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Ramona Mitrica- interview with a foreign friend - about the place Romanian creativity occupies in the imagination of the artistic world (Part 3) - 23 September 2020

The Romanian version was published in CULTURA Magazine / nr. 615 / September 2020
https://revistacultura.ro/2020/despre-locul-pe-care-il-ocupa-creativitatea-romaneasca-in-imaginatia-lumii-artistice-iii/ 

CLICK HERE FOR FULL INTERVIEW (Part 1)
CLICK HERE FOR FULL INTERVIEW (Part 2)
More about Mike Phillips http://www.profusion.org.uk/topic/9-pikephillips.aspx

Ramona Mitrica: I want this interview to tell a story - a story about you MIKE PHILLIPS.

How has your experience of Romania and Romanian arts affected and influenced your views as a critic and an author? Tell me more about the place Romanian creativity occupies in the imagination of the artistic world.

 Mike Phillips: “We are an island of Latinity in a sea of Slavs.” The first time I heard this I was walking around the Military Museum in Bucharest, guided by a government official. We seemed to be the only visitors in the place, and the pictures and tableaux gave it a creepy, almost ghostly feel. This was more than twenty years ago, so my memory of the event is more of a dominant impression, but leaving the building felt like emerging from a dark tunnel into the light. On the other hand, this nationalistic version of identity had begun to intensify my curiosity about the place and its people. Don’t get me wrong. When I heard this for the first time, my reaction was amusement, followed by a species of sympathy. I had just walked past several tableaux representing one battlefield or another, a blood-soaked and agonizing history of wars and defensive slaughter. In the circumstances, some sort of nationalistic passion seemed to be the necessary source and the inevitable consequence.

At the same time, I had spent most of my life listening to crazy and distorted versions of history, designed to excite and exploit minor ethnic distinctions. My own history, the history of my family and friends was littered with a myriad of injustices, oppressions and cruelty. I understood too well the self defensive impulse behind the statement. But, in order to participate in the culture of my own world I had been obliged to put all that behind me. There was more to it than simply rejecting the ideology of nationalism.

The truth was that I didn’t think of myself as the product of a single unbroken line. In my ancestry and in my immediate family there were Africans, Europeans, Indians, and Chinese. My great grandmother’s father fled over the border from slavery in Brazil. My great grandmother’s mother arrived from Barbados in the household of a creole family. My grandmother’s sister moved to New York in 1923, and lived there until her death. If we belonged somewhere it was anywhere in the world that we chose, and my ideal world was one in which you were able to make those choices, irrespective of how and where you were born. In comparison I had little or no sympathy at all for a belief system where the traditional residence of someone’s ancestors in a specific place could serve as a guarantor of identity.

Yet, there was something disturbingly complacent about the Romanians’ assumption that everything they saw somehow belonged to them. It was a fine distinction. I thought of myself as “belonging” to London. Its streets and buildings were effortlessly familiar, assured by endless memories, but I never thought of them as “belonging” to me or mine. I suppose it’s all about the broad concept of “ownership”. In my cultural tradition the idea of “owning” things was morally corrupt, a notion which we fought, almost by instinct. Beyond that, the idea of “owning” a culture didn’t make sense, if only because “our” culture was assembled from wave after wave of varying, sometimes contradictory beliefs, all of which we had learnt to assimilate into our identity. By contrast, calling oneself an “island of Latinity in an ocean of Slavs” seemed less like a description of identity and more like an invitation to battle.

Variations of this thought were running through my mind during my first days in Bucharest, but I was also experiencing more and different impressions which stood in contrast to my first. For instance, another impression which sticks in the memory was my participation in a major book fair which took place at the National Theatre in the centre of Bucharest. A crowded, happy event, where I was greeted by a man, carrying a trumpet and wearing a headdress which looked like a cockerel. Bună ziua. Halfway through the day I stood at a window looking out onto a boulevard (Bulevardul Magheru) which was lined with bookstalls, and crowded with people, who were looking at the books, and even (to my surprise) buying them. My surprise was due to the fact that I had attended events like this in countries all over the world without ever seeing such enthusiasm. It was, I guessed, something to do with the country’s emergence from its recent dictatorship. Everyone I talked to seemed curious and interested. Who are you? Where do you come from? What made you come here?

