Saturday, 17 September 2011

Manchester - After Sebald



I can no longer say exactly what thoughts the sight of Manchester prompted in me then, but I believe I felt I had found my destiny.

.. Manchester has taken possession of me for good. I cannot leave, I do not want to leave, I must not.

- Max Ferber, in W.G. Sebald, The Emigrants

Having grown up after the second world war in a Germany in which the Jews had disappeared and nobody wanted to talk about them, W.G. Sebald arrived in Manchester in 1966 to take up a post at the University. Here for the first time he realised that the holocaust had happened to "real people", and The Emigrants, published over a quarter century later, initially in German ( Die Ausgewanderten), long after his short stay had ended, was based in part on the story of his Mancunian landlord, a Jewish refugee.



The image of mid to late twentieth century Manchester conveyed by Sebald is unlikely to do much for tourism in the city! Anyone who knows only modern day Manchester would certainly be surprised to read that on Saturday evening .. there was no sign of life in the city centre.

On his first journey from the airport to the centre of Manchester Sebald, assuming he is the narrator, noticed the contrast between the not unhandsome suburbs of Gatley, Northenden and Didsbury and the inner city areas of Moss Side and Hulme, whole blocks where the doors and windows were boarded up and then the city centre itself, the hub of one of the nineteenth century's miracle cities .. now almost hollow to the core.

Returning from a visit to Max Ferber in Withington Hospital in 1990-1991, the narrator described a dreary walk back to the city centre, along nondescript streets, through the Hulme estates, regenerated in the 1960's but already decayed again, past derelict warehouses with broken windows, to the once celebrated Midland Hotel, on the brink of ruin, where he felt as if I were in a hotel somewhere in Poland. Clearly after a quarter of a century the decline had not been arrested.

That Max Ferber was happy to remain in such a place tells us about the horror of the Germany he had left, in which Sebald himself could never again settle, although he at least was to find purer air in East Anglia close to the North Sea which, as he reminds us in The Rings of Saturn (Die Ringe des Saturn:Eine englische Wallfahrt ), used to be known as the German Ocean. It is in East Anglia where The Emigrants begins, and it ends in Manchester, a reversal of Sebald's own journey, but a return to the place which had a profound influence on him, to a city which for generations had provided a home for many of his fellow countrymen.
Throughout the nineteenth century the German and Jewish influence was stronger in Manchester than in any other European city.. when I arrived in Manchester I had come home in a sense ..- Max Ferber

Palatine Road : Wittgenstein's Lodgings


It was in the autumn of 1943, at the age of eighteen, that Ferber, then a student of art, first went to Manchester. Within months, in early 1944, he was called up. The only point of note concerning that first brief stay in Manchester, says Ferber, was the fact that he had lodged at 104, Palatine Road, the selfsame house where Ludwig Wittgenstein, then a twenty-year-old engineering student, had lived in 1908. Doubtless any retrospective connection with Wittgenstein was purely illusory, but it meant no less to him on that account, said Ferber.

I have for some time been trying to figure out exactly which house Sebald photographed presumably to represent Wittgenstein's lodgings and those of his character, the German Jewish painter, Max Ferber. Despite Sebald's best efforts to disguise it, I am pretty certain that this is it.


It is of course not number 104, which appears not to exist.

Withington Hospital: From Workhouse to Luxury Dwellings

Sebald provides no grainy photograph to illustrate Withington Hospital, but the verbal picture of the one-time Victorian workhouse, where the homeless and unemployed had been subjected to a strict regime, does the job well enough. Ferber was in a men's ward with 20 people, where much muttering and groaning went on, and doubtless a good deal of dying.

A neighbour of mine tells me that during the war he and other final year medical students were sent to work in the hospital, because most of the qualified doctors were serving with the forces. He and his colleagues used bicycles to travel up and down its long corridors. In 1944, around the time when Rosa Sebald was giving birth to her son Winfried Georg Maximilian in southern Bavaria, all the patients were cleared out to make way for the large number of casualties anticipated from the Normandy invasion. In the event there were far fewer than expected, but among them some German prisoners of war.

Since Sebald's fictitious? 1990-1991 visit the old hospital has closed and a modern community hospital has been built a few hundred yards down the road; it employs no doctors and houses no in-patients, a bit like 1944.

The old buildings have found a new function as a luxurious housing development, parts of them are listed, but the Withington name has been jettisoned,


replaced by more fashionable locations dreamed up by estate agents, "Didsbury Gate" and "Didsbury Point" .



