Autumnal Gold...

This beautiful Burne-Jones work represents the legend of the Garden of the Hesperides, and the beauty of this piece, with its rich gold relief is even more apparent now in the autumn with all the golden tones. In fact this is just a detail of the original full work which is a large frieze representing eight nymphs - the daughters of the evening and 'golden light of sunsets'; the Hesperides.

The same theme was taken up by the Victorian artist Frederick Leighton in the work The Garden of the Hesperides (1892), with similar rich, glowing autumnal tones.

The apples and the flowing gowns of these maiden guards reminded me of the dried pomegranites that I seem to have gathered over the years, inadvertently adding another specimen to the unintended collection every time I simply forget to eat the fruit before it proceeds to harden! As regrettable (and wasteful) as that may be, I do get the pleasure of seeing their rich colours turn deeper and darker with time.

And the gold of the Burne- Jones relief brought to mind some of my favourite jewellery; rings and a bracelet representing simple ivy leaves, while outside the vineyards of the region are turning towards a ragged golden russet to great visual effect.

Stained-glass Windows in the Heart of Birmingham...

I recently rediscovered one of the most famous sets of stained-glass windows by Edward Burne-Jones 1833 – 1898, within the small cathedral in the heart of Birmingham city centre. I always remember the grounds of this site as being quite atmospheric, whatever the weather, with old dark gravestones engraved with ornate yet now barely legible inscriptions. The stonework of these graves has been worn away by time and blackened by centuries of grime since the consecration of the initial parish church of St Philip in 1715. Even as a child the place felt truly old, overlooked by tall trees which attracted the starlings at dusk that left a dank smell in the air. Far older again than the grand facades of the redbrick Victorian architecture in the city and perhaps more so than the cathedral itself but now I can see how they were indeed very much of the 18th century, when Birmingham began to thrive as the world’s ‘first manufacturing town’. These remaining graves, along with the majestic Georgian and Regency buildings that survived the devastation of the Blitz years and the ravages of post-war urban modernization reflect the years of the Midlands Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution when industry and trade transformed the Black Country, making Birmingham the ‘city of a thousand trades’. As the population grew in line with commerce, so too did the number of parishes and the obligation to have further administrative centres to cater to the growing congregation’s needs.

Designed by Thomas Archer in an Italianate style, the Baroque parish church of St Philip was named in honour of the benefactor who had donated the land on which it had been built. Not long after the town of Birmingham had become a city in 1889, it was decided to make this existing church a cathedral, as opposed to building an entirely new edifice for the purpose, as was the case in Liverpool and Truro. Of only 45 metres in length, St Philip’s is, as a result, one of the smallest cathedrals in the country, set in the Colmore Row district. Despite its modest proportions, it houses the three vast Burne-Jones windows that have been described as the greatest stained-glass works of all time. I am not sure you can ‘rate’ art in such a way, but these certainly are beautiful pieces, whether they are compared to others or not. When the initial church was enlarged in 1883-84, extending it eastward and producing a full chancel, the large central window required appropriate decoration, and Burne-Jones was commissioned for its design.

In fact, Burne-Jones had been born in Birmingham and baptized in this very church and therefore readily took up the commission. Furthermore, having studied theology at Oxford University and considered life as a church minister, it is not surprising that he accepted to depict scenes from the life and death of Christ. While he is said to have grumbled at the modest payment for the work rendered “ a flagrantly inadequate sum” , so admirative was he of his finished stained glass piece – The Ascension of Christ (1885) – that in 1887 he carried out the design for the other two windows, on the left and right; the Nativity and the Crucifixion, respectively. He later completed a fourth window, the Last Judgement, set in the western part of the church; the baptistry. The four works were therefore carried out over a twelve-year period between 1885 and 1897.

Burne-Jones was one of the founding partners, with William Morris, of the furnishings and decorative arts manufacturer and retailer Morris, Marshall, Faulkner and Co. He worked prodigiously in a vast array of the crafts, including the design of ceramic tiles, mosaics, jewelry, tapestries, and stained glass. I had seen his paintings and drawings well before any of his other work since many of these have been exhibited at Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery for all my life. He was a second-generation Pre-Raphaelite, likewise taking inspiration in Arthurian legend, medievalism and poetry and sharing the movement’s love of delicate, jewel-like colouring. I used to love looking at the elegantly elongated forms of his characters and their strangely serene expressions– especially in The Wizard (1898) and King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid (1883), displayed in the museum. In fact, the same aesthetic is seen repeatedly in his art, whatever the medium, and his work is always populated with beautiful other-worldly figures of men or women, or indeed angels, whether they be on Earth or in heaven. The windows at St Philip’s are no exception, of course, although in their case, there is the added dimension of luminosity, as the light flows in through the intricate panels of vibrantly coloured glass.

Thanks to Burne-Jones the tradition of stained-glass art in Britain was revived, especially in churches and cathedrals, and I was stunned to see just how much of this work he produced in his lifetime. Although the photos I took during my recent visit do the windows no justice whatsoever, the mastery of the glasswork was incredible. The colours, forms and even the leaded cames are all used to create a flurry of movement, either tension or calm, so that the myriad of glass panels swirl above us to great effect. I just wish I could have got a little closer to get a decent photograph - however the link here provides many!

What If...

