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Tag Archives: Bentham

Poetry versus Push-pin

01 Monday Dec 2014

Posted by Candia in Architecture, Arts, Celebrities, Family, History, Horticulture, Humour, Music, Poetry, Religion, Social Comment, Suttonford, Writing

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adjectival phrase, amaryllis, Beethoven, Belladonna, Bentham, Beyonce, Bishop of Durham, Borgia, Bridge Mints, C of E, ceteris paribus, Chirpa chirpa cheep cheep, conversazione, Country Life magazine, debutante, dehydration, hip flask, Jenkins, Liverpool Pathway, Mayfair atelier, Mozart, noumenal realm, Pele Tower, poetry v push-pin, Poundland, Pushkin, veg-tan, wassail, York Minster

Drusilla had a precious free weekend before Christmas

and had selflessly decided to motor down to visit her

Great-Aunt Augusta in Snodland’s Nursing Home

for the Debased Gentry.

Great-Aunt Augusta had pronounced herself a little under the

weather and had decided not to make an unseasonal journey

northwards to the draughty pele tower in the Borders, to join

the rest of the extended ‘family’ for the celebrations.  In any

case, she didn’t want to miss the Residents’ Wassail Evening.

Dru had wrapped a generous bottle of Dewlap Gin for the Discerning

Grandmother and some Bridge Mints and also took along some back

numbers of magazines which the school library had been about to

shred.

The old virago was rather rude.  She immediately started reading a

copy of Country Life magazine (October 2014), leaving her great-

niece to engage a doddery old man in what could only

optimistically be called conversation, or conversazione, by

pretentious writers in similar publications.

Ha!  Hark at this!  Augusta screeched, causing several biddies in

proximity to adjust their hearing aids.  These estate agents are

the limit.  They’re offering property in York for cultural aficianodos and

the best adjective they can employ to modify the Minster is:

‘pretty’ cathedral.  They’re fortunate that their offices are not struck

by a bolt of lightning for committing a bigger faux pas than the Bishop

of Durham once did. Ha! That showed that The Almighty was not

housed in man-made constructs and is not necessarily C of E.

What do you mean? Dru asked.  Her aunt was referring to something

beyond her personal ken.

Just that God is no respecter of persons and does not dwell in buildings

made of stone.  I remember how we all marvelled at the cathedral being

struck by a coup de foudre after Bishop Jenkins’ trendy pronouncements.

Let’s play a game, she continued.  Who would you like to see being

struck by lightning?

No, Aunt.  That is not a very Christian idea- especially at this time

of year.  (Dru was shocked that certain colleagues came

immediately to mind.)

Oh, you young people have no sense of fun.

She flicked a few more pages, slightly in a huff.  Then she brightened

considerably.

Can’t I  propose people who exhibit portraits of their debutante

daughters while slipping in an advertisement for their own atelier

businesses in Mayfair?

No.  Have a Bridge Mint.

Augusta took two.  She didn’t offer one to Dru, or to the doddery

cling-on.

Picture of Beyoncé

I see poultry prefer Beethoven to Beyonce, she mused.  She felt

she was on safer ground.  Not a terrain that usually attracted

her footfall.  However, the noumenal realm was still in her mental

grasp and she liked to show her powers of acuity. It’s a bit like

Bentham saying poetry is no better than push-pin, she pronounced.

Or was it Pushkin?  I can’t recall. Ceteris paribus, I don’t see any

reason to prefer one over the other.

She read a little more of the article….

There’s something called ‘Top of the Flocks’ that you

can play in your chicken run.  Hens lay 6% more eggs if you play

Mozart.

They’d lay 7% if you played Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep, the

doddery old man piped up as he leaned toward the open box.

Clearly he was not aurally challenged, or socially reserved.

Chirpa, corrected Aunt Augusta, moving the box of mints closer

to her sphere of jurisdiction.

Do open one of your small prezzies, Dru invited her, in a vain

attempt at distraction.

Augusta put the bottle-shaped one under her chair in a

particularly acquisitive gesture.  She looked at the label

on another, smaller parcel.  Hmm, from Gus.  It feels

like a flower pot.  I hope it’s not one of those veg-tan

leather articles shown in here, starting at £130, she

scowled.  I’m not leaving my estate to a spendthrift!

Aunt, it’s an Amaryllis bulb from Poundland, Dru sighed.

Ah, I can see my childhood training has paid off,  Augusta

beamed, carefully rolling and conserving the ribbon and

folding the wrapping paper for another occasion.  She

set her lips in a Borgian smile when she saw the

designation: Belladonna.  Might come in useful.

At least they still allow us flowers in here. Not like in that

hospital ward where floral tributes were banned in case

patients drank water from vases on their bedside lockers.

Shocking! Who drinks water nowadays? That’s why, my dear-

she paused for maximum effect and then produced her hip

flask from somewhere under her clothing- I always have a

stand-by.  I don’t intend to let the beggars do me down through

dehydration.

I’ll come back tomorrow morning, Dru promised.  She was

worried that someone would think she had given Augusta

the hip flask.

