Neville the novel has conspired with O to make me pay him some attention. When the internet fails and O needs to write an article and send it to her newspaper she suggests we all repair to a coffee house to use the WiFi and have breakfast.
"You could work on your novel" she suggests, twinkle in her eye.
"Of course" I say with dignity, "I am always working on my novel."
Actually it is a welcome chance to properly get stuck in and I don't surface until O's friend, who we will call P (I realise I will run out of letters of the alphabet soon), joins us.
As a reporter on arts and culture it's not surprising that O's friends are of a creative bent. P is a director and producer of documentaries. During the course of what is a hugely interesting and wide ranging conversation, covering language skills, music, family relationships and martial arts (P has recently produced a series on the martial art practised in the Binh Dinh region), we have exchanged email addresses, shown videos of M practising Aikido and been given free tickets for next Saturday to see the Vietnamese version of So You Think You Can Dance live!
The conversation is all fascinating. P talks enthusiastically and passionately and O, still working on her article, chips in occasionally, often with a wicked humour. On being shown a video of M performing a series of aikido moves which begin with both partners on their knees she says, incredulously "so you just sit on the floor?". "Shh O" I say, stifling giggles, "it's very impressive."
And it really is. Looking at it I miss our very good friends who we met through M's aikido. We are lucky, we keep saying to people, to be doing this trip. But, you know, we were lucky long before that.
The conversation turns to art (once I have managed to stop squealing in delight about the free tickets).
P talks about the gap between the type of documentary she would like to make and what would actually sell. She talks about the artists compromise because, being employed by a business, commerciality always comes above personal interest. P describes the artistic style she likes to employ when she makes her documentaries but the conflicting concerns of her employer that if she gets too creative, the viewers won't understand. We talk about whether they would in fact understand, whether people, both here and in the UK are routinely patronised by popular media or whether it really is the best policy to play to the lowest common denominator. After all, shouldn't entertainment, especially educational entertainment, work hard to be accessible? Equally, does constant over exposition cause a nation to become lazy, to gradually lose the ability to interpret, to think for themselves? P wants to take herself more out of the frame, to put the people whose story she is reporting, firmly at the centre of what she is doing, to make the viewer relate more directly to the subject, to feel as well as to learn. It sounds fantastic. I tell her all the most inventive artists had to go against the grain. We all nod sagely. We are, in that moment, all tortured geniuses, unrecognised in our time.
Time, of course, is another problem. P can, theoretically, pursue her own interests, under her own terms, in her spare time. But for that, she would need a lot of time. And there is always that pesky need to somehow earn a living.
O and P tell us about another friend of theirs, who is ultra talented at painting and writing. But she is always too afraid to make a break from her work to pursue it. She saves money continually, and is always asking, "is this enough?" In O and P's opinions she has already saved more than enough but it takes more than money to break with that security, the peace of mind that comes with a regular income, and a job that you're good at, and which people actually want to pay you for.
We sit talking for the vast majority of the day. Then we pick up M's camera, which he had to have mended following some somewhat successful attempts by the red sand dunes to infiltrate it's inner sanctum. We are relieved to find it works. For M, it's like another arm. He's been fidgety without it. And he can't possibly eat food without taking a picture of it.
The day ends quietly, talking to O over another beautiful dinner and then chatting to my parents over Skype using the borrowed internet connection of the little coffee house next door.
But the conversation has been food for thought. I understand perfectly the concerns of O and P's friend. But this is my year. This is my year to write in.
And so?
Well really I am supposed to be writing. I fall asleep resolving to give Neville a respectable amount of time each day, the way I had originally planned it.
Which is just what O and Neville wanted. The sneaky little varmints.
No comments:
Post a Comment