Having had my eye on this pair of copper-lustre Staffordshire dogs in one of the antique shops for some time, I finally succombed to temptation, and so now the next chapter of their story will be written into mine. In theory, these earthenware figures would have been manufactured in the ‘Potteries’ region of England – the Staffordshire area around Stoke-on-Trent ; heart of British ceramic production from the 17th century onward and home to the grand companies of Wedgwood and Spode. However, they may even have been produced in Scotland -around Glasgow or Edinburgh – areas also known for industrialized pottery production, and for developing their own line of ‘wally dugs’ (china dogs). Either way, I have no idea how or when this pair ended up in France but their past must certainly have been somewhat eventful, and not without mishap, as one of the dogs was broken and (rather shoddily) glued together again ! Two sets of Staffordshires have always been part of the decor in my family home and although I grew up with them, I never really wondered about their origins. Now, literally stuck in France due to travel restrictions to the UK, seeing my pair of recently-acquired dogs makes me think of home in every sense and wonder about the paths we lay down and follow, accompanied by our treasured objects.
As antiques pieces, I assumed that Staffordshire dogs adorned the wealthiest households, catering for sophisticated taste that would set the discerning owner apart from the masses. In fact, these figures were largely intended for the working classes alone, albeit those with sufficient financial means to splash out on such ornamentation. Initially they were sold locally but manufacture grew as the fashion to dress the fireplace mantels caught on, especially in Victorian Britain when a matching pair of ‘hearth dogs’ was felt to lend a certain touch to the modest home. Thousands of these were first sold at relatively affordable prices at fairs and markets– quite ironic considering that a good pair of authentic Staffordshire models can fetch considerable sums in auction houses and antique shops today.
Although such figures were produced in a variety of breeds – Dalmatians and greyhounds included – the most common was surely the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. This was the favourite dog of Charles II of England and later that of Queen Victoria herself, whose childhood pet ‘Dash’ was represented in paintings by Landseer. These ceramic beasts came in a variety of sizes – some surprisingly large – but all generally presented in a seated position, with the front leg(s) occasionally separately moulded from the body. For the most part, the dogs bear a gold chain and locket for a regal touch, and patches of gold luster on the body too. Details of fur in the moulding and paintwork vary somewhat, depending on the quality of the pieces. The craze for such dogs meant that they were churned out in ever-greater numbers to meet demand and so delicate brushstrokes would be replaced by daubs of paint. Regardless of their quality, all models nevertheless maintained a quaint air that in no way sought to achieve a slavish realism of the animal in question. The dogs’ expression tends to be rather quizzical – with arched eyebrows and eyes that tend to gaze ahead. Whilst my dogs have simple painted yellow irises, many models had glass eyes that must have caught the light around the fireplace in their original settings. It is said that the factory workers’ children were employed to hand paint the whiskers and other fine details. Certainly, in the early models no two dogs were identical which added to their charm all the more. The colour of the dogs varied too. Often russet brown or black features were common on a typically white body, highlighted with the touches of gold. Whatever the colourings, the back of the models remained largely undecorated since this was not visible from the dogs’ vantage point upon the mantelpiece ! Some figures were placed on the window sill and rumour has it that the position of the dogs would indicate to an illicit lover when the coast was clear and an unwitting spouse was away… The sending of a text message today certainly has none of the cachet of the past !
Given that early Staffordshire ware tended not to be marked, it is difficult to know the age of many specimens. This is further compounded by the fact that the market today is awash with reproductions, many of which date back to the 1920s and 1930s when the dogs underwent a resurgence of popularity. The signs of the production methods employed are generally the best way to date a piece. A coin-sized hole in the base of a dog indicates that the slip-cast process was used in order to mass produce in the late 19th century. My dogs have the small holes in their backs that are indicative of the press-mould production of the earlier models and they also look remarkably like another pair of dogs that date back to the 1860s. However, with their hit-and-miss reassembly, and glue scar-tissue, my maimed Staffordshire spaniels could no longer command any sizeable sale price on the market but they are worth more than mere money. I do wish antiques could talk - to tell us their story and those of the people who have accompanied them over the decades…
For several weeks now, the peonies have been out in flower, with beautiful ruffled petals, billowing out of their slightly oriental-looking buds...
