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.

Heliotrope Purple Petals...

In the first lockdown last year, I took pity on the pitiful clematis plants on sale in the local supermarket. Lacking water and natural sunlight, their leaves had become so shrivelled and their woody stems so brittle that the cashier even advised me against buying them. However, buy them I did. Despite spending most of the year in a relatively sorry state, this spring the plants started to grow in a determined fashion and have now produced their dazzling flowers to grace my balcony. The beautiful flowers have large, slightly ruffle-edged petals which are known to attract butterflies and hummingbirds in certain climates, though I think it is safe to say that there is no danger of that occuring here!

The flowers on one of the plants are a gentle amethyst whilst the others are a rich, regal purple. Perhaps the right description of this particular shade would be 'heliotrope', in reference to the flower itself of the borage family. Contrary to heliotrophic plants, the clematis does not turn its flowers and foliage to follow the movement of the sun throughout the day and in view of the incredibly wet weather at present, that is probably just as well... Nevertheless the grey skies are not able to dullen the hypnotic effect created by the delicate magenta veins traced on this particular purple, with the clockwise swirl of stamens at the centre to draw you in.

My Imari Cat - Chinese or Japanese?

There is a certain amount of mystery surrounding this porcelain cat, with his enigmatic expression and puzzling past life. If cats have nine lives, I am not sure where he has spent the others prior to making an appearance in mine. Apparently this is a piece of ‘Chinese Imari’ as it has a qian yi tang mark on its base, perhaps dating back to the early 20th century. Despite having hunted around on internet for similar feline specimens, all those I have come across are either quite different in shape and design to this one/suspiciously modern-looking but vaunted as ‘vintage’ /generally cheap and tacky-looking. None of them really offer any solid description regarding origins, even though most of these are/were being auctioned off – some at exorbitant prices !

I have to say, with a certain amount of pride, that not one of these other models was on the same standing as mine ; the cat’s whiskers indeed ! He certainly thinks so, with that strange smile, and odd gaze! His colours are bright and well defined as they offset each other, but not in a shoddy, gaudy manner ; the painted floral detail is fine and delicate ; the glaze is fairly matt as opposed to shiny and superficial ; his porcelain mass is satisfyingly weighty. The only thing lacking is his story and the history of other Imari cats or other creatures like him. He too came from an auction house, but delivered without any kind of concrete information, strangely enough. However, whatever the particular trajectory of my cat, Imari porcelain in general exemplifies the centuries’ old exchange of ceramic style and technique between the Asian countries of China, Japan and Korea and the Middle East.

Porcelain is of course a Chinese invention and is typically referred to as ‘china’ in everyday English usage. The name Ming generally conjures up the image of some priceless vase used as a prop or piece of incriminating evidence in some whodunnit story ! However, the Ming dynasty was in fact just one of several successive dynastic periods that produced ceramics that would go on to dominate world trade - from the Song (960–1279), Yuan (1279-1368), Ming (1368-1644) and Qing (1644-1911) dynasties. From the 13th century, with its vast kilns Jingdezhen in Southern China was to become ‘porcelain city’. Much of this porcelain from the Yuan period was exported to the Middle East, and was adapted to and likewise influenced by the desire for ceramics enhanced by decorative motifs in blue glazes. Indeed, blue-and-white porcelain was manufactured en masse with its signature underglaze developed from the cobalt ‘Islamic blue’ exported from Persia.

From the Ming period onwards, Jingdezhen made imperial porcelain and the kilns were controlled by the emperor, but the taste for blue-and-white ware extended far beyond China and was to sweep across the Western world. Porcelain pieces initially came to Europe across land via the Silk Route, but Portuguese merchants later brought greater amounts back in seabound vessels. Yet despite an ever-growing supply, porcelain still remained the preserve of royalty and the rich, primarily in Portugal until the Dutch started to ship Chinaware massively to Amsterdam, the ‘world’s harbour’. The insatiable appetite of the affluent West for exotic ceramic goods and a whole range of other equally luxurious Asian artifacts was such that when, in the mid 1600s, the new Qing government closed ports following the demise of the Ming dynasty, the Dutch East India Company (VOC), turned to Japan as an alternative supplier.

From the mid 13th century, the tea-drinking culture that had originally been brought back to Japan from China by a Buddhist monk took a firm hold in Japanese culture, with the ritual of the tea ceremony leading to a demand in fine imported Chinese ceramic ware. During the Momoyama period (around 1573 – 1603), Japan set up its own porcelain production, aided by the arrival of expert Korean potters with their skillful use of the noborigama or 'rising kiln'. In the early 17th century, many of these artisans settled in an area that was found to be rich in kaolin clay, around the city of Arita. In this manner, Imari porcelain was born – named after the shipping port from where it left for Nagasaki. Initial Imari ware (Shoki-Imari) was based on blue-and-white porcelain and was sometimes referred to as Arita ware. This was so popular that many Europeans copied it on tin-glazed earthenware, Delft Blue from the Netherlands naturally being the main one to come to mind.

