The Reappearance of La Maison des Musiciens... 100 years later!

A few years ago, I wrote about the Maison des Musiciens that disappeared from Reims in the hostilities of the First World War over a hundred years ago. A copy of the façade has just been unveiled at the original site, some 800 years after the initial construction of the building! For the moment, most of the base is fenced off by metal hoarding so the final effect is not yet visible, but here's a glimpse of two of the five musicians. Hmm.... Not entirely sure what to think for the moment as the project still looks rather too 'clean' and more than a little like a 3D print-out, but perhaps some city grime will lend a greater air of authenticity and age to the whole.

Beyond The Owl and the Pussycat...

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea… The opening words from the Edward Lear nonsense poem must have been written into the childhood experience of so many over the past 150 years but I am not sure if they are recognized or appreciated today in the same manner. Perhaps the magical power of the written word has been spirited away by the sea of images that smart screens bombard us with each day, thus rendering books almost obsolete. Do children still love such whimsical writings now- the limericks, verses and prose with their accompanying illustrations ? They were all created by an individual who would introduce himself as Mr Abebika Kratoponoko Prizzikalo Kattefello Ablegorabalus Ableborinto Phashyph - such was his joy for language. I don’t believe we share that same linguistic savouring - that appreciation of word experimentation in terms of sound, shape, function and meaning – at least not at the present time when everything has to be conveyed at speed, in Twitter-comptible size. Perhaps as a result of that, we are simply losing the will and ability to play with language and find fun therein… Just take a look at Lear’s suggested plural form of the hippopotamus… Hippopotamice !

However, language aside, I recently discovered that Lear’s 'bosh’ writings were but a small part of his life’s work. In fact, he had initially sought to distance himself from his nonsensical literature for many years, fearing – as was indeed the case – that it would detract from his more ‘serious’ undertakings. When writing for the children in his entourage as a young man, he had even signed as 'Derry Down Derry', and it was only later on in life that he actually used his real name next to his Nonsense collections. How ironic then that most of his fame appears to be based on this very thing – to the point that the name Lear has almost become synonymous with limerick or was at one stage. Yet far from being some avuncular Victorian, occupying himself with witty scribblings from the comfort of a vast country pile, Lear’s talents as travel writer, topographical painter, and natural history illustrator led him into a unique existence of adventure across Europe, the Middle East and Asia that I had never imagined. The quaint drawings that illustrate Lear’s nonsense writings give no indication to his skill as a highly-accomplished draughtsman. Futhermore, whilst his renown in Great Britain resides solidly on The Owl and Pussycat, The Jumblies and so on, in many of the countries he explored and painted, he is a revered artist. Why hasn’t his extensive talent been acknowledged and acclaimed in his homeland ? Why don’t we know more about Edward Lear ?

The more I have read about Lear, the greater my appreciation of this incredible man and the deeper my indignation that he still has so little recognition ! He was certainly not dealt a good hand in life and the odds were stacked against him in terms of poor mental and physical health from early childhood. His life circumstances alone sound almost Dickensian from the outset. Born in 1812 as the 20th child ( !!!!) of Ann and Jeremiah Lear, he had to be raised by his eldest sister, Ann, since his parents could not cope with the financial burden. When his stockbroker father was sent to debtor’s prison, the young Lear had to earn his own living through illustration work. Having being taught drawing and painting by his sisters Ann and Sarah, and possessing remarkable ability from a young age, Lear was able to make his way despite having no formal artistic training. However, from childhood he experienced the debilitating effects of epilepsy that was little understood and even less accepted at a time when grand mal episodes were akin to possession by diabolic forces. The sense of shame never left Lear who learnt to retire from company before a seizure set in but would also isolate himself when in the grips of the ‘morbids’ – the bouts of depression that would dog him to his final days. Suffering from a poor chest – with respiratory ailments such as bronchitis and asthma – his health was compromised severely and if that wasn’t enough, failing eyesight affected his draughtsmanship !