We were going to the theatre festival in Sibiu. At this point the festival was five or six years old, and from what I’d heard it was the work of a small provincial theatre, in Transylvania. For me, this was an extremely exciting idea. Every Romanian I’d met so far had talked about their peasant roots, plants and flowers remembered from their childhoods on a farm, grandparents tending sheep and buffalo. A small town in Transylvania, I guessed, would bring me closer to the roots of their culture.

In hindsight, this was a ridiculous notion. As it happened, the festival was an extraordinary mixture of elements. I had been looking forward to encountering the soul of the country in Transylvania. Instead, I was encountering groups of writers and performers from all over the world, all of them, it seemed, inspired by images rather than words. For example, one of the plays I remember from those early years was a Japanese version of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. The performance took place in a nearby castle which we reached by climbing a winding stone staircase. We walked in long lines, and by the time I reached the top I was almost staggering, out of breath. The giant doors were open and, in the hall, we sat in rows, facing each other.

This was a special occasion. Festival director Constantin Chiriac had been lobbying the European Union for years and this year they had sent a representative, a small giggling Italian who was sitting opposite me, flanked by Chiriac and the mayor, Klaus Iohannis. We waited and waited. I didn’t feel as disturbed as I might have, if only because attending these grand performances had always been an adventure. A couple of years before this I had gone to see Rusalka in the Astra Park just outside Sibiu. It was cold and it rained. The audience sat in a crescent by the lakeside, shivering, covered in blankets. The cast was posed on a platform floating on the lake. As the performance progressed however, the waters began to rise, choking the sputtering principals as they slipped in and out of the rising waves. As for the chorus my heart went out to them because they were standing there for a couple of hours, singing against the driving sleet, obviously freezing and in agony. Eventually, they abandoned the performance, because the cast of the show was going through the worst of it. The audience was having a tough time as well, but I was fine. A friend had wrapped me in his leather jacket and kept on warming me up with shots of vodka, so I ended the evening slightly inebriated and shaking with laughter.

But Rusalka wasn’t the strangest adventure. Another time, another show. This was a show which took place in a college near the theatre. It was announced for half past eight, but when we got there we were told that the play wouldn’t start until midnight. At round about mid night we were admitted, but then we were kept standing in the hallway for another hour and a half. At the end of that time, we were told that fifty people could enter for the first half of the performance. We were seated on the stage until the interval, when we were allowed to disperse into the auditorium. By then I was half asleep, but I lasted until about half past three, when I left. Afterwards I heard that it had gone on until five.

All this sounds extreme, but it was what I came to half expect in Sibiu, so waiting for the Japanese Shakespeare to begin I possessed my soul in patience, and watched the Italian opposite me, while the crew began its preparations, closing the doors and arranging the set. Suddenly the doors banged open, and the Japanese cast began marching in, costumed, holding up their banners, and moving in rhythm. It was a beautiful performance, and although I had been bothered about following the plot, I needn’t have bothered. Everything was clear, and I went to bed that night feeling more or less satisfied about what I had seen. The shock didn’t come until the next morning. When I went down to breakfast, there was a strange atmosphere, men who looked like police in plain clothes were standing around, and police cars driving in the square. In the street I met someone I knew and they told me that the Italian had been found dead in his bed that morning. Later on that day I reminded Chiriac of the superstition surrounding the play in the English theatre. “This one’s the curse of Sibiu,” he said.

