tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8660700460278156682024-02-07T19:45:12.272-08:00Waxen HeartsShakespeare to suit the mood.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-60186260416568503442020-04-06T06:56:00.003-07:002020-10-20T09:15:16.262-07:00Times are Bad: Blogs, Shakespeare, and Isolation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
'Times are bad. Children no longer obey their parents, and
everyone is writing a book.' Cicero</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If Cicero had been writing today, in the midst of Coronavirus lock-down, he might have gone for ‘and everyone is writing a blog’
instead. With little else to do, apart from to exercise once a day in the zealous
manner of one who has never exercised once a day before, what can we do but
write blogs about isolation, relatable WFH experiences, and the bizarrely
common compulsion to conduct zoom meetings without trousers on? N.B. You should always wear trousers. I had planned
to write a blog post about Shakespeare in isolation. But would that be the
right thing to do?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes posts about WFH procrastination, “finishing” Netflix,
and the joy of having a garden can feel a little insensitive. When everything
seems so uncertain, is there a place for such frivolity? Aside from the general
state of uncertainty in which we are all living, I realise my own worries are negligible.
Having been unceremoniously (if understandably) dropped from my temp job, I
worry that I won’t be earning any money until I start my new job in September, I
worry that I may fall out irrevocably with the people also on lock-down in this
house, and I worry that by the end of the summer I may have eaten so many
mini-eggs I will have developed a hard sugar shell of my very own. Compared to
NHS workers exposed to the virus every day, small business owners who face
potential financial ruin, or victims of domestic abuse who have found
themselves forced to stay at home with an abuser, people like me are enormously
lucky. If you think of the fate of refugees in the coronavirus crisis, or those
living parts of the world where they have no chance of receiving the medical
attention they need to survive, the hardship of a missed Mothering Sunday
suddenly appears rather insignificant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, given this context, it may seem odd for me to be writing
a trite blog post at all, but actually I think it’s fantastic that everyone is
writing a blog. From Instagram posts to sharing gifs on Whatsapp, where we can’t
connect physically, it’s important that we connect online. Throughout this time
we must maintain relationships and, more abstractly, a sense of society and
community. So – since I have already exceeded the ideal word-count for a blog –
here’s my two cents on isolation: we should all think about what Shakespeare
would do! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1f0ccvEAQmHcMuuT7VOqZhh-m84PTgbRcoZc66baEkt9VooTvLIh-ySU-P3P6HTa2rif9wRsFQb4-N0hyrCI5qGGWQz2CQq3BDGW0qpVGCHpQYQ-xbG0AM6tdiatTakdAHtvOyBC1T2LW/s1600/file1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Thomasin Bailey working from home lock-down Coronavirus" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1f0ccvEAQmHcMuuT7VOqZhh-m84PTgbRcoZc66baEkt9VooTvLIh-ySU-P3P6HTa2rif9wRsFQb4-N0hyrCI5qGGWQz2CQq3BDGW0qpVGCHpQYQ-xbG0AM6tdiatTakdAHtvOyBC1T2LW/s640/file1.jpeg" title="Thomasin Bailey working from home lock-down Coronavirus" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Working from home during the Coronavirus lock-down.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the Summer of 1592 Shakespeare was in a pretty sticky
situation. Plague had forced the closure of the theatres in London, and Shakespeare,
whose livelihood came from writing plays, was out of a job. In the 1590s there
was no NHS, and no one even offered to furlough him at 80% of his normal salary.
Shakespeare responded to this potentially devastating situation with
resilience, creativity, and bravery. He found a new source of income by writing
poetry to attract a wealthy patron. His two long, narrative poems, <i>Venus and
Adonis</i> and <i>The Rape of Lucrece</i>, were written during this time and
dedicated to the Earl of Southampton.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today Shakespeare’s narrative poems are less famous than his
plays, but in his own time they became key to his reputation and income. Not only
did the poems help him keep his head above water financially, the poems also
helped Shakespeare to stay connected and to network. Like other poets in the
early modern period, Shakespeare would not have earned money from publishing
his work in print. A poet’s income came from their patron who would either
provide gifts of money or a job (such as a family tutor or a chaplain) to
support the production of their poetry. Poets attracted patrons through dedications.
However, dedications were often speculative and did not always result in a
reciprocal relationship. So, Shakespeare may have just been going out on a limb
with the dedication of his two narrative poems, which is why I say he was brave
as well as resilient and creative.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shakespeare adapted and survived. While not many, if any, of
us will be able to earn our keep by writing raunchy, classically inspired
narrative poetry (even if we wanted to) Shakespeare’s example of resourceful
bravery is hugely important. It is also worth noting that in Shakespeare’s day,
poetry was also inherently sociable. People would send each other poems to read.
They would challenge each other to write certain types of poem. They would
write poems in response to each other’s poems. Poems were a way of keeping in
touch and creating a community. Isn’t that what all the bloggers, tweeters, and
influencers are doing? So, I think all that’s left to say is: times are
bad, children have always disobeyed their parents, and thank goodness everyone
is writing a blog. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For more Shakespeare in the lock-down, check out:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.instagram.com/sirpatstew/" target="_blank">Sir Patrick Stewart’s daily sonnet readings</a>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2020/mar/22/shakespeare-in-lockdown-did-he-write-king-lear-in-plague-quarantine//" target="_blank">An interesting article on Shakespeare and plague in the Guardian</a>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://globeplayer.tv/" target="_blank">Globe Player to stream performances of Shakespeare's plays</a>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXd4l-khAPsf_zz20Wlr5ZPuffrQdKdrX6CNst0AjcAiim8Wc-wz7pAD0SU3VPFmw4hKUTYnJW9G9uanEkqCFFW-iQhd5IUn_XuBbMk1V7AHWD-MnqEdMNWfW_o40nY9o-g_fPr4lOrL9g/s1600/file.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXd4l-khAPsf_zz20Wlr5ZPuffrQdKdrX6CNst0AjcAiim8Wc-wz7pAD0SU3VPFmw4hKUTYnJW9G9uanEkqCFFW-iQhd5IUn_XuBbMk1V7AHWD-MnqEdMNWfW_o40nY9o-g_fPr4lOrL9g/s320/file.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Going stir-crazy in the Coronavirus lock-down.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-83302000391135419712020-01-20T13:51:00.000-08:002020-01-20T14:07:01.139-08:00Little Women: The Facelift Feminism Needs<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Contains spoilers.</i><br />
<br />
If a portion of your childhood was in the 90s and you identify as in any way “bookish”, it is almost inevitable that Winona Ryder’s Jo March helped to make you who you are today. The 1994 <i>Little Women</i> is the focus of a great deal of love and nostalgia for many women. I can remember frequent viewings with my mum, my little sister, my brother, and me, all wedged into one small sofa. We always cried when Beth died, and my brother always asked us why we were crying over a fictional character. My nostalgia for the film is inextricable from my nostalgia for my own chaotic and loving childhood, which was itself filled with elaborate amateur dramatics and ambitions of novel writing. Could Greta Gerwig’s new adaptation hold a candle to my misty, watercolour memories of Susan Sarandon surrounded by endless quilts? I thought it was highly unlikely to say the least.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2tEdoannkD_CevvayIgpbuhi6P_xMeLivFhM2QK_1OmcwvCShBhkhWNywxtvQaNedxyxWOWG9byYWBuarVGu2eZ2XOQTiHUBh5Ltxoaq1zrA_U2xieggqWORH-MLEJpRBYjUsYotEYuKO/s1600/Little-Women---Official-Poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1037" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2tEdoannkD_CevvayIgpbuhi6P_xMeLivFhM2QK_1OmcwvCShBhkhWNywxtvQaNedxyxWOWG9byYWBuarVGu2eZ2XOQTiHUBh5Ltxoaq1zrA_U2xieggqWORH-MLEJpRBYjUsYotEYuKO/s320/Little-Women---Official-Poster.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWaygsdnedf9XRQJFyoeaBYRfotpVRb1H2VLB56tPgZc4WMcO5R7BuTi2sfuVWLyd0RnH1KR_-nMA2KxMFLeGeid1OBMU-TlkSGkMNhQhHisBBtNoXUiSWOd8-K3N1qMA8nIIt1VXZTWI_/s1600/play.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="731" data-original-width="1024" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWaygsdnedf9XRQJFyoeaBYRfotpVRb1H2VLB56tPgZc4WMcO5R7BuTi2sfuVWLyd0RnH1KR_-nMA2KxMFLeGeid1OBMU-TlkSGkMNhQhHisBBtNoXUiSWOd8-K3N1qMA8nIIt1VXZTWI_/s320/play.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Performing in a very serious home theatre production with my brother (far left) and sister (centre).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Despite my scepticism, I was utterly delighted with Gerwig’s <i>Little Women</i>, although slightly worried that my boyfriend may now think I am bananas because I cried so much. Frankly annoyed by the assumption that <i>The Gentlemen</i> is a film for all people, but that <i>Little Women</i> is a film for women only, I insisted he join me. He enjoyed the film but was a bit worried about the copious crying, and the fact that it was ugly (not just tears, also snot) and started at almost the very beginning of the film. Gerwig’s innovative structure, which began with the later stages of the book (or the <i>Good Wives</i> part) and flashed back to instagram-like scenes of the March women’s childhood, was incredibly effective (and tear-jerking). The structure allowed Jo, Amy, and Meg to look back at their childhood hopes and dreams, and at their illusions. The sisters make different choices, which the rest of the family don’t always understand, yet they accept each other’s different choices. During the course of the film, the three women all struggle with these choices: Meg is frustrated and embarrassed because her choice to marry and have children, coupled with the impossibility of earning her own money, has left her unable to afford things she enjoys; Jo seems to be happily pursuing her dreams but is revealed to be deeply lonely without her family; and Amy – wonderfully depicted by Florence Pugh in the stand-out performance of the film – radiates a controlled anger about her pragmatically chosen fate to marry rich and save the family. The contrast to the fun of their childhood and their idealistic dreams that are depicted in the flashbacks adds poignancy to the different difficulties the women face. Despite their struggles, all three press on, and ultimately, although they have chosen such different courses, their support for one another carries the day, with the final moments of the film depicting the strength and joy of the sisters together. Importantly too, their individual successes are fed back into the community as they all contribute in different ways to Jo’s school. The 1994 story of individualism becomes a story about a community in this new adaptation. This might sound twee, but somehow Gerwig managed to avoid the saccharine. The unique narrative arc of Gerwig’s adaptation made this a story about resilience and community, and that’s a story that is sorely needed by modern day feminism.<br />
<br />
When completing a long journey you can’t stop at a service station every time you finish a podcast – you’ve just got to keep driving with your eyes on the road and let the car sound system load whatever it – in its opaque wisdom – thinks should come next. This form of podcast roulette can take you to very interesting places, but it can also be deeply annoying. Shortly after seeing <i>Little Women</i>, a long drive brought me to a trendy podcast about ‘wellbeing’, which advised listeners to cut off any friends that ‘trigger’ them. I kid you not: the guest being interviewed suggested that if a successful friend triggers your anxiety about your career, just cut her out of your life for your own wellbeing. If a thin friend who regularly does her Pilates triggers your insecurity about your own body shape, dump her like nuclear waste. If your best friend is married and pregnant but you’re single, unhappy and jealous, well then ghost her until she and her distended womb disappear from your life! I’m paraphrasing not quoting, but I am not, however, exaggerating. Cutting out your successful friends will just leave you lonelier, more anxious, and more insecure. The <i>Little Women</i> approach to wellbeing is far more pragmatic. When Jo finds that Amy has an opportunity she wanted (going to Europe), or when Jo has decided she is lonely and would like to marry Laurie, only to find that Amy has got in there first, she smiles and congratulates her sister. While Jo undoubtedly went off for a cry in her attic, she continued to be a supportive and loving sister to Amy.<br />
<br />
So, where does feminism come in? Unfortunately, this brittle rejection of difficulty that is all too common in wellbeing advice has also become something of a cultural trend elsewhere and some feminists are falling into a similar trap. Instead of supporting different approaches, or overlooking differences like the March sisters, social media is riven with denunciations. Women are behaving less like Jo and Amy, and more like Goneril and Regan – the famous Shakespearean sisters who can’t work together and end up confirming all the misogynist stereotypes on offer, before ultimately destroying one another. Surely feminism is, at bottom, about equality and mutual support? When someone voices a view with which a group does not agree that person is now ‘no-platformed’ or becomes the victim of name-calling. While the anger may be justified and the outrage understandable, this method will never win anyone over. Solutions must be reached with compromise and open-minded discussion. Explain yourself, like Amy explained her economic choices to Laurie. Sometimes you’ve got to spell it out.<br />
<br />
While the tea and chats approach is a no-brainer with the little things – why should we be getting acrimonious with one another about armpit hair and makeup? The question becomes murkier when bigotry comes into play, and compromise cannot be an option in the same way. It is in these cases that a brittle attitude is most dangerous, as it plays into the hands of those who would depict feminists as snowflakes, or hysterical Goneril and Regan types, thereby obscuring the important causes they hope to represent. The way to combat bigotry is resilient and pragmatic communication. If someone makes an ill-informed and offensive comment, don’t just fling out an insult and block them on social media. The likely outcome of this is that they will feel hurt, react with similar anger, and cling more strongly to their views. Another likely outcome is that – if you choose to insult them with the obscure vocabulary of your own social media echo chamber – they are unlikely to know what your insult even means, and so continue to hold their views. If instead the comment was followed by a reasonable discussion, there is at least a chance that the person in question will change their mind.<br />
<br />
The brittleness I’m worrying about is by no means peculiar to feminists – it could be argued that it is endemic in today’s politics – but it’s an issue that has particular dangers for women. Throughout history, outspoken women have been depicted as unstable, dangerous, and unable to cooperate with one another in order to undermine their power. Goneril and Regan are my Shakespeare example, but for real life examples think of <a href="https://waxenhearts.blogspot.com/2016/11/shakespeares-nasty-women.html" target="_blank">Hillary Clinton</a>, and perhaps even <a href="https://waxenhearts.blogspot.com/2019/09/in-defence-of-meghan.html" target="_blank">Meghan Markle</a>. Greta Gerwig’s <i>Little Women</i> could be the facelift feminism needs because it shows women succeeding and thereby helping their community through pragmatism, collaboration, and resilience. I call it a facelift, because I’m not suggesting a change in core beliefs, just a readjustment of PR. Sisters working together isn’t twee; it’s the route to a successful community. Resilience isn’t old fashioned; it’s the only way forward. I think this <i>Little Women</i> was a much-needed adaptation which will speak to a whole generation about how to be sisters.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjgSSYSH6rOEPsF2KThUdEWvUSijSfcZW57lbVZvV_1w9rAPC_VUsPZAiBDPE22as1bS_2gN7L1Z72uIzOoSFfsIoacXO5V1XEOQMy3wSsHrb_ypb0Yjpa6pWJJaZVp9lkxoEs8W7lAxCZ/s1600/049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="824" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjgSSYSH6rOEPsF2KThUdEWvUSijSfcZW57lbVZvV_1w9rAPC_VUsPZAiBDPE22as1bS_2gN7L1Z72uIzOoSFfsIoacXO5V1XEOQMy3wSsHrb_ypb0Yjpa6pWJJaZVp9lkxoEs8W7lAxCZ/s640/049.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sister's wedding.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-38226948612782332462019-09-18T22:54:00.000-07:002019-09-18T22:54:01.181-07:00The World's Best Garden<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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90% of the reason I joined the National Trust was to save
money on visiting <a href="https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/stourhead" target="_blank">Stourhead Gardens</a>. Actually, let’s be honest – it’s 100%. I
used to ask to go there for my birthday, and one memorable year I was stung on
the bottom by wasp. It’s a beautiful place. You may know it from the Keira Knightly
<i>Pride & Prejudice </i>(2005) rainy-proposal-moment, or from its
appearance in numerous other films and TV programs. If you don’t know it, it’s
a beautiful, sweeping garden of the 18<sup>th</sup> Centur,y English style. Featuring
trees from all over the world, its carefully engineered picturesque views are
no accident: it’s a work of art made out of nature. My sister and I have been
looking forward to taking her baby (5 months) for a walk around Stourhead
Gardens. He loves being outside and seems delighted by gazing up at trees. This
weekend we had the opportunity to go for a walk at Stourhead, and we weren’t
disappointed. My nephew had a lovely time leaning back in his baby-carrier and
admiring the treetops. Nappy changing on an ancient tree trunk after an
explosive poo and my sister breast feeding on the floor of the Gothic cottage
added a little something to the day out, but it didn’t quite live up to the
wasp incident. Nappies aside, I always feel rejuvenated by being amongst the
trees of Stourhead and seeing the lake. I find getting away from buildings and
cars profoundly relaxing, and I am sure that humans don’t just need plants for
oxygen, we also need them for our mental wellbeing. Literature and art have
always been inspired by nature. Stourhead Gardens itself is a work of art made
out of nature. When we’re driving to work every day, going from box to box in
our little wheeled boxes, it’s easy to feel detached from the natural world
around us, and to forget that we’re just another animal in a wider ecosystem.
Unlike the other animals, however, we’re having a good stab at destroying the
habitats that support that ecosystem.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR5g-WcRZLZhzi5-TE6p6Myyb3bpfgJYjj4Z7mMNmakV8EN1aRdH4RnQ-c-PHS740_Uec2IsZGsvkrRRY_52eQwk5hSdjS581iPrCPuLqTLDUme95qetck2h9uQ7VNXb-4TyuKVGdkCVwg/s1600/f50b4647-dc54-4eca-ad8e-e2e167514a8b.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Thomasin Bailey Stourhead Gardens Shakespeare" border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR5g-WcRZLZhzi5-TE6p6Myyb3bpfgJYjj4Z7mMNmakV8EN1aRdH4RnQ-c-PHS740_Uec2IsZGsvkrRRY_52eQwk5hSdjS581iPrCPuLqTLDUme95qetck2h9uQ7VNXb-4TyuKVGdkCVwg/s640/f50b4647-dc54-4eca-ad8e-e2e167514a8b.JPG" title="Thomasin Bailey at Stourhead Gardens" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Art inspired by nature in Stourhead Gardens</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p>I’ve often written in this blog about how literature –
Shakespeare in particular, of course – has shaped our view of women in society.
The <a href="https://www.coveringclimatenow.org/" target="_blank">Covering Climate Now</a> campaign in the run up to the UN Climate Summit has
started me thinking about how that same literature shapes our view of our
relationship to the natural world. Like many other writers Shakespeare uses
nature for pathetic fallacy (where the weather or environment is given a mood
or emotion that reflects those of the characters). The ‘green world’ is another
main function of nature in the plays: characters escape to a forest location
which provides safety, freedom, an escape from the moral corruption of the
court, and a place where change is possible. I’ve written about the green world
in Shakespeare’s comedies in my post: <a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.com/2017/09/finding-forest-of-arden.html" target="_blank">Finding the Forest of Arden</a>. Nature is
essential to the language, plots, and mechanics of Shakespeare’s plays. Generally
speaking, though English literature presents nature in a similar way to how it
presents women: something wild, and out of control that needs to be tamed or
conquered. The difference between women and nature in literature though, is
that nature is imagined to be unconquerable and eternal. What we’ve come to
realise, much more slowly than we should, is that this is far from the truth. Ironically,
humankind has changed and ‘conquered’ nature in a way that it might just lead
to our own destruction. Talk about a Pyrrhic victory.</o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Could Shakespeare help us look at nature differently? One of
the scenes in Shakespeare that has captured my imagination since I was very
young (mainly due to the BBC’s Animated Tales), is the conversation between the
king and queen fairies in Act II Scene 1 of <i>A Midsummer Night’s Dream</i> in
which Titania complains that the quarrels between them have caused a sickness
in nature. The speech is long, describing failed crops, disease, floods, and
significant changes in the weather expected in each season:<o:p></o:p></div>
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed
frosts<o:p></o:p></div>
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Far in the fresh lap of the
crimson rose,<o:p></o:p></div>
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And on old Hiems' thin and icy
crown<o:p></o:p></div>
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An odorous chaplet of sweet
summer buds<o:p></o:p></div>
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Is, as in mockery, set: the
spring, the summer,<o:p></o:p></div>
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The childing autumn, angry
winter, change<o:p></o:p></div>
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Their wonted liveries, and the
mazed world,<o:p></o:p></div>
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By their increase, now knows not
which is which:<o:p></o:p></div>
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And this same progeny of evils
comes<o:p></o:p></div>
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From our debate, from our
dissension;<o:p></o:p></div>
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We are their parents and
original.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This climate change is caused by the disharmony between the
king and queen of the fairies, but it sounds pretty similar to the climate
change that we are seeing today. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In <i>A
Midsummer Night’s Dream </i>this is pathetic fallacy on a seasonal level. Things
have gone topsy-turvy in nature because Titania, queen of the fairies, has
disobeyed her husband, Oberon, King of the Fairies. This unnatural situation –
that is, a woman defying her husband – is put right by the end of the play, and
therefore nature will be put right. Just an example of your casual,
run-the-mill Shakespearean misogyny. Disruptions in nature reflect unnatural
goings on in many of Shakespeare’s plays<i>.</i> For example, in <i>Macbeth</i>,
when Macbeth kills Duncan – an act even more unnatural than murder because it
is regicide – winds that sound like “death” and earthquakes make the night
“unruly”. This sort of natural disruption is also connected to the idea of
omens, in which aberrations in nature communicate something rotten in the
state. Don’t you just love how disobeying your husband causes mass crop-failure
and global warming, while a bloke doing murder results in a windy night? But
let’s put a pin in that to one side for now. Similar disruptions in the natural
world also occur in <i>Hamlet </i>and <i>Julius Caesar</i> (to name only a few)
communicating the unethical activity of the characters and the oncoming or
ongoing political unrest. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In this traditional sort of reading, nature functions to
reflect the emotions or morals of the humans in the play. Perhaps we could
usefully read these plays another way: as a reminder of the way human actions
effect nature. Macbeth is a despot whose greed and ambition wreak havoc in the
lives of those around him. Such forms of government are very often also harmful
to the environment. Think of greed-driven governments who mine their natural
resources with no thought of the <a href="https://friendsoftheearth.uk/climate-change/fracking" target="_blank">effects on the environment</a>. Human conflict - the sort that takes place in plays like <i>Julius Caesar </i>and
<i>King Lear</i> <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2014/nov/06/whats-the-environmental-impact-of-modern-war" target="_blank">takes its toll on the habitats of humans and animals alike</a>,
and the resultant pollution can last for generations. Rather than reading these changes in
nature as a figurative representation of human actions, we can read them as a
result of those actions. We need to re-educate ourselves about the natural
world; could Shakespeare have a role to play? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Man-made climate change has existed since the dawn of humankind,
but it is now happening at such a pace that nature can’t keep up. We are now in
danger of destroying not only the habitats other animals, but our own. Our
environmental peril is a big, and therefore difficult idea to conceptualise,
and there are plenty of factors as to why we as a culture are able to ignore
it. One of these factors is the stories that we, as a civilization, have always
told and continue to tell. We imagine nature as a vast, eternal, wild thing
that we strive to conquer, but can never succeed. We need to say goodbye to
this colonial attitude and realise that we make changes to the world just by
being in it, and that we must therefore be responsible. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVUQpuJ5AnAcClKy-lxMAhcxPR7SztGCAlyeghvOQDqbjXqg49uKupXifDLTJAJRNeUJnM60Y3jIRWf2odhtLbSaSwZyKgxx60lO4nuYLKfW_0ur-YZO615YTleS205R_5f2_PhfTRLCvZ/s1600/IMG_3355.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVUQpuJ5AnAcClKy-lxMAhcxPR7SztGCAlyeghvOQDqbjXqg49uKupXifDLTJAJRNeUJnM60Y3jIRWf2odhtLbSaSwZyKgxx60lO4nuYLKfW_0ur-YZO615YTleS205R_5f2_PhfTRLCvZ/s400/IMG_3355.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my nephew.</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-34531091366303031992019-09-10T11:38:00.000-07:002019-09-10T11:38:15.019-07:00In Defence of Meghan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When you’re new to a job you make mistakes. I’ve just spent
a year doing a maternity cover and – despite the thorough handover notes –
there were many surprises and challenges. Sometimes these mistakes were
understandable ‘rookie errors’ because I didn’t know the ropes. Sometimes, they
were just silly blunders because I was tired: let’s face it, new jobs are
exhausting. I can’t quite forget the ugly moment when I realised I’d just
ordered several hundred branded pens with the wrong name on them! Luckily, we
were able to change the order in time, but I believe the panic has shortened my
life-expectancy by at least 5 years. Whenever these gaffes and disasters
happened, my colleagues were understanding, kind, and helped me clear up the
mess. I’m sure if the pens had arrived, they would have buried them behind the
building like the corpse of a tiresome ex-boyfriend. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We tend to understand these new-to-the-post blunders from
colleagues and friends, so why can’t people forgive Meghan Markle? Well, as
Gilderoy Lockhart always used to say, “Fame’s a fickle friend,” so it should
come as no surprise that people would become bored of this American fairy tale
and begin branding Markle as a deluded diva. What surprised me was the speed of
the change, and the way large swathes of the public have jumped on the bandwagon
of the clich<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span>d
nonsense the media is peddling. We’re told that Meghan can’t get on with Kate.
