The blog of author Dennis Cooper

Category: Uncategorized (Page 812 of 1088)

Bill Brand Day

 

‘For over four decades Bill Brand has been an artist, educator, activist and film preservationist. His experimental and documentary films, videos and installations have exhibited extensively in the US and abroad in museums, microcinemas, and on television since the early 1970’s. They have been featured at major film festivals including the Berlin Film Festival and New Directors/ New Films Festival and are written about in cinema history books and in articles by Erik Barnouw, David James, Janet Maslin, Paul Arthur, J. Hoberman, B. Ruby Rich, and Noel Carroll, among others.

‘All of Brand’s films explore landscape and the body to express a broad variety of themes including industrial production, medicine, travel and family history. Quiet explorations of exterior spaces that unveil more than is apparent.

‘His famous 1980 public artwork, Masstransiscope, a mural in a NYC subway tunnel that is animated by the movement of passing trains, is in the permanent collection of the MTA Arts for Transit program. In 1973 he founded Chicago Filmmakers, the showcase and workshop and served on the Board of Directors of the Collective for Living Cinema in New York City. He is currently a trustee of the Flaherty Seminar and an advisor to the Orphan Film Symposium. Since 1976 he has operated BB Optics, an optical printing service specializing in archival preservation of small gauge films and films by artists.

‘In 2006 Brand was named an Anthology Film Archives film preservation honoree and given a month long retrospective to celebrate BB Optics’ 30th anniversary. He is currently Professor of Film and Photography at Hampshire College and since 2005 has also taught film preservation in the graduate Moving Image Archiving and Preservation program at New York University.’ — Cinema Without Borders

 

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Stills





































 

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Further

Bill Brand Website
BB Optics
Bill Brand @ IMDb
Bill Brand @ The Film-Makers Cooperative
Bill Brand @ Lightcone
Bill Brand @ Galerie Arnaud Lefebvre
CONNECTIVITY THROUGH CINEMA WITH BILL BRAND
Results You Can’t Refuse: Celebrating 30 Years of BB Optics
Experimental Filmmaking: Break the Machine
Making “Masstransiscope”
Now Available on DVD: The Films of Bill Brand!

 

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Masstransiscope
Bill Brand’s 1980 public artwork restored in 2008 can be seen on the Q and B trains from DeKalb Ave. in Brooklyn going into Manhattan toward Canal or Grand St. Look out the window on the right.

 

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Extras


The Artist Behind the Artist: Film Preservationist Bill Brand


Bill Brand, Preservationist, BBOptics

 

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Interview
from Desist Film

 

Desistfilm: This “permutation” of the image, or your technique of inserting images in the interstices of the filmic space (kinetic fields, as you call them, where two images coexist in the same environment): how does it serve a particular purpose, for example, in two films as different as “Huevos a la Mexicana”, “Coalfields” or “Tracy’s family folk festival”?

Bill Brand: There are several threads to this technique. In the early 1970’s I made films that derived from the material and mechanisms of film. I was a student of Paul Sharits and collaborated with him to create his first installation (Locational) work, Sound Strip / Film Strip (1972). My films Moment (1972) and Demolition of a Wall (1973) explored time and motion where the frame is the limiting dimension. Both films play with the directionality of the moving image in time and space, complicating notions of forward, backward, left and right. Demolition of a Wall presents all 720 permutations of six frames from the Lumiere film of the same title. In this period of my work I started thinking about grain as a limiting factor of the image. I was inspired watching Robert Huot’s 1968 film Spray where he painted clear leader with spray paint to produce a swarm of grain-like patterns on the screen. I thought, “what if each grain, instead of being a just a unit of an image, could be a frame for the image as well. My first film exploring this idea was Zip-Tone-Cat-Tune (1972). Here the “grain/frame” is a grid of dots from an animated ben-day pattern and the photographic image is of a cat in positive and negative. I built a proto-optical printer to composite the films. I added freeze frames and colorized the b&w footage with filters so that the space, time and motion between the positive and negative images are in tension, structured (I imagined) like harmonic rhythm in baroque music. But the dots don’t swirl randomly like grains or the paint drops in Huot’s film, so after making Zip-Tone-Cat-Tune I looked for ways to accomplish this.

