Fleur Kaminska, MA Museum Cultures student at Birkbeck shares insights from the Arts Week event that explored rethinking history through collage.

The left-hand side is a doctored cover by Joe Orton and Kenneth Halliwell, and the right-hand side is Fleur’s attempt at a doctored cover, produced on the evening.

Adam Smyth (author and professor of English Literature at Oxford University) and Gill Partington (academic and writer, and the current the Munby Fellow at Cambridge University) took the attendees of last Tuesday evening’s Arts Week event on a cheerful journey through the creative reimagining of the pages of a book, dismantling the idea that ‘cutting up’ is a destructive act and reframing pages as material for endless possibilities of creative expression. Both conveying an interest in the intersection between the physical book and literary writing, Adam and Gill introduced collage as a creative, rather than destructive act –an act potentially of protest that is open for experimentation to anyone (including, at the end of the session, us!).

Collage as self-portrait 

Starting with an early form of collage, Adam spoke about a commonplace book made by John Gibson in the 17^th Century. Gibson was a royalist who used his time in prison to produce a vast book, weaving together poetry, literary references, images, anagrams and political details to construct almost a distanced self-portrait of a royalist sensibility. The pages produced are incredibly varied and interesting on many levels. Often also open to manipulation through pictures stuck in as flaps layering over one another, or through the scattered presentation of the material, the pages invite the readers eye to encounter images and pieces of text in different orders, creating different associations. Later on, Adam also read to us from his book 13^th of March 1911, in which he collected information about events from the date of his grandfather’s birth to create a meandering portrait of the day.

Collage as criticism 

Moving forward in time, Gill Partington talked us through the work of wonderful and, at the time, controversial, Joe Orton and Kenneth Halliwell, who spent the early 1960s visiting libraries, taking books out, doctoring them in their shared bedsit, and then returning them to the libraries for unsuspecting readers to encounter. The pair, who reworked the covers, and sometimes the blurb and whole sections of the books, blurred genres into one another to create ludicrous and joyful mismatches.

The way this was done, mixing high and low culture, fiction and non-fiction, poked fun at the books and their readers, but also more seriously at the status of the library as an institution. The library, especially at this time, served as a gatekeeper of knowledge, and a place in which good citizens enacted their duties of not only self-improvement but also a demonstration of their commitment to the accepted histories and categories of experience presented on the shelves. In this way, the library was at odds with Orton and Halliwell’s lives together as a gay couple. In the end both were caught and sentenced to six months in prison, a much harsher sentence than you’d expect, but most likely reflecting the higher taboo of their lives, rather than the damage to public property. By destabilising norms and expectations in their personal lives as well as in their library collaging, Orton and Halliwell were perceived as a threat to society at the time, but are now celebrated as creative activists.

Collage for beginners 

For the final section of the evening the scissors and glue were passed to us, and we had a go at doctoring text, dust jackets and creating whatever the hell we wanted from a selection of books and print materials. With the whole room getting stuck in and experimenting (or, in my case at least, regressing to childhood and throwing all notions of sense out of the window) some fantastic work was created. Ultimately,  we all learned to get over our nervousness about cutting into books, creating incongruous scenes, and blurring the boundaries between printed page and meaning.

Charlotte Deadman, a postgraduate research student at Swansea University shares insights from the Arts Week workshop led by Birkbeck’s Tobias Harris and Joseph Brooker who delved into the famous column by Myles na gCopaleen.

It was a capacity audience for the Irish Times: Myles na gCopaleen’s Cruiskeen Lawn workshop presented by Birkbeck’s Tobias Harris and Joseph Brooker as part of this year’s Arts Week.

The workshop’s theme was a discussion of the four million words – equivalent, we were told, to 16 Ulysses. The famous column was penned by the Irish writer Brian O’Nolan using one of his many nom de plumes (here Myles na Gopaleen, an amusing intertextual reference worth Googling). The column appeared in the Irish Times from 1940 until the writer’s death on April Fool’s Day, 1966 under the heading Cruiskeen Lawn (another amusing intertextual reference…).

Operating as a kind of ventriloquism, the column’s purpose was to call out literary poseurs and their ilk – ‘corduroys’ as Myles nicknamed them and anybody else who got his gander up – by a mix of satire, cliche and faked texts and general ‘outpourings of derision’ upon his chosen victim/s. It was explained that the column started as a result of O’Nolan deluging the newspaper with letters attacking other letters within the paper – letters that very often had been manufactured by O’Nolan or Myles and/or his chums from his old days at University College Dublin. While this special breed of entertainment was eagerly savoured by the paper’s readership, it became a matter of increasing concern to its then editor, Bertie Smyllie, who by degrees became uncomfortable with content and tone of the letters in light of the censorship laws then energetically operating within the Irish Free State. As a result, Smyllie decided that the best course of action was to harness and tame the animal; he did this by inviting O’Nolan to become a regular contributor: the Cruiskeen Lawn column was the result.

