A Squabble of Seagulls...

The oil painting above - Line Fishing Season © the artist's estate. Image credit: The Box, Plymouth - is that of an artist that I had never heard of until visiting the current exhibition Birds:The Art of Cornwall’s Birdlife at Penlee House Gallery & Museum in Penzance. Although not himself Cornish, Charles Walter Simpson (1885–1971), spent a considerable amount of time living in Cornwall, arriving in Newlyn in 1906 and later going on to set up an art colony in St Ives with his wife, portrait artist Ruth Alison. He specialised in animal and bird painting, having turned to art in his teenage years when a riding accident prevented him from following his father's military career. The couple went back to London in the 1920s where he pursued other artistic ventures, each meeting with great success, but returned to Cornwall thereafter, settling in Lamorna and finally in Penzance.

His squabbling, squawking seagulls are so accurate that they could almost have been captured somewhere along the coast today (or further inland, for that matter). Wheeling Gulls, Glittering Water (1944) reflects Simpson's skill in recreating the essence of the creature in question, without resorting to slavish detail to represent reality. Seen up close, as in the detail from Simpson's Seagulls (1910-20) below, the brushwork is broad and the paint loosely applied and yet the effect is astounding as we take in the birds in their 'yelling multitudes', according to his student friend. Simpson remarked that a painter of living creatures should possess 'a naturalist's knowledge...but an equal facility for forgetting it'. In his St Ives studio, he displayed numerous stuffed bird specimens that enabled him to study the anatomy, plumage and poise of his subjects. However, he underlined his opinion that an artist should portray wild birds 'as an Impressionist treats a landscape; in their surroundings of space and light'.

Apparently, he studied the gulls around Penzance and Newlyn by luring them with buckets of fish offal that would sufficiently occupy them as he caught their likeness as they circled around, deftly skimming the water, slicing the air in flight.

Of course, other artists' work was displayed, again capturing that unique seagull aspect. Tucking a School of Pilchards by Percy Robert Craft (1856–1934) is a vast painting, of which the above is just one small detail. Interestingly, some of the fishermen portrayed in this work are thought to have been Newlyn rioters, from the 1896 protests that broke out in reaction to the fishing practices of the Lowestoft fleet (from Suffolk) that threatened to undermine the livelihood of the locals.

The soaring, gliding flight of gulls is likewise caught by Samuel 'Lamorna' Birch - regarded as the 'father figure' of the second generation of Newlyn artists - in his Tol Pedn (1907). You can almost hear the birds screeching as they swirl above the waves, preparing to plunge at fish below and to peck off the competition with poised beaks. That same energy is vividly present in the bas-relief Scavengers of the Sea (1973) by Rosamunde Fletcher (1914 - 1998).

The exhibition goes on until the 4th October 2025, and features many other bird species but the gulls were perhaps the most spectacular and above all, timeless in their essence!

A Fine Beast on a Facade...

As I come back home on the same old route, stuck in the traffic going in the opposite direction to the morning trip, I likewise look out at the now-familiar sights in the city landscape. Nevertheless, a few little gems appear to have escaped my attention and the architectural feature above is a perfect case in point!

This beautiful sculpted ram adorns one of the buildings that apparently survived the wartime hostilities in the Great War (1914-1918). I think it probably dates back to the last decades of the 19th century. And what a magnificent beast this is and what a precious specimen of discreet facade decoration! For all its finery, this feature is below a balcony and therefore not immediately visible. The ram therefore gazes down on all passersby, surrounded by oak leaves - presumably signifying stability and endurance and acorns for renewal and new beginnings - perhaps a reference to the years following the Franco-Prussian war of 1870- 71. Like the lion (and the Lion of Belfort), the ram symbolises strength and bravery... The past meaning is largely lost on us today, for those who even notice the very existence of the fine sculpted creature above, and I do feel sadness that today's buildings are devoid of any will to decorate their bland facades in any interesting manner or to send out any kind of message, except that of modernity. But today's modern is soon a has-been for tomorrow...

The Past behind Une Place in Reims...

Typically getting held up at the same traffic lights most days, as my mind dwells on the usually niggling tasks to carry out, I also end up looking out at the same city architecture too. The old building by the tram stop usually catches my attention, albeit not for any actual beauty in design, but simply for the fact it has survived the passage of time and the various plans to get it demolished! Over the last two decades the surrounding area has been redeveloped to incorporate extensive modern housing projects and pedestrian areas to the point that the old house with its vast walled garden hidden behind stands fully alone in every sense. Although not a particularly old building – built in 1910 - it is the only remnant of the city’s distant past that few are even aware of today. However, this link back in time is less through its architectural design than the street name attached to its facade; Place Colin. Squinting across at the plaque the other day, I made out the reference associated with this location – the rémois Nicolas Colin (1621-1668). During the reign of Louis XIV, when Jean de La Fontaine was writing his fables in nearby Château-Thierry, and Molière’s plays were being performed, Colin was head surgeon to the king’s armies. More significantly in this context, the year 1668 marked the devastating outbreak of plague in Reims to which Colin would finally succumb along with his daughter Simonne, having valiantly returned to his hometown to help fight the epidemic.

