In my work as a writer I’ve been going through a phase of trying to identify my PRACTICE. That’s Practice with a capital ‘P’. This is because I’m often not sure whether to call myself a Creative, an Artist, a Writer, or a Journalist. Or all of the above. I operate in all of these modes interchangeably – sometimes at the same time. A couple of people I’ve mentioned this quandary to have countered with “Does it matter what you call yourself?” And they’re right; it doesn’t matter. But then, it matters enough for me to want to know what I am in my own mind. This is about trying to capture my own approach and answer that dreaded question ‘What do you do?’ without fumbling. Because, it feels inherently linked to a process. And instead of feeling assured, my answer is usually a sequence of stilted semi-ramblings because I don’t have a coherent answer.
Perhaps it’s about identity too – a ‘Who Am I’ big life question. The truth is of course, that you can be several things at once. I’m a writer and I’m also an artist – both involve a certain shared perspective – looking at the world from the outside-in. You’re an observer trying to make things make sense; steering a course through a set of fractures and connections. And as you articulate what you see, you are hopefully helping others to articulate things for themselves too. Sometimes I’m writing opinion pieces and sometimes I’m reporting as a journalist, sometimes my writing is expansive and descriptive, sometimes it’s taut and to the point. And most often it is realised through the Media – published in physical magazines and on digital platforms.
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It’s easier than ever for people to present themselves as experts, as a recent HBR article on thought-leadership versus ‘thought-doership‘ explores. A few prompts into an LLM, can throw up a suite of expertise to call one’s own – except that ‘this’ expertise was never actually discovered through experience or won through the school of hard knocks. Whether using AI or not to conjure expertise, theories need to work in practice. So we might as well make sure they do. Because if they don’t they’re of little use. And so it is, that in this AI age, having a Practice – the all-important ‘doership’ of putting theory into practice has never been more important. For example, a neat and tidy principle for how to fix the team dynamics at work – however groundbreaking as an idea, might turn out to be a dud in practice, and God-forbid, make things worse. Experience and knowledge straight from ‘the coal face’ will stand out amongst the untested and unsubstantiated advice presented as second-hand theory. The advice people offer from lived experience keeps us grounded too – it’s humbling for someone to have to speak from their own successes and failures, and that is exactly what gives people authenticity. It also underpins any genuine sense of authority. In terms of my writing, I want my words to have had a real physical life before they hit the page. I’m convinced that having a real world, lived Practice is creatively vital and leads to our best work.
At a recent three-day course I attended, I saw firsthand the importance that having a sense of Practice makes in the context of leadership. One speaker amongst several contributors stood out particularly because everything she spoke about was rooted in her own day-to-day on-the-ground experience. And this wasn’t an average role. – Nikki Marfleet had been (until recently) the Governor of one of Britain’s high-security men’s prisons – HMP Woodhill, where violence, drug-issues and safety were everyday challenges. Here the importance of effective leadership was vital for her team and the 800 prisoners in her charge. She had done an art degree (before also studying criminology) and it was both amazing – and a little surprising – to hear how she brought her creativity into her role as a prison Governor. A seemingly simplistic approach but incredibly effective: was to make handmade cards for staff which included personal messages offering encouragement. This could be taken as naive but the result was that it really helped staff to feel seen and valued. And with some more imaginative problem-solving she set out to improve prisoners’ experiences by planting trees in the grounds so that they could see the changing seasons from inside, which helped their mental health. Taking action like this began to give staff and prisoners alike a more positive outlook. It was still a high security prison but in terms of her leadership it was a game-changer, improving the overall wellbeing of staff and prisoners alike.
When writing, ‘Be better, be punk’ I really started to notice how my Creative Practice is developing. The piece had a momentum of its own right from the beginning – as if it was a story that wanted to be written. I kept finding myself, over and again, in the right place at the right time. From the initial idea, to the experiences and interviews along the way and the conversations it sparked with people after it was published – it was a living and breathing entity captured in words on a page. It had its own life. And I felt alive too. I suddenly noticed the things I already do very naturally, and when I feel at my best. It was a signal to me of the wider creative process I was participating in as I ‘made’ the article. Importantly, it relied on my being ‘out there’ and engaging myself – being present and active in the world. And I found that my Practice is very much rooted in these things, which contribute to the wider work of researching and developing the idea – exploring a hunch and being really inquisitive and curious. My Practice felt like I was hosting a wider conversation with every person I met along the way. This threw open new avenues and made me realise that as long as I continue to write I’ll be having an ongoing conversation with the world.
