The Enigmatic Saltonstall Painting...

In amongst the beautiful works of early 17th century portraiture in the Tate Britain is this fascinating group portrait painting. At first glance, it seems to be a slightly quirky family conversation piece with the members set around a sickbed rather than in a tea salon or in some bucolic scene, however all is not quite as it seems. Apparently painted by David de Granges (1611-1672), a painter of portrait miniatures, this large work is thought to represent the Saltonstall family from Oxfordshire.

Unlike paintings that underline the wealth and status of their patrons and/or their religious faith, this gathering appears to be a testimony to the ties, responsibilities and commitments between the family members. It is believed that Elizabeth, Richard Saltonstall’s first wife, is the ashen-white figure lying on her deathbed, with Mary, his second spouse, by her side. Elizabeth died from an unknown cause in 1630, thus leaving her husband a widower and leaving their two small children without a mother. Richard married Mary some three years later in 1633 and they went on to have two sons of their own, one of whom is depicted here as a swaddled baby. In this manner, there is an overlap of life and death and the merging of different periods of time. Although the painting was initially dated as from 1636, the style of clothing indicates a later date; 1640.

The first Saltonstall children, Richard and Ann, are shown on the left of the painting, the son loosely clasping the wrist of his young sister whilst leaving his other hand in that of his father, gripping the adult index finger between his own tiny fingers, in a discreet act of tenderness. In this manner the family unit is bound together, even more so as the father/husband reaches out in the direction of Elizabeth, thus forming a triangle with his head at the apex. The clothes and accessories worn by father and children give no indication of mourning; they seem relatively bright and well embellished. Of course, it should be remembered that the colour black was popularized in the Victorian era, following the example set by the grieving Queen Victoria herself, until then white or purple were frequently used to express loss. The son Richard is clothed in a girl’s attire – unbreeched - as was the norm up to the age of 7 years over the centuries until the end of the Victorian period. In the painting he is presented at the same age as when his mother died as opposed to the date of the painting’s execution. Richard Saltonstall is dressed in accordance with his status; elegant and stylish – just looks at the fancy bows and tassles on his garters! He also wears his hat indoors...

His outstretched left hand reaches towards his supine wife, as if to deposit the right glove into her upturned, open palm. She lies slightly propped up on the bed, framed by the rich curtains that surround it. Her delicate white gown is fully embroidered, as is the veil that covers her hair. Her eyes gaze on in the direction of her family, but offer no sign of recognition. It seems that she is not wearing a wedding ring or any other jewellery. In the right-hand corner sits Mary with her baby, both in attire that recall those of the other Saltonstalls, namely a red gown with white embroidery for the infant and an ecru satin dress for his mother, with lavish lace embellishment. Although she does not wear a wedding ring either, she has a ring on her left thumb, possibly an indication of a certain independence of mind and autonomy in relation to others. Perhaps as a sign of her individuality, she also has impressive pearl earrings and an elaborate hairstyle with curls framing the face. In her arms is one of the two babies she would have with Richard; John, born in 1634 (died in infancy) or Philip born 1636.

The orange-red swathed material of the bed curtains finds an echo in the colour of all three children’s gowns and the upholstery of Mary’s chair, thus creating a certain unity. The two women are set apart with their pale clothing, their attire denoting death and matrimony. The rich floral details in the wall hanging on the left - with crimson tulips and white lilies- harmonizes the opposites; adult, child, the deceased and the living, past and present. An open door slightly behind the eldest child seems to lead onto a forest scene shown on a lavish tapestry. The focal point of the work is the glove about to be delivered into Elizabeth’s extended hand. Gloves were more than a mere accessory to differentiate one class from the lesser ones, and the offered glove gesture is obviously weighted with significance yet its meaning is sadly not obvious to us today.

Nevertheless, many works exist from this period with one gloved hand (usually the left), clutching the right glove, leaving the other hand bare. This is a symbol of faith, trust and honestly, often linked to a legal arrangement. In this way, rather like the humble handshake, a glove proffered would bind vows that a gentleman had sworn, oaths that were pledged. Below is a portrait of the lawyer William Style of Langley (1636) showing his rejection of all that is the wordly in order to turn towards the spiritual.

The Saltonstall portrait could be assumed to be a visual trace of the promise made by Richard to his dying/dead wife to respect the interests of their offspring regarding the inheritance of the family estate. Indeed, widowers remarrying would often relinquish the rights of their first-born children in order to pacify a demanding young bride. Disputes invariably arose in the recomposed family unit, often fuelled by jealousy – Snow White being a case in point! As we observe the scene, we are held witness to the husband’s pledge and are forced to acknowledge this as the eldest child stares out at us. Richard Saltonstall, meanwhile, looks across to his second wife as he prepares to drop the glove, obliging her to recognize the act.

