John Akomfrah: Tate Shots

My friend and teacher, Dorrie D, dropping knowledge in Strolling!!!

What Happened, Miss Simone? coming soon...

Extended Trailer of The Supreme Price By Joanna Lipper

Debate About French Muslim Identity Plays Out In Hip-Hop

As part of our stories about Muslims in Western Europe, commentator Hisham Aidi, author of the book Rebel Music, talks about how music factors into the cultural differences between French Muslims.

Support Yenkassa - Ghana Life!

I came across this wonderful blog (love Tumblr:)) and project today and I was so pleased to find that someone is out there actively trying to document Ghana's oral history before it's too late. I hope this video inspires you to support the project, too.

Scene on a train: a short play

On Platform Two of Seven Sisters overground station. It’s seven twenty-two on a crisp December night. It’s dark and cold and there’s a buzz in the air. Christmas is but days away and, what with the bleak economic outlook and the exertions of the riots, it seems everyone is looking forward to a well-deserved break. People are in good spirits but there’s a hint of edginess in the air.

The platform is crowded. The 19.14 to Enfield Town is eight minutes late. People are checking their phones and watches with increasing frustration. They’re speaking into mobiles loudly and berating the unreliable service. Some of them have come from West End, having taken the Victoria line from Oxford Circus to Seven Sisters. Many of them are black, many of them are young.


Finally, the train pulls in to Seven Sisters, ten minutes late. It’s already full and those waiting to board are laden with shopping bags, making the usual jostle for position fiercer. When the doors eventually open, the usual etiquette is done away with. Those wanting to get off the train are swamped by those desperate to get on as everyone crowds in in a mad rush for seats.


People deposit themselves wherever they find space. Passengers shuffle in their seats to make way for those who are determined to sit down despite the overflow of people and bags. Some place their goods in the overhead luggage racks; others place them on the floor or even on the seat beside them.


In the four seats nearest to the door in the first carriage is a white woman in her mid-thirties, who is sitting against the window facing the direction in which the train is travelling. Resting against her arm is her son, who is about eight or ten years old. He is asleep. Opposite her is an older white woman, in her late sixties or early seventies. Her head is deep in an Evening Standard, although she is aware of the commotion going on around her and the scramble for seats. Her bags are placed on the seat beside her. She makes no attempt to move them to make way for someone to sit down (and feigns blissful ignorance with the aid of her paper).


An old white man in his late seventies gets on the train at Bruce Grove. He’s stooped but nimble on his feet. He’s wearing a grey flat cap and a fur-lined, camel coat. He shuffles into the carriage and hunts for a seat. All eyes are on the old woman with her bags on the only free seat.

This time, she reluctantly concedes and moves her shopping bags on to the floor in order to let the old man sit down.

Old man: Thank you. Thank you, dear, that’s very kind of you.

He takes a seat as the train starts to move off. There’s a brief silence. Rubbing his gloved hands…

Oooo, it’s cold today, innit. Freezing! Still, not as bad as last year. Last year was terrible. This year’s been quite good.

The old woman sitting next to him briefly averts her gaze from her paper and fakes a smile while the mother sitting opposite produces a genuine grin.

Mother: You wouldn’t think that Christmas was only a couple of days away.

Old man: Oo, Christmas. Doesn’t feel like does it. I remember when I was a kid it would be guaranteed snow. Now everything’s changed. You can’t tell whether you’re coming or going.

The mother smiles and there is a brief moment of silence as the train pulls out of Bruce Grove and Tottenham High Street comes into view as the train passes through it.

Old man: It’s terrible. I used to go to that post office in Bruce Grove before they burnt it down. Now I have to go all the way up to the post office at the Sainsbury’s in Edmonton. It takes me ages. Do you know the one?

Mother: No, I don’t.

Old man: The one by the big Sainsbury’s. I have to take the bus or get the train up cos I could never walk there. It’s too far to get to by foot. I used to like walking to the old post office in Bruce Grove. It was a nice bit of exercise, you know. Now, I don’t really get out much.

Silence.

There was a lovely woman who used to work at the Post Office in Bruce Grove. A little Indian lady. Do you know her?

Mother: No, I’ve never been there.

Old man: I wonder what happened to her? She was lovely. Really good at her job. I haven’t seen her since. I thought they might have moved her up to Edmonton but I haven’t seen her there. She’s the kind of person I feel sorry for. She didn’t deserve to lose her job cos some no-good kids decided to burn down her place of business.

