I wrote a short piece recently for
‘Footless Crow’ about my new multimedia project in Catalunya Nord, named ‘Perillos,
here be dragons’ It is said that the village of Perillos, near Perpinya, became
deserted when its folk started having the same dreams. The villagers were
afraid to sleep for the dreams were terrifying. What went on here surely went
on with the land and then into the soul of man. Using the tools of my trade,
words, images and sounds, I explore this breathing expanse, and a possible
revealing of itself through myths, legends and folklore. The ancient naming of
the region is imbued with strong religio-divine-cosmic influence…packed full of
doubt, mysteries, enchantment and an odd sense of danger. Nearby are the
slabby, sport cliffs of Vingrau and beyond the dramatic escarpments of Tautavel,
where Europe’s oldest human remains were discovered.
Whatever happened, I’d like to think, is
recorded in the rocks, like compressed data on a silica chip? The area of Perillos is said to be
an energy point signifying the void…where one works through personal baggage
and abandonment, letting go of the past and transcending victim-hood.
Man’s interaction with this remote
‘garrigue’ type, rocky landscape seems purgatory in nature and of apocalyptic
processes; it also seems a journey for souls in a land prepared for salvation
and follows an undeniable feminine principal in man’s quest for an absolute, a
truth, a reason – a grail, you could say. Mary Magdalene’s ancient graffiti, ‘I
woz ere’ is tattooed on the sacred caves of initiation and re-birth, as the
vulva or portal of Mother Earth…with lover and child, through thickets of dense
juniper, amongst heady aromas of sage, rosemary and thyme, the story travelled…left
messages…and was forgotten.
The article ends with a Twitter interaction
when I comment on a Tweet from a women’s climbing group that states ‘muscled women, strength, competitiveness
and athleticism are very feminine’. I challenge it by saying ‘muscled women athletes
are not at all feminine and are just ‘women
competing for death, illness, decline and warring factions - all the fine
attributes of the male preserve’. ‘These are the attributes of
sport, and sport represses that which is of nature. Should women know better?’ Another women climbers club eventually
stated that women climbers are sexy and feminine and men must get confident enough
to deal with it. Full stop. Of course, it is impossible to have a debate in 140
characters, and it is left floating in the ether as a flippant and superficial
piece of forgotten dialogue.
We move on to the next glib comment for a few
minutes until bored or not having the time or inclination to engage. It wasn’t
a throw-away to me; how an informed opinion can be challenged by an aggressive
demand, but social media soon diminishes it as Twitterspeak and moves on to another
topic like ‘…having cornflakes for breakfast…’ – Facebook style, ‘smiley face’,
climbing wall mentality. I found this exchange interesting in the light of my ‘Perillos’
research into ancient esoteric wisdom, the divine feminine, latent powers
within humanity, Gnostic texts and cosmic influences. Between my Twitter feud and
the passage of the sacred ‘whore’ exiting from Palestine through what is now the
Corbieres region of Languedoc in southern France, I cannot decide which is the
most surreal.
Do
not humans thrive with cooperation and decline with competition?
We
sit on the shoulders of giants, remembering nothing. From the ancient texts
hidden on the Perillos map to the sacred passage of the Magdalene troop, I am
brought ‘sexy’, ‘competition’ and ‘athleticism’ into my climbing psyche. Aghhh.
My Trickster tells me to be ‘confident’ and not rant about libidinous strumming
of clitori on the Vector stance. Enough! I live at one with the strong
‘feminine principal’ and the sacred feminine informs my work, so I find such a
defensive war cry from the hurting-trenches a destructive anathema to the
natural world. Perillos!
Anyway,
for me, the idea of climbing as a sport seems bizarre. I always thought the
language of climbing would be safe from its organised, clinical clutches – I
always thought the very opposite as a rationale to climb. The process was
always a mystical venture. But no, this is climbing brought up to date as
society’s competitive, athletic, achievable, media controlled and clean requirements
dictate. Okay, it is interesting for me to comprehend the wider influx
attracted to today's growing climbing community, and the force-feeding from
climbing wall nurseries. Why is no one laughing...or rather crying?
