Bogota Street Art – Social Commentary and Indigenous Psychedelia

It’s hard to wrap your head around a new megacity that you’ve just landed in at the best of times, let alone when your body is still adjusting to the altitude, your head is rattling with crime warnings and you’ve already had a run-in with the local police.

I knew that Bogota would be far too complex to get anything but a brief glimmer of when I spent a couple of days there ago on first arriving in Colombia. But I thought that one way to try and make sense of some of the themes shaping the city would be to go have a look at what had been painted, tagged and stencilled on to the city’s walls. Not usually one for big guided tours, I joined a group led by Bogota Graffiti Tours to get a lesson in social history via the city’s street art.

Bogota is unusual among big cities in that graffiti is technically legal. All you need to do to be able to paint without being hassled or fined is to gain the permission of the building owner. And while not all owners will give permission, they often do, sometimes just to avoid having their shop or house being tagged anyway, so explained Carlos, a local graphic designer and street art fanatic who led the tour. But many of Bogota’s grafiteros choose to ignore this, preferring to stick to the old-school traditions of graffiti as passed down by the original New York forebears: painting as an act of rebellion, done explicitly without permission.

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While Bogota has in the past decade or so become a magnet for aspiring street artists from across the Americas, it wasn’t always this way. The acceptance of street art in the city came about following long-standing battles with the local authorities, particularly in the wake of the police shooting of an unarmed 16 year-old, Diego Felipe Becerra, who was gunned down after fleeing from two officers while he was painting his trademark Felix The Cat stencil in an underpass. The boy’s murder and the subsequent police cover-up (police alleged they were hunting for a suspect who had just robbed a bus) led to huge protests, which was in part what led to the lowering of fines and the eventual regularisation of street art in the city.

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Unsurprisingly, in a country which is only just emerging from an internal armed conflict that has lasted more than half a decade (and which still lingers in parts of the country), social and political themes were very prominent in the murals and stencils I saw in the city’s downtown and La Candelaria neighbourhoods. Artists like Toxicomano and DJ Lu use the medium of stencilling to provoke commentary about consumerism, corruption, the impact of extractive industries on the Colombian environment and the effect that foreign intervention, (in particular Plan Colombia) has had on the country’s development.

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But what stood out even more for me were the many indigenous faces staring out from the city’s walls, as painted by artists such as Guache and Guerrero. Beautiful, elaborate murals of indigenous men, women and children, often painted in bold colours, with psychedelic undertones, were peppered all over the city centre. Colombia might be less well known for its indigenous culture than neighbouring Peru, or other Andean nations like Bolivia, but indigenous people make up around 3.4 % of the population, and a staggering third of the country is made up of indigenous reserves – particularly in the Amazonian region. (Though this has not prevented these regions being plundered for their resources: indigenous people have often being disproportionately affected by violence and displacement and indigenous social movements continue to be targeted by paramilitary violence).

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Many of these murals offered joyous, colourful visions of the future, in contrast to the prevailing greyness of much of the city and the bleakness of the social and political reality that artists are wrestling with. I recognised this aesthetic – a kind of indigenous psychedelia – from some of the album art of musicians I’d been listening to before coming to South America, artists such as Chancha via Circuito, El Buho and El Remolon, all of whom are working in the borderlands between indigenous and Andean folk music, cumbia and electronic music.

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It wondered whether both visual artists and musicians, in striving to build an optimistic vision of Colombia’s – and South America’s – future, were doing so partly by trying to reclaim and reimagine the continent’s indigenous heritage, building an aesthetic in which indigenous symbolism, knowledge and iconography is central, and calling for a more balanced and equitable relationship between human beings and the natural resources they rely on.

 

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Simple Things Ext – Kayla Painter, Fatima Al Qadiri & Pan Daijing – review

Electronic music that isn’t specifically created for the dance floor often faces a problem of presentation. If rhythm or movement isn’t the primary driving force behind a composition, then when it comes to performance you’re often left with a room full of people standing awkwardly while someone on stage twiddle knobs, hunched over a laptop.