The depiction of the writing and amendment of wills on the deathbed was not infrequent in art and therefore the Saltonstall portrait is perhaps a variation of this theme. Despite the nature of the scene shown here, the tone is not overly morbid and the participants are not given over to excess displays of grief and nor is sadness etched on their faces. Elizabeth does not weep for the children left behind and nor does Richard shed any visible tears over her loss; Mary looks on in a placid manner. In sculpted funerary monuments and tombs, it was often habitual to present women who had died in childbirth, and to show the deceased and the living gathered together. Seen in this light, the Saltonstall portrait appears to be a combination of commonplace aesthetic and social practices but what makes it more unusual is its intimate nature, set in the home.

Silky Chiffon... Hisbiscus Syriacus.

The intense heat is beating down so I escaped to the garden centre to have the impression of cool temperatures whilst amongst the flowers, plants and shrubs. In fact, it was possibly even hotter there but all the greenery and blooms made it far more bearable!

The hibiscus flowers caught my attention with their delicate petals and pale colours that appear so refreshing and light in the blazing heat and bright light. These were not the 'dinnerplate', Tropical hibiscus (Hibiscus rosa-sinensis) and were therefore smaller in diameter and did not have the same long central staminal tube protruding from the pit of the petals in that distinctive, eye-catching fashion. I once saw a hummingbird feeding from one of these a number of years ago in South America - it was entrancing!

Incidentally, Sinensis means 'Chinese' as this type of hibiscus was considered to have originated there, with extensive cultivation of the flower. European explorers and traders brought specimens back with them in the 17th century, ultimately leading to hibiscus becoming a horticultural staple as so many other flowering plants, shrubs and trees that we hold to be quintessentially English. The one hibiscus that I would love to see one day is the 'Japanese Lantern' (Hibiscus schizopetalus) as it is like no other....

The hibiscus H. Syriacus Althea, also known as the 'Rose of Sharon' has an exotic aspect yet perhaps less extreme than some of the other hybrids. Some varieties have double petals and ruffles, referred to as 'chiffon' - how perfect! And the darker hearts of the flowers seem to seep out, and to burst out into another colour arrangement, like ink running freely.

Or then fade back again, to become soft white...

Rather like tissue paper... Pure, cool and calming, especially when it is 36 degrees outside.

Threads and Veins... Tudor Portraiture.

There is something about Tudor portraiture that serves as a powerful antidote to all the ugliness, sleaziness and general indolence that appear to be swamping every aspect of life today, be that concrete reality or its virtual, screen-based version. I would say that simply visiting a museum or art gallery is akin to entering a haven, but that is not entirely the case any more as all that I wish to escape is seeping into the sanctuary, tainting everything in its passage. And therefore the earnest representations of the centuries-old sitters, shown in the glory of their attire is somehow uplifting, regardless as to whether these characters were actually decent individuals. The enigmatic smile of the beautiful young woman above - Lady Darcy of Chiche - painted in 1590 is just as captivating as that of da Vinci's Mona Lisa, as she looks out at us, literally framed by her finery.

We can see a faint, delicate blush on her cheeks that is offset by the painstaking detail of her clothing, where each thread is rendered with incredible accuracy. This work was painted a few years before her separation from her husband and intriguingly, the French inscription Jamais déréchef (Never again) is included!

The hands are strangely inexpressive, however, and look like those of a porcelain doll, hanging down in limp fashion, curiously lifeless despite the accessories she holds onto. The same could be said of the c.1605-10 portrait above, of a certain Mary Clerke standing in an uncomfortable, stiff pose. With her arms stretched out at an odd angle, she draws attention to the book published by her husband. Mary's hands almost look like white gloves!

The following portrait of an unknown pregnant lady, c.1595 by the famous Flemish painter Marcus Gheeraerts is joyous, with the delicate smile, expressive hands and, of course, the stunning dress...

We can imagine every stitch and thread of the white diaphanous clothing and count all the cultured pearls that adorn it, whilst her tender hands bare veins that are perhaps an indication to the life within her...

The somewhat icy expression displayed by the future Lady Morton in her grand portrait c.1620 is belied by the warm blood that we see in her veined hands that delicately grip onto her elegant accessories of fan and lacy handkerchief...

Although her dark beady eyes stare out at us in a challenging, smug manner, without any desire to charm, her clothes and those oddly gentle hands surely win over her public. The embroidery on her gown is simply exquisite, set against the sheen of the satin material and as for the lace, well, what can you say?

The young girl of 21 years clasps her hands as she gazes out from her framed portrait, the delicate colouring of her complexion contrasting with the dark background that brings out the pretty flowered gown and the carnation flower tucked behind her ear. Apparently she later went on to marry an elderly marquis but here we see her in the bloom of youth preserved forever in this portrait of 1569, in all her beauty. I wonder what kind of life she lived?

There is a similar striking contrast between background and portrait in the c.1565 painting of another unnamed lady of status, seen here clasping a beautiful cameo bearing a symbolic image of Prudence. Perhaps it was out of prudent discretion that she slightly averts her gaze.

All these paintings are visible in the Tate London.

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...