a chance poetic encounter.

 Today I made a trip into town to place copies of my book inside those venues I once frequented, and wherein some of the inspiration came from. The trip resulted in an encounter which left a lasting impression.

I don’t give money to the homeless, but I always buy them a sandwich & drink lunch if I see them outside the store I get my groceries from. The guy I came across today was situated nowhere near a food store. So, in high spirits, I asked him if he read poetry, and gave him a copy of my book.

It transpired that not only does he read poetry, he writes it as well, and commenced to recite two for me. They were incredible! So there were, exchanging poems on the pavement. Good times.

I encouraged him to self-publish. But I don’t know how the homeless could access that facility.

All text copyright ian gordon craig.

 

Hari Krishna.

 Strolling around town today, with no particular intention. A young Hari Krishna guy asked me for a donation. I have no cash on me, not that I would have donated anyway, but offered a verse of the song instead. So, there I was, middle of a busy central city side-walk, singing a verse of “Hari Krishna, Hari Hari”. (You know the tune). His face lit up.

 All text copyright ian gordon craig.

R. I. P. Shelley

 Just heard the sad news via Facebook. Quite a shock, even after all these years. One always assumes the people one was close to in the past, and had meaningful relationships with, are still out there somewhere, happy and healthy. Sometimes it's not so. She passed away September 2020. I don't know the cause, but the date corresponds to the covid epidemic. I hope there was no pain.

Shelley Burton was an important person to me during the 1980’s, even though we were never destined to be together for life. During the two and a half years in which we were happily “an item”, she was both muse and motivator. The reason I exhibited quite well in the Nottingham Opens during the 1980’s, and indeed almost made it on to the wall in a Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, was down to her.

 All text, pros, poetry & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

Of Cats and Trees

 Of Cats and Trees.

 Before the days of social media, stories would occasionally turn up in the main news about a fire brigade having to rescue a cat from a tree. Surely just an urban legend, a “feel good” item bringing the broadcast to an end. As far as cats are concerned, trees are about as desirable as the nearest river bed. But put aside the thought someone might be stupid enough to call the emergency services for a cat, and consider how it got there.

Maybe the cat gets itself tempted into that tree. He hears those birds high above him, catches a glimpse of them fluttering amidst the leaves and, before he knows it, he’s up there. The birds of course don’t altogether flee from the tree. Why should they? It’s their tree. Instead they skip and settle to where the branches can’t support the cat’s weight. It’s a tease.

So now the cat can’t go any further up, but neither can he come back down. He’s confused, that’s all. Those shapes and sounds so appealing in their clarity from the ground, are now all mixed up inside his head with the rustling movement of leaves and the sunlight flickering between. To make matters worse, just as he’s trying to get a grip on his situation, someone below starts banging a spoon against the edge of a plate of processed horse meat, whilst a guy in uniform with a ladder creeps ever closer, addressing him as Pussy.

No way is that cat coming down now. Couldn’t if he tried. What started out as a frisky morning prowl around the neighbourhood has turned into a ball of confusion. In that moment, if you could speak Cat, you’d know his cries are not for “Help” but for everyone to just “Back off”. Sure, it’s risky up there in such a mesmeric situation, but it’s maybe more exciting than the realities of paws on terra firma. He has my sympathy.

Text copyright ian g craig

My Poetic Performance. (My first poetry reading).

My Poetic Performance.

 
“They look like a comfy pair of shoes”.
“Yes, and so clean”.
“And shiny”.
“I bet they’re new”.
“Do you know you can buy a pair just like those down the market for about ten pounds? It’s the brand you pay for you know”.

I am seated in a cave two or three floors below street level, in one of Nottingham’s most noted pubs for the performing arts, and I haven’t yet spoken one word. The cave itself, carved out of the sandstone, is a characteristic underground feature of many buildings in the city centre. Above me is the one-time Victorian Music Hall the Malt Cross, a venue I’ve variously sketched, dated, and drunk in, often watching local musicians perform. Somewhere in this pub’s files they have, at their request, copies of sketches I’ve made of the interior. But I’ve never performed here. I can’t remember the precise date I was last on a public stage anywhere, but I have done it, even going so far as to sing my own songs. Tonight, that’s about to change. A couple of weeks ago I saw a poster announcing the venue’s Spoken Word Open Mic Night and thought, “Why not?” So, I’m here to both test my mettle and the worth of the words I write.

I have always enjoyed writing, and taken it seriously. I have had some bits and pieces published in magazines. But I’ve never yet really put my words to the test. Painting is very different. I send the paintings out beyond my walls to be judged by others within their walls. In return I get a slip of paper which reads either “rejected” or “accepted”. No further explanation than that. Tonight, I am presenting my words to strangers for the first time, face to face. I put my name down at the door, number 14 on the list of tonight’s performers. If my words prove to be no good at least my shoes have been a big hit.