All of this however, was about a moment of change. At the beginning of the century I was looking at a celebration of old European literary and dramatic traditions – Chekov, Shakespeare, Goethe – all of it overlaid by spirited transitions of Latin poetry and drama – Ovid, Horace, et al. It was as if the theatre I had grown up with hardly existed. In fact, when I thought about theatre, I was thinking about the one where playwrights like Pinter prowled and growled, about social and political commentary, and about words, words, words. By contrast Chiriac’s theatre began and ended with the spectacle. In that context I was repeatedly struck by the local importance of directors when it came to delivering a specific vision. In the circumstances it was easy to read the influence of the puppet theatre with all its cultural and political intent. At another level there was something teasingly familiar about organisations where everything depended on the ruthless orders of one man.

This was a strand of thought that coloured most of my early experiences in Romania. Don’t forget I’m talking about twenty years ago. Chatting with Silviu Purcarete about his life in France I got the sense that there were distinct similarities between our different roles as artists living a conceptual exile. The differences, though, were crucial. On my first visit to the country I had been, in a way, sidetracked by Sibiu and Transylvania.

In another year I had learnt more and now I was preparing to be part of a translation team working on a book by George Arion. We met in the cellar of a café in Bucharest, where George was sitting holding court, like a Romanian version of Hemingway. By the time we left I was a fan of George’s and his hero Andrei Mladin. Something about his comic and satirical approach to his material was comfortable and familiar, and so was the energy of his urban narrative. He wrote about the way that people lived while including sly references to the dictatorship under which he had been writing – “the entire basement is filled with water. They brought a pump to clear it, but it will take another hour to replace the burst pipe. And during the repairs there is no water running in the bathrooms. Today of all days, when I wanted to do the laundry ---- Did they find anything in the basement? ---- Only rats. You should see them climbing on the walls and screeching like mad… I almost pity them. And there are several cats on the prowl, grabbing the ones who manage to get out.”

It wasn’t hard to work out that, like my American, English, and French compatriots, the imagery was one which aimed at describing the condition of his society. Here was an authentic modern voice, speaking in terms which linked him with the same world in which the rest of us lived. Another version of the culture I was beginning to know.


End of third installment

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Ramona Mitrica- interview with a foreign friend - about the place Romanian creativity occupies in the imagination of the artistic world (Part 2) - 07 August 2020

The Romanian version was published in CULTURA Magazine / nr. 614 / August 2020
https://revistacultura.ro/2020/despre-locul-pe-care-il-ocupa-creativitatea-romaneasca-in-imaginatia-lumii-artistice-ii/ 

CLICK HERE FOR FULL INTERVIEW (Part 1)

 I want this interview to tell a story - a story about you MIKE PHILLIPS.

How has your experience of Romania and Romanian arts affected and influenced your views as a critic and an author?

 By the time I visited Romania I had already established a career as travelling journalist, mostly in the Caribbean. My travels had actually started with a documentary TV series I made for the BBC, about the history of black life in Britain. One of the episodes took me to Kenya to interview some of the men who had fought for colonial independence, agitating in London and Paris.

After that experience I felt the world opening up in front of me, and looking back on those times, I remember climbing on and off planes in a state of eager impatience, desperate to fill my tape recorder and my notebooks with voices – Bob Marley in Jamaica, the crashing roar of waves on a beach in Barbados, Fidel in Cuba, standing in the dark until three in the morning, listening to his voice, hoarse, impassioned, lyrical. Afterwards we sat drinking mojitos with a couple of Russian reporters until the sun blazed over the horizon. I saw my first Romanians that day, beautiful in their red uniforms, waving and chanting in unison. 1978. 


Those memories are indelible, but the moments which excited me most, however, were unexpected, times which were strange and revealing. In Kingston, Jamaica, during a riot, I found myself with my friend and photographer, Neil, walking through a completely deserted part of the city, following the sound of drums. As the drums grew louder we came out of a side street, and there, sitting around a junction was a small crowd, about a dozen men, dressed in robes, all of them drumming steadily. This was Ras Michael and the Sons of Negus, and I performed the interview immediately. I can’t remember what Ras Michael said in the interview, but the photographs were beautiful.