What wakes the few then
And draws them
To that brave stepping out,
To walk with lonely purpose?
And having passed through the
chimera,
Having tasted emptiness,
Become addicted to its freedom,
Where then?
Gretel Leeb
I detest the psychic-tyranny in all groups
and associations, especially regarding climbing, which in my mind is ‘free’.
Free in the sense of innate expression, free beyond the restraints of everyday living,
free to explore what it is to be a human animal, free to commune with the
natural world, free to push beyond into other worlds, dimensions, whatever
enters, free to blow it all away…free to face your own soul. This is tied into
wilderness and feeling the Earth and our bond with the rock telling its story, not yours; not about grades or numbers or style or gender, but about
entering a dialogue, connecting with the substance you move through, and the
re-wilding of the soul. Yes, re-wilding of the soul! Sport can never be free in
this way, can never be ‘wild’ for it is sanitized, ruled and quantified. Sport
climbing is farmed climbing; without the ‘fertilizer’ of establishment support,
alienated from the human biomass and more to do with yield than experience, it
is weak and friable. And yet it is popular. Indoor walls are like drug factories
with a blaze of colours and unnatural straight lines, breeding a climber’s
habits in a world of resin holds and neon lamps. The crucial element of doubt
has been eliminated by force here. All lines are climbable eventually. Success
is spoon-fed. Is this robotic? My plea is for a perspective, because I feel
something has been forgotten.
‘Were
I possessed of the least knowledge, I would, when walking on the great way,
fear only paths that lead astray.
The
great way is easy, yet people prefer by-paths.
The
court is corrupt;
The
fields are overgrown with weeds;
The
granaries are empty;
And
yet there are those dressed in fineries;
With
swords at their sides;
Lao Tzu.
Redhead,Loxton and Crook:Mad bad and dangerous to know
So, what part does ‘sexy’ play in all this?
I have various choices to account for myself and the first would be, “Fall off
and die in your most sexy way possible!” But that would be unkind, a joke and emotive!
Another choice would be, so what, where’s the harm? I could just chill the fuck
out and rejoice in the multi-faceted world of climbing. And I do, believe me. Or
I could question what part does ‘sexy’ play in sound social change regarding
gender awareness? Or, is it important for a female climber to be seen as sexy? Sex
as ever, sells and the more marketable you become the more you are owned and controlled.
You can never be free when used as a corporate tool. Using climbing as a
competitive sport, a sexy sport, a uni-sex sport, regardless of gender is just
so career, corporate, media-business-banal. All sport and athletics are
corporate. They are also so fucking politic, so urban, so of ‘polis’ – of the
city. Sport supports industry and psychologists - they feed off you. You buy
membership!
Derek Jarman coined the phrase
‘techno-cruelty’ relating to the sterility of being a ‘technical’ expert
gardener. Training ‘this’ and forcing ‘that’ ironically reinforces the seed of
the ‘nature deficit disorder’ that I associate with sport. Sport is anti
nature. Of course, I am referring more to an approach here, and the essence of
fitness and health.
Divisions
of ‘us and them’ belong in the city. Fair play. I don’t believe agendas belong
in the mountains. Do you think Cloggy gives a ‘falling fuck’ if you are sexy or
not? Isn’t a second-off here or an extra-metre there a futile attempt to evade
the flow of time and death? Such feats do not push the boundaries of humanity but
still its growth. I suggest getting on a proper ‘messy’ route out of control,
scratch and scrape, engage with vital social-change, feel, die a bit, and most
importantly engage with something real! There is energy and spirit in the
substance you move through. Being in a group, being sexy, athletic or sporty
are illusions and distractions away from the bigger picture. They have no part
to play in this endeavor. My plea is to ‘dirty up’ and rejoice with the Earth.
