As trivia board games will tell us, 70 per cent of the Earth’s surface is water and, of that, 97 per cent is the ocean. Every time we tiptoe towards it, bodies heavy with the added weight of wet sand, or picking out the easiest route via pebbles, and plunge in, we become part of its ecosystem.
We can see the fish flit back and forth, and jellyfish, which I am scared of, thanks to a documentary I once saw about the sting of the Portuguese man o’ war (I mean, seriously, the name alone). But, for the most part, the only things that distract me – briefly – from the pleasures of the sea are slippery, mossy rocks, and seaweed pulling my ankles into an embrace.
Paddling, snorkelling, swimming, splashing: it is, without wanting to sound mawkish, a real gift, the sea. The ‘locked’ part of landlocked countries seems to speak to this. ‘Locked’ – a lack of the freedom of the ocean – seems appropriate, rather than, say, ‘sea-less’, which sounds neutral.
One time, as a teen, in that awkward stage of not realising everyone is too concerned with their own bodies to pay even a second’s attention to yours, I went on a beach holiday and not once did I get in the sea. I think of that now, and I want to chuck past-me in: let the healing salt work its magic, wash it all away.
BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOGRAPHS
Until the early 1980s, the revered photo agency Magnum did not allow members who shot exclusively in colour. Colour photographers were, if you like, the photographic equivalent of Dylan Going Electric.
A very many of my favourite photographers shoot – or shot – in glorious, highly saturated colour. Think of the pop of William Eggleston, or Martin Parr’s exquisite capturing of the absurdism of British everyday life. But there is a unique quality to monochrome photographs. Monochrome photographs allow us to notice and focus upon things undistracted by colour. (Although, sidenote, there is a type of colour blindness, achromatopsia, in which individuals see only in shades of black and white.)
The body language of those in Diane Arbus’s portraits – often strangers stumbled upon in Central Park. The attention to shadows and patterns of light by Alexander Rodchenko, for instance. Perhaps one of the most instantly recognisable black and white photographs is the sun pouring through the windows of Grand Central Station, as if the banks of a river of light had burst. (By Hal Morey.) The shapes of streets caught so viscerally by Henri Cartier-Bresson. The grooves of Samuel Beckett’s face, deep as trenches in war, shot by the incredible Jane Bown and now hanging in the National Portrait Gallery would not have had the same effect in colour. The visceral energy of Gordon Parks’s civil rights photography.
The now much maligned Athena posters from the 1990s still hold affection and a kitsch place in pop culture. Though there are plenty of popular black and white prints which I’d happily send to the shredder for eternity (the one of the women in white vest tops and knickers kissing on a bed is supposed to be sexy but to me has strong vibes of falling asleep after a bath). There is also an epidemic of pics on Instagram with HDR whacked up and put through sepia filters.
The truth is, though, that while black and white photographs are often thought of as quieter that those in colour, they can be equally, if not more, powerful. (Parr actually started his career in black and white.) I hope – and am quietly confident in the matter – that black and white photography will continue to hold its own amongst canary yellows and lime greens and hot pinks.
HOUSE PARTIES
Who knows, in this time of compartmentalised living, when the house party will return? That incongruous mix of debauchery and a kitchenette. Queues for the bathroom as long as those for Michelin-starred restaurants. Sinks filled with ice and beers. Half-crushed paper cups on windowsills. For some reason, always liquorice-flavoured rollies.
House parties are wonderful because 90 per cent of the time they overdeliver. Usually, one dreads them – and then you’re faced with excitable chat between people who are dear to you and those who are not; but, who knows, may become so.
I have run the gamut of house parties. Ones with caterers carrying trays of canapés, and ones where the carpet seems to have become an accepted ashtray. Ones in which the makeshift cloakroom in the bedroom includes furs and Burberry trenchcoats, and others where vintage shell-suit jackets jostle together in a burst of colour.
The most famous house party in culture must be Jay Gatsby’s. A bacchanalian night, where the champagne and dresses flow gold, and no expense is spared. A riot of hedonistic, epicurean delight – but ultimately very shallow, AKA my dream evening.
House parties do not tend to have a beginning, a middle and an end. They are shapeshifters; they are multidirectional. There is dancing to LCD Soundsystem, on the wooden floor of a sitting room, bottles precariously perched on a mantelpiece. There is a sidebar conversation in a conservatory. Politics maybe, but more likely gossip. Or gossip about people in politics. People with wide eyes and chewed lips who offer to share illicit goods. In a spare room, there is snogging.
Because the house party takes us back to our youth. I’ve said many times, ‘I’m too old for house parties,’ but the house party is never too old for you. It is the true members’ club; a gate jamming on uneven flagstones is much better than a velvet rope.
The host, who you know and like, or the person who brings you, who you know and like, means that there is a high probability people at the party will be good ones. Fun ones. With interesting conversation and sharp wit. Or just really attractive.
My favourite house party experience is thinking you’ll have left by midnight, but ending up calling a taxi at 6 a.m., when the grass is dewy and the street is quiet. Nodding off to sleep in the back seat, yawning with gratification.
THE JOURNEY HOME
There is a reason plenty of feelgood films close with a completed trip; the end of a journey. A wide-angle shot of a bunch of festival-tired friends, heads leaning against one another; the close-up of a protagonist looking out of a plane window, a smile spreading across their face. Unlike so much that appears on screen, I know both these shots to be tangible and true.
A lot of people associate the good feeling of returning from a trip with switching the lights on, dumping luggage in the hall, putting the kettle on and breathing in the marinade smells of home. But that isn’t coming home; that is arriving home.
