Falling for Women is a collection of stories about men’s relationships with women – and women’s relationships with men, of course; but the narrators (there are 24 stories) always appear to be male. For reasons of time and space, I’ve referred in this review mainly to stories from the first section of Falling for Women, titled “Sentimental Journeys”. These stories all relate journeys into memories – many of these memories of physical journeys – that carry strong affective meaning for the narrators; and, I guess, for the author. They raise the question: How to read these multi-layered stories by an author who claims affinity with Lawrence Sterne? Each story features a different woman, and the author writes in the introduction that the women are centre-stage; but the way of telling brings the narrator to the reader’s consciousness.
The first story, Iemanjå, begins by describing a boy’s first days at school. The boy’s name Wallace – the author’s surname – suggests this is autobiographical, and simple joined phrases imply a childish view (“On the desk was an exercise book and a pencil and a little bag his mother had sewn together”). Wallace moves on to a girl-free boarding school, joins dance classes to meet girls, and is initiated into sex by a girl much older than him. At this point, the narrator becomes a social media commentator: “I expect you’ll all have read Wallace’s so-called autobiography by now, or at least the reviews.” And the reader is now positioned as a member of a knowing audience. These shifts of perspective occur throughout the stories. When the author gives his surname to the protagonist, we might feel we’re meeting the same character at various ages and stages of his life; but there are chronological gaps and uncertainties. Some of the stories an be read plausibly together as episodes in one life; others seem to be about someone else. The sixth story, Laura, is preceded by an Editor’s note that throws doubt on its provenance and author and queries why certain elements of the narrative remain unexplained.
Despite – or perhaps because of – these writerly manipulations, the stories are compelling. The protagonists are energetic, educated, usually young men with with a hunger for experience, often travellers in the Land of the Free. Sometimes the narrative stretches credibility even as fiction, as in Mitzi, where Wallace, a young Brit in Las Vegas, gives cardiopulmonary resuscitation to a stricken croupier, is picked up by a kind “crowd warmer” called Mitzi, and given a stage-side view of Tom Jones’ performance; then Elvis Presley joins Wallace in Tom Jones’ dressing-room. America is mythically a country where anything is possible, but Wallace feels after these events that the whole Las Vegas experience was unreal. What would remain real, however, was the smiling eyes and aching allure of Mitzi. The character and presence of Mitzi outshines Las Vegas. In later years, we are told, Wallace would come to understand innocence not as a condition that would always be lost, but as a compassion that could always be achieved. This trope occurs in some of the other stories, and feels like an insight into the mind of the author as well as the narrator.
So as the reader of these stories I try to enter the immanent mind of the author. What lies behind these heterogeneous narratives? The narrator usually refuses to comply with the reader’s desire for answers. He often says that he doesn’t know. The narrator is at pains to halt the reader’s suspension of disbelief in the veracity of the story, or even its internal consistency. The main subject about which he claims ignorance – an ignorance that, he claims, is shared by all men – is women. In The Black, the White and the Freckled, Wallace reflects on his strange romance with the Norwegian Astryd, and “the multiple layers of illusion it had begun to reveal”. After his time with her, he feels that “her sweet simplicity, her innocence, the smile that talked to him of love”, were unreal, “symptoms of an essential lack”. He tells the reader it was at this point he had the idea of writing about falling in love, or indeed about falling for women. We hear the author relating – in (semi-)fictional form? – the provenance of these stories. The ambiguity of ‘falling’ suggests not only romance but danger. Astryd had never been present to Wallace. Danger is associated with the female even in infant school. In the first story, Iemanjå, six year old Wallace bumps into a neighbouring girl’s desk, dislodging her spectacles; she scratches and spits at him and feigns injury when Wallace pushes her away. Wallace has to stand in the headmistress’s office at break time to “learn how to behave”. He learns, says the narrator, that girls could be trouble.
