Category Archives: The Arts

I first fell in love with Leonard Cohen’s music in the seventies, and Tuesday night I did it all over again. The concert was simply stunning, well worth the most expensive tickets I think I have ever bought. Cohen seems to have gained so much in stature and depth as a performer since I first heard him the Albert Hall in London back when. At 75 he performed with absolute class for three hours, with numerous encores to an enraptured and responsive audience. What a voice!

The sound was flawless; with perfect balance between vocals and musicians, every one an accomplished performer in their own right.

How appropriate that he sang ‘Democracy is Coming to the USA’ on the eve of the inauguration of America’s first black president. It almost felt like the sixties again!

I came home feeling that I had experienced a deep and satisfying performance. It might indeed have been ‘the best show ever’. It was certainly something to take my mind off the grim times we live in. Big thanks to Mike G for organising the tickets.

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Over the weekend I attended a music festival. I really enjoyed the music, but I think the average and generally ageing folkie has a very strong puritan, or maybe Presbyterian streak that dictates hardship must be endured in return for the enjoyment of such pleasures.

The festival was held in the wilds of outer Wainuiomata, in a Spartan scout camp in a remote corner of a valley, and true to form at one stage the rain on the iron roof of the hall drowned out the music!

Having said all that, and despite the cold and the mud, the warmth and enthusiasm of seeing old friends, and the general joie de vivre of the music made a little hardship worthwhile. But I was glad to climb back into our transport along with a few other less than intrepid souls and return to my warm apartment after the afternoon’s entertainment.

My favourite song, or at least the one that made me laugh the most, went by the glorious title of In Praise of the Colorectal Surgeon!

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Someone has come up with the theory that Janet Frame was autistic. Autism had barely been identified as a specific condition at the time Janet Frame was cleared of having a mental illness when she lived in the UK. I have read and appreciated most of her work. Just the other day I bought her newly published novel, Towards Another Summer, and look forward to reading it with pleasurable anticipation.

This new ‘diagnosis’ leaves me with mixed feelings and a number of questions. Firstly Janet Frame died in 2004 and can no longer answer for herself. Secondly shouldn’t her writing stand for itself? Should we forever analyse it and her in terms of what condition she had and not simply accept her writing for what it is, exceptional. Of course there should be no shame or stigma or different judgement attached to the work of many creative people who also have impairments and experience disability.

Does it matter whether she had a ‘condition’ or not. If she were ‘treated’ as the promoter of this theory in a medical journal suggests would her writing have been different, or as good? If she had not been labelled mentally ill, and undergone the searing experience of the primitive treatments she endured, her writing might have been entirely different. Would she have written as well, or indeed at all?

I also find myself asking why there is this need to label, to find explanation for behaviours or states of being, rather than accepting and celebrating the richness of the human condition and the consequential richness of world views. If she was autistic so what? How many other artists in different fields could be diagnosed with a variety of conditions, and what would be the point? Where might all this categorising lead us?

All of this is of course, mere speculation. Her writing stands firmly on its merits. She did not, thankfully, undergo a frontal lobotomy, and we are left today with the essential paradox of her life and work, for which we can be grateful, whether or not she was autistic.

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