Three Worlds

Maurits Cornelius Escher, or Uncle Maurits as my father used to refer to him, always presented to myself as something of an enigma; hardly that surprising, given that he travelled through Europe, and fascist Italy, at such a time of unrest and injustice. I would imagine that many of those who were able to maintain and conduct their lives with any sort of moral code or compass, at such a time (WWII), may also have developed somewhat enigmatic traits. Yet, even with this past turmoil in mind, Uncle Maurits struck me as fascinatingly unique.

Highly treasured, amongst my meagre possessions, remain a handful of dusty books, embellished by his exquisite illustrative works, within which I am still able to escape from the soul-destroying excretions of British life today. Many of you will be familiar with many of his works, through reproductions that you may have encountered, even though you may not, until this moment, have been aware as to who the responsible artist was. Nevertheless, it is surely certain that some readers will also have been able to virtually slip inside the picture frame, in order to contemplate a few of the mathematical concepts with which he was ever obsessed. Who can say, perhaps one day, there we shall meet.

With eyesight less crisp than in my youth, I have increasingly taken to the magnifying glass, as enhancement to my cerebral journeying. Happily the companionship of Uncle Maurits's knowing chuckle is never far from my side. Yet, alas, it remains one of time's many cruel paradoxes that, with diminishing energies and years, one is often cursed by a greater clarity. Oh, how I wish that dear old Uncle Maurits was here today, in order to re-elaborate upon his, then unfathomable, theories of time, infinity and contra-illusion.

Thanks to slworking2

Age and duration have also sought to play many a cruel trick upon the memory and this has been sadly abetted through the demise of the two other souls then present. Even so, now alone, I remain, to this very day, able to convince myself that, as a mere boy, I once sat, mesmerised,  and listened to Uncle Maurits expounding upon one of his less popular theories, that of time travel. As I recall, he was armed with a hastily crafted Mobius strip, which he may or may not yet have bisected, and his eyes were shining; not simply sparkling with life but were magically endowed with a crystal twinkle all of their very own.

Uncle Maurits spoke with a compassion and conviction, the likes of which I have yet to re-encounter; always the master storyteller, he was. His words, for me, were always liberally dusted with more than their fair share of enchantment. But I shall never forget the look upon the face of my grandfather- himself no mean philosopher and mathematician- as dear old Maurits, on that long-ago New Year's Eve, let it slip that his theories were no longer simply that. My grandfather's face was transformed, enlightened!

Thanks to moyerphotos 

After Uncle Maurits's passing, my father was able to shed much light upon the, lesser known, political aspects of many of Escher's works. Father was able to explain that 'Square Limit' (1964) was not only another of Maurits's depictions of perceived infinite possibilities, but also a work of comment upon the ways in which those in power chose to divide up a nation's wealth, where, seemingly infinitely large may be seen to co-exist with a theoretical singularity (infinitely small), or macro along side micro.

Two of my father's favourite works remained 'Belvedere' (1958) and "House of Stairs II' (1951) . 'Belvedere, within which we can see the scholar, frustrated with the impossibilities before him- surely a comment upon the falsehoods that are everyday presented as truths to the minions. Notice also the gullible citizen who has somehow managed to climb the political 'house of cards' that he believes to be reality, whilst his lords and masters unconcernedly survey an altogether different world, perhaps unaware as to even his existence, that is until luncheon is to be served.

In 'House of Stairs'- also one of my particular favourites- a host of identical creatures can be seen to populate an infinite world of stairs and corners, each perceiving their world to be the 'real' one, oblivious to the different realities of their co-inhabitants. Could this be be an allusion to the media-painted facades, behind which the 'mighty' might seek to hide the greater truths or, perhaps, the peddled deceptions within which 'elected representatives' are able to get themselves re-elected within a house of mirrors, or false promises; if a work of art ever predicted the abhorrent concept of Blairism this is surely it, or so one might be forgiven for so believing.

As is often the case, not unlike as with genuine conversations, we have wandered somewhat from my intended theme, that of Uncle Maurits's fleeting reference to time travel- and here I should make it abundantly clear that my grandfather had always, since that day, insisted that Uncle Maurits had said that he had, "travelled beyond mankind's wildest dreams. "Grandfather often repeated these exact words- never outside of the immediate 'family', you understand- with a knowing wink and a far-away glint in his eye, which though I had always wanted to, I never, in truth, fully understood.

Decades later, alone now, with my own frail recollections, I am drawn time and again to the political allusions, made clear to me by my father, in his father's favourite of Uncle Maurits's works, 'Three Worlds' (1955). Indeed, each time that I am drawn to study this piece, I find that it is almost as if Uncle Maurits has somehow contrived to add another minute detail that I had, until that moment, inexplicably, overlooked; that, were it possible, would fit his humour to a tee.

