Playing percussioin

First published in Column 8, on the 15.5.91

National brass band competitions are here again. By the time you read this, I should be in Christchurch in my capacity as official accompanist for one of the Dunedin bands.

No Harold, I don’t accompany a whole brass band, just play the piano for the soloists.

I used to think brass bands were rather at the bottom of the musical barrel before I got involved. Then I heard them play the complex music they’re expected to perform for those competitions.

You have to be there. Bands aren’t heard at their best marching along George St in the Festival Procession. Or in the Gardens on a Sunday afternoon. In marching most of their wind goes into keeping their feet moving. What air is left has to try to produce some musical noise out of pieces of plumbing with plungers.

In band rotundas any musical subtlety is wafted away for only the seagulls and sparrows to hear.

Bandsmen are at their best when they can sit and play without the distraction of kids whining for ice-blocks or wanting bread for the ducks. And the music they play has greatly increased in difficulty in the last few decades.

I know the difficulties at first hand, because twice I’ve been roped in as a supernumerary percussion player. Band conductors are under a delusion that reasonable pianists make more than adequate percussionists.

(Since I already make the trip as a pianist, it’s economic, if not musical, sense to employ my abilities as fourth percussionist.)

In my first foray into percussioning, I came in on rehearsals after the band had been practicing for weeks. I was assured by the conductor that I’d find it all straightforward – ‘an excellent musician like yourself.’ (His words, not mine.)

That particular experience is now embalmed in the recesses of my memory, hopefully never to be revived. The second occasion is not so easily forgotten, although I had plenty of rehearsal.

I found myself playing – not simultaneously – tambourine, glockenspiel, cymbals, triangle, marimba and gong (a large one). I am not fluent in any of these instruments.

You’d think hitting a triangle or gong would be easy. It is, if you’ve nothing else to think about. But hitting either one precisely in time with a group of other noises, most of them windy, isn’t simple.

Worse, to hit the gong, I had to turn my back on both the music and the conductor. (If I missed my cue, I tended to keep my back to that gentleman.)

As for the tambourine, it’s not just a matter of giving it a thunk! Sometimes the jingles mustn’t jing, and sometimes you have to rub it the wrong way to produce what percussionists call a trill. Producing that sort of trill it not trilling to a pianist.

The glockenspiel can’t be played with the fingers, which I’d find easy. It has to be played at a distance, as it were, with a couple of sticks, rather like dancing on stilts, and making your feet hit a precise spot on the ground each time. The marimba’s just as bad, except because it’s bigger, there’s more of it to miss.

Add to this the nervousness of playing before a large crowd, who all know you’re a fraud and not a proper percussionist at all, unlike those superhuman youngsters who can play three timpani and a triangle and a side-drum simultaneously.

A bit of performance adrenalin never went amiss, but after my forays into percussion playing give me accompanying any time.

A marimba player (NDR Radiophilharmonie), Hanover, 2003
courtesy איתן טל Etan Tal

I’m not sure who ‘Harold’ is supposed to be, but I think it was one of those names I’d picked out of a hat as a kind of person to address on occasions. The ‘trip’ I mention was going to Christchurch with the band.

I talk as if playing for the brass band was my first experience of being a percussionist. I think that came much earlier, back in the mid-sixties, when I was the repetiteur (rehearsal pianist) for the NZ Opera Company’s nationwide tour of the opera Die Fledermaus. Again it was a matter of economics. It made no sense to employ a percussionist to play a few random bars at odd times during the production, so, since I was already being paid, they roped me in. I used to hit a triangle during the overture, and then spend a good long time reading in the orchestra pit (I remember getting through The Hobbit among other things). At some point I played a glockenspiel, trying to keep in time with a singer on the stage pretending to get music out of the prison bars. I don’t remember what else I did, but it wasn’t much.

Glockenspiels have a mini-keyboard, hence my comment, but the keys are small and fashioned to be hit by little sticks with little round wooden heads. The marimba is similar except everything is bigger.

Car ads

 First published in Column 8, on the 8^th May, 1991

Recently I came across something pinned up in my daughter’s classroom – about our car.

Under the heading ‘Embarrassing,’ my daughter said it was embarrassing going to town because she had to travel in our old car – and bits were always falling off.

