Puppetry over here was mainly confined to the rather dismal exploits of Punch and Judy. Over in Sicily though it was, and is, rather more swagger. A richer cultural life despite the poverty, and a stern tradition of memorising friends and neighbours for deathworthy offence, together with evergreen recollections of one of the major cultural enemies of Christendom — the Barbary states kept this alive until fairly recently by frequently removing Sicilians, and others as far as Ireland and points north, to become slaves in what was, mainly, all things considered, mainly a vast slave plantation just called Islam — made their pupi quite resplendent.
Two weeks ago I hired a van/driver and emptied the garage mentioned earlier to a temporary ( alas ) near location: most of the boxes can be, with some trouble, disposed of without much consideration; but this event does mean that I need never see the far-off town evermore. British cities being what they are, this is excellent. I may detail some of the recovered books later; however this, and some continual intimations of chest trouble — which susurration ironically has led to an annoying semi-cessation of smoking at the precise time when I have obtained a supply of Marlboros from the Philippines — has extended a neglect of this minor blog. Even once one has taken Marcus Aurelius on board and recognised the unimportance of nearly everything transient, one still waits upon events, seeking a succession of resolutions… In the longer term, I still have no idea where to move finally even when most of these minor annoyances of storage for that move are fixed…
So, in lieu of an entry, I’ll post a few links that have been hanging around in Firefox for weeks waiting for a mention.
I too have never heard of Anders Zorn ( splendid name, though ), and his figures of Scandanavian young womanhood seem slightly robust compared to the more familiar coming-of-age visualisations of the art-photographer David Hamilton later in the century — I should confess a distaste for styled studio photography — but I liked this more fugitive piece
The first Pre-Raphaelites no matter what the skill can also often be too strenuous, however here is the site of the Delaware Art Museum; and here is a site with some of Kate Greenaway’s still more delicate works that betray at least a faint influence of Morris.
Jamie has this gift also, the gift of the compelling eye — which is not to be confused with the evil eye, nor yet witchcraft — which suggests to the unwary and lesser-willed the pure unreason of unobedience [ I wish I had it... ]
She believed profoundly in herself and in the suggestions of her own imagination. So fixed and unalterable was that belief that it amounted to positive knowledge, so far as it constituted a motive of action. In her strange youth wild dreams had possessed her, and some of them, often dreamed again, had become realities to her now. Her powers were natural, those gifts which from time to time are seen in men and women, which are alternately scoffed at as impostures, or accepted as facts, but which are never understood either by their possessor or by those who witness the results. She had from childhood the power to charm with eye and hand all living things, the fascination which takes hold of the consciousness through sight and touch and word, and lulls it to sleep. It was witchery, and she was called a witch. In earlier centuries her hideous fate would have been sealed from the first day when, under her childish gaze, a wolf that had been taken alive in the Bohemian forest crawled fawning to her feet, at the full length of its chain, and laid its savage head under her hand, and closed its bloodshot eyes and slept before her.
I was fond of F. Marion Crawford’s The Witch of Prague as a child, and though he wasn’t prone to incident in his unelaborate plotting, few could deny the beauty of his descriptive, suggestively so, powers.
The man introduced him into a spacious hall and closed the door, leaving him to his own reflections. The place was very wide and high and without windows, but the broad daylight descended abundantly from above through the glazed roof and illuminated every corner. He would have taken the room for a conservatory, for it contained a forest of tropical trees and plants, and whole gardens of rare southern flowers. Tall letonias, date palms, mimosas and rubber trees of many varieties stretched their fantastic spikes and heavy leaves half-way up to the crystal ceiling; giant ferns swept the polished marble floor with their soft embroideries and dark green laces; Indian creepers, full of bright blossoms, made screens and curtains of their intertwining foliage; orchids of every hue and of every exotic species bloomed in thick banks along the walls. Flowers less rare, violets and lilies of the valley, closely set and luxuriant, grew in beds edged with moss around the roots of the larger plants and in many open spaces. The air was very soft and warm, moist and full of heavy odours as the still atmosphere of an island in southern seas, and the silence was broken only by the light plash of softly-falling water.