In Katharine and Jacqueline the boy protagonist isn’t given a name, but, like the young Wallace in Iemanja, he initially has little interest in girls; Richmal Crompton’s William is referenced in both stories. “At that time,” the male narrator overgeneralises, “boys lived in a boys’ world.” This world is vividly and poetically created. The boys lived and played outdoors all day every day, scampered, climbed, fell or fought; they roamed, “got lost in the woods, went scrumping for apples, trolleyed and roller-skated along the main roads”; at summer funfairs ”they roamed the diesel-noisy rides”. The experienced adult narrator reminds us that this was a wounded and exhausted post-war world, but the boy lived an “unencumbered and unreflective” life in a “fierce freedom”. Like other boys, we are told, he was “innocent” of the lives of girls – until Katharine, a girl from his class, invited him to a tea-party in the garden of her parents’ substantial house. Nothing in the boy’s short life had prepared him for the girls’ “presence and proximity”. Their smiles, smirks, squeals and giggles were utterly different, but he liked the gestures, the looks, the “small courtesies”. He had been seduced, but he had to get back for lunch with his mother and crashed his bike in his haste and speed. Despite this final boyish assertion, he found himself thinking about the girls’ world and what it all meant.
Donna, the ostensible subject of the story of that name, is also mysterious. The first-person narrator cannot recall how she, sleepy and uncannily passive, joined two British kids, him and his mate Steve, riding Chicago in Steve’s ’57 Chevy. The main action of the story relates Steve and the narrator’s getting tickets and going to see Ray Charles perform in the Regal Cinema on the southside. Although they hardly knew Donna, they didn’t want to leave her. “She was the emissary from the strange land of America.” There was no promise of closeness, but she “had a young girls’ mystery”. Still, they dropped her off, entered the auditorium early, and fell asleep; they awoke to the overwhelming presence of the all-black audience and Ray Charles. The narrator needed to urinate. Sheer desperation gave him, a young white, the strength to take his place at the trough and pee. After having experienced something that evening that few or none white boys of that time would have experienced, the boys never gave a thought to Donna. Yet now she hovers in the narrator’s – and, it seems fair to suggest, the author’s – mind as someone who “stood on the threshold of our age of the troubled self, restless, unfulfilled and incomplete”.
This story presents a paradoxical juxtaposition. The narrator relates a hugely memorable, powerfully masculine coming of age experience; yet it is a short, uneventful encounter with a young woman that he still ponders. Like Mitzi in Las Vegas, Donna outlasts the adventure in the narrator’s memory. In these stories, the satisfactions of the masculine world first experienced as a boy are insufficient; the presence of woman is still desired. But when Wallace decides to leave Astryd in The Black, the White and the Freckled, he finds compensation in dreams of the “thrill and the sweet diesel smells and the throbbing machinery” of his urban boyhood. These memories – similar to those evinced in Mitzi – appeared more real than the days he had spent with Astryd.
When Wallace meets Chantal in the final pages of The Black, the White and the Freckled, this paradox is, at least for the moment, resolved. With Chantal, Wallace is content: a soft, sexy and willing woman by his side, his bike back on the road, and money in his pocket. Wallace likes her directness and honesty. He loves Chantal’s body and regards her without ambivalence, making love considerately, taking care not to hurt, not to bruise. Such compassion is Falling for Women’s definition of innocence. Wallace had an inkling that “right now he was a happy man”: a statement that contains a worm of impermanence.
The story that presents most achingly a difficult prolonged relationship is Cheshire. Differences of viewpoint – conscious or unconscious – between the author and the narrator are present but hard to discern. Narrated in the first person by Wallace, this story relates, apparently autobiographically, the story of Wallace and Cheshire (his pet name for her smile). Meeting as students at different universities, they build a soundtrack to their lives. “Certain songs,” Wallace tells us, “like the Otis Redding version of ‘Try a little tenderness’ or Aretha Franklin’s ‘Natural Woman’ – all that was heartrending and romantic – can still stop my heart for a beat or two.” He is clearly a romantic. Here there is a crucial pause in the narrative as Wallace reflects on “the age-old failure of women and men to understand each other”. While admitting that stories of this failure suggest that “the heady emotions of falling in love can only multiply the misunderstandings, rather than resolve them”, he believes in moments of breakthrough, “when a man and a woman suddenly make sense to each other”. Does the story relate such moments of mutual comprehension, or does love remain illusory?