Hmm... Blogger is playing up - no way of using paragraphs in the following text!!! Until recent storms ripped through the city, uprooting, overturning and worrying at anything that resisted the gusts of wind, I was surprised to see a particular set of large panels, boarding off one of the building sites alongside a busy road. These must have been blown away or perhaps were taken down in accordance with the dictates of a social climate that fights intolerance promotes inclusiveness. Either way, the panels have now disappeared, but prior to that drivers waiting for the traffic lights to change, had been offered the various verses of the poem If, should they care to read… I could not help wondering who had come up with this nice touch of introducing poetry to conceal an ugly concrete sprawl and, more precisely, why this specific work had been chosen for the task. After all, this once greatly-appreciated poem must have able to make its appearance here through linguistic stealth with a French version Si enabling it to disassociate itself from its disgraced author – himself lost in translation, so to speak. Anyway, more about him later… Cut free from its origins, the inconspicuous, unassuming roadside Si - could only be read at face value, unfettered by the cultural or social considerations that are now reflex responses to any form of expression; the poem could be appreciated for its own artistic merit and nothing more. Today, rightly or wrongly, we must be able to read ‘into’ a work through its origins and associations – for with art must come the artist. In an age where literature, and the reading thereof, has lost ground to other means of education, entertainment and expression, the name of a writer and especially their newly revised reputation, are often the only things retained. There is an unprecedented, all-consuming need to package people and their production into categories of ‘them or us’, enforcing the ticking of only one box of the two in the real or virtual world. There is no room for any hesitation, uncertainty or ambiguity in such a culture – you either approve or disapprove – and hope that you have selected the ‘right’ box in this often politicised, moral game. You may feel incapable or unwilling to choose your ‘camp’ in a war you had not knowingly signed up for, but that is not an option; you will be chastised – at best for inexcusable ignorance. Of course, art and its appreciation have always reflected values and a given position or had the potential to do so. Yet can we judge, categorize and censure a work by the real or perceived messages or socio-cultural stance behind it? More relevant here, should we do so when dealing with works from the past? Should these be blanked out - cancelled - when found wanting or manifestly unacceptable by today’s standards of what is and isn’t morally or culturally correct? Not having any concrete answers, I am surely deserving of a Medieval witch trial – drowned if guilty or innocent (ignorant) of the crime at hand. That’ll teach me a lesson in an age when educating often means removing from the system anything that might go against, or simply question it. Debating or discussion not only appear to be surplus to requirement, they are frowned upon, if not downright considered heinous in their turn as criminal acts of violence. Where we once felt contempt for our adversary and their values, we now are encouraged to experience and express hatred to shut them down. Know thy enemy is now hate anyone who fails to sign up visibly or vocally for a set stance – ‘silence is violence’. Indeed, the wrong words will embroil you even faster or further in hatred and outrage. Debates lead from a set motion – a position to uphold or overturn – through arguments and examples from both proposers and opposers. From there, debating could be seen as propagandist – but discussion surely not? How can we ground ourselves and our opinions if we stand on moral high ground without even listening to and disproving the opposing party’s views? How can we hope to understand and live with others if we have no idea of what they believe in or why? That surely breeds greater rabid fear. And how can we accommodate each other, assuming that we do ‘agree to disagree’ - a position which now seems nigh impossible? What is to be done with historic values and their reflection – direct or indirect – in art or other cultural landmarks? How can we track the errors committed in our past, however remote or recent, if we remove their very trace from our collective history so that we wander lost in a culturally-cleansed, photoshopped past? Does a refusal to censor and cancel art taken from its historic context actually mean condoning ideas and acts that may lie behind them? With wrongdoers banished, out go the marks of their wrongs too. What can we learn from a Disneyfied version of The Past? Purification may give instant results but does not guarantee long-term resistance to chronic illness since it also weakens the immune system. Lest we forget were actually Rudyard Kipling's words from his 1897 poem Recessional. You see the same words inscribed on war memorials and I remember reading them at Auschwitz too. They offer a telling warning to all future generations of the danger of obliterating past events and ideology, even with the best intentions in doing so. Exposure and acknowledgement would offer greater closure whilst opening onto new possibility of combatting the same social ills that have mired Mankind since time immemorial, not just the last few centuries. Retroactive blame and blanking out is not enough. Without some form of understanding of where we come from, however tainted our origins, we are in danger of re-inventing the past, in a manner which may best suit the new moral agenda in the short term but would ultimately work against any lasting positive social outcome. Worse still, we are perhaps destined to relive the failings of the past, again and again. So back to If…. Rudyard Kipling was the author, a name little known today except perhaps for its link to that cinema staple of childhood, The Jungle Book, Disney’s adaptation of the novel. Yet alongside a seemingly avuncular image of the man who also wrote Kim and the Just So Stories, runs that of a stuffy, belligerent beast. Kipling can be taken as a prime specimen of the jingoistic racist, upholder of colonialism and war - a supreme White suprematist. So powerful the distaste for the expression of his views, even at later periods in his own lifetime, that today, his art is now overlooked at best, and at worst, banned, with the man himself being condemned as reprehensible. Indeed, in 2018, a mural of If was defaced and finally removed from the student union in Manchester University due to Kipling’s toxic past with a political position and posse of acquaintances that could not be tolerated by a place of learning in a more enlightened 21st century. And yet, despite the fading clamour surrounding Kipling it is in fact quite challenging to define the man and his art as a whole - for me at least. He may well stand guilty of the litany of accusations against him, he is still more than the sum of these. As an individual of many traits and talents – often seemingly incompatible to the point of appearing wholly contradictory - Kipling infuriates a modern age when all must be clearly labelled; composition carefully detailed and expiry date plainly visible. Many aspects of the Kipling name and his output stuck in our collective craw in decades past, but now his time is up. Today, he is deemed unfit for human consumption, unworthy of shelf space and thus has been withdrawn from public circulation. What was acceptable and even admirable in the past must be reassessed by the new standards that reflect present values and future aspirations for society but surely this process cannot be rigidly applied to the extent that the grey areas or dark periods of the past must be fully cleansed away to leave a bright, shiny veneer? The strict confines of categories, censorship and cancellation cannot be conducive to healthy growth, can they?

And what did Kipling himself grow from? Born in India (Bombay) in 1865, at the height of the Great Empire, Rudyard Kipling spent his first years plunged in this rich, exotic culture before being shipped off with his sister to pursue a childhood education in Victorian Britain. Much is made of the unquestionable hardships of these schooldays, with the cruel teachers, dour, cold conditions and even colder climate but I wonder how much these formative years would go on to mould and cultivate Kipling? Despite not seeing his parents for years, from his immediate family came artistic influence and insight. Not only was his father, John Lockwood Kipling, an artist and teacher of architectural sculpture in India, his uncle was the great Pre-Raphaelite painter, Edward Burne-Jones (1833-1898). Many of the illustrations to Kipling’s work were in fact from his own hand and these are no amateur doodles of a Sunday sketcher. My favourite one is set alongside the Cat Who Walked Alone… Meanwhile, Rudyard’s literary abilities were fostered in the college he attended from the age of 12 until finally leaving to return to India in 1882, and starting journalistic work in Lahore for the Civil and Military Gazette. Finding himself literally thrown in at the deep end meant that the young reporter had to mature quickly and prove his worth both professionally and socially. To prepare and write articles, a precocious Kipling was obliged to interview men far older than himself – he was only 16 years old at the time – and to frequent places that would make many an adult male blanch! Perhaps these were the experiences that further enabled him to adapt and acclimatize to any environment – to survive and thrive throughout life. He certainly appeared to build on the inner grit and determination that had allowed him to get through his early schooling. He continued to seek entry into the ‘big boys’ club’ in order to observe and frequent its members. Perhaps the rejection and isolation he had experienced as a boy unable to play in the team due to poor health and deplorable eyesight never left him. Whatever its origin, such was the adult Kipling’s chameleon ability to fit in that Kipling could easily speak and give voice to the humble soldier or the greatest head of State - King George V being a personal friend in later life.