Of course, I had many ideas that motivated this search. It wasn’t just a visual technique. For instance, with Zip-Tone-Cat-Tune I was trying to create composition in time analogous to music. With later films I was trying to create other kinds of layered counterpoint. But throughout, I was making images about thresholds, boundaries of perception and apprehension. With each film, the particular purpose, as you’ve asked, shifted or accumulated new dimensions. So, with Works in the Field, I was taking apart the foundations of Renaissance perspective and exploring its relationship to conventional cinematic language – looking for what gives the picture its authority as document (truth) and what is it about the photographic-cinematic composition that carries an ephemeral emotional truth. Or at least, that’s what I thought I was doing. All this, I believed, had a political dimension. I wasn’t the only one during that period who thought my work was a critique of how cinema functions as social control. I don’t think my ideas were particularly original or even very coherent. But the visual ideas were more so and perhaps this is what drove me to continue working in this direction. So with each film, I pushed the visual ideas and they served different purposes with each step. Split Decision takes apart narrative and conventional story telling tropes. Chuck’s Will’s Widow is more about personal expression and lyricism. Tracy’s Family Folk Festival and Coalfields puts documentary and explicit social-political content through the matrix of my visual ideas.

I thought I had come to the end of these visual ideas with Coalfields, but they returned in video in Suite and more recently in digital works including Huevos a la Mexicana where I apply ideas from all these past works in ways that are less conscious and more playful. But I am aware that it all has something to do with mark making and gesture, especially in relation to the drawing and painting that has become a more prominent feature of my studio work.

Desistfilm: “Susie’s Ghost” is a melancholic journey, the phantasmagoria reflected in the absence, in the impossibility of seeing something which is supposed to happen or appear in screen. It’s both a human and a territorial tale. What drove you to make such a particular film like this?

Bill Brand: My previous two films Skinside Out and Swan’s Island were collaborations with my wife, Katy Martin, a mixed media and performance artist who paints on her own body and produces inkjet prints and films of her actions. I had been shooting photographs under her direction for this work until she started using a digital camera and could shoot herself. During the same period I was making Suite, a series of five videos where I used my own body as a way to deal with family history and genetic disease and where sometimes Katy filmed me under my direction. After completing Suite Katy and I made Skinside Out and Swan’s Island together to see what would happen if we deliberately collaborated as co-directors.

After completing these two films with Katy I wanted to keep exploring performance and landscape independent from Katy’s work so I began sketching ideas with former student Ruthie Marantz. Ruthie had grown up in my neighborhood. Her mother was my daughter’s elementary school principal during the same period I was Ruthie’s college professor. So we shared a connection to the place although from the perspective of two different generations. Tribeca and Soho, which had gone from an abandoned manufacturing district to an enclave of struggling artists, was now in its last stages of disappearing into a fully gentrified neighborhood for the ultra wealthy. Ruthie and I each, for our own reasons, were experiencing feelings of loss in relation to the place. Without even talking about it, this became evident in the improvisational video sketches we made. Eventually I asked her to improvise performances in the neighborhood landscape while I shot out-of-date 16mm film I had accumulated in my refrigerator. I was beginning to shoot HD digital but didn’t yet feel I understood the images it created. So in shooting up my remaining film-stock I was paying a melancholic tribute to a passing medium in the passing landscape during a time of other personal loss including the passing of my oldest sister Susan. Ruthie was dealing with her own passages and these entered the film through the fluid characters she created for the camera.

This was also the period when I started making drawings of my family who were now growing up and leaving home. Here my sense of loss found expression with direct marks by hand on paper. Many of my films are landscapes where the gesture of hand and eye through the camera carry an ephemeral emotion. With Susie’s Ghost I tried to include a figure in the picture where my framing of the landscape foregrounds as the primary carrier of emotion instead of merely receding as background for the figurative character. This ambition was harmonious with the themes of loss and passage feeding into the work and contributes to what you are calling its phantasmagoric absence. MoMA curator Josh Siegel called the film runic. By foregrounding the gestural framing of the camera and the graphic qualities of the landscape, the figure slips into an unstable netherworld, neither here nor gone.

When I make a film or any other artwork, I don’t have something I’m trying to say. Instead it’s through making the work that I discover what the work says. Its an unconscious process that involves deliberate actions but rarely deliberate meanings.

Desistfilm: You’ve tried both working the image in computer generated fields, digitally, and by hand, to recreate techniques, I’d dare to say, that look to serve a similar purpose. How are this methods different from each other in the sense of how do you use them in your images?

