Review of Austin Osman Spare Exhibition, the man who refused to paint Hitler

Posted On June 7, 2017 By jadeangelesfitton In Art, Articles, Reviews /  

My review of the amazing exhibition at The Last Tuesday Society of Austin Osman Spare’s (one of Alan Moore’s favourite artists) work for Creators — you can sit and have a tea or alchy drink and look some of the creepiest and most beautiful artwork on the planet. They’ll charge you £20 to go see Hockney or Picasso down the road, balls to that. This guy was compared to Michelangelo Buonarroti and Dürer and it’s free x x x

https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/xw8zjk/austin-osman-spare-forgotten-occult-artist-hitler-london?

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The Art of Dream Interpretation

Posted On May 10, 2017 By jadeangelesfitton In Articles, Culture, writing /  

In the new, very Hockney-esque, issue of Breathe Magazine I have written an article on everything you need to know about dream interpretation through the ages and how to get started interpreting your own dreams. From the history of dream interpretation, the psychology, dream interpretation in literature, to the most common themes in dreams (fire, falling, dying etc.) and what they mean, and a ‘beginners guide’ to interpreting your own dreams. Available to buy here.

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The Magic of Trees

Posted On March 13, 2017 By jadeangelesfitton In Articles, Nature, writing /  

Well, you heard it here first, or maybe you read a science paper that told you first: tree hugging is good for you. Fact. In this article for Breathe I tell you why and I pick the best forests with some of the finest trees to hug.

I’m also happy to divulge that during a recent low point in my life, having written this article a couple of months previously, beneath the moon I hugged a tree in an olive grove. Yes, initially I felt stupid, and during, and afterwards. But it did make me feel better.

You can buy here x

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New Article for Breathe Magazine

Posted On February 28, 2017 By jadeangelesfitton In Articles, Culture, writing /  

My article Ringing in the New,  is now out in Breathe Magazine. It is about the origins of campanology its mental and physical advantages and an interview with the chairman of the Association of Bellringing Teachers, Graham Bell (felt his name had a nice ‘ring’ to it), who enlightens us on how virtual reality is transforming the ancient practice.  You can buy a copy from here.

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Ben Fogg Makes Laugh

Posted On January 13, 2017 By jadeangelesfitton In Blog, Mystery box... /  

Meant to put this up a while ago: hilarious friend, writer, director, pianist, comic, producer, control freak/genius, Ben Fogg, has made some rather hilarious videos to help him gain er gainful employment. They really are funny. And he pixilates his privates. And I’m in a couple of ’em, of course (otherwise it’d be shit) (no, they wouldn’t have) ….

http://shavenape.tv/index.php/portfolio_page/fogg-for-sale/

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Motherisms: Festive Specialé

Posted On December 26, 2016 By jadeangelesfitton In Motherisms /  

I would be a scrooge to allow the festive season to pass without some of these. So, it’s the run-up to Christmas …

Mum: I always think of you when I see Centre Point …
Me: Why?
Mum: Because when you were 3, we were making a rare trip down Oxford Street and you pointed at Centre Point and said, ‘Who lives there?’ I told you no one did and then we chased some homeless people around with sandwiches for a while, and then you said, ‘Why don’t they just put all the homeless people on the big tall tower?’ And I had to explain capitalism to you at a very early age ….
There’s a pause.
Mum: … though actually it did end up a homeless charity.

We’re leaving mum’s enclosure. She’s turning the car round and has slightly misjudged it, meaning we have to go over the curb. Mum, very sweetly, as if she is talking to a horse says ….

“Goooood car …. That’s it … Over the pavement ….”

Mum’s asking me who someone is on ‘who do you think you are’ I know who it is but I dislike the fact I know who half of these people are so much I’m refusing to cooperate …

Mum: Is this Cheryl Cole?
Me: I don’t know …
Mum looks at TV times …
Mum: Yes, it is Cheryl Cole.
I don’t look up.
Mum: Hello??
Me: Yes, good we’ve established that. My interest level remains the same.
Mum: Oh I am SO sorry to disturb you!

