The Sky in the Puddles...

Having witnessed truly shabby behavioir in public recently, I came to the conclusion that we appear to have largely lost our social skills and hitherto ability to get on with the others in a civil manner, whoever 'they' were. These days, an imperceptible static charge seems to be present in the air, making each individual edgy and trigger-happy, prompt to interpret any error or act of clumsiness or ignorance as a willful, heinous affront to which the 'victim' must respond with outrage and indignation proportional to the wrong visited upon them. Simultaneously, many of the social norms and niceties that kept the social machine ticking along are being stripped away, sloughed off as pointless and inappropriate. Observing social interactions where the basics such as a simple hello or goodbye have become redundant both shocks and saddens me, not to mention the loss of the staple British 'sorry' that was used in so many circumstances yet not necessarily as admittance of fault!

I always considered the dusty old expression 'minding your Ps and Qs (was that for one's 'pleases' and 'thank yous'? to be stuffy and meaningless, but I instinctively understand its significance today. Far worse still, is that nobody seems to remark on this lamentable state of affairs, so engrossed are they in being offended or hurt and signalling this to some kangaroo court. Is life lived through a screen to blame for this erosion, along with the myriad of social networks that are as divisive as they are unifying? I don't know since everything has become so contradictory and complex - I cannot differentiate reality from illusion, right from wrong, or tell to which degree the one is the reflection of the other. That is why I prefer finding a certain solace in Nature... The blue sky mirrored in the water below; no questions, just pleasure. Tangles and snags in the natural world are simply intriguing, not cause for some histrionic, overly-emotive reaction. Yet in society today, any complexity or grey area is no longer deemed acceptable in a world where you need to choose your camp and duly show your colours.

In this polarised environment, silence is violence and words are taken to be weapons in a war where it is not enough to agree to disagree but rather to defeat the other party whilst portraying yourself as both victor and victim. Everything today seems to focus on self, which in turn is largely dependant on how others perceive us, with the selfie now being so central to image and perception that we find it normal to pout and preen to some screen or other, finding some aspect of live to use as content. Personas are now 'curated' yet never have people so lacked originality and depth as they frequently do today - even language is peppered with the same old clichéd words and expressions which endeavour to give meaning and relevance to what is devoid of both.

Winter Bleakness...

Arriving in Birmingham this time, I was struck by the desolate state of the streets and the inhabitants, just off the shiny, brash and busy central shopping area. As always, the Brummie warmth shone through the cold, bland backcloth, where the dilapidated or derilect 19th century architecture still testifies to an era when the city was truly 'the workshop of the world' with 1000 trades. Today, the service sector has largely taken over where manufacturing became redundant, shopping and consumerism of all kinds now form the beating heart to a city where the machinery grinded to a halt, falling silent and inert. In this strange metamorphosis - this march towards an uncertain future - countless individuals have been sloughed off, discarded in the process, left by the wayside, unable to follow the social sea change wrought by mass de-industrialisation.

Entering the old Bull Ring indoor market through a side entrance, I was overwhelmed by the acrid smell of urine and the sight of people down-and-out, huddled together in the shelter afforded by the outdated building which is itself set for demolition in 2027. As I left the shell of this relic from my childhood, bracing myself against the chill, I was just able to make out the haunting notes of some beautiful music coming from street performers by St Martin's church. The incredible difference between the loveliness of this timeless hymn and the harshness of modern reality paid out before me made me catch my breath whilst the beauty of the music actually made me cry. However, when I thought of the words of this poem written by Christina Rossetti in 1872, it all seemed somewhat appropriate...

In the bleak mid-winter, Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak mid-winter Long ago.

To bolster myself up against ugly modernity, I decided to look at the church of St Martin, and gaze at its magnificent door with its intricate pomegranate brass fittings. To my dismay, I noticed that the central door knob had been stolen!

The Last Chrysanthemum

I always think that the French custom to mark Toussaint (All Saints’ Day) with chrysanthemums is rather bittersweet, as the flower seems intrinsically linked to a sense of loss, and the sadness which accompanies that. The beautiful autumnal colours of its blooms are likewise tinted, or tainted perhaps, with this same wistful essence, so much so that for many, the flowers have become somewhat mournful or morbid even, by association.

Certainly the chrysanthemum in its varied shapes and forms is sold widely across the country in the weeks leading up the end of October, to the point that the sight of all the flowers en masse leads to a fatigue which means that we fail to see the beauty inherent in each. And yet these beautiful, majestic flowers are works of art in themselves, and even more striking since they are one of the rare plants that bloom as autumn gradually prepares for winter.