He who has won woman in the face of daring rivals, of enormous odds, of gigantic obstacles, knows what love means; he who has lost her, having loved her, alone has measured with his own soul the bitterness of earthly sorrow, the depth of total loneliness, the breadth of the wilderness of despair. And he who has sorrowed long, who has long been alone, but who has watched the small, twinkling ray still burning upon the distant border of his desert—the faint glimmer of a single star that was still above the horizon of despair—he only can tell what utter darkness can be upon the face of the earth when that last star has set for ever. With it are gone suddenly the very quarters and cardinal points of life’s chart, there is no longer any right hand or any left, any north or south, any rising of the sun or any going down, any forward or backward direction in his path, any heaven above, or any hell below. The world has stood still and there is no life in the thick, black stillness. Death himself is dead, and one living man is forgotten behind, to mourn him as a lost friend, to pray that some new destroyer, more sure of hand than death himself, may come striding through the awful silence to make an end at last of the tormented spirit, to bear it swiftly to the place where that last star ceased to shine, and to let it down into the restful depths of an unremembering eternity. But into that place, which is the soul of man, no destroyer can penetrate; that solitary life neither the sword, nor pestilence, nor age, nor eternity can extinguish; that immortal memory no night can obscure. There was a beginning indeed, but end there can be none.
As to Prague itself, it was no doubt a fine city, from when it was the capital of the Old Reich to the fall of the Austro-Hungarian Empire; yet I do have some distance from all things Czech: excessive nationalism from when they first began their interesting practice of throwing people out of high windows and set off the most devastating war in modern history; a wry humour allied to a smug morosity similar to that of my own people which insisted on striving for barren independent democracy; and, of course, the depraved vengefulness which sped possibly the most unspeakable atrocities on Germans of any nation which had been under the nazi control ( after an occupation which was as collaborative as most [ they supplied superb weaponry with all their noted craftsmanship and the occupation was not as grim as in, say, Poland ] ) — here’s one link, but I’ve read far, far worse… If the Russians were dreadful, they were restrained compared to some of the smaller regimes which were to become their future puppets. Besides, they honoured the Grand Tradition by chucking Jan Masaryk — ghastly son of a still ghastlier father — out of a window…
Still Art has nothing to do with politics, and Bohemia even in it’s despicable guise of the late scarcely lamented Czechoslovakia had some severely unknown artists:
here’s a site devoted to Tavik František Šimon
Mucha is naturally well-known, yet Golden Age Comic Stories blog has some nice examples of his work on the 8th June entry — for some reason I cannot link directly to posts there; this blog has a large resource of illustrative fantasy ranging from the fascinating to the banal [ I have to say I despise classical comic book 'art' and such genre; and find it generally as debased and weak-minded as say it's successors in film such as Star Wars or Star Trek ].
[ Although I have to preface this by pointing out that the painting above the snippet, Vincent Neumann's Witch on a Broom --- reffing to above mention of Bohemian witches... --- is uncannily reminiscent of Auld Scotia right up to the present time. Go into any Edinburgh pub. ]
The White Lady von Rosenberg Perchta von Rosenberg, known as the White Lady, lived in the Český Krumlov castle in the 15th century. Her father, Ulrich II. von Rosenberg married her off against her will and without love to the Moravian lord Johann von Lichtenstein who was cruel to Perchta all her life. When Johann was dying he had Perchta called in and asked her for forgiveness. She refused, and her husband cursed her. Since then, the soul of the White Lady von Rosenberg has had to roam the Rosenberg castles and tends to appear before significant events. White gloves on her hand bear good tidings, whereas black gloves are a sign of impending disaster. Tales of the White Lady is a theme for many authors.
Apart from the fact I find the notion of forgiveness unmanly and fairly inexplicable, the trouble here is that under no rational or irrational standard can forgiveness be demanded, and why this poor girl should have to expiate her lack of pity for the brutish lout who had injured her is totally beyond me.
Apparently there’s another jacobite in Suffolk: The Jacobite Intelligencer; which must restore the county average. Eventually we may not have enough for a Rising, but definitely sufficient for a small sedate party.
