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Showing posts with label Psychoanalysis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Psychoanalysis. Show all posts

Monday, 16 December 2013

In praise of Alfie


Rock solid childhood friends
Photo: 
Jordy Theiller
The Big Alfie and Annie Rose Storybook ambushed me the other day. It was sitting in the window of a charity shop while I was on my way somewhere. Sentimentality can get you when you’re least expecting it, especially where the children’s author Shirley Hughes is concerned. One minute you’re thinking about what you need from the chemist, and the next about how long it was since you’ve read to your kids, and why the little pests have to grow up so quickly. But they’re off to chat to their mates online and don’t care that you are left clasping a book with a hopeful expression. It helps – a bit – to know that you’re far from the first to go down this road. Literature and modern culture abound with examples. From Peter Pan to Toy Story, it’s clear that leaving behind childish things can be painful; sometimes for the one growing up, but more often for those around them. Is it possible to watch Jessie the cowgirl being thrown out by her owner, without reaching for the tissues?

A recent exhibition of Shirley Hughes’ art suggests that she is predominantly viewed as an illustrator. She has twice won the prestigious Greenaway Medal for illustration and, a few years ago, was asked by Sarah Brown to design the Downing Street Christmas card. I’m not sure that her artwork, beautiful  though it is, completely accounts for my little crisis en route to the chemist, though. Perhaps a more plausible reason is that, while Hughes’ images are memorable, it’s as a writer that she stays with me; as someone who supremely conjures up a world of childhood joys, fears and transitions.

Monday, 15 April 2013

We Can’t Let Maggie Go


John McGowan

Feelings about Maggie fade slowly
Picture:  Trevor Rickard 
Like many middle-aged Brits I came to political sentience chanting, ‘Maggie, Maggie, Maggie...’ followed by some general abuse inviting Mrs Thatcher’s exit. It was all so easy. Hating the Tories in general, and Mrs T’s economic brutality in particular, was as natural as breathing. For all the economic and social divisions, 1980s Britain was a straightforward place to grow up.


Mrs Thatcher having gone is one of those life-marking moments. Like when your parents would say, ‘Of course you’re too young to understand’ and find someone who remembered the charts before the Beatles. I need to talk to someone who actually remembers the ‘no such thing as society’ quote, the declaration that Nelson Mandela was a ‘terrorist’ or that some people thought Michael Foot would be a credible prime minister. I think I’m looking for some sort of grounding in the face of the incredible passions the Iron Lady still arouses. The nation is again split from top to bottom,or possibly between top and bottom, and the spirit of ‘83 roams the land. Was she really so bad though, I ask my friends? Most of them think it she was worse. Despite this plenty of my Thatch-hating mates operate small businesses, pay Rupert Murdoch for Sky TV, and live happily in a world created in the laissez-faire 80s rather than the socialist 70s. A little inconsistent perhaps? Maybe instead it’s that an overwhelming focus on Mrs T’s personality and her triumphs or sins glosses the possibility that the 80s weren’t so straightforward after all.