Mum’s come round for another Christmas at the Cratchit’s. She’s admiring the tree my friend and I decorated …

Mum: Oh it does look rather good you know Jade …
Me: There’s more fake presents on the tree than real ones under it.
Mum: That’s usually the case.

We’re watching TV, mum is describing a scene, I think, rather abstractly …

Mum: Like an Escher sketch
I assume mum thinks the etch a sketch is French, which I don’t believe it is, and don’t like it with a French accent, so correct her …
Me: ETCH A sketch
Mum: No. Escher, the painter …
Me: Ohhhh okay.
Mum rolls her eyes and mutters something about the money wasted on my education.

I’m at mum’s and am so looking forward to eating something I haven’t cooked for myself …

Mum: Supper’s ready!
Me: Yum what are we having?
Mum: A variation on gruel.
Me: Oh. Cool …

I have no idea where this came from, but she suddenly comes out with …

“I should like to be an Internet crime wave.”

Driving in Devon, as with anywhere in the world, is exciting. People make it exciting thanks to human error, I imagine when we have robots it will be more exciting because the cars will just drive us straight off the face of the earth. But for now, someone else has failed to indicate when going round the roundabout …

Me: Indicator would have been good.
Mum: It’s a sign of weakness. We’re going by the will of Allah here …

We walk into mum’s flat and it’s like the Queen’s mailsack has been poured on the floor, thousands of cards litter the carpet ….
Me: Woah ..
Mum: Oh god. I keep getting all these cards and I don’t know who any of them are from …. dear people. So sweet.

We’ve started buying our Christmas decorations from charity shops and if you don’t use the same ones every year so should you but whatever I’m not here to lecture (one day I will be). Anyway, mum is describing some of the lights she was demonstrated …

“Then they got out these very dubious blue fairy lights … made the whole place look like a police station.”

We’re at some red traffic lights, mum wants to turn right, the guy opposite wants to turn right as well, mum is creeping towards the line, eyeing the red light and nudging the accelerator.

Me: Er …. Mum, are you racing?
The light turns amber and mum speeds left, effortlessly thanking the man opposite as we screech into the distance …
Mum: Well someone has to act decisively, and my acceleration is usually faster than theirs.

I hadn’t turned my tv on for over and month and had been some new age preacher talking about how much I hated it and couldn’t watch it anymore because of the adverts bla bla bla … when it came to Christmas, I really fancied watching some TV. Turned it on to watch the Snowman and … No. The TV now does not work. So it’s Christmas day and we’re about four hours in to the Sopranos ….

Mum: Oh, San Pellegrino. The best water there is.
Me: Yeah .. there’s a lot of product placement in this.
There’s a few more cutaways to characters, usually sitting behind the Pellegrino bottle …
Mum: The Pellegrino’s going to get a credit.

I’ve cut a mountain of brussles sprouts, there are two of us eating …

Me: Enough brussles sprouts now, surely?
Mum: Dear god yes.
Me: I’ve given myself RSI again
Mum: Well that was stupid.

Mum can recite massive chunks of Shakespeare, and general poems ‘and shit’. She’s quoting something over in the corner, I’m trying to engage and be a conversationalist while doing a hundred other things ….

Mum: … child Harold un to the high towered king …
Me: Right, yes. Harold wanted Jesus dead because he’d heard a prophecy about a new king …
Mum: That was Herod not Harold, dear god. It’s a poem by Byron called Children Harold’s pilgrimage, look it up.
Me: Ok, I will.
(I haven’t. But I will.)

(I will be in trouble for revealing this but) Mum has bought the Daily Mail for the television time thing …

Mum: No one believes me but on Saturdays it really does have the best TV time thing .. it has all the numbers of the channels, everything …
Me: I believe you.
Mum: And actually, I console myself whenever I buy it that if it weren’t for the Daily Mail they would never have caught those bastards in the Steven Lawrence case.
Me: Well, good … really good … strange that though …
Mum: Very strange for such a racist paper.

Hell froze over and Mum said something nice to me ….

