Author: Mark Hannam

According to Alfred North Whitehead, “The safest general characterization of the European philosophical tradition is that it consists of a series of footnotes to Plato.”  

When I was a student, I thought this to be a harsh verdict on Aristotle and every other major philosopher who came after him, as if precedence in time implied precedence in rank.  I also found it to be an unintentional but nevertheless amusing parody of many philosophy books and papers that I read, in which the amount of space devoted to footnotes or endnotes appeared almost equal to that allocated to the main text.   Some philosophers seemed content to be the authors of series of footnotes.   Later, I came across the sentence which immediately follows that quoted above, where Whitehead continues, “I do not mean the systematic scheme of thought which scholars have doubtfully extracted from his writings. I allude to the wealth of general ideas scattered through them”.   Now the remark made more sense: it is the richness and variety of Plato’s philosophical interests which impresses, more than his proposed solutions to the many puzzles that he, through the voice of Socrates, draws our attention to.

Continue reading “Doing philosophy down in the docks”

I have been listening to John Coltrane.  More particularly, I have been watching a studio performance by his Quintet from 1961, of his interpretation of the song, “My Favorite Things”, written by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein a couple of years earlier. There is much to admire in this old black and white archive recording, including a delightful piano solo by McCoy Tyner, who died last month, and some under-stated yet compelling percussion by Elvin Jones.  Then there is Coltrane himself, the great saxophonist, finding ample scope for virtuosic improvisation within the formal structure of the verses, drawing out many shades of colour and contrast around the melodic line that – seemingly – he alone knew might be hiding there.  Listening to him play is better than eating schnitzel with noodles. 

Continue reading “Arodnap”

When I was a small child, history taught at school comprised a series of stories, each one recounting the great deeds of some famous man or, occasionally, famous woman.  I imagine that each country has its own selection of national heroes and heroines, exemplars for the young, whose exploits are re-told to each generation of children: Robin Hood in England, Joan d’Arc in France, William Tell in Switzerland, and Paul Revere in New England.  And, if you live in Argentina, I guess it will now be Diego Maradona.   

Continue reading “Beckettmas”

A few years ago, I flew to Canada to attend a friend’s wedding.  Towards the end of my stay I lost my mobile phone. There was a time when losing a phone would be nothing more than a moderate inconvenience, since they can be insured, quickly replaced, and have neither intrinsic nor sentimental value. They once were disposable items.  However, in the past decade they have become objects of greater significance owing to the large amount of information they store and the multiple functionality they possess.  We use them to send messages and emails, connect with social media applications and the internet, store contact details and photographs, wake us up in the morning and tell us the time during the day, allow us to pay bills and transfer money, listen to music and watch videos and podcasts, find our current location and the best route to our destination, and, from time to time, we even use them to make phone calls.

Continue reading “Reciprocity”

Last month, when it was possible to visit art galleries in London, I spent an hour looking at paintings by Artemisia Gentileschi at the National Gallery.  Despite her reputation in her lifetime as the greatest woman artist of her age – she was born in 1593 and died around 1654 – and, since we never qualify our judgments of male artists in that way, let me say more correctly that she was one of the greatest artists of her age, nonetheless this is the first exhibition devoted to her work in the United Kingdom.  She managed her own career and reputation, living and working at various times in Rome, Florence, Venice, Naples, and London, mixing with interesting people, securing important patronage, and making a significant number of impressive paintings.  This, after surviving the trauma and humiliation of being raped in her late teens by an associate of her father’s, who was later found guilty at trial and exiled.  She was, then, a person who overcame an early crisis, to flourish in her chosen career at a time when the achievement of personal independence and professional success were rare for women.  She did not allow the disadvantages imposed on her by others to deflect her determination to succeed.  Her life is an exemplary case of well-earned success, even if it has taken 350 years for the management of Britain’s art galleries to take due notice. 

The neglect of Artemisia’s achievement, by other artists, scholars, critics, and gallery-goers, is hardly unique.  There are many women whose work has been ignored, trivialised, excluded from the museums and auction houses, despite its evident qualities.  A year ago, the Barbican Centre held an exhibition of work by the American artist Lee Krasner, only her second solo show in London (the first, held at the Whitechapel Gallery in 1965), demonstrating that abstract expressionism was never solely a male preoccupation, despite the fact that both public and private collections continue to prioritise work by Pollock, Rothko, and de Kooning over work of comparable quality by Krasner, Frankenthaler, and Mitchell.   One of Krasner’s teachers, Hans Hofmann, once said of her work, “this is so good you would not know it was painted by a woman.”  Under a certain view of the world, this might count as a compliment.  Alternatively, it reflects the impoverished and uneducated character of the standard male gaze.

Continue reading “Merit”