Please. Vicious female competition is a tired old story that really has no
place in our society. There’s plenty of pie for both Duchesses to have a slice
(although neither of them is likely to eat it). They are both selling a
different story, have different priorities, and are probably just enjoying the
weirdness inherent in suddenly being in the same family as an almost stranger. Yet
the competition story makes both women seem petty, shallow, and childish. Another
lazy trope employed against Meghan is that she is a demanding diva. The diva
trope is one that has bothered me for many years. A talented woman is often accused
of being a diva. Whether she’s a great singer, actor, or model, gossip
columnists assure us that she is a nightmare behind the scenes. The talented
woman is depicted as a petulant child who can’t control her rage when her silly
whims aren’t pandered to. It is as if society needs to limit her power by
making her monstrous and ridiculous. It’s no surprise that these two tired clichés
are being levelled at the Duchess of Sussex, but it’s a shame the public wants
to buy it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggPeEhEoXpSIY62A_c1vFqCQP39ORWDgIPrMZAtfEbUwWM7ZVYZXfWUvNjKLduIOvAuRDADyXn-vnSSRepiWWzrpDVAol5ylB30DoEr2XEkUSYeLMd9fG3Dk4DXrB9aKTVH3el_4uvfSTq/s1600/Meghan_Markle_%2528Paley_Center_%2527Suits%2527%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggPeEhEoXpSIY62A_c1vFqCQP39ORWDgIPrMZAtfEbUwWM7ZVYZXfWUvNjKLduIOvAuRDADyXn-vnSSRepiWWzrpDVAol5ylB30DoEr2XEkUSYeLMd9fG3Dk4DXrB9aKTVH3el_4uvfSTq/s400/Meghan_Markle_%2528Paley_Center_%2527Suits%2527%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photograph from <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Meghan_Markle_(Paley_Center_%27Suits%27).jpg" target="_blank">wikicommons</a>, credit: Genevieve. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /> </o:p>The competitive squabbler and the silly diva are just two of
the hackneyed plot lines that the media has deployed against Meghan, and they’ve
been used against the women who want to have a voice for change throughout
history. Sometimes Shakespeare shows us inspiring women, but sometimes – reflecting
the time in which he lived – he employs the same tactics we see in the media
today to make powerful, vocal women into monsters. In the past I’ve written
about the notoriously eloquent sisters <a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.com/2015/04/cinderellas-sisters.html" target="_blank">Goneril and Regan</a> in <i>King Lear</i>,
whose (perhaps) justified complaints against their controlling father are
buried under monstrous behaviour. The talkative sisters are contrasted with their
virtuous sister who is famous for saying “nothing”. In the second half of the
play they go from villainous to ridiculous as they fall over each other to
compete for the affections of vile Edmund. Luckily for King Lear and the French
army, this potential axis of evil disintegrates into childish squabbles as the
two sisters just can’t get on.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cleopatra is an interesting case study. Historically she was
a canny and ruthless ruler who out-manoeuvred rivals and who managed to survive
the Rome’s changing regimes for a long time. In Shakespeare’s <i>Antony and
Cleopatra, </i>she is a fascinating figure, but for centuries has been seen by
audiences as the woman who ruined a formerly successful Roman General. But it’s
not just old-fashioned academics who see the play as a story of a great man
ruined by a silly woman. If you Google “what is Antony’s tragic flaw” some
results will tell you that it is his love for Cleopatra. The character of Cleopatra embodies almost
every negative stereotype about women you can name. She is capricious, she is a
diva, she is needy, and she is competitive. Actors talk about what a great
actor she is to play, and she can be, but, in most performances she is simply
annoying. She is the ultimate silly diva when she threatens to kill a messenger
for saying another woman is prettier than her, when she decides she wants to go
to battle but then runs away, and when her fake suicide leads to Antony’s
actual death. In Plutarch’s <i>Lives</i>, Cleopatra is described as being at
the height of her beauty and her intelligence. Her skill in rhetoric and languages
is listed at length. But in Shakespeare’s – admittedly brilliant – play she
becomes an absurd parody of the pitfalls of femininity. Shakespeare’s version
of events, that makes Cleopatra fascinating, but limits her power, would have
undoubtedly gone down well in the misogynist court of James I, but why is the
same narrative still popular today?</div>
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It seems to me, that Meghan is a woman who is trying to use
her position of prominence and her celebrity to highlight causes important to
her. Of course, she has made the odd mistake. Her comment that appearing on the
cover of <i>Vogue</i> would be ‘boastful’ – perceived as a dig at Kate – was a
mistake. Was she throwing shade at Kate? Probably not. It is unlikely that
Meghan meant to criticise those who have appeared on the front cover (a line up
which includes Princess Diana), and far likelier that she was hoping to
construct a humble image for herself. Was her phrase clumsy? Perhaps. I suggest
that it’s the sort of mistake that should be forgiven and forgotten. Meghan’s
choice to be more than a pretty mannequin, and to try to be a voice for change
has raised her above the parapet and made her a target. The little mistakes she
has made have been blown out of proportion and Meghan has become a target the
media loves. Is it because she’s American? Maybe. The British are often ruffled
by un-British enthusiasm. But it’s also because she’s a woman with an opinion,
and let’s face it – it’s also because she’s a biracial woman with an opinion. Institutional
racism and misogyny underlie the lazy idea that Meghan annoys people just because
she is getting above her station. In fact, it is exactly Meghan’s station to
promote charities, and we should be supporting her. She’s new to the job and
she’s bound to make mistakes, but she’ll get there. Let’s be good feminist
colleagues by highlighting her successes and burying the failures behind the
building. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3bFrpsbxfdR4T_TsxzjJYev-x2x1GCn-TpueDyF0s-DGQXO9VKb8PrKBXQOpqS_yKSQaKE63O8DU4bTmfXcZ1O1Th-M3ceMZy2KgE0i8OOonBLEZzQGw8xomR2Z4h0u5vCYcN0msdW6KI/s1600/team-photo-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Team work; Escape Room; Thomasin Bailey" border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3bFrpsbxfdR4T_TsxzjJYev-x2x1GCn-TpueDyF0s-DGQXO9VKb8PrKBXQOpqS_yKSQaKE63O8DU4bTmfXcZ1O1Th-M3ceMZy2KgE0i8OOonBLEZzQGw8xomR2Z4h0u5vCYcN0msdW6KI/s640/team-photo-1.jpg" title="Thomasin Bailey" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my amazing colleagues - we clearly have great teamwork!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-74252512570607500552018-09-23T09:23:00.000-07:002018-09-23T11:01:50.128-07:00The Big, Fat, Moroccan Wedding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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So there we were, completely naked, carrying plastic buckets, and padding into a small tiled room with a trough of water in the corner. The floor was a little too hot for my bare feet, and as we proceeded to fill the buckets with water, and pour it over ourselves, I couldn’t help but wonder, if this was an Edinburgh Festival show, what would it be called? The situation verged further into “gritty & honest feminist theatre (five stars)” territory, as we stood legs akimbo, and another naked woman entered and, with a concentrated look, slathered us in an exfoliating henna mixture that looked rather like menstrual blood. Then, we waited, sweating in the sauna-like heat, and wondering what was to come. Then, each in our turn, and in various different positions, we were scrubbed all over - scrubbed in places we didn’t know we had – and scrubbed harder and more thoroughly than Lady Macbeth ever scrubbed, until at least 10 layers of dermis had been removed. Our experience in the hammam was amazing – we left relaxed and rejuvenated – nevertheless, for us, it was quite a change. I had never prepared for a wedding like this before! As I lay, like a fish in distress, naked on the tiled hammam floor, with family members around me (also naked), being scrubbed until I was baby soft, it was so new for me, that I couldn’t help but find the experience surreal. Only a few days earlier I had been at a friend’s wedding which was, not only stylish and utterly beautiful, but also the epitome of all my childhood dreams and expectations of a wedding. The change from wedding number one to wedding number two was so enormous, it was quite overwhelming.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"And you won't believe where she scrubbed me next!"</td></tr>
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At wedding number one a friend whom I have known since we were babies got married in a church two minutes from her childhood home, in the lovely rural village where she had grown up. The reception was on the village green where we used to play, and where I can remember us talking about the future (including dream weddings), as we sat on top of the climbing frame. Her wedding lived up to any childhood dreams, with the added style and sophistication that characterise her as an adult. When I walked through the trees to the marquee on the village green, adorned with fairy lights and bursts of pink flowers, the overwhelming combination of childhood nostalgia and wedding magazine level perfection made me shed a few tears. The wedding was amazing, but I was sad that my sister (who had also played with us on the village green) wasn’t able to be there to share the day. She was in Morocco, preparing for wedding number two: her big fat Moroccan wedding. While just as beautiful as wedding number one, wedding number two was very, very different, and had none of the ingredients that we had dreamed up on the climbing frame, expect from the essential component, a lovely spouse. At wedding number one, the dress was simple, white and impossibly chic. At wedding number two there were five dresses, each more glamorous and highly decorative than the last. At wedding one my friend walked down the aisle with her father, but at wedding two my sister was paraded around the room in a glittering palanquin (I doubt Cleopatra in her barge was any more spectacular). My friend’s bridesmaids dressed in chic pastel gowns for the wedding, while as one of my sister’s bridesmaids, for one portion of the wedding I dressed in an Amazigh traditional costume and my sister, similarly but more spectacularly dressed, rode a horse and brandished a gun. In short, the first wedding of the summer fulfilled and surpassed all my wedding expectations, while the second had no connection with any of my expectations whatsoever. Nevertheless, I loved my sister's big, fat Moroccan wedding. I enjoyed wearing my pink, sequined caftan (I felt like a mermaid, or an enormous, shimmering crevette). I loved the food, and the spectacle of it all. I enjoyed how each stage of the wedding featured a kind of theatrical tableau and amazing costumes telling a story about some part of married life or the family heritage. I particularly enjoyed helping my sister change into her five outfits, with hair, makeup, and jewellery to match. But as I helped her fasten her last dress, pinned a tiara onto her final, enormous hairpiece, I realised there were more changes afoot in her life than those between fabulous outfits. The contrast between the Summer’s two weddings really showed me exactly how much my sister’s life was about to change. </div>
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Change is a fact of life, we only exist because of change – growing from a microscopic zygote to the most complex creatures imaginable - and it happens everywhere all the time. Despite its quotidian nature, change can also be frightening. The nature of change and the changes in nature were a big topic of discussion in Shakespeare’s day, and authors from Edmund Spenser to Mary Wroth were inspired by ancient texts on the topic (like Ovid’s <i>Metamorphoses</i> and Lucretius’ <i>De Rerum Natura</i>). Never one to miss a bandwagon, Shakespeare too wrote about change. In many of Shakespeare’s plays we see characters who are destroyed because they can’t deal with change: think of the rigid Coriolanus, unable to compromise until he is eventually (literally) torn to pieces. King Lear is often presented as a figure who cannot understand his place in a world shifting away from feudal values (although I think if we look at the facts, King Lear’s main problem is very likely just a bad UTI). Hamlet can be interpreted as a man who cannot deal with what is simultaneously the most normal and most terrifying type of change – that between life and death. But Shakespeare’s most famous examination of change comes in his play <i>Antony and Cleopatra</i>. </div>
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As anyone who has studied <i>Antony and Cleopatra</i> will tell you, the theme of change is intrinsic to the play with its frequent breakneck scene changes between Rome and Eqypt, the use of melting imagery, and Shakespeare’s casual approach to language (since when was ‘discandy’ a word?). Roman characters in the play are troubled by their aging, changing loyalties, and changing strengths. Roman soldiers throughout the play grumble about the changes in Antony from firm, stoic soldier, to uxorious, overblown lush. Enobarbus is appalled by his own changefulness in deserting his one-time general Antony, and spontaneously dies of shame. Antony himself, suffers from an identity crisis, when he sees how much he has changed over the years. He compares himself to a cloud and its shifting form: </div>
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“Sometimes we see a cloud that’s dragonish,</div>
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A vapor sometime like a bear or lion,</div>
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A towered citadel, a pendant rock,</div>
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A forkèd mountain, or blue promontory</div>
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With trees upon ’t that nod unto the world</div>
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And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs.</div>
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They are black vesper’s pageants.”</div>
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With pleasing metatheatrical irony, Antony describes the shifting forms of the clouds, and by extension, himself, as “pageants”, as if they are, as he really is, a theatrical performance. Antony declares that he, like those clouds, cannot maintain a single form. He sees the way he has changed as a descent from something noble and martial (represented by imagery like the bear, lion, and citadel) into the shapeless illusions of dusk. The image of ‘black vesper’ forebodingly prefigures Antony’s decision to end his life. Romans, it seems, don’t do well with change. There is one character in this play who, in contrast, deals very incredibly well with change. You guessed it, it’s Cleopatra. The play depicts Egypt’s queen as a political chameleon, entering into alliances with Pompey, Caesar, and finally Antony. The actor performing Cleopatra can choose to depict her relationship with Antony as her latest expedient political choice, or as an epic love affair, but no one can deny that she is very adaptable. Enobarbus’ famous praise “age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety” doesn’t suggest that Cleopatra doesn’t age or that she doesn’t change – Cleopatra explicitly states that she is “wrinkled deep in time” – but that each phase of her beauty and behaviour is exciting and unexpected, and just as good as the last. Cleopatra does a good job of making the changes in the world go her way, and we often see her change her mind about a plan she has made, mid-scene, when the action takes an unexpected turn. Unlike the Romans in this play (and others) she celebrates change as an opportunity, rather than splintering under pressure. Ultimately, as engaging and resourceful as Cleopatra is, the play sees her time run out. Octavian, the new Caesar on the block, is a man with whom she cannot make an alliance, political or otherwise. She sets plans in motion, and changes them when it becomes clear they won’t work (the ploy with the jewels), but as adaptable as she is, she soon sees that this is a fight she can’t win. What Cleopatra then achieves, unlike Antony, is an acceptance of this, and concentrates her efforts on changing the narrative so that she is remembered in a way that she chooses. When she knows she has been trapped by Octavian, she commands “Give me my robe. Put on my crown. I have immortal longings in me.” She dresses herself in the costume of a goddess, and presents herself as the victor, rather than the victim. Sure enough, when Octavian re-enters, persuaded by her display he concludes that, far from the humiliated slave he sought to make her, she is "royal" and her story is one of “glory”. </div>
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While Antony saw that the world was like the changing scenes of a pageant and was terrified, Cleopatra made herself powerful by seeing that transience and choosing to perform her role in each scene to the best of her ability (and I assume was also fabulous at all times). Change can be experienced as frightening or exciting, and as the scenes of our lives change, we must decide whether to play the victim or participant of that scene. I think at this juncture in my life, as I see big changes on the horizon, I need to take a leaf out of Cleopatra’s book. Like Cleopatra I need to see change as opportunity and adapt to suit new circumstances. But maybe, in these circumstances, I could do more than just following Cleopatra’s example in embracing change. I’m sure she could give us all a tip or two on carrying off lavish hairpieces and glamorous makeup (a trick I’d love to learn), but most of all, I’ll take a bet that she was also far more <i>au fait</i> than me with naked bathing. So next time I visit a hammam, instead of feeling awkward and absurd, I’m going to make every effort to think, 'what would Cleopatra do?', while I lean back and enjoy a good scrubbing. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-24956953242726389212018-09-17T06:05:00.000-07:002018-09-17T06:05:37.013-07:00Love's Victory<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Don’t tell anyone, but when I see a rarely performed play
from one of Shakespeare’s contemporaries, I usually find myself thinking, at
some point during the performance, that I can see why it is only rarely
performed. Usually, by the end of the performance of an obscure early modern
play, I have a strong, unspoken feeling that it ought to sink back into the
obscurity from whence it came. I can’t tell anyone, because I know that this is
the sort of thing I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ought</i> to be
interested in. That is my secret shame. It was due that disappointingly
low-brow tendency of mine that I drove to Kent this weekend with mixed
feelings. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love’s Victory</i>, a play by
Mary Wroth, was being <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-45433726" target="_blank">performed for the first time</a> by professional actors at
her onetime home, Penshurst Place. Wroth, who was writing around the same time
as Shakespeare, was a defiant, <a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.com/2016/03/resistance-is-not-futile.html" target="_blank">trailblazing woman</a>, both in her writing and in
her private life. Her poetry also happens to be the subject of the PhD thesis I’m
working on, so I knew I couldn’t miss this momentous occasion despite my
misgivings. I started the long drive to Tonbridge feeling a little grumpy, but
consoling myself with the idea that I’d be spending an evening in a beautiful
place, and that I’d probably get some Percy Pigs on the way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Well, despite my bad attitude, and the profound lack of
Percy Pigs at my chosen motorway service station, my trepidation was wholly
unfounded. Seeing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love’s Victory</i> at
Penshurst Place made for a hugely enjoyable evening. Penshurst Place was, of
course, beautiful in the evening. As many visitors will know, the house and
grounds are also famously spectacular by day, but the glimmering of candlelight,
the warm floodlights peeking through the trees, and the fluttering of bats in
the summer night’s air was particularly special. The performance took place in
the Baron’s Hall, a huge medieval space, with a cavernous beamed roof, a
musicians’ gallery, and an octagonal fire pit in the centre of the floor. A
stage was set up at the back of the room and each of the gothic windows
contained a huge, lit candelabra glimmering away. As I took my seat, I thought
that I could see why it was such a popular wedding venue, before turning to my
program to banish such trivial musings. When the performance began, my mind
stopped wandering and I was immediately engaged, not least because the actor
playing Lissius (Jonny McPherson) was incredibly handsome! The play was funny,
clever, and charming, and the two hours went by in the blink of an eye.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The performance, as all good performances of any play should,
gave me new insight into the text. The actors’ delivery really highlighted the
witty banter and conversational moments in<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
Love’s Victory</i>. This is one of the features that really sets Wroth’s play
apart from the work of many of her aristocratic peers, whose dramatic writing
for private audiences (unlike that written for the public stage) often sits squarely
in the ‘closet drama’ style of endless monologues. In contrast Wroth’s work is
theatrical and vivacious. The cast’s excellent singing – one of the real
strengths of the performance – transformed the text back into what it was originally intended to be: a piece of entertainment. The long songs in plays of this
period are often difficult for a reader presented with a text and nothing else
(this is true of Shakespeare’s plays too). In modern performances of early
modern drama, songs are more or less always cut out, or spoken, and almost
never sung. In my opinion this is a recipe for interminable, bizarre, and
confusing disaster. This production was different. The songs, skillfully performed and
accompanied by live musicians playing contemporary renaissance music, were
brought to life as witty, comic, moving, and joyful in turn. The songs also
helped the play make more sense to me structurally, as the action basically revolves
around the young shepherds and shepherdesses meeting up to entertain one
another. The songs last night were very entertaining, in a way that I had not imagined from the black and white of my copy of the play. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The cast, directed by Martin Hodgson, made their characters
engaging and charming, and managed to pitch each moment with expert precision,
leading their audience from laughter to anguish, and back again. I thought
Rachel Winters (as Dalina) and Nichole Bird (as Musella) were particularly
strong, but the entire cast shone with talent and succeeded in giving a nuanced
and relevant performance of a 400 year old text, which, however good a play
might be, is no mean feat. The combination of the excellent cast and crew, the
beautiful setting, and Mary Wroth’s script made magic. A bad play will always
be boring, but it is very easy to make a good play boring too. Perhaps the
reason why I secretly keep thinking that these rare renaissance plays should
remain so, is because they’re rarely given a chance. Millions of pounds, and
the entire careers of generations of talented actors, designers and directors
are lavished upon Shakespeare’s plays, so it’s little wonder that the rehearsed
readings, performed by a few shy humanities students working hard in their
spare time <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> that are </span>the usual lot of Shakespeare’s
lesser known contemporaries don’t quite compare. By supporting this production
Penshurst Place, the AHRC, Lancaster University, and Alison Findlay (the
driving force behind the project) gave Mary Wroth a chance. I think their
investment paid off. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Baron's Hall, Penshurst Place<br />Photograph from <a href="http://www.penshurstplace.com/">www.penshurstplace.com</a></td></tr>
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<br />Learn more about Penshurst Place:<a href="https://www.penshurstplace.com/" target="_blank"> https://www.penshurstplace.com/</a></div>
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Learn more about Prof Alison Findlay's project: <a href="http://wp.lancs.ac.uk/shakespeare-and-his-sisters/penshurst-place/">http://wp.lancs.ac.uk/shakespeare-and-his-sisters/penshurst-place/</a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-18815574845944196602018-05-18T05:47:00.000-07:002018-05-18T08:41:13.540-07:00Dreaming the Global University<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My favourite moment of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A
Midsummer Night’s Dream</i> comes at the end of Act V, Scene I, when, after the
lovers leave the stage to ‘recount [their] dreams’ on the way to the palace,
Bottom enters and tries to recount his ‘dream’. Not quite believing it himself,
he falters in finding the words to describe it: ‘Methought I was—there is no
man can tell what. Methought I was— and methought I had— but man is but a
patched fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had.’ Sometimes this
moment is played for laughs, and sometimes poignantly, as Bottom’s words do
evoke the fragile ephemerality of the dream that disappears even as you recall
it. But then Shakespeare returns us to comic absurdity with the brilliant line ‘it
shall be called Bottom's Dream, because it hath no bottom.’ All the characters
assume their experience was no more than a dream. As the audience, we know
better. In life, as in the play, sometimes reality can seem like a dream. Did I
ever imagine that I’d find myself in the Shard, on a Thursday afternoon, trying
to catch a large, squidgy, blue cube from an eminent historian, who is also the
chair of the Irish Research Council? No. I didn’t, but this surreal occurrence
wasn’t a dream. I was at a symposium on the internationalisation of research,
run by Warwick’s <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="https://warwick.ac.uk/fac/cross_fac/ias/" target="_blank">Institute of Advanced Study</a> and the cube was a microphone, designed to be thrown around to facilitate
audience questions and a playful atmosphere. I am terrible at throwing and
catching, so the appearance of said cube filled me with dread, and as I
prepared to attempt to catch it, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and </i>formulate
a coherent question in front of an assembly of professors, several Pro-Vice-Chancellors,
Directors of various institutes, at least one Provost, and other intimidatingly
intelligent types (in the Shard!), I did take a second to look down and check I
was wearing trousers, in case this was just a very vivid anxiety dream. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As part of my IAS early career fellowship I was lucky enough
to be able to tag along to this fascinating event at which a variety of
impressive speakers discussed the future of international research
collaborations in a post-Brexit era. Academia is one of the many areas of
British industry that will be profoundly affected by Brexit. At present in UK universities a lot of funding, collaborations, and exchanges for both research and
teaching is connected to European institutions, universities, and funding bodies.
With no idea yet even of what Brexit will even look like, the future of all these is
now uncertain. I was a Remainer, but I wouldn’t say I’m now a Remoaner, I’m
more of a RemortallyterrifiedofwhatBrexitwillbring-er, but it looks like it’s
going to happen, so how should UK universities respond? Over the course of the
event various ideas and possibilities were discussed, including the importance
of making connections outside of Europe, and seeing this challenge as an
opportunity to develop as a university with truly global connections. Other
speakers talked about the need to see Brexit as an opportunity to realise the
valuable relationships and collaborations that UK Universities have with
European institutions, and to stop taking these for granted. Legislative changes
might be an opportunity to secure these connections in a stronger and more
mutually beneficial way. As the day continued, more and more, the ethical dimensions
of the idea of the global university, of international collaborations, and of
academic research itself came into focus. The two speakers I found particularly
striking were Dr Emily Henderson (University of Warwick) and Prof Wendy Larner
(Victoria University of Wellington). Dr Henderson talked about the function of privilege
in UK institutions (among other things, her research has shown how the system still favours
the single male researcher) and challenged the room to think about how that
could change. Prof Larner warned against the neo-colonial tendencies emerging
in so-called global academia. Too often collaborations with prestigious UK
universities can be one-way relationships that deliver a nugget of British
University education to another country as if they were the only partner that
had something to offer. This arrogant position harks back to the conditions of
empire when Britain literally imposed an education system and a system of
cultural values onto colonized places and peoples. Prof Larner talked about
the need for real conversation and equal partnerships. For me, the message of
the day seemed to be that if Brexit is an opportunity for UK universities to develop
globally, create new international connections, and to improve and strengthen
existing connections both within and outside the EU, it must also be an
opportunity to do so in an ethical way that nurtures meaningful and mutually
beneficial connections between institutions, and doesn’t promote a regressive,
neo-colonial identity for UK universities, nor should it perpetuate a system of
privilege, which ignores the material concerns of its workers, that can often
be seen lurking within academic institutions. If this really is an opportunity
for change, let’s press the reset button, and really change the system, in a
way that’s not only economically, but also socially and culturally beneficial
to all partners. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I left the symposium feeling excited and inspired. Not only
because I had been to the Shard – because that <i>was</i> pretty exciting – but because
I felt that some of the people in that room might really do something important.
The dream is, that the nightmarish scenario that is Brexit might become
an opportunity as well. Universities, and plenty of other institutions and
businesses for that matter, have the opportunity to reassess, rebuild, and
change direction, and that direction could be really exciting. The 'dreamers' of <i>A Midsummer Night's Dream</i> deny what they have experienced as improbable, but their experience does change their lives. Hermia and Helena begin the play in your classic patriarchal nightmare (Hermia has to marry according to her father's wishes or choose between death and a nunnery, and don't even get me started on Helena), but the so-called dream enables them both to act and live according to their own choices. They escape (to some extent) but no effort is made by anyone in the play to change the system. Is that what will happen here? Perhaps it was the altitude that made the goings on in the Shard seem a little surreal, but the idea of an <i>ethical</i>, global university should not be dismissed as a dream. The project is improbable only in that it is a great deal more difficult than doing things the way they have always been done.This could be an exciting opportunity to really change the system, and I hope it will be. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMVLx1hAYRGkZVFAKjpOfHbjt9aTNiyNc3-8UGRCS0rfmeKN4zsz7MQiUxLNyr2yFSa81Kky2DXfAQHrrnRHVvoxs8yYkzOStMD7oJbo2ufyo8jvxbfnmYJRN_nObRhhJzUDoaaKJRAUwr/s1600/the+shard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMVLx1hAYRGkZVFAKjpOfHbjt9aTNiyNc3-8UGRCS0rfmeKN4zsz7MQiUxLNyr2yFSa81Kky2DXfAQHrrnRHVvoxs8yYkzOStMD7oJbo2ufyo8jvxbfnmYJRN_nObRhhJzUDoaaKJRAUwr/s400/the+shard.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Shard, from www.visitlondon.com</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-87645951341134566942018-05-10T12:34:00.001-07:002018-05-10T12:56:18.716-07:00Fancy a Royal Wedding?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I love a good wedding, so of course, I’m excited as the next
person about the upcoming royal wedding. What sort of dress and flowers will
the famously fashionable Meghan Markle choose? How will the couple arrange the
service? Which traditions will they keep, which will they alter, and which will
they throw out of the window? My sister and I found ourselves sniggering over a
rather alarmist headline that proclaimed “<a href="https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/meghan-markle-make-speech-royal-wedding-prince-harry-break-centuries-old-tradition-a8182156.html" target="_blank">Meghan Markle to break centuries oldtradition at her wedding</a>”. What shocking thing do you think Markle was rumoured to be about to do at her
wedding? Run down the aisle naked? Only speak. This woman, whose career so far
has built on her eloquence and performance skills, has chosen to make a speech
at her own wedding. It’s hardly a shocker. Lots of brides do it. Looking at the
article we decided that, while Markle is very lucky to have found someone she
loves and wants to spend the rest of her life with, she’s also very unlucky
that it’s someone whose marriage provokes this level of insanity. Well, at
least that’s what we thought until my sister got married, and then we realised
that exercising choice over anything but flowers can get up a lot of people’s
noses.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A few weeks ago – in between thinking about weddings – I
came across a rather good abusive rant in a book I was reading: ‘Thy dullness I
hate; thy slobbering abhor; thy silly twattling I despise. And mend all these
or I shall go near to despise thee too.’ It has now become one of my lifetime
ambitions to use the word ‘twattling’ in conversation. After looking it up in
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">OED</i> I found an even better,
related, early modern insult ‘twattle-basket’, to be used on someone who talks
too much. This excellent quote comes out of the mouth of a country lass called
Fancy, as she roundly abuses her boyfriend. Unfortunately, in this instance she
takes it too far, and then regrets causing his hasty retreat. The scene is
observed by Pamphilia and the other protagonists of Mary Wroth’s 17<sup>th</sup>
Century romance, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Countesse of
Mountgomeries Urania </i>(Part II, Book I, p.36). The queens and kings, and
knights and ladies of Pamphilia’s posse are keen to know more of the young
woman’s story, so they ask her to tell it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The maid then, with a kind of country-like curtsy,
began thus: “When I was about fourteen years of age, great ladies,” said she,
“I was laid to by many pretty fellows, and mainly sued to, and as fine folks
say, courted. Some spoke love, some kindness, some (but fewest of them) spoke
marriage. Yet this man only spoke that, and that to my thoughts was such a
bond, as though I liked the man best of any, yet his way was too strict a
business for me to undergo: marriage, the bondage to sweet freedom. So that
troubled me shrewdly, and only was the bar in his way, yet I resolved to be
honest, but me thought a little mirth was better than ties at home, bawling
brats, months keepings-in, housewifery, and dairies, and a pudder of all
homemade troubles.” (Urania II, p.38) <o:p></o:p></div>
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The country lass, Fancy, continues to extoll the values of a
single life, namely that she may wear pretty things, accept gifts from any man,
be free from explaining herself to a husband, and be free of the need to prove
her chastity. While the girl does come across as rather mercenary, and is
condemned by the heroines of Wroth’s romance, I imagine that many a modern
reader would sympathise with her. Her fears of losing her freedom, the months
of confinement that were traditional for early modern births (‘keepings-in’), and
the children that follow them, make marriage unappealing to her. These
misgivings seem entirely reasonable, what’s more, she follows the rather
brilliant ‘twattling’ with the equally pleasing word ‘pudder’. As a noun,
‘pudder’ means ‘puddle’, but as a verb, it means to poke about in, or mess
with, which I think gives this puddle evocatively chaotic and homely
connotations. Her choice to resist marriage is totally rational, as she doesn’t
want to get mired in the trappings of marriage, which she sees as ‘a pudder of
all homemade troubles’. However, as an early modern woman (even as a fictional
one) Fancy cannot sustain this lifestyle for ever. Because women in this period
were dependent on men for wealth, security, and protection, the young woman can
see a need to marry. She reasons that <o:p></o:p></div>
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age must inherit that treasure beauty and youth
possessed. How then? A husband will cherish age, as in himself he must have it.