Alongside his early reporting, Kipling also wrote short stories based on what he had seen and heard around him, with his Barrack-Room Ballads meeting with instant success when published as books on his return to England in 1889. As a remarkably young man, in his early 20s, Rudyard Kipling was an acclaimed writer, famous in Britain and beyond. He travelled widely, in youth and for the rest of his life and spent much time in various different countries but mainly England, the US and South Africa, cultivating a large network of friends and acquaintances. His wife, Carrie, was herself American and, reading between many lines (and perhaps misfiring!), one of her chief attributes was the fact that she was the sister of Kipling’s friend and literary agent, Wolcott Balestier. Ever the 'man’s man', Kipling maintained a very close relationship with Wolcott, with whom he even co-wrote pieces – and when Wolcott died in 1892, Kipling promptly married the sister. A poem initially addressed to the ‘Dear Lad’ is said to have been altered to start ‘Dear Lass’ when it was re-used for the newly-wed’s honeymoon. Kipling is not thought to have been homosexual, and himself warned of the dangers of "beastliness" but many expressed surprise that he should have chosen a bride deemed unattractive, unfeminine and out-spoken. Carrie was ‘a good man spoiled’ in the words of Kipling’s father! Settling in New England, the Kiplings started a family and it was there that Rudyard wrote some of his famous works – The Jungle Book (1894) being just one. This collection of short stories is now picked over as proof of advocacy for colonialism. Indeed, The Jungle Book does indeed collate many of the themes and thoughts that were the driving force behind the personality and vision of Kipling, centred on an all-encompassing vision of might, duty and order. Throughout much of his life, he seems to have lionized the responsible, powerful being to the point of obsession. This supposedly selfless figure – a ‘real’ man - who can lead and elevate a society, state, country or army occupied a quasi-sacred role in Kipling’s eyes. In this Darwinian struggle for the survival of the fittest, no room was left for the weak-willed, vulnerable or lily-livered male. Any social or cultural considerations that did not fall in line with this great scheme of things would be discarded or dismantled since they broke the unity of the whole and thus diminished it; “For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.” (The Jungle Book). Did he really believe that this colonialist ‘pack’ society would embrace and eventually benefit all or did he merely disregard the needs and rights of the indigenous peoples from the very start? It would be difficult to plead Kipling’s innocence here, above all in hindsight, but did not the Victorian era offer the very best and worst in terms of knowledge, ignorance and indifference in the desire to learn and progress at whatever cost? What was not actively plundered or rent apart to satisfy the need to track and tame the world during Queen Victoria’s reign over the greatest and most brutal empire on Earth? We do not know the exact meaning or intention of his now infamous White Man’s Burden of 1899, viewing its controversial lines through our 21st century eyes. It is certainly hard to give the author any benefit of the doubt. Could he really have held native people in such low regard that the supposed greater beings – White colonisers - had a moral duty to draw these ‘primitives’, from their uncivilized, ungodly state? Surely he could not have been so arrogant and ignorant in his perceptions, whatever the context or era? Perhaps it was not so surprising that Kipling was somewhat in awe and admiration of those figures that carved up continents according to expansionist ambitions. It would seem that he had always sought to befriend the big boys – becoming part of the group to enjoy its privileged camaraderie was the rite of passage to Manhood. The much-maligned, devoted empire-builder Cecil Rhodes (1853 – 1902) was a greatly admired friend of Kipling, whilst the personal qualities Dr Leander Starr Jameson of the Jameson Raid (1853 – 1917) are said to have inspired the poem If. In turn, Kipling himself earned the approval of people in the highest places. President Theodore Roosevelt even enthused over The Jungle Book’s call for manly challenges and adventure to build unity and virtue as a ‘moral equivalent of war’. The founder of the Scouting movement, Robert Baden-Powell, also became a friend of Kipling and started a programme inspired by Kipling’s stories – the cub scouts – believing this would build youngsters into fine British country men.

Photo - DIREKTOR - 2015 By the time Kipling was obliged to return to England in 1896 he was considered to be the People’s Laureate and poet of the Great British Empire but nothing would console him for the tragic loss of his young daughter in 1899. He chose to retire from public view by moving to a secluded home in Sussex but continued to air his political opinions and express his views on war with insistance. Not only did some of his writing raise money to support the British soldiers engaged in the Boer war, Kipling also addressed the nation to prepare for continental combat – thus predicting the outbreak of war of 1914 and drawing attention to the paltry state of the British troops. His immense national pride and jingoistic stance riled the liberals who regarded him as a reactionary. Undeterred by any slight or criticism, Kipling involved himself in the recruitment effort – actively encouraging young men to enlist to fight for their country against ‘the Hun’. His zealous enthusiasm indirectly led to the second tragedy to befall the family when the only son, John, was killed one day after his 18th birthday on his first day of combat in the Battle of Loos in 1915. Despite the fact that the adolescent had been turned down twice due to his dismal eyesight, his father had successfully pulled strings within his wide network of contacts, and had him signed up. Declared missing in action, no trace of John Kipling was found during his parents’ lifetime, despite them both devoting themselves to his search for the rest of their days. Consequently, Kipling was greatly involved in the operations of the Imperial War Graves Commission but perhaps his greatest legacy from his loss were his poems – amongst these the Epitaphs of the War with the lines; If any question why we died, Tell them, because our fathers lied. Whether Kipling considered himself to be one of these paternal liars is not clear, for he continued to believe in the validity of the war effort but felt the weight of his role in his son’s inscription and subsequent death for the rest of his life. When Rudyard died in 1936, the mourning for this great British poet was totally eclipsed by the funeral of his personal friend, King George V. And today, it feels as if Rudyard Kipling has been buried again - once and for all – in order to remove him from our collective conscience, his only epitaph being a tirade of insults and accusations, rightly merited or not. I wonder what he would now think of his past beliefs in the supposed civilizing forces of colonialism and his contribution to it? Would he too have changed with his times and revised his world view and come to regret and repent? I don’t know and there is no easy way of discussing any of the issues these questions bring up. Why? You are no longer permitted to talk about such subjects because a “line has been drawn” so that they are safely “off-limits”, to quote a student who issued the veiled warning (with a hint of menace). What does it mean when individuals are less eager to reflect, question and propose ideas and opinions than to virtue signal to the twittering crowd with a suitable selfie? If silence is golden, is it now a virtue too?

Beardsley Before Lockdown...

The long-awaited Aubrey Beardsley exhibition at the Musée d’Orsay was cancelled during the first lockdown, so I had no intention of missing it when it opened in mid-October, having been on show in the Tate Britain over the summer. I duly went to Paris the day before the second national lockdown with great expectations.

Whilst there had been no major Beardsley exhibition in England for over 50 years, this was apparently the first time his work has been presented to the French public. However the d’Orsay exhibition turned out to be a greatly scaled-down version of the Tate’s, so much so that I could not help but feel disappointed, and got back home wondering if might somehow have actually overlooked an exhibition room. Perhaps the decision to show this reduced collection was down to COVID restrictions, but ultimately I felt rather short-changed and I think the average uninitiated French visitor must have been left a little bemused, despite there being a number of beautiful pieces on show. To my knowledge, there was no in-depth coverage of the exhibition in any of the mainstream French art revues which meant that curiosity here was not piqued. All in all, without wishing to be ungrateful or belittling, this seems to have been a missed opportunity to bring Beardsley to French public – after all he died here just before the turn of the century (Menton 1898).

In the Musée d’Orsay there were nevertheless a number of the Beardsley pen-and-ink illustrations for which he was so famous, already during his own short life but especially far later in the 20th century. His distinctive aesthetic style and clever exploration of the themes of sexuality and death , and notions of beauty and the grotesque, all displayed in delicately executed images met with appreciation in the psychedelic Sixties. Beardsley images were often reproduced and replicated in the coolest posters, album covers etc of the time. Yet, the most famous pieces that featured in the ‘Boudoir’ section at the Tate this summer were missing here in the autumn. Furthermore, there seemed to be artist references that were left ‘floating’, without concrete explanation or example in the descriptions. For instance, I am not sure how familiar the average Continental visitor is with the work of the Pre-Raphaelite Edward Burne Jones, for instance. This Birmingham artist, whose paintings and stained-glass windows had such a formative influence on the young Aubrey Beardsley, is brushed over here and yet it would have been helpful to be able to compare styles and themes. The Brummie artist inspired in him an apparent interest in Greek mythology and indeed, the languid expressions and ethereal forms of his early characters can easily be traced back to Burne Jones. The latter had been so impressed by Beardsley’s work that he advised the young man to study at the evening classes in order to become a professional draughtsman.

I do not know what Burne Jones thought of the later Beardsley style, but the first moves away from the typical saccharine medieval/mythological themes soon became apparent in Beardsley’s first major work – pieces of which were on display here. It was interesting to be able to study up close the drawing and details one of these - How King Arthur Saw The Questing Beast – part of one of his first commissions. In his illustratation of Malory’s version of the legend of King Arthur, commissioned by the London publisher Joseph Dent, in 1893, Beardsley proceeded to incorporate his own, unique touches into the work. Indeed, in the Morte d’Arthur sequence of drawings, he soon grew tired of the chivalric themes with their virtuous ladies and daring knights, and therefore wove in small details that created another mood – edgy, ironic or just plain incongruous. In The Questing Beast, our eyes are lead from the beastly monster towards the strutting Pan along with the bizarre schoolboy-sketch spider and male genitalia that decorate the paper, like the doodles of a bored, precocious pupil. At this point I was very glad for the relatively small amount of visitors in the exhibition as I was not obliged to stand at a distance to look at these pieces. These all seem to reveal a certain defiant streak in Beardsley that ran through much of his life work, as he incorporated ‘inappropriate’ elements – generally of a lewd nature - into his images, knowing that these would obviously go against the grain of Victorian morality. It has been suggested that even Beardsley’s distinctively elegant emblem signature was in fact a reference to the phallic form. Apparently his earlier publishers would be duty-bound to scrutinize these pieces for offending, provocative detail, in order to render these more acceptable to public taste – asking Beardsley to water down the more shocking elements or even to resort to the use of a fig leaf ! John Lane, publisher of Oscar Wilde’s Salomé, for which Beardsley provided the illustrations, remarked that it was necessary to vet the work before publication « One had, so to speak, to place his drawings under a microscope, and look at them upside down ».

Alongside this use of quirky detail, Beardsley used highly sophisticated decorative motifs to frame the central images of the commissioned work, ultimately drawing attention from these Arthurian themes towards the mastery of artwork surrounding these. The visitors to the exhibition – me included – all peered at the intricate designs that come into their own in the Arthur series with their incredibly striking beauty. Prior to this exhibition, I had never noticed just how marvellous Beardsley’s decorative work was, but with the richly-illustrated chapter headings and tailpieces for Le Morte d’Arthur and another publication – Les Bons Mots and Grotesques – I was able to see how incredible these are. The intricacy and perfection of these pieces is made all the more incredible since virtually nothing is known of Beardsley’s work practices and exécution techniques… The Dent commissions enabled Beardsley to earn enough to live for two years, leave the office clerk position he so hated and devote himself to his art. He was still in his very early 20s at the time.

As much as Beardsley is unique, he was very much a product of this time. His art springs from the fin-de-siècle Decadent mood as the Victorian era drew to an end but still maintained a strangle hold on free expression of sentiments, sexuality and the ‘unsanitized self’. Key to this Decadent mood was the novel by French author Joris-Karl Huysmans – A Rebours (Against Nature) – with its references to the art of Gustave Moreau and its significant influence on Oscar Wilde, and by association Beardsley too. Beardsley turned to an aesthetic vision that prefered the artificial to the natural, or better still the natural that seemed to replicate art and artifice in a rather unsettling manner – hence the fascination with peacock feathers, exotic orchids and the like. Beardsley was quite the dandy- aesthete – a fleur du mal – and used staged beauty as a device to ward off fate ; Man’s condition at the mercy of Mother Nature. Elegance and extreme ornateness were sought and revered as a stand against Nature, whilst perversity and the grotesque were extensions of this.

Beardsley claimed « If I am not grotesque, I am nothing. » using it and caricature as the ultimate defiance of a wholesome, natural state. He was referred to, rather scathingly, by Oscar Wilde as « the most monstrous of orchids ». Having been diagnosed as having tuberculousis, at the age of seven, Beardsley certainly knew how cruel Nature could be and understood that his life would indeed be short. Driven to produce art at a prolific rate, he left a legacy of hundreds of works behind him and the 1890s in London was heavily influenced by what critic Max Beerbohm called the « Beardsley period ». Again, I wished that the exhibition room had been able to let the visitors get a sense of that fin-de-siècle mood and aesthetic style so that we could see Beardsley’s art in its context. Having seen the incredible collection of Art Nouveau furniture and ornamentation at the Musée d’Orsay, it seems a shame that some pieces were not used to create a rather more immersive experience of Beardsley.

Advances in the printing process and publishing itself towards the end of the century not only meant that Beardsley’s art became well-known in a short period of time but also influenced his style and production. Working exclusively in pen and ink, his illustrations could be reproduced using photomechanical line-block printing rather than William Morris’ more costly Kelmscott Press process. Beardsley promptly adapted his artistic approach to benefit from the effects this new reproduction technique offered, leading towards his distinctive bold, linear work. He himself declared that he took « no notice of shadows », and the resulting art often offers a striking, flattened plane, with detailed figures set against empty backgrounds reminiscent of the Japanese woodblock prints (Ukiyo-e) or patterned, abstract decorative designs, emphasising the floral, with the undulating lines and arabesque forms that were to be typical of the Art Nouveau movement. In 1893, Beardsley wrote about his « entirely new method of drawing and composition, something suggestive of Japan… » and he went on to adopt the tall, narrow form of « Japanesque » image, inspired by the traditional kakemono scrolls. Indeed the influence of Japanese aesthetics and artistic technique on Western art was visible everywhere in late 19th century England. Beardsley had already seen one of the finest examples of Anglo-Japanese art ; Whistler’s renowned Peacock Room. However, Beardsley took these sources of inspiration to a whole other level, as he used the stark black and white contrasts, dark Decadent themes and Art Nouveau forms of which his illustrations to Oscar Wilde’s work Salomé (1893) are probably the best known. However, his illustration to the medieval legend, Virgilius the Sorcerer is another fine example as the protagonist is curiously and anachronistically dressed in a voluminous kimono !

Furthermore, Beardsley lived at a pivotal moment in the perception and propagation of illustrated work. Having visited Paris in 1892, he had been struck by the use of large street posters for advertising purposes – les affiches – as an urban art form that was respected in its own right. He had also seen Toulouse-Lautrec’s poster for the Divan Japonais, and when the first British exhibition of posters later took place in London, 1894, works by Beardsley were displayed next to those of the founders of this modern art form ; Toulouse-Lautrec and Jules Chéret. His poster to advertise the play, A Comedy of Sighs, was remarked upon in an edition of Punch « Ave a new poster ». Indeed, the poster suited Beardsley’s vision of illustration as a form of art that did not need to justify its existence or act as "handmaid of literature". He was heralded as « the new illustrator » by artist and author Joseph Pennell, who wrote the introduction to The Studio - an illustrated magazine of fine and applied art that sought to end the division between fine and applied art. Beardsley not only contributed to several issues of The Studio but also designed covers too.

Already in his illustrations, it had been remarked that the images did not always entirely correspond to the text, but for Beardsley his was no stylistic error ; on the contrary, it was desirable. This was perhaps also a necessity for him as he remarked « However much I may admire a piece of literary work, the moment I am about to illustrate it I am seized with an instinctive loathing to the cause of my woe. » The role and status of text and image were further explored in the literary periodical The Yellow Book, founded in 1894, for which Beardsley acted as editor. In this daring new publication – yellow as an allusion to illicit French text - notably Huysman’s Decadent novel A Rebours – words and images were to be of equal worth and could be independant of each other. With its shocking, ‘immoral’ themes and illustrations, it is perhaps not surprising that The Yellow Book did not meet with unanimous approval.

Therefore when the furore broke out following Wilde’s sentencing for gross indecency, Beardsley’s artistic association with the writer meant that his name and reputation were sullied too, given the rigid Victorian morality of the time. Beardsley was promptly dismissed as editor of The Yellow Book, and facing financial hardship, left for Dieppe in France. It was there that he met the publisher Leonard Smithers, and that he was to embark on the last stylistic phase of his artistic career and final stage of his short life. Smithers wished to found a new magazine that would rival The Yellow Book, with Beardsley acting as art editor. The subsequent magazine – The Savoy - was launched in 1896 and under Smithers’ control would « publish what all the others are afraid to touch ». Erotic prints of Japanese origin and licentious Ancient Greek vase painting were considered too indecent to be marketed in a traditional manner and could therefore only be acquired through private subscription to the magazine. Beardsley met this demand by producing explicit work that was inspired by classical texts. He illustrated the Ancient Greek erotic comedy, Lysistrata, by Aristophanes and Juvenal’s Sixth Satire. Sadly, the famous drawings from these collections were not present in the Paris exhibition ! I remember coming across these as a child and being most shocked, but surely the French public would have able to take these in their stride ? Apparently not… I would love to include one here, but probably not a good idea.

As Beardsley’s health deteriorated due to the ravages of consumption his themes became more extreme and controversial, yet their execution became increasingly detailed, with lavish depictions of clothing, hairpieces and drapery , largely inspired by the French Rococo and 18th century literature – his illustrations to Alexander Pope’s The Rape of the Lock being the most well-known. He refered to these intricate pieces as his « embroideries » and typical of this late style is L’Abbé, the drawing selected by the Musée d’Orsay for the exhibition poster. Beardsley continued to include the sexual allusions and satirical reflections on society for which he was renowned and which had earned him the title Aubrey Beardsley-Weirdsley from Punch magazine. The elegance of this late work, and sophistication of its style, interwoven with elements of the perverse and grotesque were to influence the art of the Irish stained-glass artist and book illustrator, Harry Clarke (1889-1931). In his final months of his life, Beardsley converted to the Catholic faith and the last image we see of the artist in the exhibition is a photograph taken in the hotel at Menton in 1898, surrounded by reproductions of Mantegna’s art. He seems small and distant, unlike the rather self-aware, dandified youth seen in the portrait photographs on display, as if he had already relinquished his defiant position in society and the art world. Apparently he had written to Smithers asking for the destruction of all his « obscene drawings », a request that the publisher chose to ignore – fortunately for us.

And so the exhibition ended, and whilst I was pleased to have seen Beardsley’s work at close quarters, I felt as if this particular show had not done the artist justice at all. Since Beardsley’s art was largely made for reproduction, surely prints of the missing originals could have been used to map out his aesthetic evolution and the influence he had on other illustrators ? All in all, I think it would have been preferable to hold out for a complete exhibition rather than this one. However, I will return for a second visit, once the second lockdown is over, just in case I did actually miss something the first time. But this experience did make me consider how exhibitions are set up and how they too could evolve over time. Imagine if Beardsley’s work could be set alongside that of the Irish artist Harry Clarke ? What an exhibition that would be…

Visual Catnip...William de Morgan and William Morris...

Design for printed fabric - Honeysuckle - William Morris - 1874

Over the new year period, on a trip to Birmingham I went back to the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery. I love being there and going back to the paintings, ceramics and sculptures that feel like a remote backcloth to life. Born in Brum, but leaving the Black Country for the West Country as a child, meant that ‘The City of a Thousand Trades’ was linked to visits to the family and the familiar ; the art gallery and the jewellery quartier. 

The Blind Girl - John Everett Millais - 1856

The Pre-Raphaelite room in the gallery mesmerized me from my earliest years. I used to be shown the intricate details on the painting – painstakingly realised with such realism and in such iridescent colours. Yet with age, at one stage I grew tired of this visual overload, and shrugged it off as Victorian excess, as heavy and stifling as the typical 19th century home interior. However this tardive teenage rejection did not last long. I took up a more objective vision of art and its appreciation in general and no longer felt the need to be apologetic about any admiration I might feel for any aspect of any kind of art. Why should you feel intimidated by the dictates of (someone else’s) taste ? Or the new directives imposed on past works and visions that have been taken out of context ? I was very sad to see that the painting that had absolutely fascinated me in childhood (Hylas and the Nymphs – J.W Waterhouse 1896) had been removed from Manchester art gallery due to issues concerning the portrayal of women and their assigned role in society/life. 

Hylas and the Nymphs - J.W Waterhouse - 1896 (https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Jacobolus)

Despite being ill for my latest visit to the art gallery, I did manage to make my way up to the permanent display of ceramics and tilework in the decorative art section of the applied art collection. This is housed on the open upper floor of the imposing ‘greenhouse’ gallery structure - typical of the Victorian age and widely found in libraries and stations with characteristic expanses of glass supported by ornate wrought iron. 

Design for wallpaper - Wild Tulip - William Morris - 1884

As always, one of the key exhibits on display here was work by William de Morgan (1839 – 1917). His art - pottery and ceramics - exemplifies the social and aesthetic values of the Arts and Craft Movement, just like the work of his friend, William Morris (1834 – 1896). Both men were born at a time when mass manufacturing was being driven and enabled by the industrial revolution, and was transforming life in 19th century Britain. Likewise they had witnessed first-hand the saturation of every part of society by soul-less mass produced goods whose manufacture had a dehumanising effect on the labourers and each individual for whom they were destined. I can’t help but wonder what William Morris himself would think of his prints being reproduced today in order to manufacture cheap clothing for global juggernaut H & M, in conditions dictated by fast fashion? Or indeed the Strawberry Thief, amongst his other designs, being plundered to adorn every conceivable surface, from oven gloves to teaspoon rests, much in the same way that The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady ‘accessories’ were hugely commercialized in the 1980s. 

de Morgan

To mark his disapproval of a period dominated by the race for innovation and technology, William Morris refused to visit the Great Exhibition of 1851. In this machine age, when factories delivered services and manufactured goods to unprecedented levles, art had become an industrialised commodity as another. Even though the work of both Morris and de Morgan would go on to have a significant impact of the decoration of domestic interiors in the Victorian age, they practiced their respective crafts with principle. Indeed, guided by truth and beauty, they believed that craftsman should devote themselves to their art, using traditional techniques instead of mechanically churning out vast quantities of meaningless produce. Like the initial founders of the Pre-Raphaelite Movement, they were influenced by the writings of art critic John Ruskin and yearned for a return to a purer time, exemplified by the Medieval age. 

So it was that de Morgan worked alongside Wiiliam Morris in the 1860s, producing stained glass windows with another important late Pre-Raphaelite, Edward Burne-Jones. De Morgan’s formal training as a classical artist enabled him to depict Biblical scenes and those from mythology and legends. However, by his own admission, de Morgan was more a designer than a ‘real artist’. He was fascinated with obtaining an opaque, iridescent finish on glass and this led him in other directions. Although he may have established his artistic credentials during this period of collaboration with Burne-Jones, he moved away from the portrayal of angelic, Arthurian or saintly beings. As much as I loved Burne-Jones’ paintings and stained glass when young, and still love his beautiful drawings today, there are only so many wan, winsome and wilting figures in billowing drapery you can take.

Drawing - Edward Burne-Jones

Once themes and draftsmanship become a little too standard, satiation point is soon reached, although judging by the Victorian appetite for such art, their threshold was considerably higher than mine. The paintings of de Morgan’s wife, Evelyn (1855-1919), are a case in point - for me at least. The beautifully executed recurrent female forms, striking similar poses in classical themes, soon become cloying. However it is important to realise that she was often obliged to conform to popular tastes rather than follow her own leanings since the income from her art was often the financial linchpin in the de Morgan household. Indeed, William’s scientific experiments in firing and glazing techniques from this time onwards resulted in the exploration of other forms and motifs, but did not ensure any lasting monetary gain whatsoever.

De Morgan drew inspiration from what was termed ‘Persian’ ceramics, although in fact this largely referred to16th century Islamic pottery and majolica from Italy and Spain. In this respect he resembled many other Western artists and writers who were attracted to all things Oriental. They were avid for the exotic, and eager to experience a visit to the Levant to complement or replace the more commonplace Grand Tour of Europe. William Morris himself declared: « To us pattern-designers, Persia has become a holy land».

de Morgan

With his ever-analytical, scientific mind, bolstered by a mathematical training, de Morgan found his forte in creating intricate geometric forms, playing on symmetric shapes, and tessellations. These were common in the Islamic art which he so admired, where rich floral patterns took the place of the human figures whose depiction was forbidden by faith. De Morgan departed from the staple Burne-Jones protagonists and moved away from the purely botanic-based designs of Morris. 

His ceramics were devoted to portraying a multitude of plants and mythological, fantastical and heraldic creatures portrayed in stunning patterns and colours that draw inspiration from Syrian, the Middle Eastern work, and the Iznik ware of Asian Turkey. He had seen such art first-hand when he carried out a commission in the Arab Hall of what is now Leighton House Museum. Furthermore, he would have known of the writings of Owen Jones on the subject of Islamic design from the book 'Grammar of Ornament’ (1856).

Design for wallpaper - Tulip and Willow - William Morris -1873-5

In the late 1860s, interest in home improvement was gathering momentum as changing demographics led to ever-greater property ownership. A renewed desire for tiles meant that production increased to provide surround tiles for fire places, or wall decoration and flooring in kitchens, washrooms, parlours, sitting rooms, hallways and pathways. Companies started to supply an impressive range of ‘art tiles’ to meet demand and to exhibit their wares in the international trade fairs. Yet while the work produced by ‘The Potteries’ - centred around Stoke-on-Trent and Staffordshire - may have made of England the most significant ceramic producers worldwide, it did not suit de Morgan’s concept of the artist potter/ceramist since it had led to uniformity without intrinsic significance. Thomas Minton and Sons perfected production techniques that enabled them to produce on an industrial scale, thus become a leading Staffordshire company throughout the Victorian era. 

de Morgan

Innovative encaustic tiles opened up additional markets and catered to new demands in tiles for public buildings, institutions and palaces, alongside home interiors. Mass-produced Minton tiles were used to replace Medieval church floors - drawing criticism from William Morris but meeting with approval from the ‘father’ of the Gothic Revival Movement – A.W Pugin. The Palace of Westminster, Victoria & Albert Museum and many other prestigious buildings were decorated using Minton tiles in England and even in the USA with the US Capitol.

de Morgan

 The need for ceramic tiles to meet the standards of the Arts and Crafts Movement led de Morgan to set up his own firm in the 1870s. The continued desire to recreate the unique finish of the rich ceramics created in 9th Century Egypt also led him to virtually burn down his workshop at one stage during a (presumably failed) experiment. Nevertheless, he did finally manage to produce lustreware with such skill that he became an expert in the field. A partnership with the architect Halsey Ricardo resulted in a number of important commissions, including Debenham House, London, in 1905 and the design of schemes for the decoration of twelve P&O liners, and the provision of tiles for the purpose. In 1883, de Morgan was also commissioned by Lewis Carroll to design several red lustre tiles featuring fantastic beasts -  a snark, jabberwock, eagle, dodo, among others – to decorate the surround of a fireplace…

https://williammorristile.com/demorgan/lewis_carroll_fireplace_tiles.html

Since de Morgan’s work has no religious content or intent per se, unlike much of the art that had inspired it, it has been criticised for being merely clever geometrical patterns that are soulless. Furthermore, the costly production processes meant that de Morgan’s creations were only truly accessible to a select public, with the obvious financial means to afford such expense. This limited their growth, posing restrictions on the public since it excluded the vast majority and ultimately had an impact on sales. In addition, aesthetics were evolving. 

