Crystal worlds

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The Crystal World by JG Ballard. An illustration by Virgil Finlay for the Summer–August 1966 issue of Things To Come, the Science Fiction Book Club mailer.

1: Crystal words

JG Ballard didn’t have a pleasant experience with LSD when Michael Moorcock procured a dose of the drug for him in 1967, describing his acid trip in later years as a “psychotic nightmare”. I’ve often wondered how Ballard’s fiction might have developed in the 1970s if his experience had been a more positive one, something I was thinking about again when re-reading The Illuminated Man, a story collected in The Terminal Beach which was later reworked as The Crystal World, the fourth book in Ballard’s disaster quartet. There’s a psychedelic strain to Ballard’s writing which has long been overwhelmed by the popular enthusiasm for the condensed fictions of The Atrocity Exhibition and the three “concrete” novels of the 1970s: Crash, Concrete Island and High-Rise. The Crystal World was published in 1966 when LSD was still legally available in Britain, and even though the genesis of the book pre-dates the decade’s psychedelic fervour, the bejewelled prose chimes so well with the mood of the time it’s easy to assume it was inspired by psychedelic experience. Many readers thought as much, and in interviews Ballard had to emphasise that the novel was a product of his imagination and nothing more.

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The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, May 1964. Cover art by Ed Emshwiller.

After devastating the planet with plausible disasters in his first three novels, Ballard in The Crystal World offers a distinctly fantastic scenario, in which an interstellar phenomenon (“the Hubble Effect”) is manifesting on Earth as the spontaneous crystallisation of all objects, animate or inanimate. The process begins in isolated areas before spreading worldwide; in keeping with many other Ballard stories from this period, time is responsible for the changes taking place:

Just as a supersaturated solution will discharge itself into a crystalline mass, so the supersaturation of matter in a continuum of depleted time leads to its appearance in a parallel spatial matrix. As more and more time “leaks” away, the process of supersaturation continues, the original atoms and molecules producing spatial replicas of themselves, substance without mass, in an attempt to increase their foothold upon existence.

The Illuminated Man

As with other Ballard stories, the scientific hand-waving is merely a pretext. In The Illuminated Man and The Crystal World “leaking time” provides an excuse to transform areas of Florida swamp and African jungle into glittering arcades of prismatic foliage, where birds are crystallised in mid-flight, reptiles transmute into heraldic emblems, and everything fluoresces with an iridescent radiance. The Illuminated Man is a sketch of the novel, with a different location but similar events, in which a hazardous mutating landscape becomes the stage for a small group characters pursuing each other and their own obsessions. Landscape is the important factor in The Drowned World, The Drought and The Crystal World; all three novels are essentially Surrealist landscapes whose reflections of interior states are the primary interest of the novelist, the narrative and the characters being very much secondary elements. In this respect it’s disappointing that The Crystal World has yet to be brought to life by an inspired illustrator, as we’ll see below. And while the novel may seem to be the least realistic of Ballard’s disasters it has a connection to future events. The Illuminated Man offers one of the first examples in science fiction (maybe the first) of an isolated zone which is being transformed by an extraterrestrial phenomenon, a concept usually credited to the Strugatsky Brothers in their novel Roadside Picnic (1972), and popularised by Andrei Tarkovsky in Stalker (1979). (Algis Budrys had done something similar in an earlier novel, Rogue Moon, but Budrys’s infected zone isn’t located on the Earth.) Tarkovsky’s film would subsequently provide the containment zone around the irradiated region of Pripyat in Ukraine with a template for unauthorised behaviour, where the illicit guides to the region took to describing themselves as “stalkers”. Until my re-read of The Illuminated Man I hadn’t registered Ballard’s reference to an additional outbreak of crystallisation occurring in the Pripet Marshes in what was then the Soviet Union, a vast region that includes the irradiated zone of Pripyat. The Soviet scientists attempt to deal with outbreak in their usual inefficient manner but for the world at large efficiency proves to be of little consequence either way; Ballard’s disasters aren’t problems to be solved, as they would have been for an earlier generation of writers. Global calamity is dealt with by gradual accommodation, and a reconfiguring of the human psyche which eventually comes to accept the altered landscape.