An example of this was at a networking evening: I had written on the sticky label I was given to wear: “My name is: Alex Noel… Talk to me about: Punk Spirituality”. It was far better than inviting people to talk to me about writing, which has never gone particularly well. I would get questions about whether I still even have a job (I do, by the way). It was fascinating to discover how many places Punk has reached into as it has pervaded our culture over the last 50 years. From design principles of ‘punk production’ to Punk’s DIY ethos influencing leadership and coaching, and then further insights into my particular focus for this piece of punk spirituality.
Talk to me about punk spirituality, and anything else intriguing!
In that sense, my Creative Practice, is about fieldwork – talking to people, finding out what they think, connecting with them. It becomes a whole dialogue where ideas and points of view can flourish and flow. This is most true in person but I also want it to be true for how I engage online. I think making that shift is really important for engaging well with people. And always remembering that an audience is made up of individuals, each with their own stories and experiences. Recording my experiences diligently is all part of that Practice, whether in note-form, with audio or photography together with other research – it forms part of my ‘field notes’ which has a similar function to an artist’s sketchbook – tracking the evolution of the idea and deciding how best to communicate it. It’s a work in progress but this is what I’m realising as I go.
I would also be lost without having read The Pyjama Myth; The Freelance Writer’s Survival Guide by Sian Meades-Williams. Although I’ve got this far, I have been largely making things up as I go along ever since I launched as a Freelance Writer three years ago, and I felt so seen when I read her book. It was brilliantly practical and no-nonsense. And it was both validating – I was getting some things right – and challenging; I needed to make some changes and upgrades to how I work.
So this is my Creative Practice, which, as I’ve now come to understand forms ‘the architecture of my creative voice’. The more I lean into it, the more momentum and clarity and opportunities I create. And the more confident I’m becoming – having the framework there, gives me freedom.
I have a theory. You can only hack the human operating system so far before you compromise it. It might be highly efficient to outsource things like writing to AI, along with other forms of creativity but at the same time these are fundamentally human-centric processes. We need to keep doing them ourselves in order to function well. What’s more, writing things down using pen and paper – rather than typing on a keyboard or using a digital interface – is where the magic can really happen.
Stephen Bartlett put it well in a social media post: “When you write things down, you turn chaos into clarity. Start untangling your thoughts, pen and paper is where order begins.”
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Putting pen to paper is indeed where a sense of order begins: do you have a jumbled pile of things you need to do but no idea where to start? Write them down in a list. Do you feel overwhelmed? Write everything down on paper. Or are you trying to figure out what you feel about a difficult situation? Starting journalling and see the clarity emerge as you process your experiences. Naming your emotions as you go will also help to gently pull apart the tangled knot and straighten out the various strands into clear thoughts and feelings. It is a form of literacy to know what you’re thinking and feeling.
Its effectiveness is connected to ‘mark-making’ which requires coordination between hand, eye and brain. The same is true for drawing or painting – it helps us to regulate our emotions and process our thoughts. It both embodies and externalises them. And when you read words you’ve written back to yourself, you are creating a mirror. It is here you can gain a valuable sense of perspective on the condition of your own soul and the inner workings of your own heart and mind.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve arrived at the page of my journal feeling confused and burdened about a situation. But as I’ve put pen to paper, and written in longhand, it has forced me to create understanding – to make it make sense – for myself first and then for others. It’s unlikely anyone else will ever my journal unless I show them, but the result for me is being able to articulate better what I’m experiencing.
And without even trying to create meaning there’s value in doing this. Just the action of writing words on a page – even if they’re largely nonsensical is still worthwhile; as a ‘brain dump’ so to speak. This starts the flow of thoughts going so you can get to that place of understanding. Like the scum that forms when you’re boiling leftover chicken – bones and all – from Sunday’s roast dinner. As it simmers away you periodically skim it off the top to find the clear broth beneath. It’s a bit like that with journalling.