Over this same period, as chance would have it, I have been reading a copy of the book Pivoine that I recovered from one of the book-share points around town.
Set in mid 19th-century China, it traces the story of a wealthy Jewish merchant family living in Kaifeng, a city set in the province of Henan and known for its community of Chinese Jews. The eponymous character of the novel, Peony, is in fact the Chinese bondmaid of the Ezra household, and her actions are central to the events that will mark the family's fate and faith. Quite what those will be exactly, and the outcome of which, I have yet to learn as I haven't made much progress so far, so absolutely no need to issue a 'spoiler' warning here !
For years, I used to come across the name of the author in question, Pearl Buck, when rummaging around second-hand book shops and visiting brocantes... and I gave it a very wide berth! As I had never heard of her novels in England, or anywhere else for that matter, I just assumed this was some writer of ghastly potboilers - steeped in romance and/or adventure; hence the seemingly stagey name ! Little did I know at the time that Buck (1892—1973) was not only a highly-acclaimed novelist, born to American missionary parents and brought up in China, but also responsible for the foundation of an international, interracial adoption organisation. In fact her life is just as fascinating as her writings but more of all that when I have actually finished reading Pivoine !
Dans ma cervelle se promène,
ainsi qu'en son appartement,
un beau chat, fort, doux et charmant.
Quand il miaule, on l'entend à peine,
Tant son timbre est tendre et discret ;
mais que sa voix s'apaise ou gronde,
elle est toujours riche et profonde.
C'est là son charme et son secret.
Cette voix, qui perle et qui filtre
dans mon fonds le plus ténébreux,
me remplit comme un vers nombreux
et me réjouit comme un philtre.
Elle endort les plus cruels maux
et contient toutes les extases ;
pour dire les plus longues phrases,
elle n'a pas besoin de mots.
Non, il n'est pas d'archet qui morde
sur mon coeur, parfait instrument,
et fasse plus royalement
chanter sa plus vibrante corde,
Que ta voix, chat mystérieux,
chat séraphique, chat étrange,
en qui tout est, comme en un ange,
aussi subtil qu'harmonieux !
De sa fourrure blonde et brune
sort un parfum si doux, qu'un soir
j'en fus embaumé, pour l'avoir
caressée une fois, rien qu'une.
C'est l'esprit familier du lieu ;
il juge, il préside, il inspire
toutes choses dans son empire ;
peut-être est-il fée, est-il dieu ?
Quand mes yeux, vers ce chat que j'aime
tirés comme par un aimant,
se retournent docilement
et que je regarde en moi-même,
je vois avec étonnement
le feu de ses prunelles pâles,
clairs fanaux, vivantes opales,
qui me contemplent fixement.
End of the month, and despite seeing so many beautiful things over the last few weeks and months, I have not had the time to set them all out and admire them... There did, however, seem to be a large quantity of purple, in all shades, on flowers of all shapes and forms!
The majestic irises came and went, standing in all their glory; tall and proud around the town...
The elegant fritillary flowers stood poised in a florist's window, chequered heads gently bent down...
Whilst the Spanish lavender seemed to hover in the garden centre, like a swarm of floral insects...
The foxgloves towering in rows, with their speckled fingers drawing in the bees...
And the classic rose, buds and blooms, climbing up trellises...
Clusters of columbines, bursting out, raindrops gathered on the bright iris...
Set in the 15th arrondissement of Paris, near Gare Montparnasse, the Musée-Atelier of Antoine Bourdelle (1861 – 1929) seems a world apart from the busy streets, and tall buildings that surround it. Beautiful statues in the museum garden stand proud and timeless, against an uninspiring backcloth of late 20th century concrete ugliness. The magnificence of sculpted forms, dating back a hundred years, seems to be amplified by this strange forced mariage.
The museum today is composed of the artist’s house and studio - «demeure de l’esprit» - with its sequence of rooms and gardens and yards, which he occupied from 1884 to 1929. I visited it in order to see the exhibition Les Contes Etranges of the Danish sculptor Niels Hansen Jacobsen, held there just as COVID started to stake its claim on 2020. However, I was equally struck by the beauty of this exceptional setting with its unique atmosphere and am looking forward to returning.
