parvus est...

in a world where we are constantly exhorted to super-size, persuaded that bigger is most definitely better, i feel its high time to come out and plead the case for the humble, small cappuccino – you remember small, it came in a cup, with good deep foam and a rich creamy taste; not tall or the preposterous grande in a cumbersome mug or bucket, all milky, weak and insipid…when did we start getting super-sized on our coffee, as well as everything else???

once upon a time nero (who claim to be italian) regularly served a small cappuccino, ‘eat’ offered 3 sizes, small, tall and grande, prêt had only one size and it was mercifully small for a takeaway cup, and kro somewhat reluctantly served a cup instead of a huge mug if you asked nicely. i cant claim to know what starbucks served then or now, but i’m guessing from what i see in the streets that they pioneered the demise of the small option. anyway the thing was, it wasn’t hard work to purchase the simple classic coffees – cappuccino, espresso, latte if you wanted something a bit longer. it might sound slightly pedantic but its all about the ratio with coffee; coffee is based on the rule of thirds. espresso, short, black and intense; cappuccino, essentially an espresso with a third of milk and a third of dense foam; latte, an espresso with two thirds milk, swirl of foam…simple formula, perfect every time.

then something went horribly wrong, and cups disappeared, swiftly followed by any ‘small’ option - pop into one of the countless coffee emporiums in the city and try to spot the word small on the ever more complicated menus. you won’t find it, its simply gone, been erased, rubbed out…it might seem a tiny thing and not worth getting ‘het’ up about, but it’s symptomatic of a much greater problem and i have had to start boycotting all outlets that have infuriatingly expunged the classic cappuccino from our collective consciousness. suddenly coffee sizes start with ‘tall’ or the euphemistic ‘regular’, increasing to the gargantuan ‘grande’ -the inevitable pail of milky, vile slop. obviously this self imposed embargo is presently only inconveniencing me, but all great social/political movements have to start somewhere!

those age-old proportions are crucial – if my first fix isn’t sufficient, i can just ask for a second cup. drinking a giant version isn’t the answer; sometimes quality is more important than quantity. plus, like eating out, it's really about the ritual, the occasion, and the aesthetics of cup, saucer, tiny teaspoon and even the tiny biscotti on the side. its all part of the essential difference between making a big old thirst-quenching cuppa at home and paying for someone else to make you the perfect beverage that you would never bother to replicate in your kitchen.

this particular bee in my bonnet has only been exacerbated by my recent visit to rome, where coffee is always served one way – small and perfectly formed. coffee in rome is everywhere. it’s the home of coffee and they know their stuff. like their pizzas the secret is to keep it simple – the margarita, in england merely the base for a dizzying array of complicated, absurd ingredients, is in italy centre stage, embellishment – free. so it is with coffee, where even my innocuous vice of a small cappuccino after lunch is viewed as a milky over-indulgence!

coffee in rome is a revelation. sold to britons as a cultural indicator of urbanity and sophistication, served by specially qualified ‘baristas’ who like vidal sassoon stylists only create their complicated masterpieces after years of intense training, with not much change from a fiver, in rome it is truly democratic, served in tiny corner shops that look like tobacconists in miles platting, by men who could easily turn their hand to the plumbing or rustle up the local delicacy of fried offal in equal measure. its handed to you in double quick time no matter how many trillions of other romans are huddled up by the counter also quaffing espressos and snacking on a mini croissant or sandwich, and its drunk there and then at the ‘bar’. no seats, no take outs…just drink and go. it’s a joy and at under a euro incredibly cheap.

i realise i’m back home now and none of the above rules apply, but i’d just like a classic cappuccino in a small cup. we are in danger of drowning in a sea of overpriced, super-sized brown liquid, as the big chains cluster the city, opening more and more branches but offering less and less quality or choice, dominating the high street with bigger and ever stranger pseudo coffees. in the process they invariably see off the local independent, increasing the rapid homogenization of our city, and diminishing its unique character, what little is left of it.

