Max Oldenburg – ‘Green Air Bags’

Sponsored by London Overground, this work at Hoxton Station evokes the adrenaline rushes implicit in the anticipation and disillusion of travel. This quote from the artist’s statement on Platform One says it all: “The random inflation and deflation of the bags evokes the capriciousness of our transitory expectations. The green rictus grin below the platform level is a symbol of the wafer thin veneer of civilisation that prevents society from imploding.”

Mandy Long – ‘Mud Tribe’

This scatological statement by Mandy Long confronts our vicarious relationship with dirt. For many city dwellers the countryside is little more than a theme park and means of production. Each footprint was actioned by a rural artisan wearing urban fashion trainers during a house & garage performance hosted by Dr XOX.

Helmut Beuys – ‘Faith Shroud’

This is one of many pop-up ‘reliquaries’ by Helmut Beuys dotted around Hoxton over the next six weeks. The precariously clinging shroud is a metaphor for our inability to keep faith when tested, and each notch represents our self-flagellation for failing.

Nigel Judd – ‘The Pinnacle’

Nigel Judd’s totem in Threadneedle Street will be under construction for the duration of the Biennale. In his Culture Show interview, Judd neatly summed it up thus: “The Pinnacle is an uncompromising attack on the coiled inner ego of the outer id.”

Ella Creed – ‘Work No. 679’

Ella Creed continues to push the envelope on the thin red line that divides the prosaic from the extraordinary. Sponsored by Polyfilla, this bold installation consisting of 1000 sustainably sourced plywood boards asks important questions about the legitimacy of individual expression in the age of generic communications frameworks such as Facebook, Twitter, Entourage and iPhone.

Sophie Andre – ‘Enclosures’

Sophie Andre divides her time between studios in Shanghai, Los Angeles and Shoreditch. The concrete poetry on the left of the installation introduces the theme of owned and shared space. The fixed red post and moveable boards invite and inhibit us, signifying the tension between disputed emotional territories in the urban psychopathy.

Cicely Baldessari – ‘Three tickets’

The numeral 3 is a constant theme of this artist’s work. In her ‘Manifesto Tertiary’ she observes: ‘Three is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Three Tickets is a trenchant comment on the sequential terrorism of dualism.”

Dylan Emin – ‘CCTV phallus’

Dylan Emin has made a specialisation of labyrinthine explorations into Freudian theory. This is one of a series of site-specific works about castration anxiety suffered by alpha male commuters, triggered by fear of being degraded and dominated in the workplace.

Zanussi Rothko – ‘No: 56 (Beige and Pink)’

Zanussi Rothko has done more than any other artist to visualise bipolar disorder. In this piece sponsored by Platform for Art, mood swings are represented by nebulous manifestations of the bipolar spectrum. Note the assertive cross that represents the struggle to overcome the tyranny of adversity and conflict in childhood and the mother / father figures on the left.

Bert Koons – ‘Bonus Culture’

This vivid collision of glamorous fluff and freebasing squalor is a profound statement about the symbiotic relationship between hedonism and denial. Visitors are invited to climb into the frame and experience an ‘Alice through the Looking Glass’ volte face.

Reg Hirst – ‘Gum Disease’

Reg Hirst’s visceral polemics tell us much about our obsession with oral placebos as our complexes about breast-feeding. Hire the audio-guide and get a complimentary branded memory stick containing the seminal track ‘From the nipple to the bottle’ by Grace Jones.

Tony Lucas – ‘Chair Shag’

Tony Lucas’s work is as sexually provocative as ever. It reiterates just how much his surgical perception cuts deep into our subliminal consciousness. It is one of twenty works commissioned by the Hoxton Biennale on this theme. Lucas says of this exhibit: “It’s my two fingers statement to the fuck-you culture.”

Jennifer Goldsworthy – ‘Solar System’

This poignant juxtaposition of opposites attracting is loaded with a finely tuned tension. Goldsworthy is exceptionally eloquent on the subject: “Each one of us is a miniature solar system orbiting around others and our cosmic orientation is decided by the strength or weakness of our charismatic gravity.”

Jill Miro – ‘Self Portrait – London, England’

Jill Miro has created self-portraits from objet trouvé in many locations around the world. In her long awaited autobiography she explains the essence of her art. “A self portrait is actually a portrait of the viewer. I merely create empty vessels which they fill with perceptions of themselves.”

I discovered that curating a show like WORDSTOCK requires a kind of pragmatic theatricality. Communication is all about conveying information but the way you tell it must be dramatic. People will forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel. 26 is packed with extraordinary people who have broad terms of reference. Once the word was out, offers to facilitate events poured in and the WORDSTOCK programme began to firm up: A writing workshop exploring the crossover between words and music; A discussion around linguistic analysis, metaphor and brands; Two best selling authors on the dynamics of agents, editors and publishing; A group therapy session for timorous Tweeters; The launch of a new 26 project inspired by litter; A case study of 26 Flavours – a Cornish festival of food and language; Advice on how to keep the inspiration bubbling faced with looming deadlines; A smorgasbord of activities investigating music festival nomenclature, song lyrics and memories provoked by golden oldies; A performance around verbal seduction and how to make yourself a more attractive proposition to potential partners – business and pleasure.