Cheshire too is a romantic: when the students return to their respective seats of learning, she sends Wallace a letter stuffed with rose petals. Wallace opens it in the porters’ lodge of his college and gets a “fondly old-fashioned look” from the porter as he “drifted dreamily into the quad, embarrassed but uncaring, a blithe spirit”. He buys an ancient Vespa scooter to make the four hour journey to visit her; she takes him up to her bed. The rendering of this first night of intimacy, which is not immediately sexual, and the moment in the morning when Cheshire pretends shock at his erection, lend the story a strong plausibility. Wallace tells us that he can still “hear” the question and capture this moment when he realised “what a lovely girl she was and how much I loved her, though I did not know it then in the way that I know it now”. The denouement, however, questions this assertion of love.
The following year Cheshire joins Wallace in his university lodging, and he feels, for the first time in his life, “the peace of being at home”. Their love seems perfect: to Wallace “her sexual allure had never ever been separate from her whole self; and our lovemaking let me know it was the same for her”. He tells us that he is trying to capture “the essential innocence of our feelings for each other”. Innocence implies unattained experience, and, in the next sentence, the narrator anticipates the end of the relationship: “I lost it oh so easily, with no sense of its worth, of its rarity, of fathomless well of longing its loss would bring.” But where in his mind is the other, the object of this “well of longing”?
What happens next is, to this reader, predictable: Wallace gains a studentship in the US and wants to move on. When the rose petals fall from Cheshire’s first letter, he feels disaffection. Her nostalgia holds him back. “I was here in America, and I had to make my way forward.” He stops writing to her, but the separation he needs wreathes him in guilt. He claims he cannot explain what he did or why, but, again to this reader, his desire to move on seems wholly explicable, as does his admission that the attachment did not end there: “I did not have the courage and self-reliance to leave it alone.” There follow many years of mutual returns and partings, a history for which he castigates himself. He credits Cheshire with the quality of innocence described in other stories – achieved through kindness, empathy and compassion – but sees himself as a natural backslider like “most of us”, who “rapidly return to the main business of pleasing and justifying ourselves”. Less self-punitively, he states he was “neither man enough to walk away and stay away, nor human enough to reach across the divide … and affirm my wish to be there for her”. He concludes, though that the relationship was never “all about me”. The moment of breakthrough early in the relationship was truly “all about us”. The narrative has implied, though, that this romantic togetherness was too illusory to be sustained.
The first person narration of a long relationship conveys the contradictions of the inner dialogue of lived experience. The self-deception of Wallace’s romantic nature is subtly presented. Or so it seems to me. Like any other reader, I’m finding something of my own narrative in these stories. Further reading of the subsequent sections might create a different impression of the overall enterprise. But these later stories too will repay reflective reading, demanding the reader – of whatever gender – attend to the subtle complications of men’s falling for women.
Liz Truss recently complained about a lack of ‘graft’ displayed by British workers, and it seems that, if she becomes prime minister, she may select Jacob Rees-Mogg as the Secretary of State for Levelling Up. At a time when millions of industrious citizens are confronting unearned poverty, Truss is confident that they will be happy to be insulted and patronised by those whose main distinguishing feature, in addition to their power and privilege, is their unearned income.
Despite populist attempts to divide the population on the usual issues of class and race, and the new issue of gender identity, it’s becoming clear that the emerging divide in British society is between those who expect to earn their income and those who don’t. Those who don’t include not only those with inherited wealth and power (some of whom benefit society by philanthropy) but also those who ‘earn’ stock income and bonuses far beyond their need, as directors and shareholders of major corporations. The biggest Insult to the working population is it they should be expected to pay for the profiteering of the energy companies.
The rising anger against these political and executive centres of power and wealth is in part because of their lack of social responsibility. Over the last few weeks, we have all felt the Earth heating up. Yet politicians and corporations continue to behave as the only issues that matter are short term ends of the election and the bottom line.
