How European are we Brits? So many of the definitive statements of what it means to be British, or indeed English – we’ll set the Scots to one side, and the Irish, too, of course – come to rest on the distant, highly patrolled shore of cultural exceptionalism. This is true of the most famous evocation of Britishness, the endlessly plundered The Lion and the Unicorn by George Orwell. But Orwell was writing in the midst of the blitz, when you couldn’t go to Europe without a parachute. He was partly French, a reader of European literature, someone who believed in the future of a United States of Europe. The more contemporary evocations in these pages show that there are now many ways in which we can be European. We can disagree about what that means of course, but it seems as citizens we’ve found a way. Most of these contributors feel there is something misplaced about a referendum, as if we’d swapped our GPS for outdated maps and were still asking directions for a place we’d already found and enjoyed long ago.
I feel I should know what it means to be a European. My parents met when my father was an officer in the British army, in 1944, and my mother was a young widow marooned with two small children in a Normandy village. When we all lived in London during the 1950s, my half-sisters went to French school.
I can recall what a tight and insular and un-European place 1950s Britain was. Fog really did hide the other side of the Channel if you didn’t brave the vomit-strewn ferries pitching between charmless Dover and ugly Boulogne. There was something stunted and foreshortened about a country that had recently won its greatest war.
Memories of non-European Britain flood back via the work of the Hungarian expatriate, George Mikes. He wrote a 1946 bestseller, How to Be an Alien, without which no well-to-do loo, least of all our own, was complete. Mikes (pronounced Mick-esh) came to Britain around the time of the Munich crisis in 1938 and stayed on. He grudgingly pays homage to British insularity, in cooking, sex, queuing, and bizarre dress sense. He has a sense that such arrangements shouldn’t work, or be in the least appealing, but feels that they are deeply satisfactory. “The English have no soul,” he says. “They have understatement instead.” But the English have the habit of overstatement, too, as Mikes realises. This consists of “someone remarking ‘I say…’ and then keeping silent for three days on end”.
I used to think that Mikes’s world has gone, but it has returned to us in spades via the referendum. Baffled by so much freely expressed hostility towards the idea of Europe, I’ve had to think again about what being abroad first meant to me. Growing up, I read anything in French I could lay my hands on. I’d sit for hours amid sparse audiences in Oxford Street’s Academy cinema. I liked the black-and-white films of Truffaut, Antonioni, early Godard. European films are habitually associated with the discovery of sex. In my case they spelled an escape from tinny Brit entertainment into groovy and leisured longueurs. But they also identified for me a dark Europe outside the reach of holiday brochures and gastronomy.
In Britain we tend to measure Europeanness by our willingness to watch subtitled Scandi-noir. Only rarely do we watch European blockbusters. Although the bunker life depicted in Downfall did well here, I don’t expect the Timur Vermes novel, Look Who’s Back, an inspired black comedy imagining the Führer’s return as a cable TV standup comedian, whose racist rants are read ironically by cultish young followers, did as well. It doesn’t compete, certainly, with the retro winsomeness of such offerings as The Lady in the Van.
The best European books and films are low-key, tinged with scepticism, deceptively modest in their ambitions. Unlike the artefacts of American culture, they take a tentative, borderline negative view of the prospects of self-realisation. They allow you to sit in the European cafe without being bothered. If you want to join in that’s fine, but you’re never really forced to.
It cannot be entirely coincidental that the 1940s existentialists are in fashion again. I see darkness in such great films as Michael Haneke’s Hidden and The White Ribbon, and Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck’s The Lives of Others. I find it, too, in the recently recovered work of Hans Fallada, most of all in his masterpiece Alone in Berlin, soon to be seen onscreen with Emma Thompson and Brendan Gleesoncorrect as the doomed protagonists. But the ultimate dark prize must go to the soon-to-be-released Hungarian-made Son of Saul, which won the Oscar for best foreign film this year. This minimal masterpiece tells the story of 24 hours in the life of a gas chamber worker at Auschwitz, told uniquely through his eyes. There’s no relief here, and the only redemptive effect comes from director László Nemes’scorrect single-minded, painful, bizarrely radiant recreation of horror.
There are so many ways of being European, but as these pieces tell me, ignorance of the past isn’t one of them. I’d put it more strongly, however. “The Balkans has a surplus of history, which it exports,” Winston Churchill remarked, and the same is true about Europe. But in an amnesiac world this is emphatically no bad thing. To be European, it would seem, involves confronting the past with all its horrors, as well as the European surplus of beauty, not just once but again and again, lest it escape. The Crime and the Silence is Anna Bikont’s painstaking, beautifully written account of how modern-day Poles refused to acknowledge participation in a 1942 small town massacre of Jews. You can despair over the evasions of the priests and ideologues (many of the latter are now in power, eager to give the likes of Bikont a bad time in the name of patriotism) while admiring her own awkward pursuit of the truth, and her refusal to let go of the subject.