perhaps oklahoma is the only place in town to get a real, small coffee. elsewhere there is loading bay behind sandbar, but everyone else has sized up, it seems, scared of the big boys coffee breath on their necks. wise up, people, actual coffee might be close to extinction…

manchester new years eve debacle...m.e.n report

lonely firework at town hall at midnight!

sometimes it’s reassuring to find that you’re not totally out of synch with the rest of the world…or in this case the mighty m.e.n!

you might recall my confusion in a recent posting about the mysterious absence of any focus for new years eve celebrating. there i was wandering about the city centre as the clock drew nearer the midnight hour, waiting for friends to finish their pizza express shifts, and hoping that there might be some fireworks or a bit of a singalong in albert square to join up with…but nothing, not a sausage, nowhere for our assortment of waifs and strays to warm our metaphorical cockles!!! once home and in front of the tv it seemed that just about everybody else was enjoying the countdown to a brave new year in squares and plazas around the globe, sharing goodwill, fireworks and best wishes in the night air, surrounded by fellow citizens. why if manchester celebrates christmas so heartily, ferociously even, does it see in the new year with little more than a whimper…?

last week on my usual mooch round this peculiar metropolis, doing my rounds like an old hound sniffing its territory, i stopped to have a cappuccino with norlander toast and jam at the divine oklahoma, home of the pointless, quirky yet must have item, such as the spinning, multi glow eyeball or bag of bones, eye-sockets and bits (my own guilty pleasures!!), lip salve by burts bees and that essential 7-day moustache pack. its here that i like to sit awhile to watch the world go by and eavesdrop into the lives of the lovely young things who frequent and work in this little emporium to the ordinary. often i take a book or write in my notebook but today my eye was drawn to an abandoned manchester evening news and its curious headline tucked away on p14…

it seems that i was not alone in feeling a little miffed and disappointed by our absence of civic merriment – a poll reveals that 76% of people asked by m.e.n would have liked an organized celebration, and were left feeling flat by the lack of music or fireworks in albert square. council chiefs say it just cant afford the 125k it would cost and that emergency services unwillingness is also to blame! a lead article by alan gardner run in the m.e.n early in the new year makes an interesting read - http://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/news/s/1030148_new_years_eve_falls_flat

bah humbag i say and for once i’m not alone…lib dem leader paul shannon told the evening news, ‘many cities across europe hold successful and enjoyable new year’s eve celebrations. i’m sure here in manchester we would do it even better than them.’

fighting talk mr shannon, fighting talk…

cyclists dismount – here be dragons!

in a city where property is king and it seems that every square inch of manchester has become a ‘vibrant quarter’ or ‘bohemian district’, i have constant trouble describing where i live – its just behind the met, i say, or its just past the station, by the bt building! sometimes i try ‘..you know, behind the bbc and paradise factory..’ or ‘keep going past sandbar, cross the main road and behind the big car showroom…’, but its always a struggle to pinpoint quite where i mean, and it seems that unless you live here, chorlton on medlock or brunswick doesn’t really exist.

from the outside, brunswick is something of a liminal, transitional space – an M1 postcode, but hardly the M1 lifestyle as promoted by the city marketeers. chances are you’ve never heard of it. it’s everything the glossy city centre dreamscape is not. in many respects it’s a forgotten bit of manchester, literally a corridor on the way to or between other more solid locations, traversed by commuters taking a short cut from piccadilly station to oxford road or to the collegiate triangle (umist, uni, and met) that surrounds it, an obscure island behind the city. somewhat off the beaten track it’s been largely ignored and left to its own devises; a hazy nether world, its pre-generated rubble grassed over and covered in brambles like some secret garden or sleeping beauty’s ruined kingdom…

this here be dragons feeling is heightened by its proximity to a gamut of key vehicle arteries - oxford road and upper brook street to the west, and london road to the east - where endless traffic carries travellers to other more salubrious parts of town. add to this the brooding, burly presence of manchester’s ring road cutting a swathe through the neighborhood, and effectively separating it from the outside world, and you have all the hallmarks of auge’s ‘non-place’. guided by campus landscaping and signage, flood lights and high railings, students and staff are conspicuously funnelled away from the estate behind the flyover, and only the foolhardy or pioneering pass the ‘cyclist dismount’ sign beside the muddy underpass, and onwards into the uncharted terrain beyond. a nearby map steering people across college grounds depicts the estate unnamed and curiously blank, like the unexplored territories of medieval cartographers…the world ends here; there be dragons!

