Conceptual Art: Artist vs Writer

On my mission to spend quality time with Beloved Aspie (BA), yesterday’s beautiful sunshine took us to Hestercombe House and Gardens in a glorious corner of Somerset. The finale of the visit was a look around the Gallery. (That’s a lie – the finale was a mega chocolate brownie in the caff before going home). 

Anyway…you need to know that I have been an Art student, studying Fine Art and Art History, and almost went to Art College instead of University and Law. As such, I can find an appreciation for most things though I own my own tastes.

And in fairness, BA has his own posters and prints that he likes, though they are highly likely to involve Dr Who, Superheroes, or cats, and he has a keen eye for sparkly gems.

Off we go to the Gallery rooms, BA dutifully appraising the catalogue notes and locating the exhibits. One was a fairly chunky bronze of a pair of binoculars; another was a wooden stile painted bright blue; another was a spade, hanging on a wall, made of beautiful wood; another a swarm of bees masquerading as a mantel piece clock. In a separate room was Tracey Emin’s ‘there is another place’, a neon tube of writing on the wall.

BA was impressively discreet about his misgivings.

 

We embarked on a conversation with the volunteer invigilator who told us this was their first ‘modern’ exhibition and as such, she’d had to do a lot of research so that she could talk to visitors, who had some interesting comments. This led to a discussion of conceptual art.

The problem for me, I told her, is that some of the finished pieces are so far removed from the original concept that they are not, of themselves, interesting or beautiful to look at. I fail to see the point if the object offers no attraction and I have to read an essay about its meaning.

Then it got me thinking. If I applied the same idea to writing novels, how would that work?

I could spend my months in advance doing copious research, writing up notes, creating my characters, mulling over the plot in my head, then, when it’s ready I could write my novel in 4 words

…but I love you

And leave the reader to work out the rest.

Never mind flash fiction or the 50 word story – let’s unleash a new form – the conceptual novel. I’m sure I could write a few of those, in fact I’m just working on ‘The’.

It's all in the timing

The Walking Dead scares me to death. Nightmares. Running to the bathroom in the night. Don’t glance at the mirror in the dark (well, you don’t know who’s looking back).

How? Why?

I know it’s about zombies. They are everywhere all the time – a constant in the show. Yet, I jump, scream and hide behind my fingers like a five year old seeing a Dalek for the first time. The camera zooms in for the close-up in the eerily quiet empty place – zombie swoops in –I jump out of my skin. Every time.

It scares me so much I have considered simply not watching it. No can do. I need to know the next bit of the story. I need to know who lives. I am addicted.

CUT TO hubs saying, “There’s that English zombie thing on telly tonight. Second series. Maybe it’s good. Want to watch it?”

“No,” I say, “they look too much like the Exorcist. Can’t do it.” (That’s another story…)

We watch another drama, but the zombies are playing on my mind, my imagination, my addiction?? 

As our programme finishes, I say, “Well, maybe let’s watch ten minutes and see how it goes.”

And we did.

I wasn’t remotely scared. Not even when the fully-blown zombies attacked and ate people. So here’s the question: given my viewing history, why not scared?

The first answer: In the Flesh is The Walking Dead meets Eastenders. Hubs sings the tune, ‘da, da, da, da, da, da, aaaargh!’ Beloved Aspie has joined the conversation, “Surely that’s no different from the normal Eastenders?” (In fact the next morning he tells me in his considered opinion that they have merely over-humanised the zombies, hence not scary.) 

What it is really about is timing: how the script writer draws you in and catches you out. Done right – you’re on the edge of your seat. Done wrong – the thrill never comes.

Compare to a somewhat corny movie on the same evening, White Girls. Two black detectives go under cover as white women to catch a kidnapper. Painful and obvious. But…even though the plot is transparent and I can speak the next line before the actor, it is so well timed that you still find yourself laughing at the jokes.

Timing (and no doubt, good camera work) will keep me thinking for a while yet. I’m puzzling over how to be mindful of it in my writing of longer pieces. I’ll leave you with this.

Next day, BA and I are out for a walk in the woods and a visit to a National Trust place. We get back to horror movies and the Blair Witch project (another that got nothing from me). I return to In The Flesh, describing the scene where the woman is out in the silent garden calling for her cat in the dark, no cat coming, but of course you know what is…rabid zombie from nowhere is on her like a flash. Did I jump? No.

BA replies, “ you didn’t tell me about the rabbits.”

When the universe helps…Sinéad to meet Rose Tremain.

It’s such a thrill when the universe knows what you need and creates opportunities for you to have it. With my first novel out there, I’m constantly trying to find ways to get it noticed without making an arse of myself.

Bridgwater Homestart began running a short story competition a few years ago and I was involved as a performance reader of one of the winning stories. I really enjoy delivering the story to the writer in another voice: it makes it so alive for them. It becomes a thing out there, not just words in your head.

Each year, Homestart engage an author of repute as the judge. I like to be there to gather pearls of authorial wisdom that they may toss my way as they make their adjudicator’s address.

This year the judge was Rose Tremain. I wasn’t involved in the event as last year they’d made the decision to have the winning writers read their own work, so I offered to assist with refreshments.

The day before the event, I got a phone call followed by an e-mail. One of the winners (she didn’t know which place) called Homestart in a panic. Her story was set in Ireland and despite much practice she finally had to concede defeat. She was not going to serve her story with an accent that ‘started in Ireland, soared off to Scotland, wandered to Yorkshire and ended up in Cornwall. Might you know anyone who could manage better?’ Cue Sinéad and her native voice.

With 24 hours to go, and another main character French (!!!) of course I said yes. Why? A) I wanted to serve the author – she’d earned it. B) it was a really funny story C) I love a stage but most importantly D) Rose Tremain would have to listen to me for 15mins. If I plucked up the courage to approach her afterwards, she’d know who I was. (Thank you, universe).

Dennis, the organiser, stopped to greet me as he arrived with our eminent judge. As I turned to shake hands with Ms Tremain she said, ‘Ah, you’ll be reading the Irish story.’ And Dennis swiftly added, ‘Sinéad’s just been published, too.’ (Thank you, again). 

I have a mantra when performing that shoos ego and nerves; serve the words, serve the intention, serve the emotion. I delivered the story with all the humour it deserved, giving the audience, Rose Tremain (whose pearl was – remember that humour is a powerful tool) and the writer a fun-filled reading.

Afterwards we were milling around with tea and cake. I had brought a copy of my novel to possibly give to Ms Tremain, but my courage was failing me. Maybe that was naff. Maybe people did that all the time and she hated it. Maybe I could just summon the nerve to talk to her…

Then the lovely story writer intervened (Thank you!) by drawing me into the conversation she was having with Rose on the topic of transgender in her novel Sacred Country, leading neatly onto same sex relationships in mine. We had a great conversation about research and prejudice and I was able to offer her a copy of …but I love you.

“Have you signed it for me?” she asked.

“No,” I hadn’t dared be so presumptuous.

“Please do. I look forward to reading it”

Swoon! Thank you universe.

www.butiloveyou.co.uk

http://tinyurl.com/phx74he