2: Crystal visions

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Celestial Tree (1976) by Robert Venosa.

The most obvious psychedelic elements of The Crystal World are the novel’s emphasis on rainbow spectra and brilliant lights, the endless descriptions of prismatic diffractions and iridescence. But jewels and crystals are an important feature of psychedelic and visionary experience, a quality that Aldous Huxley explored at length in Heaven and Hell (1956):

Men have spent enormous amounts of time, energy and money on the finding, mining and cutting of coloured pebbles. Why? The utilitarian can offer no explanation for such fantastic behaviour. But as soon as we take into account the facts of visionary experience, everything becomes clear. In vision, men perceive a profusion of what Ezekiel calls “stones of fire,” of what Weir Mitchell describes as “transparent fruit.” These things are self-luminous, exhibit a preternatural brilliance of colour and possess a preternatural significance. The material objects which most nearly resemble these sources of visionary illumination are gem stones. To acquire such a stone is to acquire something whose preciousness is guaranteed by the fact that it exists in the Other World.

Hence man’s otherwise inexplicable passion for gems and hence his attribution to precious stones of therapeutic and magical virtue. The causal chain, I am convinced, begins in the psychological Other World of visionary experience, descends to earth and mounts again to the theological Other World of heaven. In this context the words of Socrates, in the Phaedo, take on a new significance. There exists, he tells us, an ideal world above and beyond the world of matter. “In this other earth the colours are much purer and much more brilliant than they are down here…. The very mountains, the very stones have a richer gloss, a lovelier transparency and intensity of hue. The precious stones of this lower world, our highly prized cornelians, jaspers, emeralds and all the rest, are but the tiny fragments of these stones above. In the other earth there is no stone but is precious and exceeds in beauty every gem of ours.”

In The Illuminated Man Ballard extends his own thoughts about precious stones to touch on the numinous:

Perhaps it is this gift of time which accounts for the eternal appeal of precious gems, as well as of all baroque painting and architecture? Their intricate crests and cartouches, occupying more than their own volume of space, so contain a greater ambient time, providing that unmistakable premonition of immortality sensed within St Peter’s or the palace at Nymphenburg. By contrast the architecture of the 20th century, characteristically one of rectangular unornamented facades, of simple Euclidean space and time, is that of the New World, confident of its firm footing in the future and indifferent to those pangs of mortality which haunt the mind of old Europe.

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A moment of frozen time: Salome Dancing Before Herod (1876) by Gustave Moreau.

There’s an overt spirituality to The Illuminated Man and The Crystal World (both stories feature priests among their small cast of characters), which again seems psychedelic when placed in the context of crystalline transmutation, and which is diametrically opposed to the hard-edged materialism of the late novels. The second part of The Crystal World takes its title from the short story, with “illuminated” here referring to a process of psychological (or even spiritual) illumination in addition to the more obvious generation of light.

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A late manifestation of the Symbolist Ballard, 1982. Cover art by Bill Botten.

I think of this side of Ballard’s work as less religious than Symbolist, an expression of his enthusiasm for Symbolist art and artists; the opening chapter of The Crystal World has the priest with an artist’s surname, Father Balthus, comparing the gloomy light around Port Matarre to the impending storm in Arnold Böcklin’s Isle of the Dead. The painting chosen to wrap the covers of the first edition of The Crystal World was The Eye of Silence by Max Ernst, a choice almost certainly suggested by Ballard himself who included the same picture in a list of favourite Surrealist paintings for New Worlds. The painting is the closest that Ernst gets to the jewelled settings of Gustave Moreau, an artist whose Byzantine architectures are studded with precious stones.

The Symbolist Ballard surfaced in occasional short stories throughout the late 60s and the concrete 70s but didn’t return in full until 1979 with the publication of The Unlimited Dream Company. The novel is such a dramatic break with the concrete novels it suggests a sudden release of pressure, as the Symbolist Ballard erupts into life with another story about the wholesale transformation of a circumscribed zone. The locus this time is Ballard’s home territory of Shepperton which is turned into a tropical paradise by the arrival of a wounded pilot (significantly named Blake) whose small plane has crashed into the River Thames. Blake may be suffering from brain damage, he may be imagining all the novel’s events in the moments before his death, or he may even be a new messiah; as with The Crystal World, the explanation is a side issue, the author is more interested in the transformed environment and its effect on the inhabitants of the town.

