Posts Tagged ‘The Times’

The "semi-living worry doll" by Oron Catts and Lonat Zurr

Remember that creepy chap in the black hat who used to make art out of dead bodies? He’s now looking rather passé. At the end of January, the Science Gallery in Dublin is opening the doors on Visceral, an exhibition of “bio-art” that makes art out of living organisms, such as home-grown chunks of human tissue.

“H. G. Wells thought that a living being is raw material, something that may be shaped and altered,” says Oron Catts, the curator of the exhibition. “Our group of artists, SymbioticA, explores this idea. We make people feel uncomfortable, and that is part of the point. We test the boundary where art becomes emotionally unacceptable.”

Read the rest of the article on the Times website (subject to paywall restrictions)

Sara Shilo

Israel’s latest literary sensation was something of a late starter. Until 1999 she was a puppeteer in northern Israel and would have laughed at the notion of writing a novel. After all, she had never read one before. “I suffer from ADHD,” Sara Shilo explains when we meet in London. “As a child, I didn’t have enough concentration to read.”

Eleven years ago, however, when she was 40, she decided to give books a second chance. The first novel she picked up was Be My Knife, a dense exploration of obsessive love by the pre-eminent Israeli novelist David Grossman. Shilo was deeply affected. “The book awakened something profound inside me,” she says. “Suddenly I saw the world through someone else’s eyes. Nothing could be the same again.”

This encounter with fiction threw her into an existential crisis. The very next day she put her life on hold, stopped work and cancelled all social engagements. Without knowing why, she wrote a long letter to Grossman, explaining how his book had moved her.

“From the very first words of her letter, I could tell that Sara Shilo was special,” Grossman tells me from his home in Jerusalem. “She was not only describing reality with her writing. She was generating reality. There was something in the way she juxtaposed words, the rhythm of her sentences. It had a tangible, primal beauty.”

Read the rest of the article on the Times website (subject to paywall restrictions)

The. Sales. Ouch.

Now that VAT has increased to 20 per cent, you’re probably checking price tags a little more carefully before parting with your hard-earned cash. The problem is that shops are fighting back. According to Philip Graves, author of Consumer.ology, a study of the psychology of shopping, retailers are using their knowledge of the human mind to turn the VAT increase to their advantage.

“Thousands of people are being manipulated into actually spending more,” he says. “Many shops are claiming that they are not increasing VAT, and that is encouraging people to spend. But there is more to this than meets the eye.”

Behind the price tag, Graves explains, lie a variety of psychological tricks. For example, research has shown that people are more inclined to buy an item when it has a “charm price” of .99 on the tag. The VAT increase, however, would demand strange prices such as £32.20, which are not attractive to the consumer. So the shops are taking a two-pronged approach. “On the one hand they are keeping some items at the original charm price, and highlighting the fact that the VAT is staying the same,” Graves explains. “With other items, however, they are raising the price even higher than the VAT increase demands, from £34.99 to £39.99, for example. Amazingly, people will buy something for £39.99 more readily than £32.20. So overall, the shops come out on top.”

Read the rest of the article on the Times website (subject to paywall restrictions)

I have blindfolded my grandmother. She is bent double in the garden, fumbling in the grass for satsumas. In my left hand is a thimble; in my right is a pair of socks. Family members are looking on and cheering.

The game comes courtesy of Parlour Games For The Modern Family, a new book out this week. Written by two Australian mums, Myfanwy Jones and Spiri Tsintziras, who have “four children and 20 nephews and nieces” between them, it seeks to prise us away from the internet and reintroduce the delights of collective silliness.

Read the full article on the Times website (subject to paywall restriction)

What's the ancient Greek for f***?