Apart from a door that fell off a couple of months ago (through metal fatigue), the only other bits that have fallen off have been helped on their way by our kids. So what my daughter wrote is only halfway close to the truth – she likes writing fiction, you see.

I suppose she’s only following in the footsteps of the agencies who put advertisements for cars together. In these ads, fiction and fantasy seem to be the order of the day.

Who on earth are these ads meant to appeal to? Is anybody interested in a car that’s advertised as being for a certain kind of executive, when the same executive is shown as being so at a loss for words he can’t even explain why he likes the car?

This seems to be a common feature of many ads at present: having said everything possible about the car, or the company, or the product of your past 50 ads, you now say absolutely nothing.

The flashy camerawork obstructs your view of what’s being shown, like a conjurer’s trick. There’s really nothing there at all.

(A certain bank presented several ads along this line, with people too busy to talk being hounded by a camera slinking behind bits of material. They were very cagey about naming their bank, for some reason.)

To get back to car ads. Why should I complain? They’ve been extreme as long as I can remember, often focusing on anything but the product.

We have girls cracking whips, models sitting moodily in front of a fire on a freezing cold beach and peasant women standing longingly in the midst of burning fields while some dolt rushes past the flames.

On the masculine side we have hyperactive drivers tearing through the countryside at speeds far in excess of the limit, and stopping short of dropping off a rotting bridge.

There are guys dreaming of their first car, behaving like maniacs in front of their kids. Or worse, imitation-Sinatra vocals while various men – and now I see there’s a lady – get stopped in their tracks at the sight of something no more amazing than a parked car.

The aforesaid gentlemen – and lady – then stroll around the vehicle for an expensive 30 secs of advertising time doing absolutely nothing, except raising the occasional eyebrow. (Thirty seconds it may only be, but it seems more like 30 minutes when you’re waiting for your programme to restart.)

Looking interested when there’s nothing to be interested in is a test of any actor’s skills; especially when it has to be conveyed with intensity. When those ads appear I watch the extras in the background – at least they seem to have some purpose in life.

Perhaps it would be less fictional in these lean recession days for the advertising men to go down to the local car yards. Against a background of anxious car salesmen, they could feature a few fellows raising their eyebrows under flapping flags and mooning over cars only the wealthy can afford.

1922 Car Advertisement

Confiscation

First published in Column 8, 27^th February, 1991

The Gulf War has been the cause of some odd happenings, to say the least. One thing that struck my eye was a report regarding the checking of parcels intended for our servicemen and women at the front.

The army, we were told, was setting up a strict security operation to check all gifts sent to New Zealanders serving in the Gulf.

It wasn’t so much the fact that the Army was being strict about what was in the parcels. After all, they had every reason to be concerned about possible terrorist devices.

But it was the three non-terrorist items they specified that rather puzzled me. Why these three things should be lumped together in the first place was a mystery, since they’re hardly fellow travellers at the best of times.

I was also puzzled that one of these items should be confiscated at all.

I guess I can understand the Army’s position on the first item, alcohol. Though are we to believe there’s not a drop of alcohol in the entire Allied forces?

Up to a point I can also understand the Army’s position on pornographic material, though I’d always thought the Army was hardly the place where you’d escape that kind of thing. In fact, from what I’ve seen of the forces, it seems more likely dirty jokes and pictures are in than out.

Perhaps the Army in its wisdom thought alcohol and pornography would be too much of a distraction in the tensions of war. Maybe they thought they’d be offensive to their Arab allies.

However, whatever the reasoning behind these two items, I couldn’t help uttering a cry of disbelief at the the third.

Religious material is being confiscated.

Now I know that until very recently in Russia, and Albania, and Romania, and China, and any number of other places, it’s been top priority for religious material to be confiscated. (And today’s open door in many of these countries may not last.)

However, in New Zealand I was under the impression we were allowed freedom of religion, in spite of the fact that we have become an increasingly secular society over the last few decades. And I thought that would apply even in the Army.

What exactly do they fear here? Surely during a war more than any other time people need to consider where they might suddenly be going.

I know there’s a distinct possibility of each one of us shooting (rather than shuffling) off this mortal coil sooner than we expect, but like small children we think death is light years away.

For those close to a war zone, however, I would have expected that thoughts of imminent death were to be considered rather less casually.

