Interview by Richard Marshall.

James Grantasks questions in the philosophy of art about metaphor, art criticism, and imaginativeness. He argues for a view about the role of creativity in criticism. His current work focuses on the questions of what makes something a good artwork, and whether good artworks are intrinsically valuable. He is also interested in philosophical questions about poetry (for example, whether some thoughts can be expressed only in metaphor) and about beauty (for example, whether beauty is good primarily because it provides pleasure).
3:AM:What made you become a philosopher?

James Grant:Originally, an interest in Gandhi. As a teenager, I became fascinated with Gandhi after I had to do a speech on him for school. I had never come across someone arguing that violence is always wrong, even in self-defence, and that non-violence works. These are not thoughts that suggest themselves to you in the schoolyard. That, I think, led me to start thinking about philosophical questions, and I thought mainly about ethics and religion. I tried to understand how God could be justified in sending people to hell. I thought about whether we should give most of our money to aid agencies. I’d get preoccupied with problems like these for days at a stretch. I was loads of fun.

Aesthetics also interested me at that time, mainly because of what I’d learned of the views of certain poets, such as Gerard Manley Hopkins, about aesthetic experience. I thought then that finding something beautiful involves looking at it as if you’d never seen it before, and responding imaginatively to it. Defamiliarization seemed to be important in aesthetic experience. That led to my later interest in art criticism and the role of imaginativeness in it.

3:AM:You find art criticismraises as interesting questions for the philosopher as art itself don’t you? What is it about the art critic’s work that interests you and is this something that started in the eighteenth century?

JG:I’m interested in the idea that good artworks stimulate us into responding creatively to them. There has always seemed to me something true and important in this idea. To take a simple case, when you spend some time appreciating a thing’s look, sound, or flavour, there is a natural tendency to try to conceptualize and describe it in specific, precise terms. You might, of course, just sit there in passive, mute admiration. But if you are really taking an interest in what you perceive, this will often express itself in an impulse to conceptualize and describe the look, sound, or flavour that interests you. This, at least, is one variety of aesthetic experience, to which I find myself prone.

This often results in imaginative ways of perceiving and describing artworks. Art critics’ descriptions show this. Critics of Chinese jades distinguish between the colours of ‘spinach’, ‘lychee-flesh’ and ‘mutton-fat’ jade. Critics will speak of a painter’s effervescent or vitreous colouring, the tense and forbidding character of a row of columns spaced close together, or the silken or shimmering quality of a piece of music. Many figurative descriptions that were imaginative when introduced have also become conventional, such as talk of purple prose, a dry sense of humour, and warm and cool colours. To take a more complex case, the elaborate readings that some literary critics provide, and the fact that literary works seem to admit of multiple interpretations, suggest to many that imaginativeness plays a significant role in interpretation.

So the idea that appreciating art involves an important role for imaginativeness seems worth taking seriously as a potential insight into the nature of appreciation, and as a reason why engaging with art is rewarding. As far as I know, the origins of this view can indeed be traced to the eighteenth century. At that time, it became common to argue that the experience of beauty is due to the activity of the imagination. The conscious or unconscious associations you have with a shape, colour, or sound were thought to explain why you find it beautiful. The idea took particularly radical form in the nineteenth century, when figures like Charles Baudelaire and Oscar Wilde argued that art criticism is itself one of the creative arts, and pointed to critics like John Ruskin and Walter Pater as exemplars. Modern variations on the idea include Roland Barthes’s claim that some texts are ‘writerly’, in that they stimulate the reader into producing, and not just consuming, a text. Likewise, several analytic philosophers of art claim that the widespread use of metaphor in critical descriptions of art shows that aesthetic experience involves perceiving works imaginatively.

Remarks like these are suggestive, but they are sometimes rather nebulous as they stand. To clarify and evaluate them, I focus on the question of what the role of imaginativeness is in criticism (as opposed to, say, aesthetic experience). Criticism, as a particularly developed and articulate response to artworks, seems the most likely to involve an important role for imaginativeness. My approach is to give an account of the aims of criticism, and then to work out which of these aims imaginativeness enables a critic to achieve. I adopt this approach in my book, The Critical Imagination.

3:AM:You ask three key questions so let’s follow your own trail: the first is what are the aims of criticism? Is there a primary aim or a hierarchy or are many aims equally valid?