As a result, many forward-thinking artists have been pushing the visual aspects of their work in recent years, drawing attention away from aforementioned knob-twiddling and redirecting the senses by creating immense spectacles. Performers such as Flying Lotus, Amon Tobin and Squarepusher have pursued this approach in order to alter the way their music is consumed and experienced.

There’s also the fact that much electronic music can pull you in two distinct directions: it can either root you in your body and in the present, or carry you to alternate spaces and dimensions. In many ways, the cinema is as natural a home for this type of music as the dance floor, and this may have been the thinking behind last night’s Simple Things Ext. event, which featured three pioneering artists exploring the synergy between experimental electronic music and audio visual performance at Bristol’s Imax.

Kayla Painter’s mesmerising opening set seemed to be governed by an appetite for non-human structures and landscapes. The Bristol-based artist has always had a strong visual component to her work, but utilising the immense scope of the Imax screen helped to amplify its potency. Beginning with stunning geometric habitats, her set traveled through extra-terrestrial formations and kaleidoscopic astral patterns.

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Oddly enough, these hallucinatory visuals – which culminated in an epic view of a planet built out of an endless array of pyramids – were also the most comforting. Musically too, her set was the the most accessible. Painter has mentioned in the past how the influence of Garage has shaped her music, and spluttering beats made their way in and out of her set, layered on top of sampled snippets of voices and drones. But it was the complex, intricate sound design that stood out, full of insectoid whirs and crackling glitches that was immensely satisfying to listen to.

If Painter’s set was about being transported to other realms, then the following performance by Fatima Al Qadiri was an abrupt turn to Earth. Pursuing a more brutal and dystopian vision, Al Qadiri seemed to be wrestling with the destructive forces of human nature: her visuals were primarily composed of what looked like drone and satellite imagery, beginning with cockpit footage of bombs and tracer fire. The dominant image was that of an oil refinery billowing black smoke into the sky, the silhouetted bodies of workers grimly visible in the distance.

This was a more ominous performance: distorted Arabic vocals were set against discordant pad sounds, punctuated by occasional rattles of harsh percussion samples. Accompanied by the apocalyptic imagery of environmental destruction, the effect was nightmarish, possibly drawing on childhood experiences of war during the Iraqi invasion of her native Kuwait.

As the evening went on, I got the impression that each performance was drawing ever closer to the human body. While Painter’s performance had been farthest away – orbiting other planets – and Al Qadiri had hovered over a scalded, and damaged Earth, the performance by Berlin-based dancer and performance artist Pan Daijing was the most physically intimate as well as the most disturbing and uncomfortable to watch.

From the start, when a woman’s face became visible from below while she seemingly performed a massage, there was something queasy and sinister about the visuals. Grapefruits being smooshed in an eerily erotic fashion; scar tissue being poked and prodded; bodies photographed from odd angles: all of these hinted to an obsession with the tactile, but also to the strangeness of bodies.

Much of the unease stemmed from the unsettling soundscapes: sampled strings and field recordings of running water were transmogrified into distinctly unnerving, even terrifying sounds. This final piece was too challenging for some: around 10 audience members left as the audio-visual body horror intensified, the auditorium filling with high-pitched sounds of metal scraping on metal. Daijing has stated that she’s interested in the potential of sound beyond the confines of traditional music, and while it was extremely challenging to watch, it was clearly an intensely personal and cathartic work which was electrifying to behold close up.

 

 

 

 

 

Thoughts on boxing & masculinity

I’m down at the boxing gym and there’s a guy in his early 40s sitting in the changing room, showing off his scars. He’s built like a pit bull and takes up a whole bench, one of only three in the tiny space. One of the scars is on his shoulder but there’s a more vicious one on his left hand: his fingers are still bruised and swollen and there’s a massive gash running between his first two knuckles. ‘Got ‘em fighting’, he explains to one of the other guys getting changed, who’s in his mid-20s. Apparently two armed men came at him and attacked him, the result, from what I can tell, of an ongoing feud between rival traveller families.