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This type of journalling forms a core practice within Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. She calls it the Morning Pages. The intention is to open the creative tap and clear out the stagnant water which collected in the pipes overnight (I don’t know how far I can push this metaphor to be honest). Instead of clear intelligible thoughts, what lands on the page when you’re writing the Morning Pages should be considered dross, effluvium – you’re not even meant to revisit it. But by getting the creative flow – flowing – the process promises to release the good stuff. By flushing out all the concerns and randomness that fill our minds, the deeper ideas can surface. Under all that scum is pure gold. And there might even be some random ideas that come to mind while you’re flushing everything else out. That too is gold.
It’s good to make time for drawing too (and any other creative activities that involve making things with your hands). Again, it’s putting pen (or pencil) to paper for me. This is usually simple sketches in coloured pencil – either from life, or from images or paintings. I love going to the ever-popular Drop-in Drawing events on Friday nights at the National Portrait Gallery. Those gathered draw from any number of the portraits hanging on the walls of the Gallery – in response to a brief we’re given at the beginning of the session. Each time the sessions offer a new way to engage with the artwork, to look from a different angle, and create renewed meaning. We then get to show our work and discuss it with the tutor. And while this is absolutely about catharsis, it’s also really fun – it throws me back to my art school days. I always have a sense of rightness afterwards – like I’ve done something that has cared for my emotional, mental and creative health in some way. I feel lighter, I breathe deeper, I smile. It actually feels good for me. And it is. Engagement in the arts is proven to improve health outcomes as well as our overall wellbeing (see Daisy Fancourt’s new book Art Cure for a full look at this).
That’s the thing about our hand-eye-brain connection. It’s something which is built into our human design. That’s especially true if you’re a self-confessed Creative, where things like writing, painting or drawing scratch a fundamental itch, but we all have that creative faculty within us. We all have a need to ‘make’ something in some way. In terms of the science; the tactile, connected nature of putting pen to paper has cognitive and psychological benefits for us as humans – not least for memory retention, mental clarity and focus. Wider benefits include enhancing our overall creativity. As we make those marks, we also make cross-connections in our brains which spark fresh ideas and solve problems – enhancing our lateral thinking. The tactile and physical nature of it – we can touch and feel the pen and the page – uses more of our senses (rather than converting key strokes to pixels on screen).
The way I think of creativity is changing. Rather than a luxury or optional extra – a ‘nice-to-have’, I’m now beginning to think of it as an absolutely essential thing for us as humans to do. It’s something so basic to our human operating system – body, mind, soul – and spirit – that without it we fail to function properly. And the science backs this up.
“At the last General Election, I spoiled my vote. In the booth at my local polling station, I quietly pressed a stubby pencil into the ballot paper and wrote ‘BE BETTER’ across all the boxes. When I threw open the curtain, I was met with quizzical looks; a feeling of anarchy was burning in my heart. I felt so good. It was one small act of resistance against a political class I felt kept letting people down. I wanted them to be better, I believed they could be. But how?
50 years ago, there was a real troublemaker in town. One that dared to defy both the Establishment – and established thinking. Bursting onto the music scene in 1976; Punk was a musical force. Its anarchic energy and bold attitude bumped up against everything, to change the cultural landscape forever.” Read more at Seen and Unseen…
“A new book, Art Cure by Daisy Fancourt, explains why engagement in the arts can actually improve health outcomes as well as contribute to our overall wellbeing. Dr Fancourt is Professor of Psychobiology and Epidemiology at University College London, and has built up a body of evidence from scientific studies over several decades to show that creativity and the arts do our bodies and minds serious good.” Read more at Woman Alive magazine…
On a very wet and blustery Sunday afternoon I went to see Emerald Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights”, which opened in UK cinemas on Valentine’s Day. And let me tell you; those quotation marks, insinuating its loose affiliation to the original book, are absolutely necessary. In this article I’m sharing my immediate impressions of the film. There’s at least one more article coming which looks at other aspects in greater depth.
Interpreting the text
Firstly, if you have never read the book, it doesn’t matter – because this film bears little resemblance to it. I had this fact quickly corroborated by the two young women sitting in the audience next to me when I asked them for their opinion. And then later when I reviewed and checked the plot when nothing seemed to… check out. But “Wuthering Heights” is not designed to be an accurate adaptation. It is entirely Fennell’s own interpretation of Emily Brontë’s book. And based – as I can well imagine – on a particular way it made her feel as a young person. So in that respect at least, it is entirely faithful to her experience. She has said in interview that this is the film her 14-year-old self would have made. And honestly, it shows. It is full of nostalgia for the crushes and dreams and whimsy that play like a collection of posters on a teenage girl’s bedroom wall; the excitedness of sleepovers, coming-of-age films and emotive chart songs… and boys.
