Rant – The Flee Circus

 

Rant – The Flee Circus

That is NOT a typo. Nonetheless, I do want to start this rant by writing about fleas. Sort of.

Back in 1969 (or so) – despite the fact that I strive NEVER to say “back-in-the-day” – my favourite musician was Leon Russell. I think I’ve said that here before. I owned, and repeatedly spun, most of his recordings. To this day, when the mood strikes, I browse YouTube for a Leon tune or two.

A Leon Russell album that stands out for me was titled Look Inside: The Asylum Choir, co-produced by Marc Benno. I knew of Benno only through Russell’s musics, but if he was good enough for Leon Russell, he was good enough for me. My recollection is that some of the tunes on that album were connected; one of those connections was “fleas.” Yes, fleas. One is titled “Mr. Henry the Clown.” See, Henry was part of a flea circus, but being a flea has limitations; one of the limitations is lifespan.

“Two weeks have gone by, and Henry has died. Nobody came [to the flea circus], it must be the rain.” All the prep in the world is only as good as its lifespan.

That transience reminds me of a ditty I memorized during my years at the Chateau Laurier in Ottawa, then a CN Hotel, for which I was employed off and on for quite a few years. In the basement of “The Chateau” as most people know it, was a popular nightclub-cum-pub called the “Colonel By Lounge” in a nod to Ottawa’s nationalistic foundations.

A favourite entertainer in the Colonel By was Jack McPartland who expertly played a very large organ (which he liked to boast about rather lewdly) while singing songs and ditties peppered with jokes and stories – often at audience-members’ expense. I still like to quote one of his outrageous ditties. I hope I have it right. If not, close enough:

“Sometimes when you’re feeling important

Sometimes when your ego’s in bloom

Sometime when you feel the most qualified in the room.

Take a bucket, and fill it with water

Put your hand in it – up to the wrist

Now take it out. The hole that’s remaining

Is the amount of how much you’ll be missed.”

 ~~

Makes me smile every time.

We might upon reflection smile at the not-so-subtle ditty as performed in close proximity to Canada’s parliament. Politicians are like fleas. Not just because some tend to make us squirm, but because, like Henry the Clown, their performances are short-lived. How ironic, therefore, that so much time is devoted (some would say wasted) to short-lived performances. They strut and fret their hour upon the stage (Shakespeare’s Macbeth) only to be defeated, deflated if you will. They “bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” then “sleep, perchance to dream” (Hamlet).

I pen this a couple of days after a televised debate between two U.S. Presidential hopefuls. Watching snippets of that circus is what brought “Henry the Clown” to mind. It also caused me to reflect on the big picture and to wish the political circus would end.

Speaking (writing?) of circuses, the version that masquerades as civil discourse, brings to mind one of my favourite Month Python skits, seen on an episode of their 1970s TV show, Flying Circus.

A rather meek-looking gentleman (Michael Palin, I believe) enters a building and a long narrow hallway broken by many doors left and right. He knocks on one door and is rudely instructed to enter, whereupon he is subjected to a vociferous tirade of verbal abuse. I think the abuser was portrayed by Python John Cleese – a man who can loudly heap abuse the likes of which is rarely seen.

Anyway, after several minutes of this vitriol, the poor visitor finally gets a word in to say, “now see here, my good man, I didn’t come in here to be abused.”

“You didn’t?” asked Cleese.

“Well, no,” says the visitor. “I didn’t,” adding firmly, “I came here for an argument!”

“An argument?”

“Yes, an argument.”

“Sorry, my good man,” said Cleese deferentially. “Arguments are down the hall – third door on the right. This is abuse.”

Like fleas, performances pass quickly from memory, but their deeds, indeed their demeanor, linger long after they are gone. Makes you want to flee, to – like the clueless peons in Monty Python and the Holy Grail – “run away.” We can only hope any disease these fleas, these irritants, may carry will not turn out to be a “pox upon all our houses” (Romeo and Juliet) thanks again Mr. Shakespeare).

Take a bucket…

=30=

Essay - Who Went There?

 

Note: This post is a gently edited version of my presentation at Ekphrasis[i] 4 (July 20, 2024), an art and literary joint project of Mulgrave Road Theatre and ArtWorksEast, in (primarily) Guysborough county.

 

Who Went There?

A treatise on Unsalvageable, by Monika Duersch for Ekphrasis 4

By Mike R Hunter

“Who Went There?” was the caption to an editorial cartoon in the 1960s. It depicted a soldier peering into the darkness through the scope of his already smoking gun. It came to mind as I tried to unravel the ironies in Monika Duersch’s painting, Unsalvageable.

On one level I perceived a sinister cacophony of elements suited to the grim subject of clearcutting but she made use of a printing technique better known for its sparkle that more often enlivens subjects, rather than deadens them.

Depending on one’s perception of the world, or perhaps their mood, there’s a lot to process in this painting, but no single element grabs our attention more than the owl, who for my purpose here I will name Otto. I would have called it Waldo for the exercise of finding it in the painting, but feared being attacked for copyright infringement. Otto almost rhymes with Waldo and is also of Germanic origin, the meaning of which is “wealth,” against which impoverished background this owl is juxtaposed.

Otto captures the soul of the whole scene, creating a cognitive dissonance as to whether it is meant to be real or is carved out of a tree trunk – possibly a chainsaw carving popular these days – and therefore both soulful and soulless.