Still, I bought the wheel bit of an old roulette wheel yesterday, for no other reason that it is slightly weird; but I can’t see it providing even minutes of fun…
***
In the meantime I temporarily decided on an attraction to reading about greenhouses for no particular reason ( being averse to gardening beyond watering a plant or two ), which led to a/ the grander type of conservatory, such as that at Laeken; and thence to palatial gardening — Prussian Palaces has Peacock Island, which is pretty… and b/ to the Crystal Palace of 1851. Found a thread five pages long with hundreds of images of the original Crystal Palace; this the Alhambra Lion Court
Apparently Maximilian II immediately built a rather stiff tribute Glaspalast in Munich in 1854; and even the Americans also copied the concept a year earlier, for the New York Crystal Palace. Walt Whitman wrote an advertising jingle which exemplifies both his virtues, unmatched facility and prettiness, and his faults: sincerity, the inane repellent Early American Braggadocio incompatible with delicacy, and pedestrian triumphalist ideology…
… a Palace,
Lofter, fairer, ampler than any yet,
Earth’s modern wonder, History’s Seven out stripping,
High rising tier on tier, with glass and iron facades,
Gladdening the sun and sky - enhued in the cheerfulest hues,
Bronze, lilac, robin’s-egg, marine and crimson
Over whose golden roof shall flaunt, beneath thy banner, Freedom.
Aphrodite, Killer of Men, emerged on this rock in Cyprus: note the adorable placing of both tarmac and roadsign to enhance the veneration of her holy place…
Having a fairly active imaginative faculty, ancient medical instruments arouse my astounding capacity for unenthusiasm to alarming heights — as to be exact, do their modern equivalents; however, despite no great interest in the sciences, old scientific instruments are cool ( possibly due to an affinity for steampunk, a useful blog on which is Brass Goggles ): and here’s a site with about 1850 presented, Instruments for Natural Philosophy.
A few years back whilst walking, I noticed a small piece of iron peeping from soil in some rough ground. Working it loose, it revealed itself to be this larger object, and I determined to use it as a neat garden ornament in an Ian Hamilton Finlay kind of way, maybe a centerpiece for a garden bed.. Still, I have absolutely no notion either what it was in it’s previous incarnation nor in what period it was birthed. 1850s ? 1890s ? 1930s ? Neo-classically pretty, yet subtly worrying… * One can only trust it was some component of engineering, and not purposed for the medical practices of grim far-off eras.
* As is Professor Penguin from The Brass Goggles site with his trusty, but tiny, sidekick…
The topiary tree formed as a profusion of carved nephrite, finely veined leaves and jeweled fruit and flowers on an intricate framework of branches, the fruit formed by champagne diamonds, amethysts, pale rubies and citrines, the flowers enameled white and set with diamonds, a keyhole and a tiny lever, hidden among the leaves, when activated open the hinged circular top of the tree and a feathered songbird rises, flaps its wings, turns its head, opens its beak and sings, the gold trunk chased to imitate bark and planted in gold soil is contained in a white quartz tub applied with a gold trellis chased with flowerheads at the intersections and further applied with swags of berried laurel enameled translucent green and pinned by cabochon rubies, the central rubies edged by diamonds, each foot of the tub also applied with chased gold rosettes set with cabochon rubies and diamonds, the corners of the tub with pearl finials, the square carved nephrite base in two steps with a miniature nephrite fluted column at each corner set with chased gold mounts, each column with a reeded gold cap surmounted by a pearl nestled in translucent green enamel leaves, the swinging gold chains between the columns formed as pearl flowers with translucent green enamel leaves.
Occasionally, as still more with Erté, part of the slickness causes wariness, yet as Fabergé’s skill astounds, the sheer swaggering inutility redeems any doubts. However in the end, like power and lands, art eventually temporarily ends up, via passing revolutionaries into the hands of base millionaires before they too die, unwept and unsung — and wholly unremembered. Even uglier is the next fate of possessions — passions — of individual monarchs and people transmuted into a disgusting ‘National’ heritage for all, dead in state museums and owned by no-one.
