainder was dedicated to the Tate Gallery.

The lines continued south, to the river and beyond, linking, on the Southbank, to the large Vauxhall Fort [20], very close to where the pleasure balloon rises and falls today. Defoe, as well as several other reporters and map makers, placed the fort within Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, a popular Restoration haunt. The Elephant and Castle pub is now thought to be a site marker – the seventeenth-century spelling of the exotic ‘Oliphant’ linked to the Protector’s ‘Oliver’ [32] – and is part of the messy agglomeration that is Vauxhall Junction. The site today offers views across the gentle incline of the Vauxhall Gardens Estate (looking east across Lambeth) beneath the all-seeing home of the secret service, MI6, on the river nearby.

Lines linked Vauxhall to what Lithgow describes as the ‘Fort Royal’ in St George’s Fields – at the Dog and Duck pub, and Bedlam Hospital (now the Imperial War Museum) – a slightly raised section of the old marshes. The defences on the southside of London were added in mid-1643, during a second wave of fortifications, enclosing land owned by the City – the Bridge House Estates owned much of St George’s Fields for example – and including large garrisons. Lithgow described a massive fort here, with 24 canon royals on this site alone – almost certainly a gross exaggeration (the canon royal was very difficult to cast, extremely expensive and weighed about 8 tonnes – in 1677 there was only one of them in serviceable condition according to the inventories of the Tower of London). [33] However, the presence of a large Dog and Duck Fort [21] is well documented, at a site that was a popular spa, pub and ducking pond. The fort remained visible for at least a century and one archaeologist reported visible evidence of earthworks in the park (now home to a circular Tibetan Peace Garden) as late as 1974. [34]

The lines continue to the Elephant and Castle, just north of the modern roundabout, at approximately Gaunt Street, where the huge Ministry of Sound nightclub is now ensconced. Lithgow described a large but unfinished fort [22] here and Vertue claims that only Hyde Park Fort matched it for scale. Lines then linked to the east, along the new section of the Kent road, past the Heygate Estate’s barrier block, to the flyover which joins it to the old Roman road to Kent. Here, just west of the Carpenter’s Arms roundabout – with its fort-like subway system – was Kent Street Fort [23]. It was located close to a turnpike, the Lock Hospital and a bridge over the Neckinger River, and now – amidst waves of social housing (Guinness, LCC to GLC) all around – close to the only Lubetkin building on the Southbank. [35]

North-east of here the lines connect again through modern Bermondsey and its old tanneries to Grange Road Fort, at the junction with Spa Road – exactly where Bermondsey Spa was – and once marked by nearby Fort Road, Fort Place and the Fort pub. Finally, the lines headed riverwards along Spa Road towards Rotherhithe, stopping near the river and joining Redriff Fort, which is mentioned by Lithgow. This fort has little site evidence, but was probably in the north-west corner of the modern Southwark Park, where Prospect Street runs northwards towards the river on a line that would link to Wapping Fort on the northbank, at Wapping Old Stairs. The Angel pub, founded by monks from the Bermondsey Abbey, marks the line on the Southbank. Alongside is a recently excavated royal palace site that has extensive information boards that include the phrase ‘protected by an Act of Parliament’. That collective will was established by the building of civil war fortifications nearby, about as close to the river as it was possible to get, but no archaeological work has ever been done to prove it. In the seventeenth century the view east would have extended over farmers’ fields flanking the Thames for miles, and over the river and mudflats the next fort in the circuit would have been clearly visible, just beyond what is now a circular bandstand.

So, here is our Utopian band of mud in all its glory.

scaffold condition//

‘It’s his first time to London. I wanted him to see something unbelievable.’

Homeless drunks, soberly marvelling at the view of Spa Fields from the top of Michael Clifford House, Finsbury Estate. May 2000.

It was not unusual on passing the Lubetkins’ farm [during the World War II] to observe a Hippopotamus pulling a harrow, or a chimpanzee driving a tractor.

John Allan, Lubetkin

The building of barricades appears in Fourier as an example of ‘nonsalaried but impassioned work.

Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project

Cabinet-makers, marble masons, market porters, upholsterers, matchbox-makers and cat’s-meat sellers lived in the notorious 15 acres of Victorian slum that pre-existed the Boundary Street Estate in Shoreditch. [36] On the 9 May 1643, some 20,000 Londoners – men, women and children – were out digging trenches. Through May and June felt-makers, cappers, porters, shoe-makers and tailors (as well as members of many City guilds) continued forting for the Revolution. These are the people that make up the numerous anonymity of the crowd, and it is in the name of the crowd, in the name of an abstract collectivity or politicized body, that vigorous social change is engendered and ethical acts are possible. The Utopianism of the English Civil War resurfaces in the social housing of nineteenth-century industrialism, as well as mid-twentieth-century tower blocks, designed to provide better lives.

The English Civil War forced and concretized symbolic change on the country via the beheading of Charles I on a platform outside the Banqueting Hall in 1649. The Boundary Street Estate was the most ambitious example of social housing yet built after the Housing of the Working Classes Act 1890 (it included a laundry, for example). Indeed, it was so remarkable that a reform-minded Prince of Wales chose to open it and plans were laid for the construction of a platform for him during the opening ceremony. From this vantage position, the Prince was able to recognize the previous slums as a ‘disgrace to our civilisation’ [37] – an event that is reminiscent of Lord Curzon’s viewing platform by the walls of the Hindu Lingaraj Temple in Orissa, which enabled him to look inside the enclosed walls of a distant, other world. Three different platforms and three different places, but all conditioned by scaffolding, all literal versions of a symbolic relationship and so all stagings of a certain potent ambiguity. This is the defining motif of, and relationship to, so much of the city’s social housing – the fort-like enclosures that isolate and block out the world, forcing attention inwards rather than being porous, inclusive, and in rhythm with our millennial experience of life.

The high blocks around Arnold Circus appear to exemplify this kind of fortress-like enclosure, but once inside the estate, standing in its raised centrepiece gardens, this perception is inverted, and it becomes a haven into which the sun shines and from which you can look out. It is a reminder of the high hopes for the estate, designed so that ‘every habitable room in the area is provided with a 45-degree angle of light, horizontally and vertically. The buildings are so arranged that nearly every room commands a pleasant outlook’ [38] on to 60-foot-wide circulatory avenues. This replaced 209 streets, the widest being 28 feet, with an average density of two people per room and 107 rooms sheltering at least five. The shower of light brought down on these same people was certainly a visionary one.

The forting circuit has an uncanny number of significant estates along it, and they tell the story of housing for the London crowd, from Arnold Circus, Spa Green and Lillington Gardens to the Heygate, St George’s and the Triangle. Lubetkin’s Utopian commitment provided facilities and a degree of quality that rivalled private housing in the mid-century. Today, when most local authority housing comes cheap, flats in Spa Green are worth more than the average house price in London and it resembles a private estate.

Even the most compromised of Lubetkin’s projects were aimed at improving the quality of life – spaces, light, facilities, design itself, trees, gardens, openness of aspect, non-regimented space, non-enclosure and even the provision of astonishing views from Bevin Court’s unique stairwell, or the walkways of the Dorset Estate, where hugely expensive slabs of the city are on offer. These qualities are usually prohibitively expensive and the very idea of such standards applied to government housing today appears amazingly ambitious. Most social housing resembles the massive Heygate Estate near the Elephant and Castle Fort site, with its massive single block approach, regimented accommodation, high density/false economy and lack of communal facilities. Lillington Gardens Estate was also built in the 1970s, and although it achieves high density it remains resolutely low-rise, incorporating an old people’s home, library, pubs and a school. Lillington Gardens is also more ambiguous in that it has many of the features of a private housing estate, open green spaces, mixed usage and accommodation, and the feel and appearance of higher quality housing.

The Triangle Estate on Goswell Road, completed in 1970, exemplifies many of the worst features of social housing, being brutally fort-like in appearance and feel. It is designed around a barren inner triangle from which the walkways look down and which is typically empty. Separate blocks are joined by walkways which have blocked any views, making the place feel exceptionally oppressive and symbolizing the failings of much council housing. Since the estates were built with collective will, they ought to be part of the city that has built them, open, continuous with the city’s flows, most particularly in the twenty-first century with its technologies that mirror these attitudes. Governments have successively built enclosures like forts or prisons, containers for the poor, who are prevented from flooding out into the city – non-contaminating blocks of exclusion. The Triangle, which is adjacent to Mount Mills, inverts the principles for which the fort was built, a reversal of the notion of an empowered collectivity: the crowd. Here is the crowd’s burial site, its neglected cemetery.