I get the feeling that his reasons for coming to the gym might be different to mine. I’ve been doing some kind of boxing or kickboxing training for about two years now as a means of staying fit. As an over-analytical introvert who spends way too much time in my head, the intensity and immediacy of the training puts me back in my body and forces me to be in the present. I’ve also found it to be an excellent way of burning through anxiety, which on other days can leave my head and body rattling. When you’re hitting pads or hitting the bag, you’re not really thinking about anything else. I’ve only sparred a few times, but there’s even less time to think when someone else is stood in front of you, trying to connect their fist with your face.

Before the age of 30, I’d never set foot inside a boxing gym, and it’s something that would never have crossed my mind in my 20s. But years of battling poor mental health has led me to explore avenues that wouldn’t have occurred to me before. The exercise does me a load of good, and I enjoy the workouts, however brutal. Martial arts seem to resonate with my body more than most sports, which is a bit of a surprise, given that I have zero interest in violence or confrontation in my day-to-day life.

From my late teens onwards, I’ve mostly had female friends, and was never drawn to standard boy interests like football. As a result I’ve generally kept my distance from activities that involve being in packs of men. So the boxing gym is probably the most masculine space I find myself in (apart from the barber shop, but that’s another post). It’s not an unfriendly place, and there are people of all creeds and colours who train, but the weight of testosterone is palpable: the walls are covered in posters of ripped men squaring off with each other, and there’s usually only a handful of women alongside the growling, sweaty males.

Plenty has been written about the positive effects of boxing training: increased fitness and self-confidence; helping to keep kids (especially teenage boys) out of trouble; developing discipline. But there’s no escaping the inherent violence of the sport itself. Not to mention the fact that the culture of professional boxing is still steeped in old-school hypermasculinity. The recent bout between Floyd Mayweather and MMA superstar Connor McGregor was just the latest example of this type of tedious dick-swinging: in the run up to the fight, McGregor was heard making a slew of racist and sexist jokes; Mayweather, while undoubtedly an outstanding athlete, has behaved atrociously towards women outside the ring, clocking up several charges of assault and domestic battery against his former partners.

Boxing – maybe contact sports in general – is a world in which masculinity is rarely questioned or interrogated. It’s taken as a given in that context that being a man equates to gruelling physical ordeals and the potential for inflicting extreme violence. So spending time in spaces where people are learning skills designed to cause damage to human bodies has got me thinking about my own relationship to masculinity, as well as to violence.

I never grew up feeling particularly masculine. Most of the men in my family are gentle, bookish, cerebral types and I don’t remember ever being told to ‘man up’ or not to cry as a kid. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve become more aware of my physical presence and what it means to inhabit a male body. I’m more aware that being able to walk the streets at night generally without a fear is a privilege not shared by many of my female friends. Being a 6-foot, mixed race dude, I get masculinity projected on to me whether I like it or not.

Boxing and kickboxing has been a revelation in some ways: I’ve been enjoying the feeling of being in my body (and yes, my own strength) probably more than I ever have before. At the same time, every time I step into a boxing gym I also enter into a dialogue with myself. Why am I drawn to a sport which has violence at its core? Am I toying with a type of masculinity that felt foreign to me for most of my life? Do I feel like I have something to prove – like on some level I should be able to endure the extreme feats of endurance that boxing calls for?

At the edge of this question is the issue of self-esteem. I’ve recently felt more of a need to challenge myself physically. This is probably partly due to being in my thirties and feeling a sense of ‘now or never’, as well as realising just how important exercise is to my mental health and overall wellbeing. But there’s also an underlying sense of frustration at not having achieved as much as I should have in my working life so far (though this notion of ‘achievement’ is arguably a sterotypically male trait in itself), a sense of continually fumbling and stumbling my way through life, frequently falling on my face.