A fine house, a good fire, a soft bed in winter, no wants, good clothes for all
seasons, handsome discourse with a reasonable husband, children to pass away
the time withal: these are special good, and all these a happy wife hath to
comfort her in her years. (Urania II, pp.38-39)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Though she finds the prospect distasteful, in order to have
any kind of security, and be safe and comfortable in her old age, Fancy must
marry, and soon, before she loses her looks. This idea comes up a lot in
<a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.co.uk/2017/01/date-like-olivia.html?m=0" target="_blank">Shakespeare’s plays</a>. What’s more, the character of Fancy is unusual because she
is making her own decisions about marriage (and this is one of the reasons the
other women in the book look down on her). Usually, a woman would not have had
this sort of independence and would have been handed over from her father’s
control into that of her husband. The story of Fancy is not only valuable for
her enjoyable vocabulary, but also as an insight in to what marriage meant for
women in early modern England.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nowadays, many women in the UK can decide not only when and
if they marry, but also, what married life will look like for them. Women and
men choose who they will marry, and when. If a woman marries, it does not
necessarily mean she will have children, or be responsible for a household if
she doesn’t want to be, like poor old Fancy. A woman can choose not to marry,
and still enjoy security and safety in her old age. Marriage today is all about
choice, so why do people find it so shocking when people alter the marriage
ceremony, and the format of the reception to reflect their choices? My sister
recently got married in a pretty traditional ceremony with a couple of tweaks
and, while most people were supportive of the decisions she and her husband
made about their big day, others became surprisingly angry! The two big
decisions my sister made were that she didn’t want to be given away, and that she
wanted to make a speech at the reception. Instead, my sister walked herself
down the aisle (our parents walked in together before her), and at the
reception the speeches were delivered by the mother <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> father of the bride, the bride <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> groom, and the best man <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i>
chief bridesmaid (that was me – and of course <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I </i>wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to talk!). Why should only
men speak at the wedding reception anyway? Don’t worry, she was strict on
timing and it all went swimmingly. Really, what upset people the most was that
she hadn’t been led down the aisle by her father and given away. They felt that
her father had been denied a precious moment with his daughter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A father leading his daughter down the aisle can be a very
touching and special part of a wedding, but where does the tradition come from?
And what about being “given away”? The simple answer is that a daughter was
considered to be her father’s possession, and when she married she would become
her husband’s. A marriage was basically a transaction between two men. This is
also why it was traditionally the father of the bride and the groom who made
speeches at the reception; it’s their big day! In a lot of cultures, money was
also exchanged as part of this transaction. In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Midsummer Night’s Dream</i> Aegeus, Hermia’s father, puts it very
simply when his daughter refuses to marry the young man he has chosen and he
asserts his rights, “As she is mine, I may dispose of her”. Juliet’s father in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Romeo and Juliet</i> uses similar language: <o:p></o:p></div>
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An you be mine, I'll give you to
my friend; <o:p></o:p></div>
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And you be not, hang, beg,
starve, die in the streets, <o:p></o:p></div>
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For, by my soul, I'll ne'er
acknowledge thee, <o:p></o:p></div>
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Nor what is mine shall never do
thee good<o:p></o:p></div>
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In this scene Juliet’s father rages at her and threatens to
beat her, but he does not need to. It is clear she has no options. If she’s his
daughter he has a right to “give [her] to [his] friend”, and if she decides she
isn’t, then she’s out on the streets. As in the story of Fancy, practicalities
play a large part here: in a time when women could not earn their own living,
defiance was not a luxury she could afford. If Juliet wants to live, she has to
obey her father. The tradition of the father giving away the bride derives from
this sort of transaction between men. Nowadays a marriage isn’t a business deal
or a transaction between the father of the bride and the groom, but a life
choice made by the bride and groom, or the groom and groom, or the bride and
bride. That is why some people choose not to be given away. My sister liked the
way the tradition of being given away acknowledges the care a father has taken
in bringing up his child, but she wanted to acknowledge both her parents.
That’s why both her parents walked down the aisle before her. She wanted to
walk on her own to symbolize the fact that it was her decision to marry her
husband. I loved the image of her striding down the aisle towards the future
she had chosen with her husband.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Of course, that’s not to say a feminist bride can’t be given
away, or that being given away necessarily has to represent the old patriarchal
transactions of marriage. Isn’t Feminism about having choices? People can make
choices based on what those traditions mean to them. There are a lot of wedding
traditions that my sister acknowledges have their roots in hard-core
patriarchy, but she wanted to keep them, either because she felt they had come
to mean something new, or just because she flipping-well wanted to. For
example, a couple I know and admire chose to walk into their wedding ceremony
together. After all, a wedding is about a couple, not just the bride. For them,
this entrance symbolised the equality of marriage. My sister loved this idea
and agreed that the procession of the bride down the aisle could be deemed
similar to the showing of a prize heifer at market day before sale. On the other
hand, she wanted to wear an extravagant dress, parade down the aisle, and be
the centre of attention, so that was a tradition she kept. In the end, her
wedding reflected the way in which she and her husband understood the
traditions of marriage, their likes and dislikes, and their flair for the
dramatic. It was all about choice. No bride should be criticised for choosing
to walk herself down the aisle, for choosing to be walked down the aisle by her
father or mother, or another person who is important to her, or for choosing
not to walk down an aisle at all. So, to all the brides and grooms out there
(including Meghan and Harry) I say this: modern marriage is about choice, so
let your wedding reflect your choices, and if anyone tries to tell you off,
just look them squarely in the eye, and impressively pronounce the words “Thy
silly twattling I despise!” before sweeping out of the room in whatever fantastic
outfit you happen to be wearing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Photographs by the amazing <a href="https://www.katiamarshphotography.co.uk/" target="_blank">Katia Marsh</a>. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-9327154198135037132018-05-09T04:23:00.002-07:002018-05-09T07:38:25.536-07:00All The Men and Women Merely Players<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My plans for last night were chiefly feeling very sorry for
myself about my period pains, watching something escapist on Netflix, and
eating a lot. I was building up to this exciting evening of self-pity, by
wandering around wearing a dress that looked like a dirty nightie (not dirty in
the fun way, just unwashed and frumpy), and clutching my lower abdomen like an
8 months pregnant woman. I left the bookshop and spotted a friend from university
who I hadn’t seen in a long time. You know the feeling: you’re simultaneously pleased
to see an old friend, but also wishing you hadn’t bumped into one when you were
dressed like an escapee from a Victorian lunatic asylum. If you recognise that
feeling, you may also know the one when you talk to someone who is much cooler
and more confident than you, and you either find it hard to speak at all, or talk a
lot of utter rubbish. The old friend said he was performing a play called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Palmyra</i>. Inside I thought, ooh that
sounds serious, interesting and important thing to be doing a play about, but I
would worry it would go over my head. Out loud I squeaked, “Oh - FUN. I’ll come
and see it.” I staggered off both regretting the night of Netflix and chocolate
that would never be and having said “Oh – FUN” about the title <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Palmyra.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Later, I was very glad that I chose to go to the theatre. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Palmyra </i>is a must-see show: it was
incredibly intelligent, but utterly simple. While the ideas were deep and
complex, there was no way this could go over anyone’s head. Unexpectedly, there
were moments of fun. The performance began with physical comedy, plate smashing,
and a lot of silliness. Rather quickly, this playful atmosphere became
uncomfortably intense, as the point scoring between the two performers – who had
broken whose plate first? – began to spill out into something beyond play (in more than one sense of the word). One
performer turned to the audience, using his easy charm to develop a relationship
with us, appealing to us to condemn the other’s behavior. As an audience member
the feeling was strange, I felt compelled, by both his charm, and the
traditional relationship between an audience and a performer, to give the
answer he was inviting. As soon as I had spoken, though, I felt trapped and coerced.
The games being played on stage became games of humiliation, and while the
audience stayed silent we felt complicit in this humiliation (it was interesting to find out that not all audiences have silently endured this stressful scene). As one performer
condemned his fellow as uncultured, not like us, unreasonable, his fellow
became more humiliated, enraged, and of course – unreasonable, and unlike us,
the stationary audience. Over all of this the title <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Palmyra</i> cast its uncomfortable light. These simple transactions of
chairs, plates, brooms, etc, became shifting metaphors for various aspects of the
conflict in Syria, the role of the international community, and that of
ourselves in relation to the conflict. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Palmyra
</i>confronted us with some uncomfortable truths, but there was no clear allegory,
they didn’t pretend to have the answers. Rather they made us complicate our narratives. The show was both emotionally and
intellectually provocative through this ambiguity. Most powerfully, by destabilizing
the traditional relationship between actors and audience, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Palmyra </i>challenged us to think about our own roles within the state
and the world. Can we really see ourselves as an audience to the actors
involved in Syria, or in any other world affairs? Is that really enough? I won’t
say anymore, as I don’t want to give to much away about this show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is so thought provoking, viscerally
compelling, and important, that I hope you can experience it for yourself. Check
out <a href="https://bertandnasi.com/upcoming-shows-1/" target="_blank">their website</a> for future performances. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Seeing this show really renewed my belief in the power of
theatre (well, it didn’t cure my period pains, so it’s good that something came
out of it). When you read or watch the news the world today feels unstable and
frightening, it is so tempting to turn to art, whether that’s Netflix,
Shakespeare, fashion, or anything else, as an escape. This play reminded me
that all these things can be something through which we think about the world, seek
to understand it better, or try to change it. An image that fascinated Shakespeare, among other renaissance writers, was that of the world as a stage. It pops up in <i>Hamlet, </i>in <i>As You Like It</i>, and in <i>Macbeth</i>, to name a few. Often the image seems like an expression of the futility of life. Though I'm assured he's a comic character and his name might be a toilet gag, and that there are hidden sex jokes in this speech, to me, Jaques' speech seems either bitter or hopeless rather than funny: </div>
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All the world’s a stage,</div>
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And all the men and women merely players.</div>
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They have their exits and their entrances,</div>
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And one man in his time plays many parts,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
His acts being seven ages.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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He goes on to enumerate the seven ages of man, that is all the parts a man will play in his life. This story of a man suggests his life is inevitable, and that his choices will make no difference as his entrance and exit is already written. Similarly, Macbeth, who, to be fair, has really messed up by this point, decides that his life is meaningless. </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player<br />
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage<br />
And then is heard no more.</blockquote>
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Macbeth believes that his life, "full of sound and fury" as it was, will signify "nothing". I think the obvious point should be made here: Macbeth has killed a lot of people, or been responsible for their deaths, so talking short to medium term, his life has made a pretty big impact. Of course I'm being facetious - Macbeth is talking in cosmic, or perhaps religious terms (the Predestination debate is relevant here), and in the grand scheme of things a single human life really is no more than a "brief candle". Despite this, our actions do have an effect on the world as we are part of a network of millions upon millions of brief candles. The idea that the world is a stage, suggests it is a fixed thing that remains changeless as actors come and go, we know that isn't true. We impact not only each others lives, through action or inaction, but also the <a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.co.uk/2017/09/finding-forest-of-arden.html" target="_blank">world around us</a>, therefore impacting future generations to come. The position Macbeth takes, though beautifully expressed, is deeply solipsistic and selfish. Interestingly, though, in all these images we - people - are described as players. Jaques says "all the men and women" are players, not just kings like Macbeth. Too often we think of ourselves, not as players, but as audience, powerlessly watching action unfold before our eyes, on the countless little smart phones screens through which we watch the world. Yes, our lives are brief candles, but we can make and impact, so we should remember that we're all players too, and make those brief candles count.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF54Xfwq3VN83HMhMFNiN3m5w5DSJu2WhIQXBlcqGbu3WUkprqIWJp9bMa0quOCmNa2skhLHmfZ2_bAwXIZ7j019577voS7TphZVBP_-3eA5JMQDMuxJ9mLpwwA-ceSLXnuuWTigT0BOAs/s1600/London%2527s_rubbish_on_Kent_beach_-_geograph.org.uk_-_122913.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="473" data-original-width="640" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF54Xfwq3VN83HMhMFNiN3m5w5DSJu2WhIQXBlcqGbu3WUkprqIWJp9bMa0quOCmNa2skhLHmfZ2_bAwXIZ7j019577voS7TphZVBP_-3eA5JMQDMuxJ9mLpwwA-ceSLXnuuWTigT0BOAs/s320/London%2527s_rubbish_on_Kent_beach_-_geograph.org.uk_-_122913.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photograph by Penny Mayes, Wikicommons</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-6233802629249633042018-02-23T06:06:00.003-08:002018-02-23T06:35:24.448-08:00Closet Anorak & The Water Nymphs<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Isn’t it funny how life comes in little clumps. You haven’t
seen a friend for month and then you bump into them three days in a row. You
discover a new favourite Instagram account, and a week later it becomes the
next big thing online. Sometimes it’s just because you start noticing something
more because you’re looking for it – like when a friend is having a baby, and
suddenly you see pregnant women everywhere – but sometimes it really is the
peculiar coincidence of a clumpy universe. Last month I gave a talk about the
renaissance reception of the story of Echo and Narcissus from Ovid’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Metamorphoses</i>. Because talks are always
better with pictures, I illustrated mine with an image of JW Waterhouse’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Echo_and_Narcissus_(Waterhouse_painting)#/media/File:John_William_Waterhouse_-_Echo_and_Narcissus_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg" target="_blank">Echo and Narcissus</a></i> on the big screen. The
choice was anachronistic of course )I was talking about the 17<sup>th</sup> C,
and Waterhouse’s painting was executed in the early 20<sup>th</sup> C ) and
whimsical; I chose it because I like it. In the Q and A after my talk the
subject shifted to the painting itself and why I had chosen it. I explained
that the painting, like renaissance poetry, was full of literary allusions. I
also admitted that the choice had also been down to my long-standing love affair with
Pre-Raphaelite paintings. Waterhouse has been one of my favourite painters since
I was a child, because of his darkly languid ladies and chiselled knights, and I
can’t resist a good literary reference. I remember being taken to the Tate
gallery as a child and looking forward to seeing Waterhouse’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/waterhouse-the-lady-of-shalott-n01543" target="_blank">Lady of Shalott </a></i>(because I loved the
<a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45359/the-lady-of-shalott-1832" target="_blank">poem</a>). Disastrously, the room that housed the painting was closed for some
reason. I was incredibly disappointed, until I found that the door to the
closed room had a glass window in it, so I spent rather a long time with my
nose pressed up against it until it was time to leave and I had to be dragged
away. That huge painting in a darkened room, glimpsed through a window, is a
stronger visual memory for me than the many subsequent times I have seen it
full frontal in proper lighting. My love of the Pre-Raphaelite movement, and
Waterhouse in particular, has continued for a lot longer than it perhaps
should. It's a bit of a guilty secret. I did my A-Level art history project about a Waterhouse painting, and
have invested many hours since painting and sketching 'after' his distinctive style.
I didn’t admit to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> of this anorak
behaviour in my Q and A, and I did mutter something non-committal about
Waterhouse’s depiction of women being problematic from a feminist perspective.
A week later, several of the people who had attended the talk emailed me news
articles about <a href="http://manchesterartgallery.org/blog/presenting-the-female-body-challenging-a-victorian-fantasy/" target="_blank">Machester Art Gallery’s decision</a> to remove a Waterhouse painting
(<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hylas and the Water Nymphs</i>) from
display.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3YmtDKr6i6tujxOFIszyozWnrVc2Ztu2Mn_H6hDnbK4XscmWxfBAEpPR4Mq593iUl9vOgc_qfBFMIxO6gG1kWgs5LrkVKPDE2-47nPfEkQ2Q_d0LPf-UMqMjPngk20raJMZjG_q9QAmxQ/s1600/20151110-6034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3YmtDKr6i6tujxOFIszyozWnrVc2Ztu2Mn_H6hDnbK4XscmWxfBAEpPR4Mq593iUl9vOgc_qfBFMIxO6gG1kWgs5LrkVKPDE2-47nPfEkQ2Q_d0LPf-UMqMjPngk20raJMZjG_q9QAmxQ/s640/20151110-6034.jpg" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photograph by Peter Marsh at ashmorevisuals</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p><br /> </o:p>Manchester Art Gallery <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/entertainment-arts-42908602/curator-defends-removal-of-uncomfortable-nymph-painting" target="_blank">removed the painting from display</a> in order, its curator told the BBC, to start a conversation about whether it
was appropriate to display this “uncomfortable” painting in the age of the #timesup
and #metoo campaigns, which seek to raise awareness of the endemic
objectification, sexual harassment, and sexual assault of women in our society.
Gallery owner Rupert Maas countered this argument, saying "we should
debate the content of the picture, not remove it in a censorship sort of way -
it's the new fascism". So was this just a publicity stunt? Was this censorship? Does this painting objectify women? Should we remove paintings that objectify women? Does hitching this debate on to the coat tails of the #timesup and #metoo movements belittle
the experiences of victims of sexual assault? Is this refusal to view or hear
anything that doesn’t tow the PC line the “new fascism”? Are we missing the point? The painting has since
been replaced, but I worry that rather than prompting a discussion of how we
should interact with a canon of art and literature that promotes a cultural
objectification of women (if it does), the removal of the painting just
reinforced the all too common idea that feminism is the stuff of silly prudery. Who knows? Publicity stunt it may have been,
but it certainly got my friends and me talking. One of these conversations was particularly enjoyable. “Well
I think it was about time. I can’t believe it’s taken this long to be honest.”
This firm statement was accompanied by a sip of beer and a return to perusing a
social media newsfeed. My friend and I looked on, slightly stunned, as her
husband scrolled his thumb across his phone. “I don’t think it’s that simple!”
