. . . Let us only hope that the Governor of Massachusetts doesn’t bow to current pressure to put up a statue of Palmer outside Boston town hall as has been suggested by certain more cynical members of his legislature...
As stated in the above extract, there are a number of specific qualities that distinguish a Palmeresque from a traditional eulogy. The OED defines a eulogy as “a speech or writing in commendation of the qualities, etc., of a person or thing”. The Palmeresque steers clear of praise, focussing instead upon more imaginative responses to Miss Palmer’s death. Where a eulogy explicitly looks back over the life of the deceased, the Palmeresque looks forward from the point of death to contemplate either the nature, or further ramifications of her demise. Among the more frequently employed forms are short stories and poems, although letters and stream-of-consciousness explorations are not uncommon. Many seem to be fragmentary, although this could in part be due to the nature of the internet as a medium: any piece of writing of substantial length is inevitably split between online pages and hence when they are copied from one site to another it is not uncommon for parts to go missing, and pages sometimes get deleted leaving only the opening portions available – although in some cases it is impossible to tell whether or not the original may have only been a fragment itself, as is suspected in many examples. One thing that they all share is anonymity. This is particularly interesting as the traditional eulogy, in the popular form of the 17th century, was as much about emphasising a connection between the author and the deceased, thus to bathe in reflected glory, as it was about praise for the dead.
It is this renouncing of authorship that first caught the attention of theoretical psychologist Dr. Stanley Quince whilst conducting a study of motivations towards anonymity, focussing specifically upon the late 20th century. In his colourful 2007 paper Withdrawings from Authorship – the Internet and the Self he offers the following paragraph in speculative explanation:
“...The self-named phenomena of the “Palmeresque” clearly demonstrates this tendency towards rebellion through anonymity in the age of the individual, in this case being an artistic expression, more specifically involving the art of interature, that brand of literature which has evolved exclusively to service the many unique requirements of the internet. Following the death of Amanda Palmer, a performance artist of moderate success, her uniquely loyal and creative following (a direct result of the unusually theatrical, generous and overall constructive expression of the “don’t give a damn” attitude she presented through her music and media profile) intuitively came together at some point to symbiotically evolve a set of rules through which her memory might be celebrated. In this particular context the sense of community might easily have been shattered by any expression of individual ego through claims of authorship, and it is indeed a testament to the general emotional sensitivity of her fans that a consensus of anonymity seems to have been brought about so seamlessly. Finally, by giving a name to their shared aspiration, in this case being the Palmeresque, the communal ownership of the medium is asserted and it can be formalised...”
Whatever may be the motivations or inspirations behind the development of the Palmeresque, there is no denying the enthusiasm with which it has been taken up. To date, (September 2008), 6743 distinct and identifiable examples have been catalogued, with a further 1260 being classed as quasi-Palmeresques. By the beginning of 2007 the word itself began to be used outside the context of its original reference to Amanda Palmer. The first known printed use of it in this context comes from a local East London youth film magazine called Visioning! In a brief obituary for Ingmar Bergman in their August 2007 edition John Biggs describes the filmmaker (in typically semi-colloquial prose) as “a diamond geezer well worthy of many a Palmeresque”. Since then its usage has spread beyond youth culture magazines into the trendier Arts journals, and an entry has now been prepared for the 2010 edition of Butler’s Modern English Dictionary, although I and many others would question the accuracy of the proposed definition:
palmeresque [noun]. A piece or fragment of memorial writing, usually fictionalised, which refrains from praise or direct contemplation of the life passed.