I realise that in a sense I’ve ended up in the boxing gym via a kind of vulnerability. Bouts of depression, precarious housing and chronic underemployment have all taken their toll and there have been points in my recent life where I’ve felt like I’ve allowed myself to be blown around by the wind. Part of me wonders whether, in trying to rectify that and regain some self-confidence, I’m subconsciously buying into an age-old and maybe outdated idea of masculinity: one which rests on demonstrations of physical strength.

What does it mean to be a man? I really don’t have a clue. But in a context of almost daily revelations about sexual abuse or harassment scandals, and a wider backlash by some men against the gains made by women and LGBTQ folk, it’s probably time that more men starting asking themselves this question, and felt able to interrogate their own identity, their relationship to the world around them, to other men and to women. Many of the horrors of the world – war, conflict, sexual violence – can be attributed in some way to masculinity and men’s continued need for control and dominance. We probably need to start asking ourselves whether this model works any longer, or if it ever did in the first place.

Non-human bodies – Blade Runner: 2049

If you’re a secret sci-fi nerd like me, it would be easy to get seduced by Blade Runner: 2049, at least on the surface. Taking on a cult classic with such a committed fanbase was always going to be an ambitious undertaking for director Dennis Villeneuve, but the hype that surrounded the release of the sequel was not entirely unfounded. As a spectacle, the film is immense. Its production and set design immaculate, pushing and pulling between the aesthetics of the original and a new visual style for the story. The score, full of growling, ominous drones and rattling synths, was loud enough in parts to make the speakers ay my local Odeon rattle.

The cityscape of the future LA it envisions is truly frightening, forever shrouded in a bleak, dusty haze and almost unrecognisable as a human habitat. Ecological devastation is a standard trope in pretty much all dystopian sci-fi, to the extent that it would look strange to picture a future Earth not covered in smouldering rubble. What was was interesting about this film was the foregrounding of non-human characters who are navigating the decaying planet: it’s the film’s replicant characters who are asking what it means to be human in a world that looks decidedly inhuman.

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Thematically, the film develops a lot of the core ideas of the original. In particular, the exploration of the inner world of replicants hinges on questions of desire, love and reproduction. Going beyond the question of whether androids dream, the film asks whether androids can love, and whether they can make babies. This is also the key fault line underpinning the social order the LAPD so perilously polices: if replicants are able to reproduce, do they threaten to supersede their human creators?

But it’s here that it becomes hard to overlook some of the movie’s central flaws, particularly its pretty dubious gender politics. Let’s take the film’s six main female characters. The first, Joi, is a virtual girlfriend, who can literally be switched on and off at will and whose primary function within the narrative is to provide reassurance and the simulation of physical intimacy, to Ryan Gosling’s character, K. The second, Mariette, is a prostitute who repeatedly comes to K’s aid. Ana Stelline, meanwhile, is a memory maker, potentially one of the film’s most interesting characters, though unfortunately she is barricaded inside a glass cage for the entirety of the film. The character of Rachel from the first movie, is briefly brought back to life only to be executed a point blank range a minute or so later.

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The two more realised female characters are K’s chief Joshi, played by Robin Wright, who attempts to seduce her younger counterpart, and Luv, the badass replicant enforcer. Both of these characters are eventually violently dispatched, and there is a sense throughout the film that women, human women that is, might no longer be necessary in the future. And there’s never any doubt that it is men who are in control: a female replicant who comes spluttering to life in a traumatic ‘birth’ scene is promptly stabbed in the stomach by Jared Leto’s, prophet/inventor/father-figure character Niander Wallace, a brutal reminder not to get too many ideas about asserting her own autonomy.

There were moments when I thought this might be explored in depth, that the film might offer an interrogation of what a patriarchal society, built on slave labour, might look like when advanced virtual reality has become an affordable commodity and man’s destruction of the natural environment has reached its natural conclusion. But there is never any great exploration of these themes, despite the film stretching out to almost 3 hours in length. Objectification of women is taken as a given: one of the film’s most visually arresting images is of a giant naked holographic woman coming on to K.

