We left He-Who-Sets-Snares sitting facing the courtesan at the water mine for three days waiting for Enkidu to appear. We rejoin them as finally the herds reappeared at the water mine and among them frolicking in the joy of pure water, Enkidu himself. "There he is! Now, woman, bare your breasts, have no shame, do not delay in receiving his embrace. When he approaches, disrobe and lay with him; let him see you naked, let him possess your body. Teach him, a savage, your womanly wisdom because, as he murmurs his love for you, the wild animals who share his life in the hills will surely reject him." Suffice it to say that the courtesan followed instructions effectively, for it was six days and seven nights before Enkidu remembered his abode in the hills and returned to rejoin the wild animals. The latter, as predicted, however, fled and, says the story, Enkidu would have pursued them but his body was tied as if by a rope and his knees gave way when he tried to run. Encode was weak because wisdom was with him and manly thoughts inhabited his heart. He consequently returned to sit at the feet of the woman and listened attentively to what she said: "You are wise, Enkidu and now you are like a god. Why would you want to be a savage like the wild animals? Come with me; I will take you to Uruk, the city of strong walls; come to Ishtar's temple and Amu's; there lives Gilgamesh who is strong as a wild ox and rules over men" Enkidu wanted a companion, someone who would understand his heart, tells the story. And yet, his words to the woman were: "Take me there: I want to defy him, for I am the strongest, I was sent to alter the course of events, I will prove victorious." The desirable virile qualities of being wise, strong and handsome; of having manly thoughts in your heart and wanting a bit of a tussle with a best friend are a heartwarming reminder of those far gone days before the rise of New Man... "Let's go, Enkidu. I know well where Gilgamesh lives and there everyone dresses with coloured robes, they party everyday, the young are beautiful and smell nice. You, who loves life will meet Gilgamesh, a man of many parts, a man of radiant virility and perfect body, in the height of maturity. unstoppable night and day. He is stronger than you, so stop bragging: Gilgamesh was favoured by the gods and he will know you are coming even before you arrive". And indeed, Gilgamesh had a prophetic dream, that a meteorite had fallen from the skies; it was so heavy that it could not be lifted and so beautiful that he had to fall in love with it. He brought the dream to his mother who interpreted that a strong and loyal companion was coming to him. He would be the star from the sky and the axe that gives strength. Gilgamesh's dreams were relayed by the courtesan to Enkidu who entreated him to rise from the floor, gave him half her clothes to adorn him for the journey to Uruk; she then took him to the shepherds who gave him bread and wine and she said to Enkidu: "Eat this bread, which is the staff of life; drink the wine, as is customary in the land" At this moment it is hard to resist the Eucharistic overtones of the scene, but this is a fleeting reference: Enkidu drinks seven goblets and was merry, his heart was fit to burst and his face shone: he was inebriated but still able to untangle his body hair and anoint himself with oil: he became a man then, but when he donned man's clothes, he was like a bridegroom. he hunted and watched over the shepherds, who rested. So now Enkidu is strong, civilised, caring, handsome, and has acquired some polish and manners. Life is good. But then, a messenger arrives. Gilgamesh is behaving as usual, being brutal and lustful and shutting out his people. They needed a champion and Enkidu was sent to earth to be that champion. Cometh the hour, cometh the man!
