Free for those that can afford it

 

   "In point of fact, Bacon loved the extremes of waking in the grim discomfort of his living quarters and working in the studio's cramped chaos before appearing for dinner, impeccably groomed, in the hushed opulence of a grand hotel. What fascinated him, he often remarked, was the 'distance' between the two; staying long in either state would have seemed tedious. Like Picasso, he wanted 'to be rich enough to live like a poor person', without the restraints of convention."

Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma , p.246

Bacon seemed liked an obvious choice for full length post, but the more I read about him the more sceptical I get about his eccentric or outsider status. He seems to have been quite calculating in many ways: he never got too drunk, never lost too much money, never got too close to the criminal underworld. He outlived most of the Soho crowd and died a rich man. Still the myth of Bacon now has a life of its own thanks particularly to the several documentary he appeared on and Love is the Devil. As a teenager interested in modern art, he was exactly how you wanted an artist to be. In an interview somewhere Jenny Saville says that as an adolescent she "wanted her life to be like Bacon's'". He was just the kind of adult your parents would not invite round for dinner.

Lights out for the territory?

Iain Sinclair was one of the inspirations for this blog, especially Lights Out.., Orbital and Rodinsky's Room. In the latest LRB he has a piece (inevitably) about the Olympics. It begins and ends with the fate of 'the Owl Man' of Hackney, David Mills. Mills lived in a ramshackled dwelling near London Fields and kept large numbers of birds of prey. The Owl Man has had forced out by the logic of re-development and is relocating to Wales.

Sinclair pieces either veer towards the mystical or the cynical. This one felt different: sorrowful, a panegyric. He concludes:

"When I think of the winners who have emerged from this unreal fortnight of mass hallucination, I don’t focus on the justifiably proud cyclists, the strong women in boats, or those youthful triathlon medallists, the Brownlee brothers, who look like scrubbed kids in pyjamas, allowed to stay up late with Christmas baubles around their necks. I think of two men: Boris Johnson clowning so effectively towards office, like an idiot emperor from Robert Graves – and David Mills, spirit of place, who knew just when to step away."

I read that as calling time, not just on Hackney, but on Sinclair's own life's project to document the outer limits of the capital. It must be tinged with the realisation that the semi-bohemian life he has lived is also out of time. Just as he warned Rachel Lichtenstein that Rodinsky's Room was a trap, so East London has been one for him. Can he, like the Owl Man, step away?

Strange news from another star

Adam Curtis recently posted a BBC film from the 1950s featuring London taxi driver George King who founded the Aetherius Society. King and the members of the society believe(d) they could contact extraterrestrial life via meditation and telepathy. King had learned these techniques via his interest in yoga.

George King (1919–1997)

The film is a nice reminder that western interest in Eastern religions predates the post-hippy fallout. But also that there is a long standing tradition of sci-fi in Britain that has always had its mystical or uncanny elements. It goes right back to Frankenstein and is the difference between Doctor Who and Star Trek.

Update on Vivian MacKerrell

Further notes to Anmar's post.

Here he is playing a tramp in Edna, the Inebriate Woman a Play for the Day in 1971. An echo of Danny the drug dealer in his performance I think.


And a short section from the DVD feature 'Withnail & Us' where Bruce Robinson remembers his friend, plus some home cine footage.


And finally some old but good blog posts on the film itself, rescuing it from its 'studenty' reputation: here and here

Vivian MacKerrell - the real Withnail

Withnail, the main protagonist of Bruce Robinson’s classic Withnail and I, is one of British cinema’s most  memorable rogues. While the name of the  character - played with distinction  by Richard E Grant - came from Jonathan Withnall, a louche, upper-class  friend of Robinson’s father, the main source  of inspiration for the permanently wasted  Withnail came from the director’s flatmate Vivian MacKerrell (above), a young would-be actor.

Robinson and MacKerrell met at London’s  Central School of Speech and Drama, and were part of a group of wannabe thespians who shared a dank, dirty Camden Town flat. MacKerrell was bright, charismatic and quick-witted but, blighted by a hedonistic streak, he indulged in vast quantities of alcohol and drugs.

On one occasion (directly reprised in the film by Grant, below) he drank industrial-strength lighter fluid when no conventional alcohol was available. The incident left him unable to see for several days. Robinson is convinced it contributed to the throat cancer that killed him in 1990.

Much like the fictional Withnail, who ends the film destitute and lonely in Regent’s Park, MacKerrell’s career was one of unfulfilled potential. His only known film role was in a 1970s horror flick called Ghost Story, in which he starred alongside Marianne Faithfull and Penelope Keith.

In an interview, the director of Ghost Story, Stephen Weeks, recalled MacKerrell’s Bacchanalian exploits. “He had a wonderful silk suit made for himself in India, green and beautifully made… he went to a ball at the Grosvenor House Hotel, got drunk, threw up over it and then just put it in a drawer and left it. This wonderful suit! About three years later he found it, by which time it was destroyed. That was typical of him really." Typical, but also tragic.