‘Climbing is nothing more than a
poise from which to explore other worlds, to be tapped into when questions
arise. It is not a world in itself and must never be a language to rejoice in
or identify with for its own sake. The rock is a sanctuary. Climbing should not
be seen as dancing. For those who think they dance bring nothing to the rock
but the insult of melody to flatter their personalities…’
…and one for the
crow
I arrive back after a two day drive across
France to a windy-wet ‘Beris and ‘lo and behold’, no escape, a magazine on the
table – Climb Magazine. I initially think it’s a lad’s mag that my mate Jimbo has
left out. Of course, there is nothing pornographic on the front cover; it just
had that glossy current ‘look’. It featured the ‘leading light of British
women’s climbing and rising star of the international competition scene…’.
Okay, it goes on, and that’s as far as I go and enough for me because this kind
of talk has no place in my life. Competition and climbing for Britain…what the
fuck is all that? What the fuck have we done in the name of climbing!? She
stares sugary-sweet and starry-eyed ‘Stepford wife-ish’ at some invisible climb.
Yes, this is certainly sport! Sexy? I am ‘confident’ in having no time for it. She
may be a good climber and a great character, but it’s a popular media ‘genre’
shot that sells…what…condoms? Or, with a little more imagination, it sells
national identity and the chalk bag could be an assault rifle aimed at the
‘enemy’. In reality, humanity and spirit are suffering here and it is ‘state-run’
in essence. This is climbing performance as a paid job. It sells stuff and
controls stuff and the human biomass is in the bin. It keeps you in your place
and stops you challenging the system. Thinking is zeroed by pomp and ceremony. It
has absolutely no connection with climbing, as a process, as I know it. In that
light she is definitely a potentially sexy corporate climbing model, set up to
play the high-heel card. Equality? Can there ever be such a thing? This is not
ancient graffiti of the sacred feminine, something that we need to struggle with
for meaning. It is just physical, chic-literal and sad. But perhaps I am
over-critical and for some, this tinny, ‘cool’ veneer and spectator sport is
perhaps the desert that is needed to walk through…? I may seem to be snarling
here, but I call it passionate and serious clowning.
Master's Wall
But is this any different, after all, to
the muscled action poses of the macho-male heroes that we are used to seeing on
front covers? No, there is no difference (apart from the fact that they are
climbing). What’s new is that she is climbing for Old Blighty against the
clock, has breasts and not a knob packet, that’s all. Is this the way women
compete with the men? They don’t need to, they climb differently and often better
than the blokes – and they should know better! It all sucks! They are dreaming
the corporate dream and totally set up for a double page spread. The FHM ‘top
100 sexiest women’ hall of fame awaits and for some women and the climbing
industry, it will be seen as an achievement!
‘She
should know better because she is equipped to be constantly reminded of a ‘loop
of remembrance’… this loop herds together the affairs of the male tribe, where
‘truth’ is lubricated and pulls in his quest for control and exploitation –
into nature’s Belly Ocean of life. There is no equality! Man is surely a
spectator, the mere squirter of snot in this ineffable Belly Ocean. His erect
penis, like the ropes and quick draws, twitches and twangs to HER natural laws
as she articulates the needs of the Ocean. She IS the rock, or something far
beyond it.
Margins of the
Mind – ‘…and one for the crow’
I read on…I am mentioned as one of the hundred
most influential climbers. And my book too! I am amazed, but then notice the
erect phallus on the front cover of my book. In the light of all of the above I
understand my placement here. I am bound to appear like a circus act because I
operated beyond the mainstream. And so I find the comments relating to my entry
both comical and misrepresented. Is this a climbing magazine or a sarcastic review
of status quo morals? It is not my route names that are significant, or the ‘mind-blowing’
bonkers stuff, as it is said, but the
routes themselves and my approach, style and ethics involved – climbing the
first E7 and E8 climbs in Britain, surely that is noteworthy. Likewise, the
totally shoddy repeats of the Indian Face should also be seen as both comical
and misrepresented. These climbers, all great lads, are sponsored in top-trumps
style, aided by BluTac, top-roping and pre-placing and offer no improvement
since Johnny Dawes’ ascent in 1986. On the contrary, even more spurious sports
tactics emerge leaving little for the future brave, if there is anything left
after the damage that top-roping inflicts on the rock.
