In advance of the Monster Weekend at the Centre for Life, gail-nina anderson examines our enduring fascination with those creatures that lurk on the edge of our consciousness.

Somewhere, in the depth of our deepest dreams, the monster lurks. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the one your granny told you about, the one from the classical textbook or the one created by CGI for David Tennant to chase in the TARDIS. Across the shifting landscape of human cultures, the presence of monsters is so universal that it’s impossible to doubt their existence.

Of course, that may not mean they are out there, so much as that they are in here with us. Are we hard-wired to expect danger as the visibly Other and to create the monstrous as a way of defining ourselves? When we evolved from little ratty mammals, did we inherit their species-memory of huge reptilian beasts to be avoided at all costs? Do we have to keep our imaginations active to ensure our continuation? Do we just think that big stompy things are irretrievably cool?

Whether you ticked all or none of the above, you currently have the chance to see several monstrous concepts in the flesh (well, resin, plastic – you get my drift) and to explore how these particular variants came to be seen as the great archetypes they are today. For yes – even the origins of the wildest myth can be illuminated by a little retro-logic, as is demonstrated by the Myths And Monstors exhibition currently on show at Newcastle’s Centre for Life. This offers a spectacular mix of the sensible and the wildly sensational, designed to nourish the enquiring mind while traumatising small children for life (as if!) The storyboards and small exhibits give you the background (a Narwhal horn that once “belonged” to a unicorn, a pygmy elephant’s skull that fuelled speculation about creatures with one great eye-socket) but the main monsters are recreated life-size so we can wallow in their weirdness.

And let’s face it, that’s what we want – the unholy glee of being permitted into the forbidden zone. Not that it’s all nasty. The rearing (but sadly static) unicorn is the stately white beast familiar from mediaeval tapestries and an endless proliferation of elfin fantasy novels, with a rather constipated added sound effect. The dragon is just as traditional, but this one moves as well as smells (rather like hot metal, which certainly isn’t the worst dragon’s breath I’ve ever inhaled.) It also periodically surrounds itself with smoky vapour, which can’t be the real thing or it would have been arrested for contravening our most cherished new law, and would have to stand outside to indulge its anti-social vice. (I’m assuming that devouring maidens doesn’t count because we lack the appropriate legislation to ban it).

These creatures have long become childhood friends. Exactly how do some monsters get welcomed into the nursery (is a unicorn more cuddly than a yeti?) while others, like the exhibition’s two classical creations, stay firmly outside? We have yet to see a My Little Cyclops, and now I know why. The Cyclops is simply nasty – it’s just as well this one lacks any smell-effects because you know it would stink. The mere matter of having one big eye in the middle of its forehead doesn’t start to describe it. You don’t want that one eye following you round the room when it’s part of a bulky human form with a serious skin condition and highly dubious eating habits. This vision is about to gnaw on the unnervingly realistic limb of something it’s just dismembered, bloodily, and the whole effect is deeply unhygienic. You just want to go and wash your hands (ah-ha – perhaps this is the useful result that monsters are intended to provoke?) Thank heavens that Mr Cyclops thought to throw on some primitive garment – there are bits I’d rather not even imagine. By contrast, the Greek Chimera is something you could watch for hours. Most of the monsters fall into a pattern of imaginable imaginings, but this one is just the fever-dream of the ancient world, put together on the mix-n-match principle. A lion, with a snake as its tail and a goat’s head half way down its back – and all the heads move and emit suitable sounds. Joy! – and far kinder to your liver than drinking heavily.

The star of the show is quite a recent (mentioned in literature from 1832) revelation to the western world, the Yeti. It’s big and hairy and for some reason this is the one you can imagine suddenly lumbering to its feet and walking over to sniff you. It also demonstrates the influence of popular culture in moulding the monstrous to type. An earlier version of the exhibition showed a brown Yeti, in accordance with pretty much all original accounts, but viewers were sure that this dweller of the snowy heights ought to be white, and so now it is. And that, children, is how monsters get made.

If this just whets your appetite for that legendary mental realm where the mythic and the scientific sit side by side, the Centre for Life has arranged a Monster Weekend of talks on the (utterly) unconventional side of natural history. On September 1 and 2 you can hear the sort of people who seriously research this misty hinterland (yup, that includes me) talking about dragons, sea monsters, UFOs and ape-men, in art, legend and even reality. The talks are free but seating is limited, so places should be booked in advance at: www.life.org.uk/monsters or call 0191 243 8210.

Entrance to the Centre for Life (including the Monsters exhibition) costs £7.50, with a discount for those attending the Monster Weekend.

Monster Weekend: September 1 & 2

www.life.org.uk/monsters

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