People’s anger is palpable. Every day we hear threats of new industrial action. Yet government regulation of the unions over the last 30 years makes it very difficult to organise a general strike. However, this new division of ‘haves’ and ‘have nots’ transcends previous class and income barriers. From bin-men to barristers, numerous groups are claiming that enough is enough. Indeed, ‘Enough is Enough’ and ‘Don’t Pay UK’ are names of organisations that comprise thousands of protestors whose only common identity is outrage at the unfairness of civil life. Six years after Brexit, government speaks of malnutrition and hypothermia as if they are the natural but unfortunate side-effects of the greed and profiteering they hold as central to their philosophy. ‘I’ll cut taxes,’ promises Liz Truss, appealing to her Tory ‘base’. But we’re all working class now.
There is growing debate in the UK about the impending hike in energy prices. The Don’t Pay UK movement is encouraging people to pledge not to pay impossibly high demands. They point out the inequity between the profits of energy companies such as BP and the disaster that millions of people this coming winter won’t be able to afford both eating and heating. This is a realistic prediction.
Some commentators cite the similarity between the coming situation and the Poll Tax protests of 1990, but point out that the energy consumer and the utility company are bound by a private legal contract which did not apply to the Poll Tax protestors. Posts on Next Door and other neighbourhood bulletin boards often express fear that protesting will result in criminal proceedings and additional costs.
The present government, in so far as it expresses a view, says that the charges derive from international market forces over which it has no control. Government is reluctant to intervene and disrupt this ‘natural’ process. They point out, for example, that energy company profits finance pension funds. Nonetheless, the profiteering of the energy corporations is sometimes recognised even in political discourse. Andrew Neil pointed out to Rishi Sunak in his recent television interview that BP were buying back their own shares to further enrich their directors and shareholders.
What should government do? Aristotle suggested that democracy can be virtuous only when it is tempered and balanced by oligarchy. Aristotle’s preference for a mixed constitution arose from his concern for the ‘common good’. He sought to protect the common good from both the predations of the demos – the ‘men without means’ – and the oligarchy. In both the UK and the US, this balance is under threat.
UK society is a mixed Aristotelian constitution of monarchy, oligarchy and democracy. The government’s role, then, is to protect the common good: not to side with the oligarchy against the demos. In a speech in 1912, Woodrow Wilson urged Americans to wrest the democratic prerogative from monopoly power: ‘If monopoly persists, monopoly will always sit at the helm of government.’ Wilson’s appeal here to the freedom of the individual man (American women didn’t gain full voting rights until 1920) draws on a traditional concept of positive freedom in a republican commonwealth. This is freedom as non-domination, described by Philip Pettit as the condition under which a person is more or less immune to interference on an arbitrary basis. Such freedom evidently cannot be pursued by individuals: it has to be guaranteed by the state.
To be unable to afford to feed one’s family and/or to heat one’s home is an extreme arbitrary interference on individual rights and freedoms. The government needs to take responsibility and, as Wilson urged, wrest the democratic prerogative from the monopoly power of corporations. If it won’t do this, the demos will refuse to pay, and civil disorder will follow.
This weekend I attended two festivals: Sustainable South Brent, in South Devon, and the Tolpuddle Martyrs, near Dorchester. It was also the weekend when we heard policy presentations from the candidates who hope to become the new Tory Prime Minister.
The policy presentations offered the same dreary supposed alternatives that have been laid out before the electors in every election I can remember. The majority of candidates proposed to cut taxes, to give people more money to spend. Rishi Sunak proposed to maintain public spending to support the NHS and social services. Almost nothing was said about the two all-consuming issues facing the world: the rising cost of living, particularly energy and food prices; and the imminence of disastrous climate change, which was also heralded on July 19th by the highest ever recorded UK nighttime temperature. Today the temperature has reached 39 degrees before noon.