Strangely enough, I cannot even remember if I was fully aware of Bourdelle before my visit. It seems as if Auguste Rodin’s name is often considered to be THE reference, rightly or wrongly, in 19th century sculpture. With its Art Deco influence, Bourdelle’s work does, however, occupy an important role as it marks the transition from the academic Beaux-Arts style to modern sculpture. And although he had actually worked with Rodin for a number of years at the beginning of his career, he went on the develop his own highly distinct style. Rodin’ s fraught figures, often of taut nerves and sinew become powerful forms of muscle, vigor and contained energy in Bourdelle's art, creating a new vitality.
From a young age, Bourdelle worked on wood carving and drawing and remarked that “sculpture was no more than drawing in every sense”. . Leaving the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Toulouse in his twenties, he settled in Paris to continue his studies and to work in the studio of Alexandre Falguière (1831 – 1900). However, it was his position as practitioner in Rodin’s studio and his collaboration with the artist over fifteen years that no doubt shaped his approach to his own art in a rather more significant manner. Although initially referred to as “le demi Rodin”, given the influence that the mentor’s art exerted over him, Bourdelle went on to develop his unique style at the turn of the century and from 1910 no longer worked with his fellow sculptor.
In 1900, he created his bust of Apollo, a work which he himself recognized as being decisive in his development as an artist, since it enabled him to express what he wanted to convey. Whilst employing a similar approach to Rodin in the execution of the work, with visible marks of tools, and traces in the gouged material that left a surface seemingly unfinished, Bourdelle sought an independent style. Departing from the Expressionist Romanticism of Rodin, he drew inspiration from the work of Ancient Greek that he observed in the Louvre. From this, he created a personal manner of order, harmony and simplification. He later remarked that, in so doing, he evaded the fleeting, fortuitous and inconsequential in order to lay out what was universal and permanent.
Of his work, the imposing, monolithic forms that demonstrate this desire to explore the impressive force of ancient Greek sculpture are the ones I liked the most, especially given their unique settings in the museum and its gardens. As much as I tend to dislike Neo-Classicist art with its heavy themes and equally weighty figures positioned in meaningful poses, I really do appreciate Bourdelle. There is little or none of the anecdotal, yet dry academic themes referring back to now sadly obscure episodes of mythology. Instead, what you get are demonstrations of the dynamic meeting of modern Man and ancient deities to create timeless figures whose force you feel directly.
Gone are the anaemic, etiolated figures of Bourdelle’s predecessors and contemporaries that often seem rather stodgy and sentimental in nature, and likewise Rodin’s sinewy, tortured, troubled characters are abandoned too. Here, you actually sense the suspended tension, caught in the moment, in art that nevertheless highlights what is somehow permanent. In this, Bourdelle’s art was thoroughly modern in a similar vein to the dance of Isadora Duncan (1878 – 1927) that had also been a source of inspiration. Vital energy, pure forms and exaggerated rendition appear to take precedence over slavish, ponderous realism that distracts you from the essential and in so doing stifles the essence of the work itself, be that in plastic or performing arts.
You can experience the tension in the resulting sculpture like the force restrained in a flexed bow - with arrow ready to spring - through lines, angles, curves and movement that appear cast in iron through their massive strength and volume. Of course, the perfect example of this is in Bourdelle’s Hercules the Archer (1909), with its architectutural proportions and dramatic pose. I have just managed to see one of the copies of this work in the Musée d’Orsay and found that watching the reaction of the visitors was quite fascinating as their eyes, like mine, were drawn into the work with its powerful, unforgettable figure.
The concept and realization of the atelier-musée was a project that dominated the latter part of Bourdelles’s life. Following the example set by Rodin, with his wish to leave work to a museum in his name, he laid down detailed plans for the execution of the Atélier-Musée Bourdelle. In 1885, he had set himself up in the quartier of 16th arrondissement, in what was once gardens and vineyards, with fellow artists “as widespread as the grass in the cracks of the pavement” and so it was that Jules Dalou (1838 – 1902) and Eugène Carrière were his close neighbours. I can’t help but wonder what they would think of the whole area now…
Today, we can visit the spaces where Bourdelle taught his pupils; rooms with their original wooden floors, high ceilings, mezzanines for observation of work underway and large windows opening out onto the courtyard and gardens. It was the dedication of his widow, Cleopatre and their daughter Rhodia, that ensured the completion of the full project after Bourdelle’s death. Furthermore, it was the intervention of the patron Gabriel Cognacq that saved the site from destruction when the original cul-de-sac, Impasse du Maine, was opened up in 1930. The atelier-musée was inaugurated in 1949.