Come the big day, the halls were decked with weeping willows, mountain ash, ivy clad pergolas and autumn leaves. I have never experienced such drive from a group of people so determined to make something extraordinary happen. I’m increasingly convinced that authentic change is not achieved by grandiose schemes, but by incremental interventions that gather momentum through sticky enthusiasm: Conjure up a loose framework that bristles with opportunities, stand back and watch the sparks.

So here are my 12 Top Tips for designing and running a fruitful festival.

1. CONSTRUCT & DECONSTRUCT. Create an ambience of heightened awareness around a fixed timetable allowing plenty of room for idiosyncrasy.

2. FOCUS & CONTEXTUALISE. Create themed centres of attention with a few signature landmarks, and set the scene with inveigling temptations.

3. INVITE & ENGAGE. Begin with a chaotic icebreaker that inspires participants make their own marks and establish terr

4. FASCINATE & PROVOKE. Provide concurrent choices of speakers and events offering challenging content and thoughtful interaction.

5. STROKE & EVOKE. Provide counterintuitive encounters that inspire people to turn abstract meanderings into tangible experiences.

7. REFLECT & ABSORB. Give participants the time and space to explore themselves and bring back even richer gifts back to the table

8. OUT & ABOUT. Break the day with a blast of fresh air and an ambulatory workshop to trigger pollination and serendipity.

9. IMAGINE & INTUIT. Draw upon rich veins of subliminal memories and amplify them in Technicolor.

10. HARMONISE & BOND: Create magnetic attractions that dissolve inhibitions.

11. LIBERATE & ANIMATE. Peel away years of socialisation and encourage all that visceral stuff to emerge.

12. ASSERT & EXPRESS. Fuse the new empowerments into triumphant expressions of lusty joy.

Tom

I’ve been to St Katharine Docks many times but only noticed this strange piece of art at the weekend. It hangs from the end of the rather austere Tower Hotel and seems to hover in its frame. It reminds me of some religious icons I’ve seen in very Roman churches. As I stared at the block, all around me danced the merry chaos of the Thames Revival festival of boats. An old steamer insisted on sounding its horn, emitting with each blare a heady waft of oily smoke and steam. From the main dock came more sounds of aquatic jollification, as people wearing vintage outfits messed about on the water beneath bunting and clinking masts. Despite these distractions, I wanted to know more about the artwork. Seeing a small panel beneath it on the wall, I went to read its story. It said:

The Silver Jubilee Crystal Crown was sculpted on this site by Arthur Fleischmann KCSG, FRBS, MD, who pioneered carving in Perspex. The block measures 10’9″ by 5’9″ by 8″ thick and weighs two tons. It is the largest solid block of Acrylic in the world. It was originally made in 1968 for Stanley Kubrick’s film “2001 – A Space Odyssey”, but was rejected by the director in favour of the now famous black basalt monolith. Her Majesty the Queen unveiled the sculpture on June 5th 1977.

Just to be crystal clear, it was the block itself that was commissioned for the film – Fleischmann only worked on it after Kubrick had rejected it. In the novel/film it is suggested that the monoliths are indestructible, and that they might be considered to be an advanced form of networked robot. But in 3001: The Final Odyssey the three monoliths known to mankind are destroyed – by infecting them with a computer virus. At this point I would normally attempt a comic finale that links destruction by computer virus to Fleischmann’s artwork and our dearly beloved Queen, but that seems to be beyond me. Perhaps it was all that maritime merriment.

Tim

A seemingly indestructible monolith that's been around for aeons... Add your own punch line here.

Lise’s assignment took her back to Afghanistan for first time since the 1970s – before the Russians invaded. In those days to most westerners Afghanistan was a destination on the hippy trail. Afghan coats were bohemian chic in the Kings Road Chelsea, and Afghan Gold was the caviar of cannabis resin. Despite Britain’s commitment to establish democracy in Afghanistan through Operation Enduring Freedom (10^th anniversary this year, over 400 service personnel killed, £18 billion spent), most of us know precious little about one of the most fought over countries in the world. Human communities were being formed here 50,000 years ago and sophisticated urban cultures were well established by 3000 BC. This unforgiving territory has been subjugated by the Grec-Bactrians, Kushans, Indo-Sassanids, Kabul Shahi, Saffaruds, Samanids, Ghaznavidfs, Ghurids, Kartis, Timurids, Muhagls, Hotakis and Durranis who used it as a strategic springboard. In the Victorian era, Afghanistan became a buffer zone for the British Empire to prevent Russia invading India (the jewel in the crown), and by the late 1800s much of it was carved up and ceded to the United Kingdom. Land locked by socially entrenched neighbours (Pakistan, Iran, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, China) and impeded by reactionary warlords who supply 92% of the world’s opiates, Afghanistan has been trapped in a schism of chaos ever since. The 10-year occupation of the Soviet Union left 600,000 dead and 6 million refugees fled abroad. To counteract Soviet incursions, the USA spent $40 billion recruiting, financing and arming Mujahideen fighters to form Islamic resistance groups and thus begat Al-Qaeda.

When the heart and soul of a country is so brutalised over so many generations is it any wonder that dysfunction and violence become endemic. How do its displaced and disorientated citizens sustain any sense of national identity? History is littered with the wreckage of predatory interventions where alien ideologies were forced on reluctant populations. However, intervention is not just about rolling tanks and ethnic cleansing. We are all complicit interveners in many foreign lands. By exploiting cheap labour, consuming finite resources, funding charities and NGOs, investing in commodities, cherry-picking essential workers and exporting divisive culture we exert sinuous influence. I write this shortly after the savage four-hour assault on the British Council in Kabul whose remit is to help Afghans learn English, acquire governance skills and build relationships with the outside world. 12 Afghan police officers, security guards, street cleaners and a special forces soldier from New Zealand were killed. On the face of it, the Taliban were fighting against British cultural imperialism but the motivation is far more convoluted according to the Guardian journalist Nushin Arbabzadah. In her article ‘Twisting tales behind Afghanistan’s British Council attack’ she reports that atrocities are frequently justified by byzantine claims and counter-claims that defy comprehension in this bewildering theatre of war. No one has any idea what is cause and what is effect. In a culture where corruption, nepotism, tribal loyalty and religious fanaticism influences every twitch of the body politic, where 15 year old suicide bombers are duped into sacrificing themselves for acts carried out by 12^th century Crusaders, and where every birth, death, thought and deed is predestined by Allah, common sense doesn’t stand a chance. But such is the glory of human nature, that even when mired in pathological depravity brave people do small things to keep hope alive. Here’s Lise’s article.

Afghanistan’s gentle fury

By Lise Thorsen

Movie star, director and model. Former Miss San Francisco. Leena Alam, 32 years old could have a carefree existence in the USA. Instead she has returned to her native Afghanistan to help her fellow sisters live a better life. She dominates the room the moment she enters and occupies the scene with sweetness and charisma. She is beautiful and she knows it. But she is also down to earth, dressed in a plain traditional Afghan dress without a scarf. Leena is a superstar in Afghanistan. She rebels on behalf of women and never wears a burka. This is an exceptional sight in Afghanistan, where women are obliged cover their heads and faces away from home. “I receive threats and yes, sometimes I am afraid. On one occasion I even had a phone call from a Member of Parliament complaining that I – being a role model – didn’t wear a scarf. But of course that’s precisely why I don’t do it. I have the opportunity of being a role model for young girls, and I want to show them that we need to make our own decisions. The girls here are commodities. They may be given away in marriage as early as nine years old. At first they are the property of their family, and then they become the property of their in-laws.” A recent inquiry by CARE, concluded that Afghanistan is the most problematic country to be a woman. According to a law passed two years ago, a man has the right to rape his wife, and a woman must obtain permission from her husband or father to work or receive education. Nine out of ten women have been exposed to violence in their own home. And it is still common practice that if a man kills another man, the family of the deceased can demand to have the sister of the killer handed over as revenge. Beating, abuse and death are the grim reality for most Afghan women and many are driven to suicide. “How do we move on? It is so hard to cut through. It’s so frustratingly difficult to get someone to listen. Only a small percentage of Afghan women know that birth control exists. So the majority have a lot of children and many mouths to feed in a poor country. That’s if they don’t die in childbirth.” Leena had a somewhat different youth to all this. Her family fled to the USA in 1989 and she grew up as an American teenager. After high school she began a career as a model and was elected Miss San Francisco. Then she developed her acting and directing, but in 2007 she returned to Afghanistan and decided to stay. “Older people are tired after many years of war. They just want food to eat and clothes to wear. They are exhausted. But the young are eager. They want to watch movies, the more colourful and grander the better, and they aspire to the Hollywood-films on Afghanistan’s countless TV channels.” Leena says that the girls in the theatre groups were not used to performing, to exposing themselves and stating opinions, so they had to be nursed. “We showed a great deal of consideration for the girls who participated. But it became a real success for them. They built self-confidence and learned how to express their feelings. I had a lot of hugs along the way. It will take generations before we get equal rights. If it ever happens. I am telling everyone that we must act NOW! Now that we have the whole world’s attention and goodwill. But not many people listen. And even less dare to do something about it.” Leena also experiences the pressures of tradition. She hasn’t married because she hasn’t met the right man. But even her own family – who are otherwise very liberal – have started asking when. “Maybe one day I will marry. But I will never give up my professional life. Never. And I keep telling the girls here, that there is no hurry to find a husband.” We say goodbye and agree to meet again on Facebook. With her long hair flowing in Kabul’s hot and dusty wind, she disappears behind the high wall and barbed-wire protecting her house.