I possess the same dislike for common fables as did Professor Tolkien for allegory; undoubtedly for the same reason, the total mistrust of didacticism added to the puritan complacence of the instructor. Still, whatever my reservations on La Fontaine, this is a very pretty little book from 1835, illustrated by Hadamar and Desandre, whomever they were, and I think this the prettiest of all. Pity about the unavoidable moral lesson…
L’Ane Portant Des Reliques
Un baudet, chargè de reliques
S’imagina qu’on l’adorait
Dans ce penser il se carrait,
Recevant comme siens l’encens et les cantiques,
Quelqu’un vit l’erreur, et lui dit:
Maitre baudet, ôtez-vous de l’esprit
Une vanitê si folle.
Ce n’est pas pour vous, c’est l’idole
A qui cet honneur se rend,
Et que la gloire en est due.
D’un magistral ignorant
C’est la robe qu’on salue.
Which may be unfavorably compared with Chesterton’s famous The Donkey for a less pompous and self-righteous viewpoint…
When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born;
With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil’s walking parody
On all four-footed things.
The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.
Fools ! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.
Leonardo de Buonarrotto chose to have Artemisia Gentileschi’s Inclination muffled with drapery for moralistic reasons which would have scarcely commended themselves to his predecessor Michelangelo, some 50 years after she painted it. Fairly weird, agreed; despite the fact that each age imposes retrospective tastes upon the past — for moralistic reasons — which is massively not confined to art.
However, the real question is why during the last 300 years no restorer has been requested to remove these additions . Our churches have been evolving for one to two millennia in this continent, and every now and then excresences of previous taste are expunged… In this case it would seem more appropriate for the original artist’s intention to remain pure.
Artemisia, together with her father, was invited to England by the Great King, and painted here for him before the rebellion; but like most of the foreign artists he accumulated had to leave quickly with the onset of war. It is likely she would have agreed with one of his later random jottings:
“Rebus in adversis facile est contemnere vitam;
Fortiter ille facit qui miser esse potest.”
This being a framed print, with no signature — it could be either a limited edition or cut from a Christmas card for all I can tell — there’s no attribution possible…Still, it’s remarkably like Jamie as an infant undoubtedly planning revenge upon some unfortunate person or set of persons.
The rooks are looked upon by the squire as a very ancient and honourable line of gentry, highly aristocratical in their notions, fond of place, and attached to church and state; as their building so loftily, keeping about churches and cathedrals, and in the venerable groves of old castles and manor-houses, sufficiently manifests. The good opinion thus expressed by the squire put me upon observing more narrowly these very respectable birds; for I confess, to my shame, I had been apt to confound them with their cousins-german the crows, to whom, at the first glance, they bear so great a family resemblance. Nothing, it seems, could be more unjust or injurious than such a mistake. The rooks and crows are, among the feathered tribes, what the Spaniards and Portuguese are among nations, the least loving, in consequence of their neighbourhood and similarity. The rooks are old-established housekeepers, high-minded gentlefolk that have had their hereditary abodes time out of mind; but as to the poor crows, they are a kind of vagabond, predatory, gipsy race, roving about the country, without any settled home; “their hands are against everybody, and everybody’s against them,” and they are gibbeted in every corn-field. Master Simon assures me that a female rook that should so far forget herself as to consort with a crow, would inevitably be disinherited, and indeed would be totally discarded by all her genteel acquaintance.
…
Nor is the rookery entirely free from other troubles and disasters. In so aristocratical and lofty-minded a community, which boasts so much ancient blood and hereditary pride, it is natural to suppose that questions of etiquette will sometimes arise, and affairs of honour ensue. In fact, this is very often the case: bitter quarrels break out between individuals, which produce sad scufflings on the tree tops, and I have more than once seen a regular duel take place between two doughty heroes of the rookery. Their field of battle is generally the air: and their contest is managed in the most scientific and elegant manner; wheeling round and round each other, and towering higher and higher to get the vantage-ground, until they sometimes disappear in the clouds before the combat is determined.
Quicktime, and there are usually more photos to each page that may be overlooked. The Danish churches partially make up for the truly hideous buildings of postwar Berlin…
Wednesday, 5 September 2007 at 11:12 pm
(Art, Generalia)
From The Auckland Art Gallery, a rather cool rendition of how Tissot’s painting ‘Still on Top‘ was restored, after a nutter with a gun kidnapped and damaged it in 1998.