JG:I identify two aims. The first aim is partly constitutive of criticism. That is, a piece of writing must have this aim in order to be criticism at all. The constitutive aim is to inform the critic’s readers of what appreciating the work involves. On my account, appreciating any work involves responding in certain ways to certain aspects of it for certain reasons. The constitutive aim of criticism is to inform a reader of what some of these aspects, responses, and reasons are.

The second aim is not constitutive. That is, something can be criticism without having or achieving this aim. But achieving it helps make a piece of writing good criticism. The aim I identify is to enable the critic’s readers to appreciate the work better than they otherwise could, by informing them of what appreciation involves.

Both of these claims are fleshed out by my account of appreciation. The resulting picture of criticism is pluralist, because there are many ways of achieving these aims. Some critics focus on the responses that appreciating a work involves. This is true, for instance, of Thomas de Quincey in his essay on the feelings evoked by the knocking at the gate in Macbeth. Some focus on identifying or describing objects of appreciative responses, such as meaning or form. And some focus on reasons for responses, such as evaluative criticism that aims to identify reasons to judge a work favourably or unfavourably.

So in this respect, yes, there are many aims that are equally valid. My theory is broader than some other accounts of the aims of criticism. For instance, I reject the idea that all criticism is explicitly or implicitly evaluation, or that criticism’s principal aim is to guide our perceptions.

[All pics: Neo Rauch]

3:AM:Your second focus is art appreciation: what is new about your understanding of what this is?

JG:There is surprisingly little written in analytic philosophy on appreciation per se, though there is much written on aesthetic experience, which one may or may not regard as the same thing.

I have a tripartite account of appreciation. Appreciating a work is responding in the right ways to the right aspects of the work for the right reasons. We can think of these three parts in the following way.

For each work, there is a range of aspects (properties, parts, and content of the work) that appreciating it involves responding to. For example, a painting might be 8.5243 cm high, but appreciating the painting will probably not involve responding to this feature.

For each aspect that appreciation involves responding to, there is a range of responses to it that appreciation involves having. You might be amused by Oedipus’s fate in Oedipus Rex, if you have a twisted sense of humour. But such amusement is not a response that appreciating the play involves having. Your amusement is separate from your appreciation of the work. When I speak of a response, this can be of many kinds. Appreciation involves responses that are perceptual (such as seeing the patterns in a mosaic), cognitive (such as recognizing an allusion in a poem), emotional (such as pity and fear), and desire-based (such as wanting a character to survive).

Finally, for each response that appreciation involves having to an aspect of a work, there is often a range of reasons for having it, such that appreciating the work involves having that response for those reasons. Appreciating King Lear might involve pitying Lear, but it will not involve pitying him for just any reason (say, because he lived before vaccinations were available).

Among the responses that appreciation of a work involves, I distinguish between responses you must have in order to appreciate the work, and responses that appreciating it can involve, but need not involve. Other things being equal, you appreciate the work better if you have the latter responses. But you can still appreciate the work without having any particular one of them. For example, I suspect that whatever responses are required for a basic understanding of the work will normally be responses that you must have in order to appreciate it. By contrast, other responses, though appreciation can involve and be deepened by them, are not required for appreciation. Keats reportedly admired Shakespeare’s line about bees, ‘The singing masons building roofs of gold’ because the repeated ‘-ing’ sound was like the buzzing of bees. It is plausible that appreciating the line can involve admiring it for this reason. But it is not plausible that someone who failed to admire it for this reason would necessarily have failed to appreciate it at all. This response is, in this respect, optional.

For many works, there is a vast penumbra of optional appreciative responses outside the core of essential responses. This is at least one area that provides great scope for imaginativeness in criticism. Many of the optional appreciative responses have to be discovered: they are not obvious, and it takes imaginativeness to think of them. Critics like Keats imaginatively think of appreciative responses and suitable reasons for them.

As far as I know, this picture of the structure of appreciation is new, though elements of it are similar to other views.

3:AM:Imaginativeness is something you say is very important for the critic: so is imagination the same as creativity, and is imagination in a critic the same as imagination for the artist?

I think imaginativeness and creativity are the same (at least in one sense of these words). However, using imagination and being imaginative are different. You can imagine unimaginatively, as most film scripts demonstrate.