Bill Brand: I first used computers in the early 1970s to generate analog film materials and more recently used digital tools to return to some of the visual ideas I invented with analog film. The main difference for me working mostly with digital tools is the absence of the physical materials and the generative resistance they provide. I think a viewer feels the physical dimension of a film even if projected digitally and it certainly plays a role in my creative process. With recent works such as Huevos a la Mexicana I used ink on paper and physical objects to generate mattes for compositing with the hope that it would bring into the work some of this physical dimension. I’ve still got more to do in this direction before I’m satisfied.

 

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15 of Bill Brand’s 28 films

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Always Open Never Closed (1971)
‘A woman wakes up, gets dressed, makes breakfast and walks down the street. This daily ritual becomes extraordinary seen in a trance-like structure of continuous lap dissolves and continuous spectral color shifts.’ — BB

 

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Zip-Tone-Cat-Tune (1972)
‘A simple home movie of a cat is reprocessed through a ‘Zip-a-tone’ dot pattern making a complex of layers. In combination with freeze frames, positive and negative, and color motion, this work attempts to visually construct a system of overlays like those in Baroque musical composition.” — Filmmakers Coop

 

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Acts of Light (1974)
‘ACTS OF LIGHT is a trilogy consisting of RATE OF CHANGE, ANGULAR MOMENTUM, and CIRCLES OF CONFUSION. Together they develop a study of pure color based on the notion that film is essentially change and not motion. The films build one on the other as first pure change, then relational change, and finally, irrational change. They can be seen together or as separate works.’ — BB

 

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Touch Tone Phone Film (1973)
‘The phone rings and a woman gets up to answer it. This event is recorded on film but we only see it as a sliding strip. Each time the action repeats, the film strip slides past and stops at a frame closer to her picking up the phone. The film’s form mimics the hiatus of machine-human interface…(it) impresses primarily as a wittily anecdotal metaphor.’ –- Ian Christie

 

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Demolition of a Wall (1973)
‘DEMOLITION OF A WALL takes six frames of the falling wall from the 1896 Lumiere film and shows reorders these six frames in all their permutations. With a score for piano that follows a similar pattern the film resembles change ringing, a musical form developed in England in the 17th century where the tuned bells of a church tower are rung in a series of mathematical patterns called “changes”. In the original Lumiere film, we see Lumiere himself directing workers demolish the wall while a mysterious man in the background watches. In its first commercial screening, Lumiere showed the film forward and backward. Here, we see 718 additional variations on the theme.’ — BB

 

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Before the Fact (from Cartoons) (1974)
‘Made at S.U.N.Y. at Binghamton as a class exercise, filmmaker Saul Levine performs with students who each try to mimic his previously recorded phrase and then try to imitate each other imitating the recording. Cartoons is series of short playful films that pose riddles or jokes about Structural Film concepts in avant-garde film.’ — BB

 

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Works in the Field (1978)
‘Mountain landscapes, Manhattan cityscapes and images from magazine covers and television news are fragmented through optical printing with computer generated mattes. Intercut with a found documentary about family life in Malaysia, the film becomes an essay on reading. Watching the film is like an accelerated game of Concentration with glimpses of the image appearing inside swirling grids. The juxtaposition of the gridded sequences to the conventionally assembled Malaysian footage formulates an inquiry into the nature and meaning of the “document” in cinema.’ — BB

 

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Split Decision (1979)
‘The fact that the film embraces narrative shows how far Brand has come since emerging in the early ‘70’s as a virtuoso of American structural cinema. ‘Split Decision’ may go down in history as the first-ever topological melodrama, combining a witty scenario on conversational ambivalence with a frenzy of visual ambivalence, produced by fragmentation of the image into a kind of spatio-temporal mosaic.’ — Time Out, London

 

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Tracy’s Family Folk Festival (1983)
‘This is an impressionistic portrayal of the 1982 folk festival at Tracy and Eloise Schwarz’s farm in Central Pennsylvania. The festival, dedicated that year to the legendary Elizabeth Cotton, includes Bluegrass, Old Timey, Cajun, Country, and Gospel music. In contrast to the easygoing atmosphere of the festival, the film is a frenetic swirl of elaborately collaged shapes derived from traditional Pennsylvania Dutch designs. While sometimes the music seems to animate the image, at others the image itself becomes visual music on its own, eliciting ephemeral and sometimes forlorn emotions. The film offers an unusual meeting of a folk tradition and the avant garde, implying a fundamental connection between the two.’ — BB

 

