ABSTRACT WALKING

Willem de Kooning is not an open book to me but that’s him above, walking, and I just read this story, about him, from Bill Berkson’s memoir Since When.

  De Kooning was at dinner in East Hampton and somebody at the table said to him, ‘So, you take walks with your dogs.’

    And he answered, ‘No. I’m a man. MY dogs walk with me.’

  Sometimes I think those Abstract Expressionists weren’t all bad.

 

      I haven’t been able to find a picture of de Kooning and his dogs.  There’s this one of him on his bike with just one dog.  Doesn’t really count, does it?

WALKING ON ICY AIR

 

I’ve been thinking about Yoko, who turned 90 on February 18th. Towards the end of January, when she was just 89, she Tweeted 

I learned about this from the New York Post which isn’t the most universally reliable news source, but in this case the information seems accurate enough – the Tweet is right there on Yoko’s feed.

 

And I do happen to think Yoko’s walking cure for depression is a very good one, though by no means every walk in New York gives you a high.  And how far was she claiming to walk?  Well that’s tricky.  There are about 20 blocks to a mile running north-south, but east-west there are about 7 to a mile. You do the math; but Yoko couldn’t be doing less than 4 miles, which would be good for any 89 year old.  Here she was walking in New York in 2015.

The Post then pointed out, and again this seems accurate, that Yoko’s in poor health, and has mobility issues.  In 2017, her son Sean Lennon pushed her in a wheelchair to receive the National Music Publishers’ Association’s Centennial Song Award (whatever that is).  

In her acceptance speech she said, “I’ve learned so much from having this illness,” though she didn’t say what the illness was, and personally I’m rather opposed to the notion of illness as a ‘learning experience,’ but that’s just me.

Other sources say she has round-the-clock care and rarely leaves her apartment in the Dakota. So maybe she goes walking in her mind.

I was especially thinking about the song ‘Walking On Thin Ice,’ which  apparently she and Lennon were working on at the time of his murder.

The song contains the lyrics

I knew a girl
That tried to walk across the lake
'Course it was winter when all this was ice
That's a hell of a thing to do, you know
They say this lake is as big as the ocean
I wonder if she knew about it?

That’s is indeed a hell of a thing, a hell of lake, one helluva walk.

THE BOOKISH DESERT

  

I can’t tell you exactly how much of a walker Alberto Manguel is.  Most photographs of him, as above, show him sitting or standing surrounded by books. But we know he certainly walked in Buenos Aires with Jorge Luis Borges, and he wrote a terrific piece for the Guardian about Ahasverus,the Wandering Jew. 

Even as a child, says Manguel, ‘The story of the tireless wanderer haunted my dreams. I didn't feel his fate as a curse; I thought how wonderful it would be to travel alone and endlessly … above all, to be able to read any book that fell into your hands …

‘And yet, almost all the depictions of the Wandering Jew show him bookless, keen on finding salvation in the world of flesh and stone, not that of words. This feels wrong … it is hard to believe that a merciful god would condemn anyone to a worldwide waiting-room without reading material.’

Here is Manguel, not walking but at least photographed outdoors, so I suppose he must have walked to get there.

 

In his book The Library At Night Manguel talks about the way in which, unless you’re a wanderer, you never have enough shelving for your books.  You find you’ve too many books and so you buy a new bookcase but the moment you get the bookcase, it fills up and then you need to buy another one and so on and so on.

 

I never doubted this was true but the point has been driven home since I bought myself a shiny new, and I’m quoting here, ‘Vasagle Bookcase, Bookshelf, Ladder Shelf 4-Tier, Display Storage Rack Shelf, for Office, Living Room, Bedroom, 80 x 33 x 149 cm, Industrial, Rustic Brown’

 

I hoped this would give me loads of extra shelf space and free up some room in other bits of the house, and now of course it’s full.

 

    Manguel also talks about the problems of arrangement, or perhaps more correctly classification.   I have a lot of books about walking and a lot, though not as many, books about deserts, so I thought I’d put all my books about walking in the new bookcase, so that I could put my books about the desert in a smaller case on the other side of the room, but then the walking books more than filled the space I’d allotted to them, while the desert bookcase still had a bit of room in it.

 

    Now, it so happens that I own some books that are about walking in deserts, so these made a move across the room out of the walking bookcase into the desert bookcase, which doesn’t seem ideal but it’ll do for now.  Reclassification is always a possibility, in fact a necessity.

 

One of the reasons I’ve been thinking about walking and deserts is because I’m not quite sure when I’ll next be walking in a real desert. But recently, mostly by chance, I did find a pretty fair simulacrum of the desert in Norfolk, in the garden of the Old Vicarage in East Ruston, the lifetime project of Alan Gray and Graham Robson. This is them, suited up:

The simulacrum is an area they call the Desert Wash designed to resemble parts of Arizona, a place neither of the gardeners has been, apparently.