Mum: …. Really, I mean it. I’m not just buttering you up.
Me: Well I know that, you’ve never buttered me up, ever ….
Mum: I didn’t grow up with buttering up, you’ve got to actually do something to get buttered up in my books. People getting buttered up left right and centre nowadays, it’s not healthy.

We’re watching the carols at Kings College. Mum’s from Cambridge and is crying within the first bar of the little angel’s mouth opening, mum gushes …

“Stone masons knew what they were doing back then … Venice is beautiful and the buildings are beautiful but I’ll take Kings College every time.”

Well it’s Christmas Eve, so we should probably talk about how cold it was in the 1940s and 50s ….

Mum: … you don’t understand how cold it was.
Me: Yes I do I used to live in a warehouse.
Mum: Well then yes you’ve got the gist if it.
I don’t think mum’s got the gist of quite how cold the warehouse was compared to the 1950s chill …
Me: I had to walk across a roof in December to get to showers.
Mum: What?! You didn’t tell me that at the time …
There’s a pause.
Mum: Jade?
I drink some champagne and stay quiet …

Mum is watching something, or reading something, I’ve been cooking and can’t really hear what’s going on but it’s obviously some rally cry as I hear her shout over …

“I’d have you … you’re good in a scrap.”

Mum and I both love Alan Bennet. He’s reading his dairies and we both think he is looking great for 81. Mum is maybe more vocal about her love for Alan Bennet though (please note: we’ve had 2 bottles of prosecco or some sparkling shit because prosecco’s poisoning the Italians or something) …

Mum: Just watch him. This, now this, is a wonderful lovely man. Brrriliant, brilliant writer …
It cuts away to Alan Bennet in a room with a nice wall-hanging behind him …
Mum: Lovely, lovely tagine hanging behind him …
There’s a pause as my brain slowly whirrs into action …
Mum: Not tagine
Me: Do you mean rug?
Mum: Prayer mat
I’m in hysterics. Mum looks away for a second and I start typing notes on my phone …
Me: DON’T YOU DARE! I’ll start my own blog with all the stupid shit you say.
I continue to type, giggling at my naughtiness ..
Mum: Tripping Over Whippets, you wonna watch yourself.

Mum is fascinated by Kanye West and the wife, I’ve started quite enjoying constructing conspiracy theories with mum about them. I see she has turned to a page with his crazed face on it …

Me: What’s the goss with Kanye then?
Mum: He’s in psychiatric care.
Me: Few years too late.
Mum: That jewellery heist was a bit suspect — he’s got financial problems … Big bum has been in seclusion.
Me: Good.

Mum’s on the computer which is always dangerous.

Mum: People keep inviting me to Linkedin but don’t know what it is.
Me: No, no one does. I can’t waste my time talking about it honestly it’s so boring and useless …
Mum: No don’t. I’m so over it I’ve done it already.

I’ve put on some Boubacar Traoré ….

Mum: Who’s this?
Me: Can’t remember his name, akin to …
Me and Mum: Ali fucker Tori
Mum: Is he Malian?
Me: Maybe …
Mum: Amazing music scene in Mali. But they’re all fleeing because of ISIS, but it was amazing in the 70s — peaceful festivals in the desert with camels, no one beheading anyone …
Me: Sounds perfect.
Mum: It was.

We’re going to go for a Boxing Day walk. Mum has brought round her ancient Hunter wellies …

Mum: Had these for fifteen years now, it was an anarchistic statement: pink wellies, I just thought you can’t get any more stupid than pink wellies. Then every twat got them ..
Me: I like the colour they’ve gone now … a weird whitey colour …
Mum:Yes I look as if I should be in an operating theatre.

I have six mountains of books I’ve never read. Mum’s going through them …

Mum:Read this Peter Ackroyde?
Me: I’ve read bits of it it’s a fucking huge book. It’s good though.
Mum: Right …
Me: What? I don’t have time to read a book from cover to cover, I dip in and out ..
Mum: I see … Just dip in and out. Read a couple of chapters from the middle of Middlemarch (she’s obviously seen it by the bath), couple of chapters of Albion …
Me: Yeah, basically.
Mum: It’s the death of literature.
Me: Whatever ….
A few minutes later …
Mum: Dances With Wolves is on later have you seen that?
Me: Uh … yeah I think so, bits of it definitely. I’d like to watch it again though, I can’t really remember it …
Mum: Just dipped in and out of it …

I am eating. Mum has been thinking and announces …

“I need to talk to Steven Hawking … just to say, ‘Hi … we’re all going to get better.”