It is all rather improbable. In 2003, Annabel Lyon, a quiet 32-year-old piano teacher from Ottowa — she’s written two collections of short stories and a children’s book, but still thinks of herself as a piano teacher — starts to write a novel. It is set in Ancient Greece, portrays the coming of age of Alexander the Great, and is narrated by Aristotle. Yes, Aristotle. Not a stylised, “marble statue” Aristotle (as Lyon puts it); a base, flesh-and-bile Aristotle who is preoccupied with cunnilingus, dismemberment and buggery. Who, for example, compares his wit to excrement (“My wit was as dry as mouse droppings,” and “dry little droppings of wit”). Who drinks his own “warm piss”. Who talks in Americanisms and lavishes his narrative with profanities such as “ass-f***er”, “ball-breaking” and “piece of shit”.

Seven-and-a-half years later, The Golden Mean is complete. After a string of horrified rejection letters from publishers, Lyon — who by now is 39 — finds a Canadian publisher willing to take a punt. Months later, when The Golden Mean hits the shelves, it becomes a No 1 bestseller in Canada. The critics love it, hailing Lyon as the heiress to the legendary national treasure Alice Munro (who was shortlisted for the coveted Rogers Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize in 2009. Annabel Lyon won).

The Golden Mean is out in the UK this month. On the day that I am to interview Lyon, an e-mail slips into my inbox from none other than the Booker prizewinner Hilary Mantel. It is full of praise for The Golden Mean, calling it a “quietly ambitious and beautifully achieved novel” that is “one of the most convincing historical novels I have ever read”.

Lyon no longer thinks of herself as a piano teacher. “Oh, I haven’t taught music in a while now,” she tells me from her reassuringly messy novelist’s study. “I’ve moved on a bit. But it’s quite the exaggeration to compare me to Alice Munro. I’m a mouse in the elephant’s shadow.”

Come to think of it, Lyon is a little mouse-like. Hers is one of those faces that alternates between seriousness and — when she smiles — unalloyed delight. “I’m a somewhat obsessive person,” she tells me. “When I was younger I was consumed by playing the piano, then I transferred all that passion to long-distance running. After that, my writing took over.” The common denominator here is solitude. “I could never have been a violinist,” she says, “I wouldn’t have wanted to play with other people. Things like running suit me. Running and writing.”

It is striking that such a modest person would choose an audacious idea like this for her debut novel. Was she not daunted? “What drove me was my passion for Aristotle,” she says. “I knew that to write about Aristotle, Plato and Alexander would be viewed as egotistical. But if it makes people more interested in Greek philosophy, it’s worth it.”

For all Lyon’s enthusiasm for Aristotle’s work — she majored in philosophy at the Simon Fraser University in British Columbia — she knew that if her novel was to be a success, she would need to put the man at the centre. “Aristotle’s philosophy pervades the novel, but it’s not obtrusive,” she says. “For example, I wrote it adhering to the principles of his Poetics.” Such as in the battle scene, where the action takes place off stage? “Exactly,” Lyon says drily. “You’re not the first person to notice that.”

So we have Aristotle the human, in all his pissing, shitting, scratching glory, who at one point strangles a chameleon (“I open the top of the cage, reach in with both hands, and grasp the leathery throat”).

“People have been shocked,” Lyon says. “One woman took the book back to the shop when she encountered the word c***. But that was how people were in Ancient Greece. It was a brutal life, a warrior culture. They didn’t say drat or bloody hell. They said things like bineo.”

Bineo?

“Ancient Greek for f***.”

Ah.

There is a lot of sex in the novel. Particularly homosexual sex, about which Lyon — a heterosexual woman — writes with particular élan. “To me love is love, and sex is sex,” she says casually. “The gender doesn’t make much difference. It wasn’t a big deal for me.”

The content is complemented by a prose style that is — as the jacket blurb puts it — “sensual and muscular”. These two epithets may be horribly overused, but are perfectly apposite here. “The rain falls in black cords,” writes Lyon in the voice of Aristotle, “lashing my animals, my men, and my wife, Pythias, who last night lay with her legs spread while I took notes on the mouth of her sex, who weeps silent tears of exhaustion now, on this tenth day of our journey.” This is sinewy stuff, sharpened by a dedication to economy. “My prose was influenced by my father,” Lyon says. “He was a journalist and loves Hemingway. When I was small, he wasn’t teaching me hockey. He was showing me how to write like The Old Man and the Sea.”

