writing, not drowning

"What a piece of work . . ."

I'm not referring to my poor neglected blog, of course. The muse has been on an extended vacation and other things have been happening, as things are wont to do, but I just took some deep breaths and trusted that all would be well, writing-wise, in due course.

I always think of January and February as my fallow time; nothing much is done, apart from the essential. The lack of light, the lack of sun, the wet and the cold all contribute to the slow smothering of creativity and then . . . and then just when I think I will be trapped in the cold, wet, grey creative fog for ever, somewhere and somehow a small trigger is pulled  (sometimes several small triggers).

Which is precisely what has happened in the past few days; e-mails from a patient reader, wondering where I had gone, and from a new reader, who had stumbled upon a recent post containing a U A Fanthorpe poem. Well, thank you for the nudges, dear readers; they were just what I needed.

And the next nudge came on Sunday. Friends were visiting and after we had walked all the dogs (theirs and mine) we tucked in to a proper winter fireside tea. The conversation turned to two television programmes from the previous evening: Sinatra Sings, which I had seen but they had not, and Lucian Freud: Painted Life, which they had seen but I had not. My love for Sinatra's music was pretty much on a par with one of the friend's love of Lucian Freud's work.' If money were absolutely no object, she said, 'he is the first artist whose work I'd buy.'

I caught up with the Freud programme that night and was struck by parallels in the lives of these two men who, on the surface, could not have come from more different backgrounds. Unless one starts with the family history of exile from another place . . .

Sinatra SIngs includes rare footage of The Voice in a recording studio. Sinatra had an intense dislike of being filmed when he was recording and yet this footage conveys so much of what made SInatra a master of his art. The concentration, the intensity, absolutely in the moment . . . and then, when the recording is finished, he slips seamlessly back into wisecracking mode. And then his face as the recording is played back . . . no words needed.

A Painted Life also included not simply rare but unique footage - Lucian Freud at work in his studio. And in his studio on the very last day that he painted. Contributor after contributor, colleagues, former partners, daughters, models all spoke of 'Lucian's intensity'.  That word again.

And all the other parallels: the women, a life lived on their own terms, the hordes of people wanting to press the flesh, the absolute dedication to their art. Awkward, difficult, challenging, brilliant men - with devoted daughters, who spoke of their fathers with love. Tina Sinatra fondly remembering her father sitting by the pool, listening to a ball game on the radio; one of Freud's daughters (Esther I think) is moved to tears as she remembers running her hands through his hair for the first time, when her father was already an old man.

I found both programmes fascinating and, yes, moving, although I appreciate that, in SInatra's case, the myths, the stories, the scandals all have a habit of getting in the way of the music. And there are those who find Freud's work offensive, not least the paintings of his daughters.

It will always be a conundrum. Do we allow the artist's (whatever the art form) behaviour to inform our reaction to their art? I remember once reading a very hissy-fitty comment about a well-known and highly regarded writer who, it transpired, had slept with people to whom they were not married at the time. If the words 'Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells' had appeared at the end of the comment, I would not have been surprised.

As to the conundrum, I rather think that Gay Talese got to the heart of things - as least as far as Sinatra was concerned - in this groundbreaking article, which originally appeared in Esquire in 1966.

I happened to mention Sinatra's vocal accomplishments to an acquaintance yesterday evening. She pulled a face, saying that she found it surprising that someone who so often hit a wrong note, managed to make his voice sound rather good. Wrong notes? How come I had never noticed?  'Not my sort of music. At all. But I do hope I haven't spoilt it for you,' she added. (Er, no; I think it would take more than that.)

Experience should have taught me that now was not the time to mention . . . Lucian Freud. The acquaintance made another face and mentioned the thing about the daughters. The conversation trailed uncomfortably away.

Ah well.

You, lovely readers, will have your own view about these things. Sinatra Sings has already been shown in the US; meanwhile, UK readers can still catch it here until 25 February. (And UK readers can also watch Lucian Freud: Painted Life here until the same date.)

