Lady Macbeth on how to get on at work

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Last night we saw Macbeth at the National Theatre in London. The  stage was dressed in hanging plastic sheets. Heads were cut off and hung on poles in plastic bags, wine dispensed from a plastic jerrican. Lady Macbeth’s first speech, addressed to her husband in his absence, stuck in my mind:

… Thou wouldst be great;
Art not without ambition, but without
The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly,
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,
And yet wouldst wrongly win. 

Macbeth shouldn’t, in her view, muck about.

Earlier in the day I took part in a wargaming competition, the De Bellis Antiquitatis Northern Cup in Newark. As someone put it, no-one was a millimetre-measurer. No-one would wrongly win. (I ended up mid-table with three wins, two defeats and a draw and had a wonderful day.)

Sally Mann on memory and photography

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(Corfu, last summer)

“Before the invention of photography, significant moments in the flow of our lives would be like rocks placed in a stream: impediments that demonstrated but didn’t diminish the volume of the flow and around which accrued the debris of memory, rich in sight, smell, taste and sound. No snapshot can do what the attractive mnemonic impediment can: when we outsource that work to the camera, our ability to remember is diminished and what memories we have are impoverished. 

Because of the many pictures I have of my father, he eludes me completely. In my outrageously disloyal memory he does not exist in three dimensions, or with associated smells or timbre of voice. He exists as a series of pictures. When I think of him, I see his keen, intelligent eyes cast askance at me, his thumb lightly resting on his cleanly shaved chin. And I see his thick forearms, the left impinged upon by the stretchy metal band of the watch I keep here still in my desk drawer, the sleeves of his white cotton shirt rolled to reveal his powerful biceps, his waist trim from an absurdly careful egg-whites-only kind of diet, girded round by the same cracked leather belt he wore for forty years. 

But… here’s the thing. It’s a picture, a photograph I am thinking of. 

I don’t have a memory of the man; I have a memory of a photograph. I rush upstairs to the scrapbooks and there he is. I’ve lost any clear idea of what my father relaly looked like, how he moved, sounded, the him-ness of him. I only have this.”  (Sally Mann, Hold Still, 2015)

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My father is also dead, dead a long time. What do I remember of him? Not the timbre of his voice; I don’t know how northern his accent was. Not his smell.

I do remember, though, the way he was. Awkward – calm – kind – sometimes angry.

What I think I have from him is ideas and ideals. He liked ordinary places and the people he met there. For example he liked being in hospital, on a ward.

He walked in the extra dimension of the past of the places he went.

(Edwin Abbott Abbott‘s book Flatland depicts a two dimensional world. Its people can’t think what a third dimension would be. Sitting here at our Brussels kitchen table, it is easy for me see the three dimensions. But because of my father I feel like I’m also aware of the fourth dimension, made by the people who lived here before us – the magazine writer and the headhunter, the car dealer, the baronne who wanted the house to be grander than it is.)