More eccentrics elsewhere...

The BBC Four London season just gets better. 'West End on Film' has glimpses of Jeffrey Bernard, the Coach and Horses, the French Pub, the 'protein man', several sellers of knocked off gear (whatever did happen to all those perfume stalls on Oxford Street?), the Grosvenor Square demo and the Poll Tax riot - feast away.

A bit of the old routine

Eccentrics, like many people living on the margins, often have well rehearsed patter in order to suck strangers into a conversation. I once saw a fine example of this in Judd Books, the second-hand book shop in Bloomsbury. During a quiet afternoon, in stepped a man whose favourite pastime was to raise a little chaos in the lives of shopkeepers. He sported the 'old north London hippy' look - a taller, brunette version of Phil Davis' character in High Hopes. 

Phil Davis, left, pointing in High Hopes

The man placed several overflowing carrier bags on the floor and prepared to engage the attention of the guy behind the counter. Judd Books is piled high with stock and has a loyal following among scruffy genteel scholars, so the Phil Davis character was not out of place. He did however break a key unspoken rule: no talking to anyone. The clientele is there to waste an afternoon via some quiet browsing: only American tourists actually try to discuss literature with the booksellers.

In a high, bright voice he asked, "Is that for sale?"

The bookseller looked up from his paper, "Is what for sale?"

[Pointing] "That there, to your left."

And here the game began. The counter is itself drowning under books, mainly smaller novelty publications, guides to the local area and so on. Without actually naming the item he wanted, and standing far enough back so he couldn't touch anything, 'Phil Davis' gleefully lead the bookseller's hand around 100 or so items.

"Down slightly. And to the right ... no back a bit. Up up! Now to the left. No not that one, the other one."

This carried on for several minutes and we all turned round to watch this ballet of pointing and polite frustration.

"You mean the Virginia Woolfs? The maps of Bloomsbury ... um - the postcards?"

"No no - the clock thing."

"Oh these." said the guy behind the counter, holding up a pack of orange paper calendars.

"No" said Phil Davis, this time indicating decisively to bring the show to a close, "this clock."

The clock was a small plastic device sitting on its own by the till.

"It's not for sale I'm afraid. It's the shop's clock."

"Oh that's a shame." And with that he picked up his bags and strolled out onto Marchmont Street. Perhaps his next port of call was the Oddbins next door, where he would spend five minutes finding out if the spare till rolls were available for purchase.

Eccentrics elsewhere on the web

BBC Four has just put up a new special collection called simply 'London'. Lots of great archive programs on there, but two stand out as relevant to this blog. In Clive James: Postcard From London the Aussie critic interviews the late Stanley Green aka the 'Protein Man' on Oxford Street. Ours to Keep: Incomers, about the fight to save 18th century buildings in Spitalfields, features Denis Severs, the American artist who turned his home at 18 Folgate Street into a 'still life drama'. Both men had unique personal visions, although with wildly different levels of success. Both will feature on this blog in due course.

The phantom guitarist of Clerkenwell

Active: c.2004-2007

During the brief heyday of the Libertines the music scene attracted various rock n’ roll chancers trying to cut a dash as decadent poets. Always male, they were easily identified at open mic nights by the regulation black leather jacket and battered trilby. Most have been absorbed back into the general population although a few cling on in Camden, the open air museum of British pop culture.

Clerkenwell Road, guitarist not in view.

   Around this time a tall character, dressed largely in black was making infrequent busking appearances on Clerkenwell Road, usually in the late morning or early afternoon. He would stand stock still on the pavement, then suddenly leap forward and thrust his guitar in front of him. A jerky performance would then begin, resembling a very lo-fi Gene Vincent. Chords were thrashed, and words bellowed out. Once he had completed a song to his own satisfaction, the guitar would fall back by his side and he would retreat, head bowed, to his previous position. There he would stand in silence until he thought it was time for another tune.

Unlike the other Doherty imitators, the phantom guitarist deserves inclusion here. There was zero interaction with passersby: no MySpace page was offered by him; no flyers were handed out. He was not even a conventional busker as no hat or case was put down to collect small change. And I never saw anyone attempt to give him money either. The combination of his loud voice, unsettling bodily movements, and terrible songs stopped him attracting a crowd of any size. He had no entourage, no female hanger-on. The lyrics were largely indecipherable, but leaned more to caveman rock than Rimbaud in converse. For the hardened Londoner he was exactly the type of person who needs to be given a wide berth. The only reason for his performance must have been to satisfy some personal notion of self-expression, rather than fortune or fame of any kind. Like a true ghost his appearances and disappearances could not be controlled by anyone, least of all I suspect, by him.

Sources: Personal knowledge; Robert Elms Show, BBC London 94.9.