within its confines however, life has its own unique rhythm. the mancunian way, shorthand to many of the ills of the modernist social housing experiment, is a incessant presence in brunswick life, a brutalist 60’s concrete flyover fundamental to the flow of the city, its urban ebb and tide. built on the ruins of old chorlton on medlock, it destroyed the neighbourhood that was, and created the present incarnation – a hinterland and quiet backwater that’s home to a largely settled community, in the main the first residents of the brand new 70’s estate of maisonettes and its towering trio of silkin, lockton, and lamport courts, shelter also to a more transient population with sometimes more than its fair share of pimps, hookers and dealers alongside a cluster of assorted creatives, attracted some years ago by the cheap rents and short waiting lists. classic ‘hard to let’ territory, it became home to writers, musicians, artists and designers moved on by the regenerations of nearby hulme and moss side and the rise of the over priced private sector. soon lo-fli magazines, micro recording studios, a rash of bands and gaggle of artists from the nearby art school were fermenting and incubating in the towers tiny flats.

into this heady mix of diy creativity came Apartment, a gallery that’s simultaneously not a gallery, an actual lived-in space, recreating or performing the idea of a gallery, a physical and metaphorical manifestation of the separate and intertwined artistic practices of its two founders, a place to reflect and comment wryly on the dominant discourses of the current art scene; a most clever accident that has supported a generation of artists and fostered a still expanding international network of creative practice.

its latest show is Horst by berlin based painter Nikola Irmer, which was being hung prior to my little trip to rome, the eternal city. since my return the preview has been and gone, and visitors are popping in and out for viewings and cups of tea. i confess to having become quite used to Horst’s massive presence in the living room, and even forget about him in the bathroom, but he is only here ‘til the end of february so i suggest you rush to see him before he packs up and makes his way back to berlin.

behind the scenes at apartment - a view from the settee

preparations for Nikola Irmer’s imminent solo show ‘Horst’ are fast taking shape and disrupting my usual perch in apartment. in fact, i’m beginning to feel in the way. it’s all part of the contradictory, transformative processes inherent in the tenureship of this residency, where the private and the public collide and coincide. i’m always unsure of my role here anyhow on a day to day basis; at once in paul’s home and in apartment’s office. now for the first time i’m acutely aware that i’m simultaneously in a functioning gallery, with hefty packing cases containing delicate canvases winging their way to us from berlin…my fragile realities are slipping and fragmenting…

the cosiness of an art show taking place in the domestic setting of apartment is of course somewhat disingenuous and deceptive ; the gallery and its location always complicit in its playful ambiguity and sense of the absurd, and in this show in particular the traditional 'frame' of paint and canvas adds to the queerness and confusion often accompanying a visit to the tower block. the smaller paintings have been with us for a while and are already hung in the bedroom, creating a disconcertingly voyeuristic experience upon scrutiny of the pieces themselves, exposing the vulnerability and innate privacy of what normally happens in other peoples boudoirs. like peering illicitly through a neighbour’s curtains, viewing Irmer’s depictions of Horst’s dishabille heightens or draws attention to the often intense and personal nature of collaboration between artist and model, as well as a vague sense of unease at peeking behind closed doors.

back in the living room and kitchen - the more familiar, sanctioned territory of the house guest - an enormous canvas, tightly bound in bubble wrap, is propped casually and enticingly against a wall, by what is normally my writing desk. i feel out of place and decidedly usurped - ‘proper art’ has arrived and my own uneasy status as writer rather than artist in residence makes me feel more than usually ridiculous.

i leave tonight for Rome and will miss both the opening night and the arrival of the artist and the rest of the work, which will be hung and arranged around the flat. by my return, the show will be properly bedded in, visitors will have trouped in and out, and taken a peek into the public and private lives of gallerist, curator, artist and model.