Yet as life was pitiless in the 19th century, and the workhouse beckoned for those sliding downward, Lear forged ahead despite a constant concern about a lack of steady income. Unlike a 21st century counterpart who would surely be tempted to expose and explore their suffering and point an accusing finger at the shortcomings of the pater familias and the family set-up, Lear moved onward and further afield. He was driven by a restlessness that kept him active and adventurous, leading him to wander, instinctively and repeatedly, on ‘jaunts’ towards the warmer climate of the Mediterranian coast. Lear’s affable nature meant that he had a wide circle of friends and acquaintances. His artistic ability and versatility, social adaptability and amenable personality seem to have opened doors for him. He was even invited to give drawing lessons to Queen Victoria ! He himself acknowledged that he had social contact with individuals from « an immense variety of class and caste » - holding frequent exhibitions in order to sell his work. Friendship was further maintained by the humourous letters, illustrated with his comic, often self-deprecating drawings. Nevertheless loneliness plagued him throughout life and he felt himself to be a perpetual outsider, forever the eccentric, adventurous foreigner pushing further afield, stretching his horizons. Perhaps he was also on the spectrum too, as has been hinted, and maybe was homosexual - either way he remained unmarried to the end of his life. Company took the form of a loyal misshapen cat, ‘Foss’, (17 years of feline companionship) and a faithful Albanian servant (30 years of service, albeit as a « thoroughly unsatisfactory chef » !). Lear died just a few months after the demise of Old Foss…

Lear’s artistic talent was made apparent from the age of 15 when he started to earn a living by carrying out medical illustrations for doctors and hospitals. It was, however, his ornithological illustrations that earned him early recognition in 1830. Drawing from the live specimens at London zoo, Lear wished to publish his own book on parrots - The Family of Psittacidae – at the age of 19. Compared to the work of the great American artist and naturalist , John James Audubon (1785-1851), whose work may appear somewhat stuffy and stuffed (based on preserved specimens ) Lear’s studies possess great vitality and naturalness.

It is not surprising, incidentally, that Lear’s art should be so admired by Sir David Attenborough… During his period at the zoo, Lear encountered Edward Stanley - Lord Derby (the first of several). Like many Victorian gentlemen, the latter had a keen interest in natural history and requested that Lear draw the living and preserved specimens from the private aviary and menagerie in the vast estate of Knowsley Hall. From 1832 to 1836, Lear worked in this imposing setting, not only producing the commissioned animal studies but also writing nonsensical verse to entertain the children staying in the grand home. Many of the words and names he invented seem to have drawn inspiration from the exotic animals catalogued in the newly-assembled natural history collections. Lear’s Pobble (with no toes), Dong (with a luminous nose) and Quangle-Wangles sound no more bizarre than the actual Tasselled Wobbegong, Red-Lipped Batfish, Lowland Streaked Tenrec, Aye-Aye and Gerenuk.

A desire to paint the foreign landscapes he saw during his travels, along with the need to adandon the detailed animal studies that were injuring his eyesight meant that Lear decided to settle in Italy and journey from there to find new subjects for his art. For the rest of his life, he made extensive trips, observing and noting what he saw in drawings and paintings that serve as a precious recording today of what life was like in countries such as Greece and Albania. There are several episodes on You Tube to an eye-opening documentary - An Exile in Paradise: The Adventures of Edward Lear that track his incredible journeys… and his amazing art. In view of all that then, it therefore seems odd that Lear should be so revered in relatively far-flung countries, but in his birth country we are incapable of getting any further than The Owl and the Pussycat.

(Above from https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Edward_Lear_-_Nice_from_the_Genoa_Road_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg)

A New Home for Old Ceramic Staffordshire Dogs...

Having had my eye on this pair of copper-lustre Staffordshire dogs in one of the antique shops for some time, I finally succombed to temptation, and so now the next chapter of their story will be written into mine. In theory, these earthenware figures would have been manufactured in the ‘Potteries’ region of England – the Staffordshire area around Stoke-on-Trent ; heart of British ceramic production from the 17th century onward and home to the grand companies of Wedgwood and Spode. However, they may even have been produced in Scotland -around Glasgow or Edinburgh – areas also known for industrialized pottery production, and for developing their own line of ‘wally dugs’ (china dogs). Either way, I have no idea how or when this pair ended up in France but their past must certainly have been somewhat eventful, and not without mishap, as one of the dogs was broken and (rather shoddily) glued together again ! Two sets of Staffordshires have always been part of the decor in my family home and although I grew up with them, I never really wondered about their origins. Now, literally stuck in France due to travel restrictions to the UK, seeing my pair of recently-acquired dogs makes me think of home in every sense and wonder about the paths we lay down and follow, accompanied by our treasured objects. As antiques pieces, I assumed that Staffordshire dogs adorned the wealthiest households, catering for sophisticated taste that would set the discerning owner apart from the masses. In fact, these figures were largely intended for the working classes alone, albeit those with sufficient financial means to splash out on such ornamentation. Initially they were sold locally but manufacture grew as the fashion to dress the fireplace mantels caught on, especially in Victorian Britain when a matching pair of ‘hearth dogs’ was felt to lend a certain touch to the modest home. Thousands of these were first sold at relatively affordable prices at fairs and markets– quite ironic considering that a good pair of authentic Staffordshire models can fetch considerable sums in auction houses and antique shops today.