I think imaginativeness is the same general property wherever it is manifested. But it can be manifested in pursuit of many different aims. On my account, imaginativeness enables critics to think of ways of better appreciating a work, and ways of communicating effectively. Artists often manifest imaginativeness in pursuit of other aims. So in this respect imaginativeness is different in the two fields.

3:AM:What are the three conditions a product or act must satisfy to count as imaginative?

JG:Most philosophers appeal to two conditions: originality and value. They think an imaginative story, for instance, is one that is good in an original way. I think this isn’t right. Leonardo da Vinci’s designs for flying machines were bad designs for flying machines, because the machines couldn’t have flown. But they were still imaginative. I’m also not persuaded that there is any interesting sense in which something imaginative must be original. It might be imaginative for a contemporary poet to use a medieval poetic form, even though she got the idea to use that form from the medieval poets she read. You might reply that the idea to use the form in the modern era is original. But if doing something on an occasion when nobody thought to do it before is enough for originality, originality comes too cheap. Even unimaginative ideas and products are frequently original in that way: the idea to plagiarize in the essay due next week would also be new if no one thought to plagiarize on that particular assignment. If the notion of originality gets attenuated to this extent, I don’t think it sheds much light on what imaginativeness is.

In my view, to think imaginatively, you must think of something that is not an obvious thing to think of. In my example, the use of the medieval poetic form was not an obvious way of writing a poem to think of in the modern era. Being unobvious, rather than original, is what counts.

It must also have been plausible to believe that what you thought of had a reasonable chance of success. What constitutes success will depend, of course, on what you have thought of. Leonardo’s designs were failures as designs. But it was plausible for him to believe that the machines had at least a reasonable chance of flying.

Finally, all cases of imaginativeness involve thinking. Whether it is an imaginative act or an imaginative product that is at issue, something was thought of, such as a design for a flying machine, a way of getting someone’s attention, a form for a poem, a way of scoring a goal, and so forth.

3:AM:Why do you disagree that imaginativeness is a capacity in a person? Isn’t that the standard view?

JG:In principle, someone could have the capacity to act or think imaginatively without ever actually acting or thinking imaginatively. You can have a capacity (or at least, this capacity) without exercising it. But I don’t think you can count as imaginative without ever doing something imaginative. So imaginativeness is not merely the capacity to act or think imaginatively; and I don’t know what other capacity it could be.

3:AM: What is it then, and why does this distinction matter?

JG:I think an imaginative person is someone with the propensity or tendency to think imaginatively. It’s not just that she can think imaginatively: she often does. Being clear about this can matter for many philosophical purposes. But one area in which it will probably matter is in explaining the value of imaginativeness. For instance, you might wonder whether being imaginative is good for you in and of itself. That is, you might wonder if imaginativeness is good for you not just because of what it enables you to do, but also in its own right, or non-instrumentally. Historically, some poets and philosophers have made bold claims about this. William Blake, for instance, seems to have held that a flourishing life consists in acting creatively.

If imaginativeness were only a capacity, I think it would be harder to make the case that imaginativeness itself is non-instrumentally good for you. On the face of it, capacities seem valuable only for what they enable you to do. But if imaginativeness is a tendency to think a certain way, other models of the value it has suggest themselves. It is more like an aspect of your personality or personal style. There is a long tradition in philosophy of arguing that it is good for a person, in and of itself, to live a life in which virtues are exercised. It’s worth considering whether arguments from this tradition can be applied to imaginativeness.

3:AM:Why is imaginativeness in a person valued?

JG:Many people regard imaginativeness as a good thing about a person, and some also regard it as good for the imaginative person. It’s clear that a person’s imaginativeness can be a good thing about her, or good for her, when it has good effects – a cure for a disease, for instance, or a resolution of a conflict. It’s an interesting question why (or even whether) many people also value imaginativeness as a non-instrumental good, that is, for reasons other than its good effects. Some poets and philosophers clearly do. If imaginativeness is valued more widely as a non-instrumental good, I suspect this is due to people’s admiration of individuality and autonomy.

3:AM:You argue against the Romantic view of the non-instrumentalist value of imaginativeness because you don’t think it is to do with self-realisation, and they do don’t you? But you defend the notion nonetheless that it is a non-instrumentally good thing for a person. Can you first say why the Romantic view is wrong? And if it’s not good for self-realisation, what is imaginativeness good for?