ON THE FOUNDING, ASPIRATIONS AND THE FURTHER INTENTIONS OF THE AMANDA PALMER TRUST (APT)
By Franklin Davey, Executive Chairman of the APT
In September 2006, following the untangling of Miss Palmer’s highly complex financial affairs, the Amanda Palmer Trust (APT) was founded with the intention of working towards the perpetuation and development of the vernacular arts, with specific emphasis upon the weird, freakish and generally other, as stated in her will. (The actual words in the will were Fucking Rock Love Art Incarnate but these were deemed inappropriate for the manifesto of an arts-based charity fund by a vote of 7 to 6 – a decision still considered contentious by some.) To date it has funded, or part-funded, sixteen projects including Die Hard – An Itch In Time by The World’s Tiniest Theatre (a theatrical retelling of the Die Hard story portrayed through the medium of the flea circus, unusually in this case using real fleas);Dead White Music by record producer Dog-Faced Gimp (a series of recordings from the graves of famous European composers using hydrophones (under-water microphones) pushed six feet into the ground where they lie); and Suck On This by Amy Kinsley (explained as a neo-feminist answer to England’s Cerne Abbas Giant: this involved the cutting of a 700ft vulva into the chalk downland outside Austin, Texas, with the words Suck On This encircling it. The image is only visible from the air, but is directly below one of the busiest flight routes in the US. So far all attempts to remove the image by the Texas authorities have failed. It was supposed to only last one week but is still clearly visible nearly two years on).
Among the first projects taken up by APT was the compiling of a database of palmeresques. This task was given initial priority as it was believed that the transitory nature of the internet combined with what at the time was thought to be a short-lived phenomenon implied that they would not be available to catalogue for very long. On both counts this has since proven not to be the case, as neither the viral nature of internet sharing nor the theatrically obsessive nature of Amanda’s fans were given great enough credit. Indeed some examples have been found on many thousands of different web pages and it has been estimated that with no further maintenance and given the average natural wastage of web pages and sites it could take 167.34 years for one particularly popular example to no longer be found, although admittedly that figure has been disputed.
In compiling this small and inevitably unrepresentative collection of palmeresques many difficult and complex decisions have had to be taken. It was initially agreed that we were not looking for the best examples, if such a quality can even be defined in a web-based viral form, nor the most poignant or sentimental. Along the way various other options were considered: the most varied selection (too many); the most representative (impossible to collate); the most mystifying (this one almost got through); and the most popular (determined by the number of web pages they have been copied to – but this generated too many very similar examples). During the process a considerable amount of debate was expended on what is precisely meant by the term Fucking Rock Love Art Incarnate, it was however eventually established that no objective definition could be agreed upon. Finally a consensus of diverse opinions was accepted: each member of the editorial committee would choose their own example, and write a single page introduction explaining the reasons behind this choice (So as not to effectively provide spoilers these introductions will be placed at the end of each story, and will thus be entitled “extroductions”.) Given the large number of texts requiring due consideration, a problem further compounded by the fact that many of them share very similar titles, it was decided that the catalogue would be randomly divided into ten groups which would then, again randomly, be divided amongst the ten editors. Additionally, and in sympathy with the spirit of the palmeresque, these editors, and their extroductions, agreed to remain anonymous.
Regardless of
literary merit, and this may indeed be found wanting in some if not many cases, it is important to consider whilst reading the following texts the nature of what is actually being read. These stories, poems and fragments were never intended for physical publication, but were written out of a need for catharsis, an expression of grief, and most of all, to honour a soul that is sorely missed. What makes them interesting, and worthy of presentation to a wider public is the phenomenon, and indeed the very existence, of the palmeresque itself.
Franklin Davey.
A BRIEF NOTE ON THE CHOICE OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Given the aural and visual nature of Miss Palmer’s work, and indeed the much demonstrated audio-visual creativity of her fan-base, it might be expected that the virtual space inhabited by the palmeresque would abound with songs, music and pictures, however, it is interesting to note, and much commented upon, that the phenomenon of the palmeresque appears only in the form of the written word. Many theories have been put forward to explain this unexpected literary bias, and, if interested, a useful summary can be found in Dr. Francesca Morrison’s 2007 paper “Grief, Hysteria and Creative Ambiguity”. In essence she concludes that:
. . . where music and the visual arts both demand a direct and immediate emotional response, words are by their very nature kept at a distance and must be considered, understood and interpreted by the conscious mind, allowing for the expression of more complex emotional issues such as those inspired by grief for a symbol which, in essence, represents an aspect of the self.
Whatever the explanation our original intention of illustrating this book with appropriate palmeresque images, anonymously posted online by fans, was not to be, as none could be found, despite the wealth of fan-art posted online during Miss Palmer’s lifetime. However it was agreed that the book should definitely be illustrated, if only to entice the more easily daunted reader. Thus, after much discussion, it was decided to open the commission for illustrations to tender, more specifically to ten up-and-coming young artists, each of whom could claim some personal, aesthetic or emotional link to Miss Palmer herself, and/or her works.