So, the installation you can see in the image above is by Joseph Kosuth, and you’ll find it in Southwark. The words are from the closing chapter of Charles Dickens’ The Pickwick Papers. It lights up at night, but I rather like the darkness of the daytime version. The letters have been there for some years now and are nicely weathered. A ‘the’ has gone off for a walk too, perhaps down to the marshes of Kent. The full piece reads:

There are dark shadows on the earth but its lights are stronger in the contrast. Some men, like bats or owls, have better eyes for the darkness than for the light. We who have no such optical powers are better pleased to take our last parting look at the visionary companions of many solitary hours, when the brief sunshine of the world is blazing full upon them. CD.

Here are some more words from Dickens to be found living on the streets of London. In this case it’s an excerpt from a piece he wrote for a magazine he co-owned, Household Words. You’ll find these in Spitalfields Market, adorning what used to be an electric power substation. During the day the text is intriguingly subdued – white on white. At night the writing box lights up, and its warm, glowing colours lure in passers-by as they move through the otherwise empty market space. Seb & Fiona created this piece of public art with design agency Imagist and architects Jestico + Whiles. It’s certainly a great way to turn a functional bit of a building into a delight, and I like that the words they have chosen are relevant to the context and full of the personality of the writers. Here’s a view of the construction from another side, this time with some writing by Spitalfields author Jeanette Winterson. I’ll try to photograph the remaining sides, which carry words by Samuel Pepys and Peter Ackroyd.

Tim

I was rather taken with a poem they have in the window – a characterful piece of DIY brand writing that says so much about the history of the shop and the attitude of its owners. I imagine one of the modern Verbeeks sitting down to write this, their hands still stained from a hard day’s pursuit of the perfect colour. I love the final line – can’t imagine many corporations having the confidence to make such a claim. Here are the words:

The family Verbeek is here, foremost, to serve you,

So please don’t let waiting your turn unnerve you!

What you choose will be up on your walls forever —

So rush, haste and impatience are useful…. Never.

They put their whole hearts in their work, it’s clear —

And Delft is more lovely because they are here.

Some more colourful language is to be found when you visit the shop’s website. Here’s my simplified (and probably simplistic) edit of a basic translation – I’m sure the original is far more rich, nuanced and bawdy:

If the majestic plane trees of Delft could talk, they would tell wonderful stories… About the farmers on Thursday, clapping and herding their cows and sheep to the market. About the inescapable stink that rises from the thick layer of straw and shit on the roads. About the lascivious, short-skirted girls from the treacle factory, who call out to the horny men passing by… And about the heady smell of linseed oil, turpentine and beeswax that wafts out into the square when the door of ‘the cheap paint shop’ is open.

Tim

If you go down to the Southbank today you’re in for a big surprise. The huge wedge of the embankment between Waterloo and Hungerford bridges has been transformed into a celebration of the 1951 Festival of Britain and asks the question: Who does Britain think it is in 2011? The four-month summer fete is the vision of Jude Kelly (Artistic Director of the Southbank) who has done so much to integrate this jumble of cultural bunkers and open it up to the public.

I was commissioned to help the festival find its voice by Shân Maclennan (Creative Director, Learning and Participation) who coordinated and focused the designers, curators and consultants. The brief was to honour 1951 and explore contemporary British-ness through installations, environments and exhibitions. At first, no one was sure what role the words would play other than delivering a narrative. But as our understanding of the scope evolved, the language became a fundamental element.

The festival is loosely structured around four ‘LANDS’ borrowed from 1951: PEOPLE OF BRITAIN, POWER & PRODUCTION, THE LAND and SEASIDE. After meeting the other participants, I put together a presentation reflecting Jude’s thinking, Festival of Britain literature, documentaries and press reports. Then I added observations from British writers, artists and musicians on the struggle for creative identity (William Blake, Ray Davies, Tracy Emin, Tony Harrison, Rebecca Lenkiewicz, Christopher Reid), and these perspectives began to suggest possible routes.

I proposed that we should use rhyme and rhythm, symbolism and allegory. The language should be evangelical, heroic, and encourage visitors to become part of the drama. We should echo the happenstance that occurs when millions of people converge on a public space, and we must amplify the creative spirit of the Southbank. These criteria triggered discussions around 21^st century vernacular. Could feral language such as texting and Tweeting, lyrics and slogans, sound bites and catch phrases help us reach audiences who never use the Southbank?