In 2009 during development a workman exploded a gas mains, and a section of the old hospital was destroyed.

Luckily its occupants were at work, but they returned to find a large gaping hole where their appartments had been when they left. The section of the building that was demolished has now been carefully restored so that it looks as if nothing untoward ever happened.

Closer to the city centre the derelict warehouses Sebald spotted on his walk into the city have, along with many new buildings been turned into accommodation for what has seemingly and somewhat improbably become Manchester's main industry, Higher Education.

Finally the Midland Hotel, where the Beatles were reputedly once turned away from the restaurant for being inappropriately dressed, has been refurbished under new ownership, and has the prized 5 stars. Other modern luxurious hotels have also been built in the city centre, and quite a few Poles and other Central and Eastern Europeans doubtless work in them.

How well post industrial Manchester will survive the current global crisis remains to be seen. For Max Ferber and presumably for Sebald its decline was irreversible.


Friday, 29 July 2011

On Fire in Perth: Iris Dement July 23rd 2011

Most of the music you hear on the radio today is developed for making money. It doesn't feel true or honest. You can feel it in the music. - Iris DeMent
An idle google search two or three weeks ago was the first I had heard that Iris Dement was making one of her rare trips to Europe, on this occasion to Perth in Scotland. I had never had the chance to see her on stage before, and despite the long distance I knew I had to go

Normally when I tell people I like Iris Dement they say "Iris who?", so I was very surprised that my neighbours had not only heard of her, but were keen to accompany me.

So, early in the morning, the awful events in Norway from where I had returned a few days before still playing on my mind, the three of us set off on the 260 mile journey across the beautiful countryside in northern England and the Scottish borders to arrive in time for the afternoon concert.

We were not disappointed. After what seemed a rather diffident start, almost hiding behind the piano on what she pointed out was a sloping stage, Iris seemed to gain confidence and composure, took up her guitar, came to the front of the stage and sang as only she can, her songs interspersed with amusing comments about her family and her life. The audience loved her and was reluctant to let her leave.

It lifted me in a way I had not expected, and I wondered how my wife, unavoidably absent in Norway, who finds Iris "too depressing", would have felt had she been there, as she loyally informed me she would have been had she been at home!

The concert included Iris's emblematic, "Our Town" and the first song I had heard her sing on the radio a long time ago, "Let The Mystery Be", here shown in a recording made some years ago:

Apparently Iris originally thought that this was, by her standards at least, a happy song, until a number of people told her that they would like to have it played at their funeral.

I appreciate that Iris Dement is an acquired taste, and I have tried to analyse why I respond to her in the way I do. Firstly I note the influence she ascribes to Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan, two of the all time greats that are among my favourites. I also understand and very much relate to the deep and enduring influence of her now rejected evangelical Christian childood, which has been a part of my own life's experience.

But the words that immediately spring to mind are vulnerability, intensity and honesty. I imagine that she is not one of those people who have to be the centre of attention. When she sings she bares a little of herself, but remains a very private person. She is not I think a natural performer, and to my mind all the better for that. I realise now that when she refused to go on stage in March 2003 she was not primarily making a political point about the Iraq war, she was simply so upset that she felt unable to perform. Splitting hairs perhaps, but a truly political performer would have taken to the stage and used the occasion to her advantage.

Maybe I spent more time dwelling on emotions than some people, and maybe that's why I ended up writing. - Iris Dement

This selection of quotations attributed to her somehow confirmed the impression I had formed from listening to her music. I hope she soon returns to the United Kingdom or, "Haste ye back" as the Scots might say.

Postscript

Iris Dement obviously sent me to bed happy. Soundly asleep in my hotel, I was awakened at 1.00 a.m. by voices outside my room and a knock on the door. I soon realised that my pyjamas were wet, and further inspection revealed a large very wet patch on the unused side of the double bed and water dripping down from the ceiling in a number of places. Apparently there had been a fire in the room above, the alarm had gone off at 12.20, the firemen had put the fire out, and I had slept through it all! I wonder how I would have reacted had I been sleeping on the other side of the bed! A memorable first visit to the fine city of Perth in every way.