Continue reading “Crystal worlds”

Weekend links 781

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Orphée aux Enfers (1896) by Jean Delville

• “Yes, there was a riot, but it was great”: Cabaret Voltaire on violent gigs, nuclear noise – and returning to mark 50 years.

• At Public Domain Review: Matthew Mullane on George Wightwick’s The Palace of Architecture (1840).

• New music: Dissever by Emptyset; Quiet Pieces by Abul Mogard; Analogues by Lawson & Merrill.

• At Spoon & Tamago: Artist Yukiko Suto finds beauty in Japanese residential neighbourhoods.

• At The Quietus: A Condition of the Space: Mary Anne Hobbs interviewed.

• At Baja el Signo de Libra: The homoerotic photography of Yves Paradis.

• Mix of the week: Bleep Mix #303 by Abul Mogard.

• At Dennis Cooper’s: Stan Brakhage Day.

• RIP Edmund White.

Brakhage (1997) by Stereolab | Brakhage (2002) by Robert Poss | Barbican Brakhage (2009) by John Foxx

De Nerée and Luisa Casati

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Luisa Casati (1922) by Man Ray.

Today’s post is another in the series of irregular art essays by Sander Bink. The subject this time is Luisa Casati (1881–1957), the Italian heiress who burnt through a fortune living extravagantly while being drawn or painted by many of the most notable artists of her time. (I did my own very stylised portrait of the Marchesa for Bruce Sterling’s Pirate Utopia, a novel where Casati briefly appears among the cast of real and fictional characters.) As before with Sander’s posts, Carel de Nerée tot Babberich is one of the artists under discussion. Thanks, Sander!

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Carel de Nerée around 1905.

Many artists have paid homage to the ‘living artwork’ and legendary fashion icon Luisa Casati. Artists such as Man Ray, Paul-César Helleu, Giovanni Boldini, Léon Bakst, Kees van Dongen, Alastair, Romaine Brooks and Giacomo Balla have immortalised her. Legend has it that a certain fascinating Dutch artist should also be added to this list: Carel de Nerée tot Babberich (1880–1909). (Previously: 1 & 2)

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Luisa Casati with Greyhound (1908) by Giovanni Boldini. Private collection.

By 1930, Casati’s decadent and luxurious lifestyle had left her millions in debt. To escape her creditors, she moved to London. In the years before her death in 1957, she was seen scavenging for food in rubbish bins. In these final years, she naturally preferred to look to the past rather than the present, making lists of all those who had portrayed her then fading glory. Remarkably, one of these features De Nerée. Scot D. Ryersson and Michael Yaccarino, in their classic biography Infinite Variety: The Life and Legend of the Marchesa Casati, write about this period:

Whereas her evenings were absorbed by occult passions, the Marchesa spent part of her days writing lists. One was an inventory of the renowned personages she had known. There were others cataloguing the many artists, famous and lesser known, who had represented her. The difficulty of creating a comprehensive index of contributors to the ‘Casati Gallery’ is compounded both by Luisa’s incomplete and inaccurate records and by the lack of information concerning the minor portraitists, such as Mrs. Leslie Cotton and Karel de Nerée tot Babberich and those who were simply wealthy dilettantes. Boldini, John, van Dongen, and Epstein are noted alongside Hohenlohe, Nikolai Riabushinsky, theatrical designer Oliver Messel, and Eduardo Chicharro, director of the Spanish Academy of Fine Art in Rome.

The footnote to this paragraph states:

Christophe Henri Karel de Nerée tot Babberich (1880–1909) was a little-known Dutch artist whose pen and ink work is highly reminiscent of Martini and Alastair. Although there is little material documenting Casati’s association with or influence on the artist, many of the highly stylized and bizarre female subjects of his drawings share a more than coincidental resemblance to the Marchesa.

De Nerée did, indeed, draw several dark-eyed female figures in extravagant dresses, all of which could easily pass for a portrait of Casati. In the book The Marchesa Casati: Portraits of a Muse (2009), Ryersson and Yaccarino give an overview of all the works of art based on Casati. A drawing by De Nerée of a very slender figure with dark eyes is identified as a portrait of Casati and dated 1905.