The cinéaste Jacques Audiard told me that he could only make films about subjects that he found crushingly real, and that he was afraid of not doing justice to our times. The Beat That My Heart Skipped finds its angsty hero pondering rival careers of gangster and concert pianist. A Prophet tells the tormented race history of modern France through the battles between Corsican and north African gangs in a believably squalid prison. You won’t feel cheerful watching this film, but you will know something about France. You’ll want to save French republicanism – for me, coming from where I do, Europe’s best modern invention among many – from tearing itself apart.
I’ve never been sure why so successful a part of the world tells itself such dark stories, but I do feel grateful. As the Brit referendum juggernaut moves forward, striking everything in its path, I feel I need a refuge. Maybe I’ll sit in the dark again, watching complicated and rewarding films. Then I’ll go into the light described by these fellow British-Europeans. Maybe in the end I’ll find out what it means to be truly European.
Kerry Hudson, writer: ‘There’s the fear you’ll have this enormous drain on creative talent’
We never used to go on holiday when I was a kid. The first time I went overseas I was 17, on a National Union of Students trip to Amsterdam. Needless to say it’s a bit of a blur, but that was the first time I realised there’s a whole world out there and it’s really exciting.
If you’re trying to live on a writer’s wage, it’s a lot easier to live overseas some of the year. Berlin is the place I seem to return to most often. It’s vibrant, interesting, still affordable for a creative person and it’s got an amazing sense of community. I keep planning to move there, and then I experience the beginning of winter and I turn tail and run. You’ve got to be tough to make it through a Berlin winter.
My family were old Aberdeen – they were fishwives and fishermen. We left just after the oil industry started to hit its peak so I didn’t really see the new cosmopolitan Aberdeen. Being Scottish hasn’t really changed the way I view being in Europe. But whereas I was for an independent Scotland, I have none of those feelings for a separation from Europe. The poorest are always the ones to suffer when a country goes through a period of instability, and Scotland has some of the poorest areas in the UK so it would seem their lot would be much harder if leaving the EU turns out to negatively impact the UK.
Both my novels have been published in France and my second novel, Thirst, won the Prix Femina last year – that’s the biggest prize a translated author can win in France – and went on to become a bestseller there. France doesn’t have a big culture of working-class literature and they seemed to be fascinated by an insight into not only British culture, but a section of society they wouldn’t normally read about within that culture.
Britain is hostile to people on lower incomes at the moment. So there’s the fear that you’ll have this enormous drain on creative talent because people just can’t afford to live here and we don’t have the freedom to move around in the way that we would as part of the EU.
What I’ve observed in both France and Germany is a real respect for the creative professions. It’s not deemed as a hobby that you do in your spare time; there’s a real sense of value for creativity and how that enriches their society, whether it’s literature, art or film, and more and more I feel that’s being eroded in the UK. JO’C
Penny Woolcock, film-maker: ‘I’m very persuaded by the Varoufakis take on Brexit’
At first I felt more at home on mainland Europe than in England. I was brought up in the British community in Argentina, where the view of England was completely distorted – a mixture of chirpy cockneys, posh people and honeysuckle cottages. Arriving aged 17 I was shocked that there were poor people here. It seemed small and really crowded. Not how I imagined it at all.
I fled to Paris. I was searching for an Argentinian actor I was madly in love with. It was May 1968 and there was teargas everywhere and people on the streets. I didn’t understand what was going on. Eventually I managed to track him down. We stayed in Paris for a bit, then went to Barcelona and Ibiza. Along the way I had a baby. For three or four years we were trailing around Europe, not living anywhere in particular.
Now I feel completely at home in England. There are so many things about being here that I really love – the mix of people, ethnicities and cultures.
I speak Spanish well, French not so well and I can get by in Italian, so it means I can go to those places and communicate with people to some extent. It’s very embarrassing to be in Germany or Holland where everybody speaks perfect English and you can’t reciprocate.
I love the Prado museum in Madrid. It’s one of my favourite places in the world.
I don’t watch as many European films as I’d like, but I watched Girlhood the other day and it was absolutely fantastic. I liked the fact that it wasn’t neat. There were long periods where not that much was happening. It makes you realise how phoney so many Hollywood conventions are. In one of the most beautiful scenes, they all get dressed up and you think they’re going to go somewhere but in fact they stay in the hotel room and sing along with Rihanna. It’s so beautiful.