By the time I met Caramitru in Prague, however, every aspect of my travels had changed. I was no longer a newspaper hack, focused on finding a story. Instead, I was on the platform, talking about my work, or discussing our practice with other writers. This was a change which had a number of consequences for how I approached what I was doing. I had moved, from an interest in how the people I met lived and behaved, to a fascination with the systems which shaped and controlled their behaviour. In retrospect, up to that point, I had also accepted the lazy assumption that the different cultures I observed in various different regions were somehow innate, products of some kind of historical tribal identity. I think all this changed, in my own mind, when I was commissioned, by the BBC, to convert my first book into a TV series. I had written Blood Rights, like most first novels, as a way of discussing or describing my experience so far, and my identity offered the book a secure background to the story I was telling. Writing a script was different, if only because its visual elements made radically different demands on the imagination. Scriptwriting opened up a new and instructive opportunity to explore the relationships between individuals and their social setting. An important element, therefore, in my construction of the script, was the delivery of how my protagonist was shaped by his environment and how he, in his turn, shaped it. This was it, a base that produced a multitude of habits and responses, which, for want of better word, people called culture.

When I say this it makes the entire transition sound relatively simple and straightforward, but it wasn’t. In retrospect, I’m also talking about one of those periods in my life when I was beginning to feel drained and exhausted, and I was looking for some kind of direction. My developing interest in Eastern Europe offered me a new pathway.

I began this interview talking about the Anglophone culture I inhabited as a child, and about my transition into the life of a young migrant in London. As I progressed, becoming a student, and working through the various stages of a career, I had thought about the work of my lifetime as understanding and assimilating the culture of country in which I had grown up and where I lived. Ironically, however, while I was aware that this process would involve changes in my own persona, the extent to which my presence was changing the landscape around me came as more of a surprise. In life there are no oneway streets, but my encounter with Romania seemed to offer little or no opportunity for an exchange of experience. Part of the problem was the fact the country existed on the other side of the Cold War barriers. What I knew about the place was filtered through scraps of information about a few artists – Tristan Tzara, Brancusi, along with vaguely remembered clips of news reports about street demonstrations. I climbed on the plane half expecting it to be exactly like Prague or Warsaw.

Looking back, I can’t really remember much about my first visit. What remains is a kaleidoscope of images, dominated by the giant monument to aviators decorating the centre of Bucharest. Someone had met me at the airport, and driven me to a building, which I learned later on, had been a hangout of the late dictator’s son. Now it had become Uniter. Inside, the place had gloomy lighting, which revealed a decrepit glossiness, gleaming with tarnished surfaces. The woman who met me downstairs led the way up to a large room, half of which seemed to be a bar with a glass ceiling. When she left I sat down, struggling to record and examine my impressions. By this time I had heard a myriad of hints and half expressed sentiments about the dictatorship and its effects, all of which seemed to contribute to my dark and depressed mood. What was I doing here, I kept asking myself.  In a while I fell asleep and dreamt about a man in a black suit and a hat, watching me. I woke up with a start and saw the moon, big and relentlessly bright, shining through the glass ceiling. This was my first night in Bucharest. In the morning I woke up again, went downstairs and saw, to my relief, Caramitru, leaning against his parked car, dressed in jeans and a crisply ironed shirt, reading a newspaper. “We’re going to Sibiu,” he said.

Talking about this now, I just remembered that the night I described was not my first night in Bucharest, but it’s strangely appropriate that my memory skipped the three or four days I spent there. It’s appropriate because, when I think about the trip, my mind focusses on driving through the countryside, through long, silent, sunlit roads, past curious buildings, and stalls piled high with cherries, and looming mountain tops, blue and grey and green. The truth was that I had spent a few days wandering in the city, engaging in difficult half understood conversations with strangers. Some years before this I had crossed over into East Berlin a couple of days after the Wall came down, and I was familiar with a public atmosphere which has gradually changed over the years since then. A general atmosphere of shabbiness, punctuated by the grandiloquent declarations of buildings and streets. Guarded faces and swift suspicious stares as I went past. Angry dogs lurking. Everything has now changed radically, as I said, but at the end of those days I was glad to be leaving, and the beauty of the countryside was like an assault on the senses. I didn’t know where I was, but it didn’t matter.