It is also perhaps the story a 14-year-old would have wanted to read. Instead of its bleak reality which never satisfies Catherine and Heathcliff’s obsessive longing for each other, meaning their love is never consummated – not even close. Fennell’s decision to gratify many-a-reader’s own longing and deliver up the passionate love affair that never actually happened, changes things entirely. In that sense, this film is a total revision of Wuthering Heights, imagining a parallel world for these two unrequited lovers. It’s very Sliding Doors. To help achieve this she has removed certain characters, changed timelines and focused only on Volume 1 of the book. In Fennell’s version, the romance-that-never-happened is now vital and centred, and propelling the characters towards the same star-crossed doom as Romeo and Juliet. And altogether avoiding the novel’s deeper message and significance.
Music montages and big feelings
One of many things I wasn’t expecting was that a large portion of the film would dispense with any meaningful plot development. And be given over to a series of montages – styled in a way that can only be described as ‘1980s music-video’. It’s probably no accident that Charli xcx’s album which accompanies the film is full of synths and breathy, choral sounds – think Enya or T’Pau. Montages aim to cover a lot of storytelling in a short time – but the film relies heavily on these to convey the pair’s desperate desire for each other, as well as its consummation. The music videos of those aforementioned artists, plus the Bangles, Madonna and others (Billy Idol even), offer up the right type of romance thanks to their billowing curtains, countless candles, and studio backlighting – as well as overacting those Big Feelings. In the end, it was beginning to feel a bit like a parody, and the much-lauded eroticism of the sex scenes seemed to fall flat. Frankly it left me cold.
Then there are other moments which, for me, evoke 80s films like The Never Ending Story, itself traumatising a whole generation of children just as much as the Brontë sisters’ work – Jane Eyre anyone? And also The Princess Bride. And of course, Kate Bush is in the mix too. Her own avant garde interpretation of the book gave us her song by the same name. But she too – according to the women I spoke to after watching the film – had mis-sold them on the romance of the book.
Aesthetics and religious overtones
The 1980s seem a good lens to unite the aesthetics, including bright colours, big hair and bigger jewellery, harnessing all the opulence of the era to supercharge the Georgian-Victorian-Edwardian looks worn, especially by Margot Robbie’s Cathy. It’s a hodge-podge of influences but it works. Emblematic of this – and used to great effect – are the crucifixes; a nod perhaps to the book’s religious overtones and Victorian morality which produce the context for some of its bleakest moments, and its most repressed emotions. Her bejewelled cross resembles those worn by Madonna, in white wedding dress, during her Like a Virgin performance at the MTV Video Music Awards in 1984. This use of religious icons rankled the Catholic church, but inspired swathes of adoring teenage fans to adopt her look. It filtered out across the high fashion and music of the decade. Utilised in collections by Christian Lacroix, Chanel and Karl Lagerfeld, its design drew from the Baroque era to make it become synonymous with 80s fashion. Madonna wore Christian Lacroix for Like a Prayer‘s album artwork, shot by Herb Ritts, albeit more muted than his catwalk couture. Nonetheless, it echoes Margot Robbie’s historically-inspired outfits – bodices and all. In terms of costume, it’s to designers like these, and others like Mugler, Alexander McQueen and Vivienne Westwood that Fennell has looked for inspiration, and for many of the high fashion moments she orchestrates, artfully staged in their own right (but jarring with the film overall). Meanwhile, Heathcliff’s outfits simply observe the tradition of Brontë’s time. But the gold-tooth and earring are enough to give him the air of a pirate plundering his treasure.
