Portrait of Rasha Abbas courtesy of the subject
Bruno Barbey, Tangiers, 1985. Source: magnumphotos.com
Al-Ma’ari’s Saqt Al-Zand (or “The Tinder Spark”, Syria, AD 1300. Source: sothebys.com
I am often susceptible to feelings of belatedness. “Is literary greatness still possible?” Susan Sontag asked around the turn of the millennium, and twenty years on, I’m not sure we have had an answer. Is it finally, as Cyril Connolly put it, “closing time in the gardens of the West”? I have always preferred the gardens of the East, but they may not be faring any better.
I am fully aware that this sentiment has been known to reactionaries for thousands of years, and quite often they’ve been wildly wrong. With me it is not by any means a political stance, and probably just a hyperbolic way of appreciating works of art and literature from a time before my own. The feeling is usually prompted by an encounter with a marvellous line composed in some distant time by an ancient poet or sage.
Alfred Wallis, St. Ives, 1928. Source: tate.org.uk
[Architecture]
To build something together one last time
there are so many questions,
like who would live there,
and if no one, why build it?
In our panic we make a house
that looks like a boat,
which reminds me of dreaming
both of us were angels, sleeping at sea.
When we lay the boat down
in the cemetery of love,
we squat over one of its three windows,
and wave to ourselves through the glass.
A young Roberto Bolaño from the late writer’s family albums. Source: lavanguardia.com
Jonas Bendiksen, Uzbekistan, 2002. Source: magnumphotos.com
Vittore Belliniano, Portrait of Two Young Men, 1515. Source: artsandculture.google
Gina Phillips, “Sentimental Tooth: Cornstalk”, 2011. Source: ginaphillips.org
Julian Schnabel, “Tina in a Matador Hat”, 1987. Source: julianschnabel.com
When my father’s body gave in at the age of 67, there was no cause of death as such. His health was undoubtedly poorly, he was addicted to a range of pharmaceuticals — but none of the vital organs had stopped functioning. Strangely, my mother and I saw it coming: there were tears on the day, long before we could have known it was happening. And when it did happen, the relief of no longer having to care for a prostrate depressive seemed to justify it. In the next few months there was oblivion. I had felt alienated from his dead body, I saw it wrapped in white cloth, in public, and I thought I was over the fact.
Detail from Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “The Triumph of Death”, 1562
Detail from Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “The Triumph of Death”, 1562
Photo of Maged Zaher courtesy of the subject
Detail from Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “The Triumph of Death”, 1562
Detail from Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “The Triumph of Death”, 1562
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I’m thinking a lot about whether Covid 19 is a curse or a gift. Perhaps it carries the possibility of both depending on how we choose to look at it, like one of these strange Freudian drawings.
I’m also thinking a lot about the idea of ‘Post-Truth’ – In a time of chronic post-truth how can we trust what the media and politicians and even international organisations are telling us about the virus? Are they weaponising it for their own ends? Do they have our best interests at heart? They never did before, so why would they now?
Detail from Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “The Triumph of Death”, 1562
Detail from Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “The Triumph of Death”, 1562
Detail from Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “The Triumph of Death”, 1562
Detail from Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “The Triumph of Death”, 1562
Detail from Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “The Triumph of Death”, 1562
