Rome: Total war - its a blast

I've been playing the new pc game Rome: Total War for the past few days, though I have barely even scratched the surface of it. Absolutely brilliant graphics that make you feel that you are there, standing on a hill with legions around you and a horde of barbarians about to sweep out of the woods and cut you to pieces.

Not so easy to find time for a blog with that going on. And it certainly takes one's mind off the relatively bloodless struggle to get up the steps at Barons Court. Now there's a good name for a game. Baron's Court, where you can command nasty armour-clad thugs who beat up peasants, intimidate bishops and monks, defy the King and terrorise your equally unpleasant neighbours in their chilly castles.

If it wasn't for Rome, the new long awaited version of Empire and the updated version of Pirates (God what a great gaming Xmas this is going to be), I'd be tempted to design it myself.

Art and artists

Travellers on the London Underground are bombarded with images. Adverts, tube maps, the newspapers of your fellow commuters, and from time to time "Art". Currently on show at Gloucester Road there are huge posters made from photographs of zebras in the snow by "Italian born artist Paola Pivi", as the Transport for London website describes her.
These are pretty good images and enhance the travelling experience but this sort of thing always gets me thinking about the meaning of the words art and artist.

Forget the cliché about "I don't know about art but I know what I like". Everyone knows something about art. Or at least they do if they accept my definition of art, which is as follows: [clears throat, prepares well modulated voice]

Art transcends the medium from which it is produced for the purpose of stimulating the senses and imagination of the person experiencing it.

Transcends the medium means that something is created that wasn't there before and you cease to be aware of the raw materials. Thus

• in painting, you see the picture and not the blobs of paint and the surface of the canvas
• in music you hear the sounds rather than the scrapings of the bows, the banging of fingers on keys or the raw breathing of the singers (Bob Dylan may a special exception here)
• in sculpture you admire the object, the shape and the texture. You don't think oh look there is a lump of stone with a hole in it.
• in film you believe in the characters and the situation on screen. You don't hear the film scraping in the camera sprockets, the sounds of the editor snipping bits out, the director shouting at the actors, see the sets wobbling or the makeup flying around.
• in ceramics you see a finished piece, be it a decorative vase or just a peanut bowl. You don't see a lump of raw clay with a hole in it.

If you can't see the finished product because you are aware of the way it was made then this is not Art. It is merely a collection of raw materials. Why, however much we may coo and admire the scribblings of kids with crayons when they proudly bring them home from school, is this stuff not Art? Because no matter how worthy the intentions and no matter how much concentration has gone into it, it is still just crayon scrawled over paper, and printing the words "Mummy and the dog outside our house" doesn't change anything. It only means something to you because it is your kid who has done it., and it means nothing to anyone else.

So what then is an Artist? By my definition it is someone who produces Art. That was easy, was it not? But it is not the currently accepted meaning. In today's parlance anyone who wishes to be an artist is an artist. You just say "I am an artist" and what I do is "art". And if you can find a rich mug like Lord Saatchi who believes you then you are on to a nice little earner.

This is not a trivial point. If someone says they are a policeman then it means they work for a police force. If they are a doctor then they have medical qualifications. If they are bus driver they they drive buses. But Artists define themselves. "I am an artist and what I do is art". Thus Tracey Emin can display her (unmade) bed as art because she is an artist. She didn't make the sheets or construct the mattress. She presents the bed as it is - there is no transcendence of the raw materials, we are simply shown the raw materials. This is not art, it is exhibitionism and therefore she in my eyes is merely an exhibitor. Ditto most modern artists who think that taking objects made by someone else and displaying them qualifies them as artists and their exhibits as works of art.

I blame it on Duchamps and his stupid toilet bowl of 1917. I've got a toilet. Is it Art? If I put it outside my house and stood there holding a sign that said "I am an Artist and this is Art", would that make it art? What of the poll of 500 "arts figures" announced yesterday naming Fountain the most influential work in modern art. Actually this does not mean any of them like it or even regard it as art - but they believe that everyone else does.