For thirty years the dominant political ideology has been to respect the market as a natural phenomenon whose workings will ensure the best of all worlds. Some of the Tory candidates presented themselves as believers in traditional conservative values of low taxation to encourage investment and economic progress. What no-one said is that this neoliberal economic programme has enriched and empowered corporations, their directors and their shareholders and impoverished the mass of people who work for them. Inequality of wealth has increased exponentially over the last three decades. Millions of people in the UK will have to juggle their income to decide whether they can feed themselves or heat their homes in the winter that will follow this ominous summer. This social disaster is mentioned so often in political and media discourse that it now seems an act of nature.
Even Adam Smith feared the social effect of economic change. His many writings – not only The Wealth of Nations but also The Theory of Moral Sentiments, Philosophical Essays, Lectures on Jurisprudence and many more – were addressed to an educated ruling class who, he hoped, would mitigate the ‘invisible hand of the market’. But who can be heard today pointing out that energy corporations and others are using inflation as a cover for increased profiteering and share buybacks rather than social investment? The power of financial, social and media oligarchies also appears an act of nature.
But acts of nature are themselves the consequence of human choice. Global warming is the direct result of industrialism and industrial agriculture, the burning of fossil fuels and the production of meat. The stall holders and performers at Sustainable South Brent were clear about the need for renewable energy and a move to plant-based food production. South Devon Singers performed a concert of songs composed by their musical director David Haines including the haunting ‘Four Billion Years’, which laments the possible end of life on earth ‘through human apathy’.
At Tolpuddle, the connection between social/economic change and averting disaster was made everywhere. Speaker after speaker denounced the current impoverishment of the working population as the Tolpuddle Martyrs denounced the lowering of agricultural wages.
It seems that the people know the priorities. It’s going to be a long hot summer.
Happy birthday to me!
I deserve a day free
From bombasting the business of office;
Not working from home
I’ll chaotically roam
With my mates round the acres of Chequers!
I deserve a short break
From keeping awake
During briefings of damning news stories;
My true personage
Strides on the world stage
Restoring our national glory.
I provided a bus
So those poorer than us
Have somewhere to go and keep warm;
Endurance in prison
Forgetting that I caused her harm.
My incurable cheek
Allows me to speak
My truth while inventing a story;
For I wasn’t schooled
In keeping to rules
Being born a blue-blooded Tory!Thanks to Lorna Smith and Bristol Teachers as Writers, May 2022
Yesterday, my son was describing an initiative to improve the learning of “weak” pupils by offering them three words or phrases to guide their efforts. These might be “attend”, “engage”, “remember” or similar profundities. He remarked that, if this worked at all, it would be because of the Hawthorne effect – the effect of being considered and listened to.
The Hawthorne effect refers, of course, to a famous study of American factory workers that found that, while incentives such as increased pay, more time off and other benefits increased production slightly, production reached a peak when the benefits were withdrawn but the investigators remained. The study concluded that the motivational factor for these production line workers was their sense of being important.
Perhaps the same conclusion can be drawn in education. Education is not a business, and its problems cannot be solved by initiatives and accountability alone. Of course, education can be profitable. Ruth Miskin, whose phonics textbooks are often found in British primary schools (and as far away as Zambia), used her influence with Michael Gove, the former UK education secretary, and Chris Woodhead, the former UK chief inspector of schools, to market her wares. As a result, UK primary school teachers are instructed to teach “literacy” by getting children to sound out the letter-sound correspondences of words without giving them any clues (such as pictures) to meaning. As Andrew Davis has remarked, no classroom teacher would conform to the narrow method of decoding apparently required; to do so would be to abdicate their role as teachers. Reading is about meaning, and it usually begins in social relationship with trusted others.
Many initiatives are conceived by senior executives in academy chains in order to improve “results”. But the results of an educational process are subtle and complex. Success depends less on the techniques employed than on the social context. If an Ofsted inspector judges a school in need of improvement despite its acknowledged success in engaging a wide social and ethnic population, some parents may withdraw their children in favour of the private sector. No remote executive, however highly paid, can rectify this loss of a supportive community.