Happy Hjksdabd;liwdbefa;f (whatever we’re saying nowadays). xxxx

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(Quite) Honourable Stuff

Posted On December 23, 2016 By jadeangelesfitton In Blog, writing /  

My short story, The Promise of Heaven, has received an ‘honourable mention‘ in Glimmer Train’s ‘New Writer’s Short Story Competition’. It was originally published here. If you missed the story first time round, here it is again:

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There is a little boat in Istanbul that chucks across the Bosphorus from east to west, west to east, like a metronome set by some absent pianist – and somehow my brother has ended up the captain of it.

Nine months ago we moved here from Ankara, where my brother Amir, my parents, and I had spent our entire lives. It had begun to feel like a warzone already, just, no one was entirely sure who we were at war with, or why. There were bombings almost every month at that point, now it’s almost every week. Sometimes these would be carried out by fundamentalists, but more often than not the boys blowing themselves up had only come into contact with the Quran six months before and were so blissed-out on poppy compounds from the Kush they didn’t know what they were doing. No one knew what they were doing. No one could understand the point. Everything remains the same, just more people have a sick feeling at the core of their heart where once a love had been.

In response to the danger my brother and my father became more conservative; my brother especially, which meant he wanted me to become more conservative, and I’m about as conservative as anyone need be. Fortunately, after the move, it became clear that my father had held on to his already-engrained ideals of equality, and therefore, his sanity; but I feel I’m watching my brother turn into the thing he fears, for fear of it.

My parents had already been talking of moving for a while, my father had been speaking to an engineering company 20 miles from here, where he now works, though nothing was actually in place when the decision was made for us – not by another suicide bomb, but when my uncle murdered a man, our cousin’s husband.

Before he went to jail my uncle had been a professor at Ankara University, but he always insisted he was primarily a poet – so he was already unpopular with the authorities. Our cousin had been the aspirational woman of the family; she’d shrugged off Aunty Nilay’s fatal fall from the bathroom window, worked hard, studied law and become a solicitor. By 28 she owned her own flat in the center of Ankara, and had a white BMW (on finance) that looked like a washing machine. My mother was always proud to have just come off the phone to Ela. “Ela’s meeting with a diplomat … Ela says we must eat more fish … Ela’s going to to Paris …”

Ela did meet with a diplomat, though she didn’t end up telling mum the full story. She only told me. She picked him up – he wasn’t actually a diplomat but a general, and all the company wanted her to do in the end was take him to the airport – he tried to grab her while she was driving, she started screaming, so he took his gun out. She stopped screaming, and the big, white washing machine pulled over.

Omur, our late cousin-in-law, owned an expensive restaurant frequented by politicians, lawyers, celebrities, and occasionally, solicitors. He had been given the restaurant by his father, and beyond the veneer of stainless steel and cods roe, he had little to offer the world. She had married him for no other reason than that she loved him, and maybe more than that, she pitied him – and he didn’t like that. There was never anything stopping her from leaving, from making him look like a fool: she just had to pick up her keys. One night she tried to do that. He beat her unconscious.

I read in one of my mother’s magazines once that when Ava Gardner swam naked in Ernest Hemmingway’s pool, he wouldn’t let the pool-boy clean it out, because she had been in there. The water still held her memory. I want a love like that.

When we were young, on one of our first and last family holidays, Ela and I found a pair of twigs that looked like dolphins. Hers looked better than mine, it even had a stubbed branch that looked like a dorsal fin; but when we threw them into the sea, while mine bobbed bravely out into the big blue of the beyond, hers tipped on it’s side and swung, to shore and away, to shore and away. As lifeless as a dead branch.