Although such figures were produced in a variety of breeds – Dalmatians and greyhounds included – the most common was surely the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. This was the favourite dog of Charles II of England and later that of Queen Victoria herself, whose childhood pet ‘Dash’ was represented in paintings by Landseer. These ceramic beasts came in a variety of sizes – some surprisingly large – but all generally presented in a seated position, with the front leg(s) occasionally separately moulded from the body. For the most part, the dogs bear a gold chain and locket for a regal touch, and patches of gold luster on the body too. Details of fur in the moulding and paintwork vary somewhat, depending on the quality of the pieces. The craze for such dogs meant that they were churned out in ever-greater numbers to meet demand and so delicate brushstrokes would be replaced by daubs of paint. Regardless of their quality, all models nevertheless maintained a quaint air that in no way sought to achieve a slavish realism of the animal in question. The dogs’ expression tends to be rather quizzical – with arched eyebrows and eyes that tend to gaze ahead. Whilst my dogs have simple painted yellow irises, many models had glass eyes that must have caught the light around the fireplace in their original settings. It is said that the factory workers’ children were employed to hand paint the whiskers and other fine details. Certainly, in the early models no two dogs were identical which added to their charm all the more. The colour of the dogs varied too. Often russet brown or black features were common on a typically white body, highlighted with the touches of gold. Whatever the colourings, the back of the models remained largely undecorated since this was not visible from the dogs’ vantage point upon the mantelpiece ! Some figures were placed on the window sill and rumour has it that the position of the dogs would indicate to an illicit lover when the coast was clear and an unwitting spouse was away… The sending of a text message today certainly has none of the cachet of the past !

Given that early Staffordshire ware tended not to be marked, it is difficult to know the age of many specimens. This is further compounded by the fact that the market today is awash with reproductions, many of which date back to the 1920s and 1930s when the dogs underwent a resurgence of popularity. The signs of the production methods employed are generally the best way to date a piece. A coin-sized hole in the base of a dog indicates that the slip-cast process was used in order to mass produce in the late 19th century. My dogs have the small holes in their backs that are indicative of the press-mould production of the earlier models and they also look remarkably like another pair of dogs that date back to the 1860s. However, with their hit-and-miss reassembly, and glue scar-tissue, my maimed Staffordshire spaniels could no longer command any sizeable sale price on the market but they are worth more than mere money. I do wish antiques could talk - to tell us their story and those of the people who have accompanied them over the decades…

Peonies... and Pearl Buck.

For several weeks now, the peonies have been out in flower, with beautiful ruffled petals, billowing out of their slightly oriental-looking buds... Over this same period, as chance would have it, I have been reading a copy of the book Pivoine that I recovered from one of the book-share points around town.

Set in mid 19th-century China, it traces the story of a wealthy Jewish merchant family living in Kaifeng, a city set in the province of Henan and known for its community of Chinese Jews. The eponymous character of the novel, Peony, is in fact the Chinese bondmaid of the Ezra household, and her actions are central to the events that will mark the family's fate and faith. Quite what those will be exactly, and the outcome of which, I have yet to learn as I haven't made much progress so far, so absolutely no need to issue a 'spoiler' warning here !

For years, I used to come across the name of the author in question, Pearl Buck, when rummaging around second-hand book shops and visiting brocantes... and I gave it a very wide berth! As I had never heard of her novels in England, or anywhere else for that matter, I just assumed this was some writer of ghastly potboilers - steeped in romance and/or adventure; hence the seemingly stagey name ! Little did I know at the time that Buck (1892—1973) was not only a highly-acclaimed novelist, born to American missionary parents and brought up in China, but also responsible for the foundation of an international, interracial adoption organisation. In fact her life is just as fascinating as her writings but more of all that when I have actually finished reading Pivoine !