The last decade of Bourdelle’s life was marked by the realization of many large official commissions, many of which are displayed to great effect in the gardens of the grounds. The Virgin of the Offering (1920-25), Dying Centaur (1914), France (1925), General Alvear, Sapho (1925) and Horse (1922) are amongst other bronze statues that tower over us in an imposing fashion, set against the skies and the Montauban bricks employed in the building construction in a nod to the artist’s birth origins.
Further monumental works are housed in the Great Hall that was installed in 1961 to mark the century of the artist’s birth. This vast space acts as a modern temple, with its huge concrete roof flooding the plaster sculpture in light, to great effect. Meanwhile an extension of modern exhibition rooms was added in 1992 to display work and conserve documents and artifacts.
All in all, the whole site was a pleasure to discover.
In the first lockdown last year, I took pity on the pitiful clematis plants on sale in the local supermarket. Lacking water and natural sunlight, their leaves had become so shrivelled and their woody stems so brittle that the cashier even advised me against buying them. However, buy them I did. Despite spending most of the year in a relatively sorry state, this spring the plants started to grow in a determined fashion and have now produced their dazzling flowers to grace my balcony. The beautiful flowers have large, slightly ruffle-edged petals which are known to attract butterflies and hummingbirds in certain climates, though I think it is safe to say that there is no danger of that occuring here!
The flowers on one of the plants are a gentle amethyst whilst the others are a rich, regal purple. Perhaps the right description of this particular shade would be 'heliotrope', in reference to the flower itself of the borage family. Contrary to heliotrophic plants, the clematis does not turn its flowers and foliage to follow the movement of the sun throughout the day and in view of the incredibly wet weather at present, that is probably just as well... Nevertheless the grey skies are not able to dullen the hypnotic effect created by the delicate magenta veins traced on this particular purple, with the clockwise swirl of stamens at the centre to draw you in.
There is a certain amount of mystery surrounding this porcelain cat, with his enigmatic expression and puzzling past life. If cats have nine lives, I am not sure where he has spent the others prior to making an appearance in mine. Apparently this is a piece of ‘Chinese Imari’ as it has a qian yi tang mark on its base, perhaps dating back to the early 20th century. Despite having hunted around on internet for similar feline specimens, all those I have come across are either quite different in shape and design to this one/suspiciously modern-looking but vaunted as ‘vintage’ /generally cheap and tacky-looking. None of them really offer any solid description regarding origins, even though most of these are/were being auctioned off – some at exorbitant prices !
I have to say, with a certain amount of pride, that not one of these other models was on the same standing as mine ; the cat’s whiskers indeed ! He certainly thinks so, with that strange smile, and odd gaze! His colours are bright and well defined as they offset each other, but not in a shoddy, gaudy manner ; the painted floral detail is fine and delicate ; the glaze is fairly matt as opposed to shiny and superficial ; his porcelain mass is satisfyingly weighty. The only thing lacking is his story and the history of other Imari cats or other creatures like him. He too came from an auction house, but delivered without any kind of concrete information, strangely enough. However, whatever the particular trajectory of my cat, Imari porcelain in general exemplifies the centuries’ old exchange of ceramic style and technique between the Asian countries of China, Japan and Korea and the Middle East.
Porcelain is of course a Chinese invention and is typically referred to as ‘china’ in everyday English usage. The name Ming generally conjures up the image of some priceless vase used as a prop or piece of incriminating evidence in some whodunnit story ! However, the Ming dynasty was in fact just one of several successive dynastic periods that produced ceramics that would go on to dominate world trade - from the Song (960–1279), Yuan (1279-1368), Ming (1368-1644) and Qing (1644-1911) dynasties. From the 13th century, with its vast kilns Jingdezhen in Southern China was to become ‘porcelain city’. Much of this porcelain from the Yuan period was exported to the Middle East, and was adapted to and likewise influenced by the desire for ceramics enhanced by decorative motifs in blue glazes. Indeed, blue-and-white porcelain was manufactured en masse with its signature underglaze developed from the cobalt ‘Islamic blue’ exported from Persia.
