An Allegory Of The Exquisite Corpse

The Exquisite Corpse was one the favourite games of the surrealist artists. It involves a number of participants successively adding to an initial collage or drawing without being able to see the previous contribution(s). Often this involved folding a paper to hide what was already there. 

As such it is a supremely democratic art form; an example of the notion that the artists are the people and that the expression of their subconscious through automaticity is further enhanced when the manifestations of those expressions are combined in themselves in a chaotic manner. Although doubtless the surrealists would consider that to be objective chance.

That term 'manifestation' (or manif in the book) is critical for the purposes of this profoundly disturbing and very timely book by China Mieville which considers a version of the 1940s in which surrealist artworks are coming to life following the 'S-Blast" (classically this explosion occurs in Les Deux Magots) in occupied Paris and the Nazis are desperately trying to raise demons from hell (or at least from some of their revolting national socialist art works of the 1930s). 

As is remarked in the book, we land heavily on the 'surrealist side of the street' where the manifs are living art - the expression of the people's subconscious and the free association of their ideas. They may be strange (because we are strange) but they are peculiarly devoted to defending the interests of the city.

In contrast their enemies rely on the 'made demon' - the crafted, tooled and smooth representation of hell which will, given the chance, eat the manifs as they literally and metaphorically devour all other flowerings of art.

There are many spectacular passages: "In the post blast miasma, all Parisians grew invisible organs that flex in the presence of the marvellous."

A bastardised version of Leonora Carrington's 'Amateur of Velocipedes' appears riding through the city "tires singing, the cycle-presence wove between the shattered buildings of the Cite de Trevise, into ruins and shadows and out of sight". 

The finale of the book is one in which neither the manifs nor the demons hold sway. It is far more troubling than that in its Augustan calm. 

As an allegory of contemporary times and a tour de force in its own right this takes some beating. Surreal art feels increasingly important as the darkness seems to be closing in all around and the intemperate beat of demands for backward looking conformity in all senses becomes ever louder. The beauty of the surreal is that it is genuinely of 'us'; a direct reflection of our very human hopes and fears, dreams and nightmares. It is a 'realer' version of reality than the smooth representation of normality in which the unhelpfully fecund nature of humans can be controlled and tamped down.

Sadly, those who are not on the surrealist side of the street probably neither want nor care to read it. They're too busy raising demons.  

Saved By The Vole: My Evening As A Troll

'Don't drink and dial' is the sage advice given to one character in the film Sideways meaning that ringing your ex wife after two bottles of Pinot Noir (and certainly not Merlot) is probably not a good idea.

A more contemporary version would be along the lines 'don't text after midnight'.

So how by 11pm last night, after two modest glasses of Singha beer, a very good Thai Green Curry and having been out to see a gloriously humane Finnish film called The Happiest Day In The Life Of Olli Maki, am I writing the most horrific things about a person I've never met and with whom I simply have a major difference of political opinion?

It all started so innocently by coming to the aid of a friend who was being assailed on Facebook and was looking for some support. Some initial posts seemed to do an effective job of contesting some of the more ludicrous things that were being said. 

Then there started to be a longer exchange that became increasingly focused as a dialogue between myself and one other person. Danger sign number one: its becoming personal.

That dialogue started with an admittedly robust but genuine exchange of views focused on the issues. However, there was in practice no common ground at all. Black is white. Good is bad. Truth is lies. Danger sign number two: there's no basis for having this exchange because not only are we not on the same page, we're not even reading the same book and I rather doubt we're even speaking the same language.

Then we start accusing each other of being delusional. I think he has no concept of the real world outside his bubble; he thinks the same of me. Now once we've started down this alley there really is no turning back because (danger sign number three) we now not only are we not even trying to persuade each other, we are saying that even the opinion of the other person is invalid. 

Naturally, then we start making ad hominem comments. Not swearing or direct abuse but casting clear doubt on the integrity, intelligence and maturity of the other. I'm doing my de haut en bas bit suggesting none too subtly that he's barely out of swaddling clothes and needs a sedative. He's telling me that I'm a tory hating loser who only feels at home on the Guardian comment page. Danger sign number four, well it doesn't really need saying does it?

The only reason that I haven't succumbed to writing direct abuse by this stage is that I don't want to give him the sense that he might have got under my skin. I just want to treat him with disdain and contempt.

In private I'm seeing red; I've completely lost it in the way that normally only happens watching LFC screw up against some crap side. So alongside these  public exchanges are some furious WhatsApp messages to other people on the Facebook thread which are completely unhinged. 

I'm saying that I would commit physical violence on this person if we were face to face. I'm saying revolting things, treating him as sub-human and someone who should be left to rot in a ditch. 

In short in the space of a few hours I have come to the point where I am that angry that I am actually feeling that I would happily see this person come to a bad end.

It takes the intervention of saner and frankly much better human beings than myself to stop this spiralling further. They start sending me pictures of animals and finally its the vole that does it. You can't look at a vole and feel anything but unbounded affection. 

Its an unsettling experience. It is so easy to see how hate speech and trolling is so rife on social media. There are two trite conclusions from all of this.

First, the effect of the face to face. If I had been having this exchange in person I suspect that it would indeed have ended up in a shouting match but at least we would have seen each other and been able to gauge from body language whether we were really all that keen to pursue what was clearly about as far as it is possible to be from a meeting of minds.

Secondly, political dialogue is now so poisoned that there are different tribes each with their own talking points and intent solely on talking past each other. Because we start by not admitting any merit in the opposite point of view we rapidly end up just shouting. Doing this sitting in rooms distant from each other only magnifies the effect.

The best comment on all of that is probably best summed up in another photo that was sent to me last night ...