Trump Trump

Since Donald Trump’s inauguration on the 20th of January, multiple demonstrations have cropped up across the world to voice their opposition against Trump’s brand of politics. Mehmet Hassan found out how the London event shaped up.  

The roads are glimmering from the early morning rain. The sunlight emerging through darkened clouds reflects back and the crystal clear air chills to the reality of what is happening across the Atlantic Ocean. It still seems like fantasy. The daily mundanity of life seems to cast over the cold reality of the wider world changing to a less tolerant place.

I am told by a beanie wearing man that entering Grosvenor Square will cost me a pound. “You can't just stroll in here and take pictures mate, you have to wear your badge on your chest.” I retort that I would be happy to contribute and pay up. So we exchange a pound for a badge, and my entrance to this public garden is approved. Yet I can’t help but wonder the validity of my pound’s power to admit me into this arena; after all this is a public protest.

The garden paths are wet and downtrodden with mud. An estimated 40,000 people will have joined to protest, to witness, to say no to division, and to let their voices be heard for now and for history. The grass that is increasingly trampled upon and pushed deep into the undersoil I imagine is grateful for the glowing sun above. I know I am feeling the gratitude of the rain sparing us on this important day.

Speeches echo throughout the park. Each threatening our politicians legitimacy should they accept Trump’s visit to these lands. The excitable crowd, responds to each statement with uproarious cheer and applause. Lindsey German, of the Stop the War Coalition excites the crowd with her message to Theresa May: “Do not dare follow Donald Trump or you will be out of office and he will be out of office as well. If he tries to come here we will stop him every step of the way.”

The sympathies echo the near two million signatories supporting the petition against Trump’s state visit. Yet I have little faith that the petition I signed last week will result in Trump being bared from these shores. The reality is Trump is the 45th president of the USA and he will come. And May will remain Prime Minister. Hours, weeks and months may be a lifetime in politics, yet the reality of such rhetoric to incite progress is a relative snails pace.

Yet the duty to shout against this madness and to remain on the correct side of history — to join marches and sign petitions — is a base necessity to keep our head above the tide of intolerance.

Banners of all colours, shapes and sizes catch the gentle blowing of the wind. Their diversity a candle to the diversity Trump stands against. People of all colours and nationalities are in attendance too, walking united against Trump’s unfettered divisive rhetoric. I am amazed as a journalist that I am not obliged to state ‘allegedly’, ‘arguably’, or quote an unnamed source when describing the controversial policies that are strolling out of the presidential office. “He doesn't hide it,” an American mother adorned with her nation’s flag tells me.

Present too are faces I recognise from previous marches. Organised groups that attend all forms of protests against individuals and policies that threatens socialism. Arguably the rise of the right has begun. The fight to protect socialism and leftist ideals cannot be left to complacency. Brexit, Marine La Pen, and a series of far right parties throughout Europe are now legitimised as valid alternatives to the disaffection people have developed in the face of post-Second World War politics.

Spare a thought then for the Anarchists. Furiously bellowing their hate for the status quo, a group representing this doctrine joined the protest to offer their alternative viewpoint. A rasping voice screeching through purple lipstick; a pink haired woman beseeches the crowd to “end exploitative capitalism! Smash up the Rolls Royce’s. These Rolls-Royces and Bentleys all over this square.”

Standing just beside and even angrier, a leather capped man is espousing similar anarchistic rhetoric.

“They’re just a load of sheep. They should be out against their own system. Destroy the Queen, destroy the House of Lords, destroy Parliament. We need a real revolution in this country, not fucking posers.

“To hell with the queen, to hell with the royal family.” He responds to calls for the Queen’s protection from Trumps proposed state visit, “we don't want to protect them, we want to get rid of them. We want to behead them. We want to guillotine them. Our revolution is long over due.

“To hell with labour; to hell with Corbyn! To stay on the left, completely irrelevant. You’re losing the working class to UKIP, don't you realise that? You're just stupid, you're idiots.”

Edgy and perturbed, he sidesteps away to catch his breath. I cannot help follow and question him about his affiliation. Defiantly he states he has no affiliation, but later accepts that he is part of the Anarchist movement. The anger he felt when he joined in the late sixties is still relevant today. He is openly frustrated by the repetition of history. He hands me a makeshift business card. I ask if the name on the card, Martin Lux, is his name, and he replies it’s a pseudonym before continuing: 

“Let trump come and when he comes we’ll make the fucking city burn.”

Today, the city continues to its usual beat, with cafes, restaurants and shops opened for business as usual. Customers staring through polished glass as the protest interrupts late afternoon coffees and brunch. Amused faces gradually pour out of the shops, and with glossy hands holding aloft oversized designer bags, pictures are taken of the procession of protestors passing from Mayfair to Piccadilly.