From the Ming period onwards, Jingdezhen made imperial porcelain and the kilns were controlled by the emperor, but the taste for blue-and-white ware extended far beyond China and was to sweep across the Western world. Porcelain pieces initially came to Europe across land via the Silk Route, but Portuguese merchants later brought greater amounts back in seabound vessels. Yet despite an ever-growing supply, porcelain still remained the preserve of royalty and the rich, primarily in Portugal until the Dutch started to ship Chinaware massively to Amsterdam, the ‘world’s harbour’. The insatiable appetite of the affluent West for exotic ceramic goods and a whole range of other equally luxurious Asian artifacts was such that when, in the mid 1600s, the new Qing government closed ports following the demise of the Ming dynasty, the Dutch East India Company (VOC), turned to Japan as an alternative supplier.
From the mid 13th century, the tea-drinking culture that had originally been brought back to Japan from China by a Buddhist monk took a firm hold in Japanese culture, with the ritual of the tea ceremony leading to a demand in fine imported Chinese ceramic ware. During the Momoyama period (around 1573 – 1603), Japan set up its own porcelain production, aided by the arrival of expert Korean potters with their skillful use of the noborigama or 'rising kiln'. In the early 17th century, many of these artisans settled in an area that was found to be rich in kaolin clay, around the city of Arita. In this manner, Imari porcelain was born – named after the shipping port from where it left for Nagasaki. Initial Imari ware (Shoki-Imari) was based on blue-and-white porcelain and was sometimes referred to as Arita ware. This was so popular that many Europeans copied it on tin-glazed earthenware, Delft Blue from the Netherlands naturally being the main one to come to mind.
Japanese Imari style evolved over time as the blue underglaze was highlighted by a rusty reddish and a brilliant gold. In the same manner, this Imari style with its trio of colours was imitated throughout the West and was to be manufactured in Meissen in Germany, Chantilly in France, Delft in the Netherlands, and by Spode, Derby and Minton to name just a few in England. Imari pieces were typically decorated with flowers, birds, mythological creatures and auspicious symbols in line with the Japanese appreciation of both the natural and supernatural worlds and often inspired by textiles. Enamel decoration of porcelain, using an overglaze technique developed from the 1650s. This sub-type of Imari ware, known as Kakiemon (named after the persimmon fruit, kaki), employed soft red, yellow, blue and turquoise green colours to great effect and was highly popular and influential. So much so that when China’s porcelain trade picked up again for export at end of the reign of emperor Kangxi (1662-1722), it took full advantage of the European taste for Japanese design. It also profited from Japan’s own trade restrictions due to an isolationist foreign policy ! Thus Chinese Imari was born – based on both Japanese Imari and Kakiemon and drawing from their respective successes. Compared to Japanese Imari, the Chinese variety is said to have a thinner glaze, a brighter blue underglaze and a more translucent red enamel overglaze... Although Japan’s trade with the Dutch continued, its exports declined. Production costs were far higher than those in China, making the competition far too powerful to rival and so by 1740 this first period of Japanese exportation came to an end.
Japanese Imari did surge back into the Western markets from the mid 19th century when sakoku ('closed country') ended and exports were able to resume during the Meiji era. This of course coincided with the fascination of all things Japanese as Japonisme swept the West, influencing not only fine and decorative arts, but also architecture and landscape gardens. Japanese objets d’art became luxury objects of desire and a craze for collecting and displaying pieces fired trade. In many respects the long-reaching impact of Japonisme on Western aesthetics mirrored that of Chinoiserie which had reached a peak in the Rococo style of the mid-18th century, and thus continued the Asian influence. But where does that all leave my Imari cat ? Can he be considered to be more Japanese than Chinese ? Were such animal figures popular in Japan or China – or both ? I still don’t really have any clear idea but maybe that is part of his charm. Either way, I am dreaming of going back to museums and historical centres to see visions of blue-and-white, regardless of origin and have set my sights on Amsterdam…