JG:I don’t claim that acting imaginatively is never involved in self-development or self-realisation (whatever one thinks these are). But I haven’t seen a good argument that it is normally or necessarily involved. The arguments I am familiar with rely on the claim that everyone has a unique way of being human, or a latent true self very different from anyone else’s. Realizing that true self will consist in living imaginatively, because that true self will be highly distinctive and individual. Insofar as I understand these claims, I don’t see why we should believe them. For example, I don’t see why there aren’t many ways of realizing or developing yourself (even your ‘true’ self), some of which would make you very different from other people, and some of which would make you very similar.

I think a more promising route is to argue that imaginativeness makes the imaginative person irreplaceable for certain purposes, or at least, replaceable by far fewer people than she would be if she weren’t imaginative. This is because thinking imaginatively involves thinking of what is not obvious. The less obvious the thought is, the less likely it is that other people would have it. In the case of great imaginativeness, perhaps no one else would have thought of it – not even other imaginative people. Perhaps no other poet, however imaginative, would have come up with anything like the imaginative ways of looking at the world, imagery, and manner of expression that Emily Dickinson comes up with. She did not just write extraordinary poetry: she was needed for poems like this to be written.

It can be good for a person, in and of itself, to be needed for certain purposes (depending, of course, on the purpose). It can be depressing to be in a job where everything you do could have been done easily by anyone else. In many contexts, ‘Anyone could have done that’ is a painful criticism of one’s work. By contrast, someone imaginative thinks of things that few others would have. Her contribution could not have been easily supplied by others. I argue that this is why being imaginative can be good for you, in and of itself. Your being needed for a valuable purpose, at least if you also value that purpose yourself, makes your life more meaningful. It makes a difference that you were the one who undertook that task.

3:AM:A part of the critic’s armoury is her use of metaphor – and this is something that raises interesting questions as to how metaphor relates to the use of imaginativeness in the critic. So first, why is metaphor so prevalent in art criticism? Why don’t you agree with philosophers who say that metaphors are indispensable for thinking about, expressing, communicating or discovering certain things? After all, if the Indispensability Thesis is correct then we shouldn’t be surprised to find critics using them all the time?

JG: Metaphors enable critics to be very specific about how an artwork looks. A simple example is from criticism of ancient Greek vase painting. Greek painters at a certain period depicted folds of clothing with many lines drawn close together and curving around the figure’s body. Art historians call this ‘the spaghetti style’. This is a perfect description: the people in the paintings do look like they are wrapped in spaghetti. The metaphor precisely captures a very specific look, which is relevant to appreciation of the vase.

Metaphors also prompt us to look or to imagine. You look at or imagine the painting to figure out what could possibly be meant by describing the drapery as spaghetti. This is especially true when the metaphor is novel, and so doesn’t have a meaning already associated with it. Looking at the thing described is often the best way of figuring out what is meant. It serves the critic’s purpose to talk in a way that cannot be easily understood without looking at or imagining the work. These are ways of better appreciating the work, and one of the critic’s aims is to enable us to appreciate it better.

Now, many philosophers accept a much stronger claim. They say that metaphor is needed in order to think, express, communicate, or discover certain things. I call this view ‘the Indispensability Thesis’. Thoughts about our own feelings, sensations, and experiences are often regarded as examples. We need metaphor, they say, to express or communicate that a pain is sharp, stabbing, or grinding. Non-metaphorical language would not quite capture it. And because aesthetic qualities are thought to be intimately related to feelings, sensations, and experiences, some hold that art critics use metaphor frequently in criticism because they frequently express thoughts about aesthetic qualities, many of which can only be expressed in metaphor.

It’s important to appreciate how radical the Indispensability Thesis is. It is not, for instance, the view that comparisons are indispensable in communication or thinking. Maybe we cannot describe some unfamiliar experiences without comparing them to something familiar. That is not enough for the Indispensability Thesis to be true. According to it, we need metaphor, and no other kind of comparison, to communicate these thoughts. Metaphors communicate information that the words ‘like’ or ‘as’ never could.