Since watching both these programmes, I do find myself wondering what sort of world it would be if the only art that was produced, the only songs that were sung, the only books that were written, the only music composed, had emanated from people who led pure, blameless and spotless lives. (If I knew anyone who had led a pure, blameless and spotless life, I might be able to tell you.)

Meanwhile, I'll just leave you with Frank. In the studio. Doing what he did best. And, as far as I can tell, not hitting a wrong note.

"Calm, calm . . ."

Lots of yoga breathing over here today . . . because today brings the joy of 'the results appointment', in other words the full diagnosis. By mid-afternoon, I will have learned the exact nature of the malignancy Massive Inconvenience that had the audacity to take up temporary residence in the temple that is my body. (Ahem.)

I'm hovering between displacement activities, meditation and what-not and all I can think of is Robert Lindsay in the 1991 television drama serial, GBH - an incisive piece of writing from Alan Bleasdale. Lindsay's portrayal of Michael Murray, an ambitious and ruthless local politician, with more than a hint of Derek Hatton about him, was a tour de force. Those of you who remember the serial may recall that, at times of intense stress, Lindsay/Murray would mutter, often through a rictus smile, the words: "Calm, calm . . ." Or was it the teacher, Jim Nelson (played by Michael Palin) who steadied himself in this way? See, this is what happens post-dollop of anaesthetics - brain fog. 

So, as the Dear Daughter whisks me along the leafy lanes the afternoon en route to Musgrove Park, I will be attempting to achieve a zen-like state, using whatever means I can, even memories of television production from two decades ago.

While I'm on the subject of television, I just want to mention Downton Abbey, ITV1's current Sunday night blockbuster, period drama serial. It arrived on our screens last weekend, with a cast of Britain's finest thesps and no apparent expense spared, it would seem, on its promotional budget.

The Dear Daughter and I watched and waited for it to get better. But it didn't and we had to do a lot of hanging around and tea-making during the seemingly interminable adverts. The characters were all straight out of country house / period drama central casting. And it had one of those patronising, written-for-numpties scripts; you know the kind, where almost every single cultural, social and historical reference is explained by one of the characters because we, the audience, are obviously too ignorant to know what they mean or too dim to work them out for ourselves. Honestly, I'd rather watch reruns of Upstairs, Downstairs on daytime telly (which is allowed when one is in the recovery position). 

Needless to say, Alan Bleasdale was not responsible for the script. As if. But he did write Boys from the Blackstuff, probably the finest drama broadcast by the BBC in the 1980s. After wasting 90 minutes on Downton Abbey, I discovered that we could have been watching the first episode of Boys from the Blackstuff, which BBC4 is screening again on Sunday evenings. It's not available on iPlayer, sadly, so no chance of catching up but no matter; come next Sunday, I know what I'll be watching. Yosser rules, OK?

Out of the mouths . . .

My Salad Days Friend was here yesterday, with her husband, the Good Doctor, and their younger grandson (Grandson Minor), plus elderly dog. It was just the sort of day I need right now. Good food, good talk, music, dogs, much laughter.

We had lunch round the old mahogany dining table, souvenir of the Portobello years, and it struck me how much four-year-old Grandson Minor resembled his mother, who had been almost his age when I first met her and my Salad Days Friend in the mid-1970s. Silky fair hair, shy smile, dimples, thoughtful but with a sunny nature, and very artistic (the last of which is inevitable, given his particular gene pool). A latter-day Christopher Robin; he could have walked straight out of the pages of Winnie the Pooh. I probably don't need to mention that I'm referring to E H Shepard's original illustrations of A A Milne's classic, not the Disney cartoon version. Thought not.  

After we'd given the dogs their afternoon walk and re-enacted the Gunfight at the OK Corral in a neighbour's field, we came home for tea and flapjacks and more talk.

Grandson Minor suddenly looked a bit pensive and then said, rather quietly and a propos of nothing in particular, "I'm famous, you know."