That statement makes it sound as if I was confused about my location, but, of course, that wasn’t the case. By now I was accustomed to the sense of being a foreign observer, looking in on other people’s lives, trying to figure out who and what they were. This was a habit I had acquired earlier on when I first arrived in England, and it had been confirmed by my later experiences.

But, while this aspect of the relationship with my surroundings remained unchanged, one part of the equation had moved. This was my own identity. I was no longer the boy who walked off the boat into an English fog. Even the memories of my childhood were beginning to fade. This process had consequences. Over the years I had stopped thinking about myself as a transplant, a person from ‘somewhere else.’ Instead when I thought about ‘home’, it was in London. But not quite. I had been shaped and tailored, by my identification with the travails of colonial rebellion, by my experience of being a transplanted ‘outsider’, and by my understanding of nationality in the places to which I had travelled. I thought of myself as a “citizen of the world”, and to some extent I was bored by the passions of nationalism. On the other hand, I had begun to be struck by a different, more defensive, aspect of national identity in Eastern Europe. Speeding through the twilight towards Sibiu, I began to be seduced by the region’s complex interaction between its history and its origins.

End of second installment

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Ramona Mitrica- interview with a foreign friend - about the place Romanian creativity occupies in the imagination of the artistic world - 22 July 2020

 

Romanian version published here https://revistacultura.ro/pdf/Cultura_613_compressed.pdf (CULTURA Magazine, nr. 613, page 130; July 2020)
 
 
I want this interview to tell a story - a story about you Mike Phillips - and the story begins with who you are and how you came to be interested in Romania. What comes next is how those two things are connected - where is the connection? Finally how has your experience of Romania and Romanian arts, especially as it concerns the work of writers like Buzura, affected and influenced your views as a critic and an author. So let us begin.

 R. Who are you? How did you come to be interested in Romania?

 
I was born on the South American continent, in the republic of Guyana. At the time it was a British colony, British Guyana. My memories of my childhood are fragmented, incoherent, a kaleidoscope of impressions. On the other hand, I have a clear impression about the sort of culture which nurtured me, about the attitudes and beliefs of my family, and about our position within the world around me. 
 
We lived in a village which was an adjunct of the capital city, Georgetown. Nowadays it is a suburb of the capital, but in those days it had a distinct identity. Our population, like most of the country’s, was intricately mixed. In the 18th and 19th centuries Guyana had been a colony of African slaves, producing sugar for Europe. After slavery ended, the need for cheap labour had brought in poor Europeans, mainly Portuguese, followed by Chinese, then, towards the end of the 19th century, a flood of South Indian labourers and their families. 
 
We lived cheek by friendly jowl. Our neighbours were Chinese, Hindu, Muslim, Portuguese, and the occasional exotic Armenian (Charlie Kazatakan, who minded flocks of sheep in a nearby pasture.)
Every morning, at the age of six and seven, I walked, on my way to school, to the nearby Muslim orphanage and waited for my friend Ali.
 
The language we all spoke, our language, was English. Our English, however, was interspersed with words and phrases from various other languages, notably Urdu. On the other hand, it was the rules, the attitudes and the deep concepts of the English language which dictated our understanding and our instinctive grasp of how language itself was constructed.
 
The general point is that I grew up in a context where the meeting and the mixture of cultures was normal and inevitable. Equally inevitable was the fact that these cultural collisions took place within a framework of shared values. When, in later life, I began to encounter the mythologies and the belief systems of Eastern Europe, it was as if they belonged to a similarly universal structure, and were simply an unfamiliar way of arranging the same world. 
 