Festival of Britain 1951: The Way To Go Round

The 1951 festival recommended visitors follow a proscribed route – ‘The Way To Go Round’. But today’s Southbank is so porous on so many levels we decided the narrative should be deconstructed. It would run like a ribbon throughout the site, signalling the contents of each LAND and prompting visitors to tell us their own stories. I emailed batches of texts to the designers and they bubbled with responses for look and feel and substrates. We needed high visibility vertical beacons that would act as landmarks and carry the graphic identity, map and streams of information. But we also required lateral sequences of words to define and contain the Southbank canyons. Budgets were extremely tight so options were limited, but eventually we decided on zinc plated spiral tubes for the beacons, and printed fabric for the horizontal wraps.

To see the words writ large and knitted into the architectural infrastructure is thrilling, but the big buzz is watching people interact with them. In The Marketplace, lovers pose to be photographed by phrases that say something about them: BRAVE HEARTS / SERIOUS FUN / FIND YOURSELF. The behaviours of families on the Thames Beach are subtly influenced by messages tied to the railings: BUCKET AND SPADE / WISH YOU WERE HERE.

Words trigger emotional reactions

Groups of friends gazing out from the Riverside Terrace have no idea they are underlined by emotive phrases: MAD DOGS AND ENGLISHMEN / ARE WE THERE YET? Picknickers sitting amid the flowering shrubs on the Container Staircase debate whether they have ANALOGUE OR DIGITAL personalities. Every visit reveals another performance. It’s a theatre of collisions. A word close by lines up with a word far away and they merge into an unholy alliance. It’s an encapsulation of the creative process: when ideas are let loose they develop a life of their own.

A theatre of collisions

Words had to travel beyond the Southbank site and sell tickets for Ray Davies’ MELTDOWN, Tracey Emin’s LOVE IS WHAT YOU WANT at the Hayward Gallery, Lang Lang’s piano workshops, and events from April to September.

Spreads from the Southbank monthly diary

The factual stuff can speak for itself, but the festival needed a linguistic framework to leave an indelible impression on websites and posters. It had to tickle people’s curiosity, and carry a wide range of emotive references. I played around with the FESTIVAL-OF-BRITAIN structure and found that using the ‘OF’ as the link, I could generate unlimited couplets that conjured up different aspects of British-ness and the exhilaration of creativity: HEARTS OF OAK. BAGS OF ENTHUSIASM. LEAPS OF IMAGINATION. LEG OF LAMB. FLURRY OF KISSES. LOADS OF MONEY. TEARS OF JOY. ALL OF YOU. LOTS OF LOVE. CUP OF TEA. Accessible ideas with strong rationales allow other contributors to express themselves, and Southbank staff dreamed up wonderful variations for different communications. The solution was not to create rigid language guidelines that had to be complied with, but a series of springboards everyone else could leap off.

Words provoke curiosity: Buds of May - RIP

The stream of consciousness below is one of many texts that emerged from countless conversations, and helped us all articulate the festival content.

PROPAGANDA OF THE IMAGINATION

The Festival of Britain emerged from the ashes of a tempest. World War 2 had blown everything apart; physically and psychologically, emotionally and sensually. But despite the sorrow and trauma, the people of Britain found the strength to envisage a future where freedom of expression, free healthcare and education would be an inalienable human right. The jamboree was dreamed up by the Labour government, hungry for a cultural awakening. It was to acknowledge Britain’s contribution to the arts, sciences and technology. After so much suffering, the British needed a party and they declared it ‘A Tonic To The Nation’. Bright young things demobbed from the services were hired to design the future on a bombed out bend of the River Thames. Its mission was to reach out to the shiny shopping precincts, frothy-coffee bars, community centres and model council estates of the burgeoning welfare state.

Throughout the summer of 1951, eight million people clicked through the Southbank turnstiles. Millions more experienced local events across Britain. Four Festival of Britain Routemaster buses kitted out with displays and information desks toured Scandinavia and Europe. The festival ship – HMS Campania – chugged around the coast visiting Southampton, Dundee, Newcastle, Plymouth, Cardiff, Belfast, Birkenhead and Glasgow. The idea that humanity could unite for good – as opposed to ill – was a cause for rejoicing. This was such a huge shift of emphasis – from the aggressive masculinity of war towards warmth, playfulness and inclusiveness – the organisers dubbed it ‘Propaganda of the Imagination’.

