I’m ambivalent about public speaking, though I’ve been doing it for so long. It’s best when the speaker knows they’re involved in a performance art, in which what is said is generally less important than how. I’ve heard talks by Arthur Miller and Edward de Bono of which I remember not a word or an idea; I do, however, retain a vivid impression of their presence and their manner of communication. But I’d rather understand their thought by reading their work than having it read to me.
I’ve got used to it, but the lecture hall is as uncomfortable a space for me as it was when I was a student. Unlike my late brother, who could entertain audiences of several hundred people, I’m not a natural performer. For years, I wrote and read conference speeches because I thought (as I still do) that if people were making the effort to come and listen to me I should show them the respect of preparing something worth listening to.
The most gracious example of respect for an audience I’ve witnessed was a concert by Leonard Cohen at Manchester Opera House in 2008. It was evident that his jokes were prepared, just as the music was rehearsed (and most can be heard on ‘Live in London‘, which appeared a couple of years later) but that preparation was the point. It was the gift of an artist who treated what he put before an audience with the greatest care because he wished to honour those present.
That’s an example to live up to, and though I rarely write and read talks now, I still prepare them assiduously. Until 2023, I gave 10 to 20 talks each year and then, like a light being flipped off, the invitations stopped. I’ve not given a talk since March last year. Insofar as I gave it any thought, it was a relief. I wasn’t fit to be in public anyway so I’d only have had to find the energy to say no.
Eighteen months on, I’m due to give a short talk by video link at a conference in Madeira. When the organiser asked for an outline to include in the conference brochure, I glimpsed how far I’ve travelled in this gap. Both what I want to say and how feels very different from my last talk in Helsinki. Here’s a long version of that outline, though what I say will surely change again as I work on it.
The master’s house is burning
In his latest book, Giorgio Agamben, writes that only when the house is in flames can we see its fundamental architectural problem. It’s debatable when the fire started – Agamben suggests 1914, or perhaps much earlier – but not that it’s raging. Only the wilfully blind or careless still deny that humanity now faces an existential crisis. That crisis is global, complex and multidimensional. It is still hard to comprehend and harder to face when we do. Is the retreat of democracy a symptom or a cause? What action can be taken and what might be its unintended consequences? Is it too late?
Such questions might seem beyond the scope of a participatory arts and theatre festival but problems do not become irrelevant just because they exceed our capacity. We have no choice but to work here and now. We can only meet the problems we see with the resources we can gather. What matters is how.
Looking back on a life spent in community art, I’ve come to see that this is one of several things I got wrong. Working, alongside so many others, for recognition of the creativity and experience of non-professional artists, I focused too much on what and why. How existed in the here and now, in senses and feelings, in other ways of knowing than those I used to write and speak about the work we did.
Audre Lorde had said clearly that ‘the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house’ but I couldn’t see the connection. I couldn’t see it because I was born in that house and though I spent my life trying to change it, I knew I was at home there in exactly the way Audre Lorde knew she was not. Now that house is burning and I can finally see its fundamental architectural problems. Well, better late than never.
What matters is how. We will only find solutions to the multiple crises we face if we stop using the master’s tools, including his concepts of art and value. We need a new idea of co-creation – one that is emancipatory, caring and hopeful, one that rejects the divisions on which the master grows fat, one that speaks less of resilience and more of solidarity, one that sees and values the interdependence of all things.
I’ve been calling this idea a selfless art. I’m not sure yet what that means but then it’s not up to me – it’s up to everyone who sees the necessity of fundamental change. It takes all hands to put out a fire.
- Agamben, G. 2022, When the House Burns Down, Seagull Books, p.3.
- Lorde, A. 2019, Sister Outsider, Penguin Books, p 105
François Matarasso 
Responses to “Speaking of the master’s house”
Thank you so much for this. It has hit a spot for me. Much to think on (as often when I read your writings).
PS I like reading in terms of digestion too, but also seeing people adds a dimension to how you read and reflect.
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Thanks Kate, I’m glad it spoke to you. I’ve been thinking about Bertrand Russell’s recognition that there can be competing moral goods – in this case, the value of being present to share ideas and solidarity pulls against the value of minimising an already unfairly heavy impact on the environment. Both are important but they are incompatible, so you look for the point where there is most value at least cost.
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