And secular society of not, I’d be surprised if most of those travelling to the Gulf hadn’t some thoughts about the possibility of their not coming back.

The American Army, which you’d hardly reckon was more religious than ours, has requested and received over 964,000 copies of the New Testament, as well as up-to-date devotional books and Christian music tapes.

A few of these might fall into the hands of the Arabs, but it doesn’t seem likely they’re all being parcelled up just to be given away.

Perhaps my interpretation of ‘religious’ is askew. Maybe the Army is concerned someone’s going to sneak large numbers of pocket-sized English translations of the Koran into the parcels so that our boys and girls overseas will be influenced to lay down their weapons and walk over to the Iraqi.

Somehow I doubt it.

Cycling

 First published in Column 8 on the 24^th April 1991

 Someone gently reprimanded me last week for not answering the letter published in this paper from a couple of kids at Warrington School. So here goes.

Dear kids, I was very impressed to hear your school has started a systematic method of distributing rubbish, and that everyone follows the system through. (But will my own kids take note?)

There’s a verse from Proverbs: ‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he won’t depart from it.’ Sounds like the people of Warrington School are getting in on the recycling act at an early and impressionable age.

Good on yer!

There is one thing, however. I must say I’d like to see your paper going somewhere other than the incinerator. Hasn’t any teacher yet tackled the task of bringing a carful of sticky Kleensaks back to Dunedin each week. How is it their environmental consciousness hasn’t yet been raised to the point of sacrifice?

At the moment I take a load of paper in Kleensaks from my shop down to the recyclers about once every three weeks. No, they aren’t full of books I can’t sell, and true, they aren’t full of sticky papers.

The recyclers is already half stacked to the rafters with every conceivable type of paper. Any true blue recycler must get a lump in the throat just walking in there knowing all that paper is going somewhere useful, instead of up in flames.

It’s like seeing the trees offering their lives over again for a further round of being writ upon and advertised upon and scribbled upon and all sorts of other things upon. (Including printing Midweeks upon.)

Shifting gear from one sort of cycling to another. I’m impressed at seeing so many young kids now wearing cycle helmets. Peer pressure’s been at work as much as education, although there have been a few incentives along the way, particularly from PostBank.

Yet the same peer pressure works in reverse for the kids who didn’t get the early training: A certain teenager I know used to leave the house with her helmet on, and remove it as soon as she was out of sight. The reason? ‘No one ELSE wears one.’

So they’d all like to take the risk of losing their brains, rather than be seen in a (Yuk!) cycle helmet. Actually, when her brother swapped her his fluorescent yellow one, things improved a bit.

It isn’t just the teenagers. I’m more amazed to find adult cyclists writing to The Listener stating that they’ve never worn a helmet and they jolly well aren’t going to now. Or that they’ll wear them if they can do it voluntarily, but not under compulsion. No doubt we had the same problem when compulsory motorcycle helmets were being brought in – only I’m too young to remember.

Of course, when it comes to accidents, we know it’s never the cyclist’s fault, always the motorist’s.

Motorists do have problems with cyclists. I’ve nearly demolished at least two in my own driving career. But consider this, cyclists: If a driver can miss seeing another car because of a blind spot, how much more likely is he or she to miss seeing as skinny an object as a cyclist?

It amazes me to hear cyclists talking about how buses and trucks try to run them onto the footpath, when all they (the cyclists) are trying to do is cycle round a corner – on the inside. Even motorcyclists, who will scoot between cars in parallel lanes, don’t do such crazy things.

The adult cyclists who write letters about helmet-wearing appear more concerned for their civil liberties than their safety. The Warrington kids, however, seemed to have learned that one’s freedom to choose may play second fiddle to a higher goal.

 

Cyclist checking electronic device while cycling
courtesy Alfredo Borba

 The most extraordinary line in this article is ‘Or that they’ll wear them if they can do it voluntarily, but not under compulsion.’ If I’m not told to do something, I’ll do it on my own. Hmm. A slightly odd argument, especially from adults.

As for the cyclists – I can remember seeing cyclists in London riding between double-decker buses as they passed each other. The bus drivers hadn’t a hope of seeing them – or if they did, of preventing them turning into squashed cyclists. But the cyclists persisted in their right to cycle where they pleased – as they continue to do today. Woe betide if you get in their way.