For a perspective, Johnny
was never happy with his ascent (in the light of what I was attempting) and
said to me, ‘somebody who climbs it from the ground up can re-name it’. This is
not trad climbing, this is not re-wilding, it is sport-bollocks! Male or female,
totally stillborn, sponsored garbage. It seems to me that this arrangement is
now mainstream and we have been media railroaded. Now, to me, this IS bonkers!
This IS the circus act that is now accepted and taken root. The joke’s on us.
When Plas Y Brenin sports centre encourage top-roping on their courses for ‘egalitarian’
reasons where everyone can succeed and the best ‘adventure’ climbers do the
same…what hope ethics for the middle-man in search of ‘trad’? Will we soon hear
someone say, “I on-sighted a V Diff today?”
‘…if
the trees were trees only, wood only, were simple roots and boles and boughs
and leaves, and that only, as the stones should be stones. If the stones were
simple stones. This would be safe. All this would be safety.
Ted Hughes
So, as regards true-trad climbing before I
forget, I was re-introduced to its vagaries at The Range, Anglesey, recently. Martin
Crook had attempted an on-sight new line a few days ago and had been repulsed
due to unfavourable conditions. He had stashed his rope under the cliff during
the escape.
The day starts in Tony’s studio, as I take
in the wonders of his garden collection, ‘the world of tat’. It is full of
waste items collected on walks in the area. The counterpoint between flower and
waste is a critical aesthetic, challengingly bucolic, a sight to ponder the
fragility of life, erosion and displacement of materials we take for granted,
the disposable age…a still-life of rot, rust and rag and more. We meet here for
a brew and plan a return to ‘The Range’.
Our first stop is the café at Trearddur
Bay. Cafés are like islands, where one is blown in by a favourable wind, offering
temporary protection like ‘parlay’. The ‘parlay’ is a free state where the everyday
human condition can be accessed and engaged with. It seems to dictate its own
agenda, and one can indeed forget the reason for the journey. The climbing
becomes a by-product of extreme brewing and engagement with something far
stronger and sticky; sometimes a whole days ‘cragging’ can be spent working out
in its confines! It is sticky for me because it confirms I understand nothing
but the absurdity of life. The RSPB café at South Stack is another, but
different. Like trainspotters in their dirty macs and take-aways, there is something
similar in the more ‘middle-class, cleaner-mac’ types that view flashes of the feathered
world from behind the safety glass. Racks of Puffin.com postcards, jam scones
with cream, a range of souvenirs and ‘birds of the day’ blackboards offer
nothing to my love of birds. I can only go silly with thoughts of the mutant,
heavily genitalised, bald cocktail sparrow let loose in the toilet block.
This
is my first time at The Range area of Anglesey and immediately engage with the XS
vibe. I have no idea where we are going but it is an area south of South Stack,
known as the esoteric playground of body-gurning, Big George Smith, but has
been dismissed by some as invisible, unfindable or worthless. For others, such
opinion is the seed of an interest - like Tony’s garbage garden containing true
gems. We talk of bringing groups here, starting esoteric courses in the art of ‘finding
cliffs’, ‘trad’ climbing, love, life and a gest that may mean we spend most of
the day working out in the café!
Tony stalks off to the top of the cliff
with stake and lump hammer. Martin and I amble down the track to the shore. I
stop on the track approaching the beach and say to Martin, “I am not quite sure
of my role here.” Martin stops and laughs, querying the intent of my comment.
