CK Stead

BY LYDIA CHAI

I never really got into New Zealand authors, unless you count CK Stead. He is the only NZ writer whom I have read serially. I don't love everything he's written and I haven't read everything he's written. I've only just touched the surface of his oeuvre.

My favourite so far is Death Of The Body, the clever story of a professor of Philosophy who specializes in the mind/body problem. Meanwhile, his wife is a Sufi who chants "I am not this body" all day long. Great setup for a story, huh. It's not really about them, though. There's also a crime thriller. And a story about the story's teller, so it is a novel about writing itself. (Note how that last sentence can be read two ways - I can be clever, too!)

Last Monday, I had the chance to attend a packed lecture by Mr Stead at the Maidment Theatre, titled One Thing Leads To Another.

(Does anyone care about audience demographic for these things? Ages 45 and above: 65%. Young tertiary set: 10%. 1 baby. 1 Witi Ihimaera. Recognizable campus faces: 2%. Asians: maybe 3, of different ages.)

He delivered a narrative of his life as a writer ever since he left his teaching job at the university. Sounds indulgent for a topic, but let's face it, that's what we were there to learn about. Besides, he talked about himself with the same self-effacing humour and also,paradoxically, self-confidence as someone like Leonard Cohen. Only, not as sexy.

Among his narrative were: The discipline of keeping office hours. The glowing reviews of a personal favourite that ironically didn't sell well (Secret History Of Modernism). His almost lackadaisical attitude towards the novel he is best known for, Smith's Dream, which was made into a film. His one and only writer's block that came late in his life, which he triumphed over by making it the subject of a story
(Secret History Of Modernism, again).

He jumped from one idea to the next anecdote to his next intellectual phase to his next story idea - in altogether an entertaining and sprightly fashion.

Academicians, bless their souls, they're just so *interested*. But I think it takes a generous spirit to make research material seem interesting to other people. I really do. So Mr Stead does it for me.


***

Barcelona, 1 de Junio de 2007.

BY SARAH HOPKINSON

As you may be aware, from the proliferation of gripping hostage crime-dramas on mainstream television, ransom demands are commonly accompanied by an image of the abducted (often blindfolded, looking suitably terrified) holding a local newspaper. I always thought that this role effectively reduced the newspaper to its essence - its currency and locality. Serving primarily as a marker of specific time and place, it acts as unquestionable proof of a subject’s ‘alive-ness’ on a certain day, proof that they continue to exist. For Fiona Connor’s Free Literature newspapers are the sole material. Mining content from a series of tabloids (the ‘free literature’ on a given day), Connor creates a hybrid version of Barcelona’s principal newspaper El Pais.1 The accompanying video (viewable online) offers a short glimpse of Barcelona as a city marked by vast numbers of newspapers, stacked on street corners, littering gutters. Maybe we are supposed to see the newspaper as a leitmotif for a place; a city succinctly summed up in its recurring symbol. One of those funny idiosyncrasies that tourists always notice.

Despite muddying signature styles, and displacing stylistic cohesion (ransom notes are popularly constructed from cut-out magazine and newspaper letters, precisely to prevent authorial detection) the modified El Pais’ spatio-temporality remains intact. In fact, subsuming all other publications into a strange crossbred whole, the newspaper is reduced, via a process of layering and doubling, to its marker of local-ness and current-ness. The collaged result is a mélange of one day’s worth of news; a concoction of information, imagery and advertising, disseminated in a certain city at a particular historical moment: 1 de Junio de 2007.

The content of this chronicle is largely unreadable, but not necessarily incomprehensible. In construction, areas of text and image that resemble one another, deal with the same topical issue or advertise the same product, have been pasted over the ‘master’ edition of El Pais. Idiosyncratic formats, fonts, proportions, wording and colours prevent a seamless assimilation yet a peculiar sense of cohesion prevails. Quite simply, the collaged pieces appear to signify the same (or similar) thing; they speak to shared concerns. The language barrier further allows us, and Connor, to behold this information pared back to its basic sign-value. Guided by the recognisable terms in the headlines, familiar political images (in this instance of pre-election Sarkozy) and ever-present ads for shiny, new-model cars the viewer is faced with a simultaneously discordant and harmonious whole, both foreign and oddly familiar.

While this fittingly subjective product of an encounter with a day in a foreign city maintains a casualness, this is neither a ‘stroll’ nor a meandering journey. It is less flimsy than that, more directed, more decisive, maybe more like a dérive - if we can take the liberty of thinking the ‘terrain’ as the newspaper, as opposed to the city, and the point of departure as El Pais. Despite this abstraction, both practices share a certain situated-ness – the ransom note’s aforementioned crucial spatio-temporal grounding. A paradigmatic derive - the practice of ‘transient passage through varied ambiances’ - took place for one whole day, ‘the time between two periods of sleep’, in a primarily urban setting, as it was in the ‘great industrially transformed cities’ that the social conditioning was considered most pervasive. Like Guy Debord’s practice, Connor is less guided by chance than the ‘psychogeography’ of her chosen environment. Open to the ‘constant currents, fixed points and vortexes,’ Connor is acutely aware and responsive to the recurrence of certain events and imagery, and their varying representational guises.2 The decision-making process has its own logic, developed in the very act of making. Collage causes a necessary fissure or rupture in the previously self-contained microcosm, opening it out to speak to the macrocosm, revealing a communicative system in perpetual movement and flux, constantly slipping and sliding, feeding off and folding in on itself.