And then there’s the fact that this supposedly futuristic LA (whose current population is around 10% African American, 10% Asian and almost 48% Latino) features only minimal speaking parts for people of colour. Edward James Olmos, who played Deckard’s partner Gaff in the first movie, makes a brief appearance, as does Lennie James, as a foreman of a scrap yard utilising child labour. Like the original movie, which was daubed in Japanese/East Asian aesthetics while simultaneously having no major Asian characters, Blade Runner: 2049 gestures at a polyglot future (Russian is heard frequently throughout the film, there are signs in Hindi, and K even seems to understand Somali, as he manages to converse with a market trader called Dr Badger, who, not in any way stereotyped, tries to sell K a goat) without giving any depth to characters that are not white males. Even back in 1999, the producers of The Matrix were able to countenance a future that was markedly multi-racial.

For a film made in 1982, the lack of attention paid to issues of representation might have been just about excusable. But for a film made in 2017, where debates about gender, race, social equality and reproduction are raging, the treatment of these issues feels negligent, and it’s pretty disappointing given the potential offered by the scope of the film.

It’s curious that the film has been released at a time when the work of Philip K Dick, who wrote Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, the book on which the original movie was based, has slowly been seeping into the mainstream: Channel 4 is currently showing a series based on his stories called Electric Dreams. In the fractured world that we live in, there’s clearly an appetite for storytelling that’s able to explore the weirdness of the future we’re very rapidly sliding towards. It’s a shame that the producers of Blade Runner: 2049 weren’t quite brave enough to part with some of the worn Hollywood tropes that meant a more nuanced human, or post-human future, could be explored in depth.

 

 

Supersonic Festival 2017 Review – Saturday Hightlights

[Originally written for The World is Listening]

Despite celebrating its 14th year, Birmingham’s Supersonic Festival is still a bit of an anomaly on the UK festival circuit. Maybe that’s down to its small size, its location, or the esoteric line-up it puts on each year, that has few headliners most people would recognise. And maybe it’s no bad thing either: commercial considerations are largely left aside, leaving space to explore some of the most forward-thinking, experimental and plain weird new sounds from the UK and beyond in the company of others who genuinely appreciate doing the same.

Curated by Lisa Meyer and the team at Capsule – who promote alternative sonic and visual arts from their base in the Custard Factory – Supersonic has long championed independent artists in the fields of metal, noise, electronica, alternative folk and hip hop, as well as sounds that transcend genre boundaries altogether. Its open-mindedness is also reflected in the relatively gender-balanced line up, which features a significant number of pioneering female artists.

The first of these that I see as I enter Wild (one of the three venues for the festival, along with adjacent Boxxed and The Crossing) is Jessica Moss, a member of Canadian post-punk band Thee Silver Mt Zion Memorial Orchestra, who has branched out on her own with the aid of her violin, a loop pedal and a bunch of effects. The drones and harmonies she creates feel orchestral and ominous; her violin playing is stunning, weaving a gothic tapestry which is occasionally overlaid by her gentler vocals. Her set also introduces two themes that run throughout the festival: unorthodox uses of instruments, and an emphasis on drone and texture rather than on ‘songs’ in the normal sense.

After that I get to see Big Joanie, a self-described Black feminist punk band, and a welcome interjection into a festival space that, despite its open-mindedness, is still predominantly white. Big Joanie bring an overtly radical political stance to the event, a consciousness of the need raise the profile of marginalised groups within the punk scene. But rather than the loud, confrontational sound I was expecting, their sound is a lot warmer, drawing just as much from grunge as from hardcore punk.

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In a lull between performances, I wander around the main hub of the festival and have a peek at the Black Metal Life Drawing class that’s taking place. People are earnestly sat at tables, sketching a model posing in an Alice Cooper grimace. This feels like a hint towards the festival’s early days where metal bands were a central component. But it also shows the light-hearted and friendly side of the festival, where there’s none of the hedonistic excess you’d find at a lot of similar events. Despite some of the extreme music, overall it’s a very civilised affair.