After a month or so we had ten submissions from ten artists and were left with the difficult process of deciding how we might make the final choice. Initially it was proposed that we should let the fans make the decision, although this proved to be impractical. We did however agree that it should be some symbolic representation of Miss Palmer’s fan-base that made the choice, and so, by way of compromise, settled upon asking the teenage and pre-teen daughters of members of the Executive Committee. However, there was some concern that, by the age of thirteen, such girls may have acquired their own entirely separate agenda, as is all too often the case, and so, finally, we agreed to leave the choice in the hands of daughters of the Executive Committee aged eight to twelve. Thus the decision ultimately fell to Sandra-Lyne Jones, aged nine, daughter of our Chief Catering Manager, who has asked to be identified as the Picture Editor.
We at the APT are particularly happy with the final choice of celebrated up-and-coming West Coast artist Karli Young, whose work was chosen, in Sandra-Lynne’s own words, because “it’s cute, and a little bit scary” – both qualities we feel could have been equally applied to Miss Palmer herself.
FRANKLIN DAVEY
TEXT NUMBER ONE
On the Dancing Death of Amanda Palmer
When Amanda Palmer ran away from the circus she knew that that would not be the end of it. Indeed it was the wrong circus to run away from. But then again, it was the wrong circus to be brought up by, though that hadn’t really been her choice. She had been stolen from her family when she was only four, and could remember nothing of her previous life except her name. Nor would they tell her anything, not even which town she had been taken from. What she didn’t know was that she had been the youngest of twelve children, to a very poor family, and when her parents had eventually noticed she was missing they saw it as something of a relief. No, she was a circus girl, and that was the end of it. And so it might have been had she not grown up. For though they had bullied and beaten her almost every day of her life, she had become used to that, even found it oddly comforting. It wasn’t until her budding womanhood began to show through her shirt that the real problems began.
Silas Monger’s Travelling Circus was a family troupe that had toured the northern states for seven generations. Indeed they had utilised the careful management of “in-breeding” very much to their advantage over the centuries. Not that they were freaks, well, not really. But they were the weirdest looking circus you were ever likely to come across. The clowns, who were all dwarfs, and cousins come to that, were of generally normal proportions for such diminutive folk, but had the most enormous ears and noses, giving them something of the look of baby elephants, particularly when crawling on all fours; the strong man, who was, as might be imagined, immensely strong, had such elongated arms that he could almost pick up his weights without bending; and the stilt-walkers were exceptionally tall, a good foot taller than any among the crowds even without their stilts. But despite this dedication towards the blood purity of the circus line, as they called it, the past two generations had seen a steady decline in their prosperity, and for the last twenty years they had been reduced to playing highway services and the occasional small town.
It was for this reason that Silas Monger VIII had declared that they must break with tradition and bring in some new blood, and hence they had stolen Amanda. However, little thought had been given, or at least little discussion been had, as to who else’s blood might be going into the mix. Silas assumed that it would be his, but many among the troupe had other ideas, all of them male, fertile, without wives, and, truth to be told, in most cases diseased as a result of various sordid liaisons with the less salubrious professionals that shared the same passing trade. Naturally Amanda was oblivious to all this for many years. She was more concerned with keeping her head down and ensuring her chores were done to avoid a thorough beating. But then, as she approached her thirteenth year, the rising self-consciousness of impending adulthood began to turn her thoughts, and almost overnight she started noticing the way that they looked at her. Though she didn’t understand quite why, it made her flesh creep, of that much she was sure. And then there were the cold and savage glances sent her way by the women of the troupe, particularly Evelyn and Evelyn, the singing conjoined twins (their father had given them the same name so as to avoid confusion) and so she kept her head down, and did her chores with even greater vigour so as not to provide the opportunity for any unwanted attentions.
