It's for your own good

After the foiled terrorist attack on planes going from Britain to the U.S. on the 10th of August, taking a plane will never be the same… until we are distracted by something else and fall back on old habits.

Just a few days ago, I took a plane from Montreal to London with my laptop, two books, a gigantic bottle of water and an eyelash curler. One never knows when an eyelash curler might come in handy. The woman sitting next to me spent most of the flight guzzling a fluorescent sports drink and hugging a teddy bear big enough to take up half her seat. I tried not to pass judgment.

Had we traveled 24 hours later, we would have had a very different experience. After being stripped of shoes, belts and jackets to go through security, all that we could have brought on the plane would have been stuffed in a clear plastic bag allowing for easy screening and quick detection of teddy bears and eyelash curlers because the former can hide a multitude of weapons in its fuzzy belly. As for the latter, well, one never knows when it might come in handy... The restrictive list of the items we are allowed to fly with is now reduced to what could be called necessities:

• Pocket-sized wallets/ purses, plus contents (contents may not include explosives, weapons, any form of liquid, but I guess you can still have a bit of money)
  
• Passports/ travel tickets (might be a bit complicated to travel without them)
  
• Prescription medicines, not in liquid form unless verified as authentic (does the security personnel have to take a dose?)
  
• Essential medical items, eg diabetic kit (considering all these restrictions are apparently aimed at our safety, it was considered best to allow for a few bottles of insulin on board less these safety measures actually cause a passenger's death)
  
• Glasses & sunglasses, no cases (you might need them to see the films that will be screened to distract you from the fact that you couldn't even bring a book on board because you might have distracted the cabin crew with an impromptu dramatic reading)
  
• Contact lens holders, no solution (I'm sure Boots is on it's way to developing a dry storage solution but a bit of spit will have to do for now...)

• Baby food & milk for those with infants - bottle contents must be tasted by accompanying passenger (now is not the time for that brussel sprout flavored puree unless you really want to know why your child spits it out more than he swallows it)
  
• Essential sanitary items for infants (at least children are still allowed a minimum of comfort)
  
• Female sanitary items, unboxed (so everybody in the plane can know it's that time of the month)
  
• Tissues, unboxed, or handkerchiefs (because Keys, but no electric key fobs (are Tasers allowed if they're also key rings?)
  
  Sure, it's a very short list considering all that we took for granted as essential to a comfortable flight just a few days ago, but that's nothing compared to the list of items allowed in the British Library's reading rooms:
  
• No bag larger than 29x21x10cm may be taken into the Reading Rooms

• In addition to the above, no more than one clear plastic bag may be taken into the Reading Rooms, and, if required, a clear plastic bag for a lap top computer.
  
• You must comply with all requests for inspection: staff may open and inspect your personal possessions (including bags, sealed envelopes, folders, personal computers etc) as you enter and leave the Reading Rooms.
  
• You may not take outdoor coats into the Reading Rooms. Outdoor coats include overcoats, waterproof clothing of any length, outdoor jackets e.g. bomber, quilted, sheepskin, puffer, fleece and leather jackets etc. (This is not a place for fashion)
  

Items that could harm the collections are not allowed in the Reading Rooms. These include, but are not limited to: pens, food, drink, sweets (including cough sweets), chewing gum, glue, bottles of ink, correction fluid, cleaning liquids, scissors, knives (including craft knives and razor blades), highlighter pens, scanner pens, adhesive tape and umbrellas.

It's not clearly mentioned in these rules and regulations, but eyelash curlers are not allowed either. One never knows when a reader might be tempted to curl a few pages of a rare manuscript in a moment of boredom.

These rules are clearly aimed at the protection of the British Library's collection. It's your right not to respect them, but then you will not be granted access to the collection. In this case, responsibilities and rights are clearly spelled out: respect the rules, get access to the books.

But what are the responsibilities and rights implied by the new rules applied to air travel? We are told that these strictures are meant for our own security so we blindly accept them. Then again, we don't really have a choice if we need to take a flight, so we resort to rationales along the lines of "I don't like it but I'd rather go through that knowing that everybody has to do it which should insures my safety."

I agree that many systems cannot function without rules and regulations, some measure of control, but I start getting a tingly feeling of discomfort when the power to apply these rules is attributed to a rather conceptual entity (Airport Security? National Aviation Security Committee? Department for Transport? U.S. Government? British Government?) and when I'm told it's all for my own good. That's what parents tell their children when they don't want to eat their brussel sprout puree and can’t be bothered to explain why the dreaded green mush should be so beneficial...

Beyond the Cocoon

I have to admit that the world of art academia which also happens to be “mine” is… sometimes out of touch with, well, everything but the very narrow topics that you can base a PhD on. Academia is like a cocoon in which one can live self sufficiently for long periods of time without much real contact with whatever might be happening beyond the book lined partitions. No matter how much we claim, within the confines of a seminar, that our research is aimed at a wider public or will make a real difference outside of universities, we fail to realize that this “wider public outside of universities” doesn’t know what we do and might actually not care. Why should they want to read 300 pages on the preservation of chocolate sculptures, the motif of walking in visual art and the metaphysical meaning camouflage in architecture. I know I would gladly pour over these morsels of research because it’s just so interesting. How do they come up with such obscure topics? How, exactly, is this supposed to make a difference for the guy behind the counter at the off-license, my GP or my grand-mother? But if you don’t step out of your cocoon often enough, you start taking for granted that everybody can define Modernism at the drop of hat and that nobody could possibly sport a mullet without irony in this day and age.