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Providing further crossover with Robbie’s costumes and appearing at least, to inspire much of life in the Linton household, is the saccharine Victoriana of Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland. Even down to several outfits worn by Robbie which remind me of the Queen of Hearts. Cathy more than evokes Helena Bonham-Carter’s spoiled sense of entitlement in the way she treats ‘her’ Heathcliff, whom she proudly named as if he were her pet. And in much the same way that the queen treats her grovelling subjects; Cathy is screaming and petulant when she doesn’t get her way. Meanwhile, the tables at Thrushcross Grange groan under a spread of food in keeping with the boastful excesses of the Victorian era. This is told by one particular shot which slowly zooms in towards Margot Robbie seated at one end, over a banquet of confectionary including towers of sweetmeats, macarons and aspic jellies. It doesn’t miss a beat in calling to mind the Mad Hatters tea party with its exuberant colours, outlandish creations and well, madness.
Cinematic references
In amongst all this is Fennell’s obvious affection for golden-era technicolour romances, even if it does mildly poke fun at them too. Much like the Coen brothers did in their film Hail, Caesar! it sends up the style of the time – overacting and all. In that film a subplot features a group of Marxist writers who kidnap the star of the film whose screenplay they’ve written, in a conspiracy which aims to exploit the studio system. As a result, the Coen brothers critique both capitalism and communism with equal irony. In light of this, it is interesting that there have been several Marxist readings of Wuthering Heights, a candidate for this by being written just as the industrial revolution was firmly taking hold, and noticeably in West Yorkshire where the book is set. Its capitalist goals soon to change forever the agrarian community Emily Brontë writes about.
Aside from this there are lighter moments of slapstick comedy, in the spirit of Singing in the Rain. Speaking of rain: there is an awful lot of it. As one internet commentator put it: “‘Yorkshire’ in the film looks as though it suffers from permanent monsoon. The Yorkshire tourist board must be thrilled.’’ The production designer, Suzie Davies speaking to Architectural Digest (ArchDigest) on Instagram explains how they built a composite set as “a throwback to those 40s and 50s-type films” where the whole environment was built within a studio. The ‘wet look’ they give much of the set is about more than just the weather (though wind and rain effects were going in nearly every scene, she says). The tiles on the buildings were finished in high gloss: “we wanted the whole environment to feel really wet and sweaty and moist” as if “even the walls were sweating, crying or extruding some kind of bodily fluid.” Which neatly circles back to that bathroom scene in Emerald Fennell’s previous film – Saltburn.
This film does seem made more for stage than screen; so much so that I wonder if I can see the sets wobbling, especially at wind-battered Wuthering Heights, which sits in a dramatic high-sided ravine perpetually assaulted by the elements. But I also wonder if Emily Brontë herself saw her characters acting this story out, the book is a little too hyperbolic to only live on the page. But perhaps it was inspired by hyperbolic characters – I’ve heard Lord Byron’s poetry mentioned more than once as a major inspiration for her writing. And whose heroes (‘Byronic’ as they were) would likely have been on her own bedroom wall, had she lived in the 1980s. Nonetheless, under all that gloss, Emerald Fennell’s film still lacks cohesion but it is “Wuthering Heights” after all. And though it is flimsy, it does have its own sense of robustness.
A Little Life, the book by author Hanya Yanagihara and now the play, directed by Ivo Van Hove, have acquired not a little notoriety. Both are sure to divide opinion and have definitely got people talking.
It was with some trepidation that I agreed to go and see the play of A Little Life over Easter weekend at the Harold Pinter theatre.
The friend who invited me gave appropriate disclaimers and warnings about the content. This included the fact that the seats she’d managed to get for us would be right on the stage, front row. We would almost be part of the play ourselves.
In the name of being culturally brave I said yes. And in the face of reports of the book’s traumatising effect, which would only be heightened in the play, (plus a lot of nudity – apparently) I decided that it was All Art Anyway, and the best way to approach it was as an opportunity to have a significant life experience. Neither of us had read the book yet, so we committed ourselves to that too. We formed a book club and read the not-so-little, A Little Life. Mainly as an exercise to prepare ourselves for the play.
To my surprise I absolutely devoured the book. In spite of its size, I finished it in a little over two weeks, utterly compelled to keep reading. A Little Life is an irony; for the book is well over 700 pages long, and the story is one of enormous scope. Initially daunted I found myself skipping through the pages at pace, keenly drawn into the world of the book’s main characters; JB, Willem, Malcolm and Jude, as early 20-somethings (the book spans their lifetimes)… their flat-shares, first jobs and friendships. Seeing their lives and the self-sustaining world they are creating for themselves evolve, in a forever-noughties New York.