 

Writers

 First published in Column 8 on the 10^th April 1991.

 This being New Zealand Writers’ Week, I can’t let it pass by without a comment or two from this New Zealand writer. Though you realise that people who write in newspapers aren’t really writers – especially since they use word processors.

I remember watching P D James, the crime writer, interviewing her opposite number, Ruth Rendell, on television. Ms James, in her maiden aunt floral dress and blue rinse and sensible shoes was quite astonished to hear that Ruth had dumped her typewriter in favour of a word-processor.

Ruth’s down-to-earth comment was that it was a great boon except when you went to see what was smelling on the stove and a power surge wiped out your morning’s work.

All that aside (especially since those are English writers) I’m actually waiting for my invitation to appear at the Writers’ Week, and can’t quite understand why I didn’t receive one. Not even a free pass. (Us under-rated newspaper columnists with umpteen kids can’t afford to turn up otherwise.)

Roger Hall, playwright
courtesy Playmarket NZ

I’ve lain awake at night pondering this matter – this is after I’ve burnt the midnight oil meeting the Midweek deadline. Was it because I already live here [in Dunedin, where the event took place], or was it because Roger Hall and Co were unsure about being able to cover the cost of inviting me, they being under the misapprehension that columnists are used to receiving large sums of money?

Perhaps it was some sense of insecurity on Roger’s part? I notice he doesn’t speak to me in the street when I pass him – it’s almost as though he doesn’t recognise me. (I mean to say, even the man from whom I buy my toffee milk bars on a regular basis recognises me. And my picture is in the paper, though my own cat wouldn’t know me from that.)

I dread to think that there might be a certain snobbery in my lack of invitation. No! that couldn’t be the reason. Probably it’s as Roger says: ‘Many others would have liked to come, and I would have liked to have invited them, but it simply isn’t possible to have everyone who is worthy of inclusion.’

There you are, that lets him off the hook.

I was interested to read what Jack Lasenby has to say in the Writers’ Week programme: ‘My greatest ambition is to write an autobiographical Post-Hole-Digger’s thesis on The Significance of the Humbug in New Zealand Literature.’

I’m glad Mr Lasenby has such ambitions: New Zealand literature needs a bit of debunking. Maybe because we’re still in our short trousers when it comes to culture we feel we have to be terribly serous about it all.

Deep seriousness has a place – life is no laugh for many, as the media inform us so relentlessly. But perhaps we mistake deep seriousness for great literature: when we get on our high horse we weigh the poor thing down.

Is this why many people don’t read New Zealand fiction and writing, because so many gloomtone artists and hope destroyers are at work?

Craig Harrison has been reported recently as saying we’re a nation which takes our literature too seriously.

Being funny, however, is not regarded seriously enough.

I think there will come a time when, like Jack Lasenby, I will set aside all my small ambitions and complete a large-scale work on the need for laughter – and hope – in New Zealand fiction.

 90909090909090909090909090

 I’m not sure if there is still an NZ (national) Writers’ Week – I think it’s been replaced by more localised events in different parts of the country, such as the Dunedin Writers and Readers’ Festival..

Stupid is as stupid does

 If filmmakers are going to do contemporary sci-fi, or fantasy, or whatever you might like to call it, let them sit down and think the thing through before they pass it to the cast and the director. Please…

Netflix has been dredging up some not so hot pieces in this line recently, and the only thing I can say about them is they caught my attention for long enough to want to know how it would all end. I’m not giving anything away by saying it all ends, in both cases, pathetically.

Turns out I’d seen Nicholas Cage in Next before, but I’d forgotten the storyline, mostly, and something
about some early scenes seemed to indicate it hadn’t been too bad on first viewing. Plainly my memory was mistaken.

And then there was Sandra Bullock in Premonition, as badly thought through a story as can ever have been conceived – apart from Next, of course. I’d never seen it before, and am slightly amazed that I managed to sit through it at all. (My wife kept saying, ‘It’s horrible,’ though I’m not sure if she was referring to the ugliness of some of the events or the script.) But it had a kind of hook, as Next does, and you think ‘this will all be explained in due course.’ Nope. The writers hadn’t a clue how to explain their mess in either case, and gave up long before the end.