I am not persuaded of this. All the alleged examples of indispensable metaphors I have seen are actually examples of something else. For instance, sharp pain is just pain that feels like pain caused by sharp objects. Describing it that way is not a metaphor, though it is a comparison. Maybe this is an example of an indispensable comparison, but it’s not an example of an indispensable metaphor. Notice also that, in making this comparison, I used the concept of sharpness. Maybe we need the concept of sharpness to communicate this specific thought about the pain, whether we communicate it metaphorically or literally. But that does not mean we need a metaphor that uses the concept of sharpness to communicate the thought. I think many metaphors seem indispensable because the concepts used in them are indispensable. Confusions like these make the Indispensability Thesis seem more plausible than it is.

3:AM:So, what do metaphors communicate and why do you say that this account applies to art-critical metaphors given that critics deny this?

JG:Most people are taught at school that a metaphor is a simile with the word ‘like’ or ‘as’ removed. On that view, a metaphor means whatever the corresponding simile means. Romeo communicates the same thing whether he says ‘Juliet is the sun’ or ‘Juliet is like the sun’. Different words are used, but the same information is conveyed.

For many reasons, this view is unpopular with philosophers of language. For example, many argue that all similes are true, but not all metaphors are, so metaphors are not abbreviated similes. All similes are true, they say, because everything is like everything in some respect or other. A raven is like a writing desk, in that both are material objects, both are found on earth, and so forth. And Juliet is like the sun, because everything is like the sun. But Juliet might not be, metaphorically speaking, the sun. So, they conclude, metaphors are not just similes with words removed, as you were taught in school.

I think that many standard objections to the simile theory are unconvincing. And I think the basic idea behind the simile theory is right, although the theory itself is too simple. All metaphors are based on similarity, even if they are not all similes. The metaphor ‘A is B’ may not communicate the highly general thought that A is like B in some respect or other. But it may communicate that A has some feature F, where F is a feature B has. To understand the metaphor, we employ our knowledge that B has that feature. You can call someone ‘a giant’ to convey that she is very tall, which is a feature giants have. You do not just convey that there is some feature or other that she shares with giants.

There are more complicated ways in which metaphors relate to similarity. Wallace Stevens describes a garden in one of his poems as a ‘slum of bloom’. This conveys that the garden is overgrown. This is not a feature slums have. But being overgrown is a way of being disorderly, which is a feature of slums. So the garden is like a slum in that both are disorderly; and we use our knowledge that slums have this feature to understand that the metaphor communicates, more specifically, that the garden is overgrown.

There are still other ways in which metaphor is based on similarity, and I have tried to identify them in my book. I think that when we notice this, the idea that all metaphors are based on similarity appears much more plausible. Those who deny that an account like this can apply to art critics’ metaphors have several reasons for saying this. But one reason is puzzlement over the use of emotion words to describe emotionally expressive music. It is notoriously difficult to say what it means to call a piece of music ‘sad’ or ‘happy’. Many think that ‘sad music’ is a metaphor, and that it is not based on similarity (for instance, a similarity between sad music and sad people), and so accounts like mine cannot be correct. But arguments like these are not conclusive, insofar as it is unclear what the correct theory of musical expressiveness is. For one thing, there are resemblance theories of musical expression which claim that sad music is similar to sad feelings or behaviour. For another, it is not obvious that ‘sad music’ is a metaphor at all. Some argue that, because music is not sad in the way people are, we speak metaphorically when we call it sad. But this does not follow. Healthy food is not healthy in the way people are, but we do not speak metaphorically when we call food healthy. Healthy food is causally related to health in people, and on some theories of musical expression, sad music is causally related to sadness in people. If those theories are right, ‘sad music’ is not a metaphor. I don’t claim to have the correct theory of musical expressiveness, but I am not convinced by arguments that simply appeal to emotion words applied to music as counterexamples. Besides which, there are many metaphors in art criticism which my account describes correctly, and puzzles about these descriptions of music do not put that in doubt.

3:AM:You argue for two kinds of art-critical metaphor don’t you. Can you sketch what they are and explain why they occur so much in art criticism?

JG:Sometimes, a metaphor-user is interested in the fact that the artwork is like what she describes it as. Bernini’s colonnade around St Peter’s Square, for example, has been described as ‘the arms of the Church, embracing her flock’. Here, it is of interest that the colonnade is like a pair of embracing arms. The colonnade expresses welcome to the pilgrims by resembling a pair of arms that express welcome. The metaphor is used to draw attention to this resemblance. Appreciating the colonnade can involve noticing this.