Taste changes, and as no longer in the spirit of the times, De Morgan & Co folded in 1907. Having finally perfected his lustreware technique in later years, he wrily remarked that “All my life I have been trying to make beautiful things and now that I can, nobody wants them." Indeed, through concentrating on the creative process, he had overlooked the aesthetic mood at the turn of the century, with the result that his motifs and patterns appeared somewhat outdated.

de Morgan

What I find the most endearing and admirable in de Morgan is this earnest, even dogged approach to art and experimentation and the fact that despite being born into a lineage of mathematicians, he was apparently inept at managing the financial aspects of any of his endeavours. For all his love of figures and the beauty of mathematics, he was notoriously bad at the books ! He was also known for his sense of humour – shared by his wife – and again, I think that makes of de Morgan a most congenial character, very far from the dour, caricatural image we might have of the average Victorian. 

de Morgan

The expressive, organic, undulating forms and flowing lines of Art Nouveau had overtaken the heavier, history-bound, cluttered style of the 19th century. The beginnings of change had already made themselves apparent in the black-and-white illustrations of Aubrey Beardsley (1872 – 1898). His art marked a striking move away from the more reassuring style of Burne-Jones which had been a key inspiration and influence in Beardsley’s short life. Whilst Burne-Jones dealt with a dream-like domain of myth and legend, his young admirer’s Aesthetic art bordered on the nightmarish, with its troubling, almost menacing edginess. In this new climate, de Morgan’s designs no longer had their former relevance or success. The Minton company was able to adapt to the times by introducing Art Nouveau designs influenced by the Vienna Secession art movement, founded by Gustav Klimt and others ; de Morgan could not and would not make the change. On the closure of his company, he literally turned the page, and added a new chapter to his life…. through literature. 

de Morgan

It is interesting to think that over his lifetime, he was to have greater success from the novel-writing that he ultimately turned to - once the commercial opportunies of ceramics had finally failed him. Today, of course, the de Morgan name is synonymous with art, and probably not literature, even if William published seven best-selling novels in this final phase of his life, gaining him acclaim in England and the USA. 

de Morgan

These decorative arts operate as visual catnip on me – drawing me in every time. Just the name given to some of de Morgan’s iridescent finishes is enough to make me dream. Moonlight and sunset lustre… How magical is that ? 

de Morgan

Greenery in the Black Country - St Martin's Church Birmingham...

I fell ill while travelling back to England on New Year’s Eve, so when I finally arrived at destination I was feeling green and more than a little sorry for myself. I slowly trundled my over-sized suitcase out of the coach station and headed off towards the main streets of the city centre. As I braved the hill gradient of the road and wheeled my unruly luggage up the slopes, I saw the now familiar, yet ever-surreal vision that greets all visitors to Birmingham and native Brummies alike.

The Victorian edifice of St Martin’s church is surrounded by the futuristic blobitecture of the Selfridges Building... So it is that the ‘Mother Church of Birmingham’ stands next to this millennial cathedral to consumerism. The church spire and spiky forms of its Neo-Gothic architecture is virtually dwarfed by the height and sheer volume of this bulging magma of modernity - albeit already a little dated since its inauguration in 2003. Both are set in the Bullring, near the old market area that has accommodated traders and their wares since the Middle Ages.

Whilst the aluminum discs of this metallic amoeba shone out like hundreds of compound flies’ eyes, it was actually the shock of bright green algae on the masonry of the church that caught my eye on a sunlit start to the year 2020. The intense colour was so magical that I resolved to come back and investigate. Unfortunately I continued to feel bad throughout my entire stay – even greener and colder than the old stonework – and so the final photos were rather flat and I didn’t even manage to take shots of the obvious views, even less explore! There is no picture of the Selfridges Building!

The history of St Martin’s reflects that of the city itself; a continual adaptation to the social, cultural and commercial sea changes brought about and bolstered by developments in technology, communication and consumerism. The face and form of Birmingham’s city centre have been the focus of several sizeable transformations since the Industrial Revolution, but above all and most radically, in the aftermath of the Second World War and now again from the early 2000s.

Ambitious new visions for the second city of England have resulted in a series of extensive urban reconstruction projects that have radically altered the landscape and even the role of Brum itself, just as canals did with the industrialisation of the 18th century and the expanding train networks later on. Indeed, the waterways and railways that were carved into and around the city acted as veins and arteries, circulating goods and supplies to the vital organs of the Black Country. Birmingham was the pulsing heart of the Industrial Revolution, and the network of canals was both the cause and consequence of its growth. Fast-forward some 300 years, to the 1960s, and pro-car urban planning likewise sought to give a dynamic boost to a city that was finally ready to rise from the shadows of post-war restrictions. This resulted in the ‘concrete collar’ of thoroughways that ploughed through Birmingham’s centre - the Inner Ring Road – leading the way to an exciting new future…

At its heart was the revamped Bull Ring market area which emerged as the Bull Ring Shopping Centre – a shining example of commercial mall-inspired modernism - clad in the boxy, grey concrete attire of Brutalist architecture. Other such buildings appeared from the late 50s onwards, all dashing in their inspired vision, but dismal to behold - for me, at least. Whilst campaigners have called for their conservation - the Brutiful Birmingham Action Group being one – many of these monoliths have been demolished to make room for the new ‘new’. With bright hope for yet another brave, brand-new world, these vertical visions of 60’s dynamism are now being floored in their turn, just like the sprawling patchworks of dirty Victorian back-to-backs that had been demolished to make way for them.

The reality of living and working in and around these high-rise horizons soon hit as hard and cold as the bold, unforgiving materials they were constructed from. Spaghetti junctions and tower blocks rising high above ground, pedestrian subways below, and interminable roads between were no longer futuristic emblems of promise but pointed to a rat-race destiny for those caught in this concrete maze. Discontent that was voiced over post-war redevelopment has led to an ongoing overhaul of the centre of Birmingham that continues to this very day, but by its very nature, this can only be problematic. What do you preserve ? What should go ? According to Sir Herbert Manzoni, City Engineer and Surveyor from 1935 to 1963, "there is little of real worth in our architecture" and with that withering assessment, vast plots of land were wiped clean of their architectural past, to be built over with imposing concrete constructions of limited life span, yet life-long notoreity. It has even been remarked that at least the Luftwaffe ‘merely’ left rubble behind in their trail of devastation….

Urban renewal is, of course, nothing new. Each successive major civic project is largely built on, or alongside, the site of its predecessors. One man’s meat is indeed another man’s poison. Augustus Pugin – architect pionnier of the Gothic Revival movement referred to the city  as "that most detestable of detestable places - Birmingham, where Greek buildings and smoking chimneys, Radicals and Dissenters are blended together". The Arts and Crafts Movement, born of the Birmingham Set (including William Morris and Edward Burne-Jones) would reject the art and architecture of heavily-industrialized Victorian England and finally give way to Edwardian and inter-war styles, ultimately leading to Modernism.

Nothing remains constant, and nor should it, but what we consider to have become obsolete by the criteria of our time, should surely not be obliterated and in so doing annihilating the past. Many rows of grand red-brick Victorian buildings have long been replaced by other forms of otherness and this process is still very much ‘work in progress’. More recently, the concrete ziggurat of Birmingham Central Library was replaced by another version of newness for our multi-tasking, multimedia era. Other parts of the city are due to be rejuvenated ; the expanse of the Custard Factory Complex, just beyond Digbeth Coach Station is now being measured up. Of the original 70s Bull Ring area, the iconic cyclindrical Rotunda has survived although its towering sci-fi office space now provides high-rise accommodation. The Bull Ring Shopping Centre, freed of the Inner Ring road, has morphed itself into the blob-like Bullring, linked to the Grand Central around New Street Station and is hub to serious Shopping (capital S). I can't help but wonder how long it will stand there, in its current state and style. My remaining blurred memories of the late 60’s-to-70’s city centre are no longer valid – I recognise very little - and these simply go to underline the notion that "The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there."