Whether real, or at least true, Moni paints a sorrowful portrait indeed – the last lost soul in a scene of destruction. And, those eyes! Moni has the artistic gift of expressiveness through the eyes of her subjects.

Is that fear? Sadness? An expression of loss? In the eyes of Otto, we see ourselves reflected as we are compelled to both stare and look away the way we avert our gaze lest someone catch us watching them.

Otto implores us to scan the many other elements of destruction that surround them, the eyes fearful, pleading with us to consider the whole scene of loss. In the distance are the plumes of prosperity, symbols of human “engine-uity” thirsty for fuel. In the foreground are tools which in turn draw our attention away from the devastation in search of lost beauty and meaning.

Is Otto a thing of beauty? An artistic creation of beauty we can know and appreciate? If a thing, how ironic it is to turn tools of destruction to tools of creativity able to alter meaning – a chainsaw carving.

If a creature of beauty, how sad those eyes. And look at that other creature in the tree trunk, grotesque and in pain.

All of these are of course impressions of my own making – impressions I can process as Monika’s artistic expression of reality. Others – especially those who have studied such things or whom have some other authority – may see it differently. The objective of art is to make us feel something.

I allow wise owl Otto to lead me on a thoughtful journey – and to drag you along with me.

As in Ottos’ case, there are degrees of invisibility that the artist can help us to “see.” To be at home in nature’s forest is to lead a double life – to be at once predator and prey. Both visible and invisible. In the wild forest, the goal is surely to survive, to be invisible, to blend in. Otto exhibits traits of both, at least the eyes portray both, perhaps it depends on the mood or perception of the viewer. We viewers are the omniscient other in this exchange – seeing all, judging all, but acting not.

The artist wants us to perceive Otto’s position as hopeless, Otto as fearful, their world “unsalvageable.”

Attitudes differ about clearcut forestry depending on the position of the viewer. Those of us who think we are enlightened about such matters react strongly with the imagery – the scene of destruction in the shadow of the plumes of prosperity. In our world, a roadside buffer of foliage is supposed to be left between human onlookers and the destruction that so disturbs critics.

Others who in their need to make a living see not the barren, lifeless landscape, but one in equilibrium. While scarred, the space will be rejuvenated and reinhabited (perhaps re-exploited). (How healthy it will be is for others to manage.) Otto, on the other hand, being so violently evicted from the harvesting process sits there wide-eyed, fearful for the future and all but invisible.

Art requires us to think, to imagine. There’s a lot to consider.

Believe it or not, my subject today is not Otto at all, nor is it about clearcutting, or nature. It’s about the line between visible and invisible. I want to take advantage of our emotional reaction to Otto’s invisibility, vulnerability and in particular bewilderment.

Some people are invisible too, or are made invisible by others. Like Otto, sometimes people are dislocated, become disconnected from meaning, are disoriented.

Over the past few years we have been inundated with images and statistics around unhoused humans, many of whom were virtually invisible even before COVID. Sure, most of us have seen the odd panhandler on Spring Garden Road, or that very odd person talking to themselves in the park or on the street corner. (Ironically, encountering someone seemingly talking to themselves has these days become commonplace with so many people conversing via their mobile phones but with no phone in sight – no strings attached!)

The enormity of the issue of under-housing is staggering – so great that we have no real idea what to do. But so much so it cannot be ignored, as has been our practice for millennia. Not ignored by everyone, of course, saints do walk among us, but ignorance on the part of the vast majority pushes some people to the margines, physically and figuratively.

So, what do we do with such large numbers of previously invisible people? Well, in some areas we do our best to make them disappear, to remain invisible; we do our best to herd them back toward the margins whence they appeared. If that’s too unpopular, we haul out the band wagon and gift them shelter – at the margins.

But what about the problem of invisibility? What about all those figures in the bigger picture? We can find “Waldo” if we look hard enough and long enough and if we ignore all the colourless, anonymous figures we passed over in search of the one.

Interpersonal communication highlights the importance of affirmation, acknowledging someone’s existence, and of being acknowledged. Yet most of us do our best to not see. And even to unsee.

Not just the unhoused, but everyone we don’t at first understand, or who talk too much, or are too loud, too slow, or who talk not at all. Our world is a confusing place seemingly controlled by people and ideas that move so fast some of us are coming apart trying to keep it together – trying to find even a small space to which we belong.

Among all the standing trees we don’t usually see Otto. Only by removing the trees do we see, but then it’s too late.

The world is spinning, and like the turntable in a playground, some can’t keep up – some who fall can’t get up – even if we’re only a little off balance. It’s great fun to stagger, whether creatively or otherwise; some of us just have a hard time keeping up, or even getting up when we fall.

For some ungodly reason, with humankind’s vast store of knowledge, experience and knowhow we can’t solve the basic human problem. We continue racing outward – forward in the physical sense – all the while failing to see what’s beside us and especially what’s inside us.

Even though we are all physically moving forward at the same rate on the same planet, we are not even on the same page. How can it be that with our great intellect and perseverance we cannot find ways to truly comprehend the world or life upon it.

Of course, how can we if we can’t even acknowledge each other?

Ask yourself, who is “unsalvageable”? Or, as Otto might ask, Who, who goes there?”

=30=

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[i] The word ekphrasis, comes from the Greek for the written description of a work of art produced as a rhetorical or literary exercise, often used in the adjectival form ekphrastic. It is a vivid, often dramatic, verbal description of a visual work of art, either real or imagined. (Oxford Languages)