21: Companionable Art

I was watching this conversation between Sheila Heti and Sarah Ruhl and was struck by Sheila’s description of what she is looking for in writing, and art more generally. I think I feel similarly. I’m looking for companionable art. Art that I would like to share bread with, artists who could be talking about the biggest ideas or a quotidian aside and its all good.

Just before flying back to California, I had one of those perfect, meandering e. london bike rides. And then one of the spandexed, more-purposeful bike riders passed me somewhat aggressively and as I began quietly cursing him, changed midway towards thanking him for slowing me down enough to notice the magnificent choreography of men replacing a broken window in a local charity shop. While I was watching and recording, Danny Boy Crisis walked up and we watched together, talking. We met in another charity shop nearby (Crisis) where he introduced himself as Danny Boy and told me he used to be a boxer, and then a club kid and after getting hit a lot of times in the head, stabbed in the lung and taking a lot of ecstasy had some troubles with memory.

May I suggest documenting every day of your life with lots of images and meta-narration?

We talked about The Troubles, my relatives in County Cork—or rebel county as he put it, and meditation. He is prone to the kind of world-weary, street corner wisdom that can send shivers down ones spine. Last time we had a long chat I paraphrased his wisdom in my notes as if you’re happy, you’re winning. Take time to enjoy the beautiful moments. When the sun is on your face and it feels good, dwell in the moment as long as possible. Everything we learn is from other people. And don’t take yourself too seriously. He also sends me text messages periodically with teabag-sized quotes like the past is a place of reference, not residence and become so absolutely free that very existence is an act of rebellion, the latter of which of course brings to mind the parable of the whistler, whose loaf-y rebellion led him to a career of nonstop Carnatic whistling performances.

Dear Federico, 

I hope you are feeling better. I wish I could have brought some things to help with your recovery. I would have brought you some sourdough focaccia from The Dusty Knuckle. It’s not as oily and herbaceous as I’d prefer, but this renaissance in fermentation is moving us in a good direction. I might have also brought you a small, dense, sourdough einkorn from E5. This has a bit more substance and perhaps would have been more restorative. It's like the philosophy of sourdough breads, old heirloom grains and cultures kept alive and in dialogue with the times. The focaccia is more poetry, the lightest, most-refined flour mixed with the most concentrated or essential olive oil. 

If the timing was right, as in around the Sunday Stoke Newington farmers market, I might have brought you an end piece of the slow, dark, crusty, sour bread from an old man who calls this loaf—his personal favorite—simply, pagnotta. This is a slower bread, and way too large for one. It comes from a time with different tastes and rhythms. And it is a bread that asks to be shared. It's like the long-letter-to-a-friend bread, outside of the supermarket of yeasted email breads and the angry crumbs of twitter. 

It appears I may have misunderstood the etymology of your name. I was almost sure it meant someone to share bread with, like companion. I’ve learned it could mean peaceful ruler and the sound of church bells. Which seems fitting, though maybe a bit unlikely for an anarchist. But we are large and contain multitudes… I’m moved—and a little curious—by your Catholicism. Your version, with its openness, plurality and generosity of spirit seems more agreeable. I suppose I’ve aligned (or affiliated?) with Glissant and the idea of an unaffiliated philosopher—as extrapolated from his notion of filiation, which resonates for me, though maybe stuck in the realm of what we could call the effable. 

This brings me to spreads. Isn’t it wonderful all the choices of spreads we can put on our bread? London is such an incredible crossroads for spreads. I would have also liked to have brought you some Bungay butter. It's local and raw, and seems to honor some of the traditions of our shared home. It feels like something sacred, or an occasion, wrapped in gold foil and depicting what appears to be a belltower on the wooden box it comes in. This feels somehow Catholic to me. I hope they treat their cows well, letting the young nurse first. 

I love the dark roasted Pip & Nut peanut butter spread. I know very little about the Argentinian farmers who grow the peanuts, nor the ecological implications of what I imagine are monoculture peanut farming practices, but I marvel at this delicious spread and its circuitous routes to my corner store. Peanut butter is surely a syncretic spread. And it feels more grounded or rooted—a terrestrial spread. I learned it was cultivated in Mesoamerica for over 7,000 years before the conquistadors developed a taste for the tlālcacahuatl they found in the markets of Tenochtitlan and then brought it along their trade routes to evolve syncretistically. When the peanuts came to Africa they were almost already there. Or at least something similar. When I was doing shortsighted work in East Africa, I remember they were called g-nuts and cooked into delicious sauces. And now China is the world's largest producer.

I would have perhaps brought you some homemade pesto with whatever I found at the weekend markets. Maybe watercress or land cress blended with Sicilian pistachios and lemons. This would have hopefully helped both your body and spirit. And radicchio! Which is harder to find here, though I have a few sources. A little market called Leila’s a short bike ride from my house and a friend with a restaurant account with an online provider who can order a couple kilos of beautiful chicories from Italy. This method requires me to find friends to share them with. I would also like to go to the night vegetable markets sometime. Perhaps after dancing. And I still haven’t found a good supply of olives in London, like the ones in Sicily. 

I’ve been listening to some of your podcasts. I find you so generous in your sharing of the things that have been most important to you. I hope you continue with this form, as it suits you so well. I decided to make a film on the subject of ruins, in response to the talk you gave in response to Abbas’ curtain call, variations on a folly. It is part of a practice that may be like what Sianne Ngai calls the becoming-ergon of the parergonal discourse of evaluation. You're welcome to view it if you're interested. It's in chapter 19 of ritualsintime.space, which is a project I’m working on using some of the common practices or folk arts of the contemporary; websites, blogs, texts, memes, jpgs, smartphone footage, emails—like this one, and so on. Of course, please don’t feel any obligation to engage or respond with any more than what feels desirable. And if you do visit please view it charitably, as a work in progress with many rough edges and significant omissions. And as I mentioned in my last email, I would be happy to invite you to dinner sometime, perhaps at Campania when I return mid-may, as a thank you for your recommendations, which contributed to our trip. I’m also curious to learn more about this idea you’ve suggested that Ireland could be included in some thinking about the Mediterranean.

Kindly, 

Perry