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The weirder sounds that were hinted at by Jessica Moss come into full force during the The Seer, a collaborative multimedia performance orchestrated by film-maker Conny Prantera which features several other visual artists and musicians. The piece is centred on the mythological figure of Cassandra, and while frantic violin playing, wailing and the clattering of drums emerges from the stage, several cloaked figures creep through the audience, leaving offerings at a makeshift shrine at the front.

But I only catch the first 15 or so minutes of this, as I’m drawn by the gnarlier, more violent sounds emerging from Boxxed, as Italian avant-metal noise renegades Zu make their way on stage. Their ferocious set is an incredibly precise and intricate lesson in sonic destruction, which brazenly tramples over genre boundaries and time signatures. Bassist and electronics wizard Massimo Pupillo does things I’ve never heard anyone do with a bass. For several minutes, he induces ear-drum rattling blasts of noise, some of which he summons by taking out his jack lead and whipping it. This is the festival at its most intense, and for the unprepared, probably its most alienating, but it’s the peak performance of the weekend for me.

The theme of using instruments in unpredictable ways is taken up again shortly afterwards by monstrously talented saxophonist Colin Stetson. Using a mixture of circular breathing, multiphonics (producing more than one tone at the same time) and mic-ing up the keys of his sax to project their percussive sound, he transforms the main auditorium of The Crossing into a hypnotic, trance-inducing reverie of cyclical rhythms and undulating melodies.

Saturday’s final act is Zonal, A collaboration between Kevin Martin (better known as The Bug) and Birmingham’s own Justin Broadrick of Godflesh, it’s a coming together of noise, mutant dub and metal. I’ve been to enough of The Bug’s shows to know ear plugs are an absolute necessity, and it doesn’t surprise me when the bass emanating from the speaker stack sends plastic cups jumping an inch off the bar. It’s another bruising sonic adventure, of sludgy beats rumbling beneath sheets of distortion, and at time it feels like the room has been paused in the start/stop motion of strobe lighting.

At this point, I bump into a Mancunian record store owner who’s down from Glasgow. She’s maybe had a few, and she’s berating the ‘white sausage fest’ of an audience for not dancing. She’s got a point: the audience, at this gig at least, is predominantly white and male, and not moving very much. While there’s definitely truth in what my intoxicated friend is saying, I wouldn’t write the festival off completely: in terms of its lineup and its dedication to exploring music at the fringes, the whole event is of a very high quality and one of the most sonically interesting festivals I’ve been to in a long time.

 

Thoughts on I Am Not Your Negro

James Baldwin is one of those writers whose work I keep returning to at different stages of my life. I read him first when I was a student, and then found a copy of Nobody Knows My Name while I was living for a year in Berlin, in a bookstore run by a gregarious American who let you buy books and then swap them for other ones once you’d finished reading. Every time I read a bit of Baldwin, his dissections of American narratives around race, identity and history still reverberate. Baldwin writes about violence, bigotry and the moral blindness of his country of birth with a mixture of poetry and rage that I haven’t encountered in many other places.

For Raoul Peck, the director whose documentary I Am Not Your Negro is based around the unfinished book Baldwin started writing in the late ‘70s, Baldwin’s writing had a similar hold on his mind from a young age. Peck, who spoke in a Q&A after a screening of the film, explained how Baldwin’s writing had ‘structured his mind’, giving him signposts to understand his reality as an exiled Haitian who has also lived in the Democratic Republic of Congo, the US and Germany.

Peck used the words of Baldwin to create a film about race in America, representation, and the refusal of the country to fully come to terms with its past. Baldwin had been driven to start writing the book following the assassinations of three of the civil rights movement’s most important figures: Medgar Evers, Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. The disturbing thing about the film is that words that were written almost 40 years ago are still relevant to what is happening in the United States (and elsewhere) today. The film contains shots of both the Oakland and Watts uprisings in 1968, and footage of the uprising in Ferguson in 2014. The two are barely distinguishable, and half a century on from the height of the civil rights movement, deep structural inequality, police brutality and mass incarceration of African Americans are all endemic.