When I was a student in Liverpool, poets like Adrian Henri and Roger McGough were not yet widely known across the U.K. The Merseybeat groups of the sixties had all followed the Beatles south, to be replaced in the seventies by the Mersey Scene, predominantly one of poetry and improvised music. So, it was not uncommon to both sit alongside and experience such talent in the local pubs. I cannot pretend I was ever a member of that in-crowd, but it was an inspiring atmosphere for a young student to witness. Tonight reminds me a little of those days. The sandstone benches along these underground walls are rock hard, but the people are supportive, in good spirits, and raring to get started. Importantly, they are all listening attentively to each other’s works.

I’ve spent much of the day rehearsing out loud in my studio. I think, of the dozen or so acts which precede me, I must be on a par with a fair percentage of them. One notable exception being number 13, a youthful, passionate performance in rapid contemporary rhyme and without notes. Not an act I would have chosen to follow. Nevertheless, one pint into the evening, number 14 “Ian” is called to the front…

I am expected to read two poems. I'm happy to say both go down really well. The audience laugh with me at my brief introduction to “The Gift”, which relates how my years as a teacher was rewarded with a simple book token, before they then became totally involved with the poem’s pathos, catching them off guard.

 Similarly, the “four and twenty seagulls” and “balding braided doorman” of “Skeggie Day” elicit giggles of appreciation, before the poem’s sombre conclusion makes its mark. I like using this well-established literary device, mixing opposing emotions in the same piece. (“It’s getting better all the time. – It can’t get no worse”). I shall be using it again. Perhaps in this venue.

This night gave me the confidence to consider self-publishing a collection of my poems.

 All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

Artist Lady Manvers, my dad, and Coquette.

Those familiar with my Thoresby Park blog, or the piece I wrote for Nottingham University Art History Department, (see THIS LINK), will be aware of my respect and admiration for artist Lady Manvers. I accept that my opinions are in part due to sentiment, having spent my early life on Thoresby Estate, but I do like to think my years of teaching and lecturing in Art, give my opinion about her canvases some credence.

I refer in particular to those which depict the interiors and grounds of Thoresby Hall. Her outdoor studies are excellent in their own right, mostly water colour sketches documenting the seasons as they pass through the estate, its employees in peace time, and the military presence of the war years. But it is the interior canvases which she was able to leave undisturbed on her easel at various locations within the hall, returning to them at will over a period of days, which exhibit her true skills and understanding of the colourful palette she acquired in France. That said, I should set my story here within a little biographical context.

In 1947 my father, William Craig, had recovered from the head wound received in the Battle of Arnhem, and the tuberculosis he subsequently contracted in P.o.W. Camp Stalag 9c. Having then begun his married life in nearby Edwinstowe, his skill as a carpenter and joiner soon found him gainfully employed by Thoresby Estate.

 
The Woodyard was essentially the place which processed the timber from the forestry department, turning out everything from telegraph poles and fence posts, to items needed by the pre-PVC building trade. Thoresby workers were also responsible for the maintenance of the estate, and in this respect my father was frequently involved in repairs to Thoresby Hall and its contents. My father's team hung the  blue wallpaper in the Blue Drawing Room, and items of antique furniture would often find themselves transported to our kitchen whilst he tended to their upholstery. Such work of course had to meet Lady Manvers’ standards and, although a lady of sweet disposition, she could be rather fastidious in her demands. For example, all the firewood for her bedroom, sitting room, and dining room, had to be billet wood, 9” (23cm) long and 3” (8cm) diameter, and totally free from knots. Nothing short of these specifications would do. Happily, dad’s skills and general work ethic soon won the Ladyship’s approval. During their encounters she would always enquire about his family’s welfare, and in 1962 she would even ask him to pose for one of her water colours. (THIS LINK).

Sometime in the late 1950s dad came home from Thoresby Hall with a broken figurine in his pocket. Smashed might be a more appropriate description. (I count ten pieces). Quite possibly it was a favourite ornament with Lady Manvers and so, rather than relegate it straight to the bin, dad was asked if it could be fixed. Not surprisingly the outcome was rather unsatisfactory. One elbow was missing, and lines of Evostik adhesive were unavoidably visible. As a consequence, the “Coquette” figurine remained on our family sideboard, often commented on through the decades, though its origins all but forgotten. Until now.

In March 2016, Thoresby Courtyard Gallery exhibited a selection of Lady Manvers’ still-life paintings, the majority of which had quite possibly not been seen anywhere since Thoresby Hall closed to the public in 1979. (THIS LINK). So you can imagine my surprise and delight upon seeing the painting above. It is probably an unfinished piece, or perhaps abandoned; the leaves are somewhat heavy handed and the background left rather unresolved. But there in the corner sits “Coquette”. The very same one.

