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?