I found the structure of the film frustrating in places. It seemed to meander around a lot of different themes before arriving at its key point: that America has still not confronted the truth of its history. Despite the fact that he was heavily criticised by more militant sections of the civil rights movement at the time, such as by Eldrige Cleaver in Soul on Ice, Baldwin was especially on point when he managed to turn the table on the whole ‘race problem’ in America, by asking white America why it had felt it necessary to invent ‘The Nigger’ in the first place.

In some ways I Am Not Your Negro it’s a pessimistic film. It shows that, despite the election of America’s first black president, real structural change has yet to appear, precisely because white America has largely refused to answer those kinds of questions. Part of the reason for this, according to Peck, is down to an ‘intellectual gentrification’, where consumerism has left us with 500 cable TV channels and an inability to actually confront what’s happening in the real world, so that when many Americans (or others) see images of their own cities burning, and militarised police firing tear gas at their own citizens, the response is “that can’t be happening here!”.

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Image from Ferguson protests, 2014

But as Baldwin himself put it, “I cannot be a pessimist. Because I am alive. To be a pessimist means you have agreed that human life is an academic matter, so I’m forced to be an optimist. I’m forced to believe that we can survive whatever we must survive.” Despite his fury at the atrocities that America had committed, he was a humanist, believing deeply in human beings’ innate ability to transcend horror. Ultimately, the message of the film, and of Baldwin’s writings, is that by staring unflinchingly at our own lives and the history that has produced us, we will be able to become something much more than that which we currently are.

Thoughts on Space – part 1

I’ve been thinking about space a lot recently.

Maybe it’s because a friend of mine went to see Rogue One – the most recent addition to the bloated Star Wars franchise – a few weeks ago, without having seen any of the original movies. So we had to start from the beginning and watch them all.

Which took me back a bit. Having grown up on those films, it felt like a reenactment of childhood, and a pang of nostalgia for simpler narratives, ones in which things explode immediately when they crash into something and there are forested planets full of cute aliens.

In Star Wars, we don’t need an explanation for why the Empire is Evil and the Rebels are inherently Good. We just have the intuitive understanding that this is the case and that all is as it should be. Even though the technology might be more complex, life is actually simpler: you know who whose side you’re on and who the enemy is.

I wonder whether that’s part of the appeal of space in storytelling: when life on Earth feels increasingly complex and incomprehensible, and our grip on reality feels slippery and nebulous, space offers the possibility of escape, and of perspective – we get to see ourselves as we really are in relation to the rest of the universe.  It also affords us the possibility of change and redemption – of being able to begin again, away from the failures and havoc that we’ve wreaked on our home planet.

But equally, space can bring us the opposite: far from offering a new beginning, or the start of a new phase in our evolution, space can become just a wider canvas on which to paint our collective pathology.

Take Netflix’s The Expanse, for example. Its premise is that humanity has colonised the rest of the solar system: Earth and Mars have become two competing powers, while in-between sit the belters, human inhabitants of the Asteroid Belt, who mostly do all the heavy lifting, and who seek independence.

The labyrinthine plot notwithstanding, it offers a more realist depiction of what life on other worlds would be like. Humans are still humans, doing humdrum human things, and our old ways – conflict, hierarchy, violence, lust for power and control – are still very much with us. Resources, such as water, are still scarce, and human existence is as precarious as it ever was.

Maybe what I’m trying to get at is that right now there’s more than ample reason to want to fantasise about getting the fuck off the planet and starting again elsewhere. But even though we might be able to envision traveling into hyperspace, part of our brains are still descended from reptiles, and we’re apt to keep making the same mistakes over again. We might long for the possibility of escape. But it won’t help us to escape ourselves.