The only comfort and companionship she ever experienced was in her relationship with the animals. These were two donkeys, and an old panther, whose teeth were falling out. When she was first taken she had been made to sleep in the animal tent, which was little more than a makeshift tarpaulin awning on the side of the donkey trailer to cover the panther’s rusting cage. Not having seen a panther before she assumed it was just a big pussycat and before long she was sleeping in his cage, cuddling up to him for warmth. She named him Fluffy, after all she was only four. It always caused her great inward amusement to see how Fluffy would spit and hiss at the rest of the troupe, and how scared they were of him, though she never let them see it, for that would just have led to another beating. But to her he was quite literally a pussycat.
In the months running up to her fifteenth birthday she could tell something was brewing, something that wasn’t good. Her nights were increasingly disturbed by shouts, arguments, and even fistfights amongst the troupe, and the looks she was getting had become ever more accusatory. Then, two nights before her birthday she was rudely awoken from a particularly pleasant dream involving a large pink feathered hat, by an argument heading her way. She was too groggy to understand what was being shouted, but it seemed to quickly turn into a fight, and then silence. Suddenly the door to Fluffy’s cage was flung open and a hand grabbed her ankle and was dragging her out. It was Hector, the strong man. She tried to kick and scream with all
her might, but to no avail. His hands were just too big and too strong. Before she knew it she was over his shoulder, being carried off. But Hector had forgotten to close Fluffy’s cage. There was an almighty hissing screaming sound as Fluffy leapt up at Hector’s face, clamping his toothless jaws around the unsuspecting man’s nose. In no time Hector was on the ground, wrestling the fearsome beast that Fluffy seemed to have become, and Amanda saw her chance. She ran, just ran and ran straight across the fields into the darkness, and kept on running until her lungs ached and her heart seemed to be bursting forth from her chest. Finally she felt safe enough to stop, and simply lay on the ground among the corn stems, waiting for daylight, wondering what she should do now.
****
With Amanda gone Monger’s circus rapidly went from bad to worse. They hadn’t realised it at the time, but it was her who had held the ragged troupe together. With her arrival she had brought to their claustrophobic inward looking world a sticky spider’s web of hope, lust and jealously that had managed to distract them from the evident final decline of their profession, binding them together with a promise of better times to come. The women had stopped bitching amongst each other to share a mistrust and jealousy of the new girl. The men had all secretly prized the fantasy of taking her as their wife. In short, they had needed her and indeed Silas Monger VIII had suspected this all along. Now she was gone the in-fighting began again with renewed vigour. Silas had lost his authority, and with it his circus had lost its consensus. They hadn’t moved on since that fateful night, and within weeks their little community was falling apart.
One night, Hector, who had not forgotten his humiliation at the claws of the toothless Fluffy, resolved to kill the beast, but being somewhat the worse for drink had only managed to open the cage door when he was once again knocked to the ground, this time breaking his wrist. Fluffy disappeared into the surrounding darkness never to be seen again. Shortly after this the fights started. At first these were isolated events between individuals, but before long the situation had escalated out of hand into what can only be described as all out war between the various acts. Had an unsuspecting traveller stumbled upon the troupe during that final fight, they would have thought themselves dreaming, or on drugs. Indeed the mêlée was more than a little surreal. The four dwarf clowns, two of them mounted upon scrawny donkeys, ambushed the stilt-walkers and the two Evelyns as they sat plotting their takeover, bringing down the tent upon their heads, then circling it with ropes in an attempt to bag them and drag them into the surrounding ditch. However this plan was not well judged, and one of the immensely tall stilt-walkers managed to wriggle his way free, grabbed the two pedestrian dwarfs by the legs and swung them around his head before sending them flying through the air into the surrounding fields. Meanwhile the collapsed tent had caught fire, and by the time the Evelyns had escaped its entanglement their hair and clothes were all dreadfully singed and they ran screaming around the encampment for water. Hector, who had broken his ankle in a previous drunken brawl in addition to his wrist, came hobbling out of his tent to see what was going on, only to be run down by the dwarf-laden donkeys. Silas himself, however, had taken a number of sleeping pills and remained completely unaware of the ensuing chaos that surrounded the caravan he shared with his mother, Lavenia, the circus fortune teller. Lavenia was stone deaf and never had any trouble sleeping.
On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer Page 3