The Reich Flag and that of the Austro-Hungarian Empire may be, for the semi-patriotic intent of the piece, beneath the Tricolor, but it’s always good to see them.
Unlike the bonnet of the elderly gent. Red Cotton Night-cap Country wasn’t just Browning being playful…
Existing without television until just before the end of the last century and which discarded recently completely after little use for years, the only thing to regret in that is that one’s education in early cinema is incomplete. Admittedly cultural zeitgeist of the past informs one though a type of osmosis — I have never seen a Keystone Cops movie, but feel fairly confident it can be imaged enough — but I guess one should at least attempt to become acquainted with known masterpieces/milestones. Suffering is supposed to be good for the soul, although personally I should prefer to stuff it when given a choice.
In this spirit I today watched D. W. Griffith’s great anti-war epic ‘The Birth of a Nation’, Here. Although only in brief chunks, as it’s kind of long at three hours, and suffers from the pace of a snail got at by horse-dopers. The, uh, low expectations of audience comprehension at that period also adds to the tame pace. Heavy symbolism lingered upon too long — although to be absolutely fair, most people might not find the delineation between the younger characters at the beginning sufficiently drawn, since they appear to be clones; and in any case there’s a whole lot of hand-shaking going on for about ten minutes so one’s attention is bound to wander rather. I frequently glanced at a crib-sheet* to see whom was who.
*( Following the South’s defeat, Stoneman calls for his protege and aide Silas Lynch (George Siegmann), mulatto (half African-American) leader of the blacks. When greeting him, Stoneman orders: “Don’t scrape to me. You are the equal of any man here.” Senator Charles Sumner is summoned, and forced to acknowledge mulatto Lynch’s position. Sumner proposes a less dangerous policy in the extension of power to the freed race. In the next room, Lydia listens to the conversation, wide-eyed and full of sexual excitement. ) I can think of more erotic subjects…
The main lessons this film teaches us are that war is hell — although war is undoubtedly better than a 12-hour ( or two hour for those of us more easily bored ) shift in the cotton fields every day —- mid-victorian clothes were insane; Reconstruction was hell ( although indignation over giving the freed slaves the vote, and disenfranchising whites ignores the fact that giving anyone the vote is lethal ); and that ‘Africans’ are natural brutes. It would be silly to get over-excited at things which were the common currency of mental discourse in another period; besides which blacks in early twentieth century America had far worse things to worry about than filmic propaganda for a racialist view of their recent past.
Generally the men are dorks, but the girls are pretty, although acting at that point often appears to involve imitating lunacy. Worse, the yuckyish sentiment is frequently overwhelming. Perhaps because the war was still in living memory at that time, the battle scenes are surprisingly — for art — realistic, insofar as one can see what’s happening; but then that is a quality of war itself. Still in the end, for the materials of the time, 1915, one can appreciate the skill of the director. The score is more insistent than it would have been when played by a weary piano-player in the cinemas of the time.
Obviously, online one can’t appreciate Griffith’s cinematic values as one ought: this is not a sharp rendering: no worse maybe than for a semi-blind person watching half a mile away at a drive-in on a foggy day.
More from the Jamie book. A raven-headed little girl looks for work…
Cheerfully ruthless Queen Mab
The next thing after settling in and adjusting, not as easily as her mother, to life alone ( she was after all excessively chatty and found no scope among her neighbours, either shy, of an emphasised different age-group, or unsympathetic in a number of ways — although none hostile, other than the lawyers and a couple from an apartment on the floor below, and a few transients, a number of whom had devoted the artistic side of their natures to the pursuit of an early death from combining drink and drugs: everyone has a masterpiece within them ) she began to search for work. The local newspapers had plenty within their supplements and linages. Virtually none suitable, desirable, or possible.