Japanese Imari style evolved over time as the blue underglaze was highlighted by a rusty reddish and a brilliant gold. In the same manner, this Imari style with its trio of colours was imitated throughout the West and was to be manufactured in Meissen in Germany, Chantilly in France, Delft in the Netherlands, and by Spode, Derby and Minton to name just a few in England. Imari pieces were typically decorated with flowers, birds, mythological creatures and auspicious symbols in line with the Japanese appreciation of both the natural and supernatural worlds and often inspired by textiles. Enamel decoration of porcelain, using an overglaze technique developed from the 1650s. This sub-type of Imari ware, known as Kakiemon (named after the persimmon fruit, kaki), employed soft red, yellow, blue and turquoise green colours to great effect and was highly popular and influential. So much so that when China’s porcelain trade picked up again for export at end of the reign of emperor Kangxi (1662-1722), it took full advantage of the European taste for Japanese design. It also profited from Japan’s own trade restrictions due to an isolationist foreign policy ! Thus Chinese Imari was born – based on both Japanese Imari and Kakiemon and drawing from their respective successes. Compared to Japanese Imari, the Chinese variety is said to have a thinner glaze, a brighter blue underglaze and a more translucent red enamel overglaze... Although Japan’s trade with the Dutch continued, its exports declined. Production costs were far higher than those in China, making the competition far too powerful to rival and so by 1740 this first period of Japanese exportation came to an end.

Japanese Imari did surge back into the Western markets from the mid 19th century when sakoku ('closed country') ended and exports were able to resume during the Meiji era. This of course coincided with the fascination of all things Japanese as Japonisme swept the West, influencing not only fine and decorative arts, but also architecture and landscape gardens. Japanese objets d’art became luxury objects of desire and a craze for collecting and displaying pieces fired trade. In many respects the long-reaching impact of Japonisme on Western aesthetics mirrored that of Chinoiserie which had reached a peak in the Rococo style of the mid-18th century, and thus continued the Asian influence. But where does that all leave my Imari cat ? Can he be considered to be more Japanese than Chinese ? Were such animal figures popular in Japan or China – or both ? I still don’t really have any clear idea but maybe that is part of his charm. Either way, I am dreaming of going back to museums and historical centres to see visions of blue-and-white, regardless of origin and have set my sights on Amsterdam…

Tulips... Past and Present.

At a set of lights, on my way to work, my eyes generally drift over to the triangular flowerbed that livens up this traffic-heavy, yet otherwise non-descript road junction. For the last week or so, I have watched the tulips progressively rise up and open out - their bright heads a splash of defiance in this sea of concrete and tarmac. I have seen them reveal themselves, with each passing day, ranging from the jaunty traditional forms with smooth rounded petals and warm pastel colours, to the more vibrant shades and streaks with shapes bursting open and spilling out, with lily-fingered flowers and then finally to the mysterious varieties, with curiously ruffle-edged, fringed blooms, unfurling from strangely gnarled buds in dark, unsettling tones.

All this beauty laid out, yet I am not sure how much is even registered by the road-weary drivers and the odd pedestrian or so, all absorbed in daily tasks, eyes invariably blinkered by some screen device or other. And yet if they knew of the covetousness attached to the flowers displayed simply before them, their apparent indifference would surely be blown away. If only these tulips could talk of their rich ancestry and the extraordinary power they have exerted in very different places and periods in time.

Beyond our myopic viewpoint of the tulip, as the humble, reliable staple in shops and petrol station forecourts – lie distant horizons and tumultous times. Below its seemingly unassuming nature, are the facets of a history that need to be peeled back to arrive at the source, just like the tulip’s distinctively robust leaves that rise out of winter soil, yet spring from an obscure bulb. Indeed, the origins of the tulip stretch far further back than the flat expanses of the flower fields in the Netherlands.

These cheerful floral patchwork landscapes, offering picture-postcard views bathed in a quaint and safe atmosphere hide a far more vibrant, perilous past. For here is a flower that inflamed emotions, igniting all-consuming desire and unparalled greed of Biblical proportions.