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Home Less Home (1990)
‘Bill Brand’s remarkable documentary probes the lifestyles of the homeless population of our city and reveals perhaps the most frightening news of all. Many of those we see outside in cardboard boxes or sleeping bags are not drunks, addicts or lazy, but workers who simply don’t earn enough to rent a room in New York.’ — The Film Society of Lincoln Center

‘The testimony of many homeless people would have been a sufficiently urgent basis for any documentary film on this subject. But Mr. Brand goes further, offering a disquisition on the connection between the condition of the homeless and the consequences of studying it as a series of images’ — Janet Maslin, The New York Times

 

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Double Nephrectomy (from Suite) (1998)
‘This double portrait cinematically projects my sister’s wound onto my own body and psyche. Shortly after she received a living donor kidney from a friend, I filmed the scar that resulted from removing both her damaged organs. This video projects that image of her two-week-old scar onto my own body, visualizing my complex feelings of knowing I have been spared the gene that caused her disease. In the video, I find, on my own body, the scars I imagine we share.’ — BB

 

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I’m a Pilot Like You (1999)
‘I’M A PILOT LIKE YOU was shot July, 1999 inside and outside 20 North Moore Street where John and Carolyn Kennedy lived. Ruth Hardinger, a sculptor, is a 1st floor resident in this building and was unwittingly trapped by the media frenzy and the public attention that unfolded on the sidewalk in front of the building after the Kennedy plane crashed off Martha’s Vineyard. Bill Brand, a nearby neighbor and experimental filmmaker, collaborated to make a video that gives a unique view from inside the building, looking back at the spectacle created by the public and the media. It shows what it felt like to be on the other side of the story.

‘Ruth’s front steps may be the most photographed 50 feet in TriBeCa’s history and “I’m a Pilot like You” provides an intimate and critical view of what it was like to live through this period of uninvited attention. The film captures the moments in which this neighborhood, prized by the Kennedy’s for its sense of anonymity, became as a result of their unhappy deaths, a place of international celebrity.’ — BB

 

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Skinside Out (2002)
‘SKINSIDE OUT features paint on skin, carried out in an expressionist mode on both of the filmmakers’ bodies. The emphasis is on the pleasure of looking — at the edge of repulsion — and the implications of making public an essentially private gesture. The film posits painting as a gendered, bodily act, whose location shifts continually within a context that’s always changing. Images filmed in the studio are juxtaposed with footage of a construction barge along the Hudson. By examining both in relation to surface, the work paradoxically looks for what lies within, while questioning who and where we take ourselves to be.’ — BB

 

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Swan’s Island (2005)
‘SWAN’S ISLAND focuses on gesture in painting, and how that relates to the hand-held camera. The emphasis is on the physicality of painting, and its visceral connection to memory and imagination. Here, the movement of the artist’s hand is expanded to include the entire body. The film is about gesture as a kind of performance. Katy paints directly on her skin, and as she moves, leaves marks on the floor. Bill films the body and its trace, linking his own movement with cinematic space.’ — Filmmakers Coop

 

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Susie’s Ghost (2011)
‘SUSIE’S GHOST is about the mystery of the marks we make and leave behind. The “Susie” in the title refers to a sibling but the “ghost” refers more generally to lingering feelings of loss. The cinematography and performance both express a tentative presence and diffuse sense of disappearance. Is she looking for something? Is she really there? We shot with aging 16mm film in my downtown Manhattan neighborhood, just before construction mania obliterated the last traces of the manufacturing district I’d moved into years earlier.’ — BB

 

 