Explaining the educational choices of the Welfare State

The Festival of Britain opened to storm of media hyperbole. It was a “flight of surrealist fantasy and a mirage of hope”. All 22 acres bristled with “zig-zag patterns, jazzy murals, café society and foreign food in exotic restaurants”. You could “dance through hanging gardens to salsa combos in the shade of the Dome of Discovery”. The illustrator Beresford Egan hated it:

“Husbands, fathers, brothers, sons and lovers were still being slaughtered in Korea which struck a discordant note in the symphony of jubilation. It must have been enormous fun wasting money on ineffectual frivolity. It suggested a skeleton wrapped in a Joseph coat of many colours, banging a tamborine with Salvation Army zeal.”

Dylan Thomas recorded his impressions in Quite Early One Morning:

“Here they will find no braying pageantry, no taxidermal museum of Culture, no cold and echoing inhuman hygienic barracks of technical information, no shoddily cajoling emporium of tasteless Empire wares, but something very odd indeed, magical and parochial: a parish pump made from flying glass and thistledown gauze-thin steel, a roly-poly pudding full of luminous, melodious bells, wheels, coils, engines and organs, alembics and jorums in a palace of thunderland sizzling with scientific witches’ brews, a place of trains, bones, planes, sheep, shapes, snipe, mobiles, marbles, brass bands, and cheese.”

The festival dazzled the populace steeped in rationed clothing, brown paint, fuzzy grey television and black & white movies. The installations were bursting with novel applications for light, glass, water, metals and plastics. Synthetic colours pierced the gloom of pea-souper London bringing puce pyjamas, day-glo laminates, purple loafers, saffron nylons, peroxide bee-hives and sky blue pink wallpaper.

60 years on, and the Southbank believes that the imagination is a powerful driver for building the future. Out of the rubble of memories, it has proved that art is a safe place to talk about dangerous things. Our 2011 festival is an opportunity to ponder what the next epoch might look like. If we had to fight for something about our culture – what would it be? The enduring symbol of the Festival of Britain is The Skylon, and this quote from 1951 says that no matter how much you talk about the purpose of art and culture, there is something beyond the idea of words; beyond anything practical: That by understanding what something isn’t…we discover what it is.

‘The Skylon has no purpose. It’s not functional in any way. It does not light the Festival, it burns with its own inner light. It’s not even a phallic symbol. Or a totem pole. It has no social significance. It does not stand for democracy, or future happiness. It does not stand at all. It could stand on the ground but it doesn’t.”

By understanding what something isn't, we can discover what it is

People of Britain

Riverside Terrace by the Queen Elizabeth Hall

We want this 2011 festival to become a hall of mirrors through which we can look at ourselves and each other. The arts speak a universal language that encourages people to cross cultural divides. When we are moved by a creative experience, it becomes a part of us and we pass that heightened awareness onto others.

The pavilion that portrayed British-ness in 1951 was called The Lion and The Unicorn. The lion symbolised bravery, the unicorn represented imagination, and

together they embodied liberty. Of course the lion is not indigenous to Britain and the unicorn never existed, but that was the whole point. Great Britain is a myth. Our hybrid identity has always been a hotchpotch of fairytales and contradictions. My red, white and blue blooded, Union Jack toting, Eastenders addicted, Arsenal devoted neighbours originate from Vietnam, Iraq, Chechnya, Serbia, China, Turkey, Somalia and the Caribbean. The British Museum is a cornucopia of stolen goods. Our Royal Family is a smörgåsbord of mongrels. British Airways, British Gas and British Telecom are owned by multinational pension funds.

English is a mixed-up, muddled-up, shook-up wonder

The English language is a mixed-up, muddled-up, shook-up wonder and the great leveller we all have in common. It’s a rogue virus that morphs into esoteric strains and thrives on idiosyncrasy, slang, tribalism and humour. We bend it, warp it, stretch it, mash it and stick our fingers up at it. But because of this it can condense lofty concepts into spiky axioms. Take these terms of endearment we use to describe each other: champagne socialists, feckless misanthropes, cowardy custards, chinless wonders, suburban guerrillas, stuffed shirts, love rats, moaning minnies and national treasures. Simply colliding two elemental words can unleash an explosion of expression.

The Land

Royal Wedding diaspora

For many city dwellers rural Britain is a theme park. Sunday drivers clog country lanes hankering after the perfect cream tea in the quintessential gingerbread cottage. Highways Agency road signs point us towards Health & Safety approved beauty spots where we devour Excalibur Cornish Pasties washed down with Old Speckled Hen. But back home in our semi-detached realities we feel mildly cheated, so slump in front of celebrity hosted nature programmes and get goose bumps over CCTV footage of gambolling badger cubs, oblivious to the urban foxes rooting through our dustbins.