The almost regal elegance and the purity of its understated beauty are surely the reasons why the chrysanthemum became an integral part of the cultural heritage of many Asian countries. Initially cultivated in China more than 3,000 years ago, it there took its place as one of the four symbolic plants; the Four Noble Ones (along with plum blossom, the orchid and bamboo). It is the national flower of China and is celebrated on the ninth day of the ninth lunar month – the Double Ninth Festival. Representing longevity and the ‘virtue to withstand all adversities’, and presumably offering this to those who partake of its health-giving properties through chrysanthemum wine and edible petals, the autumnal ‘flower of the ninth moon’ is valued for its medicinal benefits.

Despite that, the white or yellow flowers are frequently taken as a symbol of death and mourning in China and other Asian countries, much as the chrysanthemum in general is linked to such imagery in France. During the Heian period (794–1185), the ornamental chrysanthemum spread from China to Japan via Korea and the end of the 17th century saw Dutch merchants introducing the flower to Europe, and the rest is history, as they say!

In Japan, the chrysanthemum has been the emblem of the imperial family since the 12th century with the emperor’s crest symbolized by the 16-petalled flower whilst the flower motive adorns Japanese passports today. In Western culture, the flower marks the autumn equinox, a time of harvest and the fading of light and life itself. As one of the ‘short day’ plants, the chrysanthemum blooms when the number of hours of daylight are reduced, following the laws of photoperiodism as opposed to a direct sensitivity to temperature and sunlight. Not only does this apparently enable the plant to benefit from the unmitigated attentions of pollinators that are no longer distracted by ‘competition’ – the other nectar-providing flowers - but also allows it to use stored energy to maximise flower and seed production rather than a continued leaf growth.

Surely it was the mystery of such laws that led Thomas Hardy to write his poem The Last Chrysanthemum in awe and wonder at the functions of Nature that roll on, regardless of our human presence or intervention, controlled by a divine force – be that God (‘the Great Face behind’), natural forces or fate?

- The Last Chrysanthemum - Why should this flower delay so long.... To show its tremulous plumes? Now is the time of plaintive robin-song.... When flowers are in their tombs. Through the slow summer, when the sun.... Called to each frond and whorl.... That all he could for flowers was being done, Why did it not uncurl? It must have felt that fervid call.... Although it took no heed.... Waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall.... And saps all retrocede. Too late its beauty, lonely thing.... The season's shine is spent.... Nothing remains for it but shivering.... In tempests turbulent. Had it a reason for delay.... Dreaming in witlessness.... That for a bloom so delicately gay.... Winter would stay its stress? - I talk as if the thing were born.... With sense to work its mind; Yet it is but one mask of many worn By the Great Face behind.

Magical Mascarons... Bordeaux.

Despite the glaring sunlight and the soaring temperatures. I could not stop myself from squinting up at the incredible sculpted heads that gaze down from the grand facades in a city that is recognized as a world heritage site by the UNESCO; Bordeaux.

Although I was unaware of the fame of these illustrious 'têtes' on my visit, I learnt of their well-merited acclaim as symbols of the capital of the Gironde region regrettably only after the event. Had I known that they were such a 'thing' in Bordeaux, I would have observed them a little more methodically, rather than just taking shots at random.

In my ignorance, I simply enjoyed trying to spot these stone faces around the older parts of the city, and then admired the different expressions and accoutrements they bore.

The term 'mask' is commonly used in English to describe these sculpted works, however the French masque does not bear quite the same meaning and hence mascaron would be more appropriate. Indeed, originating in the Arabic word mascara and the Italian mascharone, the mascaron implies a'large grotesque mask' or 'buffoonery'.

Hence the mascaron would display exaggerated facial traits, contorted into comic or ridiculous expressions and grimaces yet its function was rather more serious - to act as a guardian to ward off evil forces and bad luck. Mascarons would therefore be placed above doorways, caves, grottos and fountains to keep at bay all that was undesirable. In Bordeaux, many allegorical, fantastic or comic mascarons adorn the building facades, yet there are also figures from Ancient Greek mythology, identifiable by the symbolic attributes that accompany them, albeit less familiar to us today and this has resulted in the terms masque/mascaron becoming somewhat interchangeable.