I guess film actors have to keep paying the bills, and it’s a bit of a doddle to make a movie that doesn’t require any thinking about, though surely at some point each of these highly-paid actors must have said to themselves, ‘Remind me again why I’m doing this nonsense?’

Mr Cage must also, surely, have asked himself why he was playing a part that should have been given to a (hem) younger man – he was 43 at the time – and why on earth his hair was made to look as though it was a badly made wig. And why he was allowed to walk through the part as though he was continually thinking he should be elsewhere.

Curiously enough, Premonition was made the same year – 2007 – and Ms Bullock was the same age as Cage at the time. I don’t know what that means, but there must be more of a story in that coincidence than there is either of these movies. At least Ms Bullock acquits herself as though she’s giving something to the part (except in one odd long-held shot where she hears of her husband’s sudden death, and stands looking into space, and stands, unblinking, and stands with no apparent thoughts going on in her head, and stands…

Okay, let’s let the actors off the hook. If you’re given trash scripts and for some reason you decide to go ahead, then you do the best you can with them. Next tells us that Cage’s character can see events happening two minutes before they happen, but only events happening to him – except when he meets his one true love about whom he can see everything in the future.

The writers conveniently forget how complicated this would be, and how unlikely it would be that he’d save himself from all manner of unpleasant events, just in time. Worse, at the end we find he (and we) have seen a third of the movie in advance, so in almost the last shot, he tells us that he made a mistake. Yup, that might be the point where he finally realised he was acting in one of the dumbest movies ever made, but I don’t think that’s what he means. The scriptwriters, at that point, having blown up Los Angeles with a nuclear bomb, conveniently forget everything that’s gone before and shut the movie off at that point. With no further explanation.

Right.

But long before the last third of Ms Bullock’s movie, her character has got herself into such an infinite tangle through living through actual premonitions that neither she, nor we, nor her husband, nor her mother, nor her long-suffering young daughters, have any idea what’s going on at all. Worse, the writers in this movies also do the big cop-out. Turns out that her premonitions were correct all along, and that her husband actually dies. The only quirk to that is that she brings this about by her attempt to save him, and even that is done in such a skewwhiff fashion when it comes to the telling of it in the movie that the audience groans at the stupidity of it all.

I spent a lot of time with a friend of mine, when I was writing my children’s fantasies, making sure that things had their own kind of inner logic. She continually talked about ‘plot holes’ and the need to avoid them. So we did our best.

No one told the people involved in these two movies that ‘plot holes’ exist. Or worse, they assumed their audiences would be so dumb that they’d never notice. But audiences, even the most distracted of them, have an inbuilt aversion to stupidity when it comes to the plot of a film. Something that scriptwriters/directors/actors don’t appear to have taken into account yet.  

 

Easter

First published in Column Eight on the 26^th March, 1991

 What do the following have in common? Pigeons and myxomatosis and women and eggs and slavery and a missionary named Newbigin. Read on.

I was disappointed recently to see a former Dunedinite burbling on about our local Bishop, Penny, saying he couldn’t recognise her authority. In fact, he’d begun to wonder if he could recognise New Zealand in an Anglican sense at all. (Many of us don’t recognise New Zealand any more, but it doesn’t have anything to do with the Anglicans.)

His comments reminded me of the appalling statement made by a Vatican gentleman – not the Pope – who proclaimed in all his patriarchal wisdom that women could no more become priests than pigeons become spiritual. Or something equally bombastic.

Curious that Jesus Himself didn’t find women any problem – whoops, mustn’t bring Jesus in, this is supposed to be about Easter.

I have a theory that in another hundred years, the whole question of whether women can be priests or not will be as dead as the dodo. Just as the issue whether we should have slaves is.

Who in the early part of the last century would have thought the ingrained system of slavery would ever be removed from the earth?

It only took us 1800 years of Anno Domini to rid ourselves of slavery, so we’re doing quite well allowing women into higher positions in the church in just under 2000 years.

I hear someone rabbiting on, ‘What about myxomatosis?’

There’s been much talk of using myxomatosis to rid ourselves of the furry little creatures that are destroying great chunks of the land. Quite honestly, I’d like to see some form of myxomatosis applied to the Easter bunny and all his mates as well.