she said angrily. “Call yourself a feminist?” he laughed. At that point the
gloves were off, and the whole thing got a little heated and began to stray
into unrelated domestic matters. That is, until it became clear that while she
and I were talking about the removal of <i>Hylas
and the Water Nymphs</i> from the Manchester Art Gallery, he was talking about
getting rid of <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/formula1/42950040" target="_blank">grid girls</a>. We
all laughed at this mix up, because they’re such different things. But why are
they different things? What makes using beautiful and very young women to
ornament a race track different from using beautiful and very young women to
ornament the walls of an art gallery? Both promote the objectification of
women, but the obvious difference is that in the case of grid girls, real
people are being used as decoration, and a painting is in fact an object. It could
be argued that while the grid girls were only female, Waterhouse’s
representations of male beauty are similarly examples of objectification. But
where tautly muscled males stretch forward in two of the Waterhouse paintings I
have mentioned (<i>Hylas and the Water
Nymphs </i>and <i>Echo and Narcissus</i>),
it has to be owned that Pre-Raphaelite paintings are largely of women,
presented placidly to the viewer. Going back to my mumbled caveat about
Waterhouse’s “problematic” depiction of women, I can’t deny that I see these
paintings as inherently sexist. To my eye, Waterhouse’s mesmerically passive
femmes fatales embody the chauvinist and misogynist society which produced
them. They reinforce the hegemony that passive – and in some cases, well nigh
dead – women are most desirable, while simultaneously perpetuating that old misogynist
cherry: that women’s sexual wiles are a constant danger, luring men into sin
and death.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Given all of this, do I think that these paintings should be
taken down, and hidden away? Of course not. For starters, to reduce a painting to its
contents is bizarre. It is also a material object, produced with great care. Whatever
the subject there are other things to appreciate, the beauty of line, for
example, or the delicate play of colour. I think we can appreciate these things
in the same way that we appreciate Shakespeare’s beautiful verse despite its
often misogynist and racist contents. I often comment in this blog on the
sexism rife in Shakespeare, and worry about the ways in which these plays can
be a Trojan Horse of pigheadedness, transporting misogyny into the modern day, excused
and disguised by the word “art”. However, I don’t think that means that the
plays lack value. Think of the moment in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A
Midsummer Night’s Dream </i>when Aegeus tells Duke Theseus about Lysander and
his daughter, Hermia. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This man hath bewitch'd the bosom of
my child; <o:p></o:p></div>
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Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given
her rhymes, <o:p></o:p></div>
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And interchanged love-tokens with my
child: <o:p></o:p></div>
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Thou hast by moonlight at her window
sung, <o:p></o:p></div>
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With feigning voice verses of
feigning love,<o:p></o:p></div>
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And stolen the impression of her
fantasy <o:p></o:p></div>
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With bracelets of thy hair, rings,
gawds, conceits, <o:p></o:p></div>
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Knacks, trifles, nosegays,
sweetmeats, messengers <o:p></o:p></div>
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Of strong prevailment in unharden'd
youth: <o:p></o:p></div>
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With cunning hast thou filch'd my
daughter's heart,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Turn'd her obedience, which is due to
me, <o:p></o:p></div>
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To stubborn harshness (Act 1, Scene
1)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Aegeus wants
his daughter to marry Demetrius, but she wants to marry Lysander. Despite the
mutual love of Lysander and Hermia, Aegeus has forbidden their marriage and has
come to ask the Duke to support him by enforcing the law that if Hermia
disobeys her father, she must either face death or a convent. While Shakespeare
presents Aegeus as a harsh father, the text does not undermine the idea that a
daughter is a father’s possession whom he may bestow as he wishes. The words “stolen”
and “filch’d” indicate that Hermia is a possession of her father’s. Ultimately
the play concludes in a series of marriages, and one marital reunion, that bolster
the idea that women should be controlled by men. In the extract above, although
Hermia is being defiant, she is still portrayed as passive. She is disobedient
because she is “bewitch’d” and bribed. Aegeus claims that Lysander has “stolen
the impression of her fantasy”. Similar to the image of women’s “<a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.co.uk/p/about.html" target="_blank">waxen hearts</a>”
from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twelfth Night</i>,
after which this blog is named, this line suggests that women are mouldable and
their minds can literally be impressed by male ideas, like wax being stamped. But
on the other hand, isn’t the phrase “stolen the impression of her fantasy”
beautiful? There’s a whispering sibilance to it, which, combined with the
abstract nature of this image, captures something of the mystery of falling
in love. We can enjoy moonlit scene, and our ears tingle at the effect of the
chiastic line “With feigning voice verses of feigning love”. The literary among
us might be tickled by Shakespeare’s list of gifts, reminded of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Amorous Shepherd to his Love</i>, and
all the replies it provoked. We might also admire the way the enjambment at the
end of that line emphasises the father’s rage. Few would deny the artistry of
Shakespeare’s writing, but even the most determined would find it difficult to defend the works from all charges of misogyny and racism.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If we hide
all the Waterhouses, we will have to hide almost all of Western art, and then, by the
same logic, throw Shakespeare and vast stores of literature into the dungeon too. And I
don’t just mean the dead white males! Think of the implicit racism in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jane Eyre</i>. It would all have to go. We
would lose a lot if we denied our cultural heritage. Instead we should question
and contextualize it. We should certainly value art, but that doesn’t mean we
can’t interrogate it. And even if you find nothing of value in Shakespeare or
Waterhouse (you wouldn’t be alone on the Waterhouse, people are a bit sniffy
about my beloved Pre-Raphaelites), acknowledging a past we don’t like can help
us learn, but hiding it never can.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-88337183850283015352018-02-16T05:48:00.000-08:002018-02-16T05:48:56.403-08:00Lady Letitia's Lilliput Hand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Office cards are always tricky. What should you write in the
‘Goodbye’ card of someone you barely know? When everyone else has already
written all possible variations of ‘good luck in your next job’, what can you
really say? Of all the leaving cards I’ve ever received, the most peculiar has
got to be the one in which a colleague wrote, “I only just noticed how small
your hands are. They’re tiny. You should put them in a show!” To be fair, the
one thing that Donald Trump, David Starkey, and I all have in common, is that
we all have very tiny hands. This week, my hands once again proved amusing to
my friends when I attended a talk at St Anne's College, Oxford, by Dr Ryan Sweet about prosthetic hands in 19<sup>th</sup>
Century. The talk explored ideas of physical ‘normalcy’ that developed in the
19<sup>th</sup> C, and the stigma surrounding bodies that society did not
consider ‘whole’. He talked about the ways in which the use of prosthetics both
confirmed and confused society’s ideas of what a body ought to be. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As part of the talk, Dr Sweet told the tale of
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lady Letitia’s Lilliput Hand</i>, a
sensation short story by Robert William Buchanan, written in 1862. Lady Letitia
is a beautiful, mysterious woman, who everyone wants to marry because she has
such perfectly tiny hands. The friend sitting next to me giggled and gestured
to my hands and as Dr Sweet explained that the modest women’s fashions of the
period led to the eroticization of women’s hands, as the only visible flesh,
and that small hands represented a dainty femininity that was considered
desirable in the 19<sup>th</sup> Century. At this point I let out a rather appalling
snort laugh and had to cover my face with a ‘dainty’ hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Unsurprisingly, given the topic of the talk, after several
twists and turns in the plot, it turns out that one of Lady Letitia’s perfect
hands is prosthetic. In keeping with prejudices surrounding disability in that
period, the heroine’s physical ‘imperfection’ also represents a moral
imperfection, and a scandalous secret in her past. She lost her hand fighting with
her first husband, who had discovered her flirtation with another man. Her
husband then committed suicide, framing her for the murder. The prosthetic in
the story functioned to allow Letitia to pass for ‘normal’, and concealed not
only her disability, but her secret. In this way, the story confirmed 19<sup>th</sup>
C ideas of bodily normalcy, and the idea that a normal body – according to
contemporary standards – represented good, while a failure to conform to such
standards, was perceived as something that ought to be concealed, and might
also indicate some kind of moral lack. However, the story doesn’t end with the
revelation that one of Lady Letitia’s perfect hands is prosthetic. After the
heroine reveals her disability and her secret past to her suitor, they get
married. The story ends after Letitia dies in childbirth, and her husband keeps
her prosthetic hand as a memento. The happy – well happy for Victorians –
ending of the story ran counter to popular ideas that disabled women were undesirable
and unmarriageable. The prosthetic hand becomes a symbol of Letitia and her
husband’s love for her. This is a complicated literary image, with all sorts of
problems of its own, but it is certainly a far cry from the prosthetic as a
symbol of moral transgression.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoFYpYqMQI8Nup-R4qHWnAxRl28UoRHWrUlx0jB9sWLMQe9cQABMyxTH4OJdJoafTEDclyzsPOz2SyTd1KUm5w0YXLW92mXyBtuHoLzf-7MqlMNlMkggZdv7x__FBMVNba8rBWS9prG1EH/s1600/ahuxkam5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1185" data-original-width="1600" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoFYpYqMQI8Nup-R4qHWnAxRl28UoRHWrUlx0jB9sWLMQe9cQABMyxTH4OJdJoafTEDclyzsPOz2SyTd1KUm5w0YXLW92mXyBtuHoLzf-7MqlMNlMkggZdv7x__FBMVNba8rBWS9prG1EH/s400/ahuxkam5.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Artificial hand in a leather glove, Europe, 1880-1920' by Science Museum, London. Credit: <a href="https://wellcomecollection.org/works/ahuxkam5" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Helvetica Neue Light Web", HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue Light", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: no-common-ligatures; letter-spacing: 0.64px; text-align: start;">Science Museum, London</a><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue Light Web", HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue Light", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: no-common-ligatures; letter-spacing: 0.64px; text-align: start;">. </span><a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Helvetica Neue Light Web", HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue Light", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: no-common-ligatures; letter-spacing: 0.64px; text-align: start;">CC BY</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Obsessed with taxonomy, Victorians wanted to quantify and
measure what constituted the perfect body. A body that did not – literally –
measure up was considered lacking rather than different. Though intensified by Victorian
empiricism, this idea of lack, and the idea that bodies which society deemed
ugly, or imperfect should go hand in glove with an evil or immoral soul was by
no means new in that period. Hundreds of years earlier, Shakespeare’s Richard
III is an iconic character whose evil is directly linked with his physicality
at the very opening of the play. Richard describes the pursuits of peace time,
and his role therein:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
I, that am curtail'd of this fair
proportion,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
Cheated of feature by dissembling
nature,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my
time<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
Into this breathing world, scarce
half made up,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
And that so lamely and unfashionable<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
That dogs bark at me as I halt by
them;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
Why, I, in this weak piping time of
peace,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
Have no delight to pass away the
time,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
And descant on mine own deformity:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
And therefore, since I cannot prove a
lover,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
To entertain these fair well-spoken
days,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
I am determined to prove a villain (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Richard III</i>, Act I, Scene 1)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Describing himself as “deformed”, Richard claims he has no
place in peace time, and is therefore forced to be a “villain”. Not only does
the character claim that his villainy is derived from his “deformity”, he also
characterises his physical difference specifically in terms of lack. He implies
that he is deformed because he was born too soon, “scarce half made up” and
“unfinished”. This is especially interesting because the word ‘perfect’ means
complete or finished, so when we talk about imperfections, we are also talking
about lack. Even before the Victorians tried to come up with metrics for the
perfect human, we were already measuring each other in terms of lack. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dr Sweet’s talk considered how prosthetics were depicted in the
19<sup>th</sup> Century, but I couldn’t help but worry that the negative
attitudes towards non-normative bodies and users of prosthetics he described,
and the outmoded ideas of deformity at work in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Richard III</i>, still pop up today. I was struck by the appearance of
strikingly similar themes in the 2017 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wonder
Woman</i> film. Simply put, the film pits a beautiful goddess whose physical
perfection is matched only by her goodness, against a female villain, Dr
Poison, who is physically weak, one dimensionally evil, and wears a facial
prosthetic. During the course of the film, we learn little about Dr Poison (or Isabel
Maru), apart from that she is determined to produce a deadly poison gas that
can infiltrate gas masks, she kills her own minions without compunction, her
face was injured in the course of her own chemical experimentation, and that
she craves affection. The film’s superficial depiction of Dr Poison seemed to
imply that her need for a facial prosthetic was both a product and evidence of
her evil nature, and the idea that this woman with facial prosthetics craves
but can’t find love seems ludicrously Victorian, as if the rest wasn’t bad
enough. The chicken and egg dynamic of evil and falling short of physical norms
clings to this character as it did to Shakespeare’s Richard III. The contrast
between Diana (Wonder Woman) and Isabel (Dr Poison) – the only female
characters in the film that really come close to being characters – that measures
the beloved physical and moral perfection of one against the lonely disfigurement
and evil of the other, seems lazy, reductive, and offensive. Even the Victorian
short story that Dr Sweet told us had more subtlety, and from what I’ve heard,
sensation fiction isn’t famed for that! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’re not Victorians, but measuring each other, and
ourselves, against the myth of the perfect human, and applying moral judgements
to the results is something we still haven’t given up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a society we’re constantly being asked to
measure whether we have the right face, the right percentage body fat, the
right proportions, the right genitals, the right limbs, the right everything.
Representations of disability have changed since the 19<sup>th</sup> Century, but
our pop culture shorthand reveals us to be, by and large, an ableist culture with
a very narrow definition of physical beauty. Lady Letitia’s tiny hand as symbol
for dainty, womanly perfection garnered giggles from Dr Sweet’s audience. How
do we get to a place where any idea of a physically perfect human is just as
hilarious?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-84027928074434282382017-10-13T10:32:00.001-07:002017-10-13T10:32:09.410-07:00This Is I, Hamlet The Dane!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We’ve all been there. The time comes for you to go round the group and introduce yourselves. The phrase “say a little bit about yourself”, so inviting, so modest, so demonstrably easy, is also a phrase that strikes fear into the sturdiest of hearts. Will you say too much, or too little? Will you appear arrogant, or worse, underwhelming and fey? Will your witty intro be perceived as trivial, or be met with blank stares of incomprehension? And, if you are near the end of a very long line, you may begin to worry whether words will even come out of your mouth, or whether a hysterical snort laugh will be your only utterance. Last week I started my fellowship at the <a href="https://www2.warwick.ac.uk/fac/cross_fac/ias" target="_blank">Institute of Advanced Study</a>. Their unique early career fellowship gives emergent academics like me the opportunity to develop their profile and skills through the ACE training system. Inevitably, the dreaded moment came when we had to introduce ourselves. Yes, I did do the terrible snort laugh, but I managed words as well, so it wasn’t too bad. While I thought this would be my least favourite part of the day, it turned out to be the moment when I realised how very exciting this fellowship had the potential to be.<br />
<br />
As each of the new fellows introduced themselves in turn, it became clear that the ‘interdisciplinary’ nature of this fellowship was far more than just buzzwords in a funding application. The group featured scholars whose projects were based in areas as disparate as Statistics, and Italian Studies, Veterinary Epidemiology, and History. Even more exciting than this eclectic group being gathered in one room, were the clear parallels and links that emerged as we described our research. After four years working on my PhD, in which my research was focussed towards the sole aim of finishing my thesis, I think my view of my subject had become a little narrow. The conversation in the room really got me thinking about exciting aspects of my area of research that I’d either put on the back burner, or completely failed to see before. Mixing in new or unusual perspectives can only make work, and life, more interesting. Like the ingredients of my favourite breakfast, Eggs Benedict, different academic disciplines can produce wonderful results when mixed together.<br />
<br />
It’s not only research and breakfast that can benefit from an exciting and unexpected ingredient. Shakespeare’s plays are famous for examples of generic mixing. Shockingly to some, Shakespeare’s drama mixed comic and tragic elements, and princes shared their plays with clowns and drunkards. Often Shakespeare’s most thought- provoking moments are produced by this sort of surprising combination. Sometimes two parallel plots exist in one play, juxtaposing different types of comedy: raucous ‘low’ characters, with rough and ready humour, undercut the marriage plots of loftier figures. For example, this ‘upstairs, downstairs’ structure is at work in <i>Twelfth Night</i> as the wooing of Countess Olivia by Duke Orsino, is shadowed and contrasted by the scatological, sexual humour exploding under Maria’s supervision. At other times a comic character will appear in a tragedy, exposing, through riddles or jokes, an essential truth that eludes the tragic hero. In <i>King Lear</i> the Fool provides a commentary through his jokes and songs through much of the play, but in <i>Hamlet</i>, the wisecracking gravediggers (sometimes called Clowns one and two) appear only once, at a pivotal moment in the plot.<br />
<br />
In Act V Scene I Hamlet returns from England a changed man. He has spent most of the play dithering, and torturing himself about what he should do about the fact that his uncle murdered his father, usurped his crown, and married his mother. It’s a common struggle. But in Act V Scene I Hamlet declares himself “the Dane” and seems to take his destiny in hand. By assuming the title “Hamlet the Dane”, the prince takes up the role of his father (whose ghost he addresses as “royal Dane” in Act I Scene IV), signalling his refusal to continue in the strange state of indecision and lack of identity caused by his failure to respond to his uncle’s crime and his usurpation of the throne. His father's ghostly purgatory is reflected by Hamlet's purgatory on earth. Hamlet acknowledges his role as revenger in a revenge tragedy, but it is a figure from an entirely different genre that catalyses this realisation of generic destiny. Hamlet and Horatio come across two men digging a grave, and the prince and gravedigger exchange witty banter, full of puns. Hamlet, who has not revealed his identity, hears himself described as a mad man.<br />
<i>First Clown: he that is mad, and sent into England.</i><br />
<i>Hamlet: Ay, marry, why was be sent into England?</i><br />
<i>First Clown: Why, because 'a was mad. 'A shall recover his wits there; or, if 'a do not, 'tis no great matter there.</i><br />
<i>Hamlet: Why?</i><br />
<i>First Clown: 'Twill not he seen in him there. There the men are as mad as he.</i><br />
This is an easy joke, which would have tickled the English audience of the play, and is characteristic of the gravedigger’s humour. In this way the scene provides a bit of light relief, but also a serious meditation on mortality. The commoner, standing in the grave, cheekily addressing Prince Hamlet with no reverence or sense of hierarchy, is reminder of the levelling nature of death. Whether clowns or kings, all flesh is mortal and ends up as dust. Hamlet asks the gravedigger for whom the grave is being dug, and after a bit of back and forth, the gravedigger gives his answer,<br />
<i>Hamlet: What man dost thou dig it for?</i><br />
<i>First Clown: For no man, sir.</i><br />
<i>Hamlet: What woman then?</i><br />
<i>First Clown: For none neither.</i><br />
<i>Hamlet: Who is to be buried in't?</i><br />
<i>First Clown: One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she's dead.</i><br />
The frustrating badinage of the gravedigger presents the corpse as divorced from its former identity. The corpse has become neither man nor woman, because these identities designate a living body. The gravedigger not only refuses to assign a gender to the corpse, but also to give any further identification. Hamlet seems to be expecting a name, but even when the gravedigger reveals the grave is for “One that was a woman”, the prince’s wish to know more is unsatisfied, because after death these signifiers become irrelevant. All skulls look more or less the same, whether they used to belong to royalty or beggars. Hamlet transforms the gravedigger’s banter into a polished meditation.<br />
<i>Imperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay, </i><br />
<i>Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. </i><br />
<i>O, that the earth which kept the world in awe </i><br />
<i>Should patch a wall t' expel the winter's flaw!</i><br />
Even great leaders like Caesar end up as dust, the same as anyone else. Hamlet’s tone here may be wistful but it is also undoubtedly comic. The idea of the mighty Caesar patching up a hole in the wall is a classic example of bathos. But this idea – that death makes us all equal – is not new to Hamlet. Before he leaves for England, Hamlet accidentally murders Polonius and, in Act IV Scene III, rails at Claudius that “a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar”. It is unclear whether Hamlet’s ‘madness’ in this scene is genuine or an antic disposition he has “put on”, but either way, he continues to fail in his role as revenger. At this earlier point Hamlet’s assertion of man’s mortality, and the indifference of death to status seems to induce anger in him, rather than amused acceptance, as it does in the grave scene. In revenge tragedy, the inevitable fate of the revenger is death. In accepting the role of revenger, Hamlet also accepts his own death. Shakespeare’s imposition of the comic gravedigger into Hamlet’s tragedy enables him to realise and accept the truth of his situation.<br />
<br />
Much less dramatically, in our own lives, the introduction of a new perspective, or an unexpected situation can often provide clarity or insight. Meeting researchers from different disciplines has given me the opportunity not only to explore new ideas, and potential collaborations, but also to see my own work afresh, as if with new eyes. It has to be said that Hamlet’s choice to introduce his newly motivated and focussed identity by leaping into a grave and shouting “This is I! Hamlet the Dane!” makes my terrible snort laugh at the IAS look positively like a social success. Whatever, happens, we can all be glad we’re not Hamlet. My good fortune at becoming an IAS early career fellow almost seems like the happy conclusion of a comedy, but I know it’s only the start of an exciting new act of a longer play. I am very much looking forward to exploring all the new avenues and perspectives that my exciting opportunity with the IAS will afford. Eggs Benedict anyone?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxbtlm_RPdGtdtAcVUdiNwqvIzY7nG7MgD1087NOzA2AEabQRzZRxLMI9OraEsewvy_xpbhQfoUGOio4nxHkcFLef7wiHUJS3ORSIY4WENTuUBEg1VyhfeTNAfsAWDrUrPwQq-HQzYOzbL/s1600/20150811-6074.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Thomasin Bailey" border="0" data-original-height="819" data-original-width="1024" height="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxbtlm_RPdGtdtAcVUdiNwqvIzY7nG7MgD1087NOzA2AEabQRzZRxLMI9OraEsewvy_xpbhQfoUGOio4nxHkcFLef7wiHUJS3ORSIY4WENTuUBEg1VyhfeTNAfsAWDrUrPwQq-HQzYOzbL/s640/20150811-6074.jpg" title="Thomasin Bailey" width="640" /></a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-68015079219560002222017-09-26T22:01:00.000-07:002017-09-26T22:01:58.538-07:00De-Stressing in Laikipia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The moment I realised I had to do something about my stress levels came on a beautiful weekend in London. My friends and I were sitting outside in the sun, enjoying a lazy brunch opposite the town hall. As we tucked in to our delicious, though probably overpriced, food, we watched all the wedding parties going in and out of the town hall. This was a pretty good show as the town hall in Islington plays host to some pretty stylish weddings. Particular mention must go to the stunning bride in the gold dress, very chic. Her 1920s inspired gown shimmered all over with sequins; she looked like a devastatingly stylish goldfish. Wedding guests decked out in their finest were traipsing about, many of them popping over to our side of the road to get a coffee from one of Upper Street’s many cafes. Then I saw him crossing the road: a tall, skinny ginger man, with the llama haircut that is de rigueur for a certain genre of London hipster, and the tight, blue suit that often goes with it. A rustic button hole sprang jauntily from his chest, his socks were a startling mustard yellow, and in his hand he was clutching…. Oh my lord! He was clutching a knife! This man, holding a flick knife tightly to his torso, was walking right towards us. At that moment I was sure I was going to die. I felt as if I was about to faint, blood was pounding in my ears, and I struggled to breathe. A second or two later, everything became clear. The hot hipster was holding a folded-up program, which, to be perfectly honest, looked nothing at all like a knife. My panic-induced cloud disappeared, and I mentioned it to my friends, isn’t it funny that I thought that hot hipster was carrying a knife? Also, isn’t it hilarious that I was convinced I was going to die, and the only thing I could think of was that I hadn’t even finished my PhD thesis? To be honest, they didn’t think it was particularly funny, and my pale clammy face was testament to the fact that I didn’t really either. They suggested that I might be feeling a little highly strung.<br />
<br />
Of course they were right. Like most people in the final stages of a PhD I was feeling the pressure and was so stressed that work related anxiety had spilled over into the rest of my life, and, as Hipster-gate proved, I was also losing touch with reality. Something had to give: my health was bad, my skin was positively adolescent, my work was suffering as a consequence (making me more stressed), and I couldn’t even enjoy an overpriced brunch in the heart of hipster town. I decided a change of scene might help, so as soon as I could, I booked a flight to go and stay with my brother, who works on a wildlife conservancy in Kenya. I realise that I was incredibly lucky to have this option, but it was exactly the change I needed. Almost as soon as I arrived at the beautiful <a href="http://www.mugie.org/" target="_blank">Mugie Conservancy</a> I felt physically relaxed, as if someone had released a catch somewhere in my upper back. I no longer had a constant headache and painful shoulders, and my work was insanely productive. I finished my thesis and felt not only refreshed, but utterly transformed. I felt as if I’d come back to life. The image of Hermione’s statue sprung to mind. Hermione in <i>The Winter’s Tale</i> died due to her husband’s tyrannical mistreatment and, then, sixteen years later, her statue miraculously springs into life in the final scene of the play. <i>The Winter’s Tale</i>, tells the story of King Leontes, who becomes insanely jealous of his pregnant wife Hermione, and he is convinced she is having an affair with his friend Polyxenes. He imagines things that aren’t there, and interprets everything as evidence of her guilt. His paranoia leads him to plot to murder his friend who flees the country. I’m not being funny but has anyone seriously considered the idea that Leontes was finishing a PhD? It would explain a lot. Leontes puts Hermione on trial, but there is nothing fair about this process, and she is found guilty. When Hermione’s baby is born Leontes refuses to believe it is his and orders it to be taken away and killed. In a typically obscure, Shakespearean manner, Leontes’ mistreatment of his wife kills both Hermione, and their son, Mamillius. Luckily the baby is not killed, but raised by shepherds in Polyxenes’ country. It’s a long story, but eventually Perdita (the baby’s name) grows up and marries Polyxenes’ son. The two of them end up in Leontes’ court, with Polyxenes too, and the repentant Leontes accepts her as his daughter. At this point Paulina, Hermione’s servant, rocks up and says she has a statue of Hermione and they should all go and see it. The statue comes to life, and the rest is history… well, literature at least. Am I saying my PhD was like a tyrannical husband? No: the parallel doesn’t really fit, but I’d certainly been treating myself pretty badly. Finishing a PhD can <a href="https://qz.com/547641/theres-an-awful-cost-to-getting-a-phd-that-no-one-talks-about/" target="_blank">get ugly</a>. And, it’s both common knowledge and scientific fact that living in close proximity to one another, surrounded by buildings and cars is more <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/cities/2014/feb/25/city-stress-mental-health-rural-kind" target="_blank">stressful for humans</a> than living in rural areas with lots of space. At Mugie Conservancy, instead of cars, buildings, and chaos, I was surrounded by the most beautiful countryside you can imagine. My morning commute changed from anxiously waiting in a traffic jam, hoping I could get a parking space at the University Library, to a brief but extraordinary journey through wide open plains, filled with zebra, elephant, and gazelle. The office, where I was given a space to work, is also home to several orphan animals, so I was greeted every morning by a very friendly young giraffe named Tala.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9BIxICflmXHhhajXFuY7AusIMy7SWT7S8ShOTR1b8L3fwCENCzc6KynBBbglKl7lRzzrF308ylz30pd2UjEdwwVLK-1-wGK6uU8eWNSiwzffTdKvkwDeAxG0SnAP7eKVEtdMO6-XwGe6W/s1600/Elephants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9BIxICflmXHhhajXFuY7AusIMy7SWT7S8ShOTR1b8L3fwCENCzc6KynBBbglKl7lRzzrF308ylz30pd2UjEdwwVLK-1-wGK6uU8eWNSiwzffTdKvkwDeAxG0SnAP7eKVEtdMO6-XwGe6W/s400/Elephants.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elephants on Mugie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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At this moment Mugie seems like a paradise. Yesterday afternoon we went on a drive and when we reached grassy plain, we were totally surrounded by herds of zebra, including the rare and endangered <a href="http://www.iucnredlist.org/details/7950/0" target="_blank">Grevy’s zebra</a>, who are only found in Laikipia. Later we saw a large herd of elephant, including some absolutely tiny babies, grazing and browsing amongst the luxurious grasses. Everywhere we went we saw the most extraordinary birds, including a secretary bird, a Kori bustard, a breeding pair of Augur buzzards, and my personal favourites, the long-tailed widowbirds. However, this lush, green landscape, teeming with peacefully grazing animals has recently had its own transformation, that has far more in common with Hermione’s transformation than mine. Just seven months ago, all 49000 acres of the conservancy were covered in cattle. As you might have read in the news, late 2016 and 2017 saw conservancies and farms across Laikipia invaded and systematically destroyed by pastoralists. Convinced by unscrupulous <a href="http://www.nation.co.ke/oped/Opinion/address-laikipia-ranch-invasions/440808-3799016-ncv0rkz/" target="_blank">politicians</a> that this was the only way to survive drought, pastoralists from neighbouring counties, some from over 200km away, drove their herds into Laikipia’s conservancies, cutting down fences, killing wildlife, burning trees for fuel, burning down homes and lodges, and shooting the people who got in their way. Many people suspected that this might be an intended land grab, under the disguise of drought. It wasn’t just the big conservancies that were hit. Small holdings and family farms were also destroyed. By February 2017 Mugie was overrun by more than 130,000 head of cattle, and the wildlife that the conservancy exists to protect, suffered the consequences. Many elephant, buffalo, and impala died during the invasion. “There was no grass,” recalls Henry Bailey, Operations Manager, “Just dust everywhere. It just looked like the end of the world. First of all the whole place smelled like cows. There were cows everywhere. Cows, and people with guns, doing whatever they wanted to. Later on, when the grass was gone and the majority moved on, everywhere smelled of death and rotting carcasses. There wasn’t a place on the entire farm when you couldn’t smell death.” The contrast to how the conservancy looks now could not be greater.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzMhKzs0TxuweL_ARglBL1O0jSqsWRaRjKNz-qCRsy3M2hAB4xr9x57jL1_7igOwprh0EgQunfSd4lQ7w3qx1c4zkol0Jqc1UhfHUmGMl8g3Lt2sXDC8TorK_LuQMdOXmV_Sx8R32NG3Af/s1600/Desertification.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzMhKzs0TxuweL_ARglBL1O0jSqsWRaRjKNz-qCRsy3M2hAB4xr9x57jL1_7igOwprh0EgQunfSd4lQ7w3qx1c4zkol0Jqc1UhfHUmGMl8g3Lt2sXDC8TorK_LuQMdOXmV_Sx8R32NG3Af/s400/Desertification.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/hbsafari/" target="_blank">Henry Bailey</a>, Operations Manager talks about desertification.</td></tr>