Although at the optimum age for her next decade to obtain employment, after which it would be downhill unless severely specialised or possessed of rigorous on-going training, it appeared there were jobs where she was too young. There were jobs that advertised themselves as meeting the minimum wage as if that was a sparkling virtue: she couldn’t manage alone on that rate. There were expensive training-courses implying they were positions. There were Agencies with toilsome ill-paid jobs written with demented surprise at the fun and loot promised. There were jobs which demanded experience or qualifications: the possession of which would exclude most of the other jobs. Being just 17 and having some A-levels, she couldn’t be expected to have much more: on the other hand, she knew being pretty and personable was worth a vast deal more: so she was not despondent and kept her hopes up.
Lucy’s job-search began with registering for employment at the job-centre, although she was not yet old enough to obtain jobseeker’s allowance. If polite, there was a long wait to get details enquired for every time. The Agencies with whom she registered were equally polite, promising much, but perfunctory in performance. They found it impossible to describe any particular employment, or list the opportunities they presumably had: instead of even producing a list, since they wanted to fit the person to a said slot, they would only discuss the vacancy enquired about, alleged vacancy often enough, since dummy-jobs were often placarded to lure people in to register. They, although this is a general truth rather than something for they alone to be faulted, promised to ring and never called back. When they had something, or she by dint of badgering with continued use of the phone herself, got something from them, they sent her to the ugliest packing — electrical goods, illustrated cards, mail-order catalogues; assembly — furniture, circuit boards ( taken off after the second day, since despite her nimble deftness, it was applied almost brilliantly to misaligning the points to be joined ), some cute china teddiebears with — due to a design flaw — detachable limbs which she rather liked, CDs to magazine covers, Pewter figurines: jobs available. They paid appallingly, especially because of her age; were tedious and mind-numbing; and she was surrounded by worn-out mothers, students and grim boring men. She liked them as much as possible, and they liked her when the routine allowed them to notice her let alone chat: but she, if wishing them awfully well, wished herself away still more. But as the Agencies explained, since she had no clerical experience, they could not risk her on the sort of job she wanted.
There was a period of supermarket-stacking which was slightly better paid, night-work did not particularly suit her, but if heavy work, it wasn’t quite so rigorously supervised and she was allowed to go at her own pace. All the time she applied for better jobs, filling in endless forms with all the details they asked and the fatuous bits ( ‘Tell us about yourself’; ‘What Qualities do you think you can bring to this Position’; ‘Here are ten areas in which we want you to recall a similar situation and tell us how you resolved this.’: etc. etc. Including Juli’s favourite: ‘Why do you want this job ?’ ) until her hand nearly dropped off, and the endless reiteration made her mind swim with boredom even when she saw another application-pack had arrived in the post. Even the details were pruriently detailed, some wanting to know where each parent was born or what her religious beliefs were: and some forms could run over 8 pages. Her main blessing here for which she was thankful ( and glad anyway since she liked it ) was that she was female, since apart from all the other incentives that made women easier for firms to employ, current thought made it virtually impossible to witch-hunt sexism or prejudice in her answers or behaviour.
She got a number of interviews, about 1 in 10 for application, thanks to her youthful promise, but perhaps because she didn’t shine through shyness at formal events, and as they too regretfully pointed out she had no office experience, and her only references were from her teachers ( Not all the Agencies she had worked for were impressed with her, though they gave full marks for willing: and others didn’t give references on principle: perhaps because that meant the worker would no longer be available to their employments ) others got it each time. She grew discouraged and developed a mild loathing of personnel interviewers.
Coming home after work, when she did work, she would flop out and listen to music, too tired to read a book. She flicked on the TV for Jacinthe and Oscar to watch more than herself, since it was so bad most of the time. She never wanted to go out and had no friends yet. She was getting unhappier, but never dreamt of returning home; she was brave as well as sweet. On a day hot in the morning, but cool in the afternoon when she woke after a depressing night stacking cans, she picked up yesterday’s paper, and dutifully if unenthusiastically began circling possible jobs. Then re-read them: one caught her eye because although a small block, it did not list any qualifications or desirable traits: merely stating quietly:
‘OFFICE EMPLOYMENT’
Junior Admin
Hours: 24 Flexitime.
No experience needed.
Pay: £4.46 per hour.
Some benefits.
