Over the summer, I helped to steward a conference (run by the Professor of Poetry at Strathclyde) around the subject of ‘ekphrasis’ (put simply: writing about art). One thing that stuck with me from the talks I heard was the
idea of developing an ekphrastic gaze (I think it was the plenary speaker, Cole
Swensen, who talked about this). What I took this to mean was: looking at
ordinary life, and seeing it as a work of art. And then
responding to that ‘art’ in writing.
This idea appeals to me, and I think that’s often what I’m
trying to do through my writing. Trying to train my eyes to focus instead of just
skimming surfaces. Trying to pay attention. To see with words.
With this in mind, I thought I’d pop a few of my favourite ‘noticings’ on here from recently. (Often when I’m feeling a bit uninspired writing-wise I’ll bring
out my notebook and do some discreet people watching/eavesdropping – all in the
name of art, of course – so here are a few from my green notebook):
one.) Observed from a coffee-shop window while waiting for a
friend:
Two old ladies, in matching black beret hats, walking arm-in-arm
up Buchanan Street: feet dragging, not talking, leaning on each other for
support. They look identical in almost every way: the same ankle-length
straight black skirts, the same comfort-fit chunky shoes, the same stout build,
the same hair (white, cotton woolly). The only difference is the colour of
their coats: one is bright pink, the other green, like a leaf.
They remind me
of two brambles.
two.) overheard on the train home:
‘The game’s a bogey, Mum,’ she
shouts down the phone. Her voice rings out over the rumbling train, the
crying baby, the rustling crisp-eater, the coughing granny. ‘I used t'be with Orange, and then it was that "EE" company. But m’phone’s been
useless since it switched over to – eh – since it switched over to – eh – to - eh, what’s
its chops.’
(What’s its chops. Ha! I smiled.)
three.) observed while reading in the library:
A little girl wearing a headscarf sits cross-legged in
the middle of the children’s section, flipping through a picture book. Her scarf is long
with purple sequins, and reveals the smooth shape of her bare head underneath.
She looks up when she sees another little girl come into the library. This girl - dressed in pink with stripy tights - has a long blonde ponytail, and she is making faces at her baby brother as her mum pushes his pram.
‘Hi Eve!’ the first girl calls from where she's sitting, and the girl in pink turns
around and waves. Her hair bounces when she runs
over.
The two of them wander round the early-reader shelves,
chattering away to each other and looking at the books. At one point, the first
girl turns her back to her friend and – ‘Look, Eve!’ – shows off the long tail of her sequined scarf.
It flows half way down her back and swishes when she moves her head.
She flicks Eve’s ponytail with the back of her
hand, and then does the same flicking motion with her own scarf. The two of
them laugh, and I now realise that the scarf has also been tied back in a ponytail, like a ponytail.
A little way off, the girls’ mothers stand watching them:
hands pressed to their mouths, the baby brother crawling on the carpet by their
feet. They don’t say anything to each other. They just watch. But... it’s something they’ll tell
their partners about later, when they get home. After dinner, probably, when
they’re doing the washing up
(‘-and I just felt really sad about it, you know?' Cutlery clinking against glasses. 'I think I
could have cried.’)
four.) seen and heard while walking to university.
A motorcyclist at the traffic lights, waiting. Black helmet.
Leather coat. Under the rumble of engines, the purr of his bike, I can hear
him whistling. As I walk past, I hold my breath, trying to catch the tune. A smile
of recognition. He's whistling ‘La Vie en Rose’ (and quite nicely as well.
With soul).
The lights change. Red–amber–green. And he is gone.
Walking along the street, I find myself wondering: does he keep
whistling, even when he can't hear the sound of the song?
(On a related note: I like Priscilla Ahn’s cover of that
song. You can hear it: here.)
five.) experienced in the cafe:
There’s a gentleman in work – a customer – who often comes
in with his friend for lunch. He always wears bright Pringle jumpers: red,
green, mustard yellow etc. And he has a well-trimmed beard and a curly head of neat white hair. Both the jumpers and the beard give him the impression of joviality, so every
time he comes in I expect him to be funny. I expect him to be one of those old
men who smile and wink and make little joking comments when ordering their food.
(‘I’ll have “le soup de jooor” as they say in France.’ ‘If I order the Seniors’ Fish Tea, do you need to see my bus pass?’ etc). But he’s actually quite surly.
Serious. Even rude, sometimes. And I’m always taken aback.
I’m forever fooled by his friendly facial hair.
(The lovely pictures in this post come from: Liekeland.)
♥
