Marie's Day in the Park

Do you have a hero? Someone whom you look up to, perhaps when the proverbial chips are down, when life seems to have dealt you a tough hand? Well, my lovely sister Marie does. And that hero's name is Ellen—Ellen Macarthur. Or, better yet, Dame Ellen as she is now properly known.

Let Old Ken bring those of you States-side up to date here, as I understand that you may not have the same proud tradition of yachting as we do in "ye olde countree." Perhaps y'all back in the States think that yachting (which totally destroys golf, by the way) is just some kind of activity that a bunch of rich people with nothing better to do spend a lot of money on. No, no;we here in Britain know that people on yachts aren't rich swine; they're heroes! And it's especially heroic to dispense with the regular hired help on a yacht and go for a long sail all by yourself, as our Ellen did. Not only does this kind of self-sacrifice raise you into the glistening firmament of British cultural heroes—right there alongside Tony Blair, Wayne Rooney and dancing sensation Bez—but it can even separate you permanently from the great unwashed, should the Queen herself be tempted to introduce you into the peerage. Congratulations Ellen!

So, on a cold, grey afternoon not so long ago, Marie and I made our way down to that great center of English maritime history, Greenwich. There, beneath the prodigious historical shadow of the famous Cutty Sark, Dame Ellen disembarked from her well-traveled yacht and thrilled the crowd with a fascinating account of how she had entertained celebrities, prepared peacock-liver pâté and managed a rigorous fitness regiment while circumnavigating the globe. Marie, always eager for a little lime-light, tried her best to catch Dame Ellen's eye. But, as you can see from the jubilant faces of the rapt audience, Ellen was too busy working the crowd like a master magician; Marie and I were certainly worked up into quite a frenzy.



To cool things down a bit (but only a bit), Marie and I made our way down to the waterfront itself, where Ellen's boat lay at moor. Marie remarked that it seemed smaller than she had expected. We reminisced a bit about our childhood on our own humble craft. I mused a bit on where Dame Ellen must have housed the orchestra for her fancy-dress ball. Canary Wharf, that majestic home of commerce, smiled down on us from a distance. By the time we got home, Marie was ready for a nap—she was plum-tuckered out after all that excitement.

My Dream! (well, kinda)

Since last December when Old Ken actually contemplated started this humble blog, the question of exactly what might appear on it has been an object of no small consideration. Certainly, there are many stories I want to share with you—about my culinary preferences, about my birth, and about the adventures of my lovely sister (more to follow). But, the O.K. has also had ambitions of a different sort: to share the most disturbing advertisements I could possibly find. I mean, what is a panda bear doing serving bottled beef? That is just wrong!

But, I jest. Instead, my dream was this: like many friends with an interest in all things experimental, I happen to go to a quite a few talks, lectures, conferences ... things of that nature. Now, one can't go to everything one might want to hear (and believe me, there are many I wish I had not heard). The dream, however, was that Old Ken could make the humble gesture of passing along some notes of things he thought might be of interest to the greater experimental community from those talks he actually attended. Others might even then be moved to start their own blogs, and we could do a kind of 'exciting-note-swapping' gift exchange. As we say in Quito, 'que divertito'!

Now, in the future, Old Ken may want to pass along a more thorough, discursive 'take' on a conference or exhibit; but, my notion has been that you, my friend, might equally be interested in a more atmospheric presentation of my findings. As we will see, the latter is on tap for today.
But, to back up, the attended event itself was called "Conundra of Vision," held in Cambridge and designed to explore issues in the visual culture of Latin America. Old Ken was most interested to attend as old friend Tom Cummins (pictured below) was in the house, gracing ye Olde Country (and, hopefully, the Old Country Buffet) with his wit and wisdom. For you friends who follow Señor Tom's ways, he gave an interesting talk that synthesized familiar bits of Tom-lore (i.e. his work on the display of Inca portraits at the court of Charles V/Phillip II and his reading of the "The Gentlemen of Esmereldas" portrait) with an exploration of the gender/genre problem, via an emblem of a beared lady published by Covarrubias the year prior to publication of his famous dictionary.


The effort was (again, in a familiar Cummins way) to argue for the slipperiness of identities during the colonial period—using the androgyny of figures like the emblem or that of the militant angels in the fabulous Peruvian painting genre of the 17th c. to explore how markers of gender, race and ethnicity could be conflated and by whom. Old Ken found that this integration worked best when Tom stepped away from his spoken text and exposited during the questions period.



Next up on the conference schedule (after a much-needed session around the coffee urn) was Esther Acevedo who gave a talk on periodical illustration in mid-1860s Mexico. As Old Ken's Spanish was a bit rusty (and the talk was in that fine tongue), he listened politely but mostly drew.



"Lunch" (so-called) was next on the agenda. Below you will be able to get a sense of what it is that many English people call lunch. Note the extensive presence of mayonnaise. I went out and bought my own lunch, thank you.