I rue the complete lack of chance that human frailty has denied me, that one final opportunity with which to share an informed conversation with my long-departed-and-much-loved grandfather. 'Three Worlds', surely, almost denies credibility in its quite surreal allusion to the Blairite years of untethered dehumanisation with which we are still effectively shackled. But, it is as clear to me, as it ever was, that this is about as close to proof as it gets, that Uncle Maurits either really did make that momentous yet unrecorded journey or that he had an insight beyond our wildest imaginings. Just think upon it; who, even during the worst suppurating manifestations of Thatcherism, could realistically have predicted the hatching of the creature that was to contra-alchemically become Tony Blair? I can almost sense your befuddled noddings, so imagine my own, confronted, as I am, with Escher's very words.

Thanks to cornish.pixie07

Art historians and the likes have obviously steered clear of the controversy, preferring instead to expound upon Uncle Maurits's penmanship, the ethereal quality of the water's surface, the partial obscurity and buoyancy of the central Koi Carp, giving Escher's political observations an inexplicably wide berth. Thus, it has been left to the less materialistically-driven amongst us to comment beyond the superficial.

Check it out: there are precisely 417 leaves, perfectly suspended upon an invisible meniscus of water, representing, I would contest the 417 argued practised faiths around the world. The five- a religiously significant number- species of leaf that have been depicted (oak, beech, maple, sycamore and something slightly cottonwoodish) could be said to represent the variety of religious creeds and races within the population; to have depicted a more representative number would obviously have undermined the otherwise simplicity, and realistic homage, to a genuine landscape. The leaves are precariously placed in an almost two-dimensional world, of extremely limited manoeuvrability, awaiting demise, upon which they will crumble and add further sustenance to the significantly greater world of the privileged minority of one (the Koi Carp). Even the duplicitous Mr Blair hadn't quite split the UK's population into two such disparate parts, the uber-wealthy 0.24% and the rest (99.76%) but, give Cameron and Osborne a couple more years and who knows?

Slightly contentious, you think? Or maybe not, the numbers are just that little bit too significant, aren't they? Had you been there, with grandfather and myself, on that magical day, you too would, by now, be all but convinced. Allow me to embellish the allusion further, to see if we might not yet convince you fully.

Finally, there is, of course, the third world- not 'Third World' here, I'd argue; that much really is just circumstantial- tethering the image together, into one 'coherent' whole. Those three reflected trees, clearly representative of the three major English political parties- again note, not the UK- are shown in all their nakedness, that is bankrupt of credible answers that will convince a more discerning voter. The almost dormant winter trees are simple reflections, at best two-dimensional; arguably, as creations of no actual substance, actually no-dimensional. Thus, we have the illusory substance of accountable governance, under which we are expected serve. None other than an almost faultless parallel to Britain under New Labour.

Curiously, there is no obvious allusion to the National Lottery, an actual illusion, if this is not an oxymoron, by which the masses (the leaves) are deceived into believing that they are able to attain the lifestyle of the uber-wealthy (the Koi Carp). Given that almost the entire population is represented as being suspended within virtually two dimensions it is likely that Uncle Maurits was unable to conceive of an acceptable reference.

Or, perhaps, even this is merely awaiting my next visitation.

Slash and burn!

I had occasion to visit a primary school the other day and was surprised to find the management team, within said location, in the process of removing, from the library, a number of beautifully crafted, yet no doubt harmonically-defunct, musical instruments. I think that there may have been a couple of violins and a guitar, nestled within a somewhat larger array of curios; the sort of items that one almost instinctively 'rescues', before recognising that one's own shelves are already bending under the weight of a gradually accumulating cornucopia of previously acquired objet d'art.

Upon arrival in the school's car park I had already noted the large skip, parked obligingly (or worryingly) adjacent to the premises, and was, thus, anxious to enquire as to the reallocated location for the noted items. I had mistakenly assumed that they might offer an interesting variety of angled plains, shapes, textures, reflected and refracted lightings and shadows for, perhaps the number of budding or interested artists, numbering amongst the school's role. Thus, I was to be further 'enlightened' as to the direction of education today.

Thanks to lokarta

Perhaps I should explain, before you assume that I am in the process of condemning this particular school, that previous visits to this place-of-learning have always given the best of impressions, that the staff are industrious and diligent in the extreme and that the pupils always present as polite and friendly. Not that one should, for one nanosecond, be fooled by such a narrow spectrum of judgement as Ofsted reports or skewed league-tables, but I also know that even these can offer only positive data regarding the school's progress. This school fares well, given the constraints within which it is expected to operate.

Nonetheless, the response to my observations did somewhat take me aback. I was informed that such items were now only seen to be of 'educational use' where they offered direct support to the 'core curriculum'; that unless these consummate objects were able to embellish the 'greater' subjects they were effectively merely taking up valuable space that might otherwise be occupied by Maths or English related support materials. "And, the creative arts?" one might have ventured, but the chosen course was already brightly illuminated, so one did not.

We are undoubtedly educating our children for the markets of tomorrow; thus enabling them to develop the entrepreneurial spirit required of the next generation, to venture out, into the global marketplace and compete for Britain. Common sense! The capitalist's dream! The 'free market. The message from the 'great and mighty' beckons as brightly as the fires within the gates of Hell.

And again, lokarta

Needless to say that, back in the car, meandering back homeward, I actually shed tears. It's just a shame that an enterprising young police officer wasn't able to exploit such compromised driving and create some much-needed revenue, with a well-landed fine of some sort. A factory for Blair-Cameron-Clegg-like clones; the mind almost recoils in horror!