Of course, waves of contagious disease were not uncommon across Europe in centuries past and Reims itself had already fallen victim in 1635 and 1650. The case of the Great Plague of London 1665 was, of course, one of the most renowned epidemics, known largely through the writings of Samuel Pepys (1633-1703) and those of Daniel Defoe (1660-1731) whose Journal of the Plague Year was published in 1722. London lost up to 20% of its population to the bubonic plague and the banishment of the disease was aided by the Great Fire of London that swept the city the following year, 1666. Understanding of the causes of plague was sketchy with most people believing, like Pepys, that contagion was a ‘divine visitation’ brought upon mankind in punishment for earthly sins. Prevention, protection and possible cure were all based on practices that were gruesome and generally inefficient, in line with beliefs that seem nonsensical, if not comic, to us today!

Nevertheless, rudimentary sanitary measures were developed and applied over time so that the plague of Marseille in 1720 was far better contained than previous outbreaks. In late 17th century France, the government laid down a cordon sanitaire, to limit uncontrolled propagation of the disease across the territory. Jean-Baptiste Colbert (1619-1683), oversaw the application of strict rules that initially saved the north of the country but little by little cases were declared and Reims -incidentally Colbert’s birthplace - fell just as other cities had weeks before. To prevent further deaths, pesthouses would isolate plague-stricken individuals from the healthy citizens and quarantaine sites des lazarets would often be set up in ports and docks. In Reims a former washhouse serving the Hôtel-Dieu (on the site of today’s palais de justice) was set up to this effect along the marshland by the banks of the Vesle. It was in this buanderie or buerie that Nicolas Colin worked and subsequently died alongside the patients, most of whom subsequently buried in a cemetery placed near the pesthouse. The buerie was later destined to become a hospital for cancer patients under Canon Godinot (1661-1749) – and Hôpital Saint-Louis was the first of its kind in the world. Godinot also ensured that Reims was supplied with fresh water from the Vesle thanks to a series of fountains that helped maintain a basic level of sanitation and thus prevent contagion from infectious diseases across the city. In order to honour Colin’s sacrifice and to commemorate the lives of those lost, a plaque mounted by a Croix aux Pestiférés was placed on this site which would finally be named Place Colin in 1903. With the construction of the tramway in 2011, the cross was moved to its present location – hidden by the trees near the bridge over the Vesle. Had I not tumbled across it one day, I would never have known about it. It seems to me that in the present day the city of Reims does not commit sufficiently to honour the past sacrifices of its medics…

Wonder and Warmth from Lantern Light...

During a recent return trip to the Tate Britain, I was yet again almost inexplicably drawn to three specific paintings, much as a moth to a flame. Painted between the end quarter of the 19th century up to end of the first quarter of the 20th century, these works have very little in common, apart from their respective representations of the irresistible glow emanating from lantern light. From there, the 'moth effect' operates, as the visitor is mesmerised by the visual effect that almost becomes a physical sensation, radiating a restful warmth of wonder. The first painting shown here, A Fishergirl's Light (1899), by an Austrian artist - Marianne Stokes (1855-1927) possesses a quasi-mystical air with the female figure shown in striking profile against a seascape of muted colours crisscrossed by the nets and sails of the fishing boats. She glances down, as if in prayer, to the glowing painted paper lamp she holds in her clasped hands, leaving us to ponder over the significance of its religious character. Another lantern illuminates the fishergirl's back as with the beads and crucifix of a rosary strung over the bow of boat. The collective lantern light picks up the warmth of the girl's face, neck and hands, offset by the stark crisp white of her coiffe headdress.

The second painting here, is the work of John Singer Sargent (1856-1925) that ensured his success when he arrived in London from Paris; Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose (1885-6). The glow of the lamps draws both the girls and us likewise into the garden scene, with a sense of childlike fascination with the play of light of flame on paper. The girls in their starched white clothing are caught in the twilight, patchily lit up by lanterns and surrounded by convoluted flower petals and the darker carpet of stalks as night starts to fall. The effect again is peaceful yet with a slight tension as the opposites play against each other...

Pastoral, painted after the First World War in 1923-4 by Frederick Cayley Robinson (1862-1927), offers a wistful image of peace with a family group set by a meandering, moonlit river. The air of timelessness is highlighted by the lack of direct cultural references or realist narrative, as the figures stand by their sheep, the father bows his head, thus overting his eyes; the mother holds the lantern down to light up the lambs, whilst the daughter gazes out at us from the silver birch trees. By their feet, moths gravitate towards the lantern, caught in the light...