The World of New York
Despite the city looming large over the book, there is nothing to anchor this story to any specific time or era as defined by the events of the wider world. These are absent and it’s only through scarce references to phones or emails (or certain expressions they have) that you have any idea as to when exactly this story is set. Even so it all feels very relatable. You can see and feel Hanya Yanagihara’s New York – as timeless as it is, thanks to the visually rich and evocative prose. In some way this insulation from the outside world reflects the insularity of the group’s story and their experience together. It sets the stage for our players.
The narrative landscape at the outset is broad; it warmly opens windows into the lives of this circle of four young male friends. Their characters, thoughts and relationships evidencing themselves as they talk, socialise, and daydream on trains. On moving to New York, they party together, begin projects, move houses and start new jobs, all four of them firmly on a path towards success. Their lives revolve almost exclusively around each other. We see them all at various times through one another’s eyes; Jean-Baptise (JB) the painter; Willem the actor, Malcolm the architect and… Jude.
Jude, the mystery. While his three friends are knowable – their backgrounds, ethnicities and demographies as unavoidable as open books, they in turn know nothing of Jude and his origins. It frustrates them more than it concerns them. At one point JB takes this to task saying “…we don’t know what race he is, we don’t know anything about him. Post-sexual, post-racial, post-identity, post-past…”, christening him “The Postman”. This is a postmodernist accuracy, and yet arguably wrong of Jude for whom all these are very present, as we will discover.
Jude. The ambitious and talented lawyer; working first for the US Attorney’s Office and then later ‘selling his soul’ and moving to a prestigious corporate law firm. There he develops, over time, a reputation of being both ruthless and brilliant. As notable as it is; it is not this impressive professional life that comes to matter here, but the emerging shadows and secrets from his past. And the growing dichotomy of the man he is and the man he isn’t. At one point, Harold (his adoptive father) notes that he has never known anyone so bifurcated. It is around Jude whom this story comes to revolve. Initially told from multiple perspectives, the narrative shrinks decisively as the book goes on. In concern for one very central figure, sidelining the others, it focuses its attention on one defining story. That of Jude St Francis.
Early Observers, the Artistic Eye
JB’s attention is an early portent of this. His artistic eye recognises early on the hypnotic centrality of Jude’s character to this group. He holds the role of the group’s observer, capturing and documenting the interactions between his other three friends. The photos he takes, and the paintings he makes from them, are enigmatic and wistful. While featuring his friends, they are insatiably focused on Jude. JB’s lens begins, inevitably, to expose what Jude is desperately trying to hide, much to his chagrin. Despite his ongoing attempts to keep them at bay, the shadows are creeping, and his trauma is seeping through the cracks.
Admittedly, the success these friends experience between them: Top Attorney, Celebrated Artist, A-list Actor and Brilliant Architect is rare to find in any one group alone. And yet, rather than these achievements, it is the shadows in Jude’s past that come to define them all, as it does him. He can never outrun them. Nor does he try to for his own sake, he copes, he manages. He will only attempt it for the sake of others – his best friend, Willem especially. He has imbibed his past so completely that it has become him, and despite so many good people telling him otherwise he cannot help but internalise its messages. That he is worthless and fundamentally flawed beyond redemption. The shame, and his belief that he was somehow complicit in the actions of others towards him, to the point of deserving them, have soaked him through. He is so utterly a victim of his past that he cannot separate himself from it. Not able to find even a millimetre of perspective. Or to see himself and his experiences with a modicum of self-compassion. He is subsumed and it is the trauma within him that holds everyone’s gaze, even though they don’t realise what they are looking at.
His past, we discover, is horrifying. It is relentlessly abusive. And wholly traumatising. You find yourself asking, ‘How could one person be so unlucky?’, ‘How could he attract so much malicious intent from those charged with his care?’ And ‘how could so much abuse happen to one single person’? Jude’s trauma is extreme, and dare I say it, clichéd. Yanagihara has said that Jude came to her fully formed, (and admitted that she didn’t really research his character). His trauma is equal and opposite in its extremity to the love, friendship and success he experiences with the friends around him. ‘How could one person be so fortunate in such dedicated friends?’ It would seem that this more than adequately atones for the pain and trauma in his past, but it doesn’t. Because to him it is still present – in the chronic pain and shame. And in the very identity he has formed. The resultant trauma itself is an ongoing abuse.