Originally a wild flower of the Asian steppes, the tulip symbolized the contemplative beauty of the East and all things exotic for centuries. Its very name conjured up mesmerizing images of the Orient; swathes of tulips in the Persian capital of Isfahan, hypnotic whirling Dervishes, Turkish nomads sweeping westward along the Silk Route, the flowing waters of the Bosphorus dividing Europe and Asia. Yet this - the ‘flower of God’ - also witnessed and even instigated struggles for power and wealth.

When the greatest Byzantine city of Constantinople was overthrown in the mid 15th century, giving rise to Istanbul at the heart of the Ottoman Empire, the elegant image of imperial might and culture was the tulip. Indeed, it was named after the Turkish turban – the tulipan. Cultivated in magnificent gardens and parks, the tulip acted as a precious jewel set in Topkapi palace ; the Sultan’s residence in the capital.

There, the flowers were personally tended to by Sultan Mehmed II himself – the Conqueror of the Roman Empire. Gradually, as the ban on the representation of living things in Islamic art progressively eased with time, the tulip motif appeared in ceramics, literature and textiles – and was one of the decorative symbol of preference in the mosques. The flower’s unique shape and the lettering of the word itself, both recalled the name of Allah in his greatness and growing such a divine flower assured a place in Heaven.

Meanwhile cultivating diplomatic alliances between East and West here on earth elevated the Ottoman empire’s wordly status. Under Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, the palatial gardens grew, as did the visits of European ambassadors. Such visitors were shown the magnificence of the tulip displays and the generosity of the Sultan as bulbs were given as gifts to the more important guests. It was in this manner that the Viennese ambassador to the Ottoman Empire is thought to have played a role in the introduction of the tulip to European soil.

Several bulbs were apparently handed over by the diplomat in question to the head of the imperial botanical gardens in Austria – a certain Carolus Clusius. As a leading scientific horticulturist, Clusius finally became head of the Hortus Botanicus Leiden in 1593 and hence the first tulips were planted for study purposes in the Netherlands at the end of the 16th century. Given their mysterious ability to change colour, the tulip fascinated and puzzled in equal measure. Despite carrying out extensive research in order to understand the miraculous ‘tulip breaking’ that gave rise to such varied colour combinations in the ‘broken’ petal colouration, the process eluded Clusius (it was caused by a virus !). The beauty of this enigmatic flower did not escape the attention of others however.

The rarity of the tulip quickly inflamed interest and desire and before long Clusius was relieved of part of his collection by thieving chancers ! Although an unfortunate loss, this tulip heist resulted in the progressive gain of the flower across the land. Here it germinated in the culture and mindset of the people and took root in the national identity. Despite being far from the fire and passion of its exotic Eastern origins, the tulip’s hold on its host country was just as powerful. Behind the calm exteriors of the lofty Amsterdammer buildings constructed for an increasingly affluent merchant class and within the smokey interiors of shady taverns frequented by the populace, would soon burn a sudden passion, ready to engulf all.

Even without the fascinating fortune of the tulip in Dutch history, the Golden Age of the 17th century Republic never fails to intrigue us. Perhaps this is due to the same unique medley of cultural leads that ensured the flower’s success there from the start. There is something tantalising about the urban landscapes, still lives and portraiture with their play of colour and detail within a somber, sober framework which means that the smallest detail or the slightest touch of blue or yellow grab our attention.

We are literally drawn into the mesmerizing Dutch interiors, with their tranquil yet indefinable atmosphere that is rather unsettling. I remember going to the Rijksmuseum as a teenager and experiencing this strange sensation as we looked at incredible paintings in an equally impressive setting, one cold winter. It is hardly surprising that novels that seek to capture this unique mood and create a similar sensation attract many readers – or at least this one ! The obvious one to cite here is Girl with a Pearl Earring (by Tracy Chevalier), although I have to say the impression inspired in me by that book was sadly very far from the one intended. Any recommendations for a better read, gladly welcome…

Following independence from the rule of the Habsburg King, Philip II of Spain, the Dutch arts and science, trade and military forces went on to lead Europe. Maritime and economic power were unparalled during this period. Central to such growth was the establishment of merchant trading links, as Dutch companies sent out ships to bring back the exotic goods from the distant continents and far-flung islands. At the heart of this commercial empire was The Dutch East India Company - a vast corporation founded in 1602 by the grouping of rival Dutch trading houses. A growing demand for silk, sugar and spice and a multitude of other luxurious commodities from Asia and Europe itself meant that the Dutch republic soon became the world’s commercial hub. Such lucrative trade meant that it soon became one of the richest countries and also the most densely populated in Europe.