A Bouillon in Bordeaux... St Jean.

Eager to escape the blazing sun and scorching temperatures during a recent trip to Bordeaux, but above all curious to see what the bordelais version of the Parisian Bouillon restaurants was like, I went into Bouillon Saint-Jean by the train station.

Like the more familiar Paris restaurants, the Saint Jean site is decorated in the art nouveau style with the fluid arabesque forms of the furniture and elegant decor, all of which was brought to life with the gentle lighting that was in contrast with the raging sunlight outside.

Although the restaurant could seat a large amount of people, on my visit everything was very calm. An expanse of immaculately laid tables stretched out, with their spotless white table cloths, gleaming glasses and, of course, the timeless Bouillon menu that offers the signature dishes at incredibly reasonable prices.

Unlike the Parisian Bouillon from last year, this one did not appear to have an upper-floor seating arrangement, but the staircase was enticing nevertheless and I felt compelled to explore!

Most of the tables extend out from below a vast verrière and the impressive globe chandelier......

The symmetrical rows of tables and chairs set out under the warm glow of the lights gave an impression of cool crispness and order alongwith a certain intimate coziness.

The Saint Jean is decorated with a collection of blue-and-white crockery - with plates on the walls and a vast array of dishes and tureens in the glass cabinets.

The effect was striking yet not starchy, as was continued by the displays of framed herbiers (specimens of dried plants)...

As always, I kept wondering about where all these different artifacts had originally come from and tried to imagine the lives of those who had once used them...

What would they think of the family dinner set now being used to welcome visitors from far and wide?

Outside the establishment is the vast mosaic Art Déco facade that in fact indicates the origins of this particular Bouillon restaurant. Interestingly, the Café du Levant was founded at virtually the same time as the Parisian Bouillons; the end of the 19th century. It took on the Bouillon name in 2023 but retained much of its initial identity.

Blazing Blue Skies in Bordeaux...

A very brief work trip to Bordeaux saw me, and the others attending, criss-cross this extremely large, beautiful city by tram and bus in the sweltering heat to reach the congress site.

Just as one of these trams was about to draw up to our stop, it went past a roundabout covered by a blaze of orange, yellow and red lilies and gladioli...

As this was in a less attractive area of the city, some built-up district with none of the charm of the old streets dominated by the majestic buildings of earlier centuries, these incredible flowers were a welcome sight...

Yet again, it proved that beauty is to be found where and when you least expect it. As soon as I was out of the tram, I ran back to admire the flowers, in spite of the traffic circling the roundabout and the 37 degre temperature! If only I could have captured the smell of the lilies in the sun; unbelievable!

Sculpted Intricacies... The Nigg Pictish Cross

My last visit to the V&A museum found me back in the Cast Court, gazing in wonder yet again at these incredible 19th century plaster reproductions of originals from centuries past! Standing against the wall, surrounded by the towering casts of sculptures, architectural features and monuments from across Europe, was a relatively discreet sculpted cross slab, dating back to the late 8th century AD. The Nigg stone is one of several fascinating carved stones of early medieval western Europe, created by the Picts who were a people formed by a confederation of tribes from the lands north of the Firth of Forth in what is today Scotland. The Nigg cross is Pictish Class 2 work ie cross slabs and free-standing crosses bearing Christian iconography as well as symbols in relief used by the Picts, as opposed to 'Symbol stones' (Class 1) and crosses without Pictish symbols ( Class 3). The work on the stone is so intricate that it was mind-boggling!

Nigg - from the Scottish Gaelic word meaning 'notch' - is a reference to the indent in the surrounding hills that are found on the north shore of the entrance to the Cromarty Firth. The Nigg cross once stood in the grounds of the 8th century Christian site to be occupied by the parish church of Nigg some thousand years later, in the 18th century. The stone was damaged in the 1700s, with a section lost from the top part of the cross, yet recovered from a nearby stream in 1998 and reattached to the disfigured work. The sculpted design and detail on the cross bear similarities with other Pictish works from the era, including free-standing crosses on Iona, the St Andrews Sarcophagus and the illuminated manuscript; the Book of Kells. The stone is composed of an elaborately decorated great cross in high relief on the front, set against an asymmetrical background of interwoven serpent forms that create raised bosses. On the pediment above the cross is a scene depicting Saint Anthony and Saint Paul being fed by a raven, as recounted by St Jerome. Looking at the sculpted detail, I find myself in awe at the skill from over a thousand years ago, yet charmed by the quirky figures and forms that seem somehow relatable.