She looked more carefully. It was for some Housing Association. Something about it’s promising starkness attracted her: it was worth trying. She picked up the paper and went over to the phone ( essential for any employment ). She rang the number given. A cool voice answered: “Good Afternoon, Killegway Housing.”
“About the job, advertised, Admin. Could you send me an application pack please ?”
“No.” was the unexpected reply.
Then after a slight pause the cool voice elucidated: “But if you’re interested I can make an appointment. Are you interested ?”
“Yes please.” Lucy was fluttered at this decision, “What day shall I come ?”
“Suit yourself: when is convenient for you ?”
“Um, tomorrow ?”
“Fine. What time ? In office hours.” The voice cautiously added, which offended Lucy slightly.
“11 O’Clock ?”
“One second; yeah, that’s fine. Bring a CV, if you’ve got one, and your N. I. Number.”
“Thank you.” gasped Lucy.
“Sure. Oh, and don’t dress up too much: it’s relaxed dress code here. Bye.”
“Bye.” replied she faintly.
This was quite exciting, to get an appointment so readily, but worrying too: and fearfully worrying as an appointment in itself anyway: she went and made some tea. Of course she wasn’t going to get the job, but dad had told her that the more interviews she had the better as that would build confidence and make her shine at the ones where she would be successful. On the other hand it would be in an office, and not the usual crap. She cancelled her appointment at the supermarket that night, as she wanted to get some sleep in and bathe before going. If only it was possible… still she couldn’t get optimistic, or more than her usual sunny disposition impelled, ‘cos she knew it wouldn’t happen.
In the morning, after her bath, she compromised on clothes, since it might be some cunning trap whereby they rejected people who turned up in jeans, and put on a light mauve cashmere-type jersey, and a knee-length powder-blue skirt with grey stockings: and her white-grey tiny jacket. And a green scarf around her neck to seem elegant. She had been nerving herself all morning for one of those appalling interviews, which strain actually made her feel nauseous before, during and after by the time she reached the oat-brick building set back beyond it’s own lawn, she was trembling. She pulled in her breath and entered the reception area. Hoggward House maintained a large variety of concerns, some nearly or completely defunct, and plenty of empty officespace had she wished to start a business herself. Asked for Killegway HA. A bored young man pointed laconically, then took a long second glance before returning to his racing paper. She went down a wide corridor, linen coloured, and found a large glass door with Killegway Housing Association written in gilt on the pane. She was 13 minutes early.
She knocked with a small firmness on the open door, and looked in.
At the end of the room under a large window festooned with pot-plants there was a handsome girl, having a brisk conversation on the phone with either a supplier or another housing organisation. For a few seconds as she moved forward her features were obscured by both the sudden sun and it’s light aureoling masses of silver-gilt hair.
“Where exactly do you get your staff ? ‘Retards ‘R Us ?’” unpleasantly. There was some agitated burbling from the ear-piece. “Well, send it as soon as you can, or I’ll have to mention it to the district manager on Thursday. OK, bye.” She grabbed a pen and scribbled a note on a day-jotter.
Lucy was instantly reminded of a picture in a children’s book illustrated by Frank C. Papé: she hadn’t seen it for a long while, but she remembered the frontispiece of cheerfully ruthless Queen Mab.
She advanced slowly and stood before and stared at the computer paraphernalia heavy about the office. There seemed to be an awful lot of wires: she didn’t say anything, probably thinking her presence would be obvious by some form of telepathic osmosis.
If the gentle maiden knew of her visitor she gave no sign and continued writing quickly to make sure it was all put down so, occasionally flicking back her flaxen hair abstractedly. Then she looked up. Zowie ! For Lucy it was doomsday and her sixth birthday ( the really good one ) and everything she ever wanted or would want, all at once. It was a dry day with the sun burning the plants up, but she instantaneously felt as if she’d stepped under a water-fall.
The girl smiled. It was with a genuine joy.
‘Oh dear god don’t let it be with a woman not the first and only time. A love forever, I can’t want a girls body physically and never would. Oh God.’
Well over 18 months later this would still torment her.
‘?’ The young lady was used to all sorts of odd types coming into the office for a hundred different reasons; but usually they were only too anxious to explain, in what she considered excessive detail, their reasons for so doing.