The church of St Martin has stood its ground throughout all of this extensive reconstruction activity, and has been witness to the waves of change that have visited its urban surroundings. Although itself victim to the blitz bombing in the war years, its spirit and architectural structure has remained largely intact so that it is still a landmark in a city that has, in parts, changed beyond recognition. And perhaps no part of the city has changed as much as the Bull Ring market area.

Until the 17th century, St. Martin’s was the only church in Birmingham. This was a Mediaval village centred on the retail and wholesale markets of the Bull Ring, a name referring to the blood sport of bull-baiting. Towards the end of the 13th century, a red sandstone church was founded by the de Bermingham family, thus replacing an earlier edifice which had been a simple place of worship, thought to date back to Saxon times. Burials took place in St Martin’s up until the construction of St Philip’s church in the early 18th century, in order to meet the spiritual needs of the congregation and their dead. This Baroque edifice stood outside the historic centre of Birmingham, although today we naturally assume this to be the oldest quarter since there appear to be fewer modern buildings in the vicinity - for the moment at least. St Philip’s was built of brick faced with stone, enabling it to resist over time, unlike St Martin’s whose sandstone weathered so poorly that by the end of the 17th century ‘serious deterioration’ required drastic measures to be taken to preserve the church. In an attempt to save the edifice, it was entirely flanked in a thick protective red-brick casing. This may have ‘done the trick’, but resulted in an aesthetically displeasing whole -  of Neo-Classical design. Of the original Medieval church, only the spire was visible for the next 200 years.

By the 19th century, criticism of this "hideous pile of brick and whitewash" was rife and the poor taste of interfering churchwardens was blamed. Not only was the original form obscured - "buried in its ugly tomb, literally bricked up" - but other features had also been added. It was later remarked that the interior surpassed the exterior in "unsightliness". Indeed, over the course of the 18th century tall round-headed windows with cast-iron frames were added – later pointed out as being more appropriate to factory buildings; certain aisles had been extended; a vestry constructed; low, flat Georgian ceilings set in place and medieval wall paintings whitewashed and plastered over. Furthermore, the erosion of the masonry had continued regardless of the alterations and represented a serious threat to the building. All in all, the church was seen to be a disgrace to the status of Birmingham.

Despite appeals, lack of funds meant that only the tower and spire could be restored. Finally, however, money started to be raised from the 1870s in order to carry out a complete rebuilding of St Martin’s. The resulting Grade II listed church, designed by Alfred Chatwin, is an example of gothic Victorian architecture. The whole church, with the exception of the recently restored tower and spire, was taken down and rebuilt in an accurate 14th century style, enabling the architect to study all remaining original forms and features. Indeed, in order to retain the aspect and spirit of the former Gothic edifice, the new choir stalls were carved from its surviving medieval roof timbers. Trained under Charles Barry, Chatwin had worked on the rebuilding of the Houses of Parliament alongside both him and Pugin. It is therefore highly likely that the open-timber roof was inspired by the great ‘hammer-beam’ roof of Westminster Hall. With the onset of the Industrial Revolution, there had been a boom in the population and thus a considerable growth in the number of  parishes. Birmingham officially became a city in 1889, and St Philip’s church assumed the status of cathedral at the turn of the century. St Martin’s continued to fulfil its role, administering to its parishoners and opening its doors to those passing through.

Although Birmingham was a prime target for enemy offensives in the Great War due to the importance of its munitions works, Zeppelin attacks caused no damage to the city thanks to extensive black-out measures and anti air-craft surveillance. The same cannot be said of the Second World War, when Birmingham bore the brunt of Luftwaffe attacks. After London and Merseyside, Brum received a greater tonnage of high explosives than any other region. In the air-raids that wreaked havoc on the city centre, the Bull Ring received many direct hits and St Martin’s was not spared the hostilities. The church did survive the attack of April 1941, even though almost all of the Victorian stained glass was destroyed, with the exception of one work of Pre-Raphaelite artist, Edward Burne-Jones. His transept window had been removed and stored safely just prior to the bombing.

Fortunately, just as many other churches and spiritual centres, St Martins’ is still anchored in city life today, adapting itself to its environment. There was a photography exhibition on show when I visited, but apparently it is even used as a venue for music concerts too! It has always assumed several roles as an active pivot and focal point in the heart of the Bull Ring ; working for and with the congregation, the community, culture and even commerce via social enterprise. I am not at all religious myself, but I love to see the historic and the ‘meaningful’ (for the lack of a better term) alive in the present, able to be observed in context and with hindsight; unapologetic at a time when everything has to be justified, labelled, sterilized and reduced to bite-size, safe doses for convenience.

Living in a connected, supposedly globalised society, we want everything to be slick, rapidly and easily accessible, geared to the individual yet attached to a network when it suits our personal needs and desires. Everything appears to be a commodity, to be swiped, consumed, shared and liked, or clicked away without a trace. History seems to be an anti-dote to all of that. The frenzy of acquiring stuff, this cult of consumption of things and now Experiences (with a capital E) have taken on such huge proportions that they have become some kind of juggernaut that will crush and devore anything that stands in their path. This seems to be a road to ruin, and one on which we will lose ourselves. How can you understand life and find meaning in a land without lasting traces, a horizon devoid of visible historic landmarks?

We do not even notice what is happening to our urban landscapes anymore. Much of the heritage of a city – mainly, but not exclusively architecture – is being deleted without a backward glance. We often no longer recall what was there in the recent past and worse still perhaps, we do not even care. By the time we realise the fate of a building or any plot of land, the planning permission has already been granted, and we are powerless to act, should we wish to do so. Nothing seems secure anymore and that makes me all the more grateful for edifices like St Martin’s, when few historic buildings can be assured a future. As lifestyles evolve, aspirations and expectations in life are modified in line with changing patterns and means of consumption. Our previously-treasured high streets are undergoing a shift that guarantees nothing but assured incertitude. This could be just as positive as negative in outcome, but we need some kind of constancy in these quick-sand times. The impressive historic buildings that are still standing in Birmingham’s city centre are, generally speaking, no longer home to the old, powerful institutions.

Beautiful, high-set porticos, majestic doorways, vaulted ceilings, vast Georgian rooms with classical fittings, late Victorian brick and terracotta façades, coloured faïence brickwork now all serve as backcloths to lounge 'living and chilling' spaces; wine bars, eateries, cafés and the like. The banks, insurance companies, lofty firms and prestigious retail stores seem to have moved out – online, overseas or out of town. A former children’s hospital has even become a casino – well, why not ? Better that than left as empty, boarded up and/or derelict buildings. However, I fear that once revenues decline, these short-term occupants –albeit all instantly-recognizable big brands - will follow suit. This will leave multiple premises – the city’s heritage - in a poor state of repair, having been modified out of recognition to meet fleeting modern requirements. These edifices risk falling easy prey to property developers with their wrecking ball or sneaky current practice of gutting historic buildings to preserve a veneer-thin frontage ('Facadism') as a nod to the past. This would appear to be more a two-fingered salute to our history... and our very selves.

The Bull Ring and parish church of St Martin, Birmingham, 1880s, unknown photographer