Lyon’s use of modern language enhances our absorption in the period. “I realised that using too much authentic terminology — using chiton instead of dress, for example — would distance the reader,” Lyon says. “Modern language can, paradoxically enough, be more transparent.” It is for this reason that she never mentions Aristotle’s name. “I didn’t want to remind people of his mythological significance,” says Lyon. “I wanted to avoid the barrier of his reputation.”

For the most part, her approach is effective. Occasionally she oversteps the mark — such as when Philippos II of Macedon says “may you f***ing the f*** get on with it” — but on the whole, the evocation is surprisingly successful.

“It was clear to me that Alexander suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder,” Lyon tells me. “His regular headaches, bouts of rage and heavy drinking are well documented. He was essentially a child soldier.” As for Aristotle, well, he was bipolar. “To me, it is obvious,” Lyon says. “His obsession with the golden mean between two extremes sounds like someone who has suffered these extremes and is looking for a way out.”

Although historians may pall at such speculation, it adds depth to Lyon’s characters. Alexander and Aristotle’s neuroses are counterpointed beautifully at the Battle of Chaeronea. Aristotle begins to mutilate a corpse out of a manic thirst for anatomical knowledge. Later, Alexander dismembers the same body in an episode of post-traumatic febrility. (Aristotle never went to Chaeronea, by the way; this is a rare instance of Lyon’s manipulation of the facts.) All this amounts to a cornucopia of vivid impressions of the ancient world. Upon finishing the novel, I was struck by a feeling of emptiness, loathe to close the door on Lyon’s time machine. But luckily, she’s working on a sequel — and this time she will resurrect the voice of Aristotle’s daughter.

The UK: a nation of indecision?

In case you hadn’t noticed, a much-hyped single called Choices is released this week. Written by the mildly irritating English-Swedish pop outfit The Hoosiers, it is a record-breaking 43 minutes long. As if one gimmick wasn’t enough, the band invited fans to write some of the verses and appear in the music video. But even though Choices is a pygmy of a tune compared with the iconic songs of previous eras such as All You Need Is Love, Purple Haze and Smells Like Teen Spirit, The Hoosiers’ new single might one day rank among them as the song of this generation.

The reason? It’s the lyrics, stupid. “Stop giving me choices. Stop giving me choices,” whines Irwin Sparkes, the elfin lead singer. “I’m the victim of this day and age, I’ve forgotten how to feel, I’ve forgotten how to change.”

According to Harriet Bradley, professor of sociology at the University of Bristol, this is an apt summary of the way things are. This week she published the results of a ten-month project looking at how people in the UK deal with choice. The report, State of Confusion, presents the results of a study of 6,000 people from across the UK. The conclusion is resounding: Britain is a “nation crippled by too much choice”. Read the rest of this entry »

Marcus du Sautoy: a national treasure?

Question: what’s a million times five? No, it’s not a trick. The answer is the amount of dollars you could win if you solved all five mathematical conundrums in The Num8er My5teries, a new book by the iconic popular mathematician Marcus du Sautoy. The book is based on a competition set up in 2000 by an American businessman called Landon Clay. Five puzzles, $1 million each.

It could be you.

Or at least that was true until last March, when the reclusive Russian maths genius Grigoriy Perelman solved one of the conundrums — known as the “Poincaré conjecture” — in resounding fashion. “Last week there was a glitzy award ceremony to present the first million dollars to Perelman,” du Sautoy tells me, his voice brimming with customary enthusiasm. “But he didn’t turn up.”

Didn’t turn up? “Mathematicians are rather quirky. We don’t tend to be interested in money,” du Sautoy says. “It’s the glory of eternity that motivates us.” In the eyes of du Sautoy and his colleagues, the Russian has achieved something that has no earthly price. “Personally,” he says candidly, “I’d pay a million dollars to solve one of these problems. It’s a small price to pay to become immortal.”

