Benjamin’s Britain
Eli Regan
I should have realised the treachery of positive preconceptions prior to entering the predominantly white walled space. A cluttered minimalism seemed to prevail. This description although seemingly fitting for an Ikea showroom, sadly also applies to the "Benjamin’s Britain" exhibition at Manchester Art Gallery. In theory, on paper and in my mind’s eye, this was an exhibition that was going to work on a variety of levels showcasing the Jamaican/English poet Benjamin Zephaniah’s words alongside photographs divided into four areas/issues that he feels passionately about: "Punky Reggae Party," "Animals Like Me," "Face" and "Brit Islam." I have long enjoyed and sought out Zephaniah’s poetry, as an antidote to the bland, passionless post-post-post modern nothingness that the art world can offer, but in "Benjamin’s Britain" these polar opposites come together in jarring unison.
For one, the photographs were mostly from the archives of the National Portrait Gallery in London. As a result, an official photograph of Debbie Harry (his teen pin-up) by Pennie Smith sits next to "What If" (one of his poems, a pastiche of "If" by Rudyard Kipling). "What If" is placed next to a photographic portrait of Yousuf Islam (formerly known as Cat Stevens) by Eamonn McCabe, which in turn is placed next to a bull, this is then situated next to a photograph of British jazz musician Courtney Pine, next to a photograph of two goats, then Jo with a facial disfigurement, etc., etc., etc. Let me make it clear after this elongated, obnoxious list that I do not object to the poet’s diverse choice of subject, but rather their rendition. There are dynamic, individual photographs aplenty, but they exist together in a parasitic relationship, draining, sometimes cancelling each other out, which results in a visual migraine for the viewer and makes these important issues easier to neglect than when presented in his poetry books.
I dreamt of a bombastic presentation of Zephaniah’s poetry/music, almost propaganda-like, because we do need to be challenged musically, artistically, poetically and personally about these issues–the lack of dialogue, widespread suspicion and downright racism that British Muslims face today; our inherent and sometimes capitalist idea of beauty and avoidance of people with facial disfigurements; our lack of empathy/cruelty to animals, and the idiocy of a public that would rather embrace talentless, screeching boobs than listen to Courtney Pine, Lee Scratch Perry and Benjamin Zephaniah himself. I envisioned not white walls, but almost a replica of Zephaniah’s pubescent bedroom adorned with cut-outs, posters and influences that he had as a young man. I thought of how I would like to meet every single one of these people in the photographs and how a room full of these people here dancing to punk and reggae would make me glad. I realise maybe I am asking too much, and that often silence speaks volumes, but here, to me, silence hardly speaks at all. I also realise that I do not have anyone else’s perspective but my own so I look to the forlorn comment board. One of the comments says: "I liked it. Couldn’t understand the poem." and I’m instantly reminded that the place is dead, empty. I might have looked at the work differently had hoards of children been swarming about the place, every one of them with an opinion and a question about everything. I think, maybe, I can’t understand certain poems, and maybe I can’t understand the exhibition’s egalitarian lay-out (even though it does emphasize a sense of British togetherness by placing Zaha Hadid, "a Muslim free-thinker" according to Zephaniah next to an ostrich), but I am being educated here, drawn to certain subjects that I too often ignore, and in a land "where curry blends with shepherd pie" (according to Benjamin Zephaniah) I say draw your own conclusions, and with that rather simplistic conclusion I hope you all do.