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p.s. Hey. ** Steve Erickson, Thanks. I did (have fun at Disneyland). Everyone, Mr. Erickson has reviewed Benjamin Naishtat’s new film ‘Rojo’ here if you’re hopefully interested. Good that the insurance stuff is working out. I haven’t seen that Mandico short, no, but I’ll go over to MUBI and watch it. I’m interested in what he does, and, at a shorter length, most definitely. Thanks! Pym is a master for absolute sure. One of those writers where, once you get a taste for her prose, it’s lifelong. That’s fantastic news that you’re interviewing J. Hoberman. Wow, you must have a zillion questions you’d like to ask him. And cool that it’s for Filmmaker. I really like that site/mag, and Scott MacCaulay is a big hero of mine. ** David Ehrenstein, Hi. Everyone, Mr. E has added to his FaBlog with something called ‘Graham Greene Goes To Mar-A-Lago’, which certainly is a curious combo idea, so hit it up. I don’t know if you saw, but Steve Erickson asked you if you’re selling things in your big sale by mail. ** Bill, Yes, I did a ‘Bill’ and was suffering notably at ‘WB’s’ excessive, to me, length. I did enjoy Disneyland, thank you, and, speaking of, when I was a kid, Disneyland (LA) had an amazing magic shop, and I used to make my parents take me to the park just so I could shop there. They killed it off in the 1970s, fuck knows why. Pym is fantastic, and her prose is quite addictive. Oh, yes, I’ve had ‘Annabel Lecter’s’ cakes in various posts in the past. She’s up there, really a matter of that sort of thing. And since I’m just starting to scout things for the upcoming Halloween season here at the blog, I am reminded, thanks to you, to troll her new stuff. Thanks, bud. ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, Ben. That is a pity. I know nothing about this ‘Mr. Benn’ show, but I will rectify that post-haste. Yes, Pym is in that divine area of writers along with the great genius Ivy Compton-Burnett and others, and she’s one of the very, very best at it. ** Lynne Tillman, Lynne! Thank you so much for coming in here! And of course I love that you love Barbara Pym, and, yeah, that makes so much sense. Such an incredible wordsmith! I hope you’re doing really, really well, my pal and hero! Much love! ** Kyler, Hi, Kyler. Yes, I got your message. I’ve been meaning to write back to you. It arrived in the midst of the sudden death of a good friend and collaborator so I was kind out of sorts. I’m so sorry, man. Losing a parent, and both parents, that’s as heavy as it gets. You sound good, and I’m really happy to hear that. Many hugs and lots of love to you. ** Shane Christmass, Ha ha. Hi, Shane. Oh, yeah, I think ‘Gone Tomorrow’ is my favorite of Gary’s novels. Kind of an overlooked one. Congrats on your new novel! That album you linked to is a Harris project? No, I don’t know it. I will go eat it up. And thanks for the link to your story. I’ll find the time to reward myself with that ASAP. You take care too. ** Misanthrope, Hi, G. I did (have fun). The ‘Spiderman’ movies kind of irritate me for some reason. All of them, even though all the rebooting and recasting has changed them. Don’t know why. I’m very impressed that you know a guy who’s not only a magician but who performs at Mandalay Bay, which is a pretty way-up-there gig for a magician. Back when Criss Angel was on Facebook he ‘friended’ me. I always thought that was curious. I didn’t know he was still around doing his stuff. ** Right. I think most people know Bill Brand primarily for his trippy Masstransiscope piece in the NYC subway system, but he’s a very excellent filmmaker. My favorites are the ‘grid’ films — ‘Works in the Field’, ‘Split Decision’, and others — but they’re all very worth watching if you haven’t (or have). Dig in please. See you tomorrow.

Spotlight on … Barbara Pym A Glass of Blessings (1958)

 

‘I discovered Barbara Pym in my sophomore year of college, thanks to a friend who gave me her 1958 novel, A Glass of Blessings. I loved the book for its understated humor, the way its heroine, Wilmet, mocks her own lack of direction as she drifts through a world divided into church jumble sales, dull sherry parties, and a secret crush on a man who turns out to have a live-in “friend” named Keith. Though the copy was a reprint, I still thought we’d stumbled onto some lost treasure, a forgotten library gem. Soon enough I realized that what I’d stumbled onto was a gigantic literary bandwagon. In 1985, everybody seemed to be reading Barbara Pym, though she herself had been dead for several years.

‘Of course, people had different reactions to her. There were readers like me who became annoyingly obsessed with her novels; even our vocabulary reflected it. Whatever slang we’d been speaking before Barbara Pym, we quit using it and started tossing around tweedy words like unpleasantness and cloakroom. Against the advice of our teachers, we took to using the pronoun one as in “One regrets the unpleasantness in the cloakroom.” Less-besotted readers enjoyed Barbara Pym but lumped her in with Miss Read and other writers of “gentle fiction,” a condescending term if there ever was one.