From the vantage points of these estates the seventeenth-century topography of a city in revolt is recoverable. Each of these city beacons is now visible from one another, but their connective, communicative power is disabled, unutilized and unarticulated. It becomes our urgent task to re-thread these spaces, places and times, to articulate a new crowd consciousness, and it is for this that our revolutionary circuit is designed.

It allows us to do two things. Firstly, to recover a particular innocent ambitiousness about how we should live. We are reminded that all periods of significant change were preceded by conservative stases with their own ends of history and bloated pragmatism. Today, in newly globalized times, we are uniquely conscious of the grotesque and barbaric inequalities that characterize our planet, which force and guarantee radical change to come. There are opposing continuities or historico-cultural strands. The forting circuit and Lubetkin’s committed architecture are linked in their quest for something better – concrete embodiments of extravagant Utopian demands for answers to a question about how we should live.

Our muddy Utopia also allows us to invoke the other use of the term scaffolding – associated with rebuilding, dismantling and beginning. The scaffolding condition is one of permanently mobile change. Once recognized, the question becomes one of passivity versus activity. Are we the passive material upon which change is worked, or the active shapers of it? Since we can and must be the latter, then we must also articulate that necessity. So, instead of being globalized, we need to begin to think through how to embody a positive global body, one of civility infused with Utopian vigor, resistant and actively opposed to the merely economic logic of globalization.

The forting circuit is an example, a reference, an articulation; a small step. But it taps this kind of potency – these communicative possibilities and Utopian energies – by offering a new way of thinking about the city, the whole of the city, its embodied collectivity: a new way to construct an enclosure within which to speculate, theorize and dream. This is the impassioning work of dirty Utopianism.

Historical Note

The English Civil War began in 1642, when, following bitter disputes over ‘the liberties and privileges of parliament’, ‘innovations in matters of religion’ and grievances over property rights and taxation, Charles I abandoned London for safer Royalist enclaves in the north. Parliament, in alliance with the City (which, when neither King Charles nor Parliament had an army, possessed a proficient militia) had revolted against his autocratic rule. The king’s failure to retake the capital (having reached its outskirts and ‘sacked’ Brentford only to be repelled at Turnham Green) sealed the outcome of the war. Charles surrendered in 1646 and was returned to London by Oliver Cromwell’s parliamentary force, the New Model Army, in 1647. Against a backdrop of Royalist uprisings across the country, the unrepentant king was executed in London, before Banqueting House, in 1649. Cromwell became Lord Protector of the united Commonwealth of England, Scotland and Ireland in 1653, which marked the end of the period of radicalism in London; he died in 1658. London had lost its unity of purpose. The restoration of the monarchy, in the person of Charles II, occurred in 1660 and that settlement was guarded by constitutional reforms.


First published in AA Files 42 © The Author © Architectural Association. 2001.

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08.09. from makiya to bidoun, within without

Mohamed Makiya is a huge figure. There are partial accounts of him and his work in three books in English, two of them by his son and former colleague Kanan. Start with KM’s Post-Islamic Classicism, a Visual Essay published by Saqi, 2001. Then there is a curious and fascinating essay in Lawrence Weschler’s Calamities of Exile; Three Non-fiction Novellas, Chicago UP 1998. Lastly KM’s The Monument; Art and Vulgarity in Saddam Hussein’s Iraq, California UP 1991 is a vital read and provides a variant approach to his father. Two other books in Arabic, one on MM’s early years, the other devoted to Baghdad, are helpful -the latter a glimpse at Makiya’s legendary archives on Baghdad and the region.

I knew some of his work and its context before I began, notably his brilliant and significant reconfiguration of the Khulafa or Suq al-Ghazal Mosque in central Baghdad and the massive Kuwait State Mosque. Nothing quite prepared me for the complex man, extraordinarily rich work and life that emerged from our conversations. My piece appeared in August and doesn’t resolve this or make up for the absence of a full monograph but it does present a rather different portrait than anything else in print.

Makiya’s life is part of the unwritten 20th Century, his work a monument to it -as well as many previous ones. I hope our conversation in Bidoun might provoke an attempt to show and tell the story of his work and life in full.

Meanwhile I’m posting some scans, including of Bidoun’s Contents page because it has so much in it that I really think you should buy a copy and/or subscribe.

Deeply Baghdadi