I Packed My Trunk for Pachyderm

Well, the big talk in old London-town the last few days has been about a kind of street carnival that is currently being staged in the area around Trafalgar Square and Buckingham Palace. As you may be able to guess from the photograph above, one of the protagonists in this act is a gigantic, artificial elephant; actually, this beast may be the eponymous centerpiece to the performance, which is known as "The Sultan's Elephant."

Now, the press coverage of this performance has been interesting to Old Ken, as it has brought to my attention a new wrinkle in the rich fabric that is the conception of the French among the English. This centers on the charge of "wackiness." Back on the flip side of the Atlantic, it seems there is some circulation of this idea—"Cirque de Soleil" and the inexplicable French fondness for Jerry Lewis being the most obvious manifestations. But, I suppose I had always thought that much of the stereotyping of the French in the English imagination had to do more with effeminancy, effeteness and affection for big (and thus, dangerous) ideas—the caricature of the mincing French courtier, eating peacock liver paté, while ruminanting over diabolical (i.e. Catholic) designs being exemplary. So, perhaps the leap from this kind of flightiness of mind to a love for ceremony (again, a stereotype of Catholic religiosity) and general wackiness isn't too far.



And while the French will figure in the little story Old Ken would like to offer on this fine afternoon, the fascination with elephants is surely one that the English seem to share in as well. Consider, for example, the amazing head of a pachyderm that has been constructed on the facade of a house on Lewisham Way in south east London. When I first encountered this creature, I had a difficult time discerning whether it was truly an elephant or perhaps some sort of roof repair project that had gone terribly wrong; indeed, it was a bit difficult to get an agreeable photograph.



Such was not the case with the amazing reconstruction of a fossilized mastodon, which I encountered in the Museum of Comparative Anatomy on a recent trip to Paris. Opened around the turn of the twentieth century, this museum (located inside the Jardin des Plantes in the fifth arrondissement) was a favorite haunt of yours truly back at a time when I was a denizen of that fair city. In these days of youth, I remember marvelling as much at the amazing metal-work of the armatures holding these skeletons together as the beasts themselves.



While the intricate biomorphism of the balcony railing visible in the previous photograph is perhaps a slightly more compelling example, it is fascinating to note the harmony between the interior architecture of the museum itself (its ribbed roofing, etc.) and the artifacts displayed therein.



From small projecting balconies, one can look down on this amazing calcified parade. It certainly brought to the mind of this experimentalist one particular account of a seventeenth century wherein the viewer described the experience of seeing such a collection of skeletons as like being a witness to the second coming when all the dead rise from their graves and begin to walk!



But, marvellous as these cetaceous creatures seen in the previous image are, it seems to me that there is something undeniably attractive to the imagination in contemplating an elephant. But why? Part of it, so it strikes Old Ken, is that there is something of the sublime about the creature; it is so massive, its tusks seem so agressive. And yet, most frequently we see them from behind some sort of protective barrier, insuring that they won't really hurt us. At the same time, though, elephants combine such strange quirks of evolutionary equipment (the aforementioned tusks, the trunk, massive ears, etc.) with traits that seem deceptively similar (the eye-lashes, knees—elephants being the only creatures, so I read, with four forward-bending ones). Thus, perhaps part of the attraction is that as massive and unusual as they are, elephants have sufficient features to allow us to imagine that they—more so than, say, whales—have something human about them: they are "like us."



Now, it has to be said that all of these fantasies of fear and wonder were being played out at Horse Guard's Parade grounds less than a mile from Downing Street where another elephant (at least if we follow the wonderful caricatures of Guardian cartoonist Steve Bell) was being sacrificed. That is, Home Secretary Charles Clarke was ass-canned by Tony Blair following some dire returns for the Labour party in the local council elections. While perhaps it is only coincidence that this wacky French theater group was staging their spectacle of the elephant on the day when Clarke would get the ax, might it only be that these Frenchies have an upcoming date in Washington DC to give a performance centering upon a gigantic ape and sweet, sweet lightning (that is—cue Donald Trump voice—"You're Fired!") will strike twice.