It looked like she was going to be ok at first; blood and saline were pouring into her, she opened her eyes a few times and looked around, “she survived a heart transplant” we joked; she had, when she was 8. But she couldn’t survive him. She died at 4.47am, alone, and unable to witness the 9th of January and all the strange horror it would bring.

I woke up early to help mum make breakfast for dad and my brother (Amir moved out when we moved to Istanbul, but he still comes round for most meals). It was around 6am, and we were making ourselves some tea when the phone rang. It was Uncle Kamur; he was at the hospital and the police were there now, a little late we all agreed. He was so consumed by grief and anger that my mother could barely understand him. She woke my father and told him we’d both be going to the hospital, and that there were pastries from yesterday in the fridge for breakfast. When we got there, Uncle Kamur had already left. The doctors said he’d had a pain in his chest and had been having trouble breathing; they took an ECG, and the read-out seemed fine. Uncle Kamur asked if he could see the read-out; the nurse tore off the page and handed it to him. He got up, clutching the reading in his hand, pushed her aside, and left.

We asked if we could see Ela, but apparently because of the circumstances we would need either my uncle’s or the police’s permission; my mother couldn’t get hold of Kamur, and “didn’t want to bother” the police. She went back home to wait for Uncle Kamur to call, and I went off to my shift at the café. I don’t think I said anything to anyone during that shift. I nodded a lot. I still couldn’t quite understand that Ela was gone. She wasn’t supposed to go, she was supposed to be taking me to Paris in July.

Amir used to be happy, he used to want to make things better. Back in 2013, he’d come with me and a few other friends to Istanbul for the uprising. Our parents told us it was too dangerous, but, as he said, “this is history”. Only it wasn’t. For all the people, the chanting, the plastic bullets, the tear gas, the bruises, the blood, the energy, the hope, slowly normal life drummed us back to sleep, for now, and nothing changed. We went back to Ankara, and Amir started hanging out with a few drug dealers he said were “honest men” who had been forced into the ‘profession’. He somehow overlooked that in this profession the men were extremely dangerous. The dealers all had hidden wives, but they also had prostitutes. Amir saw what they did to the prostitutes, and he knew they would do it to me. But he was lonely, and they told him promises of heaven, sweeter than life itself. They mingled in the orchards of the deep web and cherry-picked its most abhorrent fruits. They were the ones who hooked Amir up with his job on the boat, and the two-day training. I told him I’d tell mum and dad, he told me the dealers would kill me if he had to quit the job, and I believed him. So I’ve kept my mouth shut. But I know it’s not tourists on that boat in the dim hours.

At 11.40pm, having heard nothing from Uncle Kamur all day, we received a phone call from the police informing us he was in custody. He had killed Omur. My mother ran to the toilet and was sick, I picked up the phone and asked what had happened. They asked if my father was home, I told them he wasn’t around. Apparently Omur, defiant in his deed, had stayed at the house he and Ela had shared. Uncle Kamur had gone round, and, upon Omur opening the door, fired a shotgun at his chest. He left Omur there, the door wide open; stuffed in Omur’s belt was the read-out of Uncle Kamur’s heartbeat just after he’d been told his daughter had died.

It was grizzly, and not as poetic as I think Uncle Kamur thought it would be in the moment. The police found him the by sitting at the water fountain in Kizlilay Square; he was still holding the shotgun, so it didn’t take them long. It meant Uncle Kamur couldn’t go to his daughter’s funeral and I wonder if it was worth it, what would Ela have preferred. But I can’t say she didn’t want the man who killed her dead.

You kill mine, I kill yours. You kill me, I kill you.

In some respects, Uncle Kamur was lucky; he got a reduced sentence, 6 years; he’s been in there for 10 months, but we’re not sure he’ll ever come out. My father’s started to notice something’s up with Amir, he talks of nothing but what we should be doing, what other people will think of us for not, what they might do. I think of leaving here sometimes but I can’t. There’s something that pulls here; a strange wind, like there’s been a black hole smuggled into some back alley, and it’s slowly sucking us back into a past we were never meant live, but now we must live out. And judging by the way my brother turns his head to it and sails along regardless, it requires as many of us as possible to stick around.

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