OPEN MOUTHED

The artist finds commonality while articulating that which is unsayable—giving pleasure as they do so.

Dear Readers,

Thank you for reading The Kureishi Chronicles. I am still unable to use my hands and am writing, via dictation, with the help of my family.

Your contributions go towards my care, which is considerable. If you enjoy my writing, please do consider becoming a paid subscriber.

(Painting: Francis Bacon, Figure With Meat, 1954)

Recently, Carlo and I took down a piece we had written after a complaint from a family member. We felt they had taken the piece the wrong way, but since we respect them, we agreed to do it.

Carlo was annoyed about the wasted time. That didn’t bother me so much. I’m used to it: writers are in the business of producing waste, out of which something valuable might emerge. We can’t stop because of a minor knockback. I like the quote from Truman Capote, where he says he writes every day, ‘without hope or despair.’

With regard to the piece I am referring to, it wasn’t honest and was cruel which I apologise for. Still, an autobiographical writer can say whatever he likes about himself, but with others, he has to be more prudent. I’ve learnt that it might be a good idea to shut my mouth from time to time, though it took me years to be able to speak freely.

After being admonished, I was embarrassed and felt a general sense of shame about all of it—the writing. But isn’t it too easy to feel like this? You have to remind yourself how difficult it is to speak at all. You are entitled to your voice and indeed your being. But parents, teachers, and other authorities do not want your dissent. As children, we are not encouraged to argue. Silence becomes the default position. You must work against this.

I would call this the writer’s inhibition; it is why many people are not writers, even if they wish to be—because they can’t bear to explore themselves publicly, where speaking is dangerous.

This week, I attended an event for Substack where six writers gave readings and answered questions. It is fun for me to go out, though it is logistically complicated. I particularly enjoy meeting my readers. However, an odd thing often happens: when they see me, they start to weep.

This also occurred at the Barbican when I went to see my play. I wonder who I am for these weepers or what place I occupy in their imagination. I’ve been told that I also feature in many people’s dreams—if not their nightmares.

The writer might set himself up as a pole of identification. Over the last couple of years, my writing might lead people to feel that they know me or even that I am speaking directly to them—which I am. When they weep, they are moved to see me as if meeting a family member for the first time after a recent affliction.

What does the artist do? What does he or she represent? The artist finds commonality while articulating that which is unsayable—giving pleasure as they do so.

Yesterday at lunchtime, Isabella and I hired a taxi to drive into what I, a Bromley boy, used to describe as “London,” parking outside the National Portrait Gallery. I find I am as excited today at age 70 to go into the city as I was as a kid.

We saw the superb Francis Bacon exhibition, which was neither too big nor too small and was not overcrowded. Bacon’s work is haunting and memorable; at the same time, I don’t find it as various or imaginative as the work of Picasso or Matisse. It certainly lacks their European sensuality. Almost every one of Bacon’s images is centred on an open mouth—either screaming or crying out. You can see he derives this motif from Munch’s The Scream, and the image of the open mouth has also been a trope in horror films.

Bacon’s work is powerful because of its emphasis on human suffering, but he is incapable of letting that subject go or finding anything else.

The artist he most resembles in his minimalism and despair is Beckett—though he lacks that writer’s comedy. But as someone who has suffered much recently, it is a mercy to connect with an artist who speaks for me and who has grasped the central aspect of human existence: which is to suffer—and make others suffer. This business of being alive is a terrible thing sometimes.

The city outside the gallery was busy, and we had to almost queue to get through the crowds. Isabella and I headed into Chinatown and found a restaurant that I could enter in my wheelchair. I had dim sum and Isabella had seaweed and vegetarian spring rolls. We left as the capital was being closed for New Year’s Eve.

Since I live in a small world—my kitchen, living room, and Shepherd’s Bush Road—each excursion is a triumph. I was glad to be out. The Charing Cross Road, which I used to visit with my father in the sixties to explore second-hand bookshops, was the first part of London that I knew well.

I want to look at the buildings, the people—their clothes and facial expressions. Maybe this year I will even be able to leave the country and travel abroad again—particularly to Italy—something I miss.

I am in my kitchen now, writing with Carlo circling round and round as he types. I tell him that on this anniversary of my accident, I haven’t adjusted to being disabled. I feel fucking trapped. It doesn’t get easier as time passes; in many ways, it gets worse—the longer I remain this way, the more depressing it becomes.

I want to go to Paris and New York as I did before. I want to feel that everything in my world is all right. I don’t want to be in a Francis Bacon painting.