Appearing initially in Irish (O’Nolan was a gifted linguist able to write fluently in several languages – Irish, English Latin and German); an early major target for the column was the Irish language revival movement – Douglas Hyde being a favourite target. By 1942 the column appeared half in Irish and half in English, reflecting O’Nolan’s increasing gloom regarding the future of the Irish language. The column was eventually published entirely in English, we were told much to Bertie Smyllie’s disappointment as he was keen to keep the Irish Free State on side.  The Irish Free State was a predominantly Catholic body with a passion for promoting the Irish language at an immense financial cost, regarding it as representing the core of a true Irish identity.

The workshop romped through a dizzying selection of readings to be found in a compendium – The Best of Myles – which were complimented by readings performed by the wonderful Hugh Wilde with brilliantly entertaining gusto. As would seem inevitable, Brian O’Nolan as Myles na gCopaleen ultimately went too far: working as a civil servant in his day job, O’Nolan had for years relentlessly mocked his bosses, who knew full well the true identity of the troublesome columnist – and fired him. This was a fabulous evening. My thanks to Arts Week.

James Handy, a Master’s student of European History, discusses the recent Eric Hobsbawm Memorial Lecture given by Professor Chris Wickham on the topic of feudalism.  Professor Chris Wickham opened his Eric Hobsbawm Memorial Lecture with a tongue-in-cheek acknowledgement that Hobsbawm himself ‘was not terribly interested’ in medieval history. Among his extensive works on the rise of modern capitalism, however, Hobsbawm wrote an introduction to Karl Marx’s Pre-Capitalist Economic Formations. This year’s lecture used Hobsbawm’s introduction as a starting point in what was a highly enjoyable lecture on the economic logic of feudalism.

According to Wickham, the study of feudal society has too often been situated within a ‘meta-narrative of failure’, within which teleological terms such as ‘pre-capitalist’ are suggestive of a weakening of feudal processes. By prioritising a focus on the unique customary facets of medieval societies and how these in turn influenced their rise and decline, historians have often obscured an underlying economic logic to feudalism. Like Hobsbawm then, Wickham is wary of economic historians’ tendency to produce demarcation disputes by attempting to fit dynamic concepts into static ones. In this way, feudalism should be seen as a flexible world system rather than a fixed set of regional social relations.

Understood as a world system, feudalism enables us to begin to comprehend the medieval world as an innovative set of economic relations on its own terms, rather than as a developmental stepping stone towards modernity. ‘Different regions get brownie points’, asserts Wickham, for being most like modern society with individual regions ‘passing the baton’ to whoever looks most like us. Historical transformations – ranging from the centralising bureaucratisation of China’s Ming dynasty to the urbanisation of tenth century northern Italy – are best understood as products of feudal economics.

Generalising outwards, Wickham asserted that at the centre of this dynamic system was the peasant family – the vast majority of people between the Neolithic and twentieth century. For Wickham, the economic logic of feudalism lies in the fact that the peasantry were responsible for the surplus needed for economic growth. This necessitated an immensely costly ‘stabilising’ programme by the Church and nobility to justify the extraction of surplus from the peasantry. Elites responded by nurturing art, religion, ritual and political culture in ways that reinforced exploitative productive processes. When this failed, elites maintained a dispersed monopoly of violence. If the economic logic of feudalism was inherently on the side of lords, asks Wickham, why expend a tremendous amount of resources keeping market forces at bay?

A key theme of the lecture was that feudalism consisted of far more exchange complexity than previously thought. A key reason for this dynamism was that medieval economies were not solely propelled by lords’ economic demand. Wickham drew on archaeological surveys from across Europe and the Mediterranean that have shown a wide availability of coloured and patterned ceramics as evidence of peasants’ disposable incomes. From as early as the tenth century in Tuscany, for example, both lords and peasants could purchase professionally made ceramics imported from urban centres. Furthermore, many peasants worked with considerable autonomy such as the flax producers and merchants of Busir in Egypt, whose textiles were shipped as far as the Low Countries as part of a global network of peasant trade. We can therefore see that commerce could hold an important role among rent-paying peasantry.

Wickham concluded his lecture by rebutting the idea that there was a global systematic trend towards a weakening of the feudal process. High levels of commerce do not undermine feudalism if we concede that feudal economies logically tended towards increased peasant surpluses which lords struggled to confiscate.

The lecture challenged historical assumptions and set out new perspectives for thinking about the past, exactly as a Hobsbawm Memorial Lecture should do.

I would also like to thank the Hobsbawm Memorial Fund for supporting my Master’s in European History. It was during a previous Hobsbawm Memorial Lecture that I was made aware of the Hobsbawm Memorial Fund, whose financial support I have found invaluable.