Preview: Mind as matter

The human brain is endlessly fascinating, much misunderstood and disconcertingly squidgy. A new exhibition at the Wellcome Collection in London, Brains: the Mind as Matter will bring together both new commissions and artefacts from the archives in characteristic interdisciplinary style - tools used to examine the brain sit alongside works from contemporary artists, human specimens are accompanied by short films, even Einstein's grey matter will make an appearance. The show's guest curator, Marius Kwint, makes it clear the approach isn't a purely scientific one: "The exhibition takes a look at the history of scientific practices rather than the technicalities of the brain's processes. We look at the physical matter of the brain as a way to unravel cultural practices. In many ways, I suppose you could call it the material culture of science".

To organise such a large quantity of material, the exhibition is divided into four sections: "Measuring/Classifying" looks at the history of how societies have attempted to use brain assessments to grade humans according to race, intelligence, class and other social attributes; "Mapping/Modelling" features a variety of representations of the brain's anatomy, including early visualisations by Reisch, Vesalius and Descartes; "Cutting/Treating" explores the history of surgical intervention, or as Kwint calls it, "a glorified form of DIY"; finally, "Giving/Taking" looks at the politics of brain donation and harvesting in more detail.

It's not all gore and taboos, however. "There is, we hope, an upbeat finish," says Kwint. "The final section features interviews with people who have decided to donate their brains to medical research after they've died, and highlights the real need for more research into neurodegenerative disorders such as Alzheimer's and dementia, the likes of which are reaching near epidemic levels." The exhibition will also draw attention to the lack of progress in the development of treatments for brain tumours, an area that continues to lag behind research into other forms of cancer.

The works range from a 5000-year-old skull to contemporary pieces from Helen Pynor and Andrew Carnie. So why are we still so in awe of this particular organ? "With all our technology," says Kwint, "it is still impossible to wholly understand the processes of the brain. Its capabilities are not dependent on genetics - the brain is in constant dialogue with the environment, and I think that's the thing that fascinates people. It's the almost incomprehensible idea that this tissue, this object, can produce such strong and vivid emotions within us."

It all sounds very enlightening, but won't visitors find it all a bit gruesome? Kwint is reassuring: "We don't intend to shock, but I'm sure it will provoke some strong reactions! It's certainly anatomically unflinching - we want it to be a truly visceral experience."

"Brains: the Mind as Matter" opens on 29 March at the Wellcome Collection.

ED THOMPSON / LUZ / EYEVINE
Show Hide image

"We’ve got things in common": why one of the EDL's original members quit

An early supporter of the group, painter-decorator Darren Carroll has had death threats since he left. But why did he change his mind about the English Defence League?

Darren Carroll is a slight man with bright blue eyes and an urgent need for redemption. A painter-decorator in his fifties, he has lived in Luton his whole life. He was one of the original members of the English Defence League (EDL), the far-right street movement founded by Carroll’s nephew Tommy Robinson.

Recently, things haven’t been easy. Four months before our meeting at a café near Luton Airport Parkway Station, Carroll had a minor stroke that affected his speech and vision. It was the delayed fallout from an attack in a pub across the road, his local. A stranger, who seemed to know a lot about him, started a conversation. “He showed me his arm. It was tattooed. There was a little bit of white skin left on the whole sleeve,” says Carroll. “He said, ‘Look at that.’ I said, ‘What?’ He said, ‘White is right.’ I said, ‘Nah, mate, I know exactly where you’re coming from. There’s nothing wrong with being white but there’s nothing right with it.’”

The man pretended to leave the pub, then walked back in and hit Carroll hard on the back of the head with his forearm. Afterwards, Carroll suffered persistent headaches. It caused a blood clot that set off the stroke. When we met, he had mostly recovered but was still unable to work.

It was not the first attack. Carroll has also had his front door kicked in. He and his children have received death threats. “This is since speaking up,” he says. “Not leaving – that’s different.”

Carroll looks uncomfortable when we discuss the early days of the EDL. “It was an organic thing,” he says. “Lots of people were involved at the very beginning for different reasons. Personally, I was not happy with the way the town was being run on a political level. Looking back, I was disenfranchised from mainstream politics.”

Luton has the dubious distinction of being a centre of both far-right and Islamist extremism. The EDL began here in 2009, in response to a demonstration organised by Anjem Choudary’s now banned extremist group al-Muhajiroun, which in turn was a reaction against an army regiment marching in Luton.

A counterprotest led to arrests and the EDL was born, with sometimes violent neo-fascist street protests spreading across the country. Robinson insisted from the outset that the EDL was not racist, but only “against the rise of radical Islam”. Carroll says it was local difficulties, rather than national issues such as immigration, that unsettled and motivated him – and he didn’t articulate the core problem as racism against white people, not even to himself. The EDL has never had a formal membership, but the think tank Demos estimated that there were between 25,000 and 35,000 active members in 2011, a loose coalition of football hooligans and far-right activists. Today, the numbers are much reduced.

Carroll’s family was closely involved and it was a while before he realised that the EDL was an extremist, racist group. He describes being at a demo in Birmingham soon after the first protest. “I looked at the other lads there and I didn’t like them. They didn’t smell right for me, as far as integrity goes. I thought, ‘I don’t want this.’” Carroll’s parents are Irish and he considers himself the child of immigrants.

It took several months for him to extricate himself from the group and stop attending demonstrations. “It’s a relationship breaker, so you’ve got to accept that things are broken for ever.” On building sites, he was known as the EDL guy. Work dried up.

Amid attempts to coerce him back into the movement, and concerned about damaging his family relationships, Carroll stayed silent for another year and a half, only starting to speak up a few years after he left the EDL. This triggered a new wave of threats. He reeled off a list of incidents: slashed tyres, smashed windows. “Last week, I got one on Facebook [saying] that I’m a ginger Muslim and I’m gonna get shot. That was someone I know privately, which I don’t take as a threat. Their particular problem seems to be that I’m on record saying I’d have a cup of tea in a mosque and sit down and talk to people.”

Carroll did so after seeing a Facebook post by a local activist, Dawood Masood. Masood had shared a video of an imam in Leicester speaking about terrorist violence, with a message saying that any EDL members were welcome to get in touch. Carroll met him and others from the Muslim community and they discussed ways to make Luton better. He told them that he wasn’t interested in religion, but invited them to what he considers his church: Luton Town FC.

“I had the idea it’s about setting precedents, because you never know who or what that affects,” he says. “I just thought, if I’m seen going to the football with them, it’s going to break a big piece of ice.”

As the EDL evolved largely from a football subculture, this was a bold step. They went to the match. “He’s Luton born and bred and he certainly don’t need his hand held. But I made him as comfortable as possible. Luton scored and he’s jumping up and down, loving it. At that point, I thought: ‘This is really Luton harmony. He’s cheering for the same thing and I’m cheering for the same thing. We’re both happy together at this moment in time. We’ve got things in common.’”

They have been to many matches since, Masood bringing his kids, Carroll his grandkids. Carroll has had a few threatening calls but remains undeterred. “The working-class Muslim lads are working-class Muslim lads. They’ve got all the same problems and social issues as us white, working-class people. It’s not just me or us. It’s everyone.” 

Samira Shackle is a freelance journalist, who tweets @samirashackle. She was formerly a staff writer for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage