Wednesday, 2 May 2018

Redneck



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How it might go among the rednecks

You and your folk have been here for generations. Sometimes they did well, sometimes less well. You had your family ways and your community ways. You weren’t great at school but you had some skill so you could either do what your folks had done before like work on the land or at the factory or the warehouse or on the road or rail; you could heave stuff, drive stuff, climb stuff, fit stuff, mend stuff. And because this got dull at times you drank on a Friday or Saturday night, sometimes other nights too, the rest of the time there was the wife, the kids, the sport on TV or visits to malls. Folks in the city might think you were dumb but you managed.

Then times changed. You lost your job or had to transfer, things got tense at home which led to more drinking and to the occasional fight which, according to you, went both ways. There was a lot less money and everything cost more. You were beginning to rot away and resenting it. Now you weren’t considered just dumb but also reprehensible. Your old religion, if you had any left, your old attitudes and whatever other ground you stood on, and some of it might have been pretty bad ground but you don’t want others, especially smart privileged people telling you that (and as time went on they told you that more and more) was eroded. You were not only worthless but a drag on ‘civilisation’. Your attitude to race was deeply wrong (even just the jokes, maybe especially the jokes), your attitude to women, especially the smart women, was not only reprehensible but wicked, contemptible even (don’t even start a joke about that).

And of course you are told you have been gifted with white male privilege. The person telling you this is a middle-class educated young woman or some smartass guy who is repeating her line. You are, they tell you, the most privileged creature on earth. You have, they tell you, been exploiting and treading on everyone especially that nice, angry middle-class girl with her nice apartment, nice car, nice clothes and nice career. You, according to her and her kind, including the presidential candidate, are in fact nothing but yet another bad broken egg in a basket of deplorables.

Then along comes one rich smart guy called Trump. And he ignores those that despise you and ignores all they stand for. He farts in their faces. He tells some home truths and some lies but even the lies are a kind of hitting back. And you want to hit back because you still don’t have a job, you still live in a slum, you still can’t afford health care, you still drink and scrap, and as for the environment, the environment is where you live and where you must scrape some kind of life.  This life is not much like the lives of those used to swimming with dolphins.

And you do have a gun if nothing else.  Because  those others – the liberals – they have nothing to say to you and never have had. Who you gonna shoot? Yourself? Others? Maybe no one at all.
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Friday, 6 April 2018

All Too Human
Tate Britain 26 Feb - 27 Aug 2018


Jenny Saville; Reverse 2002-3

The show is a survey, if necessarily incomplete, of what the catalogue deems to be 'painterly' approaches to the human figure by artists in Britain from Walter Sickert through to Jenny Savill, Celia Paul, Cecily Brown and LynetteYiadom-Boakye (which last room, apart from the marvellous Paula Rego then covers the lack of women and diversity, apart from F N Souza, elsewhere), the exhibition dips its feet into Sickert and Stanley Spencer, Chaim Soutine (is he an artist in Britain?) and, slightly oddly R B Kitaj, whose presence I welcome partly because he tends to get a bad press now for reasons I'd like to explore in the light of this show and partly because I was a fan of his work as a young working artist myself.

Putting aside Bacon for now, the major figures to emerge are Freud and Rego, with Bomberg, Auerbach, Kossof and Michael Andrews in the rank immediately behind, though Jenny Saville's enormous single work, Reverse, is major enough to guarantee a prominent place for her among the others in the exhibition. I have never been able to develop a serious liking for either Ewan Uglow or William Coldstream whose concentration on recording simply doesn't engage or move me.





The pre-eminence of Freud and Rego is based upon their mastery in drawing with paint, and their unerring sense of the potential of the human figure. The human figures, in their work, are subtle but profound articulations of our condition. In Freud it is as if flesh and paint were the same thing. He seems actually to be making the flesh before our eyes. In that respect the artists he shares most with are the later Rembrandt, Rouault and Soutine, who must  be in the exhibition only because his treatment of flesh and paint bears some relation to Freud and Auerbach's use of the medium. The condition in Freud is essentially a raw animality that is emphasised by the inclusion of dogs. 'We are such stuff as dogs are made of' is the underlying perception. We are vulnerable animals with basic appetites: we are made of the same paint. It is a deeply haunting perception.





Rego's figures are products of will and muscle. They are seldom if ever relaxed because should they ever relax they would immediately become victims. The price of life is constant tension. This, like Freud's, is a version of people in animal terms but their engagement in life is not purely through the body but through psychological perceptions. The paint in Rego is not quite like Freud's in becoming total nakedness: it is essentially descriptive but the description itself has a fearsome physicality. Rego's great predecessor in terms of drawing is Goya, her figures short, feet firmly planted, heavy-bottomed, fully earthbound, pressing against the ground. There are also hints of Beckmann and Balthus in terms of draughtsmanship and the handling of paint, but she stands clear of them.


The big difference - and this is why I am writing the blog - lies in the use of narrative. Rego's works are, and have from the start, been based on narrative. The pictures tell stories, not overtly, not in clearly traceable referential terms, but with personal fields of reference, in personal retellings of preceding, iconic stories. Freud's do not present narratives. The studio is the narrative. People enter, remove their clothes and slob out without ever quite relaxing. That is the story. They slob out in their different ways, imposing different presences on us, but they do not invite a more detailed speculation. They are existential figures inhabiting an existential space.

The twentieth century critical preference has been towards the non-narrative, the kind of painting that does not refer to events outside the painting or, if they do so, do it in obscure, metaphorical terms. The public has tended to feel different. They are not purists and like a story, so Grayson Perry suits them to the ground. So, for similar reasons, does Rego. The sneer at art schools in a certain period was that some particular painting was not art but illustration. It was like programme music as against symphonic form.

In an age of deconstruction and theoretical reading the narrative has made something of a come-back, at least in political terms, and there is less elevation of what seem to be abstract values. The new narrative reading is not based on the popular idea of narrative-as-anecdote (it will never want to be popular in that way) but it still wants to use image as text.

I am putting Francis Bacon aside as he is his own constant interpreter. After the war, in the immediate shadow of the bomb, the sense of mere physical existence - man as a poor bare forked animal - had come to the fore. Flesh was disturbing in its vulnerability and its own tendency to horror. Bacon focused on the horror and the physical, fleshly, caged beauty of that horror.


Bomberg, Auerbach and Kossof use paint like soil and press it this way and that so you feel they are trying to emerge out of a morass by sheer force, constructing the world as blunt, deep, flawed matter. Narrative-as-story or anecdote is of no interest to them. It is the physical world that has to be remade after so much violent unmaking. Michael Andrews grows more on me at every viewing. There is a sadness and glow to his best work that I find appealing.

Celia Paul should be  much better known. She emerges out of Kathe Kollwitz and Gwen John in my mind. She is on the Freud side of the equation not the Rego or Kitaj.

Kitaj has suffered the worst of both the anti- and pro-narrative critics, chiefly because his narratives are relatively clear, high-serious, and literary and that combination associates him with a would-be-significant sort of 'illustration'. Some of that may be true but I don't care. What he is looking to articulate seems to me important and the ways he does it are intriguing. Besides, after roomfuls of narrow palettes based on earth and flesh he is a wonderful blast of colour.

Interesting to note, in the light of our struggles with nationalism, how many of these artists were either not born in Britain or came from immigrant families.



What I am Losing by Leaving the EU 3





I am not in any position to consider the economic repercussions though I should say I feel none too assured by those who would assure me in the heartiest tones. Good. I hope it works. I hope there is no growth in unemployment, no great rise in prices (er, there already is), no jobs that can't be filled for lack of those willing to do them, no hospitals denuded of EU citizen staff (85% of those tending to me at Papworth were EU agency staff). I hope that the atmosphere of hostility to foreigners does not intensify towards non-Europeans, that there will be no rise in hostility to Commonwealth, African and Asian citizens. I hope for all the good those promising good hope for, bar of course the extensive privatisations some have in mind.

I feel pretty sure I am losing the confidence of European friends who live here and European friends elsewhere. Those who are leaving are disappointed. Some are wrecked. Some are having to break up families. This is not some calamitous vision of the future. It is happening now. And when I go there, with my brand new patriotic all-singing all-dancing blue-black passport (and possibly my visa) I will come as a member of the divorced side of the family. We sued for divorce, we got it, we weakened you, where is my warm welcome and big hug? We told them we would be so much better off without them. They are civilised people of course and will be polite enough but something a little awkward will follow our progress.

And what sort of England will be left? I say England because that is where I am, not Scotland, Wales or Northern Ireland. A little smugger, a little more on the defensive, a little more likely to be hostile, to be living out the tail-days of its imperial history with an uneasy mixture of guilt and pomp.

I will continue to love it for all it has been to me. I will be counted among those who will defend it against wilder accusations. I will be prepared to perform the foreign anglophile role because, in many respects, that is exactly what I am.

But it will be more work and a little hollower because what I loved was the England I have grown up in. I never loved it because it was the seat of all virtue. I loved it because it seemed - and was - accommodating, slow to anger, not prey to demagoguery, and actually rather humane and kindly in its personal dealings whatever its offices or corporations did. Those seemed worthwhile qualities. I am curious to see what will happen to them.


What I am Losing by Leaving the EU 2






That loss, not just for me, but for many other Remainers I expect, is essentially symbolic but it has political, social and economic aspects.

We live in a globalised world in which global powers - some national, some supra-national, some sub-national - exercise great influence. Very few conflicts of interest or conflicts generally can be restricted to the local turf on which it is fought. Even a regional conflict, broad as that may be, hasrepercussions very quickly felt beyond itself.

Europe may be one thing and the EU another but they are not entirely distinct: there is a considerable if hard-to-define overlap. Europe as the EU is a political entity as well as an economic one. There are common interests - some economic, some political, some cultural - represented in it. Europe, broadly speaking, is under the umbrella of NATO and, less formally, the USA but the USA has its own interests and NATO may not be as effective as it was in the old dispensation with the old technology. Some form of solidarity is more than desirable; it is vital. Europe as a political entity is weakening and becoming worryingly fragile in the east, is unstable in the south and is now losing us in the west. I understand all kinds of security arrangements may continue to exist after we leave but they too will be more fragile, more fraught, more vulnerable. Are we stronger, better and more secure divided? No one ever is. Whom might we be divided against? You name it, any of the great powers would do, as would - thanks to technology - some fairly minor ones.

Brexit, from a geopolitical perspective, looks like part of a process of decadence and self-delusion to me. This is where the nostalgia brigade - the WW2 imagery, the Churchillian rhetoric, and the references to traitors and mutineers - seem, well, quite mad to me. As the song in Ghostbusters went: Who you gonna call? The empire? the Commonwealth? Yankee Doodle Dandy (the most likely, possibly only candidate)? Good luck with that Buccaneering Boris, D-Day Davies, and Roaring Rees-Mogg. Let's get those Captain Mannerings into shape!

What about you, Jez? If we are nice to everyone (except Israel of course) will everyone be nice to us? Not my experience, comrade.




What I am Losing by Leaving the EU 1




I thought I had better ask myself this question if only that I might articulate it to myself more clearly by articulating it to others.

In some respects, possibly in the mostly important respect, it is a symbolic loss. Symbols matter because they concentrate a set of related meanings into something concrete. And because that is what a poem does let me begin with a poem (originally a set of three).

*

I am citizen of an overdressed republic
that knows itself as more than an illusion
and will keep donning clothes and moving on.
Sometimes I think I too am overdressed.
I think I should strip naked, walk the street
with nothing on, and face the filthy weather


we emerge from. I think I is another
as we all are. I think it’s getting late
and dark. It’s hard to see. I smell the dust
that’s everywhere and settles. I know it mine.
I am in love. I am standing at the station
waiting to board. I’m not about to panic.

*

The notion of Europe is a matter of identity - a complex 'overdressed' identity. That identity is far from a model of virtues. Europe has both a dark and bright history and my family and the people to which that family belongs - Central European Jews, rootless cosmopolitans - has experienced plenty of the dark side and will probably never be at complete ease with it. But neither are we - my family, my people - models of virtue. We are no more virtuous or innocent than any mortal. But the history is that we have been obliged to move from place to place, from country to country, often by force, sometimes deadly force. So nationalisms - that naturally exclude - always worry us. British nationalism no less than Hungarian nationalism than the nationalism of any nation. No sooner have we decided to assimilate and resolve to be of the nation than the nation wants us out and, it turns out, has always regarded us with suspicion.

Nor is the dark side of Europe entirely restricted to those who are already part of it. Through empire building and colonialism it extends far further. But - and this is important - not AS Europe. Colonialism was never a common European project. It was competition between nations drawing on commonly available resources. European ideologies certainly played a part but nations did not act in concert, in the name of Europe.

Europe in general, however, has usually - not always - offered us - and here I return to my specific tribe - alternative homes. It is a terrain we recognise, to which we have contributed and with which, therefore, we feel an affinity. Without Jews no Christianity. Besides, we are, traditionally, people of the book, and the book represents culture. We are part of it: it is part of us. Products of hand and mind are shared. When we are loyal to the nations in which we live we understand that the nation is not, culturally, an island. It has many specific characteristics, no doubt, characteristics that also become part of us. These local streets are our streets too, our fields and our institutions in that they represent us. They are quite specific objects of love and concern. But we know that at any time they might decide to throw us out.

So, to some degree, our - I should now say 'my,' though I am not religious, not of a religious community, and very rarely consider myself as distinct entity separate from any that might read this page - attachment to Europe is a matter of insecurity.

I grew up with Europe as well as with England. I have grown through Bach, Mozart, Beethoven as well as with Vaughan Williams and Elgar and popular music and all the hybridities of literature, art, craft, any culture comprises. In football I support England and Norwich because that is where I live now. If I lived in Scotland I would possibly support Raith Rovers simply because I like the sound of the name, just as I also support Manchester United because of its historical associations. I am - like most people reading this - both local singular and universal multiple.

But I admit the insecurity. I feel am losing something valuable and vital to my personal existence in Europe. I am being torn from it.

The EU is not the same as Europe of course, I realise this, but the referendum was never about the technical issues of EU membership. It was about much more. It was also about love, or a certain love relationship, a being-in-love relationship with an idealised object as the poem implies at the end.

[to be continued]

Sunday, 11 February 2018

An exchange about Jordan Peterson




GS: ....He is clearly seized by his ideas and reading, as much as by his pragmatic yet moral purpose. But I wonder how long before he exhausts himself and flakes out or says something distinctly stupid, something so careless and wrong that his opponents might hang him with it.... 


Exchange follows from here:


SN: He already has said some pretty stupid things. I’m neither a fan nor an opponent, but some the stuff he gets away with is beyond ridiculous.


GS: Which particular things were stupid, and which beyond ridiculous?


SN: I mentioned them in your Peterson thread (having to listened to some of his YouTube output), but to summarise, what stood out was his opinion that Marxism (including what he calls ‘cultural Marxism’) and postmodernism are a) synonymous and b) un-Western and anti-Western.

Another clunker is his analysis of societal categorisations by ‘cultural Marxism’ as though creating social categories was an utterly new thing (when it’s the oldest trick in the history of rulers and ruling groups). 

He also speaks as though rugged individualism were synonymous with Western civilisation - another assumption that does not hold up against intellectual history.

Which is not to say there aren’t some pearls in what he says. He’s clearly a clever, passionate man. But perhaps the eagerness you mention above blinds him to some of his own failings. He’s no longer a teenager, so he can’t expect the same indulgence he received as a super-bright 16-year old.



GS: He talks about neo-Marxism. The association with postmodernism is via group identity, the assimilation of the individual into the group. He sees the individual as a responsible being not merely a recipient of group rights. That seems a reasonable point of view to me. I haven’t heard him say anywhere that rugged individualism is solely a western trait. What he does say is that there is a body of religion and philosophy that is specifically addressed to the individual mind, and that that body of thought is central to western notions of conducting a life. That does not seem ridiculous to me. It needs more argument than a single YouTube lecture but it is worth proposing.


SN: There is such a body of thought. There is also a strong communal, collectivist body of thought that is equally central to Western philosophy and custom, going back as far as the monastic and Beguines traditions. There is also an ancient liberties, that rights-based body of thought that is central to our history from the Peasants Revolt onwards. Its contemporary incarnation is not immune to criticism, but to criticise it on the basis of them being anti-Western or to think bandying the M word like a ghoul is persuasive is intellectually dishonest. I’m more impressed by the conservative argument about rights calling equal responsibilities (which he also uses). Defining those responsibilities is the key, of course - but there we’re on even ground, and can debate accordingly.

It also ignores the fact that Marxism and neo-Marxism (I assume you mean what he calls cultural Marxism) is a child of the Enlightenment, every bit as much as Adam Smith and Nietzsche are.


GS: He uses both terms, neo-Marxism and cultural-Marxism. I take the point that there have been collectivist bodies of thought and rights-based bodies of thought. He may be mistaken in identifying the key to western thought as something based on individual rights and responsibilities but at this point of time, at a time of identity-cultures (people speaking not as individual, considered minds but bellowing and raging as members of this or that group, however intersectional) he feels it is important to redress the balance. I agree with him on that point.

Group identity simplifies matters to a degree that having to be responsible for your own soul or reason does not. He is continually referring back to facts, statistics and processes of enquiry. To some degree he is of Sam Harris's Enlightenment mindset in his use of research. in others he moves to the less easily described life of images and archetypes for a record of human response to questions of spirituality and morality. I am sure he would allow that Marxism - which I regard as a good analytical tool because, after all, classes and class interests exist - is a product of the Enlightenment, but that may be where he departs from it. I don't know how justified his use of neo-Marxism and Marxism is in terms of analysis but he is clearly influenced by the tremendous historical and human cost of bluntly applying Marxist principles to all social questions. He feels much the same about Nazism and I think he is very persuasive when he argues that the concentration camp guard lives within us too.

I don't think his references to the practical application of Marxism are dishonest. He sees a flaw in an idea and in a way of acting on it and he looks to mend it through his understanding of Jungian archetypes. He wants a synthesis between Jung and scientific method. Why? Because he thinks we desperately need it.

There may well be flaws in his own ideas. I think there are bound to be, but I like the way he is going. In the current context it seems almost revelatory, which is why he suddenly has so many followers. It is also significant that he has opened a territory where other minds, from both left and right, can meet and discuss things openly, without mass pressure. I have found a number of others who want to use that space. I welcome that. I too think it is needed.


The discussion goes on on Facebook:

 https://www.facebook.com/Nussbach3rM/posts/10154928842156534?pnref=story



Friday, 9 February 2018

Ideology and the small c





I continue to think, in what some seem to consider my idiotic way, about the Jordan Peterson position, but now I am chiefly thinking about myself.

I think I have to make a dreadful confession. Not about anything I know for sure, more a possibility.

It is not impossible that I may be, in certain respects, a small c conservative. By that I don't mean a Conservative but conservative in the way that anyone of almost any political belief, however wavering, may be conservative about keeping some distance from ideology. I think one may be a left, liberal or Tory conservative. It is a temperamental given, not a policy. It is not sexy. I am not a sexy thinker.

I fear ideology. I think ideology kills and has killed in massive numbers, and that maybe, in that sense, my sympathy for Peterson is a sharing of that caution. Small c for caution. It is not the ideology of the left particularly, it is as much the ideology of the right that seems to me problematic.

*

I have a high respect for Marxism as a form of class analysis. I think it is remarkably perceptive about the economic forces at play in society. What I don't know is whether the prescription it offers has absolute validity. The evidence is not particularly encouraging in that respect.

I tend to have a high respect for religion too. Not as an unshakeable creed or source of authority, but as a way of perceiving aspects of the world. At some moments I can imagine myself a Quaker, at other times a Catholic. I know I prefer ritual to sermons any time. Sermons as exhortations present themselves to me as arguments and I expect arguments from religion to be as consecutive as arguments from anything else.

I have a high respect for most schools of psychology including the Freudian and the Jungian. Neither is the key to all mythologies but both offer remarkable insights that may or may not be proved on the pulse.

*

I am thinking about myself relatively publicly, ie here, because it may explain some things to people who may be sufficiently interested in hearing an explanation. So let me go further.

I am a Labour voter because my basic perception is that life could be a lot fairer to those at the bottom of the pile than it currently is. I don't care that much about the middle layers because I am not really interested in the differentials of material comfort. I have never cared a jot that someone has a bigger house or car or more holidays. It bores me stiff. Which is one reason I have no fear or awe at all of the rich. I don't feel angry with them or contemptuous of them, I just have no special respect for them. I may well question the source of their wealth and their attitude to those at the poorer end of the spectrum. At bottom, I suppose, I don't entirely trust them. I am quite willing to bite the hand that might possibly feed me.