‘Still others couldn’t see any attraction at all in Pym’s stories about women who dote on men and men who accept feminine devotion as their due. They considered her work depressing (men, she said herself, often found it so), uneventful, or simply shallow. A professor of mine said that he found her fiction (he’d read only one novel) “nothing but fluff.” How, he asked, could John Updike have praised her so highly? …

Excellent Women appeared in 1952, followed by Jane and Prudence, Less than Angels, A Glass of Blessings, and No Fond Return of Love. These novels of the 1950s (she finished the last by 1960) all share some elements: the distinctive Pym irony, the landscape of London with its crowded lunchrooms and crippled churches, and her recognizable character types. Some of these types include the “splendid” women who know how to deal with life’s pivotal events: “birth, marriage, death, the successful jumble sale, the garden fete spoiled by bad weather.” Or the maddeningly or perhaps endearingly vain men, whether priests or anthropologists, who imagine that any woman should be glad to do their laundry and proofread their manuscripts. …

‘For me, raised on the dreary fiction of the 1960s and 1970s, Barbara Pym’s affectionate irony was a revolution of its own. Though I never successfully applied it to my own writing, it colored the way I looked at life, helping me find a way out of personal pain, or at least giving me hints of a way. Now I see less comedy and more essential sadness in even the brightest of her novels—a feminine longing that underlies all the jokes about dutiful women, charming but vain men, tribalized anthropologists, high-minded priests. I also see the strengthening effects of love and forgiveness upon comedy. If the literary archdeacons of her time couldn’t appreciate it, well . . . one does see the irony in that.’ — Betty Smartt Carter, First Things

 

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Gallery

 

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Further

The Barbara Pym Society of North America
‘The novels of Barbara Pym’
‘Philip Hensher toasts the novelist Barbara Pym’
‘Marvelous Spinster Barbara Pym At 100’
‘Celebrating Barbara Pym’
‘Patron Saint of Quiet Lives: A Look2 Essay on Barbara Pym’
‘Barbara Pym fans converge on Boston’
‘The Blagger’s Guide To: Barbara Pym’
Barbara Pym’s Desert Island Discs
‘Pride and Perseverance’
‘Barbara Pym: The Other Jane Austen’
Barbara Pym Doll Miniature Art Collectible
‘“Allegra! … Isn’t that lovely?” Names in Barbara Pym’s novels’
Buy ‘A Glass of Blessings’

 

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Extras


The Legacy of Barbara Pym


Barbara Pym’s correspondence with her publishers

 

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Finding a Voice
by Barbara Pym

 

I’ve sometimes wondered whether novelists like to be remembered for what they’ve said or because they’ve said it in their own particular way—in their own distinctive voice. But how do you acquire your own voice or indeed any kind of voice? Does it come about as inevitably as your height or the colour of your eyes or do you develop it deliberately, perhaps in imitation of a writer you admire?

I’ve been trying to write novels, with many ups and downs, over more than forty years. I started as a schoolgirl, when I used to contribute to the school magazine—mostly parodies, conscious even then of other people’s styles. Then in 1929, when I was sixteen, I discovered Aldous Huxley’s novel Crome Yellow. I came across this sophisticated masterpiece in the wilds of Shropshire, through that marvellous institution Boots’ Library, now, alas, as much of a period memory as the seven and sixpenny hardback novel. I was a keen reader of all kinds of modern fiction, and more than anything else I read at that time Crome Yellow made me want to be a novelist myself. I don’t suppose for a moment that I appreciated the book’s finer satirical points, but it seemed to me funnier than anything I had read before, and the idea of writing about a group of people in a certain situation—in this case upper-class intellectuals in a country house—immediately attracted me, so I decided that I wanted to write a novel like Crome Yellow.

And so my first novel—unpublished, of course—was started in that same year, 1929. It was called Young Men in Fancy Dress and was about a group of “Bohemians”—I must put that word in quotes—who were, in my view, young men living in Chelsea, a district of which I knew nothing at that time.        The hero wanted to be a novelist and, as one of the characters put it, “If you want to be a proper novelist, you must get to like town and develop a passion for Chelsea.”

Reading the manuscript again, I detect almost nothing in it of my mature style of writing, except that the Bohemian young men aren’t taken entirely seriously, and that there’s a lot of detail—clothes, makes of cars, golf, and drinks (especially descriptions of cocktails—which . I’d certainly never tasted). I’ve always liked detail—in fact my love of triviality has been criticised—so perhaps that was something I developed early. And obviously at that time I read a lot—if a bit indiscriminately. In this early novel all the “best” or at least the most fashionable names are dropped, from Swinburne and Rupert Brooke to D. H. Lawrence and Beverley Nichols.

When I was eighteen, I went up to Oxford to read English. Most aspiring novelists write at the University, but I didn’t, though I did start to write something in my third year, a description of a man who meant a lot to me. I tore it up, but this person did appear later in a very different guise as one of my best comic male characters. There was nothing comic to me about him at the time, but memory is a great transformer of pain into amusement. And at Oxford, as well as English Literature, I went on reading modern novelists.

