YOHJI, BARE

 

This is Yohji Yamamoto 81 year old Japanese ‘master of fashion’ (I’m quoting the Financial Times).  

 

And in an interview in that paper he says, ‘Today my meditation happens when my son visits me in Tokyo and we walk the dog together.  It’s my happiest moment.  I wake up naturally at five in the morning and wait for my son who wakes up at six. Then we walk for one hour. There’s the push and pull of the lead in my hand.  As my dog leads I follow.  In that moment I meditate.’

 

Well OK. Meditation, we know comes I many, many forms.  

 

Elsewhere he says, ‘I have travelled all around the world, mostly walking around, looking at landscapes, rocky sceneries, and plants and flowers. Nature is incredibly strong. I have said to myself that I will never be able to design such beauty.’

    What took you so long, Yohji?

This is a pair of sneakers he designed.  429 quid to you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

EVERY LITTLE STEP YOU TAKE

 

“I believe everything out of the common. The only thing to distrust is the normal.”  ― John Buchan.

 

 I’ve been waiting for this.  The 39th step moment.

 

I have a very, very poor step counting app on my phone.  I’ve always thought that the whole business of having to do a certain number of steps each day was pretty bogus, but I admit there’s a certain pleasure in seeing the numbers rising, or there would be if you could believe in them.

 

My own very, very poor step counting app seems to pluck numbers out of the ether that have little relation to anything, certainly not to any distance I’ve actually walked.  

 

Worse still, the inamorata has the same app on her phone, and there have been days when we’ve walked exactly the same routes and she’s clocked up a couple of thousand steps while I’ve clocked up a couple of hundred.  

 

Since I think the whole thing is bogus I can’t get very upset about it and I wouldn’t say that on the day that my app told me I’d walked 39 steps I actually had but it is just about possible. I’d scarcely left the house that day since it’s been so bloody cold out there. And accurate or not there was pleasure to be had in seeing that magical number of 39 appear on my screen.

 

Just as there was in this sight in Harwich, a set of steps with the number 39 painted on the nearby wall.

 

The world is full of small pleasures.  Am I right, sir?

Quite right, old chap.

 

 

 

DISLODGED

 It was sad to read last week of the death of David Lodge.  He had a significant, if oblique, influence on my life, although needless to say I had no influence on his.

 

When I was in my early teens and had just started to read ‘grown up’ books (whatever that might mean) I borrowed a copy of The British Museum is Falling Down from the local library.  It’s a book about PhD students at London University. At the time I had no idea what people did at universities and if I’d even heard the term PhD I certainly didn’t know what it meant.

 

However from reading the book I learned that there were people in the world who spent all their days in libraries, reading and writing, while working on a thesis. This came as a huge surprise.  It seemed as improbable as the wildest science fiction.

 

Anyway, I eventually got the hang of that.  And a few decades later I was at a literary festival at Dartington College, on a panel with David Lodge.  We were in a lecture theatre that had a balcony, and although the balcony wasn’t being used for spectators, about halfway through the event a solitary figure appeared in the empty seats up there.  It was Malcolm Bradbury!!  

It felt like a visit from a deity and it concentrated the mind no end.

 

After the event I was standing around talking to Lodge and Bradbury and their partners and one of them (alas I forget which one) said, “Geoff, we’re all going for a walk.  Will you come with us?”

 

And I had to say no, because I’d organized for a friend to come and give me a lift to the place I was staying overnight and I didn’t think I could say to him, just hang on for a couple of hours while I go for a walk with these literary luminaries.

It was one of the greatest walking regrets I’ve ever had. 

Photo by Gunter Glucklich

WALKERS INCARNATE

 

It was Boxing Day and I was leafing through Walter Benjamin’s The Arcades Project, you know the way you do, and I came upon one of his observations that I’d never noticed before.  Benjamin writes, “The sandwich-man is the last incarnation of the flaneur.”

 

Of course Benjamin isn’t talking about a man who walks the street with a handcart full of BLTs and chip butties, but rather the type of man who historically walked the streets with advertising boards strapped to his back and front.  This kind of thing.

In fact that’s a still from The Sandwich Man, a 1966 film starring Michael Bentine, who also co-wrote, and featuring a panoramic cast of British comedy troopers, Dora Bryan, Bernard Cribbins, Harry H Corbett, Diana Dors, Stanley Holloway, Wilfred Hyde White, Terry Thomas, Ron Moody, Norman Wisdom, Suzi Kendall, among many others.

 

Imdb describes the plot as: “A man with a sandwich-board (advert) wanders around London meeting many strange characters.”  