Actually it is we who are the fools. We should laugh at exhibitors and disdain their works. And we should insist on real art, on things that have been made to delight our senses and make us think, on things that require some real effort and imagination by the creator, on things that tell us something about the creator and the feelings towards the work.

So, what then of the zebras displayed so dramatically against the warmly lit mellow brickwork of Gloucester Road? Photography always presents a problem when judging artistic endeavour because it always transcends the medium (unless the photographer deliberately blows up the picture to show the grains or pixels from which the image is composed). So you have to ask if the picture moves you, changes your emotions, conveys an idea that remains when you turn your eyes elsewhere? I do like the zebra pictures but they fail the test. Its just a gimmick, putting two tropical animals onto a snowy mountain top so that a photographer can indulge a whim. How about dropping la Pivi onto a mountain and photographing her as she looks round bewildered, slips down a sheer slope and cries out for help. Now that would be art!

London's Olympic Bid - Just say NO

Now don't get me wrong. I admire athletes and I enjoy watching the Olympics. I hate it that the competitors have to be in national teams and if I was in charge I would abolish national anthems, team dress and the medals tables. But that is by the by. I have two very sound reasons for being against London's bid to host the games in 2012 that relate directly to my status as a Ruislip Commuter.

First, if London Underground cannot cope now with a normal daily load, how on earth can it cope with the huge numbers that will be traveling from the centre to Stratford? We already know that the infrastructure is inadequate. When the Dome opened on New Years Eve 1999, many of the audience - an invited audience, not your usual paying customers, were corralled into tube stations and holding areas for up to 3 hours because the transport to get them to the Dome wasn't there. And that was just one night. The Olympics is what? three weeks plus the ParaOlympics?

The response will be to switch resources into servicing the lines and the bus routes to the Games. And this means a worse service for the rest of us because there are only so many tube drivers and trains to go round, and if roads are closed to non-Olympic traffic to help the buses then the traffic will spill over and jam up the rest of London.

Second, and worse, is the cost of the Games. Who is going to pay for them? The one thing we know for sure is that they will cost way more than anyone estimates and the income will be less. Maybe the UK Government will fund it but if Gordon Brown is still at the Treasury or at Number 10 then they will probably wash their hands and say it is London's bid. Ken won't care because he won't be mayor by then. And the overtaxed and undersubsidised taxpayers of London will get the bill. And those who use public transport will get another because how else will the cost of the special transport services laid on be paid for?

So in a sentence we get the misery of the Games and the cost of the Games in return for the dubious privilege of paying a whacking great amount for a ticket to see one or two events live. And don't tell me about the benefits of redeveloping Lea Valley. There are plenty of areas that could do with the cash and the long term benefits would be vastly greater than plonking down some sports facilities in a dump that nobody goes to now and nobody will wish to once the Games are over. I refer you once again, Ladies and Gentlemen of jury, to the so-called Millenium Dome. Do you visit North Greenwich now? Would you if somebody paid you? No. Nor would I. Unless they paid a lot.

Stuff the bid. Take those offensive stickers out of our tube trains. Let the French have it. Bon Chance, Jacques.

Another Monday

Monday Morning. I have an important meeting and need to be in Hammersmith by 9:00. I arrive at Ruislip Manor before 8:20. A Met line arrives and I travel to Rayners Lane. And guess what - there is a major problem at Rayners Lane and they say that there is a highly restricted Piccadilly service, and the platform is so crowded that the staff are asking people to move along. And then the staff advise people to use the Met line. But they wait until the train I was on has pulled out so I have to get the next one, which is more than 10 minutes later.

And I get to Hammersmith eventually, the long way round via Baker Street (but must admit the Hammersmith & City Train came promptly) and wait for a bus and get to my meeting more than 30 minutes late.

Olympic bid? Just say no. Stuff the athletes and the TV fat cats. Put the money into the basic maintenance that the system desparately needs.

The Ruislip Ripper

It's eight thirty in the morning. My train draws in (yes, on time, credit where it is due). A group of exuberant schoolkids run out. I step in. The carriage is full of torn and ripped up shreds of newspapers and crisp packets.

Now this train cannot have been in service for that long today, (and I assume it was cleaned last night) yet already it is strewn with litter.