Beyond education, social life is beset with initiatives and techniques that are claimed to fix problems. “Literacy” is often used to describe methods of handling matters that are essentially relational. A recent item on BBC Radio 4 spoke of “death literacy”: ways of talking to people who are dying. Campaigners to reduce adolescent suicide suggest that teenagers should be directed to weblinks to inform them that everyone has “down times” and to look for positives in their lives. Depressed people with financial means may seek out psychotherapy, but this too may prioritise technique over relationship. Guy Saunders proposes a cubist psychology that adapts the approach to the patient without insisting on a specific technique.
We are born in relationship, and disruptions to personal development are caused by failures of relationship. The Hawthorne effect, which so surprised the investigators, reveals that human beings are not merely rational economic units. In the 17th century words of John Donne, no man is an island, entire of itself.
When I started teaching cultural and media studies over 20 years ago, all paths of enquiry seemed to lead to Jürgen Habermas. His concept of the public sphere was repeatedly cited in relation to the development of the worldwide web. Just as, in Habermas’ account, the London coffee houses of the early 18th century provided a meeting place where are people of rank but below nobility could meet to discuss public affairs, the web was going to provide a public sphere for everybody who had am internet connection. There was concern then, as now, for the millions who lacked such a connection; but the apparent democracy of the web, where every individual could use their mouse and keyboard to have their say, was widely predicted to promise a new age in human communication and understanding.
Today we are offered the Metaverse. I suspect that most people are unsure what this means but it is clearly “meta” – beyond the everyday material world. It is a market of the digital realm, resembling children’s Roblox, where anything can be created and traded as an NFT (non fungible token). A metaverse mega yacht that has recently sold for $650,000 is the most expensive NFT yet sold in The Sandbox virtual world. This is not a universe of public debate, but a digital market for rich players where even the currency exists only online, in “blockchain” technology. What has happened to that idealistic vision of worldwide communication over the worldwide web?
I first realised that there was something wrong with this application of Habermas’ vision when I was coaching a dissertation student who was related to the royal family. She was determined to deal with the intrusion of the press and media into the monarchy, and proposed to construct a set of rules of engagement. Discussing with her that such rules would work, if at all, only with certain sections of the “quality” press, I realised that Habermas’ concept was of a bourgeois public sphere that no longer existed in its imagined form. The public and the press of the late 1990s were very different from Joseph Addison and The Spectator.
This was before social media. Today, most people in developed countries have immediate access via their phones to an effectively unregulated sphere of information and entertainment where almost anything can be published and consumed, and where “bourgeois” rules of conduct and responsibility do not operate. Everybody with an Internet connection can participate, but the Web does not present a public sphere for reasoned debate.
From 1949 until 1987, the US Federal Communications Commission’s Fairness Doctrine required broadcasters to identify and cover issues of public importance and to give airtime to opposing views. Reagan’s revocation of the Fairness Doctrine in 1989 allowed news stations to construct news and comment in line with the assumed preferences of their audiences (and financial backers). It is often argued that this led to the current polarisation of US news media. However, the Fairness Doctrine applied only to broadcast licences; it would not have impeded the development of cable channels such as CNN and Fox News, nor social media.
In his novel 1984, George Orwell projected a media universe where reality and truth have lost meaning. He imagined ubiquitous television screens that cocooned the citizens of the megastates Oceania, Eurasia and Eastasia in a fake reality. The difference between Orwell’s forecast and our present reality is not that one illusory worldview is transmitted but that various proponents of the culture wars, each with their own political and financial allegiances, mount a co-dependent spectacle of opposition. Division, as one US commentator remarked, is a good business plan. Our metaverse of countless cable channels and social media is a product of the money and power that maintain the people of Planet Earth in confusion and ignorance.
This metaverse of disinformation is not merely technologically but historically and culturally determined. Despite the rhetoric of “one nation under God”, the US has for nearly two centuries projected two cultural universes. After the Civil War, a large minority did not accept that all men and women were truly created equal. Jim Crow laws designed to disenfranchise and remove political and economic gains made by black people were enforced until the mid 1960s. And racial hate was not resolved by the Voting Rights Act of 1965. Affronted by the ascendancy of a Black man to the office of President, white supremacist voters elected Donald Trump as Obama’s successor. Today, in a remarkable realisation of Orwell’s forecast, a majority of Republican voters live in a metaverse as insubstantial as the Sandbox but maintained by Fox News, Newsmax and the echo chamber of social media. They do not believe that Trump lost the 2020 election. And legislators in numerous states are realising the intention of the illusion by changing voting laws to further disenfranchise Black and other “minority” voters.