Le Chat... Charles Baudelaire.

Dans ma cervelle se promène, ainsi qu'en son appartement, un beau chat, fort, doux et charmant. Quand il miaule, on l'entend à peine, Tant son timbre est tendre et discret ; mais que sa voix s'apaise ou gronde, elle est toujours riche et profonde. C'est là son charme et son secret. Cette voix, qui perle et qui filtre dans mon fonds le plus ténébreux, me remplit comme un vers nombreux et me réjouit comme un philtre. Elle endort les plus cruels maux et contient toutes les extases ; pour dire les plus longues phrases, elle n'a pas besoin de mots. Non, il n'est pas d'archet qui morde sur mon coeur, parfait instrument, et fasse plus royalement chanter sa plus vibrante corde, Que ta voix, chat mystérieux, chat séraphique, chat étrange, en qui tout est, comme en un ange, aussi subtil qu'harmonieux ! De sa fourrure blonde et brune sort un parfum si doux, qu'un soir j'en fus embaumé, pour l'avoir caressée une fois, rien qu'une. C'est l'esprit familier du lieu ; il juge, il préside, il inspire toutes choses dans son empire ; peut-être est-il fée, est-il dieu ? Quand mes yeux, vers ce chat que j'aime tirés comme par un aimant, se retournent docilement et que je regarde en moi-même, je vois avec étonnement le feu de ses prunelles pâles, clairs fanaux, vivantes opales, qui me contemplent fixement.

Perfect Purple... Again!

End of the month, and despite seeing so many beautiful things over the last few weeks and months, I have not had the time to set them all out and admire them... There did, however, seem to be a large quantity of purple, in all shades, on flowers of all shapes and forms!

The majestic irises came and went, standing in all their glory; tall and proud around the town...

The elegant fritillary flowers stood poised in a florist's window, chequered heads gently bent down...

Whilst the Spanish lavender seemed to hover in the garden centre, like a swarm of floral insects...

The foxgloves towering in rows, with their speckled fingers drawing in the bees...

And the classic rose, buds and blooms, climbing up trellises...

Clusters of columbines, bursting out, raindrops gathered on the bright iris...

Musée-Atelier Bourdelle

Set in the 15th arrondissement of Paris, near Gare Montparnasse, the Musée-Atelier of Antoine Bourdelle (1861 – 1929) seems a world apart from the busy streets, and tall buildings that surround it. Beautiful statues in the museum garden stand proud and timeless, against an uninspiring backcloth of late 20th century concrete ugliness. The magnificence of sculpted forms, dating back a hundred years, seems to be amplified by this strange forced mariage.

The museum today is composed of the artist’s house and studio - «demeure de l’esprit» - with its sequence of rooms and gardens and yards, which he occupied from 1884 to 1929. I visited it in order to see the exhibition Les Contes Etranges of the Danish sculptor Niels Hansen Jacobsen, held there just as COVID started to stake its claim on 2020. However, I was equally struck by the beauty of this exceptional setting with its unique atmosphere and am looking forward to returning.

Strangely enough, I cannot even remember if I was fully aware of Bourdelle before my visit. It seems as if Auguste Rodin’s name is often considered to be THE reference, rightly or wrongly, in 19th century sculpture. With its Art Deco influence, Bourdelle’s work does, however, occupy an important role as it marks the transition from the academic Beaux-Arts style to modern sculpture. And although he had actually worked with Rodin for a number of years at the beginning of his career, he went on the develop his own highly distinct style. Rodin’ s fraught figures, often of taut nerves and sinew become powerful forms of muscle, vigor and contained energy in Bourdelle's art, creating a new vitality.

From a young age, Bourdelle worked on wood carving and drawing and remarked that “sculpture was no more than drawing in every sense”. . Leaving the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Toulouse in his twenties, he settled in Paris to continue his studies and to work in the studio of Alexandre Falguière (1831 – 1900). However, it was his position as practitioner in Rodin’s studio and his collaboration with the artist over fifteen years that no doubt shaped his approach to his own art in a rather more significant manner. Although initially referred to as “le demi Rodin”, given the influence that the mentor’s art exerted over him, Bourdelle went on to develop his unique style at the turn of the century and from 1910 no longer worked with his fellow sculptor.