Horst is perhaps the most disconcertingly appropriate and challenging show in the history of apartment, where the meticulous nature of Irmer’s work and collaborative process feeds perfectly off the setting and location of apartment’s tangible domesticity, disrupting our assumptions around public/private and voyeurism/exhibitionism.

the show launches on thursday evening, 17 january, and details of the show and preview can be found at apartments blogsite http://www.apartmentmanchester.blogspot.com/; sorry to miss you and all the excitement of opening night...

flaneurie - the passionate observer

‘the flaneur is a loiterer, a stroller who ambles through the city without apparent purpose but is secretly attuned to the city, its history and secrets’. (Edmund White)

the origin/birth of this diary coincided with or subconsciously prompted by national archaeology week, transported me from the depths of prehistory through museology, the industrial revolution, to urbis, a veritable emblem of modernity and suitable symbol of Manchester and the endless paradox and duality of its reflexivity and commodification. its recent situationist weekend, with its active interventions into the city, the preferred tactic of the situationist, psychogeographer or postmodern flaneur, is another coincidence in this flotilla, this personal voyage of curiosity, of new ways of contemplating and reacting to my modern life, my navigations into the cultural landscape, the dichotomies of ‘now’.

the situationists - adbusters, graffiti artists, punks and poets - with their activism, their urgent calls for resistance, their provocative, proactive struggle against spectacularisation in all its forms, their radical associations with 1968, student riots and french intellectualism, are perhaps a little too direct, a little too 'out there' for an english bluestocking like myself. whilst debords' powerful manifesto is a revelation and a reassurance that one is not alone in sometimes despairing of the relentless march of 'progress', i prefer for now to watch from a more secluded distance, from the shadows of 'flaneurie', a more sheltered harbour for my infant enquiries!!

the cultural figure of modernity, the flaneur, as walter benjamin developed in his arcades project, is perhaps the embodiment of how to approach not only the city, but modernity itself; a voyeur, an observer, detached from the crowd, able through this detachment to penetrating reflections. the flaneur is the secret spectator of the spectacle of the spaces and places of the city, and consequently flaneurie is the act of strolling and looking carried out by him. to chris jencks the flaneur is an analytic form, a narrative device, an attitude towards knowledge and its social context. to jencks, 'the flaneur is a multilayered palimpsest that allows us to move from real products of modernity...to a critical appreciation of the states of modernity and its erosion into the past'.

so far so good...but what about the notion of a flaneuse? a 19th century dandy or idler, essentially male, white, gentrified, his vision and insights are perhaps a little narrow, too exclusive for my needs. there is little of the female in this narrative device, even though the history of the 19th century is littered with daring females, explorers, rebels, trangressors of social mores, curious figures in a customarily male world. perhaps the flaneuse offers a space inbetween that of the elitist, celestial gaze of the flaneur, or the confrontational tactic of the contemporary situationist, operating on the peripheries, an outsider, a time traveller, whose perspective provides an altogether unique gaze, that of the transgressive, intrinsically subversive body of the edwardian bluestocking, at once spectacle and observer.

liverpool: capital of consumerism 2008

‘when (the new shopping mall) opens it promises 160 new shops, making liverpool not only the capital of culture but also a capital of consumerism.’

so starts this weekends g2 pullout guide to 'liverpool: capital of culture 2008'.

after months of rumbling controversy, resignations of key appointments and cancelled festivals, liverpool officially inaugurated its year of culture rather modestly with a series of firework displays and the midnight ringing of the anglican cathedral’s bell. after all the build up and ensuing hoohar, i feel a pang of pity for this beautiful but admittedly somewhat faded city, as the eyes of the arts and cultural press nationally and internationally turns terrifying and relentlessy towards it.

i have a personal affinity and relationship with the city lasting over 20 years now, composed of frequent day trips and contented aimless amblings, enjoying its whiff of sea air, its magnificent, overwhelming concentration of georgian architecture, and until recently its juicy pickings as the north west’s centre of second hand bookshops and satisfying trail of junk and curios shops. all this and some of the finest greasy spoons in the country. it might have secretly been one of my favourite cities. despite or perhaps because of this i am also aware of a personal attack of curmugeonliness coming on that may well last all year….