There was no intent, of course, just the nature of the game and the
possibilities of engagement. Climbing days with Martin have never been clear on
the possibilities that may present themselves, and it just dawned on me, what
are we doing down here? However, as we approached the beach, it was obvious
that possibilities had indeed shuffled into a new position, and what the hell
were we actually doing down there? The tide was well in and a swell brewing! A
Plas Y Brenin group, or more professional climbers would never make that
mistake. They would know the tides and itinerary before venturing out. In fact they
would have done their activity by now and be back at the centre’s canteen. Job
done. Day in. Clock out. And anyway, as if just feeling it suddenly with the
passage of time, it’s totally pissing down. We reconvene at the cars as Tony
arrives clutching two bags of coloured glass and melted bottles, fused and
twisted into humanoid shapes. He is happy with the find. We already know that our
activity involves heading back to the café, for Parlay, another brew and more nonsense
and social interaction.
We return an hour or so later. Slip-sliding-squishy
over carpets of greasy seaweed, pebbles and the usual assorted tat, scraping
legs on mollusced boulders, pondering this and that of colours and shapes as if
from another planet, which it is, and arrive under the route; interesting
character, overhanging, alarmingly-jagged, streaked-biscuit-snappy, all wet and
dripping. I notice the coiled rope stuffed in a crack at its base well above
the tide line. We empty the sacs and two, new, dry ropes hit the soggy slab. Martin
is soon geared up. Psyched as a warrior. I try to remember my role. I can’t
work out my harness, borrowed from Jimbo and curse its complicated, tangled,
wrong way round, upside down twisted-dyslectic dysfunctional shapes. Tony, the
IRATA assessor is unfortunately somewhere at the top of the cliff and can offer
no dry-humour or advice. He may be sorting a belay, lump-hammering a stake
amongst the loose exit horror of sea-thrift and lichen or equally he could be rummaging
through ‘brock’ driftwood and assorted plastic for his ‘world of tat’. The
harness is some sort of bondage design nightmare (I was only used to swami-belts
in my day), but it nevertheless goes on in haste, Dyson-clumsy, grossly
colourful, heavy, definitely all-wrong and weird feeling.
Martin Crook takes off on the FA of The Golden Fan
There is a faint drizzle as Martin leans
into the first moves. I ponder the substance of the unfavourable conditions on
his previous attempt! His arched body braces the crumbling steepness. It looks
awkward. The drizzle turns to lashing rain at which a lesser man would retreat.
“What do you reckon youth?” I shout up, thinking of myself shivering. “Started
now, so we’ll see,” is the commitment to a cause above and beyond mere
climbing. The day has started and the route begun! Resort to memory, I am happy
with this man…and feel my role as a warm return. Protection gets lobbed in at a
rate that says it is utterly crap. Martin is in-situ climbing a new route of
loose, friable rock, on-sight in the rain. We are all happy here, wet and dirty
like an old day.
Thirty feet up his chalk ball makes a leap
for freedom, like a statement, bounces twice on the slab below, and sinks into
a rock-pool. Two sludgy chalk marks on the slab illustrate its projection into permanent
uselessness. “Watch me youth, I need a piss”, follows soon afterwards. Martin
is discreet, and empties his bladder into a fissure to one side of him. No
sight of a cock! But ten seconds later, this warm river of piss finds its Nile-like
way through a lower crack, fans out with the sea breeze and lashing rain, and
joins me on the stance below. I reach for the Lucozade to sweeten my mouth and
ponder that it has been over twenty years since we have climbed together. It
may as well have been two minutes. I remember these scenes. I am back climbing.
I am playing - back into what I consider climbing to be all about. My
Dyson-harness suddenly falls to my ankles at the top of the cliff.
The Golden Fan XS.
John Redhead: 2013
Photos: Tony Loxton/John Redhead
John's books can be ordered direct from his website