As urban populations grew, merchants and bankers began to form a true middle class in the Republic, becoming wealthier and ever more powerful through trade and shrewd investments. How this affluence and rise in social status were to be displayed was perhaps unique to the Dutch spirit and worldview. Whilst they craved luxury, and coveted beautiful artifacts, they were equally fearful of inappropriate self-agrandisation and prideful ‘showing off’. Rejection of papist excess pivoted around a Calvinist condemnation of over-Indulgence (overvloed) and the wanton conspicuous display of the worldly trappings often associated with it.

Whilst religious painting per se declined, artists were commissioned to show in secular work how overindulgence ultimately lead to decadence and decline. Moralistic genre paintings warned of the temptations of unbridled consumption and greed in the dissolute household, mostly to our amusement today ! If the message was not sufficiently driven home, vanitas paintings were there to remind the beholder that vanity, generally linked to material possessions and worldly pursuits, would not guard them from inevitable death and decay.

Life’s brevity was underlined in still life paintings bearing references to the cycle of life and the passing of time, alongside allusions to Man’s mortality. Images of fading flora and fruit, caterpillars and butterflies, bubbles, burning candles, mirrors, hourglasses and deathskulls were presented in dissarray in order to highlight the chaos caused in life by vain distractions. Such existentialist messages may be lost on us now but these works still fascinate today since they appear as richly detailed displays of the contents of a curiosity cabinet, muddled with the shelves of grocer’s shop with a butcher’s ware thrown in for good measure ! All rendered in eye-watering precision, of course.

It was not for nothing, therefore, that the Dutch attached great important to pristine white linen on their person and in their environment. Immaculate in every sense, yet costly to maintain meant that their personal whites were quite simply a pure form of luxury ! Starchy, intricate white ruffs on otherwise sober garments spoke volumes without being seen as vain… Nevertheless, Protestant beliefs and practices meant that the rewards of hard work – reaping in the guilders - posed the continual challenge of how to be affluent yet suitably modest. This was largely achieved through indulging safely behind closed doors in the inner sanctum ; the home, garden and one’s domestic life. The display of one’s financial means to a select audience in one’s private space was seen as the perfect balance of modesty and ostentation, free of that shameful trait ; pride. And it is precisely this space that we find so intriguing today – divided as it is between contrasting forces.

Imposing gabled houses composed of immaculate rooms with light playing on walls and tiled floors reflected the ordered, pious restraint that the inhabitants aspired to. And yet inventories of household items drawn up during this period reveal a little more personal ‘clutter’ than the average Dutch interior genre paintings would care to depict ! Indeed, from the lists of household possessions, it would seem that many of the items included responded to more than a purely practical need as expensive commissioned paintings (often idealized portrait), mirrors, books, and clocks were all set alongside furniture and rich furnishings.

One household item that must surely appear to us today as a rather futile, yet again utterly intriguing, were the doll’s house owned by wealthy adult women. These are another example of the unique Golden-age desire to satisfy simultaneous contrasting impulses – moderation and lavishness. These perfect replicas of the various rooms of the affluent townhouse were often given on marriage, symbolic of the life to be built. Presented in a cabinet form, these doll’s houses afforded wives the opportunity and freedom to select and commission the rich objects and ornaments with which to furnish the rooms, at a time when most decisions on any matter in real life were taken by the man of the house. The doll’s house would be displayed in the home, standing at eye-level as a statement objet d’art, presenting an idealized domestic universe of exquisite craftsmanship, beauty and harmony. Guests would thus be encouraged to note the impeccable taste and enviable status of the mistress of the home – both real and miniature.

Purely by coincidence, I happened to finish reading The Miniaturist by Jessie Burton, just as the tulips started to bloom. The novel presented the fictive story around one such doll’s house from 17th century Amsterdam, today an exhibit piece at the Rijksmuseum. Although genuinely excited to read this, my enthusiasm withered and died as the chapters advanced. Just as the few Tracy Chevalier works I have read, this one is built on an inspired theme – brilliant even – but the actual writing simply did not deliver, as far as I was concerned. Unlike Girl With the Pearl Earring, whose film adaptation redeemed the novel, The Miniaturist was in no way bolstered by the BBC mini series either. Nevertheless, the book did indirectly draw my attention to the fact that a complete cabinet doll’s house could cost even more than the most expensive canal house in Amsterdam… And yet it was not the only coveted object to do so. Back to the tulip…

As it turned out, there could be no better symbol of the lure of luxury and danger of vanity in the Netherlands than the tulip itself. Its ephemeral, captivating beauty with unpredictable colouration, its scarcity and highly limited supply gave rise to a frenzy of desire and demand. From the 1630s, buyers and sellers alike were driven by a ‘tulip fever’ that only burnt itself out when it had wrought havoc. But what could be more perfect mark of social attainment than the possession of such an elusive bloom ? What other item promised such commercial success to those willing to take a gamble ? Nothing, it would seem , until 1637 that is, when the tulip market crashed overnight. Before that, tulip trading had given rise to the first speculative bubble.