this weekends g2 is dedicated to promoting the coming activities and drum up trade for the impending carnival of culture, written and devised jointly by the guardian and predictably 'englands north west', a shadowy quango of the tourist board who periodically try to sell the delights of our region with a surfeit of cliché ridden idiocy and emptiness, attempting to sell our wares both to visitors and to ourselves as simultaneously a shopping and heritage trail destination; a hedonistic, lowry-esque, hen and stag party loving part of the world, with national parks and picturesque towns only ever a short ride away - the victorian satanic backbone of the country, handily restored to luxury loft and boutique hotel standard, ideal for an 'authentic northern' weekend away!

this current brochure, dedicated as is much of this years budget i bet to liverpool, kicks off its cultural 'scoop' (as it boasts on the cover) in typical style with a gamut of marketing clichés and howlers which, if deconstructed by even the least cynical of readers, reveals the spectacularisation and commodification of this fine city, the high-speed thoroughness of which puts even manchester to shame.

liverpool as you might recall has been my regular haunt of late and the intensity and scale of its regeneration has been staggering – for the last 2 years the whole city has been a building site– more cranes and vast scaffolding than during manchester's post-bomb days. as with all international arts and culture festivals, biennials and touring exhibitions, there is a lot riding on this coming year - money primarily. more than two million additional tourists are expected into the city to see some of the 300 events that are due to take place this year. that's a lot of cash in the tills, and the promise of this economic success has secured much needed investment for liverpool and its whole infra-structure. no wonder city councellors and big wigs are nervous.

that's what makes the quote at the top of this little piece so predictable, cynical and depressing. art and culture are certainly on offer and that is most welcome - i've already enjoyed fantastic viewings in exciting venues this winter, including the turner prize at the tate, catherine sullivan at the marvellous a-foundation, and rawlinson and crowe’s faith at fact, all unmissable and very accessible - but undoubtedly these are a side order to the main dish; the parcelling up of land and real estate to investors, multi-national corporations and free-market enterprise, and out of the hands and influence of the democratic process and the citizens of liverpool itself.

take a quick look at this short but astute article by joe moran, writer, citizen and lecturer at john moore's university for a glimpse of the flip side of urban and cultural regeneration, published last october in the new statesman: http://www.newstatesman.com/200710180028.

watch this space - i feel a new source of bewilderment, flaneurie and reflection surging up regarding my old noble neighbour and stomping ground....

missing in action – manchester’s new year party?!

ice sculpures in harbin

after the fanfare of recent non-stop celebrations, entertainments provided in every square or open space across town, being out and about on new year’s eve was something of a non-event, unnervingly post-apocalyptic, and walking through its streets as the clock struck the magic hour felt a bit like being the last person on earth.

just where was manchester’s new year? you know, manchester, the city that never sleeps, home of the infamous 24 hour party people?

watching the copious tv coverage of new year revelry round the world, i was struck by the fact that something was missing from the new year celebrations in our own fair city - an outdoor get together!

street parties in hong kong

quite apart from the usual marvels enjoyed by Brazilians, Australians, Parisians, across the length and breath of britain people were relishing outdoor delights as varied as fireworks from the london eye; 4 days of hogmanay festivities in Edinburgh culminating in open air concerts, spectacular fireworks and the dramatic burning of a gi-normous wicker stag; acrobatics and pyrotechnics in Cardiff; stilt walking and pantomime in leeds; not to mention the mind-boggling fireball ceremony in stonehaven - 50 boulder-sized balls set on fire and whirled around the heads of brave and presumably highly skilled fire acrobats.

