Dear Readers,
I got what I needed Going for a Burton (that’s an English RAF term from WWII, like we’re going off to die). I’m at the press conference for the biggest show the Design Museum has ever hosted, with 32,000 tickets sold in advance. Much as I'm falling out of love with absorbing myself in the worlds of other people, I ask this most powerful man (who has maintained his independence through an autonomous style that stems from a wonderfully 20th-century cardboard clunkiness) a single question. I extend the invitation to enter his temple and listen to the wisdom of this master world-builder, the creator of Wednesday on Netflix, Mars Attacks!, Edward Scissorhands, and a canon of identity-inspiring creations, by pressing PLAY on the little film I've made reporting on the experience above.
He talks about techniques and emphasises that it's all about mastering these in whatever art we choose to deliver. The first rule of witchcraft is to keep a tidy house, but how we define "tidy" is up to us.
Living in other people’s worlds has been a habit of mine. Art activates, allowing me to find myself sitting opposite Tim Burton who is exceptionally rare. He is unique. He is special. A mega-talented embodiment of the gothic who articulates his critical mind in these onscreen dramas of G-pop's [general population/consumers] relationship with home duties in the sanitised Americana of 50s suburbia. Burton’s drawing descends from growing up in the suburban “Horrorwood” of California’s Burbank where he took an unpretentious revenge upon the superficial. I grew up in the suburbs too.
“Burbank made me want to make monster movies.” I get it.
There he sent his work into art competitions, which led him to be fast-tracked on a sponsorship into the Walt Disney-founded CalArts school where he was enabled to explore his interior world, with confidence, as an obsessional artist. This is his legacy.
“Each [film] leaves it’s emotional scars.”
Engaging with his work is like stepping into alternative, often scary, magical kingdoms. Speaking to Maria McLintock, the curator as she guides us around the show (a true privilege of being a war-torn member of culture press) her Vivienne Westwood skeleton earring swings with the same charm as her knowledge and integrity. “It’s about 60%” of what’s been seen in the World of Tim Burton shows which have shown everywhere from New York’s MOMA to Lafayette Art and Design Center in Shanghai over the past 10 years.
How does it differ to the Labyrinth shows I’ve seen advertised for Madrid? She’s dying to see them: “They’re more immersive,” says the former RIBA editor, whose knowledge of architecture creates the perfect ‘housing’ for a tunnel of Allison in Wonderland to walk through. “People keep on saying this is immersive. It’s not, it’s more of document.”
Whether Burton is a higher-res Edward Gore or an all-new Edgar Allan Poe, a tripped-out Goethe, or a Nick Cave of the Movies, it doesn’t matter in a graveyard. These characters haunt us with their sublimity, ultimately embodying rebellion. Goths are eternal because death is eternal (as far as we know), and death carries powerful imagery: headstones, spiders, skulls. It’s perfect that he pairs with Alexander McQueen, as proper goths canonise the act of not being mainstream cool. They embrace the coffin-cold fact that we’re all going to die, but they do it on their own terms.
Whether gaming is replacing movies or any art form or media is taking over is irrelevant, this is the show which views Burton as an all-seeing artist. This is why the big screen has allowed him to become an unusually family-friendly weirdo, defying the odds. His drawings of characters trap us in the simplicity of fairy tales, where children find solace in extremes. Although this show demonstrates versatility, this is a filmaker exploring the boundaries of victimhood, blurring the internal and external. The peripeteia of turning our wounds into badges of shame, then into medals of honour. It voices a universal truth. Do we walk through the broken vessels that smash to the ground around us, attacked and reacting? We can engage, ignore, sweep our house, or become injured. We all inhabit the houses of others, seeking answers from what has been missing, the art is to feel full of self (not full of oneself) and content in that rather than shamed or unworthy.