My wake-up call came last week. You see, my circle of friends in London is comprised mostly of graduate students of art history and cultural studies so the re-hang of Tate Modern’s permanent collection has been at the forefront of our discussions lately. Yes, yes, we really talk about it. A lot. Too much. But it’s important. Really.

On a sunny day, while picknicking in Russel Square after our annual feedback meetings, we were having just such a discussion. It couldn’t have occurred to any of us at the time that, had one of the mildly exhibitionist sunbathers overheard our conversation, he would certainly have thought “What a bunch of ponces! What the hell are they talking about? Why are they not paying any attention to my much too small animal print bathing costume?” Indeed, we wouldn’t have noticed his overexposed, tanned to a crisp nudity because we were aghast with disbelief over the fact that a Lichtenstein picture had made its way in one of the States of Flux galleries! Yes! The wing devoted to the early twentieth-century movements Cubism, Futurism and Vorticism! How ridiculous, how unacceptable. We all agreed and there a minute of silence brought on by the shame that such a thing could happen in such an important museum…

A few days later, I found myself relaying that vital information to S, thankfully not of the art world. I said “I can’t believe a Lichtenstein picture made its way in one of the States of Flux galleries! Yes! The wing devoted to the early twentieth-century movements Cubism, Futurism and Vorticism! How ridiculous, how unacceptable.” Within a second, his expression slipped from blankness to utter amusement. He didn’t even have to reply “Ooooh! You don’t say. Now that’s really horrible.” The smirk on his face was enough to make me realize that certain concerns don’t have much currency beyond the academic cocoon…

Image: © Estate of Roy Lichtenstein/DACS 2002

Luxury lies in the details

As I could ascertain when I spent a night in one of London’s five star hotels, to get a glimpse into the type of lifestyle that will always be out your grasp is a strange experience. First of all, upon entering the large and ornate, yet not quite ostentatious building, finding the reception proved to be quite a challenge. Of course, no institution as posh as this one would dare have something as vulgar as a reception area in its majestic entrance hall. Instead, obscenely expensive and useless objects such as cigar guillotines and designer smoking jackets were displayed in glass cases. Beyond this museum of sorts lay a decadent art deco bar: dark, over furnished, over decorated and overpopulated with louche people sucking on cigars. Behind this den inequity, I finally located a vaguely more official looking area, commonly known as the reception.

After checking in, half expecting the icily polite woman behind the wide polished granite counter to tell me that I couldn’t be admitted because I didn’t have the minimum annual income required to be handed over a card key that could open the door to a life of luxury, I took the lift up to the third floor where my suite was to be found.

As I walked down the wide hallway covered with hideously flowered carpet, I was struck by how plush it felt under the worn soles of my tattered sandals. When I opened the heavy door, I was shocked by the amount of space, awed by all that tasteful, useless emptiness: a vestibule?! A lounge!? A bathroom bigger than my kitchen and, let us not forget, a bedroom bigger than my lounge!

I spent long minutes wandering from room to room and giggling insanely before realizing that true luxury lies in the details: the clichéd watercolors are not nailed to the walls, there are proper wooden hangers in the wardrobe, everything is discreetly embroidered with the hotel’s logo, the curtains are ugly beyond belief yet they’re so heavy that they seem to block even the sound of real life happening beyond the windows… oh yes, and the fact that I have to leave in the morning.

I see...

Here I was in the middle of a gallery, kneeling on the floor with my eyes closed, caressing an arte povera bronze sculpture. Still, no security guard materialised to interrupt my fondling the art. That’s because I had relinquished my sight for a few minutes in order to experience part of a Touch Tour, one of these special guided visits that most public museums organise for visually impaired visitors.

I’d had a good look at the big lumpy sphere before touching it and the kindly curator of Access and Special Events had explained its origins and its significance to me, pointing out that visitors especially liked to kick this piece. Although this tale of hardship was quite touching, the protuberance inspired no sympathy, but the feeling of its cool, hard surface under my gloved hands was quite pleasant on this warm day. By giving it a little tap I could feel that it was hollow, hence a lot lighter than it looked, yet still immovable – even with a good kick. The fact was that touching this artwork, even through cotton gloves, was a great deal more pleasant than looking at it.

When I opened my eyes about a dozen people had gathered around to watch the unusual scene. Most were probably waiting for the police to drag me away, kicking and screaming, from the artwork I was hugging but a few just wanted to know what on earth I was doing and why I was allowed to break the rules of the institution. I left the kindly curator to deal with the angry mob as I had to go to another gallery for a similar tour with a group.

When I got to the museum, five partially sighted elderly ladies were patiently waiting for me. They had been kind enough to accept me in their group and wanted to know all about my research, asking questions (Aren’t you a little old to be a student dear?) and volunteering valuable information (I have a son who’s single and he has done studies too) even as the guide was explaining the rules of the tour. After spending about fifteen minutes removing all jewellery and donning attractive latex surgical gloves, we set out to touch our first artwork: a life sized male nude.

The ladies didn’t seem too taken with the history of this handsome bronze archer, but when the time came to touch, their interest was renewed. They somehow mostly avoided the naughty bits and concentrated on the height and the posture, commenting either on the material (Oh! It’s cold!) or on the form (He looks just like my son who’s single and who has done studies), but when the last participant approached the sculpture, she looked so frail next to this epitome of virility that I somehow feared she would be crushed. Yet, she felt her way around the torso, then moved the tips of her fingers gingerly down both arms and as she wrapped her arms around the sculpture she let out a high pitched exclamation: Oh! He has such a nice bum! Maybe she couldn’t rely on sight anymore be she could still clearly appreciate the aesthetic value of the piece.

As the ladies cackled I could only reach one conclusion: art is much more pleasurable when it can be touched.