Strictly speaking, however, masques would typically be situated above arcades or colonnades on grand buildings and would feature the divinities, the seasons and other more 'serious' themes compared to those of the mascarons. Inspired by Greco-Latin Antiquity, certain Renaissance artists had used decorative heads in their own sculptural features and consequently during the reign of François 1er, Fontainebleau benefitted from this influence which then spread across France and Europe. In Paris, some of the first masques were employed on the Hôtel Carnavalet in the mid 16th century and later on the Palais du Louvre. The first heads appeared in Bordeaux in the 16th and 17th century but their greatest success was reserved for the Classical period when they were de rigueur to reflect the growing prosperity and status of the city. Olympian gods are to be seen in the Bordelais streets; Minerva with her owl, Jupiter with his thunder, Bacchus with his- vine leaves, Neptune with his trident, Mercury and his caduceus... Much of Bordeaux's wealth and might came from its position as main royal port in France and second busiest port in the world after London. During its golden age, the Port de la Lune was the vast trading hub, supplying Europe with its insatiable appetite for commodity staples such as wine, sugar, cocoa and coffee. Less glorious now was the city's trade in slaves, with Bordeaux holding the unenviable title as being the second largest French slave-trading city after Nantes. If you look carefully, you will notice black men and women heads looking down on you, as a nod to this past, whilst references to Bordeaux freemasons are also still visible. When the 'Pearl of Aquitaine' was subsequently transformed by the grand urban redesign masterminded by the 'Haussmann bordelais' - Marquis de Tourny - the inclusion of masques/mascarons was imposed for the enhancement of the facades. After the Revolution, the tenets of Neo-classicism led to a more sober approach to architectural embellishment and therefore the lavish extremes of Rococo style - including the masques and mascarons - fell out of favour. Today, the exact number of these sculpted heads is not clear, and even less certain are the names of the artists responsible for their realisation, yet somehow that adds to their magic!

Elegance and Decadence...

I keep wondering and pondering about what happened to elegance as an aesthetic aspiration. Wherever you go, wherever you look, much of what is displayed these days appears (to me) shoddy, sloppy and soulless, proposing either dull and depressing materials and colours or an array of garish, cheap ones. Nothing is made to last, but perhaps that is not such a bad thing, all things considered. So when I went to the historic Elysée Montmartre, now used as a venue, I was confronted with the old and the new...

Making my way up to the reception area, I thought about all those other people who had likewise ascended the impressive stairway over the years.. not to mention all those looking down on them doing so! Today, the lighting is brightly-coloured, in line with the modern usage of the Elysée as function rooms for professional events, parties and so on.

However, the serving counter in the salon area surrounding the vast stairway was stunning with its grand windows, panelling and the ceiling frescoes that were partly lit up by the chandeliers. I loved gazing up at these, champagne in hand, trying to imagine what social gatherings must have been like in past centuries since inauguration of the Elysée-Montmartre as a salle de spectacle in 1807.

Passionflower and The Blue Bower...

I recently saw Rossettis' The Blue Bower (1865), currently on loan from the Barber Institute at the Courtauld Gallery. The artist's model and subsequent mistress - Fanny Cornforth - was but one of several such 'stunners' whose beauty was caught in the mesmerizing paintings they inspired. With her rich russet hair, tumbling down, her prominent neck and rose-bud mouth, Fanny was very much Rossetti's 'type'. However, I would say that the likenesses all of the women whom he painted seem to blend together to capture his aesthetic ideal. Although they were different from one another - these women shared a particular uniqueness or Rossetti delivered their image in such a manner so as to highlight this. The long, tumbling hair that was truly a 'crowning glory', the distinctive nose, the expressive, ever-parted lips, the pale eyelashes visible in the light, the tapering fingers that are so eloquent are all the key features in the portraits of his women.

Surrounded by exotic Chinese cherry-blossom blue tiles, and the intertwined flowers and tendrils of the passionflower, Fanny gazes out onto us as her fingers pluck the strings of a Japanese instrument, the koto. Her expression is hard to define - she appears timeless and uncompromising in all her splendour, further enhanced by the jewel-like colours typical in the rendition of Pre-Raphaelite art. Born in 1835, at thirty years old, Fanny Cornforth, is indeed stunning, as she is in Rossetti's Bocca Baciata (Lips That Have Been Kissed). Yet these richly painted images that convey an idealized, sensual beauty and untainted, other-worldly purity were far removed from the harsher, lacklustre realities of Fanny's life.

From a modest background, she had to work throughout her life, as a servant, housekeeper and, of course, artist's model. Her outspoken nature and supposedly limited grasp of the social niceties deemed essential to a decent Victorian lady, meant that Fanny was never fully accepted by Rossetti's entourage. Yet what she may perhaps have lacked in education and breeding, she made up for in her looks in youth and a certain devotion to the friendship that she maintained with Rossetti until the end, when his family drove her from his home. Fanny did marry twice, but this did not lead to any long-term security so that poverty and ill-health resulted in her final years being spent in a mental asylum where she was ultimately buried in a collective grave.

Before and after death, her name was frequently sullied by rumours of immoral behaviour and inappropriate manner during her lifetime with and without Rossetti, and the last photograph of her in old age bears no ressemblance to the woman she had once been; the hair, mouth and nose are in no way distinctive features. And yet the paintings live on, in their opulence, capturing the idealized lover and muse that she had at one time incorporated, like passionflowers bursting out into the sunlight in their extravagant glory before sundown.

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.