Last thoughts on Lady Manvers.

In 1963 the estate’s management of the time decided our family of seven should move out of Three Gables and back to a much smaller house on Perlethorpe Village Green. One afternoon before that move took place, the news of which had only just reached Lady Manvers, her chauffeur driven limousine pulled up outside. She expressed much concern at what had happened, and even offered us the flats in Thoresby Courtyard as accommodation. It was a sincere gesture, and typical of her character. But it was time to move on.

I was born into Thoresby Estate, and left there as a teenager. Everyone I’ve spoken to who once lived there says the same thing: When they left, they left a little piece of them behind. It’s true. Just like Coquette’s little elbow, as she now resides on my shelf.

 Top painting copyright Thoresby Estate. Text copyright Ian G Craig.

 

David Bowie and my Unisex lilac velvet jacket, R.I.P.

 

The date is 10th June, 1973. I am an art student. I have long since owned a worn-out ex-juke box copy of “Space Oddity”, and the hit single “Starman” saw me purchase the Ziggy Stardust album. We all like “Walk on the Wildside”, but neither myself nor anyone I know of in this city, or my hometown, is listening to the Velvet Underground, let alone aware of what an Iggy Pop might be. I know a little about German Expressionist cinema, but never even heard of Japanese Kabuki, Bertol Brecht, or William Burroughs’s cut-ups. Within 24 hours all this and more will change. Forever.

Our curiosity peeked by a couple of hit singles, and the stories in the media, my flat mates and I are deciding what to wear for tonight’s David Bowie gig at the Liverpool Empire. Tickets were quite easy to obtain. “I’m going to wear all brown”, I joked with a camp wave of the hand. “I don’t want to appear to be competing with David!” And brown it was, although my platform boots were already about two building bricks high by that stage, and my lapels were wider than my shoulders. We assumed that the night’s concert would be more of an entertaining spectacle for the teens, rather than second year art college students like us. How wrong we were.

As we approach the theatre, we are swept aside by a youthful crowd emerging from Lime Street railway station, their eyelids painted like rainbows, silver tinsel circles glued to their cheeks. Stopping for no-one they charge through the theatre doors with scant regard for ticket collectors, rush to the front of the stage, and go into their chant: “David! David!” I am twenty-two years old, and the only teen adoration I’ve witnessed prior to this is my younger sister crying over The Osmonds. I clearly have no idea what is about to happen.

Let’s be honest, detailed accounts of most concerts one has seen fade from the mind over time. They become a tick-box list of those bands one has seen and those still on the bucket list. But I can still replay that night’s performance in my mind: The swirling Japanese cape as the curtains opened on Jean Genie (complete with Love Me Do harmonica riff); the single spotlight on a solitary mirror ball which turned the theatre into a Space Oddity galaxy; Bowie shouting at the audience for screaming and not listening; the slick on-stage costume changes; the occasional instrumental-break mime; and hearing Lou Reed’s song “Waiting for the Man” for the very first time. Most of all the moment Bowie went “down” on Mick Ronson, seemingly biting at his guitarist’s strings, Ronson’s thigh mere inches away. I can tell you that three very straight art students emerged from the theatre that night wanting to be Mick Ronson.

After witnessing this Aladdin Sane stage show a lot of things I’d previously encountered became joined-up in my mind: “The Cabinet of Dr Caligari”, “Metropolis”, Scott Walker’s take on Jacques Brel, “Clockwork Orange”, Andy Warhol, “1984”, and more. The undoubted genius of The Beatles had tapped into largely British roots, marrying American pop with Music Hall, Irish limericks, the surreal humour of the Goon Show, the fantasy of Lewis Carrol. That well had been bled dry three years previous. Bowie was embarking on a whole new direction, merging European and Eastern art forms with the sound of Jeff Beck’s Yardbirds and the glitzy attitude of Andy Warhol’s factory. Put simply, it was the second coming of Elvis. Everything began anew, and he’d only just begun.

 Everybody uses that tired old cliché about “it changed my life”. But in some small measure, for me, that night did. Being a stranger myself in a strange land at that time became an easier mind-set to accept. It still is, when “everybody’s going out and having fun”, and I want to stay home and paint. In fact, so empowered did this fresh out of the countryside young man begin to feel, that a lilac velvet jacket and mullet hairdo seemed to be in order. Of course nobody told me the jacket, which buttoned to the left, was obviously intended for a girl. Never mind. I couldn’t get into it these days anyway. But I am still listening to David Bowie. I never stopped.

Above: Posing for a fellow student c. 1973.

 All text, pros, & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.