The message of tolerance is in evidence throughout the march. Chants vary from the sober messages of “refugees are welcome here” and “say no to Trump, say yes to the NHS”, to the blunt “dump Trump” chorus and the absurdist “Trump has tiny hands”, are all sung as the march nears Downing Street. 

Adorned in balaclavas and scarves, an isolated group seemingly intent on inciting trouble head to the centre of Whitehall. I follow their path from behind, and watch a policeman suddenly clock their presence and send an alert to his colleagues. Inevitably they are alleged to have assaulted a member of the public. One of the group wriggles free from the clutches of an exasperated policeman. Sympathies are not with the falling policeman, but with the balaclava-ed man. The crowd immediately surround the situation and believe this is a sign of the heavy hand of the law.

The event as a whole is beyond peaceful and united. An amassed populous comprising of all ages, races, genders and sexualities listen intently to the last set of speeches. Unfortunately, Jeremy Corbyn could only contribute via a video message, eloquently stating he would oppose Trump in all his capacity.

“Trumps invite should be withdrawn, until the executive orders are gone, and every element of them repealed. Today, we stand with solidarity with our friends all over the USA, who share our views and values, who are standing with minority communities under attack. Theresa may and the Conservatives are on the wrong side of history.”

There appears to be coming from the USA some sense, as I am sitting writing this article, my phone bleeps to let me that the federal judges have upheld the decision to keep Trump’s executive order suspended. A blow to the anti-emigration decree he signed within days of taking office. Let there be more backlash from all levels of society. 

The petition against Trump’s state visit will necessitates parliamentary debate, and is to be held on the 20th of February, and with the speaker of the house breaking his obliged political silence, there appears to be protest at the higher echelons of our society too.

The City I Live In - Hacked

I had my hair cut today. More hacked at actually. I took a chance at the cheaper alternative of a barbers. Avoiding the back alleys of local town, I thought it much wiser to head to the seedy alleys of Soho. 

My entrance to the barbers was met with more solemnity than I expected. Having my haircut is an activity of leisure; a time of renewal. Joyful even. So with the jingling cow bells alerting my entrance, things instantly seemed off. The giant poster of Sweeney Todd did not allay any anxieties. 

A tall, coiffured and waistcoated chap pointed me in the direction of a short and similarly coiffured and waistcoated man, who gestured more than he used words. Within minutes, my hair was washed and squeezed. No pre-wash consultation, no beverage offerings, no pleasantries my usual salon insists on at my every visit. Ok fine, this is a no frills alternative, I get that the faff is cut out.

I was pointed to a chair. Reassured at being asked what I would like changed, I replied, "short all over please, choppy and manageable." Without retort or an opinion ventured, strands of my hair were flying off my scalp. In fairness, I have recently let my hair grow to lengths my mother describes uniquely: "You look like a jungle, Mehmet.” Surely this hacking phase is just a quick once over before the finer, more elegant and precise use of his scissors — nope.

I should not have expected more from this place. Though adorned with the current vogue of gentlemanly furnishings, I was offered none of its refinement. The ambient music was that of a generic radio playlist "thumping out classic nineties hits". And no conversation either. 

The unconventional cutting style continued. My short chap struggled to reach the top of my head, and so I would periodically tilt my head to meet his manic scissors. A tool I have never before seen and resembling a fish scaler, resulted in more hair hacked until something resembling a cropped look transpired. When shown the back, rather innocently I asked if more could be taken off. My chap grunted once more and brandishing his large clippers, chopped further. I exchanged glances incredulously with myself in the giant ornate mirror facing me.

As I left the barber shop, I suddenly remembered their website, which boasts a picture of the owner embracing Jason Statham, a man famously known for his lovely hair. That, and the shop name of Scissorhands, should have been enough warning. 

The Etiquette of Writing an Exclusive Article

7 October - 27 January

Peltz Gallery, Birkbeck

43 Gordon Square, London WC1H 0PD

 

I jolly well went ahead and published an exclusively commissioned article I wrote on this blog. I did so with the trepidation of someone stepping into an unauthorised, restricted area, yet with the careless abandon of a misbehaving child. I somehow knew I might be doing wrong, but I went ahead anyway. I can still error like the best of them. Humbled, I dutifully removed the post.

The experience altogether has been positive, not least for cementing in me the discipline to hold on, to wait, and to clarify before pressing the publish button. Writing a whole piece within a specified timeframe and submitting to a publisher was my first experience of realtime journalism. And I did so by respecting the source material and without compromising my voice. 

The commission rounded off a successful first term, and achieving my first publication in the Lamp & Owl, the school paper, would be the icing on the cake. 

My expectations entering a masters in journalism, without ever formally studying an arts subject beyond GCSE art, where at best realistic. I hoped for a good grade or two, and to successfully juggle my family life and the deadlines of writing journalistic prose. Prose that would be graded. Something that scared the life out of me. I would finally be judged critically on the quality of my writing, and not just receive friendly familial support. 