Frequently, however, the metaphor-user is not actually interested in the fact that the thing is like what she describes it as. The example I gave earlier of Greek vase-paintings, drawn in the ‘spaghetti style’, illustrates this. A critic is not interested in the fact that the people in the painting look like they’re covered in spaghetti. It is hard to imagine how that could be relevant to appreciating Greek vase-paintings. Rather, the critic is interested in the fact that the drapery has a certain appearance. It so happens that this appearance makes the figures look like they’re covered in spaghetti, and the critic uses this resemblance to draw attention to the appearance. But it is the appearance, not the resemblance, that is of interest here. In the Bernini case, by contrast, the resemblance itself is important. So there are these two importantly different kinds of metaphor in criticism.

I think critics often use this second kind of metaphor for the reasons I mentioned above. Metaphors enable them to zero in on a very specific feature of the work, such as the look of the drapery in those paintings. They also prompt readers to perceive or imagine perceiving the feature in question.

3:AM:Is art valuable for their own sake, or for the experiences they afford? And does this depend on the value we put on copies of artworks?

JG:I am writing a new book, provisionally entitled What Good Is Art?, on the question of whether art is good in itself or good only because it provides valuable experiences. I think good art is good in itself. I think the valuable experiences the work gives us are responses to the work’s goodness, not the sole or primary source of it.

One argument for this starts by considering the performing arts. The artistic merits of performances include skilfulness, imaginativeness, boldness, intelligence, dexterity, and so on. Many of these qualities are excellences or virtues (for instance, intellectual virtues like intelligence). Now, there is a long tradition in philosophy of arguing that the virtuousness of an act makes that act good in itself or an end in itself. Acting wisely or courageously is good in itself, they say, and not merely good because of its effects. If this is true, we have an argument for the view that many of the artistic merits of performances make those performances good in themselves. Many artistic merits of performances are instances of virtuousness or excellence, and such features of performances make performances good in themselves. So some artistic merits make performances good in themselves.

One of the challenges I face is to defend the view that features like these make actions good in themselves, as this tradition claims. A second challenge is to see if this account can be extended beyond the performing arts. There are philosophers who think all artworks are performances, but most people think some artworks – like sculptures, paintings, and works of architecture – are not. Works like these can manifest the intelligence or imaginativeness of the acts that went into creating them. But they are not themselves acts. So I’ll need to see if I can argue that their artistic merits, too, make them good in themselves.

Copies of artworks are often mentioned in this connection. They are normally thought to show that a work’s appearance is not the only factor affecting how good it is. An imaginative painting could look the same as an unimaginative copy of it. But the imaginative painting might still be the better painting. So it seems that the qualities of mind manifested by the work, not just its appearance, affect how good it is. Whether manifesting valuable qualities of mind makes the work good in itself is one of the questions I will consider.

3:AM:And finally, for the readers here at 3:AM, are there five books you can recommend that will take us further into your philosophical world?

JG:I’m sure all readers of this interview have now Googled and ordered my book, The Critical Imagination (Oxford University Press, 2013), so I needn’t mention that.

I’ll first recommend a very good introduction to aesthetics. It is called A History of Six Ideasby Wladyslaw Tatarkiewicz. It is an outstanding history of the philosophy of art and beauty. It deserves to be better known.

Next, a work that relates directly to my work on imaginativeness and criticism is Oscar Wilde’s dialogue The Critic as Artist, in which he argues that critics ought to be as creative as artists.

I would also recommend Frank Sibley’s book of collected papers, Approach to Aesthetics. It’s a consistently insightful and interesting treatment of core problems in aesthetics, and in several papers he touches on the subject of metaphor in criticism.

The last two books are by my doctoral thesis supervisors: Values of Art: Pictures, Poetry, and Musicby Malcolm Budd

and The Objective Eye: Color, Form and Reality in the Theory of Artby John Hyman. Budd’s book is about what makes art good, and it includes sensitive discussions of specific issues raised by pictures, poetry, and music. Hyman’s book is about how pictures depict. In discussing this, he treats several topics that are of great interest in their own right, such as the nature of colour, the contrast between appearance and reality, and naturalism and realism in visual art. I recommend these two books as fine examples of how philosophical aesthetics should be done, especially because of the careful attention they pay to individual artworks.

Richard Marshallis still biding his time.

Buy his new book hereor his first book hereto keep him biding!