Yet, what we allow into our systems (or whatever is present) shapes our journeys. Be it unfiltered water, chemically-sprayed coffee, or the myths of others. I was married to a director, so can tell you they are the gods of their creations, little would get finished without them. We enter the temples of other people through literature, music, gaming, and we choose alt Heavens and Underworlds, immersing ourselves in Utopian fantasies where impossible romanticism reigns. But what we create, we can only create ourselves. Sure we collaborate, as is discussed in the film above. Yet I am here to make an inquiry. I seek escape through the ‘Burtonesque’ existential monochrome, mirroring a cartoon fear of darkness as a companion in the ironic danse macabre to the inevitable: death. I am here because the Burtonesque beats black like my coffee and heart. The gothic lifeblood channels life as an outsider. Yet I wish to belong. The dilemma of being a true rebel yet accepted by those we perceive to be “inside” requires a humble acknowledgment of our shared flaws as we walk towards the grave.
There is no dumbing down or fading out the "black jeans on the beach of life" joke of being here one minute and gone the next. We choose to enjoy the ride, striking a Beetlejuice meets Robert Smith hero’s pose against the paradox of beauty standards which true rebels are able to defy. (I am sure Cathi Unsworth and John Robb’s goth books say much of this, with far more detail.)
Burton discusses ‘the system’ that tells us we aren’t allowed to operate. What do you do? For me, seeking magic in others is a quest to find it within myself. In my worst of times I have had no protection against this. Hail the new witchery, the return to paganism, the need to understand and create order using more ancient traditions than this era of madness where we can see injustice in rising fundamentalism against females (I’m talking about Trump and the decline of western civilisation, mirrored in Jack Nicholson’s presidential performance in Mars Attacks! as we forward-march toward a dumbed-down spectacle the Salem-esque dumbed-down fear states of 'merica) but it’s so basic we can only loveheart a reaction. We are frustratingly disabled to affect geopolitics as we drop our mouths in awe at the online superficiality of the post-Covid 2020s. It's akin to the Wellness Dilemma, where justice is offered as the responsibility of the individual rather than as a responsibility of community management. The Wellness Dilemma is a mirror on consumer rights operating in carelessness for anything other than profit. We are facing serious issues of climate change, wars and over-consumption, walking hand-in-hand with trauma as victimhood flexing in a drama ritual, where space is taken up by injured parties, average accidents competing against violence rites of stabbings parading beneath a lack of societal management of equity. Everyone deserves a voice, and the power to use it, but in what system? Armies of protein-rich gym babies train for a war of healthy positivity against a past generation who self-medicated beneath banners of smiley faces or war-hangovers and first-generation struggles.
I sense this may be one of my last occasions where I need to confront the ghastly aesthetic of a world policed by beauty standards imposed by ‘beauty’ companies in the free-market warzone of brands, houses, offices, and entertainment institutions built to annihilate our financial empowerment. Subtle demands to comply with regimes that layer us with artificial masks of botox and filler that protect us from emotional empathy and the risk of deeper connections. Look at Madonna. Look at Robert Smith. We are symbolic parodies of the flaws of illogical systems in poorly designed worlds, we are perfect in an imperfect world, where it’s challenging to determine if these designs are intentional. In the end, does it matter? Culture is a natural defense system like hitting ouch on instant messaging, to receive an animal vid or guru-shared platitudes that feel (sleepy) hollow against the backdrop of authenticity solved in a world of Wednesday.
Sure, we manage our houses, filling our wells with what serves us, our revenge is to take space. To be nourished physically and metaphysically is essential, but it’s hard to compare these acts as great as the spectacle of the movies, the big screen paintings which allow us to escape. I vow to write more fiction (my most popular posts here). Navigating a landscape where choice is often intertwined with financial empowerment and cultures, we must invent our own, but when they’re symbols of the slavery? O Lord, yes, I would like an electric Mercedes Benz. Manifest!
We must remember we’re in a perpetual negotiation with the structures that seek to confine us, but not relive the horror of living in a world of overconsumption. And forgive ourselves for what we cannot afford.
Our power is how we boundary our responses to outer worlds that govern us. Sometimes that requires sitting in stagnant waters, plunging to the depths of our malnourished wells, and rediscovering our needs. For me, this journey has taken me to an Andalusian mountain, battling with my soul and demons to face the hermetic dawn. I still would like an electric Mercedes Benz. That’s my reaction to the Trauma Scale which operates universally; male, female, trans, everyone is entitled to suffer. Whether it’s rape on a refugee camp to the bullying on social media, or sharing micro-details of foodbank trauma as drama ritual of victimhood, where space is occupied by the injured and the injuring. How is there equality in these rubrics of competing for attention amid societal neglect? What we do with our injuries defines our agency, resilience, and leadership potential, applicable to all teams. We all engage with pain, and there’s a comedic tragedy in empathy, but black and white as Burton’s lens is, it does not patronise with guilt; instead, he explores these wounded vessels with a perception of agency and resilience. Like any creative act, we can criticise rather than celebrate (particularly under a Beschdel lens) but there’s an intimacy which the exposure-driven antics of contemporary pop culture are born from.
“If it inspires you, if it makes kids want to draw, then that’s a thing.”
Resilience is my new tidiness. I want to claim my power with the stories I tell myself, as I know it shapes our realities. We can become interdependent with the worlds which inspire us. This is the point in having successful figures, artists and ideas, rather than just pedestal creations as being better than us. Much of our system amplifies the celebrity culture born from movies, where the industrialisation of the Star Machine creates a Warhol-esque religion of gossip and behaviors, often driven by sociopathic tendencies, glorifying chaos. It’s like any dogma, astrological or otherwise, there is unlikely a single code. How we navigate the complex matrix of media and art as information in this digital age is on us. The lines between success and worthiness blur in a quest for ethical sameness. Burton is an outstanding artist in world where secretly, the weird are celebrated, because the world has gone weird, governed by dull tech bros and cartoon boardrooms with no control on government. Has it ever been different? That is what makes fairy tales eternal and keeps the town criers’ crying. The aspiration to conform, through patronage or substandard revolutionary rebelliousness, leads to feelings of low self-esteem and comparison, dragging us into voids of negative capability. If we harbour a damaging self-fulfilling lack of belief in our own houses, we merely assign our power to others.
“Do it from your heart because you want it, not what it leads to.”
This mantra speaks volumes. We have to own our own shadows, remember not relive, and know gossip or faux-concern of the Other, and what they do or think, rarely serves anyone, merely enabling averageness. We are in a tidal onslaught of individual ‘empowerment’ being exploited to sell things to or from, we owe it to ourselves to heavily police what content/art/entertainment/news/information/people/other is worthy of our short lives. This duality can be a terrifying preoccupation, the management of self-control when most of life can appear to be beyond our control. We are forced to be consumers, indexed by popularity. We have all smiled whilst being f**ked. I’m not getting into a feminist critique here, the self-portraits drawing clowns (on napkins) is a get out of jail card, from this distance. The personal, whatever (although I did enjoy the trooping of the mystery front-rowers backstage after the Q&A, who were they?!). I vow to watch Sophie Koko’s animations. There is so much to consume, to create, but for me, the tensions in myself have been preventative from doing what I need to do for myself, so to hear this God speak, gives palpability to the distractions of explaining the issues of the day being explained as art versus industry, or how the rational coexists with the irrational, or progressive philosophies versus conservative risk aversion. Our biggest challenge is building our own capacity to prove our capability, to hold our own houses strong, and be as fabulous as Edward Scissorhands.
Last day to enter Burton's World: April 21st 2025
https://designmuseum.org/exhibitions/the-world-of-tim-burton
My news:
I’m proud to support one of the stars in my life, Pete Astor, with his THE ATTENDANT project on 21st November. I love the music, with Paul Weller’s bassist and Ian Button on keys, they’re also joined by the voice of fine London talent, Sukie Smith. Pete was one of the first signings to Creation Records (Oasis, Primal Scream, Jesus & Mary Chain), and we last played together when Psychomachia was first published.
It’s a really early show. I’m on by 7, so come early. Tickets are limited and available here:
https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/the-attendant-tickets-1039379641487
I’m excited to build on what I’ve been doing over the past year, and I won’t keep you long.
I will be using the date to complete the audiobook of Psychomachia, and will be releasing it exclusively to paying subscribers here. I share these words for free to all, in the hope to inspire.
From the desk of Kirsty Allison is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
Get full access to From the desk of Kirsty Allison at kirstyallison.substack.com/subscribe
Share this post