In 1900, he created his bust of Apollo, a work which he himself recognized as being decisive in his development as an artist, since it enabled him to express what he wanted to convey. Whilst employing a similar approach to Rodin in the execution of the work, with visible marks of tools, and traces in the gouged material that left a surface seemingly unfinished, Bourdelle sought an independent style. Departing from the Expressionist Romanticism of Rodin, he drew inspiration from the work of Ancient Greek that he observed in the Louvre. From this, he created a personal manner of order, harmony and simplification. He later remarked that, in so doing, he evaded the fleeting, fortuitous and inconsequential in order to lay out what was universal and permanent.

Of his work, the imposing, monolithic forms that demonstrate this desire to explore the impressive force of ancient Greek sculpture are the ones I liked the most, especially given their unique settings in the museum and its gardens. As much as I tend to dislike Neo-Classicist art with its heavy themes and equally weighty figures positioned in meaningful poses, I really do appreciate Bourdelle. There is little or none of the anecdotal, yet dry academic themes referring back to now sadly obscure episodes of mythology. Instead, what you get are demonstrations of the dynamic meeting of modern Man and ancient deities to create timeless figures whose force you feel directly.

Gone are the anaemic, etiolated figures of Bourdelle’s predecessors and contemporaries that often seem rather stodgy and sentimental in nature, and likewise Rodin’s sinewy, tortured, troubled characters are abandoned too. Here, you actually sense the suspended tension, caught in the moment, in art that nevertheless highlights what is somehow permanent. In this, Bourdelle’s art was thoroughly modern in a similar vein to the dance of Isadora Duncan (1878 – 1927) that had also been a source of inspiration. Vital energy, pure forms and exaggerated rendition appear to take precedence over slavish, ponderous realism that distracts you from the essential and in so doing stifles the essence of the work itself, be that in plastic or performing arts.

You can experience the tension in the resulting sculpture like the force restrained in a flexed bow - with arrow ready to spring - through lines, angles, curves and movement that appear cast in iron through their massive strength and volume. Of course, the perfect example of this is in Bourdelle’s Hercules the Archer (1909), with its architectutural proportions and dramatic pose. I have just managed to see one of the copies of this work in the Musée d’Orsay and found that watching the reaction of the visitors was quite fascinating as their eyes, like mine, were drawn into the work with its powerful, unforgettable figure.

The concept and realization of the atelier-musée was a project that dominated the latter part of Bourdelles’s life. Following the example set by Rodin, with his wish to leave work to a museum in his name, he laid down detailed plans for the execution of the Atélier-Musée Bourdelle. In 1885, he had set himself up in the quartier of 16th arrondissement, in what was once gardens and vineyards, with fellow artists “as widespread as the grass in the cracks of the pavement” and so it was that Jules Dalou (1838 – 1902) and Eugène Carrière were his close neighbours. I can’t help but wonder what they would think of the whole area now…

Today, we can visit the spaces where Bourdelle taught his pupils; rooms with their original wooden floors, high ceilings, mezzanines for observation of work underway and large windows opening out onto the courtyard and gardens. It was the dedication of his widow, Cleopatre and their daughter Rhodia, that ensured the completion of the full project after Bourdelle’s death. Furthermore, it was the intervention of the patron Gabriel Cognacq that saved the site from destruction when the original cul-de-sac, Impasse du Maine, was opened up in 1930. The atelier-musée was inaugurated in 1949.

The last decade of Bourdelle’s life was marked by the realization of many large official commissions, many of which are displayed to great effect in the gardens of the grounds. The Virgin of the Offering (1920-25), Dying Centaur (1914), France (1925), General Alvear, Sapho (1925) and Horse (1922) are amongst other bronze statues that tower over us in an imposing fashion, set against the skies and the Montauban bricks employed in the building construction in a nod to the artist’s birth origins.

Further monumental works are housed in the Great Hall that was installed in 1961 to mark the century of the artist’s birth. This vast space acts as a modern temple, with its huge concrete roof flooding the plaster sculpture in light, to great effect. Meanwhile an extension of modern exhibition rooms was added in 1992 to display work and conserve documents and artifacts.

All in all, the whole site was a pleasure to discover.