Second-Hand Cynicism
Fatal, when left untreated
“I’m going to a literary reading tonight,” I declare to my colleague John. He came of age in the late 60s, so he loves Neil Young and hates Frank Sinatra. He thinks we always hate that which our parents loved. We exchange a few words about the cult of celebrity and its effects on the literary scene. I put lipstick on before I set out into the rain.
As I emerge from Oxford Circus Station, a lady informs me that “Jesus is Life”. I’m meeting Ella at Itsu on Broadwick Street so I detour through Liberty and ask permission to spray Italian perfume onto my coat. Granted, I saunter through Soho in a cloud of tobacco and musk. I eat before Ella arrives; my hunger is too demanding and the neat little rolls of salmon, rice and seaweed are too tempting. Ella soon joins, and we sit by the orchids and discuss the Epstein files.
After dinner, it is time to feel intellectual, so we attend the BYOB literary event, “New Work”. It’s an event where writers invite other writers to read excerpts from their upcoming projects, or works in progress. We stand shoulder to shoulder in an art gallery called Edel Assanti. I look around at the other people here; individuals form a crowd.
First up is a girl who published a book last year. She was born after 9/11, so I’m impressed. I struggle to understand what she is saying with her mouth pressed against the microphone. Her words are obscured by heavy breath, like she is speaking right into my ear. People in the audience are laughing at her jokes but they are soaring right over my head. I fight the urge to join in with the laughter out of politeness. I’m trying my best to be earnest.
Next is a man with a buzzcut, wearing a camo jacket. As he is preparing to begin, he says something inaudibly to Rachel Connolly, a Northern Irish writer whom Ella admires and one of the organisers of this event. Her lips are red and her eyelashes are black. Later this evening she’ll bump into Ella and say “Oh! It’s you!” Rachel isn’t reading her work tonight, she’s platforming.
She leans into the mic and says something about Teesside and Thatcher. I quickly look at Ella.
“He’s northern,” I whisper.
We’re excited, because we are also northern. He begins his slam poetry, and I admire his confidence to take up space in a room like this. His lines are thick with imagery I’ve seen a hundred times before. Steelworks, smackheads and settees pour out of his mouth like a soup of despair. Underfunding and a decline in culture. The New North. “I want to smoke spice…” he reads from his iPhone 17. He speaks directly to the audience. He asks us whether we are innocent. The audience meekly responds and a sense of shame washes over the room. Through his poetry and demeanor he has positioned himself as The Other. I glance at Ella; we remain silent and exchange a raised eyebrow. And raised is where it remains for the remainder of his performance, suspended above his telling assumption that those that fill this room are not also northern and working class.
For the fun of it, I let the wave of shame imbue me too. I am northern and working class, I swear! Yet, I’ve lived in London since I was 18 years old. The Italian perfume I sprayed on my coat 45 minutes ago now makes my temples throb. But the shame elusively runs off my back. As he finishes his set, the camouflaged man throws a fistful of paper in the air. One piece lands next to me, I pick it up and it is an invitation to riot (when the time is right) that has been cleverly designed to look like currency.
The crowd explodes into a relieved applause and promptly empties for a cigarette break. I’m left with a feeling I can’t explain. It’s not you, it’s me. I wonder about the northern working class experience. The one that I experienced. Rather, the one that I fled. Not the nostalgic caricatures conjured time and again; not “I Want To Be a Ballet Dancer, Dad” or the taming of a kestrel. I think of those who I left behind, my little sister and her friends. My teenage cousins. This is really England; air-fryers, smart whips, Snapchat, Lost Marys, BIAB and a bricklaying apprenticeship. I’m being cynical.
My cynicism was lovingly bestowed upon me as a child, by my grandfather. He would read two newspapers, one left-wing and one right-wing. Reclining in his usual spot on the sofa, next to a strong cup of tea and exactly 3 digestive biscuits, he’d fold over one of the large corners of The Telegraph and lean towards me.
“You’ve got to find out what the other side is saying,” he’d say; “You’ve always got to be cynical.”
I agree with my Grandad, cynicism is remarkably important. However, too much cynicism and you’ll find yourself jaded, unable to see the joy in anything. When cynicism fails to evolve into a discussion, we push ourselves into corners of echo chambers. Once we try to engage with one another from inside our ideologies, our cynicism falls on deaf ears and often lands as an attack. We then become silent cynics, unknowingly shaping the world through our untrusting eyes.
With my legs turning numb in the shadowless gallery, I realise my reluctance to say anything to anyone of the cynicism I am experiencing. I am intrigued by this strange fear of sharing how the northern slam poet made me feel. What is that all about? Recently, I had my fears confirmed when I watched a friend/collaborator George Francis Lee come under fire for sharing similar views on an art installation in Manchester.
Utopia is an art installation by Trackie McLeod that nostalgically reimagines a working class pub. Visitors can drink pints and throw darts at Thatcher. George pointed out the “long-trodden stereotypes” that were at play here. He understands the cultural consequences of the “self mythology” of identity, both working class and northern. It is literally the whole point of his project, STAT Zine, which aims to “redistribute cultural focus” away from Manchester and across the small-towns of the North West.
The response to his critique fascinated me. George was the subject of scathing infographics and comments that insulted his personal character. One commenter called him a “shady guy”. A producer of the installation rejected George’s criticisms on the basis that he had simply not done enough research into the vision for the installation and had misunderstood it.
Aside from the issues that I have with policing the consumption and experience of art (as if art ever demanded to be correctly understood), I wonder what happens when we label criticism as “dangerous”, simply because it differs from our own perception. Does it make people afraid to comment truthfully? What happens to art when we restrict the conversation around it? We all seem to welcome the concept of critique but few of us can stomach it. Perhaps we’d prefer to present ourselves upon audiences made of plasticine, indistinguishably mouldable and mute. Not unlike the ones we find online, really.
Back in Fitzrovia, the crowd reassembles after a cigarette and it’s noticeably sparser. The third act is an American writer, my favourite of the night. She speaks about living above a mystical crystal shop. But by the final act, I am distracted and bored. I count how many moles I can see on the faces and necks around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man across the room with red ears and thin hair. No moles. He is sipping milk straight from a two-pint bottle. I am suddenly bewildered, intrigued, excited. I’ve only ever seen one other person do that and he had a stomach ulcer. Does this man have a stomach ulcer? Can you detect that just by looking at someone?
On the way home Ella and I dissect the evening. I get off the bus back in Streatham and a man is vomiting in a corner. I avert my eyes and go home.
I’m sharing some personal news:
My film The Last Night of the Earth was screened at Exploding Cinema last week. I answered some Q+A about the film, and was joined by my friends. You can watch a live stream of the event here. My film starts at 2:42:45
I am having another of my short films The Quiet Comprehending screened on 26th March at My Eyes! My Eyes! Short Film night at Peckham Levels. Tickets available here.
I am currently putting together a new project, and I am seeking a DOP and Co-Producer to help me realise it. Please send me details of anyone you’d recommend.
I’d like to share with you my new short film; on the fence. It’s spring now so the pebbles have started speaking to one another again.
Be Seeing You!