Easter’s a time of major importance, celebration-wise. I can’t understand how the Easter bunny in any way symbolises that importance.

And while you’re tossing the Easter bunny out, throw out all those Easter eggs too. As a symbol of what Easter is about I don’t find a marshmallow-centred egg to be anything near solid enough.

(As a symbol of what we’ve done to this great time, however, it’s very appropriate.)

Well, that’s disposed of slavery and eggs and women and myxomatosis and pigeons. What are we left with? A missionary name Newbigin.

I only brought him in because he wrote about Easter in a book I’m reading. In his writing he wrote about new beginnings. (It struck me as odd that his name should sound so similar.)

He emphasised that Easter celebrates a time of the newest beginnings ever known to man. But we’ve trivialised it with our eggs and bunnies (yuk!) and made it another kiddie feast, like Christmas. (Isn’t Santa geared towards kids more than anything?)

Easter celebrates a time when a certain man died a horrible death. Celebrate a horrible death? Who’d want to do that? Only those who know that this same man came back to life again. That event was the most amazing new beginning in history.

Isn’t it interesting that the first person Jesus showed Himself to and spoke to, after coming back to life, was a woman. She believed in His return to life when all the men fumbled around saying she was dreaming.

(Sorry, I had to bring Him in; you can’t avoid Jesus at Easter.)

Perhaps nearly 2000 years later it’s time for another new beginning: instead of putting women down who take on arduous roles in church leadership, let’s begin to give them our support.

 

Christ appearing to Mary Magdelene in the Garden
Painting by Correggio

This was the first of these Columns to discuss anything to do with Christianity, specifically Jesus. Though there were other columns on the topic, they were probably relatively few. But given the secular climate of the times, it was probably something of a miracle to be able to write in this way.

As for slavery, since this column was written it’s become clear that slavery is far from eradicated. There’s hardly a country on earth where it’s unknown in some form: it may not be like the slavery of old, but trafficking, forced prostitution, forced begging, organ harvesting and far more continue unabated.  

I haven't been able to track down who the Vatician spokesman was...

Things cultural

 First published in Column 8, on the 6^th March 1991

 With three of our kids I went to two of Dunedin’s cultural centres on one day in the holidays: the Museum and the Art Gallery. Both provided treasure hunts, and that gave the kids extra incentive.

As far as kids are concerned the Museum has it over the Art Gallery by quite a bit. Apart from the fact that there are some live things there to see – though none of us managed to find that tuatara – there are several hands-on exhibits, particularly in the natural science area.

Years ago, when I lived in England, I often went with a young friend of mine to the three enormous Museums just down the road from the Albert Hall. The great attraction about these places was that the curators had realised something special – just placing things in front of people isn’t enough, especially in front of kids.

So they’d provided all manner of objects for kids to get their hands on, and kids loved it.

These days they have a couple of computer disks comprising the Doomsday machine. With this you can pinpoint any spot in England, and get a photo or drawing of it, with written details. Naturally there’s always a queue to get at it.

Our Museum has improved vastly since the days when the most exciting thing was wondering whether the large amphibian hanging from the ceiling three floors up would suddenly fall on your head.

Now you can go to the insect department and track down all manner of creepy crawlies in their native habitat by pressing little buttons and watching for little lights. You can find out whether or not you have arachnophobia, or let your flesh creep amongst the sharks and deep sea monsters in the Marine Hall.

It isn’t the London Science Museum yet, but I get the impression on every visit that the staff are keen to keep people coming back.

The Art Gallery attacks the interest problem in a different way, by frequently changing its exhibits.

I guess the purpose isn’t to attract school children in droves, and it was brave to have a treasure hunt that actually encouraged the kids to get close to paintings and sculptures. (They were gently warned not to aim their pencils at the pictures.)

And the kids appreciated the mini-Crunchie at the end. (We’d already made a killing at the Museum by going in for every hunt they had. Several mini-Moros later…)

However, the art exhibition itself didn’t easily hold the children’s attention, and it takes a fairly enlightened parent to explain what was appealing about some of the exhibits.

I know this will put me in the aesthetic ignoramus class, but frankly, it’s hard to understand how thousands of dollars could have been spent on some of the things on display.