Bonnard... Japonard

My visit to the exhibition Bonnard et le Japon in the Villa Caumont, almost a year ago, left a strange and lasting impression on me. The beautiful setting, in the bright early summer light made the display of the work of the ‘painter of happiness’ all the more striking. Yet although this artist is lauded for his stunningly colourful paintings, his art goes far beyond his choice of colours.

The year of Pierre Bonnard’s birth, 1847, saw the presentation of Japanese art to a Parisian public for the first time during the seventh Universal Exhibition of Art and Industry. Images and prints from the Land of the Rising Sun led to a wave of Japanism in Western art as new aesthetic principles and approaches influenced artists in Europe. From the late 1880s, Bonnard too, turned to Japanese work, finding himself not only inspired by the aesthetics of the ukiyo-e woodcuts, for example, but also the philosophy that underpinned this artistic vision. Part of this philosophical manner of viewing and rendering the world was the consciousness of the ephemeral aspect of life, and the will to contemplate and capture this essence in art.

While Bonnard never visited Japan, one art critic labelled him “the most Japanese of all French painters”. Alongside other artists that he met during his preparatory studies at the Académie Julian and then the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris – namely Paul Sérusier, Maurice Denis and Edouard Vuillard – Bonnard embraced the Nabi Movement, becoming ‘Le Nabi très Japonard’.

Seeking to renew artistic vision, the Nabis (from the Hebrew word for ‘prophet’ or ‘visionary’) were post-impressionists particularly influenced by Japanese art that favoured a calligraphic style, of fluid lines on a flat surface that largely rejected Western linear perspective based on relief and shadow.

In 1891, Bonnard’s poster France-Champagne - using colour lithography commonly used by Toulouse-Lautrec - caught the critics’ attention, as too did his work, Femmes au Jardin. This success marked a turning point in Bonnard’s life as he finally abandoned the law studies he had previously undertaken, in order to devote himself exclusively to art. A few years later, he went on to meet the woman who would be his main model in life – albeit not his sole muse or love – Marthe. It is she, the largely enigmatic Marthe ‘de Méligny’, who figures in most of his domestic scenes, appearing frequently in nude studies, yet rarely presented face-on, over their fifty-year relationship, ever present yet strangely elusive.

During his artistic career, Bonnard explored and revised the possibilities of colour and composition through his subjects – be they figures, landscapes, intimate interior settings or outdoors, whether in Paris, Normandy or the South of France. This desire to rework and relive his work – often altering and pieces created earlier -became an integral aspect of his artistic approach and his fluid vision of life itself and the creative process. In this respect, his stance resembles that of the ukiyo-e he so admired – ukiyo meaning ‘floating world’ – to the extent that his technique itself underlines the state of impermanence with each alteration.

One of the best examples of that are the four panels that form the Femmes au Jardin, initially started around 1921 but still being revisited some twenty-five years later! A fleeting quality that characterizes Bonnard’s work is also inspired by his interest in photography and his use of a Pocket Kodak to compose and frame his vision.

Yet, photographs enabled him to flee a restrictive representation of the reality of the present moment, not capture it slavishly.

Unlike his friend Monet, Bonnard rejected painting plein air, preferring to note impressions to help him recreate scenes from memory once back in his studio; “Before I start painting, I reflect, I dream”. In this way, an odd static quality in Bonnard’s work is present in both the vivid painting and the black-and-white studies. Colour, nevertheless, remained key to his work, with Bonnard admitting that he “sacrificed form to it almost unconsciously’.

Whilst such vibrancy set in unconventional compositions fills us with wonder and joy, Bonnard himself seemed to dismiss these as signs of jollity and light-heartedness, by remarking; ‘He who sings is not always happy’. Whether this was an allusion to his melancholic nature or not is hard to say but it certainly makes Bonnard’s art even more intriguing and unique.

Life and Loss...

The beauty of Nature often seems to be a shield or support against the natural events of life, with the integral facets of the living process...

Loss appears to be composed of a multitude of layers of old reality becoming a new realisation of a life without, yet each time one of these layers falls away, another becomes apparent, so that the ultimate acknowledgement of this revised existence is turned into a long process of tumbling downward but somehow never reaching the ground... acceptance.

How is it possible that a life is left or lost, and that what was so vital, living and whole is simply not there anymore? How do living beings suddenly no longer occupy part of our active lives? The questions are so basic and the answers so obvious and yet I cannot help but wonder over them again, again and again...

And then equally heart-wrenching and existentially baffling to me, is the idea of all identity being gradually eroded - or at very best compromised - at the end of a lifetime, stolen away by memory loss. How much are we made of our memories, of others and of our very selves? When do we cease to have a full identity if we can no longer remember who is who, or who or what we are or were?

This is not my own journey, but I have to watch on as this cruel process strips my father's memory away, so that now I can't even remember life with him before this illness. But there are precious moments to be lived and ones to be remembered - they just break your heart with sadness and gladness...