In the London Library today, the Less Quiet Reading Room – the one for laptop users – is in thrall to one gentleman who has the noisiest keyboard tapping technique in the history of the world. I’m amazed his poor computer survives. I’m typing this near the Rose Macaulay Corner, which has a photo of the lady in question, a big red comfy chair, and a plaque saying the corner was furnished in her memory by her friends. Given she’s noted for that wonderful opening line about the camel, I’d have put something camel-related in the corner too.
On Ebay, I finally win a copy of an album for which I’ve been bidding in vain for years. Passive Soul by Orlando, released on Warners UK 1997 and now deleted.
Seems a bit odd, even tragic to make such a purchase. But I’ve long since run out of spare copies, and feel the need to bid on any Ebay ones for the times when I want to give a copy out. In this case, to Dennis Cooper, whose novel Frisk forms part of the CD booklet’s montage of the band’s favourite things.
Up to now, I’ve been outbid. Which is as good a definition of mixed feelings as you’ll get. I want the CD, but I’m glad someone else wants it too. Whether finally winning one means anything in the broader scheme of Orlando things I have no idea. It doesn’t matter.
The seller emails me afterwards, and I think I was grumpily hoping he was going to waive the £15, seeing as it was me. But no, he wanted to say he saw Orlando play in 1856 and enjoyed it.
I suppose it could have been a lot worse, given he’s selling the CD in the first place. Around the time of the album, I was watching some other band at the Dublin Castle when a young man approached me, with his friend in tow:
Him: Hey, are you in that band Orlando?
Me: (pleased to be recognised) Why, yes, yes I am…!
Him: Well, I just wanted to say… (he pats me on the back) you’re really, really s–t.
I wonder if that sort of thing happens to Russell Crowe? Who would dare?
Needless to add, there were perfectly nicer collarings at the time by well-wishers and fans. But as ever, it’s the detractors and hecklers that pull the focus from any amount of praise, that unfairly stick in the memory. If I can remember anything at all in my history, it’s the bad things, more than the good. Which seems a terrible shame. But I think artists in general spend more thought and time on the unkind reviews, when they should be concentrating on the good ones, or at least the more constructively unkind ones. The band The Dresden Dolls happily archive all their bad reviews on their website in a dedicated section. To me that’s like distributing sting-enhancers to the world’s wasp population, but I admire them for it.
People ask you for criticism, but they only want praise. – Somerset Maughan.
Creating anything vaguely artistic in public involves a tug-of-war between hubris and humility, and you have to be careful to not let one side skew the balance. “I’m brilliant, I’m wonderful, I’m special” is of course not true. But neither is the false narcissism of “What do I know? I’m just like anyone else. Just giving it a go. Don’t mind me.”
I think I prefer people being aware of my work at all, even in an unkind capacity, as opposed to being unknown or ignored. But what I really would dread is being unable to write. Men with heavy-handed laptop techniques are doing their best today, but when I get into the swing of writing, I’m probably tapping pretty loudly myself. Irritation at others’ industry can sometimes generate competition.