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Looking at Mugie today, with its lush greenery, and baby elephants, it is as if it has been reborn, like Hermione. Earlier this week a large game drive vehicle, full of tourists from the US came for a safari. They left elated, having sighted more wildlife than they had seen on their entire holiday, including a pride of lionesses with their cubs, cheetahs, elephant, zebra, and more. But the recovery of Mugie was no miracle, and it is the product of a lot of ongoing hard work. Overgrazed soil needs <a href="https://www.ted.com/talks/allan_savory_how_to_green_the_world_s_deserts_and_reverse_climate_change" target="_blank">time to recover</a>. If the young grasses are immediately eaten again, this will cause desertification (degradation of the soil that takes decades to recover from and prevents new growth), as it already has in some patches of Mugie. Increased security operations run by Mugie, more recently supported by local Police, are still working behind the scenes to defend the wildlife and their habitat. Alongside this security effort Mugie is working hard to make the local community become more invested in the conservancy, so that they will help resist invasions and the unsustainable destruction of grazing land.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwQPeCzq1B1QQn8qr-PaeSJSiy2uiDjkw6cLQ3GZxVV1SIOMUCE0scf11XwWTlDugbI9-k5ekaOq9wEGuVF4UYzqbaLm8tN4z0tBftdPHT71aXit1b6srvWzktUg9xnAZhLbz9dYtpDSf_/s1600/Dikdik.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwQPeCzq1B1QQn8qr-PaeSJSiy2uiDjkw6cLQ3GZxVV1SIOMUCE0scf11XwWTlDugbI9-k5ekaOq9wEGuVF4UYzqbaLm8tN4z0tBftdPHT71aXit1b6srvWzktUg9xnAZhLbz9dYtpDSf_/s320/Dikdik.jpg" width="319" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A young Dikdik, orphaned during the invasions</td></tr>
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Hermione’s miraculous transformation signals forgiveness and a new start, but despite the theatrical shock of the statue scene, her recovery didn’t happen overnight either. The recent, stunning <a href="http://www.cheekbyjowl.com/the_winter's_tale.php" target="_blank">Cheek by Jowl production</a> of <i>The Winter’s Tale</i> made Hermione’s reanimation seem miraculous. The moment when the statue came to life was theatre magic, and, at least for me, there was no question in my mind that Hermione had been dead, and this was a statue come to life. Some productions make it clear that Hermione was never dead, just in hiding, like Hero in Much Ado About Nothing, until her name was cleared. In a patriarchal society, some people believed a woman whose reputation was lost was as good as dead. Shakespeare’s text leaves room for both options, as he mentions the statue is aged to look as Hermione would have looked if she had lived. Paulina excuses the difference: “So much the more our carver's excellence; / Which lets go by some sixteen years and makes her / As she lived now.” People also comment upon the time Paulina has invested in the statue, “I thought she had some great matter there in hand; for she hath privately twice or thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited that removed house.” There is a clear possibility that Hermione was living in this house, biding her time. Perhaps Paulina’s visits were to take care of her friend, who had lost two children and been horribly abused by her husband.<br />
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Whether magical or illusory, Hermione’s return is sixteen years in the making, and, like the rebuilding of Mugie, has taken a lot of hard work, either in the form of a magical sculptor’s work, or in Paulina’s gentle care. The play ends with Hermione’s reincarnation, but what if it continued? What would happen? Would Leontes learn from his mistakes, or would he fall back into his previous pattern and kill a second Hermione? While it is, once again, the perfect tourist destination, the trouble in Laikipia isn’t over, but the rebuilding has already begun, and what happens next is key. And what about my stress levels? While I’d love to, I can’t stay at Mugie forever; I have a job to go to, and besides, as hospitable as they are, I don’t think they’d have me. I think the solution lies in Mugie’s smart, sustainable grazing plans. I’ll have to learn to stop using up my own resources before they’ve had time to replenish. Oh, and just between you and me, I won’t be doing a second PhD!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzqrKh-TQPCVElcaSrmug7hPsy_QGzk99Ud8j8_dNw5fX1iQVh-tgBPttu-Z1V7iLcjyk1oNjCgzaLrvy1GrPzkYw44aSN0gvD4XMJhq6niDHwOKN2zCVgb_iPElelKx0aplWOQVWmtI9n/s1600/camel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzqrKh-TQPCVElcaSrmug7hPsy_QGzk99Ud8j8_dNw5fX1iQVh-tgBPttu-Z1V7iLcjyk1oNjCgzaLrvy1GrPzkYw44aSN0gvD4XMJhq6niDHwOKN2zCVgb_iPElelKx0aplWOQVWmtI9n/s400/camel.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cool camels of Mugie</td></tr>
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To find out more about Mugie Conservancy, visit their <a href="http://www.mugie.org/" target="_blank">website</a>.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-41880011115263655042017-09-26T02:31:00.000-07:002017-09-26T23:45:47.492-07:00Finding The Forest of Arden<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My recent post on <a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.co.ke/2017/07/wonder-women-in-dublin-and-shakespeare.html" target="_blank">Wonder Women in Shakespeare</a> recalls the story of Rosalind and Celia’s bravery in <i>As You Like It</i> as they are forced to run away, in to the Forest of Arden. Rosalind’s father has been deposed and replaced by her despotic uncle. Rosalind’s uncle is a tyrant, and his court is one in which all kinds of cruelty abound. Men are killed for entertainment, and the haves treat the have nots like animals, withholding education, dignity, and other basic rights. When Rosalind’s tyrant uncle turns on her she is forced to flee; if she stays she will be executed. She knows her journey will be dangerous, but those dangers are not as certain as the death that awaits her if she stays. In that respect Rosalind is very similar to many modern day refugees. But that is where the similarity ends. When Rosalind and Celia reach the Forest of Arden they proceed to have a pretty nice time. They are safe, they are well fed. They live on a little farm and spend their days flirting with the locals and with fellow exiles. The refugees from places like Syria and South Sudan who reach Europe are <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/europe-refugees-freeze-to-death-hypothermia-bulgaria-athens-cold-weather-serbia-sleeping-rough-a7520106.html/0" target="_blank">not greeted by a similar fate</a>. In far too many cases they are not safe, they are not well fed or well clothed, nor are the locals good them. Even children and vulnerable people are treated with suspicion, aggression, and sometimes with violence. Nothing could be further from the pastoral idyll of the Forest of Arden. Imagine a version of <i>As You Like It </i>in which the Forest of Arden is a dirty camp full of sewage and barbed wire, and Phebe and Silvius are replaced by a police force throwing gas cannisters. Or imagine a version of the play in which Rosalind and Celia don’t reach the Forest of Arden at all, but die trying to get there.<br />
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For most of us, the idea of escaping to the Forest of Arden, is more about the fantasy of avoiding the rules and strains of everyday life. The Forest of Arden, and the wood outside Athens in <i>A Midsummer Night’s Dream</i> are examples of a literary and dramatic trope in which characters flee from (or reject) a corrupt city or court and find retreat or safety in the countryside. This pastoral idyll provides a place free from normal rules, thus allowing all sorts of high jinx to occur, but it also functions as a moral commentary on the city that it both opposes and mirrors. In <i>As You Like It</i> the ousted duke sets up an alternate court in the Forest of Arden. This court, in contrast to his brother’s cruel one, seems kindly, and somewhat egalitarian. They are described like Robin Hood and his merry men. “They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, and a many merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of England” (I.1) New supporters flock to him as a morally superior alternative to the corrupt court. The Green World is a space to escape to, that will be better: a place to start afresh.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgihwODlwN9RQZk9kHd6OPF3r9L7ni9SNv71sAQVX7ev7cNWrV1qMsRRas8JWNmJ3BfPPCxSkYwOOOF8GZBgig_fWBTUaKWmkXZEryynlKbFsAXrS5brSziaxLShZdugjShjybgt69fecnw/s1600/20170701-5169.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Thomasin Bailey" border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgihwODlwN9RQZk9kHd6OPF3r9L7ni9SNv71sAQVX7ev7cNWrV1qMsRRas8JWNmJ3BfPPCxSkYwOOOF8GZBgig_fWBTUaKWmkXZEryynlKbFsAXrS5brSziaxLShZdugjShjybgt69fecnw/s400/20170701-5169.jpg" title="Thomasin Bailey as Rosalind" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photograph by Peter Marsh at ashmorevisuals</td></tr>
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However, there is something pernicious about the fantasy of the Green World because it relies on the fallacy that somewhere there is an unblemished space going spare. In our world there is no place that is a blank slate, no corner of the world that has not been affected by the swelling human population. It is not possible to escape the questionable politics of your own country, without being confronted with those of another. What’s more, Earth’s literal green world is being eroded through climate change. Even the Great Barrier Reef, that in my lifetime has been an icon of far-away, untouched, paradise, is <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/australasia/great-barrier-reef-dying-coral-bleaching-global-warming-australia-climate-change-a7761351.html" target="_blank">dying</a> as I type. The death of an entire ecosystem is the terrible consequence of disbelief and negligence, and a dire warning of what else is to come. More than a Shakespearean comedy, our current situation is in danger of being more akin to that of Imperator Furiosa in <i>Mad Max: Fury Road</i>. In the film Furiosa and the captive ‘wives’ flee Citadel where all natural resources are mined (including human organs) and controlled by Immortan Joe, who lives in comfort while the enslaved majority starve. Furiosa speeds through the wasteland outside Citadel towards a “green place” she remembers from her childhood, where water will be easily available and they will be free from oppression. Pursued by the War Boys and Immortan Joe, they race towards the green place, only to find that the place they seek no longer exists. They are forced to return to the violent and unequal metropolis that they left. Their return is not, however, a defeat. Realising the situation they speed back, hoping to reach Citadel before Immortan Joe. They reach the city gates before him and his War Boys, and they shut them out. The women release the water to the starving people who have been living under oppression. The film ends with the suggestion that Furiosa and the wives will transform the place into a more equal society. Climate change, the management of resources, and the refugee crisis are <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2016/dec/01/climate-change-trigger-unimaginable-refugee-crisis-senior-military" target="_blank">not unrelated problems</a>.<br />
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With society as it is now, with bigotry, terrorism, pollution, climate change, nuclear threat, and our ludicrous political system, the fantasy of escape and starting afresh is very appealing. But instead of fantasising about the Forest of Arden, we need to start thinking about how the society we already live in can be turned into that ideal green world in both ecological and ethical terms. Help Refugees’ slogan “Choose Love”, urges people to choose love not hate, and treat refugees as people. I wholeheartedly agree with this message. The wonderful thing about this slogan is that in a wider sense, we can apply it to the rest of our lives. It is a call to reject bigotry on a wider scale. I think it can also be applied on an environmental level, urging us to choose to love our world, to choose love over greed or convenience, and seriously address our climate change problems. When Peter Marsh of ashmorevisuals and I decided to do a shoot based on the character of Rosalind for our <a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.co.ke/p/shakespeares-women-series.html" target="_blank">Shakespeare’s Women series</a>, I began to think about her experience as a refugee in The Forest of Arden. She fled, terrified, from certain death in her home, but she was greeted by comfort and kind people. I want our country to be more like the Forest of Arden, a safe haven for those in need. Instead, in what seems like a nightmarish parody of Rosalind's experience, there are hundreds of refugees who had hoped to come to Britian, hiding in forests in Northern France, <a href="http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/features/2017/04/day-calais-refugees-hiding-forest-170410105635967.html" target="_blank">dodging police brutality</a>. I want our country to be a place that welcomes and cares for refugees: we need to choose love. Visit Help Refugees’ <a href="https://helprefugees.org.uk/help/" target="_blank">website </a>to find out what you can do.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9lJu8OWisqTOZPKizpwRXRXpJh3WyYrAarRUxvOPbngzXhXUy67UCUidAmArMpW1nCuEHI3flhizi0wMqWfUHR1Zi4nYgBVKtxla-dF6I8z7LMMmeIP8M6RQa4g4lhB38w5ryVfxS5YJQ/s1600/20170701-5243.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Thomasin Bailey" border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1089" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9lJu8OWisqTOZPKizpwRXRXpJh3WyYrAarRUxvOPbngzXhXUy67UCUidAmArMpW1nCuEHI3flhizi0wMqWfUHR1Zi4nYgBVKtxla-dF6I8z7LMMmeIP8M6RQa4g4lhB38w5ryVfxS5YJQ/s400/20170701-5243.jpg" title="Rosalind" width="290" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Rosalind"<br />
Photograph by Peter Marsh at ashmorevisuals</td></tr>
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For more information about the images in this post click <a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.co.ke/p/shakespeares-women-series.html" target="_blank">here</a>. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-24538622347251858352017-07-09T09:57:00.000-07:002017-07-09T10:15:47.459-07:00Wonder Women in Dublin and Shakespeare<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I had planned to write a review of the new <i>Wonder Woman</i> film, but, having finally seen the film, I feel totally unable to write one. I don’t think it was a particularly good film, but I found the experience so emotionally uplifting, I’m thinking of seeing it again. Perhaps it was watching a film dedicated to the adulation of the strength and beauty of a straightforwardly good female character, in a way that didn’t seem like objectification, that made me feel uplifted. This film had so much wrong with it, in terms of plot, characterisation, appalling racial and cultural stereotyping, scripting, and, sorry, in terms of David Thewlis. Frankly, all the things that are usually wrong with big budget superhero films were wrong with this one. How could I enjoy it, despite all this? Well maybe because this gloriously silly waste of a big budget was finally centred, wholly unapologetically, around a woman. Gadot’s Diana wasn’t mired in some whiny love triangle; she lead rather than followed, and instead of providing a plot mechanism to change or motivate a man, she forged her own destiny. Instead of the old cliché of a powerful woman compromised by her love for an unsuitable man, Diana’s love made her more powerful. But was it a good film? I don’t really know; there were a lot of things wrong with it. Despite all its flaws, <i>Wonder Woman</i> made me feel euphoric, but since I can’t articulate why, I decided to blog about some other wonder women who have inspired me lately.<br />
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Hen dos in Dublin have a reputation for being wild. Really wild. So, when I set off for a hen weekend in Ireland’s beautiful capital city, I have to say, I was more than a little bit anxious. It turned out, of course, to be my kind of hen party with very well-chosen entertainments and activities that were both educational and fun. I met some really wonderful women, and had a great time. Importantly, we also played the game where you put an <i>After Eight</i> on your forehead and try to get into your mouth without using your hands. There were moments when things did get a little wild. This was Dublin. This was a hen do. I had a gin and tonic AND half a glass of prosecco. Laugh if you will, but that slurp of prosecco was the nail in my coffin. Towards the end of the night we all piled into a taxi to go and hear some live music in a bar. I got my wallet out to pay for the taxi, and then got out. As I returned my wallet to my hand bag a claw of cold dread clutched my stomach; my phone was not there! I realised I must have left my phone in the taxi. The taxi was driving off. “My phone is still in the taxi” I whimpered, vaguely. This was when the hens revealed themselves to be wonder women. “Let’s catch it then” the Bride replied, and without missing a beat, set off at a sprint down the cobbled street, her mini veil streaming behind her like a superhero’s cape. Realising I had no idea which taxi we were following, I ran lamely after her. We didn’t catch him. At that point, I had given the phone up for lost, and went into the bar imagining all the information that could be gleaned from my phone when it was inevitably found by some arch-hacker with a maniacal interest in my rather tiny bank account. But no one else had given up. The Chief Bridesmaid set up Find My iPhone on her mobile. While I watched forlornly as my iPhone blob moved around the Dublin tourist traps, others were formulating plans. “This means it’s still in the taxi” stated the Chief Bridesmaid encouragingly. “But we can’t get to it. I think I’d better just go back to the hotel, I don’t want to ruin the rest of the night” I sniffed with faux Stoicism, my only motive being to go somewhere private and cry about the lost phone. Well, no one was having any of that rubbish. The Bride, meanwhile, who had somehow memorised the taxi’s licence number mid-sprint (I had no idea she had a photographic memory – talk about wonder woman – she will surely be recruited for the special forces after this display of athleticism and mental acuity), had accosted another taxi driver and made him look it up on the Dublin taxi database. She returned with a photograph of an information sheet on the driver whose taxi contained my phone. “Take this to the Garda and they’ll get your phone back.” Hopelessly, imagining the derisive laughter of the Dublin Garda as I told them the situation, and with a gallows mentality, I allowed myself to be escorted to the Garda station by the Chief and another of the very helpful Hens. They were pretty optimistic, but I was the Eeyore of the group. The station was very close by, and, contrary to my expectations, we were met by an incredibly friendly young woman who said that since our man was a registered taxi driver, she could ring him up and ask him to bring the phone to us. “I’m so glad we could help you” she beamed, and I watched in amazement as the Find My iPhone blob on the Chief’s phone slid nearer and nearer to our location. Miraculously, the phone was returned to my hands in hardly any time at all. I still couldn’t quite believe it, but I was glad that these wonder women, the Bride, the Chief, and the other Hens had ignored my ‘you go on without me, and leave me to die here’ attitude, and worked together to save the day. Their optimism, practicality, and cool-headedness was something to behold, not to mention the Bride’s photographic memory! All along I kept apologising – I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been and I was worried my mini drama would overshadow the great evening we were having – but, with characteristic generosity and positivity, the fantastic group of hens replied: “Don’t worry. It’ll be a great story.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBRN22JcWRFCtir_zgFYreHaEEBRXCTCjtztXAhvmAOp4nasZq0Y5zrP1S6s_MyEZhbRDdAa0JpOhW6vcWC67zTTSGE5kNzyhMdwX7HFh8wqzQYl74HrNkWigukN3qFAR6rNFa2GhQ9XZR/s1600/20151110-6456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="804" data-original-width="643" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBRN22JcWRFCtir_zgFYreHaEEBRXCTCjtztXAhvmAOp4nasZq0Y5zrP1S6s_MyEZhbRDdAa0JpOhW6vcWC67zTTSGE5kNzyhMdwX7HFh8wqzQYl74HrNkWigukN3qFAR6rNFa2GhQ9XZR/s400/20151110-6456.jpg" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A G&T and half a glass of Prosecco<br />
Photograph by Peter Marsh at ashmorevisuals</td></tr>
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The optimism, resilience and resourcefulness of these wonder women reminded me of the heroines of Shakespeare’s comedies. In particular my Dublin adventure followed the pattern of act 1 scene 3 of <i>As You Like It</i>. Rosalind and Celia are having a conversation about a bloke one of them fancies, when suddenly Rosalind’s tyrannical uncle, the Duke, storms in and declares that Rosalind is banished on pain of death. Yes, this situation is slightly different to losing an iPhone, but bear with me. Rosalind is understandably a little shaken by this sudden announcement, but her friend and cousin, Celia responds, not with tears, but by coming up with a plan. Celia tells Rosalind that she will join her in exile rather than part with her. Rosalind, who later becomes a very dynamic character (and, as they say in Dublin, "is great craic"), is not feeling very perky at this point: “Why wither shall we go?” she asks, at a loss. Celia is quick with a reply, and suggests the Forest of Arden, where Rosalind’s father is also hiding. Rosalind, like me during my mobile phone fiasco, is not having any of this and resists Celia’s confident assertion. It’s just too dangerous, she objects, but Celia counters her doubts with both a positive attitude and a plan.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Rosalind</b>: Alas, what danger will it be to us,<br />
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!<br />
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Celia</b>: I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,<br />
And with a kind of umber smirch my face;<br />
The like do you; so shall we pass along,<br />
And never stir assailants.</blockquote>
The journey is long and dangerous, and Rosalind fears they will be attacked on the road, robbed, and as young women alone, very possibly raped. Celia suggests a disguise. Instead of dressing like the daughter and niece of a duke, they short dress like paupers and smear dirt over their faces, so that they will pass under the radar of would-be thieves. Celia’s dynamism buoys up Rosalind’s spirits, and she adds to the plan, that she herself will dress as a boy. Instead of sorrow and fear they are filled with hope, and the scene ends with Celia’s iconic lines “Now go we in content / To liberty, and not to banishment.” Much is made of male friendship in Shakespeare’s plays, but here we see women cooperating to solve problems and get things done.<br />
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Celia by no means stands alone in Shakespeare’s canon as a level-headed woman with great lines. Viola and Portia, (and Hermia and Helena for that matter) would certainly have run after that taxi! Helena in <i>All's Well That Ends Well </i>act 1 scene 1 explains that sisters – well, anyone really – should be doing it for themselves:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
“Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,<br />
Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky<br />
Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull<br />
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.”</blockquote>
Rather like Cassius' assertion that if we don’t get what we want “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, / But in ourselves,” (<i>Julius Caesar </i>act 1, scene 2), Helena decides that there’s no point waiting for fate to sort your life out for you. Both references to “stars” allude to the practice of horoscopes, popular in Shakespeare’s day. The wealthy, in particular, would pay for their horoscopes to be drawn up that would predict the course their life would take, which days or years would be lucky for them, and even when they would die. Some people took horoscopes very seriously, while others thought they were nonsense. One of Shakespeare’s patrons, William Herbert, the third earl of Pembroke, declared that he thought his horoscope was a load of nonsense and he didn’t believe a word of it, but then, he is said to have died on the very day predicted in his horoscope. That uncanny coincidence happened long after Shakespeare’s own death, and the playwright gives us plenty of characters who make their own fate. Self-determined and resourceful female characters often drive the plot of comedies. In All’s Well That Ends Well when the object of Helena’s affection leaves their home and her with it, she decides to set off to follow him. Bertram (the bloke in question) is of a higher social status than herself, Helena says he is as far above herself as a “bright […] star”, but nevertheless she decides to pursue him. In this way, she provides a stark contrast to Ophelia, who is told, using another starry image, that her socially superior love interest is not destined for her. “Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star. / This must not be” says her father, Polonius (<i>Hamlet</i>, act 2, scene 2). Ophelia accepts this blow, and is mistreated and manipulated until she goes mad and kills herself. Helena presents an alternative in which a woman defies these societal constraints. She goes to the King’s court, and cures him of his illness, and as a result is granted the husband of her choice. However, her problems don’t stop there. When she chooses Bertram, the young nobleman is appalled at the thought of a match with someone of such low birth. He goes off to war and declares that he will never be her husband unless she can get her ring on his hand and his heir in her womb; conditions that Bertram believes to be impossible. “When thou canst get the ring upon my finger which never shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body that I am father to, then call me husband: but in such a 'then' I write a 'never.'” Oddly this doesn’t discourage Helena all that much, and by the end of the play she has achieved these impossible tasks and Bertram consents to be her husband. To be honest though, you wouldn’t really want him after all that, would you? All in all, it’s a bit of a dodgy play, even by Shakespeare’s standards. I mean, Helena is more or less Bertram’s adopted sister, and she achieves her ends with a ‘bed trick’, which is deeply sinister. Perhaps Helena wasn’t a good example, but we can’t talk about Viola and Portia all the time.<br />
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On the way home from Dublin we completed another hen party tradition by irritating everyone on the plane. We played the Shakespeare name game. One of the hens called out obscure names from Shakespeare, and we all tried to guess to which play they belonged. For unknown reasons, perhaps because of names like “Fang” and “First Goth”, or perhaps just because of the company, this game was hilarious, nay, hysterical and lasted not only throughout the flight, but all the way home in the car. Like the Dublin hen do, Shakespeare’s dramatis personae contains many extraordinary and inspiring women. Shakespeare knew that a dynamic woman at the centre of a good plot is box office gold.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhVJH-KbzHSQHqmhulJ66cXAxP24dexdnPSXVETWsPPzN1yvlgmXeSqLtzNmP1kNk3YnSOMCBqeLoVDO2m8Aoi9lGKocczJ7ogeOO_uBOlgJWPkaa2fX4VWQMAk1mVBMXc9i1i4RF-NxWu/s1600/hendo.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="820" data-original-width="462" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhVJH-KbzHSQHqmhulJ66cXAxP24dexdnPSXVETWsPPzN1yvlgmXeSqLtzNmP1kNk3YnSOMCBqeLoVDO2m8Aoi9lGKocczJ7ogeOO_uBOlgJWPkaa2fX4VWQMAk1mVBMXc9i1i4RF-NxWu/s400/hendo.PNG" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The <i>After Eight </i>Game</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-2567247984342236452017-03-29T11:27:00.001-07:002017-03-29T12:10:34.564-07:00The Lead Casket<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/mar/28/daily-mail-legs-it-front-page-theresa-may-nicola-sturgeon" target="_blank">“Never mind Brexit, who won Legs-it!”</a> The chances are that you, like me, will have recently and repeatedly been confronted by the <i>Daily Mail</i> front page showing British prime minister Teresa May and Scottish first minister Nicola Sturgeon beside this offensive slogan. Perhaps it is not surprising that this misogynist twaddle should appear at the very moment when enormous decisions that will shape our future are being made. Not surprising, but most definitely symptomatic. Ed Miliband tweeted “The 1950s called and asked for their headline back. #everydaysexism” but this kind of misogyny is not the stuff of the past, as Miliband’s hashtag concedes. The only change is that the hate-filled Brexit campaign, like its political siblings across the world, has peeled back the fragile mask that has disguised our society for so long, and opened the floodgates to all kinds of prejudice and ignorance. Xenophobia, religious intolerance, and, as we see demonstrated here, misogyny have all been given the green light. The fact that these two political leaders are women is used to dismiss the important issues at hand. Their appearance is the first thing that registers. Everything else is forgotten.<br />
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Miliband is right, this sort of #everydaysexism happens every day, but usually it’s so small it’s hard to make anyone notice. You’re not imagining it. It’s not a chip on your shoulder. When you realise this it’s awful, but also, it’s a bit of a relief isn’t it? If you’ve ever had the feeling that you are ignored, patronised, or that your intellectual contributions are dismissed because you are a woman, then the <a href="http://hellogiggles.com/male-female-coworker-switched-emails-two-weeks-learned-pretty-depressing-truths-sexism-work/" target="_blank">story of Martin and Nicole </a> that went viral this March will have held no big surprises for you. In brief, after an initial mix up of email signatures, colleagues Martin and Nicole decided to switch names for a week when signing off their emails. Martin found that, though he was giving exactly the same advice to clients, because this advice was coming from a Nicole, he was dismissed, demeaned, and had to fight to get anything done. Nicole had a great week and was immensely productive when her email sign off became masculine. Good news team: what women have known all along has finally been proven in the eyes of the internet because a man has experienced it! I don’t mean to be churlish, I think Martin did a great job not only sticking up for his colleague Nicole, but for all women experiencing the same frustrations at work by tweeting their findings. It is, however, exasperating, that a male voice is required to authorise female experience. Interestingly, Martin’s tweets have gone viral, <a href="https://medium.com/@nickyknacks/working-while-female-59a5de3ad266#.mcvbdp63l" target="_blank">Nicole’s account</a> of her experience has not popped into my facebook newsfeed.<br />