I am, I sometimes feel, a Labour voter against my small c conservative instincts.I rarely feel the kind of righteous and vehement commitment that would be necessary to be an activist and, to be fair, I am sometimes ashamed of myself for that. You would be a better man if you were, I tell myself. And I may well be right. Maybe I will be that under certain circumstances. Maybe I will at sometime in the near future.

But maybe the small c stands for contemplative rather than conservative.

Maybe this is contemplation. But it's a contemplation that runs pretty fast through the blood.



Tuesday, 6 February 2018

The Blind Musician and the Voyeurs


Károly Escher: The Angel of Peace, 1938


If asked why Hungary should have produced a significant number of important photographers my first answer would be in the terms I have just used in talking of my mother: history, health, opportunity, necessity and general circumstance. And, indeed, I am sure all these played a part. But beyond those it may not be fanciful to suppose that the very isolation of the Hungarian language - which, despite producing many marvellous writers, depends on translators of whom very few speak or read Hungarian - forced ambitious Hungarians into the other less verbal arts: into music, film, and photography. It may also be that the anxiety and adaptability produced by the nation’s geographical shape-shifting, the amoeba existence I mentioned at the start, conditions and refines tendencies and sensibilities. A constantly reiterated history of losses and recoveries - the individual now in the bosom of the nation, now marooned – might well make one sensitive to precisely such realms of feeling.

And we should, perhaps, add another destabilising factor. Kertész, Capa, Moholy-Nagy, and Munkácsi were all Jews, each of them part of one particular wave of exiled, expelled, terrified yet ambitious and talented émigré Jews, generations of whom had been washing about the world for a couple of millennia. After the fall of the Bolshevik republic of 1919, the leaders of which were mostly Jewish, the reaction in Hungary led to a series of anti-Semitic laws and produced a dangerous, oppressive atmosphere, especially for those who had supported the revolution. There were plenty of reasons for getting out into the world, to export your anxieties and search for delight in an open, international visual language. That did not mean there was an exclusively Hungarian sensibility to export, but the bedrock of Hungarian existence was always insecure. In that sense it was faulty but almost infinitely adaptable. André Kertész’s young friend and assistant, Sylvia Plachy, was a refugee from the same event that caused my own family to flee. It was in New York that she met Kertész.


Sylvia Plachy: Tightrope Walker, 2011

I think there are two chief tendencies in the Hungarian imagination, one essentially expressing itself as realism in the form of documentary: the other looking to fantasy, a fantasy sometimes violent, sometimes lush. (Hungarian film gives examples of both.) Work at either extreme might be outstanding. But the journey across the extremes could produce an idiosyncratic yet universal blend that speaks to both. Here it is in André Kertész.


André Kertész: Satiric Dancer, 1928

I want, finally, to return to Károly Escher and his Angel of Peace. The photograph is dated 1938, a year before the war. Is the image an example of irony or of hope? Is it perhaps comedy, a bitter joke? Surely, it is all these things, and more.

One last poem, an excerpt, from an early poem on photography written after my first return to Budapest in 1984. It follows my mother in her photographic work. It is called The Photographer in Winter. It is winter in Hungary and my mother is preparing to go out with her camera.


Voice 1
You touch your skin. Still young. The wind blows waves
Of silence down the street. The traffic grows

A hood of piled snow. The city glows.

The bridges march across a frozen river
Which seems to have been stuck like that for ever.
The elderly keep slipping into graves.

Your camera is waiting in its case.

What seems and is has never been less certain –
The room is fine, but there beyond the curtain
The world can alter shape. You watch and listen.
The mirror in the corner seems to glisten

With the image of a crystalline white face.

The white face in the mirror mists and moves
Obscure as ever. Waves of silence roll
Across the window. You are in control

Of one illusion as you close your eyes.
The room, at least, won’t take you by surprise
And even in the dark you find your gloves.

*

Voice 2
I see you standing there, not quite full length.
Successive sheets of ice preserve and bear

You up, first as a girl with wavy hair,

And then a prisoner, a skeleton
Just gathering new flesh. The layers go on
So fast that I am troubled by your strength.  

And now it’s winter, and this dreadful weather
Is always at the very edge of spring

But cannot make or fake it. I can’t bring
Another year to light. You sit alone
With all the pictures that the wind has blown
Away and art must somehow fit together.

[Ends]