 

This was my favourite spot: the sculpture is by Ben Southwell.

 

And there, in amidst the rocks the cacti and succulents, keeping his eye on things was (unless I’m mistaken, and I don’t think I am) Graham Robson himself.  He was not chatty, but why should he be? 

     Of course it wasn’t a walk in a real desert, but on a damp and chilly day in Norfolk it wasn’t bad at all.  

I bought a guide book obviously – now, where to shelve it?

 

DISPROPORTIONATE WALKING

Spare a thought for Auriol Grey, the pedestrian who was recently jailed for manslaughter after the death of a cyclist she encountered on the pavement in  Huntingdon.

 

I have no information other than what I’ve read and seen in the media but the story seems to be that Gray, aged 49, who is partially sighted and suffers from cerebral palsy, was walking along what looks, from the not very good security footage, to have been a very narrow pavement when she saw 77-year-old cyclist Celia Ward riding towards her.

 

By all accounts Grey swore at Ward, told her to get off the pavement and according to the BBC ‘gestured in an "aggressive way” towards her.’  She didn’t assault her, didn’t push her, didn’t touch her, but Ward fell off the bike, off pavement, into the road, into the path of a car, and was killed.

 

Grey got three years, though she’s apparently appealing against the sentence.

 

After the trial one Detective Sergeant Dollard (I wonder what his nickname is) said: 'Everyone will have their own views of cyclists on pavements and cycleways, but what is clear is Grey's response to the presence of Celia on a pedal cycle was totally disproportionate and ultimately found to be unlawful.'

 

It’s a terrible and tragic case all round but the reason it stays with me is because on at least a couple of occasions I believe I may have sworn at cyclists who I thought were going to run into me.  Whether I’ve gestured at them I’m not sure, but I may well have.  Of course these cyclists didn’t fall off the bikes to their death, but who can say whether my swearing and gesturing was proportionate, disproportion or ‘totally disproportionate?’  I think some clarification might be necessary. 

Of course I have also been sworn at by cyclists.

 

Worst of all according to the BBC report,‘The trial was told that police could not "categorically" state whether the pavement was a shared cycleway.’  To which one might reasonably ask, ‘Why the hell not?’

 

 

 

 

 

 

WALKING WITH OBELISKS

 Did you know there’s an area of Norwich called Tombland?

I suppose a lot of people do, but I didn’t until I found myself in Norwich last weekend, having been to a disappointing exhibition, and was looking for entertainment.  And although I wasn’t expecting Tombland to be some sci-fi, horror, zombie theme park, I was still disappointed at first to find that Tombland is pretty much the public square in front of the Cathedral entrance. 

 

In fact Tombland is the Old English or possibly Viking (scholars differ) word for empty space, though of course it’s not as empty as it used to be.  And right there in the middle there’s an obelisk, and I think you already know about my mild but ongoing obelisk obsession.  This one is actually a drinking fountain.

 

So it hadn’t been a wasted afternoon, and then because I’d looked at a map earlier, I’d seen that Rosary Cemetery was nearby, and so (being something off a taphophile) it had to be investigated. We had to walk through Old Library Woods which was not much of a wood, though there was a wayside library and a 'community chatting bench,' and some fine bookish sculptures complete with real live, unsculpted, fungi.

       And then into Rosary Cemetery which was, OMG, obelisk central - far more than you see in these pictures – Obeliskland, if you will.

 

         It was established in 1819 by Thomas Drummond, and various sources say it was the first non-denominational burial ground in Britain, though I’d have thought Bunhill Fields – resting place of Bunyan, Blake and Defoe - first used as a burial ground in 1665 would have some claim on this.  Other sources simply say Rosary was the first private cemetery in England. 

         I like walking in cemeteries, I find it a pleasure, and I do spend a certain amount of time wondering what exactly is the nature of this pleasure.  I don’t think it’s a form of gloating.  I don’t walk around thinking how lucky I am to be alive when all these other folk are dead, because I know that my luck will run out and sooner or later I’ll be joining them.

Partly I enjoy the mysteries of cemeteries. The people in these graves all had complex and nuanced lives and you can only imagine what these were because even the most elaborate headstone never tells you much. And even though an obelisk doesn’t tell you any more, it does make a statement.

 

         In fact I’ve considered buying an obelisk so that I can have it my back garden now while I live, and then loved ones can move it to the cemetery when I’m gone, so that others can walk around the graveyard see my obelisk and think what a great man this Nicholson must have been.  

 

Or I suppose if these same loved ones set up the Nicholson Memorial Museum of Curiosities, we might have something like this:

 

Of course since I’ll be gone I won’t know whether the loved ones have actually done this or not.