New kid on the block

The snow flecked peaks and dappled dales on our kitchen calendars were never begat by Mother Nature. They have been manufactured over centuries by vested interests. Nothing is natural. The British rural landscape is as much a construct as Blake’s Satanic Mills. The shimmering copse where the cuckoo sucks was formed by an iron age smelting plant. The blasted heath where fallow deer frolic was once an oak forest that built the fleet that defeated the Armada. The quaint parish churches were instruments of repression. The Lords of the Manor were despots. The women and children were serfs. The young men were cannon fodder. Beneath the joyful harvest festivals and blithe spirits rumbled bitterly contested territories.

Everything worth something has to be defended

But the ploughing, tilling, furrowing and reaping invested our rural communities with an entrenched authenticity. Extended families survived poverty and famine through mutual support. These rooted places came to represent the cycle of life according to the seasons and the geological particularity. The customs and indigenous knowledge sprang from a direct response to the land. Animal husbandry, crop rotation and woodland management were passed down the generations; the lay of a dry stone wall indicates the characteristics of the mason – as well as the rock below. Everything worth something has to be defended. Traditions kept alive. Folk songs sung. Rights of way campaigned for. It’s up to us to decide what we want our children to inherit.

Power & Production

WW2 triggered an orgy of industry bent on destruction. The Festival of Britain demonstrated what the new production methods and materials could create. The welfare state directed massive investment into schools, hospitals and public housing. Peacetime invention went into overdrive, and designers, engineers and architects competed to build the brave new world.

Despite the horrors of Hiroshima, nuclear fission became a symbol of hope. Atomic motifs appeared on tea towels, curtains, coffee tables and lampshades. This Promethean method of generating energy promised clean and affordable power. But 25 years after Chernobyl, we are still in denial about the safety, cost and disposal of nuclear waste. Climate change is happening but still divides opinion. Industry is reluctant to act because reducing energy consumption to cut carbon emissions threatens profits. The power hungry countries of the BRIC economies feel that NOW their time has come. But we have to start working with the planet – not against it. Sustainable power and production does not have to be a ball and chain. Gobal energy consumption of fossil fuels could be cut by 75% without any loss of productivity or mobility if used more intelligently. Equatorial countries investing in extensive solar farms will become major power suppliers.

The white heat of technology

Over the last half-century, advances in technology, software and logistics have changed the way we produce. In the 1950s, just down the River Thames at Ford’s Dagenham plant virtually all the components for every Zephyr and Zodiac were made in-house. In 2011 a car is conceived and designed in Britain but the parts are fabricated in Taiwan, Korea, India and Brazil, then aggregated in China for assembly. Superstores like ASDA use containers as warehousing and have more muscle than manufacturers. Just-in-time-production enables companies to minimise costs by following the skill base. Container ships come to the UK bulging with cargo and leave full of fresh air.

The idea of ascension has always been at the heart of power and production – from raising standards of living to exploring space. The dizzying potential for power and production is so beyond our comprehension, it dangles the possibility that nothing is impossible.

Seaside

Are we there yet? Well we all like to be beside the seaside, but why? Escapism? Regression? The Big Blue Yonder? A rogue gene kicks in. Alter egos go bonkers. Sod the daily slog. Swap sensible for silly. Wrestling billowing windbreaks we morph into suburban Bedouins. Or snug as bugs in beach huts we snooze on wheezing Li-Los, our names spliced together in salty bliss: Will & Kate’s Love Nest. Pete n’ Jordan’s Shag Shack. Chez Nick & Dave.

But the seaside is not just KISS ME KWIK and candyfloss. Our ports once fuelled the British economy. In 1951, 70,000 registered dockers handled millions of tonnes of freight. Cruise liners, destroyers and aircraft carriers slid down the slipways of Tyne, Wear, Tees, Mersey, Forth and Belfast. Fleets of trawlers regurgitated mountains of fish for the metropolitan markets. The working classes boarded trains and flocked to the seaside during factory fortnight. But now the cash cows are the giant sea container-dromes, the nuclear power plants, and refineries converting oil into petrochemical miracles.

Vikings, Saxons, Romans, Normans, Frenchies and Spaniards couldn’t keep their hands off our coast. You can still see the Martello Towers that put the wind up Napoleon staring across the Channel. When the Nazi war machine licked its lips in the Pas de Calais, our beaches were blockaded with pill boxes and anti-tank spikes. Our resorts were press-ganged into the Defence of the Realm. Elegant hotels that hosted palm court tea dances became frontline hospitals putting soldiers back together. Even the saucy seaside postcard was recruited. But instead of wenches blushing at embarrassing bulges came steamy temptresses carrying the warning: Keep Mum She’s Not So Dumb – Careless Talk Costs Lives.

Our seasides are also places of solace and contemplation. We come to find and lose ourselves. Dunes and shingle bristle with lovage, santolina, hore hound and spiky marram grass. Every salt marsh bred seafaring folk who made ends meet through oyster rearing, winkle picking and samphire harvesting. Their descendents are the arcade proprietors, mobile home operators and B&B owners struggling to stay afloat. Paradise & chips. Utopia on toast. Shangri-La in a basket.