So is there a mysterious maniac deriving strange thrills from the evisceration of newsprint? Or are today's kids a highly anti-social and moronic bunch who should be out earning a living rather than wasting their time doing media studies? Are there any other possibilities? Perhaps, but nothing comes to mind right now.

Time for a sandwich, methinks, as it is after 1pm and this has been an exciting morning, involving the purchase over the internet of a television/vcr/dvd for the office.

A short delay on the Piccadilly Line

- Or, what to do when nothing happens

It's a classic dilemma. The train halts in the middle of nowhere*. A long lingering silence settles slowly (good alliteration there, what?). At first everyone continues reading, staring out of the window, fingering mobiles etc. Then after about two minutes someone looks up uneasily. No-one else seems bothered so they resume their previous activity. Then someone else looks about. After about five minutes several heads move as one and the atmosphere in the carriage changes- we all now are wondering what the delay is and how long we are to be stuck here, and we each know that everyone else is thinking the same.

This makes us all feel much happier because we are not alone in our belief that really the train should be in motion. So there is a lessening of the tension. Or there would be except that about this time we start to wonder why the driver has said nothing over the intercom. I always ponder what would happen if he had lost consciousness - maybe even died. The train would stay halted due to the safety system but how long before someone would check? The radios are faulty often enough for a period of radio silence not necessarily to cause any alarm bells at the Line Controller's office.

Mobiles are a great comfort. At least you can listen to people calling their offices to explain that they are a) stuck on a train and b) they don't know how long it will be.

Today's delay was only a few minutes but it was fairly typical.
*actually it was near Ealing Common but in a cutting with anonymous houses on both sides. Could have been almost anywhere in London.

Avoiding death on the walk to work

My daily journey from underground station to work requires a crossing of the A4 near Hammersmith. This is one of the busiest roads in London. It is only safe, indeed only possible (because of barriers), to cross at traffic lights. Where I cross, there is no left turn for oncoming traffic. Safe? Nope.

Yesterday a car swerved left and turned into the A4,ignoring the "No Left Turn" signs and the green pedestrian lights. I was close enough to touch it and had to dodge out of his way. Today I was a few yards from another. These guys are no different to attempted murderers. They ignore the lights and people crossing. They just assume that people will get out of their way while they make their illegal move. Now if we had instant fines for violaters, and a policman with a camera sat himself down at that junction each morning, he could make a very tasty sum indeed. How about it Mr. Blunkett? A nice little earner and leading to a reduction in dangerous driving.

Greetings my friends*

What better way to relieve the tedium of commuting into Central London from beautiful Ruislip than by regularly sharing my thoughts with the world?

So here we go.

Assuming I bother to keep this updated, then you will encounter rants and raves about unhelpful announcements, ignored time-tables, litter-strewing fellow passengers and the iniquities of that body dedicated to the success of the motor-car known as London Underground.

"Delays"
This is one word that drives me mad. You fight your way into a crowded station entrance and there is a board listing the tube lines with a single phrase against each - either Good Service or Delays. Now I think I get what they mean by "Good service". There are just enough trains running to keep the platforms clear and nobody is likely to be seriously delayed. But what does it mean to say "Delays?". Suppose I have just missed a train. How long must I wait for the next? I don't know, it doesn't say. Should I travel by an alternative? I don't know, it is impossible to work out whether to go for a slower journey than normal or risk hanging out for who knows how long. Now presumably the LU staff who write up the noticeboards think they are doing us a favour. They are not. They are merely causing fear and uncertainty. I don't want to know that there are delays. I want to know when the next train is so I can decide whether or not to take it. Aha, you say, surely there are electronic indicators to tell me. No, I scornfully reply, not at the station from which I commence my nightly journey home.

I fear this is one topic to which a return is inevitable but let us leave it here for the moment. Better things await us, including a welcome cup of tea as reward for having begun my first Blog. Farewell, gentle reader, until we meet again.

 AnthonyG

*Footnote
To be spoken in the manner of "Criswell" introducing the legendary shlock movie "Plan Nine from Outer Space".