No, what I love happens before that, the transition mixed with reflection. In the summer of 2019, I was at Glastonbury festival for work. I am extremely lucky in that I work with many of my best friends. After what I can only describe as the perfect five days, a few of us drove home.
Sometimes I would look over at my beautiful pal, her sleepy head rolling off the window, thinking about the new memories we’d just made. Or the four of us would rouse and have a singalong shot through with exhaustion; burst out laughing at a memory. It was the perfect coming home. The train journey on the way to the festival with a friend had been full of excitement (I also love going to places) and laughter; but the journey back is after a life changed, even if just a tiny bit.
I don’t know what it is about watching countryside roll along on a solo train trip across Europe; piling out with mates at a service station for disgusting coffee (then sunbathing on a grassy bank at the edge of a car park); or that final butchering-of-a-language conversation with a congenial cab driver taking you back to the airport, that makes me contemplative and deeply satisfied.
Satisfaction, I think, in the pleasure of feeling grateful. Grateful for whatever one has experienced; whether it has been dancing at 4 a.m. with people you love, and then rising to the cool, bright morning; swimming in ludicrously clear waters; meeting people from around the world and hearing their stories; triumphing at the top of mountains. Gratitude towards life.
The overriding flavour of coming home is bittersweet, because often I don’t want to. But it is knowing that nothing can last for ever, and that while it did last, it was glorious. Knowing that the fruit was not allowed to brown, no welcomes were outstayed. The most wonderful time, even with any imperfections
, was had. So I am not sure home is where the heart is; I think the heart is in the bits in between.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A huge thank you to everybody involved in transforming two years’ worth of columns into a lovely book. From initial phonecalls – while gulping tea and wandering around my garden – with Laura Hassan at Faber, to the brilliant and astute editing of Marigold Atkey. Great lunch pals and WhatsApp interlocutors, both. I am very lucky indeed.
Thank you to Kate Ward at Faber for helping to get me over the line, and Jonny Pelham for his marvellous cover design. Alex Bradshaw, Fred Baty and Mo Hafeez. Thank you to Yo – for her illustrations. To Hannah Turner and Niriksha Bharadia.
Major thanks to friends and colleagues at the Guardian who cared for the column and helped it thrive. Weekend editor Melissa Denes, and Saturday editor Clare Margetson, who, as well as being glorious humans and friends, gave me the go ahead when I brought the column idea to them (shout out too, of course, to J. B. Priestley himself, whose idea I nicked; and thank you to Hannah Mackay for introducing me to his book, Delight). To John Crace for his initial advice.
To the whole gang on the Weekend desk, but in particular those involved with Joy: Ruth Lewy and Joe Stone for their professional nous and general wonderfulness. To the subeditors who have saved me many times: Grainne Mooney, Georgia Brown, Catriona O’Shaughnessy, Andrea Chapman, Adrian Tempany, Frances Booth and Carrie O’Grady. To Katie Shimmon, Stephanie Fincham, Maggie Murphy and Pauline Doyle.
I wouldn’t be at the Guardian without Tara Herman, Alan Rusbridger, Paul Johnson and Sheila Pulham, who truly did change my life. Thank you to Kath Viner and Jan Thompson for their ongoing support, and so many Guardian colleagues whose office company I miss dearly.
I have too many friends to mention here (she says, cockily), so I will just say I love you and you are the best. (Please assume this is a direct reference to you. Yes, YOU.)
During a once-in-a-century pandemic, a few people in particular have kept me sane. Thank you to Nigella Lawson for everything; the crumbles and so much more. Thank you to Polly Curtis for her barnstorming friendship and for interventions on Hampstead Heath and for always having my back. To Marina Hyde for the W2 walks and endless support. To Maya Wolfe-Robinson, Aditya Chakrabortty and Chris Godfrey for the latter also. Coco Khan, for picking me up from hospital on the hottest day of the year and then not murdering me when I managed to get us lost despite using a Satnav.
Tshepo Mokoena and Gwilym Mumford for being cheering, always. To Tim Jonze and Morwenna Ferrier for all of the Liverpool FC chat during a season of empty stadiums, and to Carys Ball, Sinead Morgan, Alix Davies, Ellen Hunter and Claire Barnett-Jones. To Eleanor Morgan for the voice notes and screengrabs and toast.
Many thanks go to Vera, Ruth, Eric for – somehow – putting up with me for thirty-one years; and to Graham, Evelyn, Sadie and Miles, who have put up with me for a much shorter time so let’s see.
Thank you, so much, to my wonderful readers who are the loveliest people and whose emails, messages, social media interactions and letters are immensely lifting. You represent all that is good in the world and also have excellent taste.
Absolutely no thanks go to the man sat next to me in this cafe playing music out loud on his phone and endlessly jiggling his leg. No thanks whatsoever.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hannah Jane Parkinson is a journalist and columnist. She writes on pop culture, music, technology, football, politics and mental health. She contributes a weekly column, The Joy of Small Things, to the Guardian, inspired by J. B. Priestley’s book Delight. Her writing has appeared in the Guardian, the Observer and the Sunday Times.
@ladyhaja
COPYRIGHT
First published in the UK and the USA in 2021
by Guardian Faber
Guardian Faber is an imprint of Faber & Faber Ltd,
Bloomsbury House, 74–77 Great Russell Street,
London WC1B 3DA
Guardian is a registered trademark of
Guardian News & Media Ltd,
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This ebook edition first published in 2021
All rights reserved
© Hannah Jane Parkinson, 2021
Illustrations @ Chiyun Yeh, 2021
The right of Hannah Jane Parkinson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Cover design by Faber
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–1–783–35237–1
The Joy of Small Things Page 15