Sunday, 24 July 2011

Norway: Oslo and Utoeya (Utøya) Island, July 22nd 2011



The Scream (1893)

Edvard Munch, Norwegian Symbolist Painter (1863 – 1944)

Sometimes words seem inadequate





Monday, 11 July 2011

"I call my cancer Rupert"



"The Dirty Digger"
Rupert Murdoch (Media Mogul, born Australia 1931)


As a writer you will know that one of the favourite fantasy plots is where a character's told you've got three months to live, and who would you kill? I call my cancer Rupert. Because that man Murdoch is the one who, if I had the time (I've got too much writing to do)... I would shoot the bugger if I could. - Dennis Potter, 1994

As the events surrounding the hacking scandal at the News of the World, News International and Rupert Murdoch have unfolded in the past week, I have thought often about that last painful interview that playwright Dennis Potter gave to Melvyn Bragg shortly before his death in 1994.

In it Potter spoke passionately about Murdoch's responsibility for the pollution of the British press and political life.



Just exactly what Potter was warning us of has now become clear, perhaps even to our politicians who have cravenly allowed an American citizen who pays no UK taxes to become the most powerful person in the land.

Throughout the Blair years there were regular, usually secret meetings between Prime Minister and Media Mogul.

In 2003, when Tony Blair was agonising over the decision to take the UK into a war in Iraq, without a UN reolution, and against the wishes of the majority of the UK population, he spoke on the phone to Murdoch three times in the ten days before the invasion. Murdoch's news organisation, and particularly Fox News in the US, was of course the major cheerleader for the Iraq invasion.

If anything the Murdoch Cameron relationship has been even closer, based on social relationships, particularly with Rebekah Brooks, former Editor of the News of the World, and the appointment of her predecessor, the now disgraced Andy Coulson, as Cameron's communications director. Their efforts were crowned by the announcement in 2009 that after 12 years of supporting Labour, the Sun was switching allegiance.

In 2010 when David Cameron was elected Prime MInister lo and behold one of his first visitors at No 10 Downing Street was Rupert Murdoch, admitted through the back door, away from the public gaze. What did they talk about one wonders?

For a long time one doubted if it would ever be possible to elect a Prime Minister who did not meet Mr Murdoch's approval. The events of the past week now give some hope that his power at last is on the wane.

Congratulations to the Guardian who over the years has made most of the running on this story. C.P. Scott would I think be proud of it. The photo and caption at the top comes from the Financial Times.

Thursday, 16 June 2011

Sri Lanka's Killing Fields




A young Tamil woman appealing to the UN not to leave as the Sri Lankan army approaches.


In the last twenty four hours I have watched Channel 4's disturbing documentary Sri Lanka's Killing Fields, on the bloody ending of the civil war in which tens of thousands of civilians were killed, and hospitals were apparently deliberately targeted by the Sri Lankan army. It has made me realise how trivial are most of the things about which I normally write blogs.

I have visited Sri Lanka many times on business and as a tourist, and witnessed the suffering of many of its people in the aftermath of the Tsunami, but this is on a scale beyond my imagining. Civil Wars are always bloody affairs, but one might have hoped that the Buddhist majority in Sri Lanka would behave rather differently to those whose religions have a more bellicose tradition.

My wife has for some time indicated that she would like to make another perhaps final visit to this beautiful, sad country, but this film has confirmed my extreme reluctance to do so. It simply does not seem to me to be an appropriate place to take a holiday.

For the sake of Sri Lanka's reputation these war crimes need proper investigation, and those responsible brought to justice.





Sunday, 12 June 2011

Lord High Admiral


A neighbour, only slightly younger than the Duke of Edinburgh, and a firm supporter of the monarchy on the rational basis that the alternatives look worse, was very surprised when I told him of the Duke's appointment as Lord High Admiral. We both agreed that to make a 90 year old the head of a once great navy in which there are presently more Admirals than ships smacks of "Ruritania", and seems particularly inappropriate at a time when the monarchy is trying to create a more modern image, with a Royal Prince and presumably future King, marrying a commoner and working as a helicopter pilot.

I think I would struggle to explain the appointment to my grandsons.

Some lines from Gilbert & Sullivan spring to mind:

.. now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navy

Now, landsmen all, whoever you may be
If you want to rise to the top of the tree
If your soul isn't fettered to an office stool
Be careful to be guided by this golden rule
Be careful to be guided by this golden rule
Stick close to your desks and never go to sea
And you all may be Rulers of the Queen's Navy
Stick close to your desks and never go to sea
And you all may be Rulers of the Queen's Navy