Yet it’s all about urgency and need. We achieve things in the face of our own mortality that underlines a sense of urgency and conviction. The time was right, I made this career change with intent and I would not let that slip. 

It was a year ago that I tentatively attended a Birkbeck open day hoping to assess the reality of reading a module, perhaps even changing careers. Having worked in clinical research, and with no experience of journalism, I was encouraged to apply for the MA on my enthusiasm alone. I suddenly saw an out. 

It was a given that through writing and photography I would eventually find my artistic voice, which has always been integral to my very being. In time I accepted this voice and I am now living it. 

I attended my once weekly evening lecture at Bloomsbury joyously, juggling the handover of my daughter at times through wind and rain as I waited for my wife’s arrival at the train station, chattering to my daughter to keep her amused. Somehow this all became routine, as normal a routine as bedtime is for my daughter — a trick I enjoyed because it was part of changing my life. 

Walking from Russell Square station to the Mallet Street campus — the architectural lights illuminating against the dimming evening light of winter — was an act of inherent free will. From the understated elegance of Georgian terrace houses to the utility-filled Brutalist beauty of campus buildings, I would walk past each to attend class oblivious to the horrid seasonal weather.

And with each session my confidence grew. My imagination forming structure to apply to previously nebulous ideas. So today I sit hear typing away on my laptop, armed with the tools of journalism, with growing confidence in building a story and conveying my thoughts, and with a touch of negotiation too, yesterday my article was published.

A Museum of the Everyday: Cinephilia and Collecting

7 October - 27 January

Peltz Gallery, Birkbeck

43 Gordon Square, London WC1H 0PD

 

The French New Wave adored film to the point of obsession. The post-war accessibility of motion pictures, hitherto restricted, spawned a generation that devoured the medium in all its forms — a new generation cultivated cinephilia to cult status. A Museum of Everyday Life: Cinephilia and Collecting, currently showing at the Peltz Gallery, wonderfully captures the obsessive nature cinema inspires.

On display within this unremarkable space are works on loan from the Cinema Museum. Situated in Lambeth, the ex-workhouse has links to Charles Chaplin, the doyen of silent era Hollywood. During Chaplin’s impoverished early childhood, he would have stayed in the building with his mother. The converted site is home to collections that cover the whole breadth of cinema, yet the museum is seeking public funding to keep the collection together. 

The joy of this exhibition is envisioned by the collectors, their labour of love underlines an obsessive nature compelled to collect and catalogue. The number of items present here is staggering, and must be in excess of 100,000, realised as index cards, scrapbooks cuttings and celluloid samples. The timespan begins around the Second World War and continues to the preset, but some of the collected items edge close to the first talkies. The effort taken by the curator to assemble this exhibition is testament to the spirit of the collectors themselves. 

Envelopes contained within large metal index cabinets hold fragile celluloid movie cuts, are scattershot and lack the fastidiousness of other files, which are meticulously compiled and alphabetised. Some collections a mere 183 cards kept within a tiny box, others in tightly filled rows. A tall chest of drawers built from reclaimed wood stands proudly next to a wall adorned with index cards.

 

Collecting inspires a love for the subject matter and opens up the possibility to consider each aspect equally. From famous names that pop out instantly and excites the heart, to the less glamorous characters scattered across time. One cannot omit as a true collector. To omit is to deny their presence within the medium, and thereby undermine the collection itself. It is perhaps this spirit that the unstoppable nature of the hobby explodes. Vic Kinson is one such collector, who amassed over 36,000 index cards, and provides the set piece of the exhibition. 

The level of detail etched on these index cards appear limitless. Morsels of interesting facts sprinkled within the perfunctory information of an actor’s career: Al Pacino’s card states he was once a dancer and a stand up comedian; that Fatty Arbuckle was accused of manslaughter; Groucho Marx filed for bankruptcy after the 1929 Wall Street crash; Buster Keaton an alcoholic; Anthony Quinn’s family escaped the Mexican revolution; or that Lana Turner married eight times. Actors are described with reflection: Susan Sarandon as a, “Sexy and sassy American leading lady”; Burt Lancaster as the “Muscular actor with a flashing smile tinged with menace”.

Present throughout this exhibition is the urge to collect and collate for oneself, a record to replace a fragile and fading memory. A yellowing scrapbook of Peter Ewing lists the Academy Awards honour-role of 1939, written with elegant penmanship, and sites The Citadel as the best acted and best directed picture of the year. Yet the errors present remind the observer that this was a human endeavour, and so errors are unavoidable. The Citadel in fact had won its award the previous year. That should not take away from the enjoyment of looking at these artefacts, in fact, they highlight the personal touch present throughout this collection. 

One finds oneself wanting to read each card, to browse each scrapbook, and to hold each strip of celluloid up to the light. Yet the sheer numbers are overwhelming. To do justice to the collection would require a lifetime within these walls, as surely as these collections took a life time to assemble.