Today has been tough on the old brain. I'm not as sharp as I used to be and the catholic nuances in King Lear had me hanging on for my scholarly life. Still I'm here to tell the tale.
The American delegates (there are loads of them) are cheerfully noisy. I think (though I haven't got close enough to read the lapel badge by way of confirmation) that one of the 'charcters' who chooses to wear his hat indoors is an American. The other is English and he added the offence of indoor sunglasses to his charge sheet today. Hey ho.
I've made a friend from Vancouver.
The academic behemoth who offended my sensibilities yesterday gave a plenary (it just means we were all there - I looked it up) lecture today. He's very good but vehemently boorish in that way the liberal left have made their own. The unthinking contempt for all things Brexit is tiresome and intellectually lazy. But that's enough of that. The day's other plenary lecture was magnificent - delivered by Professor Michael Neill. It was about death and Lear but was so much more than that. I felt cleverer for having heard it.
I have walked back to the hotel from a civic reception at the Guildhall. Not sure I've ever been civically received before. I could grow to like it.
I feel intermittently out of my depth. At times I have to fight incredulity at the miniscule points people think to make. Today's thought: being effective is a thing; being clever is a thing; being effectivey clever is a rare and beautiful thing.
Showing posts with label hull. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hull. Show all posts
Friday, 9 September 2016
Thursday, 8 September 2016
A Northern Interlude II
I have, dear reader, completed my first day as a delegate at an academic conference. But more of that anon. First I must correct my initial impressions of the good city of Hull. I had obviously, with my unerring radar, honed in on the shitty end of town when first I arrived. I retract. The University campus and its surroundings are elegant and the people are unfailingly friendly. I can see why Philip Larkin liked it.
Now for the life academic.
We assemble outside the hotel for the bus to the university. Old friendships are renewed (not by me - I have no friends in this milieu) and congratulations for published works are loudly exchanged. An unprepossesing bunch physically - I could take all of this lot in a fight even at my age - except that girl in the black dress. We embus (yes that's now a word). I sit upstairs which feels nostalgic on this the forty-fifth anniversary of my first day at King Edward's Aston. Should I engage someone in conversation? I decide not. The majority are women and I fear appearing predatory. In any event it is already apparent that the opening question is always, 'Are you presenting?' Too bloody right I'm not. The Boy Roberts is here to listen and observe and see if he can hack it intellectually.
I register, having found the courage to engage an Irish scholar in light conversation. He is presenting. Oh well. First up is a brilliant lecture by Professor Tiffany Stern on Renaissance ballads - a tour de force that ends with a speculation about the market economy around Shekespearean live arts. I make a mental note of some comparisons with the modern economics of popular music and then summon the courage to share them with some fellow delegates. No one laughs. Out loud. There follow panel presentations on Shakespeare as the conscience of Czech alternative theatre, and the problem of the English national poet as performed in Ireland's national theatre. I keep my thoughts to myself. This, we judge, is wise.
Most telling moments during the panel sessions come courtesy of a late arrival. His tardiness is not his fault - he and many more have spent a painful few hours captive on a delayed train. He sits next to me at the back and proceeds to peruse and reply to text messages. I'm sorry but that's just rude. I decide I don't like him. He asks a pertinent but self-referential question. At this juncture I twig that he is a leading Shalespearean - an academic behemoth. At the drinks reception which follows he wears his sunglasses indoors. This misstep is matched by the two males who wear hats indoors. I decide they must be 'characters'. Whatever.
Most people are nice but there is at all times a faint popping sound - the sound of of delegates disappearing up their own arses. Your correspondent is not immune to this but he is, in his defence, self aware. Hopefully.
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| Also liked Hull |
We assemble outside the hotel for the bus to the university. Old friendships are renewed (not by me - I have no friends in this milieu) and congratulations for published works are loudly exchanged. An unprepossesing bunch physically - I could take all of this lot in a fight even at my age - except that girl in the black dress. We embus (yes that's now a word). I sit upstairs which feels nostalgic on this the forty-fifth anniversary of my first day at King Edward's Aston. Should I engage someone in conversation? I decide not. The majority are women and I fear appearing predatory. In any event it is already apparent that the opening question is always, 'Are you presenting?' Too bloody right I'm not. The Boy Roberts is here to listen and observe and see if he can hack it intellectually.
I register, having found the courage to engage an Irish scholar in light conversation. He is presenting. Oh well. First up is a brilliant lecture by Professor Tiffany Stern on Renaissance ballads - a tour de force that ends with a speculation about the market economy around Shekespearean live arts. I make a mental note of some comparisons with the modern economics of popular music and then summon the courage to share them with some fellow delegates. No one laughs. Out loud. There follow panel presentations on Shakespeare as the conscience of Czech alternative theatre, and the problem of the English national poet as performed in Ireland's national theatre. I keep my thoughts to myself. This, we judge, is wise.
Most telling moments during the panel sessions come courtesy of a late arrival. His tardiness is not his fault - he and many more have spent a painful few hours captive on a delayed train. He sits next to me at the back and proceeds to peruse and reply to text messages. I'm sorry but that's just rude. I decide I don't like him. He asks a pertinent but self-referential question. At this juncture I twig that he is a leading Shalespearean - an academic behemoth. At the drinks reception which follows he wears his sunglasses indoors. This misstep is matched by the two males who wear hats indoors. I decide they must be 'characters'. Whatever.
Most people are nice but there is at all times a faint popping sound - the sound of of delegates disappearing up their own arses. Your correspondent is not immune to this but he is, in his defence, self aware. Hopefully.
A Northern Interlude I
Here I am in the unlikely destination of Hull for the British Shakespeare Association Conference, preparing to pretend to have a clue what these academics are on about. Later today I will have to regiser my preferences among the various optional panels. I am going to adopt a policy of choosing seminars whose titles comprise only words I don't have to look up. I may struggle. Word of the week - obscurantism.
I am staying in the slightly faded glory of the Royal Hotel. I couldn't get the television to work yesterday and I couldn't work out the coffee machine at breakfast. Assistance has been forthcoming so life goes on.
A first wander around the city centre was a tad depressing - a blur of flab, tattoos and a Greggs on every corner. But everywhere (well almost) has these areas, indeed some have nothing else. My tea time peregrinations were therefore a relief as I idled through the Old Town and the Marina. Much better. There is a lot of work being done, presumably in anticipation of the city's imminent year as City of Culture.
Must go now and steel myself for the intellectul rigours ahead. First up: 'Wheel of Fire: memory, mourning and the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre'; and then, 'Music, Theatre and Nationhood'. What have I let myself in for? Should I seek out a nice pub (did the groundwork last night) and hide away with a good book? No, Dave you've got to get out there and test your limits. Report to follow.
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| Faded glories |
A first wander around the city centre was a tad depressing - a blur of flab, tattoos and a Greggs on every corner. But everywhere (well almost) has these areas, indeed some have nothing else. My tea time peregrinations were therefore a relief as I idled through the Old Town and the Marina. Much better. There is a lot of work being done, presumably in anticipation of the city's imminent year as City of Culture.
Must go now and steel myself for the intellectul rigours ahead. First up: 'Wheel of Fire: memory, mourning and the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre'; and then, 'Music, Theatre and Nationhood'. What have I let myself in for? Should I seek out a nice pub (did the groundwork last night) and hide away with a good book? No, Dave you've got to get out there and test your limits. Report to follow.
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