The Festival of Britain ran for five months. It was loved by most, loathed by a few. It was lambasted for squandering public money and diverting precious resources when Britain was crippled with post-war debt. After winning the 1952 election, the new Conservative government sent in the bulldozers. The Skylon – which represented everything Churchill despised – was hung, drawn and quartered, and dispatched to the corners of the earth. But the festival gave licence to an iconoclastic generation who changed the face of fashion, music, dance, poetry, painting, performance, sculpture, architecture, theatre, film, writing, graphics and product design in the 1960s.

And that energy still burns bright in the Southbank today. One of the biggest problems I have as a freelance consultant is persuading clients to be more courageous; to do what they dare not do. When clients reject the generic and take enlightened risks, the branding, campaign or identity still sparkles years down the line. Everyone I met at Southbank seemed to be driven by a fearless sense of collective creativity. There were no egos quashing rival initiatives or insecurities determining the outcome. Everyone just gave for the good the whole and the effortless integrity shines through.

Big thanks to Jude Kelly, Shân Maclennan, Alan Bishop, Steve Smith, Jon Norton, Colette Bailey, Clare Cumberlidge, Michael Marriott, Andrew Lock, Miranda Melville, Laura Pace, Natalie Highwood, Richard Parry, Roger Nelson, Cathy Mager, Laura Hough, Deborah Moreton, Susie Hopkinson, Bea Colley and Rachel Harris.

http://www.southbankcentre.co.uk/

Tom

The human race has recently discovered what its thumbs are for. Texters and mobile emailers are becoming indigenously thumbidextrous; the nimblest communicating complex messages with the fluency of speech. Before texting, thumbs were the unsung heroes of our bodies. But without the ability to grip, we would never have swung through the trees to explore the world, grabbed branches to create fires and build structures, strangled sabre toothed tigers, and wielded spears and clubs. Most of us are successfully weaned from thumb sucking, but substitute this infantile comfort with addictive oral fixations. Roman emperors decided the fates of Christians with the apocryphal thumbs-up / thumbs-down verdict, and I once knew a lumberjack whose toe was grafted onto his hand after losing his thumb in a chainsaw incident. Back in the 70s I ‘thumbed’ across America clutching a card signposted to ANYWHERE.

The relentless ascendency of fingers has been driven by the super-sensitivity of the nerve endings and their proficiency for touching, tickling, winkling, fiddling, tweaking, arousing, soothing, grooming, caressing, probing, exploring, picking, scratching, tapping, meddling, stimulating and latterly clicking mice. Fingers are also used to convey social standing and cultural identity. Rings signal whether we are married, engaged, adored or loaded, and every bankrupt shop in Hoxton resurfaces as a badass nail salon. Fingers are constantly busy gesticulating feelings, desires, commands and interpretations, and a rich vocabulary of non-verbal gestures such as FUCK OFF and Can you believe it, I was on the PHONE at the time, plus a bewildering variety of salutes, blessings and sign languages. Even the relationship between the length of index and ring fingers dictated by exposure to oestrogen in the womb decides all sorts of things about us – from our predisposition to psychological disorders to innate competitiveness.

I snapped this picture of Galileo’s pickled middle finger in the Museo di Storia della Scienza – Firenze. But surely no one ever pointed out any marvel of the firmament with a middle finger, so perhaps Galileo was sending a veiled message to Pope Urban VIII who condemned him to life imprisonment for advocating heliocentrism (the belief that the earth orbits the sun), which of course it does at 66,000 miles per hour.

Tom

It doesn’t help that the writing is so confused: ‘Dole Model: Protect your family’ has no clear connection to the rest of the mockvert. I suppose ‘Hair from India’ is a reference to Cheryl’s alleged use of ‘organic’ hair extensions, and I assume ‘auto tune’ is referring to a piece of paraphernalia from a recording studio rather than something you might find in one of the many garages off the Bethnal Green Road. Fair enough, but the line ‘publicity by Satan’ is a lame dig at Simon Cowell. He deserves better.

Perhaps the worst bit is the failure to develop the overall theme of ‘Real’. The ‘Noreal Parts’ headline might have been the start of something powerful, but the idea is lost along the way. By the sign-off it has become ‘Because you’re worth it. Real’. So what’s the message? What’s the purpose? Is this the most profound thing the artist has to say about atomisation and vacuous celebrity/consumer branding?

The best anti-marketing posters you see around these parts rework the language of advertising in such a skilful way that it accentuates the power of their parody. This artist has produced something with no message, little wit and simply awful typography. What’s the point – we already have plenty of ad agencies who can do that.

Tim

PS The artist behind this work, Dr D, has done some other pieces that are more interesting, particularly some political work that uses the Foundry in Old Street as a backdrop: www.drd.nu/