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While my name isn’t as always seen as overtly feminine (I often get emails and letters addressed to Mr Thomasin Bailey) in person I conform to a traditional model of femininity. I am petite, people feel they can comment freely on the size of my small hands and feet, my voice is high and I am generally quite softly spoken. I am aware that I have to work harder to make people take me seriously. This isn’t a mere suspicion or anxiety on my part. It’s not just that older academics call me “sweetheart” at conferences, or that I get “that feeling”: people often just tell me. I recently had written feedback on a job interview that ran along the lines of, when we met you, we didn’t think you would be able to project enough authority to complete the teaching task well, but in fact you did. It’s no surprise to me when I do a job well, or when I know what I’m talking about, but others constantly share their surprise with me. When I have proven myself, employers, colleagues, and new acquaintances will often spill the beans on their former prejudices, as if forced into an excess of truthfulness by their immense relief. A colleague and I were reminiscing about when we first met. I had thought that our first meeting had gone well and that I had come across alright, if a little too serious. I was wrong. “When you first came into my office, I was so worried. I thought, oh my God! I’ve got to work with Minnie Mouse! But luckily when you started producing work, it turned out you knew what you were talking about.” I laughed. I didn’t question this colleague in depth about why they assumed that someone small with quite googly eyes and a high voice would be unintelligent. The answer is obvious: in our cultural lexicon my type of femininity does not read as intelligent.<br />
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To my mind, <i>The Merchant of Venice</i> is a play about a woman who is judged by her appearance and has to fight incredibly hard to be taken into account. Just like Teresa May, Portia has pretty dodgy politics (or shall we say terrible and offensive?) but she is intelligent, able, and determined. Like May, Portia is written off because of her feminine appearance. At the opening of the play Bassanio goes to visit his friend (or sugar daddy, depending on your interpretation of the play) to ask for some money. He has this scheme, see, and he needs a bit of ready cash to carry it off. There are big risks, but also big financial rewards. Sugar Daddy Antonio doesn’t have any money spare because it’s all tied up in trade (lots of different merchant ships), but he promises to use his good name (high credit score) to help Bassanio borrow the money. For those who don’t know the play, this is where the trouble starts. Antonio borrows the money from Shylock (a Jew and therefore excempt from the Christian ban on usury) who demands, as a default penalty, a pound of flesh. Of course Antonio will default - it's a play - but we’ll come to that later. The point is, that Bassanio wants his friend’s help in buying something very valuable that will set him up for life. That something is a woman: Portia.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
In Belmont is a lady richly left; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And she is fair, and, fairer than that word, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her eyes</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I did receive fair speechless messages: </div>
When Bassanio explains this to Antonio his view of Portia is made clear by the order in which he describes her various appeals. Firstly, she is rich (“richly left” – inherited a lot of money), secondly, she is beautiful, and thirdly, we hear that she is virtuous. Does that sound as if he thinks of Portia as a trophy (wife)? It does to me! This idea is emphasised by numerous comparisons between Portia and the Golden Fleece of Colchis, which was seized by Jason with the help of his Argonauts, which crops up first in the same speech.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
For the four winds blow in from every coast</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And many Jasons come in quest of her. </div>
Portia is treated as a prize to be won. As with any possession, her desirability is increased by demand. She has numerous suitors from all over the world. Her father, though dead, colludes in this depiction of his daughter as a large, fairground, cuddly panda, or sack of novelty, over-sized marshmallows by providing the game the suitors must win to claim their prize. Portia’s suitors must choose one of three caskets, if they choose correctly they “win”, if they do not, they have vowed never to marry, so dynastically they lose in more ways than one. Shakespeare shows us the behind-the-scenes Portia with her maid Nerissa, wittily denouncing all her suitors. She is incredibly sharp and funny (oh and quite racist - no question - but so is the play, I can’t help but feel, despite the attempts of many a director on both stage and screen), which are not qualities listed in Bassanio’s business pitch to Antonio. He is only interested in the "speechless messages" of her eyes.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9QoY-NSQRqkA1DuCwZtZjgWl0s7Xdn17cMhFgvTFheeJWGm-SE7NNm6p6fFV0bjGVF-xT8hyphenhyphenj2QAQ8tLgu8HLQWaFS7Hx1xiita9ZqMNr8UqVCrTTpF0YniTUmQozEUTIO8XyaOfLMkev/s1600/20170312-3252.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Thomasin Bailey Portia" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9QoY-NSQRqkA1DuCwZtZjgWl0s7Xdn17cMhFgvTFheeJWGm-SE7NNm6p6fFV0bjGVF-xT8hyphenhyphenj2QAQ8tLgu8HLQWaFS7Hx1xiita9ZqMNr8UqVCrTTpF0YniTUmQozEUTIO8XyaOfLMkev/s640/20170312-3252.jpg" title="Thomasin Bailey Portia" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portia<br />
Photograph by Peter Marsh at ashmorevisuals</td></tr>
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Obsessed with the “worth” the “wide world” places on her wealth and beauty, Bassanio does not value Portia the person. He doesn’t even seem to notice that she is very good at getting around tricky contracts, when she manages to get exactly what she wants (guiding Bassanio to the right casket, c'mon he's not the brightest button - think of all the rhyming!) while abiding by her fathers’ own odd bond. This all becomes clear when word reaches Belmont that Antonio has forfeited on his bond, and Shylock, enraged by years of abuse, the loss of his daughter (conversion fantasy sub-plot) and all his wealth, is insisting on taking an actual pound of flesh. Totally ignorant of the fact that his wife is an (evil) legal genius, Bassanio decides to leave her in Belmont, and set off with his bros to solve the problem for himself. Before he leaves Portia gives him a ring to sympolize their union and instructs him never to take it off. Of course useless play boy Bassanio can do nothing for Antonio. Luckily Portia turns up in disguise (as a very vindictive and boyish lawyer) and saves the day. Still in disguise, Portia requests Bassanio’s ring as payment. Without too much persuasion, he gives it to her, demonstrating yet again, how little he thinks of his wife. The cast returns to Belmont where Portia, dressed as a woman again, challenges Bassanio about the ring. A tight spot follows before Portia reveals the big ol’ joke. Bassanio realises he must value his relationship with his wife, and promises never to lose the ring again. Of course, the ring itself is problematic as a thinly, if at all, veiled allusion to Portia’s genitalia which Bassanio now “owns”, but the process reminds Bassanio that his wife is far more than just "fair", and is a force to be reckoned with. Of course the audience knew that Portia was sharp as a knife from the word go. So why didn’t Bassanio? Why was Portia’s intelligence only visible to Bassanio when she was dressed as a man? Why did she have to work so hard to prove herself?<br />
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Well, unfortunately the answer is simple. In <i>The Merchant of Venice</i> Shakespeare depicts the same ignorant misogyny lurking behind that Daily Mail spread. Misogyny allows female beauty to be equated with ignorance, and allows appearance, whether it is judged by society to be attractive or not, to disguise and replace all the other good qualities that might make up a woman. The Sturgeon and May “Legs-it” headline is outrageous, stupid, and an absurd distraction from all the things that we and the news ought to be talking about. It’s also terrifying because it legitimizes this brand of misogyny. If the prime minister of the country can be reduced to the aesthetic quality of her legs, then what will happen to women like us, in the work place and in the home? It shouldn’t have to be this hard to be taken seriously.<br />
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<a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.co.uk/p/shakespeares-women-series.html" style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #7986f3; display: inline; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 14px; outline: none; transition: color 0.3s;" target="_blank">Click here</a><span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #444444; font-family: "georgia" , "utopia" , "palatino linotype" , "palatino" , serif; font-size: 14px;"> for more information about the images in this blog, which are part of my Shakespeare's Women collaboration with Peter Marsh at ashmorevisuals.</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-36379782070893060862017-02-14T07:38:00.002-08:002017-02-14T08:29:58.446-08:00Dead Elephants and Democracy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
For a man who didn’t live in one, Shakespeare had a pretty cynical view of democracy. Don’t give the people power, they have no idea what to do with it. In <i>Coriolanus</i>, as with all history plays, ‘the people’ are a silly lot, who are there to be manipulated by the ruling class, but in this play, Shakespeare makes them particularly disgusting. They are sweaty, greedy, and stupid. The basic plot is about a war hero, named Coriolanus because he supposedly defeated the city of Corioles single handed. After his victory he decides to run for political office, and though he finds the people revolting, because he sees them as cowards who did not fight, he says the necessary things to woo from them their votes. In pursuit of their own personal power, two other politicians decide to persuade the people that they hate Coriolanus. They whip them up into a frenzy and he is soon expelled from the city of Rome. The people go from adoring him to making him their enemy. Remember that Coriolanus is a formidable enemy! Once rejected by Rome, he joins forces with the Volsci (Rome’s chief enemy), and the people who rejected him are placed in mortal danger. While Coriolanus is not an unambiguous character, he is presented by Shakespeare as noble. Perhaps too noble and principled to exist within the corrupt politicking of Rome. The people, though, have no redeeming features. They are presented as foolish and easily lead. They, and the small-minded politicians goading them on in the interests of short term personal gain, almost bring about their own absolute destruction. When I first read Coriolanus I was appalled by Shakespeare’s scornful portrait of democracy, but in light of recent political events, the play has been often on my mind. Could it be true that ‘we, the people’ have no idea what’s good for us?<br />
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Everyday the news brings us countless stories of people acting profoundly against their own best interests. I'm not even going to mention the T word. I could be talking about Republican elephants here, but I'm not going to. I could give you an almost unlimited number of examples. The one that struck the loudest chord for me this morning is our collectively negligent attitude to the environment. Amongst the selfies, memes of Winona Ryder, and Best Dressed lists that generally populate my Facebook newsfeed there was also a picture of a dead, mutilated zebra, half its skin peeled off, its head smothered in the mud. The picture lead m down a rabbit hole of shocking articles about <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2017/feb/02/armed-herders-elephant-kenya-wildlife-laikipia//" target="_blank">land invasions in the Laikipia </a>region of Kenya. I learnt that all across Laikipia armed pastoralists are driving their cattle, in huge numbers, into private ranches and wildlife conservancies. The articles were accompanied by harrowing images of burnt homes, deserted schools, dead lions, giraffes, and buffalo. If I could pick any one of these as the most disturbing, for me it might have been the slaughtered elephants, with tusks and tips of trunks removed, or those with their whole faces ripped off, as poachers capitalise on the chaos in their hunt for ivory, but then I saw an image of a pregnant giraffe shot by invaders, its unborn and undeveloped calf half pulled from its womb. I won’t provide the photo, if you want to see it, put Laikipia land invasion into a Google image search. On the face of things, the pastoralists could be desperately searching for land to graze their cattle, but their numbers, their weaponry, and the lack of any effective government response tells a different story. Ranchers who have always maintained good relationships and made grazing deals with their neighbours fear that the invasions must be <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-38866389" target="_blank">more motivated by politics than by drought</a>. From the smattering of articles I have read, many people have begun to suspect that the government has no wish to prevent the destruction of these ranches and conservancies, nor any desire to protect the rare and beautiful animals for which they provide a home. Some reluctantly conjecture that figures in the government may be behind the invasions, manipulating the pastoralists in a bid to grab the land for themselves. Whatever the truth, the fact remains that little is being done by the government to improve the situation in Laikipia. While the pastoralists may see invasion as their only option, the Kenya Wildlife Conservancies Association suggests that the destruction of the conservancies will be bad for pastoralists themselves. Without the conservancies cattle herders will be more vulnerable to poachers and cattle rustlers as the security networks created to protect Kenya’s wildlife has also benefited local communities. “Security through the conservancies has given people in Isiolo and northern Kenya the peace to engage in other economic activities. Without this they cannot build their lives,” <a href="http://www.the-star.co.ke/news/2017/02/10/laikipia-ranch-raids-may-hurt-pastoralists_c1503604/" target="_blank">said Dickson Kaelo, head of the Kenya Wildlife Conservancies Association</a>.<br />
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It seems that the pastoralists, like the people so scathingly depicted in Shakespeare’s Coriolanus, either because they are blinded by short-term gain or because they are being manipulated, are sabotaging themselves in the long term. What, then, of the Kenyan government, and the international community, and their lacklustre response to this crisis in Laikipia? Where does it end? Enormous <a href="http://news.sky.com/story/sky-views-anarchy-in-kenya-a-threat-to-the-west-10751239//" target="_blank">unrest in Kenya could be a result</a>, the potential for yet more internally displaced peoples and international refugees. Those in the USA, the UK, and Europe who have already made it clear that they don’t want to help refugees, might worry about the creation of more. Another very possible outcome is the extinction of the rare animals that the conservancies exist to protect. Why should we care if elephants, lions, buffalo, rhino, and the rest die out? In the short term the tourist industry would take a hit, but the long term damage goes far beyond missing out on your safari. The short answer is, we need them to survive. Not because they’re awe inspiring, but because they form part of an ecosystem that we rely on. You can learn more about how that works on <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/earth/story/20150715-why-save-an-endangered-species" target="_blank">BBC Earth</a>. Like Shakespeare's stupid, sweaty Romans, we are neglecting our own good in failing to respond to this crisis. When I ask the nine-year-old I childmind to tidy up, he always shouts “but it’s not my mess”, hoping to get off on a technicality. As people belonging to states that use non-renewable energy sources and produce meat on an industrial scale, we have to acknowledge that drought caused by climate change, and the resulting conflict, is very much our mess.<br />
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At the moment, it’s looking as if Shakespeare was right about democracy. It doesn’t work because we don’t know what’s good for us. We ignore our long term good as we cater to our ill-informed fears and prejudices and to short term gains. I’d like to prove Shakespeare wrong. If our UK government seems only to be looking one election ahead, it’s because they’re pandering to our wishes. It is our responsibility to make them look further both chronologically and geographically. If we want a government that’s interested in the big picture, in terms of climate change, the international community, and ethical living, we need to be interested in it ourselves.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixSsqEGv5mtIKbiXxfWlmGhCR0W0h0ldWJVjiLaQqnwjhSkbkgjgobSHwu7nlyojFAZssVn0AAUOmDPDAZ2SDQd-hUwcSgCu0IgsTYYEakSyrsjragglUDzcgBL8vTxHl7H1KigG021RuJ/s1600/elephantcalf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixSsqEGv5mtIKbiXxfWlmGhCR0W0h0ldWJVjiLaQqnwjhSkbkgjgobSHwu7nlyojFAZssVn0AAUOmDPDAZ2SDQd-hUwcSgCu0IgsTYYEakSyrsjragglUDzcgBL8vTxHl7H1KigG021RuJ/s640/elephantcalf.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dead elephant calf. Source: http://news.sky.com/story/sky-views-anarchy-in-kenya-a-threat-to-the-west-10751239 </td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-53720318315098954662017-01-13T09:34:00.000-08:002017-02-08T03:48:23.344-08:00Face-ing Criticism<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Whenever I go home I love to look through old family photos. I love seeing everyone’s cute baby pictures, and my dad’s thick, dark hair that looked somewhat like that of a llama, the weird matching outfits that my siblings and I used to wear (such as the purple and pink elephant dungarees), and seeing the smiling faces of relatives who have long since left us. What makes me sad about these pictures is that there’s someone missing. My mother. She’s the invisible woman. Sometimes there’s a hand propping up a baby, and sometimes there’s even a woman in the back ground holding a newspaper up to cover her face, but mainly there’s no evidence of her at all. She hated being photographed because she didn’t like the way she looked. Nowadays, while she is an incredibly confident professional, she still makes us delete almost any photo we manage to snap of her with a smartphone, and I bet she’s not alone. I bet that many of you, when leafing through your family albums, will find that there’s a woman who just isn’t there.<br />
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Talking of photos, this January I entered a competition like none I had entered before. It wasn’t an essay prize, a running race, or even, as you might have been lead to believe, a photography competition. In fact it wasn’t a competition where I was required to show any skills at all. The prize was to be the face of an independent, vintage-inspired makeup company for a year, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/LeKeuxVintageSalon/" target="_blank">Le Keux Cosmetics</a>, and to receive some lovely free beauty products. All entrants had to do was email in a front-on photo of themselves, and the five that received the most ‘likes’ on Facebook, would be shortlisted. So I thought, why not? Well, it turned out that some of my friends had very strong feelings about ‘why not’. “Why have you entered a beauty contest?” one friend asked. “Don’t you think that’s pretty unfeminist?” I understood where she was coming from. I am proud to say that I’m a feminist, and I think that anything that limits women purely to the status of objects, only to be valued for their appearance, is not a good thing. I don’t think, however, that is what’s going on with Le Keux’s ‘Face’ competition. It's not a beauty contest. I think the competition is a brilliant and fun example of modern day feminism and you won’t be surprised to find, that I’m going to tell you why!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPFIAWxEpJbb6y_qZPILHHPwuc-Y1xlqHvuDA4U-32Lvf974o1RtqbXTPlp1fNj5xMTYmIEBjV9xC-OKibDy2kq8vgWBT9Kiyk790ms28gP2tjh1l5p1wX-g_YlXOQ4DQhbzjnMpyxvV2/s1600/20151110-6315.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPFIAWxEpJbb6y_qZPILHHPwuc-Y1xlqHvuDA4U-32Lvf974o1RtqbXTPlp1fNj5xMTYmIEBjV9xC-OKibDy2kq8vgWBT9Kiyk790ms28gP2tjh1l5p1wX-g_YlXOQ4DQhbzjnMpyxvV2/s400/20151110-6315.jpg" width="361" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photograph by Peter Marsh at ashmorevisuals</td></tr>
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My mother, the invisible woman from our photo albums, isn’t alone in disliking the way she looks or in lacking self-esteem. One friend, who may be the most beautiful and glamorous woman I have ever seen, didn’t wear a wedding dress to her wedding because she didn’t think she was pretty enough to deserve one. She wasn’t, she says, that kind of girl. Go into a public toilet and for every woman you see smile at her appearance in the mirror, you will see five frown. In the gym you can hear women telling each other how much they hate their own thighs, their stomachs, and their arms. Women are taught to put themselves down and to find fault with their appearance. This endless self-denigration is often manifested in the way we talk about our appearance but it doesn’t end there. At work, instead of putting themselves forward, women, it seems, are constantly putting themselves down. According to Sheryl Sandberg’s book <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Lean-Women-Work-Will-Lead/dp/0753541629" target="_blank">Lean In</a></i> women assess themselves more harshly than their male colleagues do, women have lower expectations of their own potential, and they don’t put themselves forward for promotion as often as men. The link between negative body image and a wider lack of confidence is discussed well by the <i><a href="http://guiltyfeminist.com/episodes/" target="_blank">Guilty Feminist</a> </i>podcast on "Being Bossy". Le Keux’s competition asks ordinary women to go against this feeling of self-loathing, to deem a picture of themselves pretty and worthy, and to put themselves forward. It actually takes a lot of effort to do that. Scarier still is the idea of then asking your friends to vote for you by liking your picture. I was surprised by how difficult and embarrassing I found it to ask people to like my picture, but I was glad I did it. In the images on their social media pages Le Keux doesn’t promote a narrow idea of beauty that makes women feel bad, but body positive, fun pictures, that make women feel brave. The variety of pictures in the competition show that women of all different shapes and sizes have been encouraged to put themselves forward. Sexy women, pretty women, curvy women, skinny women, striking women, and quirky women have all felt good enough about themselves to say, hey there, vote for me! From what I can see all the entrants have also liked each other’s photos, complimented each other, and built each other up. The feeling of empowerment I got from asking people to like my picture has made me feel as if I could put myself forward in other ways too. Over the last few days I’ve been considering career options that I had previously not allowed myself, just because I feel that little bit more confident. If the experience has made me feel this way, I’m sure that it’s had the same effect on other entrants. That makes Le Keux’s competition pretty feminist if you ask me.<br />
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Why do women feel this way about their faces, their bodies, and their wider worth? Well, there are lots of answers to that question. As this is a Shakespeare blog, and Shakespeare has formed part of almost everyone’s education (whether we liked it or not!), and for many is the cornerstone of English Literature, I’m going to lay a little portion of that blame at old Shakey’s door, for his presentation of women. After all, Shakespeare’s plays present women <a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.co.uk/2015/12/painting-inch-thick.html" target="_blank">wearing makeup as deceitful</a>, and most often describe the sexual parts of women’s bodies in some of the most <a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.co.uk/2014/09/shakespeares-dark-lady-and-emma-watsons.html" target="_blank">vile language imaginable</a>! Most of all, though, in these plays, to get things done, a woman’s body has to be denied, or hidden. Active women in Shakespeare’s plays, the women who break the rules, set plots in motion, and get things done, do so, with a few exceptions, in the disguise of men. Portia in <i>The Merchant of Venice</i> is clever, witty, resourceful, and very wealthy (which can’t hurt), but as a woman she can’t save Antonio, from being murdered by Shylock’s pursuit of his pound of flesh. It’s only dressed as a man that Portia can travel to Venice and argue the legal case against Shylock’s bloody contract. In <i>As You Like It</i> Rosalind and Celia escape into the forest of Arden in disguise. Rosalind dresses as Ganymede, a boy, and Celia dresses as Aliena, a girl, and their disguises seem to bring with them their own personalities. Whereas Rosalind and Celia conversed in private as equals, and Celia made as many jokes as her cousin, in the forest of Arden Aliena is practically silent. I once spoke to an actress who said this was her least favourite role with the RSC, as she spent almost the entire production sitting motionless on a tree stump every night. Rosalind, by contrast, runs the show while she is dressed as the boy Ganymede. She tells people what to do, she arranges meetings and marriages, and by goodness does she get all the best lines! In <i>Twelfth Night</i> Viola’s masculine disguise allows her to get a job, travel freely around Illyria (Olivia never moves from her house and garden), fall in love with someone she has had in depth conversations with about life and love, and then marry him. That’s pretty unusual for a woman in a play (think of poor old Katherine in Henry V – she barely knows the man and he’s just conquered her country). In order to have any say, or have any freedom, these women have to become men. Of course, you might argue that is simply because in those days women had fewer rights than men, but I say representation matters. Women need to see women in literature doing bold and brave stuff while not denying or hiding that they are women, and <a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/academically-brunette-what-to-wear-at.html" target="_blank">dressing however they want to dress</a>. The women in Shakespeare who buck convention while not pretending to have a penis <a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.co.uk/2016/11/shakespeares-nasty-women.html" target="_blank">are usually villains</a>!<br />
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So, in the interest of being bold, and positive about my self-image, of putting myself forward, and being represented, I curled by hair, flicked on my favourite eyeliner, didn’t bother to bleach my wee moustache – because who really has time? – and took a flipping selfie!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-7125561619842085082017-01-11T04:05:00.000-08:002017-01-13T09:35:52.562-08:00Date Like Olivia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
One of the wonderful things about re-reading Shakespeare’s plays, or watching a new production, is that you will always find something new. That’s the sign of great literature… but actually, the same can also be said for pretty any much any old film you haven’t seen in a while. The new Bridget Jones film (<i>Bridget Jones’s Baby</i> 2016) combined with the festive break gave me a prompt to revisit the original <i>Bridget Jones’s Diary</i>. Back in 2001 I had found the insecurities of the film’s heroine appealing. I hate to admit this, but I definitely preferred Bridget to Lizzy. Elizabeth Bennet was so smart, clever, and composed. I identified far more with bumbling Bridget. At 13 I had already fallen into the all too common trap of feeling as if I was the least intelligent and fattest person in every room, regardless of who else was in it. Bridget’s awkward exchange with Salman Rushdie (“Do you know… where the toilets are?”) was like a metaphor for my life. Apart from this vague feeling of affinity, I probably didn’t really understand much of what was going on.<br />
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Fast forward 15 years and I see Bridget Jones’s Diary completely differently. It’s funny, but it’s all quite horribly familiar. At festive gatherings of family and friends I can almost hear Bridget’s voice-over announcing, “the question dreaded by singletons the world over: how’s your love life?” I can feel my shoulders tense up as a blush of embarrassment colours my face. Admitting to being single, absurdly, feels like admitting to failure. While I had once thought that the scene in the film in which an entire dinner party of “smug marrieds” turns to stare at Bridget when she is asked to explain the phenomenon of the single woman was absurd, I now think of it as mildly exaggerated. I’ve been there! A rather sudden change has taken place at some point over the last few years, as almost all my peers seem to have all slipped into coupledom with alarming speed, and those of us left have become oddities. I have now been to many a party at which I was the only single, and have been viewed as an object of pity, curiosity, or even entertainment (any single girl can tell you at least a few appalling and hilarious dating tales). Another moment from the film that I had previously viewed as preposterous, but that I now know to be run of the mill, is the moment when Cosmo snarks “better get a move on old girl,” and as he pats his wife’s pregnant belly, significantly intones “tick tock”. The idea that my time is running out, is not only routinely impressed upon me by certain well-meaning friends and relatives who shall remain unnamed, but also by would be dates. The cringeworthy “tick tock” mantra that is repeatedly thrown at Bridget throughout the film brought back, rather unwelcomingly, my most uncomfortable dating experience of 2016. I’d met a bloke who I thought seemed promising, but then as we got to know one another better it became clear that a relationship between us wouldn’t work. We had talked about this and I had made my feelings clear, but he adopted several strategies to make me change my mind. Their nature was such that they only confirmed I was right. At one point he made reference to my age and suggested I needed to have children soon, therefore I should be in a relationship with him. The implication seemed to be that this could be my last chance, that this was a buyers market, and I, the product, was fast approaching my sell-by date. Of course I found that irresistible and we are now married. Well, at least I didn’t hit him, but it was tough.<br />
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This encounter made me incredibly angry. A portion of this anger was justified, but a portion was certainly due to accumulated anger at others, and anger at myself for allowing such a comment to sting me. At the time, I didn’t share this incident as one of my laugh out loud dating disasters because I secretly wondered if he was right: was I running out of time? The idea that women should only be valued for their physical beauty and their childbearing abilities is hideous and reductive, and as such are products with a short shelf-life, but it’s also pervasive (equally pervasive and absurd is the idea that the two are linked, that beauty is synonymous with youth and fertility, and that one ends with the other). This narrow definition of a woman’s worth is espoused by one of Shakespeare’s least attractive suitors, Count Orsino in <i>Twelfth Night</i>. Orsino explains the dating game to his young protegee Cesario, who is actually Viola in disguise.<br />
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Then let thy love be younger than thyself, </div>
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Or thy affection cannot hold the bent; </div>
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For women are as roses, whose fair flower </div>
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Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour. (II.4)</div>