In the afternoon, we were treated to a talk by Jesús Martín Barbera, which I believe was on the role of violence in Colombian visual culture. The speaker appears on the left in my sketch, seated next to a fellow who (were you to judge from my drawing) might be confused for a smirking Dave Bennett (to those of you who know that luminous philosopher from a certain small college in a northwesterly place). It was not Mr. Bennett, however.


After a pleasant day mostly spent sketching and trying to dust off his Spanish, Old Ken boarded a crowded train back to London. Should you have any interest in the sights on a typical train from Cambridge to London on a typical Friday, I offer you my sketch. So, all in all, a tentative first step toward my dream of insightful, illuminating philosophical communication. But, a step nonetheless. And should you, dear friend, wish to share likewise, please do so.

Studies in the History of My Birth

Since Old Ken started this blog, he has gotten quite a few questions. "Is all of this true?" "Was it unpleasant conducting experiments on the fruit of the sea?" And so on. However, the question I have heard most frequently is this: how were you born? In fact, there have been so many requests for this information that I feel I would be doing an injustice were I not to take the time to share my story.

As many of you know, I was born on a boat. Well, this is not entirely accurate. Technically, I was born beside a boat; in the water, that is. For, I was a water birth. My parents, like many who began having children in the 1890s, had done some research into what were then considered alternative birthing options. Through their reading, they learned that, evolved from water mammals (the dolphin, narwhal and majestic manatee particularly) as we humans are, aquatic parturition was probably the most natural option. Because they were living on a boat at the time, my father (who happens to be quite handy in that way) constructed a kind of harness apparatus along side of their vessel (HMS Red Ship of Spain), complete with a ladder, that my mother could descend as her contractions began.

I should say here that the drawing you see above is my own personal rendering of the way I visualize the scene of my birth might have been. Now, before any confusion arises, let me clarify the parameters and truth claims of this drawing. I have no proof that on or even near the time of my birth the moon was (say) full. Nor am I able to provide any kind of forensic documentation verifying that near the time of my birth my father (lithe and nimble swimmer though I have depicted him as having been) actually had no face. That is, I would like for you to think of this drawing as a possible suggestion of the circumstances under which a young Digby (Ken, that is) emerged forth from the briny depths and into this place we call the world.

Now, I recognize that you connoisseurs of my life will immediately object that this is an over-simplified account. Point taken, friend. In my defense, I'll say this. Unlike my artistic idol Sheridan Bucket, I am not that handy with a horse-hair brush. Lacking in confidence in my ability to render my finned friends, I have omitted from the drawing the pod of interested porpoises that immediately swam by as I was born, calling out with the irrepressible joy of their characteristic song. A notable omission for, later in life, I have often thought back to this primordial call—allowing its still-reverberating tones to play across my heart strings, and thereby to connect me with my own, true inner porpoise.

In fact, as my passport photo (below) suggests, I think this song has helped me to become The Man from A Place you know today.

The Nicest of all Possible Birds?

Through his many years on our planet, Old Ken has found that certain types of objects prove inextricable from the fabric of one's life. This might lead to morbid reflections of a certain philosophical sort; but, on a cold day such as this, it befits A Man From A Place to take a moment to celebrate one of these inescapable entities—an object that keeps popping up and, no less, has given name to this humble blog. I can speak of none other than the inimitable "nice bird."

Similar in its size and tactile appeal to an Ipod, this nice bird was given to yours truly at a young and (evidently) impressionable age. What particular bird species do we have in hand here? The pale powder-blue plastic exterior yields few clues. Perhaps a blue jay could be a reasonable inference, were we to judge from coloration. Yet, no gesture is made here to the jay's characteristic crested tuft and elongated beak. In their stead, our plastic friend seems to be something of a cyclops—its singular eye denoted by an iridescent, vermillion paint that has been applied into the bird's scored profile. Old Ken has always felt like he could feel something of a smile creeping across the bird's blunt, snout-like beak; but perhaps these are more the prejudiced sentimentalisms of a devoted friend than the rigorous observation our experimental project demands.



As we rotate our avian amigo to expose "its" (that is, Old Ken has thus far not been able to identify any markings, outward signs of genitalia or other traits that might enable the specimen's gender assignment) "soft white underbelly" (or, in this case, hard plastic side), we find a key to understanding the nice bird's elusive charms. For there, we may note a row of four, spring-action buttons. Once the nice bird has begun to "sing" (a delight induced by sliding forward a switch mechanism on the back of its head), alternating pressure upon these buttons yields pleasing variation to the creature's exultant song.