The book has its share of familiar tropes, which makes it feel unreal at times. Yanagihara has commented to say that the extremes were intentional. Because of these it would almost better succeed at being a fairytale or allegory, if allowed. Good versus bad. This idea did help to reconcile what at times could feel so clumsy and far-fetched as to lack any of the nuance of real life.
Fixing Tendencies
Be warned, this story will draw out any tendencies to ‘fix’. It will simultaneously appeal to, and deeply frustrate anyone who likes tidy endings and neat closure, but isn’t that all of us? Whether a problem presents itself in the form of a person or an issue – we want to solve it. But what if it turns out to be a ‘gravity problem’ – a grander, more complex issue beyond our control? This is somehow the nature of Jude’s trauma. In truth it is beyond the experience and control of any of his friends, but somehow they keeping trying to fix it. They’re at risk of becoming enablers – his doctor, Andy, is a case in point. Stretching the boundaries of professional responsibility again and again in the name of loyalty and friendship, in the hope of being the one to offer Jude redemption.
We all long for redemption – it’s key to so many narratives. It’s so expected that sometimes we take it for granted. It is the concluding resolve we expect to hear at the end of a piece of music, or the neat conclusion at the end of a film, or a familiar bedtime story. But A Little Life has no resolution, no redemption – and this anticipation will simply not be satisfied. It is the discordant note hanging in the air. And it’s this that really makes this book get under your skin. It’s shocking and uncomfortable. As is the play – it’s exposing. I’m sure this is part of the reason for its popularity… it can’t help but divide opinion, to get people thinking and talking. Just take a look at the reviews.
It is so tempting to think ‘If Only’. If only things could be different for the sake of Jude and his friends. If only he could make different choices, if only he could see how much he’s loved, if only he could find something worth living for. But this is not where the story is going, and as much as you try to hold it back, there is a desperate inevitability about the trajectory of Jude’s life. The reader, the viewer – this audience watching Jude’s life unfold, unwittingly find themselves colluding with his friends in their sense of defensive hope.
As much as this is a story about Jude and how his past trauma defines him, it is also about his friends. It emerges through their own stories that there are significant reasons why they are so drawn to Jude. And why they stay. This includes Harold; losing his young son due to a rare genetic condition, he has experienced a loss he has never recovered from. And in Jude he gets to make right the failures he sees in himself and attempt to change what happened. Jude himself becomes increasingly disabled as the book goes on, both because of the chronic pain he experiences and the damage done to his body by a deliberate car accident, as well as an undefined disease he lives with. And then there’s the psychological pain, and the deliberate and brutal self-harm he inflicts on himself as much as a coping mechanism as a way to act out his self-hatred. Harold holds him through all of it, never able to make it go away.
Willem, Jude’s closest friend, his confidante and later in the book, his partner, grew up with a disabled brother, who also died young. In the absence of his parents (first emotionally absent then physically) he cared for his brother, forging the strongest of bonds with him. Only to be told, tragically whilst he was away at college that he had died. It becomes clear that it was the needs of his brother that had held his family together, and linked him to his parents. Without his brother, he is cut adrift. He partly relives this connection and bond through his friendship with Jude.
We see this most poignantly in Willem and Harold, who remain closely connected to Jude’s main narrative as the book goes on, but there are other figures, always helping, always finding a way. For without the pasts they are trying to correct, there is no story. It’s a double-edged sword, they evidently love Jude and care for him, they rescue him again and again. From himself but also for themselves. He is fulfilling a need in them. How otherwise, could they have the patience or compassion to give so much to him. As he continues to reject their help and advice, while stubbornly refusing to help himself – whether unwilling or unable to do so. And so it is that the codependencies we see in this group were already formed before they met Jude. The pathways were already trodden, through other, earlier experiences that in some way they are all revisiting and attempting to resolve.
In the end it is JB who has seen it all clearly – observing with the distance and perspective of the artist over many years, producing a vast body of work in the process. And it’s interesting that it is JB who frustrates and challenges Jude the most. He sees through him. And he won’t let Jude be a victim, he won’t pander to him. At times it seems cruel, but in doing so he just might be the one who loves Jude the most. He sees that Jude is complicit in his own suffering. Clinging to his own narratives, his own beliefs and the conclusions he has formed about himself to obscure the truth. The truth that he is valued and loved and redeemable. As a result he remains a victim and prisoner of his past. Never transitioning to become a survivor and overcomer. Either because he won’t or just can’t, and we will never know. This is the greatest tragedy of A Little Life.
