Picture Trips

Went out yesterday on a whim to take some more pictures, and yesterday's sojourn took me back to Terminal 1 in the airport again. It's a pity that these large information boards seem to have gone out of fashion, because while Terminals 1 and 2 are graced with two apiece, Terminal 3 only makes do with prodigious quantities of plasma. It's a shame, really: I like these boards. They have a sort of quaintness to them, they are endearing in their analogue nature, and a flight doesn't seem properly scheduled to me unless it appears on a board like this. Illogical, I know, but how can one ignore the romance that is atached to such boards? What symbolises an airport, after all, besides planes, runways, the tower and these boards?

Anyway, as my timing would have it, arrived in time to actually see my flight scheduled on the board. I remember, almost two years ago, gazing at the same board and wondering when my own turn would come, and thinking that each of these names, famous or incognito, worked like magic words on my imagination, incantations that could transport one into a world of fantasy. It sent a thrill through me to look at the board this time and think to myself, Yes, there is my flight, and I will be boarding it in a little less than 40 days' time. The words and numbers on the board don't just seem to me to be information; their presence up there is a promise.

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What brought me out yesterday was originally an intention to go have a look at some art exhibits being hosted for free around town. Went down to the Tyler Print Institute to look at a show of works from Matisse, and also to the Goethe-Institut to peruse photographs of artwork in the German Parliamentary Buildings. Was struck by how seemingly easy it is to create such artwork. I mean, Matisse could create the impression of a woman with nothing more than several smooth strokes of the pencil, and the photographer Jens Liebchen's works seem to consist of little more than clever positioning of the camera and the subjects. And yet, out of those simple lines and images emerges meaning; Matisse's lines interact with each other, even dance with each other, and out of their conversation comes an impression on the viewer's consciousness. And ensnared in the postures, the positions and the expressions of Liebchen's subjects is a sort of tension, between what already exists around them and what is yet to be created, between thought and action, between awareness and execution, such that what is captured is not a snapshot but something incomplete, a slice out of a whole process. It strikes me like poetry; how the various components in and of themselves may be meaningless, but how the meaning arises from the interactions between the components. It strikes me like how an individual brick's allure is conjugated by its context in a wall, an installation, a structure, to have its own characteristic elegance multiplied by its relationships with its surroundings to become part of something profoundly beautiful.

Therein lies the trick, isn't it? Or at least, one of the tricks. A creator has to be very aware of his tools, but even more so of how the effects of his tools relate to each other. For behind the stroke of Matisse's pen and behind Liebchen's shutter must be more than whim and randomness, I believe (though the reasons why I believe this is part of an entirely separate philosophical argument). I do think it isn't hard to be technically proficient in what they do; one can copy the techniques of the pencil and the viewfinder. But what sets them apart is that they know how to use those techniques to communicate things to their audience.

And I look at my own attempts, and realise that really, sketching and photography for me are more like technical exercises rather than creative processes. I don't draw or snap to express as much as I do so to record, and therefore, my scrawls and shots won't have that beauty in meaning particular to artwork. This is especially true, I think, for sketching; beyond looking pretty, I don't really have any concrete purpose for them. And I think that does constitute a real barrier to mastery: not only the lack of expressive purpose in the exerices, but also the lack of conviction that having an expressive purpose is a vital component in making these exercises really valuable in the first place.

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But - it did make me feel good, looking at what beauty is possible at the hands of real people. It reinforces one's faith in the world somewhat. And it's a start, in getting my mindset back into a more appreciative and charitable mode in preparation for August. Was talking with Kels the other day that I felt like I had to get in touch again with the kind of intense appreciation that we had back in school, when everything was so much more immediate, and everyone was so eager to experience Beauty and Truth and all that jazz. But of course, back then, we approached this task with the abandon of spontaneity, and now that I am aware of its desirability, that selfsame self-consciousness is sort of a barrier to reclaiming that old burning. So, after all, I can still nurture appreciation, but it will be a different kind of appreciation, one tempered by awareness, one that is more detached. For better or for worse. But at any rate, some elevated degree of compassion for others is needed, I think.

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Making my way steadily through the complete plays of Oscar Wilde, and finally read The Importance of Being Earnest yesterday. I have to be frank: Wilde's earlier plays really did not appeal to me, especially the more fantastical and allegorical ones. But once he started to write more realistically, he does succeed very well at making hilarious fun of social norms. All his plays have members of the aristocracy who seem either immensely enlightened or recklessly irreverent, saying all sorts of politically-incorrect things to tease and titillate one another.

But what he's really good at is setting up complex and improbable scenarios of relationships between characters, which produce shocking developments and revelations throughout the plays. It may come across at times as somewhat of a Deux Ex Machina device, but at least the outcomes are funny. And so, we have a cocktail of irrepressible characters, improbable scenarios, insufferable humour and surprises at critical moments that yank the plot back and forth along the bounds of credulity. In effect, then, we have an example of a dramatic sitcom.

I use the term descriptively, rather than disparagingly, because it seems to me on first reading to be true: Wilde's plays derive a lot of their humour from the absurd and comical situations that his characters find themselves in. Take The Importance of Being Earnest for example. By my count, there are four cases of mistaken identity, four unfortunate misunderstandings and three forbidden romances that work out well in the end. JY once summarised the play for me, saying that in the end everyone ends up married - and it is true.

But equally, this was a play that I quite liked, because it's the first one in a long time that has actually made me laugh out loud on the train. It really is good fun to read, and even though one cannot help shaking one's head in incredulity, one also cannot help but appreciate the comic factor. I mean, with lines like "Lady Bracknell, I hate to seem inquisitive, but would you kindly inform me who I am?", how can one avoid cracking a smile at the sheer delightful absurdity of it? And I do think one has to be a bit forgiving; after all, when Wilde pulled his "I am your father" gag, that particular approach was not yet a cliche.

Beyond the absurdity and the comedy, though, there are two striking things that run as a common thread throughout his plays. One is his fondness for repeating patterns, in the form of characters with parallel situations, ironic do-overs and second chances and structurally mirrored dialogue. He does something similar in the fantastical fables in A House of Pomegranates too, using repetition of structures to emphasise escalating stakes and fantasies in a ritualistic sort of way; to draw a rough analogy, it's like how repetition is used in "The Twelve Days of Christmas". In the plays, they also serve to emphasise either comedy (because why would anyone repeat something in real life except to make an ironical point?) or the tragedy (because how can one remain indifferent to a tragic event that is about to repeat itself?).

The other is love, and how it can survive all the trials of both tragedy and comedy to bring people together. In these plays, love overcomes filial piety, vengeance, fraud, temptation, folly, caprice, aristocracy, debasement, morals and purity, even, to unite two people who have set their hearts on each other. Love works in mysterious ways and unites two people, throwing them convenient lifelines at crucial moments. Wilde seems to have a great faith in the power of love; and I say this descriptively, rather than disparagingly. It must be nice to be able to feel that kind of conviction; it must be one of a kind. But for the rest of us, at least we can still delight in the laughter and the tears that are incidental to the central issue.