Old Ken should note that mellifluous as these songs are, they only render the question of species-designation more problematic. For, once activated, the standard sonic operation of our feathered friend is a sharp, stacatto "chirp." Rapid and menacingly repetitive, this singing can plausibly be borne by the human ear for no more than approximately 10 (ten) seconds—so this experimentalist would conclude. By pressing the first of the keys (i.e. that directly below the creature's beak and astride the upper reaches of its wing), the incessant chirping abruptly transforms into an elogated, descending pierce of sound whose most ready analogy here would be to the throbbing tone of an alarm clock. (Any musicologists out there who would like to do a proper study, please let me know). When the second button is pressed, meanwhile, the song becomes a more plaintive warble, almost in waltz tempo. The penultimate button seems to have no discernible effect at all; this may be by the design of the manufacturer, who wished to share as much of the beautiful "normal tone" as possible with the world, or may simply be an artifact of the age of the nice bird specimen under examination. Further testing will be necessary to resolve such queries. Finally, the fourth button renders a sound seemingly even more sharp, piercing and shrill than the others. I imagine this as a kind of "kissing sound" as made by a small, blue mechanical bird.

But kissing what? Might this last point suggest that the variations of bird sounds are so many attempts to simulate different moments in the life cycle of the target species? That is, the object produces the desperate hungry chirps of the infantile bird; its juvenile warbles; its normal, adult conversational chatter; and, finally, its "love song" or mating call? However you do it, nice bird, you can call me anytime!

Kiss the Cat!

After the last post relating the experimental results of an extremely philosophical meal, Old Ken has received a few queries. Many of you know of my long-standing vegetarianism—the product of an ill-fated encounter with moose-meat stew many, many years ago. Therefore, these interrogators have plausibly asked, was it difficult to prepare and cook herring? And, more specifically, how did the O.K. (Old Ken, that is) feel about probing poor, defenseless herring so profoundly?

Well, well. Difficult questions, these. But, by way of an answer, I would submit that my perseverance in the quest for knowledge suggests the extent the O.K. is willing to go for (a) the pursuit of experimental philosophy and (b) kinship with that treasured pearl of modern life, family. So, in light of these pointed queries, the present post may appear a kind of groveling supplication—a crass effort to re-establish my concern-for-animals "street cred." Again, marksman, you are on target. And, to mix metaphors still further, I lower my mask and scream "touché!" But then again, what I want to share with you is not truly a wee beast, but a magnificent work of public sculpture known with great affection in south east London as "the Catford Cat."



Once upon a time, there was a man from a place who stayed in a guest house in Catford. Perhaps, he had just arrived in greater London; he might even have just disembarked after a long plane flight and lugged a heavy suitcase from a major, London-area airport all the way to Catford to stay in a guest house he had seen advertised on the internet. Let us say that that guest house was unexpectedly closed as the proprietor had perhaps gone to a spiritual revival in Ethiopia. For the sake of conversation, let's say that this now homeless visitor to Catford sat forlornly on his suitcase, sweating in the sun of late August, pondering his prospects. What was it that caused his eyes and (dare I say?) his hopes to turn upwards? As always, Old Ken likes to keep speculations on such matters to a minimum. But, again hypothetically, whatever might have caused this stranger—this midnight rambler, this drifter ... this man from a place—to cast his gaze toward the heavens, it was there that they met a truly majestic sight: the Catford Cat.



What kind of role should sculpture have in contemporary public space? Should it be the object of reverent attention, of everyday use, or of critique of the social world into which it is cast? The Catford Cat poses these questions in interesting ways. Stealthily poised on a sign advertising the Catford Shopping Center—not entirely like a steel worker in those staggering photographs depicting the construction of skyscrapers in New York City—our massive feline friend appears ready to strike. It resembles less a domestic cat or even those feral critters known to scamper down the streets of south-eastern London with purloined jellied eels in their jaws; indeed, its pronounced musculature, taut ears and tail make it appear more like the ferocious puma or the notorious mountain lion.



Positioned above the sidewalk and thus out of the observer's reach, the Catford Cat seems to anticipate and luxuriate in its own visibility. I mean look at those eyes! Enormous, trained intently on some mysterious object upon which our kitty seems to be coiling up to release a devastating blow, these bumblebee orbs point up a basic characteristic of our levitating friend. That is, Kitty (presumably made of some sort of roughly-textured stucco) has been painted. In earlier times, the painting of sculptures was a subject of some serious consternation in Protestant lands. Known in Spanish by the telling name "encarnación," poly-chrome sculpture raised the ire of Protestant theologians for whom it came a bit to close of violating the Mosaic prohibition of graven images. (Indeed, to Old Ken's mind, the Catford Cat might well be the most visible example of poly-chrome sculpture in London—although I reserve the right to utterly repudiate that hypothesis in the future). Close, but tantalizingly out of reach; seemingly humble in its evocation of the domestic, yet monstrous in apparent strength and scale; might we not imagine the Catford Cat to, in fact, be the logical extension and contemporary extension of religious sculpture? When we look into the eyes of the Catford Cat, in other words, do we not see all that is truly holy in this world?