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Gilgamesh was wise, powerful, courageous, well travelled, resolute, gracious and... and lustful. The inhabitants of Uruk, fearful of his despotic power, complained behind closed doors that he "Rings the bells for his own amusement" - presumably a blasphemous act - "and his arrogance has no limits; he takes the children from his parents and takes for himself any virgin that takes his fancy"... and so the gods decided to create a being who would be able to curb Gilgamesh's excesses. And so the noble Enkidu was created. He had the virtues of the god of war; he had long curly hair like a woman and his body was rough and covered in matted fur like that of cattle: he knew nothing of humanity or of tilling the earth. Meanwhile, in the wooded hills above Uruk: He who sets snares was at work by a water mine... [He who sets snares is a character in this story who never is known by any other name and, for my money, seems an archetype of some importance. Maybe comparable to the modern spin doctor, or the press baron, or the jilted Tory Party donour. He is presented as someone who is out setting snares because the animas are invading his lands and destroying his crops, but in reality he persists in the ensnaring business even well out of this remit]: while in the woods, he saw a terrifying creature consorting with the animal herds: running with the gazelles, suckling their milk and eating the grass on the hillside. This vision frightened the man and he returned to his father, who told him to go to Uruk and tell Gilgamesh of this apparition. And so it was. He who sets snares told Gilgamesh, the king of Uruk, that he had seen a scary man, "...different from all others, who roams the pastures; is strong as a star from heaven; helps the wild animals to escape, destroys my snares and fills in my ditches..." [could this be a CND agitator, a primitive ecologist?] As had already been foretold by his father, he who sets snares received from Gilgamesh the obvious instructions in such cases: "Go, you who sets snares, return to the hills, take with you a prostitute, a pleasure woman. At the water mine, tell her to disrobe; when he sees her calling, he will for sure embrace her and then the wild animals will surely reject him." Pretty obvious, really. Who better to carry out this mission than the ensnarer-in-chief himself? I bet he was excited. Whereas the political processes have evolved somewhat, as in people having elections and public enquiries to address the bad behaviour of politicians, the role of women in subverting the natural order and corrupting the innocent has remained pretty much the same. And what have we, my sisters, do to change any of this in the last 8,000 years? 20,000 years? The prostitute and the poacher sat for 3 days facing each other by the water mine, waiting for Enkidu to appear, we are told, before the action really got going. But that is for the next chapter. I picked up a slim volume from the poetry shelves in Bertrand bookstore in Faro last week. I read books in my tablet but not poetry, which I must hold in my hand. This book is the epic poem Gilgamesh. On the cover, an irregular shape painting, fragment or object, coloured as in watercolour shows the rudimentary profile of a man and a shield, or map. See for yourself: The guy has a very low hairline and a curly beard, but appears to boast a great six pack: presumably this is the eponymous hero. I bought the book immediately, how could I resist on such a day, such a stroke of luck? I had vaguely heard of Gilgamesh before, but no details sprang to mind, if I ever knew them. Apparently, Ashurbanipal collected various legends and oral myths and compiled this one narrative in the VII century BC. His catchy title was "He Who Stared Into The Abyss" - and now I know what he means. I actually think that what is not written is just as valuable to understanding both the myth and ourselves as what is there, in incredible language. Of course it has to be taken for granted that women in this book are likened to objects, but with a certain primacy, has to be said. For instance, at a given moment, Gilgamesh encounters an ax, so well crafted, so handsomely finished, so finely balanced that he "loved it like a woman". You make of it what you like, I chose to think he thought it rather nice and desirable. But really women appear in many guises throughout the narrative, and objects they may be, but they are clearly objects of awareness and intent. A brief introduction, then: Gilgamesh himself was a god-like hero of awesome beauty and terrifying strength. This epic poem starts, much as the Odyssey does: "I will proclaim to the world the feats of Gilgamesh..." he reigned over Uruk and there he built strong defences and also the temple Eanna, for Annu, god of the firmament and Ishtar, goddess of love and war, with good fired mud brick. He was wise, saw the mysteries and knew the secret things; he taught us a story about the days of the Deluge. "He had a perfect body which terrified, like a great wild bull". But there was a tiny flaw in his character. And then perhaps not so tiny and perhaps not just the one... this little story is not really a whitewash job on Gilgamesh's character. His relationships were unorthodox to our eyes and his drives shocking even by the standards of the day. I can't wait to get to the women, but first, tomorrow, I will tell you the reasons why it was necessary to create his alter ego and companion of all adventures, Enkidu.
This is an old Chris Riddel cartoon in the Observer, but it illustrates my point, all the better for being a not very good likeness of Tony Blair. Yes, I could go on to rant about the iniquity of corruption in politics, but that is rather beside the point and will achieve nothing, whereas writing about the trials and tribulations, disappointments and joys of the potter is equally unproductive but much more to my liking.