Seeing the story living and breathing on the stage added solidity and shading to the characters. Sitting on the stage brought the story to life even more and dispelled some of the extremes of the book. It brought out the subtlety and nuance. These could be real people. All with their own stories, hardships and traumas. It was invigorating to be so close and feel part of it – the action so near you could reach out and touch it. The actors’ skill in portraying these characters was unmistakable. They were captivating – incarnating and inhabiting the characters, and embodying their pain and frustrations. No more than James Norton as Jude, but also Luke Thompson as Willem and Zubin Varla as Harold. While unfortunately more peripheral, but no less present; Omari Douglas as JB and Zach Wyatt as Malcolm shone in their roles too, as did the rest of the cast. The staging, and clever touches which included cooking on stage added to the sensory nature of everything happening in front of us. Which ran to the scenes of abuse which couldn’t appear more realistic.
Art and The Viewer
Here was a piece of Art. If treated as such, A Little Life becomes less about the integrity of the narrative and character arcs; or about the wondering Why and If Only. And more about the place and response of the ‘viewer’ in interacting with the story and its themes. Could the book be designed first and foremost to elicit a reaction, to unsettle and to cause the viewer to become uncomfortable, agitating those deeper questions and frustrations? To hold up a mirror.
In this it reminds me of artist, Anish Kapoor’s work. Marsyas, his 2002-2003 Tate Modern installation, monumentalised the disembodied sinews caused by self-flagellation. Stretching out across the huge space of the Turbine Hall, were taut ribbons of red resembling huge pieces of muscle and tissue. You could almost feel it in your body. Later his retrospective at the Royal Academy featuring malleable sculptures of red wax moving through the galleries in negative space, so viscerally representative of blood and tissue. They produced a strong, almost guttural reaction in the viewer. The associations were many and varied. A pellet of red wax fired periodically against a wall – evoked a sense of shock and associations of bodily suffering, war, death, atrocities and pain.
Is this the purpose of A Little Life? Primarily as Art, to evoke such a reaction, so visceral and bodily, to the painful results of a life of trauma that has no resolve, no possible redemption. Being beyond escape it leaves a desolate, empty aftermath where all efforts have counted for nothing. Are we in the place of Jude’s friends as they are reduced to powerless observers? Their good and desperate interventions only ever delaying the inevitable, never stopping it. The hopeless trajectory is set and in the end there is nothing they can do. There is no redemption.
A Little Life at Easter
Seeing the play over Easter weekend highlighted a poignant contrast for me. In the Christian faith Easter Saturday is traditionally the darkest day of all. Jesus lay dead in a tomb, all hope was lost. He had been whipped brutally and repeatedly, the skin ripped from his back. He had been ridiculed and abused, to then be nailed to a cross and left to die, hanging by his hands until his lungs were crushed under the weight of his own body. Crucifixion was reserved for the most despised and maligned in society. Jesus’ followers and disciples had been so full of hope, but they were left standing bereft in the bleak reality of his death – how could this be the end? So desolate, so empty, so pointless.
In the case of A Little Life, that is the end. It offers us no redemption. And forces us to confront the reality that there are some things that cannot be rescued or redeemed, such is their inevitability. And that is true. It just makes the tragedy of Jude’s life even greater.
By contrast, Easter offers us hope and healing. Easter Sunday marks the day that every seemingly inevitable trajectory towards death and destruction was turned around. Jesus, who had died on the cross, was resurrected to life, transformed and renewed by God’s power. And because of that it fundamentally shifts the end point of our past pain and trauma. And the power it has to rob us of the goodness of life now and in the future. This may surprise you to hear but it was an unavoidable connection for me to make between the play’s conclusion and the good news of the Christian message being celebrated that weekend.
The irony of Jude’s suffering – which served no ultimate purpose, was so jarring against the passionate death of Jesus. Who chose to suffer and died willingly, giving up his life for our ultimate redemption. Then against the odds, rising again, carrying us with him in his resurrection to renewed life.
Alex Noel 