Of course, my understanding about the nature of cultures and their role in constructing identities, was, of course, not simple or direct. At the beginning of the fifties, my parents migrated to England, and I followed them some years later, which was the start of a very different cultural experience. 
 
At that point, it was the language and the use of specific language patterns which to a large extent, defined my identity – who I thought I was. I grew up steeped in the iconic English and European classics. By the time I arrived in England as a teenaged schoolboy, I was familiar with the work of Shakespeare, Dickens, Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, together with the usual assortment of poets, sculptors, painters and philosophers. Guyana had given me a conventional colonial education, which put me a couple of years ahead of the English classmates I was about to meet. At the same time I was haunted by a developing suspicion of what I knew and of what I was being taught. 
 
At first the source of this suspicion was concerned with my own background, and with the sense that my education, and therefore my grasp of the world, had somehow evaded any consideration of my own historical circumstances. 
 
Let me give you an example of how I began to understand certain cultural gradations in my world. I had grown up as a member of the community of black artists in Britain and I understood very well the exclusions we faced there. On the other hand, I had also grown up exposed to a view of culture which located Western Europe in the centre of the imagination, while exiling everything else to its periphery.
 
I remember giving a lecture in London, a short while after returning from a trip to Sibiu’s theatre festival. I talked about that experience and afterwards one of the participants approached me, and after a few remarks, she said, “I had no idea that Transylvania was a real place. I thought they’d made it up as a location for the Dracula movies.”
 
Having just returned from Transylvania, I was staggered. On the other hand, I was suddenly conscious that I had paid little attention to the history and significance of names I had heard, only half consciously, Brancusi, Eminescu, Buzura. At the same time, there was something else, a nagging memory from my first years in England, and of the exhaustion I’d felt at having to explain over and over again, that Guyana was a country in South America, not Africa, that it wasn’t to be confused with Ghana, and so on and so on and so on…..
 
One problem was the fact that my language, English, constituted a barrier which was difficult to surmount. In some ways this sounds illogical because belonging to the family of English speakers opened access to a broad variety of cultures around the world. But this was precisely the difficulty because this access was led and dominated by the academic and literary traditions of Western Europe and the United States. Given the exclusive nature of translated texts and visual artefacts, finding a pathway into other cultures, other ways of thinking, presented huge difficulties. Turn the situation around and imagine, for a moment, that your only access to the culture of English speakers was through classical books and artefacts – Shakespeare, Dickens, leavened by the odd international prizewinner. From that position, try grasping the origins and significance of new or revolutionary movements, like, for example, Dadaism. 
 
As it happened I had already begun my writing career in a self consciously rebellious mood. I had completed my degree in English literature, and then drifted, by various circuitous routes, into journalism. I had started to make my living from the practice of writing, but I was more and more conscious that even my favourite authors had little or nothing to say about me, or the circumstances in which I lived. No one had written about growing up as a black teenager in London, or about the clash of values and cultures I had experienced. I wrote my first novel as a way of filling in the gaps, in my picture of the literary world, and I was genuinely surprised when it was published. Nowadays I read that it was ‘groundbreaking’, but Blood Rights was actually a reflection of one strand of my reading, the authors I read for pure pleasure – Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Eric Ambler. To me, their stories seemed to exemplify a method of exploring and describing hidden and neglected roles in a society which was violent, oppressive and hypocritical. This was the world I knew, a prison which had locked me inside a role other people had invented, but this was also the world that gave me the context in which I could explore my identity as a writer. It had been the cinema, however, which had offered me an escape, and a new source of knowledge. As a child growing up in North London, there was something magical about leaving a grimy street in Hackney or Islington, and being transported to Rome or Paris or Berlin. For a few hours I was Fellini, I was Marcello Mastroianni, I was free, but another issue was the fact that this new cultural arena also had its limits.
 