The early 21st century scenario is one of devastation: throughout the country, important, active, busy, imaginative arts organisations and events are being dismantled. having been created with vision and flair, they have fallen foul of subsidy starvation. Sacred cows of yore are being sacrificed to expediency and shortsightedness. From Cornwall to Nottingham, from Wales to North Yorkshire, pottery events and fairs are being shut down and their assets, collections and traditions handed over to private enterprise, who shut them in vaults and overlay them with elitist pretentions. The latest example is that Rufford collection of marvellous pots has been handed over to the tender care of the Harley Foundation. Everything else will disappear into dust, including opportunity and access. I have no idea of the economics of all this, I just find myself a consumer without a supply. So, WMD here stands for Want More Dosh. When the 2012 Olympics were a mere spec of mud in Seb Coe's trainer, I remember being in a conversation when somebody said: "And now all the lottery money will go to the games and the Arts Council will have to stretch the cash. " I grabbed that notion and, filled with mature sentiments of fair play, thought: we will wait for the Olympics to be over before getting too ambitious with our plans, then. I have only just realised that the Olympics have been over for a few years now and yet the money for the arts continues to shrink. There is some dosh around for high visibility political experiments - some of them in the grim up north, even - where councils put the percent for art into street lighting and call it the arts budget, or they take out of storage an old Barbara Hepworth and spend their entire arts budget on carting it to the site... you have to feel sorry for those in charge of conjuring up these smoke and mirrors activities. Community art is valuable and value for money. But the case has to be much stronger than that nowadays to attract new funding and we are all out of arguments. Volunteers are falling out with each other because there is no money to fund proper organisations and the burnout rate is tremendous. So, if an organisation is useful and well thought through, if it puts in place a service that is valuable, why let it go to the wall rather than rescue it with reasonable support? Why pretend that something new is happening by printing a few T-shirts, book bags and badges with a shelf life of less than 5 minutes? What is the point of branding something that doesn't exist? I know, I am SO old fashioned!...
This is a David Hockney painting that brings me very close to the relationship I have with nature. I am right inside that canopy, right under that green shelter, supported by the visor and struggle of bent and twisted trunks. "As never before in history, common destiny beckons us to seek a new beginning...let ours be a time remembered for the awakening of a new reverence for life, the firm resolve to achieve sustainability, the quickening of the struggle for justice and peace, and the joyful celebration of life." another borrowing, this time from the Earth Charter and quoted in Pope Francis' encyclical on the environment. I return to writing at a time when I also return to my own life, having wondered far and wide in other people's lives and in the service of other interests, wider perhaps than the immediately personal but also alien and exhausting. I am back.
This pot, together with its twin, took me from November to mid June to finish. I did a few other things in between, but I worked hard and thought hard, took some chances and not all of them resulted very well: I like the learning that comes from mistakes, like the chance to test and accept the risks. It is disappointing that I, impulsively, fired it without checking that all glaze had been wiped off the bottom. Even I should know better than to do that! The result is that a good part of the bottom of the pot stayed stuck to the shelf, which ruined the pot and the shelf.
It is ok to know why things went wrong but, surprisingly, it is the loss of colour that bugs me most, because I can't imagine what happened there - 4% red iron oxide slip should produce at least a minimal blush or jaundice and there is no sign of that except for the very faint smudges here and there. So I went from finding the pot too garish to finding it pale and stale. Oh yes, and make that lovely glaze a bit thicker next time! Start again Out for a walk over a landscape so odd and uncompromising makes me look at the small details. I want to know what makes this place so different, so scary and so gripping. It is not pandering to any aesthetic arrangement that I can recognise. Boulders tumbling over and under tree roots. Trees riveted in a crucifixion of stone. It is painful to touch those trunks so contorted, so profoundly callused. The stones themselves are covered in soft velvety moss, but they have been rounded and polished not just by rolling and tumbling but by millennia of rain and wind and wild rushing streams in spate. This place is OLD. I look at nature to see forms I can take home to my mud; I look for bellies and handles and voids and pattern and repetition. Everywhere that has been gardened and pampered offers some of this. it is eminently comforting to see forms you recognise or adopt for your own in nature. There was none of this in this place. It gives nothing, yields nothing. It teaches without words the beauty of real. The elegance of being. The stillness of true. These are vast lessons that take a time to sink in and produce a new quiet humble reality. The imperfect, the possible, the quiet, the unpolished. Go there and see; stand amidst those boulders and experience, listen, be. So, on my walk, looking at the small details, I missed the point entirely. I took photographs and made audio notes into my phone. I was dissatisfied and uncomfortable on a cold morning, feet hurting from the irregular terrain. My jaw was set and I wound up with a buzzy head. It was such hard work resisting the pull of the place while clinging desperately to a preformed intention of making the landscape mine. That is what gave me a headache. It just shows, you have to be armed with imagination when you confront the outdoors: you never know what might happen next! |
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