the anticipation and excitement of people taking to the streets, gathering under town hall clocks, squares, harbours, parks or public spaces of any available kind, to enjoy the collective and truly egalitarian experience of standing cheek by jowl with friends, family, strangers, fellow citizens of the world, sing auld lang syne, count down to midnight, wish any and everyone peace and good will, hug and kiss the nearest stranger recklessly, all whilst basking in the extravagant open air displays of fireworks, burning stags or fire juggling stilt walkers, cavalcades of pipers and choirs - who wouldn’t feel a rush of optimism for the coming year or fleeting sense of connection to their fellows, to the planet and every wonderful thing on it?

fireworks over the parthenon

these civic versions of the old neighbourhood street party fill a modern void - to unify and bring people together. free, open air and available to all, these urban celebrations are a rare and welcome excuse to fling open our metaphorical front doors, be spontaneous and extend hellos outside of our normal social circles and restraints…

as a child new year was always seen in, not by paying £35 to go to the same shifty night club that normally costs you a tenner but with added sweat and crush, but locally with every house in the street joining in a casual mix up of parties or gatherings of cheap beer, baby-sham for the ladies, shandy and dandelion and burdock for the littl’uns, left over meats, cheese, biscuits and christmas cake to soak up the drinks. at midnight a dark haired man would be chosen to knock on everyone’s door and offer a piece of coal, bread and a drink, so that thresholds could be thrown open and good luck usher in the whole neighbourhood’s new year. the party would wind in and out of various houses, gardens and front doorsteps, kids running riot, eating and drinking too much, staying up far too late, the whole event ending sooner or later with a drunken, unsteady okey cokey, sleepy infants held aloft or clinging to dads’ backs as it snaked in and out of house after house, losing numbers along the way until the last door was wearily closed to drink or sleep it off in private…all this plus an inevitable scandal, a minor scrap or two, or at the very least an embarrassing rendition or routine with the spoons, penny whistle or ukulele from an elder, probably your own drunken granny.

what unites this memory with the current news coverage is a noble attempt at spontaneity and community bonding – an outdoor and potentially unruly revelry, where money need not change hands, where unlikely citizens and neighbours meet and mingle with no aim or purpose other than to be on the streets and celebrate a common event and desire. often these days this only happens when a triumphant football team returns home to show off some coveted trophy on the obligatory open top bus, or on bonfire night, when the oohs and aahs of shared approval and appreciation makes strangers smile shyly or momentarily catch each others eye without fear of offence or intentions being misunderstood, when celebrations briefly bring people together in a common expression of joy or pride. outside these shared experiences we generally live private and highly individualised lives, suspicious and mistrustful of the contact or kindness of strangers.

lanterns in iraq

in earlier times there were many more occasions for shared and common experiences: public rallies, street parties, harvest festivals, whit walks and may day parades were just a few. many of these are outmoded and impossible to resurrect or replicate, perhaps even undesirable, but they all met a similar need or requirement; they all connected individuals to each other, created social glue and fostered community and commonality. in our own times, the nearest people get to this feel good factor is at a football match or major sporting event, or via large scale music events such as glastonbury or bestival or burning man, and it is no coincidence that these type of festivals are proliferating, as the experience is exhilarating and contagious.

this craving, this fundamental need for collective encounters, for mutual bonding or grooming, if you like, perhaps even explains the huge impact of the death of lady di, being one of the few national public occasions we have really shared since world war two or the coronation over 50 years ago!

manchester is wearily proficient at providing all year round pseudo celebrations – christmas was effectively one month long party – so why the shyness over new year?? official explanations put our sorry lack of hogmannay festivities down to fear of drunken recklessness and ensuing crime…why no such fears in other cities, some which are reputedly renowned for enjoying a drink? was it the worry of crowd control – that didn’t seem to bother our capital city or new york or brazil or sydney…..the list goes on!!

the only explanation left then is one of economics – perhaps manchester simply isn’t interested in offering its citizens one night in the year that doesn’t obviously make a profit, where there isn’t something to purchase or consume, where there is no dress code, no £20 cocktails, no VIP rooms – nothing on offer except the cold night air and the anticipation and mutual optimism central to the build up to a brand new year, surrounded by and shared with your neighbours, known and unknown, where everyone is temporarily equal under the stars and the clock, if only for one precious minute…