I’m not looking for innumerable different views of Central Otago landscape such as we see in the Festival exhibition, but why, for instance, isn’t there one Steve Harris in the collection? Here’s a brilliant local artist whose work is snapped up in Australia, and he doesn’t even get a look amongst what I feel is much inferior work.

But it’s not the done thing to criticise modern art. Tom Stoppard rather cynically summed up what I feel about some of it in one of his radio plays. ‘An artistic imagination coupled with skill is talent. Skill without imagination is craftmanship. Imagination without skill gives us modern art.’

 

Sticky Date - Steve Harris

 Since this was written, both the Museum and the Art Gallery have vastly improved their appeal for families. Mini-Crunchies and mini-Moros, of course, were different chocolate bars in mini-format.

I knew Steve Harris personally; we’d met him at a day care centre we’d run back in the late 1970s (one child insisted on calling his daughter ‘Thirsty Harris’ in stead of Kirsty…) Steve’s speciality was still life: wonderful pictures, often with dark backgrounds that highlighted the various objects portrayed. Sadly, the lack of enthusiasm for his work locally eventually saw him migrate to Australia.

This particular column was published with several typos in it, a most unusual case. One instance gave Stoppard’s last sentence the opposite meaning…

Road Sense

 First published in Column 8 on the 13^th February 1991

 Lately I’ve been reading endless complaints about Kiwi drivers, about their lack of manners and road sense. One consolation is that it’s not only Dunedinites who are getting it in the neck.

The major area of inconsideration is signalling. It really puzzles me that in an age when it couldn’t be simpler to signal where you’re going, so many people are so lazy about doing it.

I mean, I can remember cars with useless little indicators that flicked up beside the front doors. They were so pale and insignificant you couldn’t see them, and frequently they’d get stuck because of the weather.

I can’t be the only person who remembers drivers having to wind down the window and shove their hand out – usually in the rain – in an effort to unstick the thing.

These days it’s so simple to indicate. Indicators are normally – even on a car as ancient as ours – within flicking distance of the steering wheel.

Yet drivers forever neglect to inform others that they’re turning a corner – until the last moment. That can be very frustrating if you’re also waiting to turn - from the opposite direction.

It’s even worse if you’re a pedestrian waiting for a signal. Most motorists don’t bother to signal at all and either nearly kill you, or leave you standing in an exhaust haze.

Other drivers slow down, and slow down, and just when you realise they’re about to park – they signal.

Perhaps inconsiderate driving relates to inconsiderate walking. Have you ever thought how many people would fail a licence if they drove the way they walk?

Take this example. You’re moving a reasonable speed along the footpath in town behind another pedestrian. Something catches their eye and without a single signal regarding their change of direction, they make a sharp right turn.

You bang into them. ‘Excuse me,’ all round. No great damage done, but if that was on the road, you’d be to blame for driving too close.

Worse are those who stop suddenly – no warning, no brake lights, no pulling over to the side of the footpath. What’s the result? A pile-up.

Or consider the way people park themselves in the middle of the footpath for a chat. We’d never tolerate anyone doing it in the street with their cars.

And what about those who come out of doorways without looking left or right – or if it comes to that, without stopping? Some of them are so busy talking to their friends they come out backwards.

Just imagine coming out of your driveway like that. I realise some of us do reverse out of driveways, but usually we have a rear vision mirror to see where we’re going.

There’s a thought: perhaps pedestrians should be made to wear rear vision mirrors. And indicators.

Then there are the forgetful types who remember half a block later they’ve passed the shop they meant to go into and do a sudden U-turn, colliding with whoever happens to be following. You’d hate to be behind them in a row of vehicle traffic.

Some people walk alongside each other in all four lanes, all at the same speed. They block up every chance of passing, until you have to go out on to the road to get by.

That’s like overtaking on a grass verge.

In some cities of the world, the pedestrians practice on the footpath the same kind of courtesy they exhibit on the roads. We don’t practice either.

I guess courtesy on the footpaths is not a top priority in life. Courtesy in driving is.

 

One style of indicator on an old vehicle

If this had been written this year, instead of 1991, I’d have been talking about the effect of reading your cellphone as you walk along the street. This no doubt causes more collisions among pedestrians than the kind of thoughtless walking I wrote about above. And of course reading your phone while driving frequently causes fatal crashes on the roads.  

I read online that indicators were at one time called trafficators.