I was also a child of the anti colonial struggle, which had defined my understanding of politics. One of my earliest memories was about standing by the side of the main street in our village and watching the lorry loads of white soldiers who had come to dissolve our government and jail our politicians. There was a direct link between such experiences and the cinematic fantasies of the great Polish director, Andrzej Wajda. I first saw Ashes and Diamonds almost sixty years ago, but I still have vivid memories of being the boy in dark glasses, choking to death with a gun in my hand, fighting for freedom.
 
Of course I had no idea about what all that meant, apart from the fact that here was yet another part of the world to which my access was forbidden. By the final decade of the last century, however, many things had changed. Thanks to the series of crime fiction novels which followed Blood Rights I received a grant from the Arts Foundation to work on my next novel. By then I was desperate to do something different, and I set out to achieve a novel based the experiences of a former African student in Eastern Europe. I began work on A Shadow of Myself by visiting Prague, then Moscow and Warsaw, travelling, notebook and tape recorder in hand, listening carefully, looking for stories which would put flesh on the vague impressions that impelled my interest.
 
At the time I knew nothing about Romania, apart from what I’d read in history books, and my first meeting with a Romanian happened after a conference about literature and culture in Prague. It was my third visit to the city, and as a “popular” English writer, I was a guest of the British embassy. During the first evening I was standing in the bar sampling a glass of Polish vodka when a man came up beside me and, without preamble, asked me who I was and what I was doing there. I didn’t know who he was but he had a raffish, slightly swaggering air which set me at my ease. He spoke English fluently, and he said he was an actor. Hearing his voice made me think of the cinema of my youth – Marcello, Alain Delon, Belmondo. Leaning against the bar I found myself telling him about the Ghanaian politician whose experiences in Moscow had set off my interest in the book I was writing, and he listened to my stories about travelling in Russia with a flattering interest. I had assumed, at first, that he was, like myself, a mere fellow labourer in the arts industry, but as the evening wore on various people kept on interrupting us, and it gradually dawned on me that he was someone much more important.
 
“Come to Romania,” he said eventually. 
 
The British Council organiser, slightly less inebriated than I was, drove me back to my hotel, and I took the opportunity to ask – “who was that guy?”
 
“Caramitru,” she said. “Minister of Culture in Romania. Very important in their revolution.”
 
“He said I should go to Romania.”
 
She looked round as if she was seeing me for the first time.
 
“You should go,” she said. “I’ll arrange it.”
 
This was how my Romanian adventure began.
 
 
 End of first instalment


-----
Dr Mike Phillips OBE FRSL, FRSA
 
Mike Phillips was educated at the University of London (English), the University of Essex (politics), and at Goldsmiths College London (education). He worked for the BBC as a journalist and broadcaster between 1972 and 1983 before becoming a lecturer in media studies at the University of Westminster. After a spell as Resident writer at the South Bank Centre in London, he was appointed Cross Cultural Curator at the Tate Galleries in Britain, and then worked as Acting Director of Arts (Cultuurmakelaar) in Tilburg in the Netherlands. Later on, he lectured in Milan and worked as a freelance curator in London, Belgium, Venice, the Netherlands and Los Angeles, notably with the Belgian artist Koen Vanmechelen.
 
He was awarded the Arts Foundation Fellowship in 1996 for crime fiction, and the OBE in 2006 for services to broadcasting. He served as a Trustee of the National Heritage Memorial Fund, but he is best known for his crime fiction, including four novels featuring black journalist Sam Dean: Blood Rights (1989), which was adapted for BBC television, The Late Candidate (1990), winner of the Crime Writers’ Association Silver Dagger Award, Point of Darkness (1994) and An Image to Die For (1995). The Dancing Face (1998) is a thriller centred on a priceless Benin mask. A Shadow of Myself (2000) is about a black documentary filmmaker working in Prague and a man who claims to be his brother. The Name You Once Gave Me (2006) was written as part of a government sponsored literacy campaign.
 