All eyes shift towards the old man. The tension is palpable. Lowering her paper…

Old woman: That’s just an excuse. They would have closed them down anyway. The government was planning to shut down most of the Post Offices around here. The rioters did them a favour. Gave them a get-out clause.

Old man: Is it really?

Old woman: Yes it is. The government don’t care one bit about the likes of you and me. They were going to put you out of your post office regardless.

Old man: You’re right, you’re certainly right. But that’s no excuse for them burning down all those buildings.

Old woman: It wasn’t all of them. Some of them are good kids but the media tarred everyone with the same brush. None of the kids where I live were involved.

Old man: Fair point, fair point.

Hastily changing the subject…

Mother: Are you doing anything nice for Christmas?

Old man: Nah. My daughter lives in Essex and she’s got her kids to think about. She’s divorced, see, so she’s got her hands full. I’ve got a son too but he’s taken his family off on holiday. Gone off to the Caribbean for some winter sun, Gambia, or somewhere, he says, so he’s doing better than we are. It’s all about the kiddies anyhow. Got any plans for the little lad?

Mother: Oh, he’s spoilt enough. Nothing special. But he’ll know it’s Christmas.

Old man: That’s right, he deserves to be spoilt, don’tcha lad?

He ruffles the sleeping boy’s shoulder playfully, rouses the child but doesn’t wake him. The mother smiles.

When my kids were little ‘uns we used to really treat them at this time of year, me and the wife. We never had much but we made sure that they knew it was Christmas. We did our best.

Mother: I’m sure you did.

The train stops at White Hart Lane.

Old man: I’ve lived here going on fifty years. Used to take my boy to watch the football every Saturday when there were home games. It was safe as houses then. So much’s changed but I wouldn’t live anywhere else. This is England, warts and all.

The train passes behind a house with a huge St. George’s flag billowing in its garden. They all look at it.

Old woman: In all its ugliness and its glory.

Where are our Walker Evans?

Much has been written over the last few months about the lack of writers documenting the human impact of the financial crisis. The names most often brought out in these debates are Steinbeck and Orwell, two towering figures in the literary-documentary tradition against which no writers today justifiably compare.

But it occurred to me while walking around the Jeff Wall retrospective at the BOZAR in Brussels that, not only is it legitimate to question the dearth of literary chroniclers, we might also pause to consider the absence of photographers capturing the essence of the new great depression. Where are our Walker Evans? Where are our Cartier-Bressons?

The argument could be made, as it has about writers, that in the midst of the worst financial crisis in a generation, people don’t want to read, or see, their suffering reflected in their entertainment. The purpose, they argue, of literature and film and any other of the arts, is to take the consumer into the realms of fantasy not force them to wallow, to live, in their reality. This is a one-dimensional analysis. Surely, the job of an artist is to capture reality as well as help create it? And if, as is often said, the media set the agenda, then surely our writers and photographers are in a unique position to document the social and economic decline at the human level and give voice, shape and form to the suffering.

While many striking images have come out of Detroit, and there have been inevitable accusations of 'poverty porn', the new voyeurism, it may only be years from now that we come to rue the consequences of the suffering we chose to ignore.

Antonio Negri - A Revolt That Never Ends

Cafe Rits continued its stimulating Philosophers on Screen series with a screening of A Revolt That Never Ends, a documentary by German filmmaker, Christian Beetz about the influential Italian philosopher and academic Antonio Negri.

The film profiles the controversial life and times of the university professor, philosopher, militant, prisoner, refugee, and 'enemy of the state.' It traces Negri's roots in the history of radical left-wing movements in Italy during the Sixties and Seventies, illustrated through archival footage of workers' strikes, factory occupations, terrorist actions, violent street confrontations, political repression, and government trials of dissidents.

The striking thing about this film, shot five years ago, is the parallel between today's economic crisis, and its fallout, with what happened in Italy (and Greece) more than three decades ago. It puts me in mind of Hegel's quote on history: "What experience and history teaches us is that people and governments have never learned anything from history, or acted on principles deduced from it” (Danke schön Alex!) and Marx's "History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce."

I may not agree with some of Negri's ideology but where this film succeeds is in getting the viewer to think about the issues and put today's circumstances in a broader, historical context.