In The Num8er My5teries, these problems are presented with the flair and vim that has made du Sautoy into something of a national treasure. “I build up to each conundrum with some unexpected questions,” he tells me. “Why did Beckham choose the 23 shirt? Why do cicadas love the number 17? And how can you win the lottery?” (This final question, I suspect, may appeal to gold diggers who see the book as an investment.) “What’s more,” the mathematician continues, “I’ve made the problems into games like Minesweeper and Su Doku. It’s wide open for everyone.”

I am almost inclined to have a crack myself. But then I recall that my last experience with mathematics was at GCSE, 16 years ago (I got a C). If so many extraordinary mathematical brains have tried and failed, what chance could I possibly have?

“Every chance,” du Sautoy says. And I think he means it. “Non-mathematicians sometimes approach things from a whole new angle. The next winner might well be a reader of my book, who became inspired while sitting on the loo.” He notices my sudden amplification of interest. “Though of course,” he reminds me, “if you’re doing it for the money, you’ll never be a real mathematician.”

"Devise a strategy for dealing with trouble ahead."

Hello, Jake, how are you?”

“OK.”

“How was your day at school?”

“OK.”

“Have you got much homework?”

“Yup.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, stuff.”

“Darling, is everything OK? You’re very quiet.”

“Yup.”

“Can you at least look at me when I’m talking to you? I’m asking if you’re OK.”

“I just told you, I’m fine. Stop going on at me.”

“I don’t think checking you’re OK is going on at you. I am your mother, you know.”

“OK, OK, I’m fine, everything’s OK, please can you give me some peace?”

“How dare you . . .”

Before you ask, this is not a memoir from my adolescence. It is an extract from Divas & Door Slammers: the secrets to having a better behaved teenager, a new book by the behavioural expert and inner-city headmaster Charlie Taylor. This dialogue is part of a case study, illustrating how easy it is for parents to alienate their teenagers.

“Teenagers have an inbuilt capacity to annoy their parents,” says the author when we meet at a café in Notting Hill, West London. “The sight of a pair of low-slung trousers, or a great spotty oaf slouched across the sofa, is enough to make any parent’s blood boil.” But, according to Taylor, teenagers can’t always help it. “Their brains are developing at a tremendous rate,” he says. “There is a huge amount of activity flaring in different directions. Neurones are sparking all over the place, making them go haywire.”

This means that if a cycle of bad behaviour is to end, it must be the parents who end it. “Your teenager is not going to change unless you change,” says Taylor. “If you do what you have always done, you will get what you always get.” Read the rest of this entry »

"We did it our way"

We were sitting on the sofa, surrounded by glossy wedding bumph, when my fiancée Isobel had a moment of clarity. “These people are thieves,” she said, tossing aside a brochure for Blenheim Palace advertising two wedding packages – a no-frills option for £16,400 and a standard for £23,900. “We don’t have that kind of money. Let’s set ourselves the challenge of having a lovely wedding for less than £5,000.”

I smiled encouragingly. It was late at night. Within a few hours, I thought, she would recognise this idea for the tomfoolery it was.

The next morning, however, Isobel was fired up. “I’ll do the catering myself,” she said over breakfast. “It will be a really characterful wedding.” I pulled out the Blenheim Palace brochure from my pocket. “But what about the magnificent setting?” I said, mournfully. “What about the after-dinner Belgian pralines?” She regarded me steadily. “We can do it,” she said.

According to the consumer watchdog Which?, the average cost of a wedding in the UK is around £17,000. Moreover, a recent report suggests that couples are being exploited when they tie the knot. “Hotels, florists and hairdressers are being really unfair,” says Lisa Barber, deputy editor of Which? Magazine. “They charge 25 per cent more for weddings than they do for other similar events.” Read the rest of this entry »

'Just having things ‘normalised’ can be a relief'

With some difficulty, I manoeuvre my extra-long double buggy — dubbed “the gondola” — into a room cluttered with plastic toys. The psychotherapist gets up from her beanbag to help me to fold it up. I introduce her to Isaac and Imogen, my seven-month-old twins, and then put them down on the mat. The babies, blissfully unaware of the therapist’s eyes, proceed to give the toys a good gumming. Read the rest of this entry »