Mike Phillips also co-wrote Windrush: The Irresistible Rise of Multi-Racial Britain (1998) to accompany a BBC television series telling the story of the Caribbean migrant workers who settled in post-war Britain. London Crossings: A Biography of Black Britain (2001) is a series of interlinked essays and stories, a portrait of the city seen from locations as diverse as New York and Nairobi, London and Lodz, Washington and Warsaw. Recently he wrote a series of libretti for the compositions of musician Julian Joseph, culminating in a version of Tristan and Isolde, performed at the Royal Opera House.
 
Together with Romanian arts administrator and facilitator Ramona Mitrica, Phillips has worked over the last two decades to establish the cultural consultancy Profusion, which created the annual Romanian Film Festival in London. During that period he co-authored, with Stejarel Olaru, a history of the life and times of the notorious serial killer, entitled Rimaru - Butcher of Bucharest. In addition, as joint director, editor and translator, he worked on and helped to publish a series of Romanian works, including books by George Arion and Augustin Buzura. In 2019 he was awarded the Trofeul de Excelenta of the Augustin Buzura Cultural Foundation by Academician Professor Dr Jean-Jacques Askenasy, at a ceremony in the Military Circle in Bucharest.

 

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Sunday Times – Pick of the day: Andrew Marr’s 'Sleuths, Spies & Sorcerers': ”Most strikingly he speaks to Mike Phillips about his black private eye, Sam Dean...” - 16 October 2016

Watch Profusion Books co-director and translator, author Mike Phillips on BBC Four, Mon 17 Oct 2016 at 21:00

Mike Phillips is best known for his crime fiction, including four novels featuring black journalist Sam Dean: Blood Rights (1989), which was adapted for BBC television, The Late Candidate (1990), winner of the Crime Writers' Association Silver Dagger Award, Point of Darkness (1994) and An Image to Die For (1995). Subsequent novels are The Dancing Face (1998), A Shadow of Myself (2000) and The Name You Once Gave Me (2006). Non fiction works are Windrush: The Irresistible Rise of Multi-Racial Britain (1998), and London Crossings: A Biography of Black Britain (2001). Recently he has written, translated and published a number of East European works.

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Interview With Mike Phillips in Enfield INDEPENDENT - 30 August 2012

Mike Phillips interviewed in Enfield INDEPENDENT

Interview
with MIKE 
PHILLIPS,
author of
Rimaru – Butcher of Bucharest

 

in Enfield INDEPENDENT

'Rîmaru - Butcher of Bucharest' is available in paperback from Profusion.org.uk, Amazon.co.uk, and as a Kindle e-book.
To read a free preview of 'Rîmaru - Butcher of Bucharest', click here.

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Euro-Crime at Goldsmiths' College - 21 November 2011

Patrick McGuinness, Christopher MacLehose, Mike Phillips, and Peter Lee-Wright (chair) discuss crime fiction - the real European currency, on 24 November 2011, 17:00 - 19:00.
From the astonishing success of the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo books (and films, and US re-makes) and multiple Wallander TV series, to the Danish Killing and French Spiral TV series: is crime fiction the real European currency? Romanian crime fiction reveals another side: it subverted censorship.

Location: LG02,  1 New Academic Building, Goldsmiths College, University of London, New Cross, London SE14 6NW. Free entrance

 

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Romanian Crime Fiction comes to Leeds - 21 November 2011

The University of Leeds hosts a presentation and debate on crime literature from Eastern Europe, on 1 December 2011, 17:30-20:00, featuring award-winning author Mike Phillips and special guests from Romania: George Arion, Oana Stoica-Mujea, and Bogdan Hrib.
Introduction by the Dean of the Faculty of Arts, Professor Frank Finlay and John McLeod, Professor of Postcolonial and Diaspora Literatures.

Location: Rupert Beckett Lecture Theatre, Michael Sadler Building, LG X04, University of Leeds, Leeds LS2 9JT.

 

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