Pandemics and climate change make disregard and perversion of the truth increasingly dangerous. The human world of Planet Earth will come to an end if Habermas’ vision of an informed public sphere cannot be realised. Investors in the Metaverse may, as The Baffler suggests, buy up fake land and fake homes that exist only within energy-guzzling servers stored in a desert air-conditioned warehouse. The people of the threatened human world need to learn and discuss truthful information about the real state of things.
I spent a fine day this week with a friend at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park.
The current exhibition by Joana Vasconcelos memorably juxtaposes traditionally female crafts such as needlework and crochet with everyday objects often associated with domesticity and housework and sometimes with masculinity. The effect is always to unsettle concepts of gender.
Vasconcelos’ Purple Rain (seen on the right of this image) references Marcel Duchamp’s famed Urinal, covering this masculine object with crochet and wittily nodding to Prince.
The oversized silver stilettos formed from hundreds of stainless-steel saucepans reference Marilyn Monroe and femininity as constructed by Hollywood.
Call Center uses 168 rotary-dial telephones to represent an enlarged Beretta pistol, perhaps commenting ironically on the sociological view that that women appropriated a practical, supposedly masculine technology for distinctively feminine ends.
Most striking of all the installations is the 12-metre-long Valkyrie Marina Rinaldi. Suspended from the ceiling, this female figure from Norse mythology appears to advance, her tentacle limbs stretched across the gallery and enhanced by multicoloured woollen crochet, fabric and flamboyant embellishments.
For me, faith has existed in the realms of hope, aesthetics and the historical legacy of Christian spirituality rather than in certainty or conviction. So perhaps it was never real faith at all. I can be moved, almost to tears, by the Maundy Thursday liturgy, without ever really knowing why. I am sad that my faith has withered and wish it would return. The church has always been part of my life and I still love the trappings: Romanesque architecture, Anglo-Catholic traditional liturgy, the English choral tradition, evensong, the Book of Common Prayer, incense, vestments, worship, the priest celebrating ad orientem. All that. To experience High Mass is to be surrounded by a warm and intoxicating numinosity, ineffable and almost wildly beautiful. I am part of it and it became part of me. And how I yearn for it, but it is now elusive.
For it is overshadowed, overwhelmed you might say, by the dark heart of evangelical Christianity that seeks to dominate the faith: arrogant, shameful, uncritical of itself, intolerant, racist, homophobic and misogynistic. Those who voted for Trump or who supported Brexit, those who use phrases like ‘I’m not a racist, but…’ All these are to be found in Christianity’s bigoted core. Worst of all (perhaps) is the assumption that evangelicals should impose their faith on others, even on those who practise sacramentalism or liberal theology. Humility is crushed by zealotry and by bogus dehumanising assertions of superiority.
My great friend and spiritual champion lost his faith and longed to have it restored. There were circumstances surrounding this, including the tragedy of being robbed of a fine son in a climbing accident, but the retreat from faith was insidious, or at least subliminal. My friend was a research engineer, and during his working life was tasked to make aeroplanes safer. He knew that he could not make them safe, just safer. Nothing could be safe, nothing could be certain. So, in the realm of faith, we might believe, as we both did in those days, but we could not know. For the evangelicals (the ‘rough boys’, as he called them), this would not do. And so his faith, and perhaps mine too, began slowly to perish. He died in 2019 and I wept at his loss and mine. His wife holds his legacy, the fragments, of his search for understanding. The ebb of faith is not about the injustice of tsunami or the anger of personal loss, it is about believing what you are told and, although evangelicals pretend to listen (the pretence at exploration of the Alpha course), they do not. In any other discourse we might be willing (in principle at least) to move a little, understand a little more, assert a little less. W.B. Yeats urged us to ‘tread softly’. Sound advice for anyone prone to overweening certainty.