Having now watched the film, I can tell you this isn’t a very accurate description, and it makes it sound rather more fun that it is.  Yes, Michael Bentine walks the streets of London advertising the wares of a tailor on his boards, and things do happen around him, rather weary comedy routines mostly, but he tends to be just standing there watching and smirking.

It’s impossible to think of him as a flaneur, but he certainly does get around.  We see him in Croydon, Piccadilly, at Tower Bridge, the London Palladium, in Surbiton, in Trafalgar Square, at the Hilton Hotel in Park Lane, even in Dulwich Park.  Of course it’s best not to ask how he gets to all these places on foot in a single day, but that’s movie magic for you.  And London does look wonderful in the film – very sixties, i.e. very modern in some sense, very old fashioned in others, both very familiar and very alien.

 

There aren’t many reflections on walking, flaneurism or anything else, although the wonderful John Le Mesurier makes a very brief appearance as ‘religious sandwich man’ - (and is the best thing in the film by miles if you ask me), and he tells us the sandwich man’s motto is “A fair day’s walk for a fair day’s pay ...  If you’ll take the advice of an elderly sandwich man, see it all happen but never get involved … And never wander from the path of righteousness, brother.” Words to live by.

  I’m not saying that The Sandwich Man is a Christmas substitute for Die Hard or It’s a Wonderful Life, but I’m glad I saw it.  And as I watched I couldn’t help thinking about Anthony Newley in The Strange World of Gurney Slade – which was a short TV made six years earlier, but it feels like a much more ‘sixties’ creation than The Sandwich Man – genuinely strange and surreal, sometimes experimental, sometimes downright Theatre of the Absurd.  And with a lot of walking. 

 

WALKING SOMEWHERE ELSE

    Here's a thing that popped up on Instagram a little while ago

 - a quotation (and pic) from Buckminster Fuller “How often I found where I should be going only by setting out for somewhere else.”  

To which I suppose you might ask, “Well yes, but how often exactly?”

 

Anyway, it did make me think, in a way that I’d never quite thought before, that one of the great and comparatively rare pleasures of walking, is to be strolling along, going nowhere in particular, and suddenly to come across a geodesic dome.

In Los Angeles you can do it just by walking along Sunset Boulevard and seeing the Arclight cinema.

 

And if you walk further you might see them in some unexpected places – not a million miles away from the Hollywood sign:

 

And in Glendale you might once have walked by this dry cleaner, which I’m pretty sure was abandoned despite the Open sign on the door.

Or you might walk down a suburban street and think, who on earth lives in a house like this?

The experience can be even better if you’re walking in the desert. You crest a hill and look down, and boom there it is:

 

Or here:

Or here in Arizona:

Inevitably the experience happens rather more often in the United States that it does in old England but it’s not completely unknown.  There were these belonging to restaurant in Gloucestershire named (I think) The Ragged Cot:

 

Photo by Caroline Gannon

And there are these bad boys in Victoria Park, 

the kind of backdrop that a lad might use for an author portrait:

 

Photo by Travis Elborough

As for the question of whether Buckminster Fuller was much of a walker, well, his 1981 book The Critical Path certainly makes some mention of walking, as when he writes, “We walk right foot, left foot, not right foot, wrong foot.”  Though I’d say we surely all put a foot wrong once in a while.

 

And here he writes later in the book, “As I have mentioned before and now repeat in a more comprehensive manner, in 1800 the average human being was walking an annually cumulative distance of 1,100 miles and riding ten additional annual miles. By 1900 the average human being was yet walking a total of yearly distance of 1,100miles but the average U.S.A. citizen's annual vehicle-ridden miles had increased to 400.  All humanity is as yet in 1980 walking an annual average of 1,100 miles but in the U.S.A., Europe, and parts of the Near East, Asia, Africa, and Australia, all men, women, and youngsters free to travel, are averaging over 20,000 annual miles of vehicular travel.”

I’ve no idea how accurate his numbers are, though the general principle seems reasonable.  I know a good many people who walk more than 1,100 miles a year; as for the 20,000 vehicular miles, I suppose much depends on whether you’re frequent flyer.

         

     But here’s a thing. During World War One, Fuller married Anne Hewlett, daughter of an architect, and when the war was over he started a company with his father-in-law, making bricks out of wood shavings. Things didn’t go well, and on the verge of bankruptcy, they sold the business 1927. At much the same time, Anne gave birth to a baby daughter. As a jobless new dad Fuller was deeply depressed. One day, he was walking by Lake Michigan, and by his own account, contemplating suicide.  But suddenly when he found himself floating a few feet above the ground, bathed in sparkling light; which I suppose is walking of a sort. He felt time standing still and he heard a voice say, “You do not have the right to eliminate yourself. You do not belong to you. You belong to Universe.”  Note the capitalization and absence of definite article.