Cutting, sampling, reducing, doubling and obscuring, Free Literature unconventionally maps an experience, a city and a moment, via active engagement with a thing inextricable from that experience, city and moment. Can we see the result as one big, unwieldy ransom note? Perhaps, but I am not sure what the demands are, it doesn’t appear to be asking for anything. Maybe just giving testament, maybe working it out for itself.



***

Note Books

BY ASH KILMARTIN



A friend, recently returned from visiting family in China, presented me with a set of three notebooks. The largest, about the same length as my hand from fingertips to heel of palm. The smallest, making it just to my first knuckle from the heel.

The covers are of thin recycled paper, the colour of each a slightly varied shade of golden-tan, a colour I can't help but associate with thrift and pleasing uncontrivedness.
The unassuming nature of the books is further stated by the cover inscription: in red, four characters translated as "note book". Below this assertion, in a position on the page that tells pleasantly of well-considered design, lie two parallel lines. Also in red, they echo in the lower third of the page the form of the characters in the top third, encouraging the owner to make their own inscription – a name; perhaps their own or that of a project to which the book is dedicated.

The cheap material and simple form do not entail shoddy workmanship: the pages of each differently-sized book are bound in six sets of leaves, creating six evenly-sized humps at the spine when viewed from above and six small ridges which run the length of the spine, interrupted by the four adjacent rows of stitching which hold the sets of leaves together.

The text-block (the bound-together paper stock) is attached to the cover by glue at the spine, and secured by white end-papers (the pages attached to the inside covers and the first adjoining pages). Such perfectly-glued end-papers are probably my favourite feature of these notebooks.

The pages themselves are of thin recycled stock – like the covers, the pages differ slightly in colour between sizes. Each is finely-ruled (7mm, by my eye) in indigo ink, with two close lines separating the heavy header-space from the lined body of the page. No margins. All perfectly printed and matched, but for one page in the largest notebook, which is charmingly askew. Here, the lines march off the page at a thirty-degree angle, as though heading dynamically into avant-garde Soviet poster design. Quietly combatting loathed dog-earring are gently rounded corners at the upper and lower left-hand corners.

On the back cover, corresponding in place and scale to the parallel lines on the front, are four lines of characters and numbers. What they describe, I can only guess (or, I guess, ask said friend to translate). Their exact origin is unknown to me, although I'm told they're Government-issue books once given free to employees of the state-owned corporations. That they're apparently becoming harder and harder to find only adds to their mystery and appeal, of course.


***

BY RYAN MOORE

Rosy Parlane / Sweetcakes : Compact Listen

BY HENRY OLIVER

Rosy Parlane:

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo00000000000OOOOOOOOOO0
ooooooooooooooooooooooooo00000000000OOOOOOOOOO0000
oooooooooooooooooooooo00000000000OOOOOOOOO00000000

ooooooooooooooooooo000000000000OOOOOOOO00000000ooo
chip/click … chip/chip/click/chip … chip/chip/chi
ooooooooooooooo000000000000OOOOOOO000000000ooooooo
krCH/CH … CH … chchch … sh/sh/ch/ krCHHHHHHHHHHHH

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo00000000000OOOOOOOOO0
oooooooooooooooooooooooooo0000000000OOOOOOOOOO0000
oooooooooooooooooooooo00000000000OOOOOOOOOO000000o
oooooooooooooooooooo0000000000OOOOOOOOOO00000000oo
ooooooooooooooooooo0000000000OOOOOOOOOO00000000ooo
ooooooooooooooooooooooo0000000000OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
oooooooooooooooooooooo0000000000OOOOOOOOOO0000000o
oooooooooooooooooooooo000000000000OOOOOOO0000000oo
ooooooooooooooooooooooo0000000000000OOOOOO00000ooo

ooooooooooooooooo000000000000OOOO000000ooo
chip/click … chip/chip/click/chip … chip/chip/chip
ooooooooooooooo000000000000OOOOOOO000000000ooooooo
krCH/CH … CH … chchch … sh//ch/chip/chip/churp
/////////////////////CHIp//////shhhhhhhsssssshhhhh
oooooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO000000000
oooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO000000
ooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO000
oooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
oooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSHHHHHHHH
churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip
SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSHHHHHHHH
churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip
SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSHHHHHHHH
churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip


ddddddddddddddddddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
ddddddddDDDDDDDDddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDuuuuuuuuuuuuuuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
ddddddddddddddddddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDuuuuuuuuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
ddddddddddddddddddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDuuuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
ddddddddddddddddddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

Hussh…

Applause


Sweetcakes:

Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
huhhh
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Huhh
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
huhhh
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
huhh
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Beeeeeb
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Chick Chick/Chick
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Chick Chick/Chick
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Chick Chick/Chick

bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
rrrrrrrrrrrrbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crash/thud/thud/thud/shh/hhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crassssh/thud/thud/shhh/shhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crash/thud/thud/thud/shh/shhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crasssh/thud/thud/shhh/shhhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crash/thud/thud/thud/s/shhhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crssssh/thud/thud/shhh/shhhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crash/thud/thud/thud/shhh/shh
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crasssh/thud/thud/shhh/shhhhh

Click/Click

Hussh

Applause




***