I particularly enjoyed the works of “Elizabeth”, the author of Elizabeth and Her German Garden. Such novels as The Enchanted April and The Pastor’s Wife were a revelation in their wit and delicate irony, and the dry, unsentimental treatment of the relationship between men and women which touched some echoing chord in me at that time. I was learning; these novels seemed more appropriate to use as models than Crome Yellow—perhaps even the kind of thing I might try to write myself.

It must also have been about this time—still in the 1930s—that I was introduced to the poems of John Betjeman. His glorifying of ordinary things and buildings and his subtle appreciation of different kinds of churches and churchmanship made an immediate appeal to me. Another author I came across at this time was Ivy Compton-Burnett—I think More Women than Men, her novel about a girls’ school, was the first I read; then A House and Its Head, one of her more typical family chronicles. Of course I couldn’t help being influenced by her dialogue, that precise, formal conversation which seemed so stilted when I first read it— though when I got used to it, a friend and I took to writing to each other entirely in that style. Another book we imitated was Stevie Smith’s Novel on Yellow Paper, a fantasy, written with all the humour and pathos of her poems.

So all the writers I’ve mentioned played some part in forming my own literary style. But of course I’d also been reading the classics, especially Jane Austen and Trollope. Critics discussing my work sometimes tentatively mention these great names, mainly, I think, because I tend to write about the same kind of people and society as they did, although, of course, the ones I write about live in the twentieth century. But what novelist of today would dare to claim that she was influenced by such masters of our craft? Certainly all who read and love Jane Austen may try to write with the same economy of language, even try to look at their characters with her kind of detachment, but that is as far as any “influence” could go.

The concept of “detachment” reminds me of the methods of the anthropologist, who studies societies in this way. The joke definition of anthropology as “the study of man embracing woman” might therefore seem peculiarly applicable to the novelist. After the war, I got a job at the International African Institute in London. I was mostly engaged in editorial work, smoothing out the written results of other people’s researches, but I learned more than that in the process. I learned how it was possible and even essential to cultivate an attitude of detachment towards life and people, and how the novelist could even do “field- work” as the anthropologist did. And I also met a great many people of a type I hadn’t met before. The result of all this was a novel called Less Than Angels, which is about anthropologists working at a research centre in London, and also the suburban background of Deirdre, one of the heroines, and her life with her mother and aunt. There’s a little church life in it too, so that it could be said to be a mixture of all the worlds I had experience of. I felt in this novel that I was breaking new ground by venturing into the academic scene, although in many ways that isn’t unlike the worlds of the village and parish I’d written about up to then.

I admire those people who can produce a new book regularly every year. I’ve found it more difficult as time goes on. I suppose it’s easy for anyone to produce their first novel—it’s all there inside you and only needs to be written down. Also a second and third may be just under the surface and comparatively easy to dig out. After that it becomes more difficult, unless you’re prepared to go on writing exactly the same book with only slight variations, over and over again. And people are always very ready to tell you anecdotes from their own experience—which, in their opinion, would be just the thing for one of your novels. Read- ers who don’t like your kind of story sometimes suggest plots or subjects for you in the hope that you may write something different. And sometimes, especially when things aren’t going well, it’s tempting to give it a try.

(the entirety)

 

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Book

Barbara Pym A Glass of Blessings
Virago Press

‘Barbara Pym’s early novel takes us into 1950s England, where life revolved around the village green and the local church—as seen through the funny, engaging, yearning eyes of a restless housewife

‘Wilmet Forsyth is bored. Bored with the everyday routine of her provincial village life. Bored with teatimes filled with local gossip. Bored with her husband, Rodney, a military man who dotes on her. But on her thirty-third birthday, Wilmet’s conventional life takes a turn when she runs into the handsome brother of her close friend.

‘Attractive and enigmatic, Piers Longridge is a mystery Wilmet is determined to solve. Rather than settling down, he lived in Portugal, then returned to England for a series of odd jobs. Driven by a fantasy of romance, the sheltered, naïve Englishwoman sets out to seduce Piers—only to discover that he isn’t the man she thinks he is.

