Taking a pile of books onto the Fourth Plinth
Graham Fudger on his Trafalgar Square readings
Before the event...
Several friends have asked me why I'm taking a pile of books onto the fourth plinth...
I first encountered Anthony Gormley's work when I was studying art at university. His 1993 piece ‘Field for the British Isles' contained thousands of little clay figures, that seemed to swarm towards the viewer ( or perhaps they were just watching, I'm not sure).
Fast-forward to 2009, and taking my place along with two thousand four hundred people who will stand for an hour on the fourth plinth in front of the National Portrait Gallery. Surely, the provocative location of the piece raises the question, what is art?
Well, step back five hundred years into the gallery behind me, and you'll see it as a collection of quite stiff portraits of some very powerful individuals and their families - people who could afford the labour and skill necessary for putting paint onto canvas.
Which I suppose brings us to the question of Empire.
Nelson, the man on the big raised plinth in front of me was obviously a very brave man. He died for his country, fighting the French in the Battle of Trafalgar... so, no prizes for guessing why it's called Trafalgar Square.
But what are the statues on the other three plinths?
King George IV is one, a man known for his lavish lifestyle. He was responsible for commissioning the Royal Pavilion in Brighton. The second plinth holds a statue of Major General Sir Henry Havelock, a British military commander active in India, who died of dysentery after the siege of Lucknow.
Charles James Napier is the third. According to the Wikipedia, he was appointed Commander in Chief in India in 1849 and led a number of military actions against indigenous peoples on the notion that: ‘The human mind is never better disposed to gratitude and attachment than when softened by fear.'
I'm not sure I agree with him, and now would be a good time to take a guess as to why I've chosen to take a pile of books up onto plinth number four.
Writing a book is no easy task. Like the portrait painters of old, it takes years of dedication and effort to master and explore the literary conventions that have coalesced over hundreds of years to form the present-day novel. Those conventions allow for a wonderful breadth and depth of expression, and the best examples are to be applauded and indulged.
The Man Booker Prize commenced in 1968 and made its first award in 1969. It is open to English language submissions from writers in the Commonwealth of Nations (and Ireland ) which at present tallies over fifty sovereign-states worldwide. Places as diverse as Botswana, Samoa, New Zealand, Pakistan, and of course India (home of Aravind Adiga, writer of last year's prize winner - The White Tiger)
To sum up, I can think of no better way of challenging our nation's dark imperial past than by confronting it with the voices it sought so long to suppress.
I doubt the bronze statues will listen or care.
But then... that is rather the point.
After the event....
Well and truly cultured.
So, what was it like coming down from the plinth? Was I chased down the street by thirteen somewhat irate authors, unhappy at my tongue-twisted mangling of their work?
Luckily no. A very charming Ion Trewin, administrator of the Man Booker Prize, shook my hand and thanked me for my efforts, then a journalist took me aside and asked for my thoughts. Later that day, a friend showed me some of my comments in print. (yow!)
Did I muse on the delights of the nominated writers' gifted prose? Did I reflect on the pleasure of speaking on their behalf? Did I stop to consider the Waterstone's bookstore across the road from the National Portrait Gallery as a site of vital cultural importance?
No... high on adrenalin, I stumbled, I staggered, and said the first things that came into my head, and if you knew my head, you'd know what I mean (which is another way of saying I'm a photographer for a very good reason)
So, who was I during my sixty minutes of fame? If I'd been reading in silence, I might have been myself. But reading aloud, I had taken on the role of conduit, channelling not just the author's voice, but that of thirteen fictional and potentially unreliable narrators.
Was I a chimp? With the live audience before me, and a virtual audience on Sky Arts somewhere in the back of my mind, did anything present actually constitute art?
Well, nobody bought me for a million dollars, much to my disappointment. But that did leave me free to skip off to the bookshop a couple of hours later, and buy a Man Booker-nominated best seller for just eight pounds ninety nine. A work of art in it's own right.
Anthony Gormley's work speaks of many things. One aspect involves the body as a place of memory and transformation, whilst another embarks on a journey through different kinds of space. The One and Other ‘live-art' project involves metaphor and symbol, which are in many ways, the ‘stuff' of fictional text.
The psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott once described the space between the inner and outer self as the location of cultural experience. And I guess that's what my wife was referring to when she took me to one side at the end and suggested we go for a drink, with the words. "Darling... you're looking well and truly cultured..."