Should we not, just for a planet-and-society-saving second, stand back and spend a few seconds re-analysing the world that we've already created? Really? Satisfied, are we? Honestly?

Counterfeit World

In 1964 Daniel F. Galouye's (sadly) little known masterpiece, 'Counterfeit World' was first published. It is certain, I am sure, that a brief summary here would fail completely, to do anything approaching justice to the great novel. Let it suffice, however, to be written that the plot hinges largely upon the fact that one of it's main characters believes himself to be conducting important research, until the day that something inexplicable happens, causing him to question, thereafter, everything that he has ever believed to be fact.

I cannot recommend it highly enough, not least because it, curiously somehow, appears to allude, allegorically, to a modern day Britain. Obviously, you may be thinking, this cannot be the case, written, as it was, some thirty-eight years ago.

All the same, the parallels, are more than quite remarkable. You really should consider giving it a spin. If nothing else it'll probably reacquaint you with your nearest library, before the Coalition closes it down in order to help fund tax breaks for the very wealthiest in 'our' country.

Special thanks to Vincent van der Pas

It was whilst listening to that curious anomaly, Edward Miliband, that I was given to recall the aforementioned novel. Young Edward was, I think, seeking to impress someone with his 'level-headed' refusal to oppose 4% cuts in certain public sector pay. "Pay cuts before redundancies," was the message, as he climbed comfortably on to that anti-public-sector bandwagon that the Coalition have been joyriding up and down the nation; always a safe bet with the tabloids. "I am not going to change my policy, in the face of threats," he retorted to questioning Union members. Well, certainly not, it would appear, threats from that section of society that he pretends, intermittently, to represent.

"So, how will this 'common sense' stance be affecting your meagre income, Mr Miliband?" I would have been curious to enquire. "Or perhaps your property portfolio?" I might have added, given the opportunity. Where to turn, we, the working classes, might be forgiven for thinking?

Thank you to Jan Tik

So, whilst yet another government bows and scrapes entirely to the demands of the hidden powers of the uber-wealthy, the new face of Labour finally begins to shed its cocoon, transpiring to be the uber-disappointing face of old New Labour. We could wonder if dear old Ed already has one eye on the tax-evading havens of one of his former leaders, the uber-dupicitous Mr Blair. Whatever else we might think of the aspiring ex Prime Minister, he certainly seems to know his way around the tax circuits. His Windrush Empire seems almost immune to the inconveniences of income tax; not so very different, then, from the mathematically astute Mr Osborne.

I think that, even as a child, I had begun to suspect that the likes of the unelected CBI held far more sway over the big decisions of the UK than the media-elected Government. And that was before the demonic spectre of Thatcher had raised its charred and soulless profile. All kneel and chant, "Oh money, we worship all that you may control and will seek to bludgeon all else into subservience."

Do you remember the last Hollywood blockbuster that you watched? No neither do I, probably because, once the glitz and special effects had been stripped away, the memory had so little, in the manner of substance, to hold on to that the film just melted away, like candy-floss upon the tongue.

On the other hand, I enjoyed the original Danish 'The Killing' so much that I sometimes sat and watched three or more episodes on the trot. So enamoured with the drama was I that I even gave the American version a chance. A mistake that was gratefully terminated, less than twenty minutes into episode one, although I suspect that its lack of subtitles probably grossed it a great deal more than its European superior.

There could be no prizes for guessing which version Michael Gove (Education Secretary?) would prefer. His expensive, port-droopy eyes of privilege will be blinded by the zeros. Integrity also must bow down to the profit god; after all 'what point art if it brings not great spoils?' Really? Education Secretary? Seriously?

Thanks to quisnovus

Although, Mr Gove does have one 'valid' point to make, regarding all of those 'teachers' that 'need' to be removed from the system. Who, in all honesty, can seriously argue that teachers who fiddle thousands out of the system and flip their many homes, at the expense of the state, should not be summarily dismissed. Wasters and crooks, every one of them!

At least, over Christmas- 'good will' and all that- we were, occasionally, heartened to witness just a tiny fraction of the good work being undertaken at the behest of some of our highly revered top celebrities; always a good time to lever one's 'underexposed' face back into the media spotlight, isn't it? How, I find, it warms the soul to see the likes of Bono or Sting enlightening us as to some of the immense inequality that is taking place upon the planet. As, I'm almost certain that they are endeavouring to inform us, there is only so much to go round; the world's resources are decidedly not infinite.

How I laughed at the humorous, yet curious, concept of Rio Ferdinand debating with Keira Knightly and other nefarious celebrities, arguing the case over who should be permitted to visit some of the most poverty-stricken spots within the safer countries of the African Continent. If only those who shed their tears, from their custom-built castles in the clouds, could figure out how to solve this growing inequality we'd be half way to some kind of solution. Go on Mr Branson, tell us do, why are there so few islands to go round?

Maybe one day we'll all wake up to discover that 'redundant', just like Morton Lynch, someone from an altogether 'higher' standing has decided it's time to simply switch us off.