Sally Cottis by Mik Godley, from a photograph by François Matarasso, originally published in Winter Fires, Art, Agency and Old Age (2012)
Yesterday, I was talking with a friend about books we’ve written, and what happened to them. Since mine have mostly been published intentionally outside the mainstream, they sink or swim on their own—no reviews or marketing, no book tours or interviews. I’m happy with that: it’s a conscious choice, enacting my defence of alternatives to the institutions of cultural power. Readers will find what they’re looking for. I seem to.
But now, as I start a new and very different book, I wonder why I write them. I don’t find it easy or especially enjoyable (though I have been enjoying writing the sketches that might become A Selfless Art, which makes me think I must be doing something really different). It’s satisfying to have finished a book but it’s a transitory feeling; I don’t think about it when it’s done. (I’m often surprised to rediscover my words when people quote them to me: it’s a relief if they still make sense to me.)
My conscious purpose is to write texts that encourage people who make community art. It’s what I care about and I want to do all I can to defend and advance that vast, rich and lovely work.
But probably the most compelling, personal reason for writing is just that I’m in another argument with the world. I don’t accept how it’s telling me things are, and I need to tell it why, which of course means working out for myself what’s troubling me. Writing is my way of thinking seriously, even in a blog post like this. And that’s why it has mattered to me since I was devoured by books as a child. They helped me think, and they still do. I hope I’m returning the gift now.
But that conversation with my friend also reminded me of the five books that comprise Regular Marvels, all written between 2010 and 2015, and mostly long out of print. Each had a particular purpose and audience, and I did enjoy working on them. I liked them too, though each had big flaws in terms of what I tried to do (I dare say they have others I was too close to see).
So this summer I’ll try to offer them another lease of life, by posting them on here with a few words about what they mean to me. Putting them here, like the Old Words I posted last year, will allow me to take down the website where they currently live. The first one will be about amateur theatre and will be added here in the next week or two.
François Matarasso 