The rarest tulips, with their streaked petals in varied colour combinations were literally worth a fortune. And indeed purveyors and purchasers were soon ready to gamble fortunes via promisory notes on bulbs that had not even been seen in any physical form. Trading took place in back rooms and taverns (‘colleges’), where judgement was clouded by alcohol and the burning, blinding desire to become rich quick through a few smart investments and sale to the highest bidder. Whilst the final possession of such a precious commodity was largely the preserve of the wealthy alone, the exchange of these goods took place between the hands of lower-class citizens. Craftsmen and tradesmen would sell their materials and stock in order to purchase bulbs – or merely their ‘futures’ - to sell on and make a profit. When the bubble inevitably burst, these same individuals found themselves suddenly ruined.

Parts of society were left bankrupt and suicidal individuals threw themselves into the canals in desperation. Yet whilst the situation sent shockwaves through the economy, the country recovered with time. As trading had largely taken place outside the official stock exchange, tulip fever had been broken without ultimately breaking Dutch society. The nobility came out of the whole situation relatively unscathed, albeit a little chastized. As for the tulip itself, it continued to be treasured but no longer in a ruinous manner and many people today are not even aware of this real-life allegory of the dangers of amour fou. One novel that I did greatly enjoy on this whole affair was Deborah Moggach's Tulip Fever, read many years ago. Although it seems to have been panned by critics, who (as far as I can see) did not understood the tone of the writing, I loved it. Like a bawdy sketch from a Jan Steen painting, the story develops with the most unplausible plot that neverless depicts historical events that seem improbable from whatever angle they are presented. The film adaptation does the novel or its author’s intentions no justice… Some 90 years after the initial tulpenmanie, History seemed to repeat itself and so the third chapter in this story of captivation unfurls, suggesting that perhaps not everyone had learnt from the Dutch example, incredible as that might seem. Back in the Ottoman Empire, the fascination with the tulip had not in fact subsided since the reign of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent in the 16th century. On the contrary, with the years reverence for the divine flower had merely grown, as had the huge variety of cultivars available. From the mid-17th century, classified lists were drawn up, with evocative names that indicate the enchantment the blooms operated ; ‘Increaser of Joy’, ‘Light of the Mind,’ ‘Diamond Envy’, ‘Those that Burn the Heart’, ‘Star of Felicity’, ‘Matchless Pearl’, ‘Delicate Coquette’, ‘Pomegranate Lance’ and ‘Beloved’s Face’.

By the early 18th century, this love had developed into a full-blown obsession in the Tulip Era under Sultan Ahmed the Third. Ottoman power and wealth was quite literally represented by the flower in all its forms, with hundreds of cultivars painstakingly developed, with a preference for the dagger-tipped, almond shaped flower as opposed to the wine-glass rounded form that was favoured by the Dutch. An annual Tulip Festival was dedicated to the elegant perfection of the flower and must have been simply magical to behold. Throughout the flowering period, songbirds in gilded cages would fill the air with their music, whilst giant tortoises bore candles on their backs, gently illuminating the evening displays as they wandered through the gardens. Dressed in robes that complemented the colour of the tulip blooms, the festival guests would stroll around the royal grounds and on the given signal, the seraglio doors were opened, releasing the Sultan’s sequestered harem into the garden, with its beautiful female charges ressembling the specially guarded floral specimens in their own right.

I am not sure if a novel about this particular episode in the tulip’s history exists, but it would probably be hard to relate this in a manner which could do it justice. Anyway, not surprisingly, such fairy-tale opulence and expense soon led to plain outrage and revolt in response to the exorbitant national outlay required to cover such indulgence. Whilst Ottoman tulip fever was kept in check by State price regulation, little could contain the Sultan himself who demanded the importation of millions of Dutch and French bulbs to feed his voracious floral habit. Soon bled-dry by this imperial obsession with the tulip, the population finally rebelled and destroyed the gardens holding the flower that had became synonymous with decadence and ruin. For the second time…

And so finally the tulip has maintained a hold over the countries which were its past strongholds - Holland and Turkey – but with none of the destructive passion and perhaps with a little less of the magic too. That this flower should have captivated two such different peoples must have been some form of enchantment or bewitchment. One country apparently dour and disciplined, was briefly rendered mad by a lust for the tulip’s beauty. This was matched by the desire of another - fiery and passionate - yet rendered powerless in admiration of the tulip’s delicate divinity.