"Are you now?" I replied.

"Yes, I'm named after a famous Greek philosopher." 

I told him that he was the youngest person I had ever heard use the word 'philosopher'. He seemed rather pleased and then his grandma explained that everyone is, well, famous in their own way.

He had a bit of a think about that and then it was back to Tombstone and Wyatt and Doc and the corral, which was now located somewhere behind the sofa, until it was time for him to head home, with his family, across the Black(down) Hills - of Devon and Somerset, that is. Not Dakota, sadly, or of anywhere in the Wild West. But I expect that there were songs en route; there usually are if my Salad Days Friend is driving. 

I needed some songs too, to avoid post-visit tristesse, so switched on BBC2. No apologies for mentioning it again: the Rodgers and Hammerstein concert at this year's BBC Proms was just glorious. The televised version had jettisoned a couple of the best numbers but no matter. It was absolutely impossible to be downhearted while listening to John Wilson's superb orchestra, the Maida Vale Singers and the soloists, especially Julian Ovenden, in this encore, which brought down the house at the Royal Albert Hall and here. 

There's not much of the concert on YouTube at the moment but if and when there is, we'll go back. And that's a promise.

"A pair of star-crossed lovers"

 

 
There has been little time to write anything, let alone produce a half-way reasonable post over the past week. Just the odd Tweet . . .  

While this is not an excuse (2009 was supposed to be the Year of Dance on 60 Going On 16, after all), last week was something of a ballet-fest on the box for dance lovers, starting with BBC4's Margot, based on part of Meredith Daneman's superb biography. If you're still wondering, all these years later about the nature of the relationship between Fonteyn and Nureyev, this might fill in the gaps. On balance, I'd go with the biography - for the life in full and to put this brief period in Fonteyn's life and career into context.

BBC4 also screened the 1963 film of Marguerite and Armand, choreographed for Fonteyn and Nureyev by Sir Frederick Ashton. On Friday the same channel had a rerun of its 2007 programme, Nureyev: from Russia with Love, about the dancer's early years in the then Soviet Union, as well as  Kenneth McMillan's Romeo and Juliet, filmed not entirely successfully in 1966 by Paul Czinner. Ballet and film have an uneasy relationship . . . 

But, imperfect as the film was and remains, it still captured something of the essence of the Fonteyn-Nureyev partnership and the magic that they created when they danced together. Anyone who was fortunate enough to see them on stage, knew that they were watching something truly remarkable and that they would probably never see anything quite like it again. Nureyev was, well, Nureyev, and Fonteyn, while lacking the athleticism that is now the norm for so many ballet dancers, had a lyricism and musicality to her dancing that was unsurpassed. 

It wasn't simply their dancing that marked them out. As theatre director Peter Brook observed, they were: "Extraordinary actors who lend depth to every movement, which suddenly makes the most artificial of all forms become natural and human."

So ignore the poor quality, the frustrating camera angles and the judders and jumps: here's the balcony scene. It's the moment when he clutches at the hem of her dress that always gets me.

"Today I'll be mostly . . ."

A typical Saturday at 60 Going On 16 Mansions

For readers who are puzzled by the title of this post, it's attributable to Jesse, a rustic charmer, played by Mark Williams, in one of the very best sketch shows of the 1990s, The Fast Show.

Jesse made fleeting appearances in the show and was a man of few words. I would have posted a clip but the Jesse sketches are so brief that they don't really work well out of context.

(I first saw Mark Williams on stage in 1990 at the Barbican, in an RSC production of As You Like It; he was a brilliant Touchstone. You may have seen him more recently playing Mr Weasley, Ron's dad in the Harry Potter films.)

Simon Day's Fast Show Competitive Dad character was, however, much more loquacious. We've all come across the type . . . I just hope that, unlike Arabella Weir, Competitive Dad's long suffering wife, you're not married to someone like him. (And, yes, that is a very young - just 14 years old - and far less troubled Amy Winehouse on stage.)