Orsino claims that women are like roses, in that their bloom, though lovely, is brief. This all adds to the bitter sweet mood of the play that celebrates the transience of youth, life, and love, but Orsino is clearly also a sexist pig, who values a woman only for her appearance in the brief bloom of youth. By comparing women to roses, he depicts them as purely decorative, frail objects, and suggests that their worth lies only in this moment of ripeness. The unfortunate object of Orsino’s affection is Olivia, a wealthy and independent lady of means. She has rejected Orsino’s advances, but like my most uncomfortable date of 2016, he can’t take no for an answer. In Orsino’s mind, Olivia’s feelings are clearly not as legitimate as his, so he proceeds to harass her with messengers pushing his suit. Olivia is branded “cruel” because she does not reciprocate (Orsino calls Olivia cruel in II.4 and twice in V.1, other characters also describe her with this word). Any woman who has dabbled in online dating knows this phenomenon. Abuse for turning a man down is quite routine (on subscription sites as well as free apps). The rejected man’s sense of entitlement is outraged if a woman replies in the negative or fails to reply. Messages in this genre often include a list of the man’s good qualities followed by the assertion that the woman ought to be grateful. For example, after failing to reply to an unsolicited, graphic, and really rather bizarre sext, a friend received the following: “I’m loaded, and I know I’m fit. You’re not going to find anyone better, you stuck up b*tch!” When people share these messages with me I always wonder about the logic behind them. Surely these men don’t expect, after such acrimony, that the woman will think, ‘oh my goodness, he’s right. I should be damned grateful for this man’s attention.’ The idea that a woman should be grateful for the attentions of any man (even one with a Jekyll and Hyde personality that switches between sexually aggressive and abusive) lurks painfully behind society’s treatment of single women. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtzz7kphdAhSJriaRGl0Hmo3en44U_-rw6Gg-MHK5oj8T68-OfEPIAvmvMTtaa5C8c5zg4K59SiEwY5EHS_iceoK0vM_fCNoAAm8_A-s7vTGYE2_Tg-ICwfJ_rmKPzse7n0D-N9QKh0-So/s1600/20161216-2035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Olivia Twelfth Night, Thomasin Bailey" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtzz7kphdAhSJriaRGl0Hmo3en44U_-rw6Gg-MHK5oj8T68-OfEPIAvmvMTtaa5C8c5zg4K59SiEwY5EHS_iceoK0vM_fCNoAAm8_A-s7vTGYE2_Tg-ICwfJ_rmKPzse7n0D-N9QKh0-So/s400/20161216-2035.jpg" title="Olivia Twelfth Night, Thomasin Bailey" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photograph by Peter Marsh at ashmorevisuals</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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One woman who is most certainly not grateful for any old scrap of attention is <i>Twelfth Night</i>’s Olivia. A friend asked me why I wanted to write a piece about “wet Olivia” when everyone prefers witty girl-dressed-as-a-boy about town Viola. Of course, she had a point, but I do admire Olivia’s response to the dating game. I think she’s a great role model for single women besieged by the axis of evil that is, on the one side, obnoxious suitors, and on the other, the constant suggestion that their time is running out (tick tock) and that they ought to be grateful for the attention. Olivia is a put-together woman, in charge of her own household and affairs. Despite the constant harassment and abuse that Orsino unleashes upon her, she remains resolutely resistant to being bullied into a marriage that she doesn’t want. Olivia is in a precarious position, as, sensing a vacuum in masculine authority, the men in her household jostle for power (Sir Toby and Malvolio), and suitors like Orsino and Aguecheek are probably not the only ones seeking control over her fortune. Olivia’s decision to remain single is pretty brave. In her book <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Heart-Stomach-King-Carole-Levin/dp/0812222407/ref=dp_ob_title_bk" target="_blank">The Heart and Stomach of A King</a></i>, Prof Carole Levin suggests a parallel between Olivia and Queen Elizabeth I, who famously resisted the pressure to marry (p.133-137). I heartily recommend you read this interesting comparison. Single women today get their share of stick, but it mainly comes in the form of a pitying look or a snide comment. Imagine if you had all of the most powerful men in Europe threatening that the cost might be your life, your nation’s security, and the future of your religion, should you fail to marry. Puts it all into perspective actually. The second reason I admire Olivia is that she isn’t afraid to pursue her own desires. When Olivia meets Cesario (Viola) her desire blooms and she doesn’t keep it a secret. Olivia emphases her physical attraction for Cesario and she’s happy to go with the flow.<br />
What is your parentage?'<br />
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'Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: </div>
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I am a gentleman.' I'll be sworn thou art; </div>
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Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions and spirit, </div>
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Do give thee five-fold blazon: not too fast: soft, soft! </div>
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Unless the master were the man. How now! </div>
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Even so quickly may one catch the plague? </div>
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Methinks I feel this youth's perfections </div>
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With an invisible and subtle stealth </div>
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To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. (I.5)</div>
After recalling her conversation with Cesario about his parentage, Olivia lists his gentlemanly qualities, lingering on the physical. She dismisses both her caution and her qualms about his social status, and decides to succumb to her attraction. Often commentators on this play will point out that Olivia gets a rough deal because she ends up married to a man she doesn’t know. However, it seems to me that she has got exactly what she wanted: a guy who looks like a girl dressed as a boy (don’t forget his “perfections […] creep in” at her “eyes”), and who will allow her to retain her independence and run her own affairs as she pleases. Before marrying him, she asks Sebastian, “Would thou be ruled by me?” He replies, “Madam, I will” (IV.1). This is a very unusual deal for Shakespeare’s time, when a wife was considered to be wholly subordinate to her husband. While I’m not suggesting that women should demand only to be with a man who would be “ruled” by them, I do think that we, like Olivia, need to hold out for someone who lets us be ourselves. Olivia’s narrative in the play reverses the reductive logic of Orsino’s rose imagery. Olivia does not bloom and wilt according to her age, but according to her choice and in her own time. While she is mourning her brother and father, her desires are wilted and dead. They cannot be resuscitated by Orsino’s self-centred effusions. Reversing the chronological life of a flower, feelings that she had considered long-since dead, spring back to life and to full bloom when she meets Cesario. And why? Because Olivia is a woman not a flower. She is a sentient being with choices.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BoqGoH0dzun7W4FOPGW9IQ4cCeyQAoosoKriL5bv6fQXk802jknx-u1XpmHRzg3EQpQazphdEN9U-NoNohRIgc4FNV-VH_qjG0cdQqgH90H6iDW5Wcz4jt8wxayd2bVyhrezQvdfrr8_/s1600/20161216-2213.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Olivia Twelfth Night, Thomasin Bailey" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BoqGoH0dzun7W4FOPGW9IQ4cCeyQAoosoKriL5bv6fQXk802jknx-u1XpmHRzg3EQpQazphdEN9U-NoNohRIgc4FNV-VH_qjG0cdQqgH90H6iDW5Wcz4jt8wxayd2bVyhrezQvdfrr8_/s400/20161216-2213.jpg" title="Olivia Twelfth Night, Thomasin Bailey" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photograph by Peter Marsh at ashmorevisuals</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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So, in the style of Bridget Jones, I think I’d better set a (late) New Year’s Resolution. It won’t be about losing weight, but it will have something to do with not being tempted to date “alcoholics, workaholics, sexaholics, commitment-phobics, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits, or perverts.” My resolution is as follows: date like Olivia. The Oliva method runs as follows: feel like a countess / boss; take your time and don’t feel pressured by an imaginary clock; don’t give the time of day to rude people; dump apps (you’re a countess now for goodness’ sake!); engage in a lot of witty banter; and, if you meet someone you like, well then, go for it! #DateLikeOlivia<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGpVAxoapgACQ6GeP_bi1HUmREY-jhN69URXI1by6vAHVPIdGN87V8YveNXqdUECtAQR5Gh-pDhTEspr5ns_ayFxEGJ8L-sLvNcnheTWJQyGmZp4ddmDRbRYv5Ym3m2e5p0OJpNyfAMc7/s1600/montage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Olivia Twelfth Night, Thomasin Bailey" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGpVAxoapgACQ6GeP_bi1HUmREY-jhN69URXI1by6vAHVPIdGN87V8YveNXqdUECtAQR5Gh-pDhTEspr5ns_ayFxEGJ8L-sLvNcnheTWJQyGmZp4ddmDRbRYv5Ym3m2e5p0OJpNyfAMc7/s640/montage.jpg" title="Olivia Twelfth Night, Thomasin Bailey" width="524" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Olivia<br />
Photograph by Peter Marsh at ashmorevisuals</td></tr>
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<a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.co.uk/p/shakespeares-women-series.html" target="_blank">Click here</a> for more information about the images in this blog, which are part of my Shakespeare's Women collaboration with Peter Marsh at ashmorevisuals.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-41916005836363194352016-11-17T07:46:00.001-08:002017-09-26T22:13:14.240-07:00Shakespeare's Nasty Women<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The result of the US election marked a painful disillusionment for many people, not just in the US, but around the globe. The idea that such numbers would prefer to put that wholly unqualified man (think of all the adjectives I could have used!) in the White House over Hillary Clinton, was both disturbing and disgusting for many. Of all the myriad distasteful realisations that this vote triggered, I want to reflect on just one: a lot of people can’t stand opinionated women. Living as I do in a nice, liberal, intellectual bubble, I forgot that women who talk, and shout, and push themselves forward face a great deal of hatred. I recently went on a date with a man called Bob (he wasn’t called Bob but since I’m going to tell you bad things about him, let’s leave it at that). It was going OK and Bob seemed like a right-thinking sort of bloke. We were discussing politics and Bob announced “I really hate Hillary Clinton”, but could not then justify his antipathy for her. I asked him more about it. Male figures with similar political stances, or those accused of similar alleged misdemeanours simply did not provoke the same vitriol from Bob. My questioning didn’t unearth any interesting political ideas, just frustration. “I just don’t like her, OK? She’s just really aggressive and abrasive” said Bob tersely, and I could see that he was beginning to find me somewhat abrasive too. I laughed prettily (not my real laugh – horse-like and unsuitable for dates with men like Bob) and changed the subject. I silently judged Bob; he disliked Clinton because she is a forceful woman. Why didn’t I call Bob out? Even though I had decided I would rather gargle puddle water than go on another date with Bob, I still wanted him to like me - this is my Achilles heel – and smiling and agreeing is how I was going to achieve this with Bob.<br />
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Bob’s dislike of Clinton’s so-called “aggressive and abrasive” manner is by no means unique. It’s the sort of comment replicated all over the internet and in conversations everywhere. I’ve heard that it’s Clinton’s fault that Trump won, because she just isn’t “likeable” enough! Likeability doesn’t seem to be an ideal that Trump has been held to. Far from likeable, he comes across a brash bully. This confused me. I like Hillary Clinton, but not Trump, so what is this obscure measure of likeability? Guiltily, I realise I really do know the answer – this is the bizarre kind of likeability that I strive for when on terrible dates. It’s demure, simpering, and agreeable. It’s the opposite of powerful. This can become the catch 22 for women who pursue powerful roles. The traits we associate with leadership are boldness, confidence, determination, but as a society we also seem to demand a certain strange kind of likeability from women. If women must be quiet, acquiescent, and unthreatening, how can they be bold, challenging, and outspoken at the same time? So why does society, or large swathes of it, demand this bizarre brand of likeability from women?<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim0H_H5nUwgC7YUqzCmah14ztT0UDqjnBhlHUjIkR9HS6SJSvs3YxPiSFsbi50kNCfqdelbcx1Y6DpNNyjMcG9TMNwWfSCJF5UGvsG-EQWn6cAY8arj-hHpMqLlvp6wmErUQUutQgIhKMB/s1600/20161028-3333.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Thomasin Bailey Shakespeare's Women" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim0H_H5nUwgC7YUqzCmah14ztT0UDqjnBhlHUjIkR9HS6SJSvs3YxPiSFsbi50kNCfqdelbcx1Y6DpNNyjMcG9TMNwWfSCJF5UGvsG-EQWn6cAY8arj-hHpMqLlvp6wmErUQUutQgIhKMB/s640/20161028-3333.jpg" title="Thomasin Bailey Shakespeare's Women" width="358" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Shakespeare's Wicked Women"<br />
Photograph by Peter Marsh at ashmorevisuals</td></tr>
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One reason is that this terrifying value system is deeply ingrained in the culture of the English speaking world. In Shakespeare’s tragedies and histories the wicked women, the really nasty ones, are those who talk too much. Virtuous women, in contrast, speak very little. Think of King Lear. In act 5, scene 3, the good daughter, Cordelia, lies dead, and her old father bends close to her, hoping she’ll speak. Her father likens the deathly silence of her lack of response to her living, virtuous quietness: “her voice was ever soft, / Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in a woman.” Her voice was always this way claims Lear, praising an absence of speech as “excellent” in a woman. Her wicked sisters, by contrast, are characterised from the beginning of the play by their persuasive and voluble language. They use their eloquence to persuade Lear to put his divided kingdom in their hands, and then they abuse him, pushing him out into the wilderness. Any reason we might perceive in their arguments is quickly discredited by the atrocities they commit, such as the blinding of Gloucester. This is no surprise. This is how women in these plays use speech: to trick men and bring about their destruction. In Titus Andronicus Tamora uses her eloquence to save her children (the children that will go on to rape and mutilate Lavinia) and to manipulate Saturninus into facilitating her revenge on Titus Andronicus. In Antony and Cleopatra the Egyptian queen’s wiles and wit seduce Antony into neglecting his duties and making terrible decisions, such as fighting by sea, and in this way Cleopatra (whether on purpose or accidentally) brings about his defeat. In Macbeth the witches speech captures Macbeth’s mind and leads him towards a terrible path. His wife, Lady Macbeth, becomes analogous to a witch as it is her persuasive language (as powerful as any incantation) that pushes him to take the step pf murdering Duncan. These eloquent women are an early modern nightmare. In a society that believes women are inferior to men, they are all like witches as they seek unnatural power over men. They have co-opted a masculine power – rhetoric, the art of persuasion, was the preserve of a male education – and because of women’s inherently weak wayward nature (as it was seen in the renaissance), their wielding of it invariably leads to destruction.<br />
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Surely this is all outdated claptrap? We don’t live in a society that believes woman are inferior to men, and that a woman who seeks power is unnatural. We don’t accuse women who live outside of patriarchal control of witchcraft, or vilify and torture women who voice their own opinions by imprisoning them in Scold’s Bridles. Well, bar an actual Scold’s Bridle, some of this seems a little close for comfort. The treatment of Hillary Clinton by the public and by the press has been a witch hunt in more ways than one. Apart from the desperate and dogged attempts to discredit her, Clinton has also been regularly depicted as an actual witch. After a quick internet search you will find Clinton mocked for her “witch laugh” and decried as “evil” beside videos and pictures of her edited to show her painted Witch of the West green and wearing a pointed hat. This kind of demonisation doesn’t take much intelligence to create, and even less to understand. Women who want to wield power, even over themselves or the situation they’re in (that is women who talk or have an opinion), are witches, or just as bad. The labels “witch” and “bitch” are just a few of the ways society gags women, or casts doubt on the credibility of their voices. If you thought that we had moved beyond the sort of gender politics that lay behind Shakespeare’s nasty women, this US election will have disillusioned you. A huge number of people, both voters, and commentators, are upsettingly misogynist. Despite all this Hillary Clinton, has not shut up or disappeared. She has called on her supporters to “Believe in our country and fight for our values and never, ever give up.” Clinton’s response to the terrifying election result should inspire us all to refuse to accept misogyny where we see it, even the quiet, insidious kinds. Especially the quiet, insidious kinds. As for me, my resolution is to stop caring about being “likeable”. In future, if terrible date situation delivers me another Bob, instead of giving a kittenish smile and concealing my inward condemnation with a delicate bite of my salad, I will say “Bob, you’re being a misogynist” then stuff a handful of chips in mouth. If that makes me a witch, well good. Slap on the green face paint and call me Hillary because I have the right to my opinions.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEBgqft9cbBtEUGL4E6fN79grU53I6LE-spIH-yy44djRvovdh57rSb5X6mU9PifKP3vtSXWRoVKVyIl__DJ4rO6nDgGRsQwJyPtkbJwyErJIcBdqXIz4feSQfXbcGS_cMRbjZBTLE6Jgp/s1600/20161028-3403.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Thomasin Bailey Shakespeare's Women" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEBgqft9cbBtEUGL4E6fN79grU53I6LE-spIH-yy44djRvovdh57rSb5X6mU9PifKP3vtSXWRoVKVyIl__DJ4rO6nDgGRsQwJyPtkbJwyErJIcBdqXIz4feSQfXbcGS_cMRbjZBTLE6Jgp/s640/20161028-3403.jpg" title="Thomasin Bailey Shakespeare's Women" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photograph by Peter Marsh at ashmorevisuals</td></tr>
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<a href="http://waxenhearts.blogspot.co.uk/p/shakespeares-women-series.html" target="_blank">Click here</a> for more information about the images in this blog, which are part of my Shakespeare's Women collaboration with Peter Marsh at ashmorevisuals.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-63966531517864717882016-08-25T08:22:00.001-07:002016-08-29T03:57:03.948-07:00Elizabeth I: Soul of the Age?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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As you know, I love the opportunity for a bit of fancy dress. “Dressing up” was my favourite game when I was little, and I endlessly bored my siblings by making them dress up, and they enraged me by only being willing to dress as Richard III (my little sister) and Lawrence of Arabia (my brother). My preferred choices included Madonna, my nursery school teacher, The Princess Bride, Wednesday Adams, Deanna Troy, and Princess Jasmine. It probably says a lot, but let’s not go in to that. The point is, when I was recently asked to play a role in a recreation of a Jacobean entertainment at an academic conference, I was delighted! My character was the Fairy Queen, which in my mind translates to GREAT DRESS. How could this be? Sanctioned dressing up at work? A dream come true. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_KTlTrMBivvEc7PxzUz-j9kUrXJ9Tj_XXC1GjkrQ27Me1CH0l_PXJoKUElBpojzP-_bYjn1t3ck8k18tU-aqH8gdeKxY3YrtGAXxq6ckWREBpC3Z14aBkNO80unPgD8d6nhUZZIqSqZaF/s1600/thomasinfairy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Thomasin Bailey" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_KTlTrMBivvEc7PxzUz-j9kUrXJ9Tj_XXC1GjkrQ27Me1CH0l_PXJoKUElBpojzP-_bYjn1t3ck8k18tU-aqH8gdeKxY3YrtGAXxq6ckWREBpC3Z14aBkNO80unPgD8d6nhUZZIqSqZaF/s400/thomasinfairy.jpg" title="Thomasin Bailey as Fairy Queen" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Fairy Queen get up</td></tr>
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<i>The Entertainment at Althorp</i> was written by Ben Jonson for the Spencer family to welcome Queen Anna and Prince Henry to England. Queen Elizabeth I was dead and James VI of Scotland had been invited to take the English throne. Anna of Denmark was James’ queen, and was famous for her enjoyment of masques and entertainments. The premise of the <i>Entertainment</i> is that the Fairy Queen and her elves welcome Queen Anna with music, dance, pomp, and circumstance. Their welcome is interrupted by a witty satyr who, full of sexual puns, suggests that the fairies are no more than common, mischievous sprites, and steals their thunder. He tells Queen Anna that it is really the Lord Spencer who is responsible for her welcome, and invites her to dine on venison that Spenser has hunted for her. Naturally, my first question for the director was “what am I going to wear?” The director, who had done much serious research, looked slightly concerned, so I pretended I was joking and that what I had meant was “so how’re we interpreting this role?” We talked a lot about faerie folklore in the early modern period, and its links to homemaking, childbearing, and witchcraft. I felt comfortable with this and could nod and add relevant snippets of my own knowledge to show I understood. But then, she threw me a curve ball: “so basically,” she said “you’re Elizabeth I”. </div>
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Aside from my utter joy at being able to wear a red wig and a green dress, I was pretty perplexed. I knew that Spenser’s <i>Faerie Queene</i> was associated with Elizabeth I, but this one? Gradually the penny dropped. This entertainment was designed as a compliment to Anna (the outgoing queen welcoming the incoming) but also to make clear that her role was to do with (the royal version of) homemaking, and childbearing - appropriate feminine roles - and nothing to do with ruling. The grandiloquent Fairy Queen in Jonson’s skit, is revealed by the satyr as a fraud “This is Mab the Mistriss Fairy, /That doth nightly rob the Dairy”. The Fairy Queen really spends her time keeping order in the homes around the country “She, that pinches Country Wenches, / If they rub not clean their Benches, /And with sharper Nails remembers, / When they rake not up their Embers”. Queen Anna is warned by the satyr not to believe the fairy’s grander claims – his domestic description of the fairy is the true story. If this Fairy Queen was meant to be Elizabeth I, it’s easy to see why. Elizabeth had been a powerful and popular monarch, which is a pretty tough act to follow, especially for a foreign king. King James had to compete with the memory of Good Queen Bess, which is why we see Elizabeth subtly undermined in many court-sponsored Jacobean representations. For example, in <i>The Masque of Blackness </i>(also a Ben Jonson for Queen Anna number) the nymphs wish for transformation. The moon, a female figure on a throne, cannot help them and they must seek the help of the King of Britannia. The moon’s light points the nymphs in the right direction. Queen Elizabeth was often associated with the moon in paintings and poems, so this enthroned female figure can be seen as representing Elizabeth, and the King of Britannia is obviously James. The masque recognises James’ power as superior to Elizabeth’s, and that, at the same time, he has Elizabeth’s approval. In the cute little <i>Entertainment at Althorp</i> in which I played the Fairy Queen, the female power figure is mocked and sexualised by a male figure, who then takes centre stage. This depiction of Elizabeth, designed to appeal to the new Royal Family on the block, tells us a lot about James’ anxieties about following a powerful female ruler. A sexualised, homemaking version of Queen Elizabeth is a lot less scary.</div>
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Ben Jonson, Queen Anna’s masque writer, described Shakespeare as the “soul of the age” and people are relaxed with the idea that every age has its own version of Shakespeare. We consciously reflect upon how stage productions and film adaptations use Shakespeare’s plays to talk about current affairs and contemporary issues. The way we represent the man behind the plays also says a lot about the soul of our age. Compare Joseph Fiennes’ beautiful and romantic Will Shakespeare in the 1998 film <i>Shakespeare in Love</i> to the buffoonish, cruel and illiterate Shakespeare portrayed by Rafe Spall in 2011’s anachronism-fest <i>Anonymous</i>. Both films reflected our post-Romantic belief that poetry pours from the soul and is a product of the emotions as Will (Fiennes) and Edward de Vere (played by Rhys Ifans dressed as an Elizabethan Karl Lagerfeld) poured out their art in response to their personal, emotional struggles. In other ways they couldn’t have been more different, as they were both products of their time. In 1998 we were at the beginning of a Labour government (not to mention Blue-eyed Bill in the US) and the only way was up, as the song went. Audiences welcomed Shakespeare’s genius coming from an impecunious underdog (albeit with a very Received Pronunciation accent). Fast-forward to 2011, a recession and a Tory government packed to the brim with Eton’s old boys, and the cinema going public are fed the old line that a grammar school boy from the sticks couldn’t have written those plays and they were actually the secret work of a tortured aristocrat. Blatant snobbery. Yes. The way we present Shakespeare speaks volumes about the soul of our age. The same is true about the presentation of Elizabeth I. From Judi Dench’s knowing stateswoman (<i>Shakespeare in Love</i>), to the double-bill of sexually incontinent bad decision making delivered by Joely Richardson and Vanessa Redgrave (<i>Anonymous</i>), our Elizabeths tell a story. Elizabeth in pop culture really shows up our society for the underlying problems it has with women in power.</div>
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I’ve talked about the reasons why, if Ben Jonson’s Fairy Queen is indeed a portrait of Queen Elizabeth, it might have been politic to show a subversion of female power and the triumph of a masculine figure in the early 17th century, but why do 21st century viewers want to see a subversion of Elizabeth’s power? Jonson’s vindictive, self-aggrandising, and untrustworthy sex-pot of a Fairy Queen in the <i>Entertainment</i> is strikingly similar to the depiction of Queen Elizabeth I in the teen historical fantasy series <i>Reign</i>. Rachel Skarsten’s portrayal of Elizabeth I has her wild-eyed and screeching, completely driven by her passion for Robert Dudley, ripping off her very fashionable corset at the drop of the hat. It seems unlikely that this beautiful but brittle queen could reign for over four decades (as the real Elizabeth did) given that her cruel schemes seem somewhat short-sighted in the series. Skarsten’s performance however, is clearly gold. The show has been popular with viewers and The CW has said that it will run for a fourth series after Skarsten’s injection of new verve into the show, becoming a central character in season three. The series is fantasy, featuring everything from witchcraft to Topshop tiaras, so it cannot be expected to be historically correct. The question is, why does this particular fantasy appeal? </div>
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It is interesting that from Oscar winners to guilty pleasures so many films and series about this extraordinary monarch are so wholly concerned with her love life. Her love life before she was queen, her decision to become a virgin queen, her secret love life, her love life in old age, the end of her love life, the consequences of it: the list goes on. Is it the soul of our age that the only thing that interests us about a woman is her sexuality? Are we so stumped by the idea of a successful female ruler that every story has to suggest that her passion is her potential downfall? Can a woman only be believably depicted as wise on film when she is a subsidiary character, and well past child-bearing age? Does female power on screen always have to be limited by the Achilles Heel of not being able to control one’s emotions and / or vagina? Surely we can do better. When kids dress up as Queen Elizabeth surely we want them to be playing at running a country, speaking to ambassadors in several languages, or constructing inspiring speeches, not singing “Lizzie and Dudley sitting in a tree K.I.S.S.I.N.G!” We have plenty of strong female role models. Let’s not dress them up as something else.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-63166211082364941672016-06-27T10:29:00.001-07:002016-06-27T11:04:49.204-07:00Hail Brexit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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On the morning after the EU referendum I felt as if I had been punched
in the gut. I couldn’t believe that Britain had voted to leave. I didn’t think
it was possible. By the end of the weekend many Leave voters began to feel as
if they had been stabbed in the back, as the leaders of the Leave campaign
began the process of wriggling out of their promises. Remainers feel betrayed by the weak performance of the some of the left wing leadership, and Leavers feel attacked by their peers who are throwing around bitter insults. The
valued members of our community from across Europe feel insulted and rejected. Wounded
and confused, Britain has emerged from the EU referendum looking like Julius Caesar,
with countless stab wounds, bleeding on the senate floor. Et tu Corbyn?<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is at this point in Shakespeare’s <i>Julius
Caesar</i> that Antony responds with his famous speech: “Friends, Romans,
countrymen, lend me your ears”. This speech is a masterclass in rhetoric. With
it, Antony seizes all the opportunities that this moment of crisis affords and
completely turns public opinion. Antony addresses a mob who have, moments
before, praised Brutus for the assassination of Caesar, and enthusiastically
agreed with all his reasoning. By the end of his speech the people who have
just applauded Brutus and his co-conspirators are calling them “villians,
murderers”, and “traitors”. What is most clever about Antony’s rhetoric is that
he brings people with him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Friends, Romans, countrymen,
lend me your ears;<br />
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.<br />
The evil that men do lives after them;<br />
The good is oft interred with their bones;<br />
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus<br />
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:<br />
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,<br />
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.<br />
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest—<br />
For Brutus is an honourable man;<br />
So are they all, all honourable men—<br />
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.<br />
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:<br />
But Brutus says he was ambitious;<br />
And Brutus is an honourable man.<br />
He hath brought many captives home to Rome<br />
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:<br />
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?<br />
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:<br />
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:<br />
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;<br />
And Brutus is an honourable man.<br />
You all did see that on the Lupercal<br />
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,<br />
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?<br />
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;<br />
And, sure, he is an honourable man. (III,2)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Antony begins his speech as if he is in total agreement with the crowd
who have just applauded the assassination of Caesar. Antony does not begin by
directly contradicting Brutus, who is a hero to the crowd. Instead, he seems to
concede that, while he has a different opinion, Brutus’ honour has made him a
fair judge of Casear. “He was my friend, faithful and just to me: / But
Brutus says he was ambitious; / And Brutus is an honourable man.” Gradually,
Antony moves away from this concessionary position, taking the crowd with him. Each
example of Caesar’s virtue is followed by a repetition of “Yet Brutus says he
was ambitious; / And Brutus is an honourable man.” As Antony’s praise of Brutus
becomes a repeated refrain, its meaning begins to change. What first seemed
like a balanced admission, soon becomes excruciatingly ironic. Brutus has
claimed that Caesar was assassinated for aspiring to be a king, but Antony reminds
the crowd of Caesar’s public and repeated refusal of the crown. The words “Yet Brutus
says he was ambitious; / And Brutus is an honourable man” now suggest the
opposite. Brutus is dishonourable. His claims are clearly lies. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Following the above extract, Antony continues to play cat and mouse with his
audience, whipping them up into a frenzy. After much rhetorical teasing, he
reveals Caesar’s will, in which he has left lands and riches to the people of
Rome. A voice from the crowd cries “Most noble Caesar! We'll revenge his death.”