‘As cozy as sharing a cup of tea with an old friend, A Glass of Blessings explores timeless themes of sex, marriage, religion, and friendship while exposing our flaws and foibles with wit, compassion, and a generous helping of love.’ — Open Road

 

Excerpt

I SUPPOSE IT MUST have been the shock of hearing the telephone ring, apparently in the church, that made me turn my head and see Piers Longridge in one of the side aisles behind me. It sounded shrill and particularly urgent against the music of the organ, and it was probably because I had never before heard a telephone ringing in church that my thoughts were immediately distracted, so that I found myself wondering where it could be and whether anyone would answer it. I imagined the little bent woman in the peacock blue hat who acted as verger going into thevestry and picking up the receiver gingerly, if only to put an end to the loudunsuitable ringing. She might say that Father Thames was engaged at the moment or not available; but surely the caller ought to have known that, for it was St Luke’s day, the patronal festival of the church, and this lunchtime Mass was one of the services held for people who worked in the offices near by or perhaps for the idle ones like myself who had been too lazy to get up for an earlier service.

The ringing soon stopped, but I was still wondering who the caller could have been, and finally decided on one of Father Thames’s wealthy elderly female friends inviting him to luncheon or dinner. Then a different bell began to ring and I tried to collect my thoughts, ashamed that they should have wandered so far from the service. I closed my eyes and prayed for myself, on this my thirty-third birthday, for my husband Rodney, my mother-in-law Sybil, and a vague collection of friends who always seemed to need praying for. At the last minute I remembered to pray for a new assistant priest to be sent to us, for Father Thames had urged us in the parish magazine to do this. When I opened my eyes again I could not help looking quickly at the side aisle where I had caught a glimpse of the man who looked like Piers Longridge, the brother of my great friend Rowena Talbot.

She usually spoke of him as ‘poor Piers’, for there was something vaguely unsatisfactory about him. At thirty-five he had had too many jobs and his early brilliance seemed to have come to nothing. It was also held against him that he had not yet married. I wondered what could have brought him to St Luke’s at lunchtime. I remembered Rowena telling me that he had recently obtained work as a proof-reader to a firm of printers specializing in the production of learned books, but I had understood that it was somewhere in the city. I did not know him very well and had seen very little of him recently; probably he was one of those people who go into churches to look at the architecture and stay for a service out of curiosity. I stole another quick look at him. In novels, or perhaps more often in parish magazine stories, one sometimes reads descriptions of ‘a lonely figure kneeling at the back of the church, his head bowed in prayer’, but Piers was gazing about him in an inquisitive interested way. I realized again how good looking he was, with his aquiline features and fair hair, and I wondered if I should have a chance to speak to him after the service was over.

When this moment came, Father Thames, a tall scraggy old man with thick white hair and a beaky nose, was standing by the door, talking in his rather too loud social voice to various individuals — calling out to a young man to keep in touch — while others slipped past him on the way back to their offices, perhaps calculating whether they would have time for a quick lunch or a cup of coffee before returning to work.

Although I had quite often been to his church, which was near where I lived, Father Thames and I had not yet spoken to each other. Today, as I approached him, I had the feeling that he would say something; but rather to my surprise, for I had not prepared any opening sentence, I was the one to speak first. And what I said was really rather unsuitable.

‘How strange to hear a telephone ringing in church! I don’t think I ever have before,’ I began and then stopped, wondering how he would take it.

He threw back his head, almost as if he were about to laugh. ‘Have you not?’ he said. ‘Oh, it is always ringing here, although we have another one at the clergy house, of course. Usually it’s business, but just occasionally a kind friend may be inviting me to luncheon or something of the sort. People are so kind!’

So it could have been as I had imagined. But there were two priests at the clergy house. Were the invitations always for Father Thames and never for mild dumpy little Father Bode, with his round spectacled face and slightly common voice, who always seemed to be the sub-deacon at High Mass and who had once read the wrong lesson at a carol service? I was sure that Father Bode was equally worthy of eating smoked salmon and grouse or whatever luncheon the hostesses might care to provide. Then it occurred to me that he might well be the kind of person who would prefer tinned salmon, though I was ashamed of the unworthy thought for I knew him to be a good man.

‘As a matter of fact that telephone call was about Father Ransome, our new assistant priest,’ Father Thames continued. ‘That much Mrs Spooner was able to tell me after the service. In fact, from what I understood her to say it may even have been Ransome himself on the telephone, but she was understandably a little flustered.’

I wondered if it was a good omen that the new assistant priest should have telephoned in the middle of a service or if it showed some lack of something.

 

 

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p.s. Hey. As predicted, I have escaped to Disneyland Paris for the day. Hence, I’m not here. Please use your local day to absorb this book by the unimpeachable writer/stylist Barbara Pym. Thanks. I’ll be back with the blog and the p.s. tomorrow.

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