I’m very persuaded by the Yanis Varoufakis position on Brexit. You’d imagine after the pummelling the Greeks got that he’d be against a unified Europe, but he paints this really quite apocalyptic scenario where Brexit speeds the collapse of the EU and plunges us into chaos, with hyperinflation in the poor countries and working-class unemployment north of the Alps. I find it terrifying.
Our refusal as a nation to take any responsibility for the refugee crisis is repulsive. We’ve made such a mess in the Middle East, now we’re building walls and keeping people out. KF
Geoff Dyer, writer: ‘My grim English face is so unsuited to romance languages’
My first trip to mainland Europe was unbelievably late in the day. In the gap year before university, I spent two weeks driving around France, Germany and a bit of Italy with a couple of friends in a Mini Cooper. Despite the lack of leg room, it seemed like the most incredible adventure: I remember being in Paris, camping in the Bois de Boulogne, going to cafes which were just like how you expected cafes in Paris to be. But we had very few interactions with people, no romance or anything like that. It was just three blokes from England crammed into this wretched little car.
Paris always felt like a city of promise that I never quite grasped. Living there in my 30s, it seemed like everyone else was living the life that I wanted. I’d see English guys with French girlfriends, but I was always outside the sweet shop looking in. It probably didn’t help that I didn’t bother learning French – I had the attitude of Ian Rush when he went to play in Italy: it just seemed too difficult.
Weirdly, the great appeal of Paris had nothing to do with the French literary scene. The attractive part, for me, was the expat scene, as refracted through generations of writers like Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Baldwin. That was what I craved. I didn’t want to be part of the next wave of the Sartre-Camus scene, I wanted to be with the American expat writers.
In Los Angeles, where I live now, they don’t make a distinction between Britain and the rest of Europe. But of course when you live in England, Europe always feels like it’s across the Channel.
I don’t read much contemporary European fiction. Partly because it’s not so much translated, but also because I’ve always been drawn to America for fiction. As a guy in my 20s high on theory, it was all Roland Barthes and Michel Foucault. But then French literature entered a relatively fallow period. It’s harking back to that heyday.
My biggest regret is that I didn’t learn German at school because so much of the writing I’ve loved has been German. It was really difficult learning Italian when I lived in Rome, partly because my grim English face is so unsuited to these romance languages. I feel that, facially at least, I am far more suited to learning German.
My favourite writer of all time is Nietzsche. He’s one of those people who always feels contemporary. Rilke I love so much, and Adorno too.
Italy is the country where I’ve been most successful. The editions [of his books] happen to be very beautifully designed there. Most Italian books aren’t very stylish, but my publisher’s are mind-blowingly beautiful. Much as I’d like to take all the credit, my books did well in Italy because the design was so brilliant.
I feel it’s very important that we remain in the EU. But whatever we do, we have a distinct cultural identity in Britain. It’s not diluted in any way by being part of Europe. KF
Geoff Dyer’s new book, White Sands, is published by Canongate in June
Benjamin Clementine, musician: ‘We’ve been losing trust and we’re scared to let people in’
I thought Paris would be quite similar to London since it’s only a couple of hours away. Obviously I was wrong. Moving there aged 19, I felt that I was in a whole different world. I struggled for a little bit, but eventually I started getting along with people. I ended up staying for six years.
I found Parisians quite rude sometimes – not as gentle as we Brits. But I felt they really liked art and were more careful about their culture. Culture is very rich in France and I’ve always liked Paris for its bohemian character.
I didn’t speak to anyone in Paris in the beginning. I liked the fact that I could just walk around and not talk to anyone and still have a good time. I didn’t really try to learn French, not at first anyway. It was only when I got my singing together that I started opening up more.
My favourite place in Paris is a little bridge in the 9th arrondissement, on Rue de Bellefond. In summer when it was warm, I would climb over the railings and sit on one of the pillars. It was very dangerous, but I’d sit there for hours and hours, just reflecting on life.
In Paris I discovered amazing old francophone musicians. Edith Piaf, Léo Ferré, Jacques Brel – they helped me a lot in my approach to artistic creation. Classical music is a huge deal for me as well. Erik Satie is my favourite – a great pianist, very simple but amazing. I love Chopin and Debussy too.
I think Brexit is all about fear. We’ve been losing trust and we’re scared to let people come in. The only thing I can say is, if we care about our neighbours and get better at trusting each other, eventually we won’t be scared. It all starts at home.