Antony fans the flames until all the people agree to rise up against Brutus and
his followers. During his speech, Antony claims that he is “no orator, as
Brutus is; / But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man.” His pose is that of
one of the people. He is honest “plain” and “blunt”, but this is all a
manipulation. The citizens leave, carrying Caesar’s body, and Antony reveals
this knowing nature to the audience, “Now let it work. Mischief, thou art
afoot, / Take thou what course thou wilt!” Sure enough, Antony’s
calculations are correct and the tide of public opinion turns in his favour. Of
course Antony is a sneaky so-and-so, but he is good at what he does. Shakespeare's portrayal of the politician is uncomfortably astute, but his portrayal of the
people is less comfortable still, as it so ungenerous. In so many of
Shakespeare’s political plays the people are a vacillating mob, referred to
with disdain. They are the crowd who switch allegiance from Coriolanus to his
enemies with the slightest persuasion, they are called “slippery people” (<i>Antony and Cleopatra </i>I,2), and the
“distracted multitude” (<i>Hamlet, </i>IV,3).
When Shakespeare’s hero belittles the voting populace as “fragments” and “curs”
(I,1) in <i>Coriolanus, </i>he seems to be
supported in his lack of respect for them by the plot of the play. This depiction of the people
as easily swayed, weak, and stupid comes up a great deal in Shakespeare, but is
that really what’s going on? In <i>Coriolanus</i>
the people are starving, and in <i>Julius
Caesar</i> they are afraid (a political leader has been violently murdered and
a strange comet has appeared in the sky). Shakespeare shows us, not that people
are stupid, but that in extremity they are vulnerable to strong, charismatic
rhetoric.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Julius Caesar’s murder might make the perfect political cartoon for Brexit. Imagine it: the figure of Britannia as Caesar, surrounded by Boris, Farage, and Gove, togas on, hands bloodied, and daggers out. Jeremy would be there too. Britannia’s speech bubble would say “Et tu Corbyn”, and he’d reply “honestly, I did campaign” sheepishly hiding a bloodied dagger behind him. We all know that now such a cartoon would be in the poorest of taste. The scene from Shakespeare now has other chilling resonances which cannot be ignored in a discussion of the EU referendum. Politician Jo Cox was shot and stabbed multiple times in the run up to the referendum. Her assailant shouted “Britain first” as he carried out the attack. Mair (the attacker) was mentally unstable, but what terrorist isn’t? It behoves us all to consider what climate of fear fomented this act of terror. In a statement to the press Jo Cox’s husband urged people to “unite to fight against the hatred that killed her.” We can all play a role in shaping the attitudes of society, and we must see it as our duty to do so. In the aftermath of the EU referendum Britain finds itself in a
vulnerable position. We are all unsure about what will happen next, some people
feel angry, and many people feel frightened. We are open and ready for a
Friends, Romans, countrymen rhetoric that will bring us together. It’s a moment
full of potential, but also fraught with danger. The question is, who will be
Antony? Distastefully, Farage has already had a go, and as we all know, worry
and uncertainty are a breeding ground for extremism and bigotry. What we need
is an Antony (be that one person, a party, or a movement) with hopeful,
inclusive, liberal values to step up to the plate before it’s too late. While
the Labour party pull themselves together, I suggest that the 75% of young
voters who wanted to remain use the social media at their finger-tips to get
this positive rhetoric started. The generation of social media users have an enormous
communicative power that could be mobilised for more than just Kardashian chat. We
can use this amazing technology to combat messages of prejudice and fear with
positive stories of inclusion and support. Antony claims that Caesar’s wounds
are “poor poor dumb mouths” that cry out eloquently for revenge. We, as a
society, must not let our wounds speak for us. We must use our voices to build
the positive future that we want and need. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Image by John Leech, from: The Comic History of Rome by Gilbert Abbott A Beckett. </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Bradbury, Evans & Co, London, 1850s, Wikipedia Commons</span><span style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-44928031623313476442016-06-07T15:21:00.000-07:002016-06-07T15:25:02.424-07:00The EU Egg<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When King Lear sits and talks to his Fool it is clear that the
king, who has divided his kingdom, is the one who is truly a fool. Despite all
warnings to the contrary, King Lear decides to divide his kingdom up, and give
away his responsibilities. Although Lear banishes those who advise against his
decisions, the Fool is able to speak truthfully to him through skits and
riddles.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fool: Give me an egg, nuncle, and I’ll give thee two crowns.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lear: What crowns shall they be?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fool: Why – after I have cut the egg i’ the middle and eat
up the meat – the two crown of the egg.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Fool draws a parallel between the egg and the kingdom (the
crown represents the kingdom) that King Lear has cut into pieces. As with an
egg, the fracturing of a kingdom is irreparable. The halves of the shell can be
called “two crowns” but they are worthless. The yellow treasure inside the egg
has had to be consumed or cast away to achieve these crowns. The egg only had
value, and the potential to be productive, when it was whole. In the same way,
Lear’s kingdom and kingship is lost and worthless. It is not long after it has
been split up that Lear’s former kingdom is riven by civil conflict and foreign
invasion. In the run up to the EU referendum, King Lear’s egg has been on my
mind. While many elements of this complex discussion cannot be compared with
<i>King Lear</i>, I am quite certain we would indeed be fools to break from the EU. As
part of the EU we are part of a productive and valuable community, marketplace,
and support system. Why break this up for an idea of national independence that
would be as illusory and empty as the two crowns of an egg? To throw away our
close ties with Europe at this tumultuous time, so that we could claim a
British sovereignty, independent of Europe, seems as vain and foolish as King
Lear’s arrogant disregard for his advisors and for common sense at the opening
of the play. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Being given an empty crown doesn’t work out well for anyone
in <i>King Lear</i>. At the start of the
play Goneril and Regan appear to be on the same team. Let’s call it Team
Survival. They confide in one another, and their worst crime seems to be
pragmatically flattering a tyrannical father, who has “ever but slenderly known
himself”. Can we blame them for wanting to avoid Cordelia’s fate? The pair also
appear quite rational when we first meet them. They discuss the trouble they
can see on the horizon and how they will deal with it. Goneril comments, “You
see how full of changes his age is. The observation we have made of it hath not
been little. He always lov'd our sister most, and with what poor judgment he
hath now cast her off appears too grossly.” They can see that Lear was unwise
to cast off both Cordelia and Kent, and that things are going to get worse. In
Act 1 Scene 1 the sisters do not appear to be terribly nice women, but they are
eminently sensible ones. When they are both given the crown to their portion of
the kingdom, however, they go quite bonkers. As soon as they have power, they
guard it closely. Lear’s retinue of knights (symbolic of power, but also with
the physical potential of taking power) become the site of conflict. Both Goneril
and Regan decide that the knights have to go. Together they haggle Lear down
from one hundred to one, and as they strip him of this retinue they strip him
of his dignity. Once the common enemy (the spectre of Lear’s power) is out of
the way, the two rulers begin quarrelling between themselves and competing for
limited resources. The limited resource in this case is Edmund. These formerly pragmatic
and sensible women transform into a pair of desperate harpies, ultimately
murdering one another. Meanwhile, with no clear unity in the kingdom, a French
invasion force has landed at Dover. French invasion force aside (and let’s just
draw a veil over all of Shakespeare’s depictions of the French), we, with our
EU egg in hand, have a lot to learn from Shakespeare’s vision of both a
disordered nation and a disordered family. Imagine Europe as one kingdom or one
family; working together we can face threats and crises. There may be members
of the family that aren’t particularly nice all the time (there always are),
but pragmatism tells us, it’s in our interests to get along. What happens then,
when this kingdom is split into autonomous regions, each with competing
interests? I’m afraid these interests will be pursued without an eye on the
bigger picture or a long term plan. The decline of Shakespeare’s Goneril and
Regan unfortunately reflects that bit of human nature that will pursue selfish
interests, blinkered to the bigger picture. Without the shared interests and
regulations of the EU, the “free market” will take on a nightmare quality, like
Goneril and Regan lusting after Edmund. Not only do we risk losing our close
ties to the rest of Europe, we also risk losing sight of not only our own interests,
but our humanity, in a rush to charge that extra pound here, and spend a pound
less there on someone’s wages. As Gordon Brown puts it, we’re not just a
market, <a href="http://www.coventrytelegraph.net/news/watch-remain-campaigner-gordon-brown-11438160" target="_blank">we’re a community</a>. There are also security implications to breaking the
EU egg. Rejecting the rest of our European family, like the proud, mad Lear, heading
off into the cruel storm, we will become vulnerable. It’s not scare-mongering,
but common sense, to point out that now is not a good time to go wandering naked
on the heath (metaphorically speaking).Now is the time, to band together, pool resources, and think big.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Metaphor often points out difference as much as similarity.
The image of the egg as crown brings two things together from wildly different
realms. The egg is found in the kitchen, the garden, or the farm yard, and its
smooth ovoid is a familiar feeling to many a hand. The crown, on the other
hand, immeasurable in value, is sought after by an elite few, but touched by
fewer still. An egg can feed you, a crown cannot. When the Fool explains Lear’s
mistake with the image of the homely and humble egg, I think he is also calling
on common sense; the sort of common sense that anyone who knows how to hold an
egg without breaking it can claim. Common sense tells us that we’re better together.
Team work gets things done. Splitting up is never a good plan in horror movies
or in politics. Don’t break the EU egg. Vote Remain. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqi3Q24cDkYNbwLDa6iSeMlOrYRwdcsmI9MYp7gOw0taY5PNXOye7xJOuCrJ3IXVLTl4OCuufOITuWgZWmCL7Xq9KMOWo-Fx1qWdWtC_0x9TJOU0pU8nNzcdQahBN9hRCW_iRIIRWLcymN/s1600/613px-AmselEier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqi3Q24cDkYNbwLDa6iSeMlOrYRwdcsmI9MYp7gOw0taY5PNXOye7xJOuCrJ3IXVLTl4OCuufOITuWgZWmCL7Xq9KMOWo-Fx1qWdWtC_0x9TJOU0pU8nNzcdQahBN9hRCW_iRIIRWLcymN/s400/613px-AmselEier.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image by Lokilech - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2202289</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-88977031767748021992016-04-22T09:54:00.001-07:002016-04-22T09:54:17.343-07:00Shakespeare 400 – What’s The Point?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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With the world in the state it’s in, with thousands of
refugees living in inhumane conditions; with terrorists attacking whatever we
hold dear, from Palmyra to Paris; with our youth so disenfranchised that they
are crossing the globe to join these terrorists; with global warming galloping
onwards practically unchecked; and with greed and the precious idea of the
“free market” pushing society to the brink of collapse (to mention but a few
issues), should we really be pouring all our time and money into the work of
some poet, 400 years dead?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH3Cq-bN7DotRhDVHgS9KtgZQj4DwUF7r298WrfrfHmkM2j5jyPd-KdWIbVLUaznsgJZBRPJ2m4TAUAQswCaD3qxe-sLqTdpbWKSVVTZ7gJrGauinvsxMVKkxeDbIvcWmDof75sLtxpHeq/s1600/IMG_1809.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH3Cq-bN7DotRhDVHgS9KtgZQj4DwUF7r298WrfrfHmkM2j5jyPd-KdWIbVLUaznsgJZBRPJ2m4TAUAQswCaD3qxe-sLqTdpbWKSVVTZ7gJrGauinvsxMVKkxeDbIvcWmDof75sLtxpHeq/s320/IMG_1809.JPG" width="320" /></a>It’s Shakespeare’s
birthday and – this year’s a biggie – his 400 year anniversary. There’s a lot
to celebrate. This is that great time of year (better than Christmas) when the
media is strewn with bits and bobs about Shakespeare’s contribution to the
English language, Shakespeare’s greatest hits, and which actor has proven their
worth ‘playing the Dane.’ This anniversary year, of course, has increased this
output manifold! There is, of course, the old debate about whether Shakespeare
even wrote his plays, and the perennial “why bother?” moaning. This year, the
“why bother” brigade has new voices – and these are not mindless shouts. Normally,
I would greet the question of what’s the point of Shakespeare with <i>Little
Britain</i> style projectile vomiting, but this year the question struck a chord.
Is getting excited about a bit of iambic pentameter while those Nigerian school
girls are still missing the height
of callous decadence? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Well yes. Yes it is. Yes and no. We need to stop turning our
faces away from the severely hot water we, the global community, are currently
in, but this doesn’t mean Shakespeare shouldn’t be celebrated. We can use this
celebration as a platform to discuss these problems. We can hold Shakespeare up
as an example of those good things in our world that, however hard it tries,
terrorism cannot destroy. We can treasure Shakespeare as a symbol of an
inclusive identity, as something we share across the globe. Whatever his
motivation when he wrote his plays, even if he was only driven by commercial
savvy, Shakespeare’s rich texts can spark discussions about humanity,
prejudice, responsibility, and honesty. Take, for example. <i>The Merchant of Venice</i>, Shylock’s famous and oft decontextualized
“Hath not a jew eyes” speech, may originally have been intended as ironic
(Shylock is using the speech to justify literally hacking off a pound of
Antonio’s flesh) yet, with the final example missed off the list, the speech
has lent eloquence to those pleading for a recognition of common humanity. The
play’s performance history demonstrates its power to highlight discrimination
and prejudice.
Many modern productions highlight the cruelty and privilege of the Christians
in the play through performance, and depict Shylock as a sympathetic character.
So what part in all this does Shakespeare play, you might ask, surely it is the
directors and actors who are opening up debate, rather than the early modern,
(probably) deeply ant-Semitic, and commercially minded playwright who was
probably trying to capitalise on the Lopez scandal with a “Jew play” to rival
Marlowe’s popular <i>The Jew of Malta</i>?
Well, whatever his original intentions, Shakespeare does have a part to play. We
can really have no idea what Shakespeare’s intentions were, but we can be sure
that the lines he gives to Shylock are nothing short of mesmerizing with his
hypnotic rhythms (despite speaking in prose), his compelling inversions, and
his devastatingly poignant attention to detail (Leah’s turquoise). Shylock is
the character that everyone remembers. Without this powerful source material
the essential interpretations of directors and actors would not be half so
powerful. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>The Merchant of Venice</i>
is just one example of how Shakespeare’s plays can and should be used to
discuss the ills in our society. Meera Syal described Hero’s supposed death in <i>Much Ado About Nothing</i> as a <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/theatre/theatre-features/9403719/Much-Ado-about-Nothing-Much-ado-about-Meera-Syal.html" target="_blank">“stagedhonour killing”</a>,
drawing parallels between the plot of the renaissance comedy and a crime that
is perpetrated more often than even statistics reveal in today’s society.
Productions of <i>The Tempest </i>often use
the complicated dynamics between Prospero, Ariel, and Caliban to comment upon
the wrongs of colonialism and the delusions of its perpetrators. The rich texts
of these works make them open to multiple interpretations, and create fertile
ground for whatever discussions society needs to have. <i>Hamlet</i> has been performed as a play about transgender experience,
warfare, bereavement, and many other ideas and issues besides these.
Shakespeare’s plays represent a valuable resource through which we can express
ourselves and enact these debates. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But what of those Shakespeare purists, who feel such
interpretations are, in fact, impositions on the text? Is there a place for
celebrating that sort of Shakespeare today? Again, I would argue yes. Stories, dreams, and poetry, sustain those in need, and are vital for mental health. The
beauty of Shakespeare’s language should be cherished for its own sake now more
than ever. The destruction of the Baal Shamin temple in Palmyra, the attack on
the Bataclan stadium in Paris, and countless other acts of terror, do not only
attack our safety, they also attack human inspiration, our capacity to create
and enjoy beauty, and traditions of doing so. If we respond to these attacks by
battening down the hatches, and putting aside “frivolous” subjects such as
music, literature, art, and architecture, we allow terrorists to succeed. The
works of Shakespeare are an example of the positive things humanity can create.
In a moment of despair Hamlet describes the wonder that is mankind<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>What a piece of work is a man!
how noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving how express
and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the
beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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After this paean to humanity, Hamlet continues “And yet to
me what is this quintessence of dust?” Although Hamlet can see the mechanical
wonder of the human body as well as its beauty, the power and the potential of
the human mind, and the wondrous and almost divine capacity that we have for
creativity, he is so depressed that it all means nothing to him. It is no more
than dust. Reading Shakespeare’s words remind us of this wonder and the fact
that we, as humans, are more than mere dust. If we become so afraid that we
only worry about food and defence and the economy, we forget our spiritual and
creative potential, and this is the side of ourselves that we need to love,
hope, and be generous. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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So, With the world in the state it’s in, with thousands of
refugees living in inhumane conditions; with terrorists attacking whatever we
hold dear, from Palmyra to Paris; with our youth so disenfranchised that they
are crossing the globe to join these terrorists; with global warming galloping
onwards practically unchecked; and with greed and the precious idea of the
“free market” pushing society to the brink of collapse (to mention but a few
issues), should we really be pouring all our time and money into the work of
some poet, 400 years dead? Yes, is the answer. We should celebrate Shakespeare
as a symbol of what humanity can achieve, and what we share. Let’s celebrate
these works, and let’s use them, not to distract from, but to talk about all
the things we really need to.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866070046027815668.post-11804197369193427382016-04-13T13:37:00.002-07:002016-04-13T13:43:43.454-07:00Primates and Prejudice<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I’ve just come back from one of the best trips of my life, and to think, because of a bit of pride and prejudice, I almost didn’t go!<br />
<br />
Like anyone entering a new career, graduate students and junior academics get anxious about new experiences, especially large events in which the potential for public humiliation seems frighteningly ubiquitous. Several years ago, when I was a newly minted graduate student, the academic conference was one of the most horrific things I could imagine. Even asking a question seemed out of the question, never mind actually giving a paper! I eased myself in gently, just listening to begin with. Largely, the academics I observed were polite and kind to one another. Perhaps asking questions wouldn’t be so bad. So the time came for me to ask my first question. I thought about it carefully, and with as little of a tremor as possible, put my hand up. The panellist to whom the question had been addressed seemed interested and responded at length. In fact, my question sparked further discussion from the floor. I breathed a sigh of relief: my first conference question hadn’t been a humiliating disaster! The sigh of relief, however, was short lived. At the end of the session the chair invited the panellists to make closing statements. Most responded with the usual thank yous to the chair, the audience, and to their fellow panellists. Then came the final academic in the row. This was not the speaker to whom I had addressed my question, but a lean, smart-looking, American, who took the opportunity to lean forward and say that, frankly, he thought the question on religion (my question) had been “vacuous”. My face went red and a lump came to my throat. The Blackadder phrase, “the hot crumpet of shame burned on my cheeks”, would have been a good one to describe this moment of slightly adolescent, but utter, humiliation. After the session had closed I completed the obligatory small talk with my neighbours, and, as casually as I could, found the farthest away and most private toilet in the building and cried like a baby. Whilst he had disagreed courteously with the other men on the panel, this senior academic had, in front of an audience of other academics whom I respected, called me “vacuous”. That particular insult hurt my pride as it went straight to the chip already on my shoulder. Though I consider the event differently now, at the time I couldn’t imagine anything worse.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ9jWh4Nj5owU_p45LdqjDmY0qygCosuHunDSCiBUSeG-YKF2CPLWp7SYot0y3SG-K3fS5RO3k6U9759FY1abFi86s4IO1XO29Jj1uk6x0XJTsK4DlBEeit1d5e91DEXF12bY-DmAgm7vQ/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ9jWh4Nj5owU_p45LdqjDmY0qygCosuHunDSCiBUSeG-YKF2CPLWp7SYot0y3SG-K3fS5RO3k6U9759FY1abFi86s4IO1XO29Jj1uk6x0XJTsK4DlBEeit1d5e91DEXF12bY-DmAgm7vQ/s400/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vacuous? Moi?<br />
Photograph by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/bungloid/?fref=ts" target="_blank">Bungle</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Since vacuous-gate, I have asked many questions at conferences and given my own papers too. I have been lucky enough to have had a more than positive experience of conferences ever since. Despite this, years and years later, I was gripped by utter horror when my supervisor suggested that we submit a panel for a large American conference. At the time of the aforementioned vacuous comment a friend had claimed, on what authority I’m not sure, that American academics were just more aggressive during conferences, due to the teaching style in the US. While I suspected that this comment had, in an odd way, been designed to make me feel better about having been publicly savaged, this prejudice had stuck with me on some level. I had never been to America and had no other contact with American academics, I thought, perhaps, there might be some truth to it. In my fevered imaginings this American conference was going to be a feeding frenzy of savage, American, academic sharks, and I would be the bit of old calf leg thrown into their midst. I was green about the gills with trepidation. What nonsense! Of course, when I arrived at my first conference in the USA, everyone was utterly lovely. Senior academics and grad students alike, were welcoming, friendly, and generous. My trip to the states turned out to be the most tremendous fun: I learnt so much and opened my mind to new research possibilities. Papers ranged from the intellectually challenging to equally erudite but also hilarious offerings, such as <a href="http://michaelawinkelman.com/" target="_blank">"Queen of the Jungle"</a>, a talk on how the primate politics of the Elizabethan court echo the machinations of rhesus monkeys! I left America knowing that I couldn’t wait to go back. If I had to make a generalisation I would say that American academics are, on the whole, friendlier, more nurturing, more relaxed, and more courteous than their British counterparts (but don’t tell anyone I said that). It may seem silly (or worse than silly) to you that a person could manage to form a judgement on a whole continent of people based on no more than hearsay and a bad experience, yet a good dollop of fear, mixed in with bad advice, and a helping of personal insecurity, is the perfect recipe for prejudice. Unfortunately, it's just what we primates do.<br />
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Shakespeare experiments with this unfortunate combination in both <i>Othello</i> and <i>Much Ado About Nothing</i>. The prejudice at work in both these plays is one concerning women. Both plots rely on the early modern belief that women are mentally and sexually frail and easily corruptible. Othello and Claudio only too quickly believe in the supposed infidelity of their beloveds with very little evidence at all. Othello finds a handkerchief that he gave to Desdemona in someone else’s possession, while Claudio sees some woman (not Hero) <i>in flagrante</i> with another man. Both men leap to the conclusion that two plus two equals five. For them, the natural conclusion is that women are unfaithful. The same evidence could have lead them in the opposite direction, but of course it doesn’t. Even before these moments of crisis, each play is strewn with casual misogyny, focussing on women’s fickle nature. In the very first scene of <i>Much Ado</i>, when asked whether Hero is his daughter, Leonato jokes “Her mother hath many times told me so.” This casual gag is a subtle reminder of the anxiety surrounding female chastity in Shakespeare’s day. Before genetic paternity testing the only way to determine the provenance of a child was by trusting its mother. In a patriarchal society that generally didn’t trust women with anything as dangerous as learning to read Latin, trusting them with the important matter of heirs wasn’t easy. Othello is also warned about women’s fickle ways very close to the opening of the play in Act I Scene 3. Desdemona’s father blesses her new marriage with this warning to her husband: “Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see: / She has deceived her father, and may thee.” Brabantio argues that since Desdemona has betrayed her father, it is likely that she will also betray her husband. In a society that views the woman as either a saint or a whore, the first dishonesty leads to total condemnation.<br />
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In order to tip this anxiety and prejudice into total conviction of guilt, Othello and Claudio both have a devil to whisper in their ears. Iago invites Othello to interpret evidence in a certain way, as Don John does for Claudio. However, these seeds of doubt were planted in credulous soil: the men wanted to believe the lies. Both Don John and Iago deliver a half-baked story and evidence that would never stand up in a court of law. Imagine Claudio on <i>Judge Judy</i>, my grandma’s favourite tv show.<br />
“Did you see the defendant’s face?”<br />
“No, your honour.”<br />
“You’re an idiot. Get out of my cwourtroom!”<br />
Judge Judy wouldn’t give Claudio the time of day. The non-fatal ending of <i>Much Ado</i> easier to imagine Claudio in Judge Judy’s courtroom, than Othello, who smothers his own wife. He’d have to have his own, horrible version of <i>Making a Murderer</i> on Netflix. Despite this, the plots of the two plays are very similar. The slight difference between them lies largely in the fact that one finishes before the other. In Act IV Scene I Claudio denounces Hero as an adulteress and leaves her (ostensibly) for dead. Others in the play describe this moment as Claudio murdering Hero (“Thou hast kill'd my child” says Leonato). In Act V Scene II Othello, convinced of Desdemona’s infidelity does, in fact, kill his wife. At that stage the plots of the two plays reach a parallel situation. Both men later learn that they were mistaken, but there are no takesie-backsies for Othello. Luckily, Much Ado is a comedy, so Hero’s “death” is not the end of the play. After Claudio has stormed out, Beatrice protests Hero’s innocence, staying Leonato’s hand long enough for the guilty parties to reveal themselves to the shambolic watchmen. Eventually the truth comes to light and Hero’s name is cleared. It is easy to imagine that had Othello proposed a cooling off period, or even asked Desdemona to have a cup of tea and a chat with him, everything would have been straightened out, and she, being the worryingly mellow sort of woman she is, would probably have forgiven him for all the confusion. If only he’d waited, instead of acting quickly, prompted by rumour, and blinded by prejudice.<br />
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The outcomes of <i>Othello</i> and <i>Much Ado About Nothing</i>, are, of course, governed by the generic requirements of tragedy and comedy; one was always going to end in tears. Our own lives, on the other hand, are a different story. It is our choice whether to be like Othello (strangle first, ask questions later) or like Beatrice (who is one of the few characters in <i>Much Ado</i> who understands the concept of innocent until proven guilty – and she does excellent banter). We all have our insecurities and prejudices, and there is always a little Iago in our lives who will (sometimes intentionally, but often unintentionally) distort, exploit, or feed these foibles. The trick is, not to act on prejudice, but to take our time, like a Shakespearean comedy, and wait for the plot to unravel. Imagine what fun I would have missed, and what fantastic people I would never have met, if I’d let bad advice from a friend and one bad experience scare me off! As Judge Judy would say “Oh pleeeease. Baloney! Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining.”<br />
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