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Het schone beeld (The beautiful image, 1900–01) by Carel de Nerée. Private Collection. Estate of Barry Humphries.

The authors were not 100% sure of this identification, but due to the almost complete lack of documentation on De Nerée’s life and work at the time, they chose this drawing. In an email to me in 2010, the authors withdrew this identification because of this lack of documentation. It is actually a drawing dating from 1900–01, based on a story by Henri Borel. Of course, we immediately set about trying to find out which of De Nerée’s drawings could be a portrait of Casati.

In their email, Ryersson and Yaccarino give some more information:

In the papers left behind by the Marchesa, after her death in 1957, was a list she had made herself of those artists who had done her portraits. Babberich was on that list. His portrait of her, done in pencil, was from around 1905. We do not know how they met, but the Marchesa travelled frequently and extensively and was fond of the work of such symbolist artists as Alberto Martini, Gustav Mossa, and Alastair, so it is not surprising that Babberich caught her attention somehow.

De Nerée and Casati make an excellent match indeed. ‘She was only too pleased to promote artists whose aesthetic she felt an affinity with, and those whose work was so contrary to popular taste’, Ryersson and Yaccarino write in Portraits of a Muse. In 2015, I began working on what has now become the first full-length biography of De Nerée. Research showed that De Nerée actually deregistered from The Hague in October 1905 in order to settle in Rome.

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Rome travel guide with De Nerées’ annotation “Roma, October 1905”. Private collection.

One reason for this was that, from 1905, De Nerée’s life was increasingly set in the aristocratic and very wealthy circles of southern Europe. In 1907, for example, he met Gabriel d’Annunzio, a lover of Casati’s, in Florence. Perhaps he had met him before. And in 1908, for example, he drew a portrait of Baroness Clementine Maria von Reuter (1855–1941), daughter of the wealthy Baron Paul von Reuter (1816–1899), founder of Reuters news agency. (Private collection, Netherlands).

Continue reading “De Nerée and Luisa Casati”

Weekend links 751

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The Treasures of Satan (1895) by Jean Delville.

• Among the new titles at Standard Ebooks, the home of free, high-quality, public-domain texts: Là-Bas, the celebrated account of Satanism in fin-de-siècle France by Joris-Karl Huysmans.

• New music: Chronicle by Arc, and The Invisible Road: Original Recordings, 1985–1990 by Sussan Deyhim & Richard Horowitz (linked here before but that was for the pre-release).

Fabulous Animals (1975), a six-part British TV series about cryptozoology presented by David Attenborough (!).

• At Colossal: “Colour and repetition form optical rhythms in Daniel Mullen’s geometric paintings“.

• At Public Domain Review: Anton Seder’s The Animal in Decorative Art (1896) turns up again.

Unseen scenes from Sergei Parajanov’s The Colour of Pomegranates.

• Steven Heller’s font of the month is Roadhouse.

Fanzine covers selected by DJ Food.

Mark Webber’s favourite records.

Satan Side (1972) by Keith Hudson | Satan Is Boring (1986) by Sonic Youth | Sataan Is Real (1991) by Terminal Cheesecake

Félix Vallotton woodcuts

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La Paresse (1896).

Félix Vallotton (1865–1925) was a Swiss/French artist often classed among the Symbolists although few of his paintings really suit the label. The closest he comes to Symbolism is in his membership of the Nabis, a small group of artists whose approach to painting was as much concerned with the surface of the picture as with the image that surface represented, something they pursued throughout the 1890s with a revolutionary fervour. Japanese prints were popular among the Nabis, an influence which is evident in Vallotton’s woodcuts although you don’t always seen many of these in Symbolist studies. Vallotton’s paintings are of such a high standard that most of my books favour his canvases over his prints, with the latter appearing, if at all, in the form of the small portraits he made of notable writers. The examples here are from a substantial collection at Wikimedia Commons which include many I haven’t seen before, including the complete set of Intimités (Intimacies), a series showing encounters between men and women in darkened rooms.

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Le Poker (1896).

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Le Piston (1896).

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Le Piano (1896).

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La Flûte (1896).

Continue reading “Félix Vallotton woodcuts”