Don’t look so anxious, her aunt responded.  We all have

them in here.  How do you think we survive on the Liverpool

Pathway to nowhere?

And Dru had to admit that it didn’t seem to do them any harm.

Quite the reverse.

 

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Democracy Has Bad Taste

14 Monday Oct 2013

Posted by Candia in Arts, Celebrities, Education, History, Humour, Literature, News, Social Comment, Suttonford, Writing

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Bentham, Charles Saatchi, Damien HIrst, Dan Snow, Ernest Hemingway, FT, Grayson Perry, List of Reith Lectures, Manet, Nigella Lawson, Olympia, Proust, pushpin, Richard Hoggart, sociology, springer spaniel, transformation, Trinny Woodall, Uses of Literacy

Brassica could hardly hear herself speak for the frothing of the coffee machine

and the screech of a toddler.

Yeah, it’s that bloke in a frock who’s giving The Reith Lectures, she informed

me.

Who?  Grayson Perry?  Suddenly I was interested in what she was saying.

Yip.  I liked his tapestries on class but I admit that I used to think they-

the artists, I mean- actually made the stuff themselves.

What?  You thought that Damien Hirst went out and caught his own shark,

like Ernest Hemingway?  I was somewhat surprised.

Well, I thought they would weave the tapestries, or, say, Henry Moore

would cast his own bronzes in his back yard.

Right.  Before the scrap metal guys nicked them.  Brass, you’ve just got

to understand the difference between craft and art.

Which is?

Some philosophers have described it as the difference between pushpin

and poetry.

Pushpin?

It’s like shove halfpenny. I tried to clarify the analogy.  Look,

I addressed her.  Read the front page of the Life and Arts section of the

FT.

I reached up and took down the pink pages of a grease-stained

newspaper from the wall rack.

You see, I gestured, take a look at the artwork in this cafe.  I think it comes

from The Suttonford Art Society’s Annual Show.  You be the judge.  Is it art?

If it goes by financial value, then I’d say not, she deliberated.

Emmm, yeah.  Not many of them have a reserved sticker.  I suppose that

they could come under therapeutic, or popular art categories.

Some of them could be improved by more sympathetic

presentation, she decided.

Yes.  Proust wrote that we can only see beauty if we look through a

gilded frame, I expanded on the theme.  I wonder what Charles Saatchi

is collecting now..? Certainly not portraits of Nigella!  Maybe Trinny

Woodall woodcuts?  Skinny Trinny as Olympia.  Not a good look!

My granny used to commission oils of sunsets to match the colours in her

swirly carpets, Brassie mused.

(You could never accuse Brass of being a snob.)  She was reading the

front page by now and she came out with:

Are individual works of historical significance, or do they exhibit aesthetic

sophistication?

No, I replied quietly, looking carefully round the room for any paint

stains on clothing.  There is an acrylic over there which shows the oldest

pub in the town, though.  It all comes down to Bentham’s pushpin/ poetry

distinction again.

Jeremy Bentham by Henry William Pickersgill detail.jpg

But, endorsement is surely part of it?  I mean, if we placed a label under that

unconvincing representation of a Springer Spaniel and it announced that it was

by Dan Snow, would it change our perception of it? Brassie probed.

No, but it would change my perception of him, sadly, I replied.

Brassie began to show enthusiasm for this debate.  Didn’t Richard Hoggart,

who incidentally lived not too far from here, discuss some of this in his book

on popular culture, The Uses of Literacy?

Yawn.  Early sociology, I said dismissively.  Mind you, he made some good

points.

Brassie pushed on, paraphrasing as she read: Apparently, what the’ lovely

consensus’ agree on is seriousness.

Mmm, some of these are seriously bad.  I tried to be generous and failed. Okay.

Who is going to validate them?

Brassie brightened up.  I expect their mummies, grannies, aunts, husbands

and wives might rescue them from ignominy.  They’ll probably buy them.

So, laying aside meritocracy, they will be saved for posterity by love? I

ventured.

The greatest ennobler, breathed Brassie.  The Art of Human Understanding.

Compassion. An act of grace.  Love for the unlovely.  Transformation!

 

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My name is Candia. Its initial consonant alliterates with “cow” and there are connotations with the adjective “candid.” I started writing this blog in the summer of 2012 and focused on satire at the start.

Interspersed was ironic news comment, reviews and poetry.

Over the years I have won some international poetry competitions and have published in reputable small presses, as well as reviewing and reading alongside well- established poets. I wrote under my own name then, but Candia has taken me over as an online persona. Having brought out a serious anthology last year called 'Its Own Place' which features poetry of an epiphanal nature, I was able to take part in an Arts and Spirituality series of lectures in Winchester in 2016.

Lately I have been experimenting with boussekusekeika, sestinas, rhyme royale, villanelles and other forms. I am exploring Japanese themes at the moment, my interest having been re-ignited by the recent re-evaluations of Hokusai.

Thank you to all my committed followers whose loyalty has encouraged me to keep writing. It has been exciting to meet some of you in the flesh- in venues as far flung as Melbourne and Sydney!

Copyright Notice

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Candia Dixon Stuart and candiacomesclean.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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