We need to do a better job of teaching kids about British culture. The youngsters don’t seem bothered – they are looking up to America instead – but I think the power of British culture is immense. We’ve just got to get out there and teach them about it.
I don’t really live anywhere at the moment though I pay my taxes in Britain. I go back to Edmonton from time to time to see my parents and my family. But London is so hectic and busy, everybody’s permanently on rush hour, so I tend to leave for Bristol or Hastings, to be more relaxed and smell the British air.
How would I identify myself? Since I’m from Great Britain, I’m British. But if a Scottish person asked me I’d say I’m English. It depends who’s asking. KF
Sir David Chipperfield, architect: ‘To hide in Surrey would be a very bad thing to do to Europe
My favourite building in Europe is the Tower of London. It’s a Norman building, built by the French, in the middle of our capital. And our great cathedral by Christopher Wren wouldn’t exist without Palladio and the influence from Italy and Europe. I went on a day trip to Cherbourg with my parents when I was about 13 – that was my first glimpse of the exotic. We crossed the Channel on a ferry and came back at night. It made a huge impression: I thought it was a big world, much bigger than I’d imagined.
More than 50% of my work is in Europe and has been for 30 years. In Spain, France, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Italy, Holland, Belgium. I was in Zurich this morning, I’m in Berlin now. Certainly within the cultural world the boundaries are quite soft.
Today, watching Donald Trump, I feel very European. I’ve built a few buildings in America, and professionally it’s easy – we’re both Anglo-Saxons, we operate on quite similar business lines. But we’re a couple of hours from Paris. Our historical neighbours have always been Europe and we shouldn’t forget that.
Two of the more important buildings in Berlin are done by British architects. The Reichstag by Norman Foster, and the Neues Museum is a project I built out of a ruin that had for 60 years been made by British and American bombs – but only because the Germans were open enough to allow that to happen. The most incredible building in Paris, the Pompidou Centre, is by a British architect of Italian extract, Richard Rogers. This is how architecture and culture has worked in Europe, and let’s hope it still does.
As an Englishman travelling around the world, I get the benefit of being English. We have our qualities, and those qualities are well respected. I think for us to just stay at home and hide in Surrey would be a very bad thing to do to Europe.
We can all agree that the people in Brussels shouldn’t tell us how big our bananas should be. But as a professional I have not seen anything that makes me think that the bureaucratic processes of Europe are negative. If anything, there are some very good habits to learn. As a medium-sized company we get enormous support in Germany that you would never get in England.
I shall vote to stay in, without a doubt. I don’t see how one can withdraw from Europe, it’s like withdrawing from the planet. KB
Tacita Dean, artist: ‘I identify myself as European. I don’t ever say I’m British’
My parents weren’t interested in going on holiday in Britain. My mother had an aversion to heather, she said. We lived in Kent so it was quite easy to get across the Channel, much easier than getting to Cornwall anyway. So we went to France a lot. Then it was Italy, then Greece. We’ve always been a European-centred family.
If you don’t learn a language when you’re little, you’re doomed. Between 13 and 16 I spent long stretches speaking French with my correspondent, Françoise. I still have good French, but even though I’ve lived in Berlin since 2000, my German is bad. It’s really difficult: you try to speak your fumbled non-German and German people will always reply in English.
I’m a natural eavesdropper. If I sit in a London cafe, I listen to everything and get distracted. But in Berlin I can sit in a public place and my German isn’t good enough to let the conversation get into my psyche. It took me a long time to understand why I was getting so much done in Berlin.
There are many reasons I’ve stayed so long in Berlin. I used to say it’s because it was so great to be in Europe, to be a European. Now that’s become a very political statement, but it’s always been the case for me. Also, it’s a better lifestyle in Berlin. It’s a culture that’s quite at ease with itself.
In Los Angeles, where I’ve spent the past year, I identify myself as European. I don’t ever say I’m British.
I’ve always had a huge admiration for the artist Cy Twombly. Of course he was American, but his whole life was based in Italy, so how would you describe him? Then you have Marcel Duchamp, who was French but spent a lot of time in New York. I really love that connection between Europe and America and the cultural enrichment it brings. We’re all moving around enough to confuse national definitions, which I think is really important.
I’ve been following the Brexit campaign with horror. What’s at stake is colossal. Europe is already fraying around the edges. Winston Churchill talked about creating a united states of Europe. Why aren’t the Bremain people bringing up that Tory hero? They need to be talking about culture, about European peace, about what else a British exit may trigger.
Europe is an amazingly visionary thing. We don’t want to be looking back at it and thinking that it was a moment of enlightenment and now we’re back to fighting. KF