“Hi, what can I do for you ?”
Lucy explained: “I’ve got an interview for the junior admin job.”
The divine girl looked thoughtful like an angel listening to The Pilgrim’s Chorus.
“Oh, then that would be me: I mean I’m going to conduct the interview. Tell me when you feel right and I’ll begin.”
Lucy nodded mute.
“Want a drink ? Coffee or tea, or” she shuddered slightly, “some coke ?”
“No, thank you.” squeaked Lucy.
“There’s a rotten machine in the corridor.” explained the girl. “OK. Siddown won’t you ?”
Lucy was still standing despite the fascist wave of a hand indicating a choice of chairs earlier. She sat, unfortunately open-mouthed. Thoughout the interview, which has some claim to being the shortest on record, her lips were generally slightly parted.
“OK, what’s your name, please ?”
“Got a CV.”
“Right.” The interviewer read it in under half a minute.
“‘Fraid not much experience.” timidly.
“Well, you’re only a kid.” Which could have been annoying even without the kind beautiful smile; as intended though it reassured her, since the experience thing is the worst Catch 22 in the world.
“Well look, my name’s J, eh, Sanders; Juli Sanders: Juli with an i, no e.” with an exactitude which was not only characteristic, but already conveyed a hint that there was hope for Lucy’s chances.
“I’m a senior administrator. The job is general office duties. You don’t have to know all this stuff too much,” looking at the applications Lucy had optimistically overstated on the CV, “I mean, there’ll be a sort of training period for you to get up to speed on the systems here. Anyway I reckon there are a thousand different filing systems in use in Britain: so you’ll have to start on this one, which is a beauty; particularly as you’ve never filed before. You don’t mind starting on filing ? All the computer stuff is easy so long as you can type just a bit.” ( this was not strictly true when proven, Lucy was, though just nearly competent on a keyboard, not technologically minded ) “You know what a Housing Association does ?”
Lucy knew she should be concentrating it was so important, but couldn’t. Something like “‘ess.” came out.
“Yeah, well: the pay’s £4.46 an hour; and the hours, which can be flexible in your case, are 24. It’s also fairly boring, but so’s all work, I guess. Are you sure you want the job ?”
“Yes, please.”
Miss Sanders looked surprised, but more at this odd expressing rather than the affirmation itself.
“OK, just wait a moment.”
No questions about herself, or why she wanted the job.
“Do I get to fill in a form ?”
“Um, lots I expect. What sort d’you mean ?”
“A job application form ? When I rang up I was just asked to come in.”
“Um no; that was my idea. Since the Personnel Officer left, they’re hiring another bloke and gonna call it ‘Human Resources’, — prats,” she added, sotto voce, not from any fear if overheard, Lucy could tell: more of a necessary antiphon — “I’ve been doing this sort of thing, since it’s a fairly small office; and I think sodding forms are a waste of all people’s time. If people are gonna be hired then you tell that at the interview, if not it’s silly for them to have to fill in some lunatic form that’s going to be thrown away.”
She got up, her hand suddenly snaking out for some wad of papers placed on a shelf behind, and Lucy rose instinctively. “Na, sit back. Read our fascinating mission statement or something, I’ll only be a short while.”
Dazed a heavy warmth suffused her person, as she pushed herself into the comforting chair and she stared dreamily as the glorious girl sent her a smile, both confident and shy as she swiftly went through the door.
She wondered if she did have a chance with this one, the girl, Juli, seemed almost certain she might. An’ awfully friendly. Not jus’ the friendliness of a professional interviewer which could disguise even a deep loathing. Really nice. She needed it, an’ more, she wanted to be near this girl. By now she was sure it was just friendly attraction between two of the same sex, until Juli returned and it started up again.
At first Lucy could hear nothing of how her fate was going to be handled, and as suggested appeared to be reading the garbage of good intent indicated. Her ferment was not exactly cooled by hearing through the over-thin door an incisive drawl, and muttered riposte which although straining failed to distinguish, appeared of a worrying nature.
“I said this kid.”
Mutter mutter.
“She’ll be fine.”
Warble.
“Jimmie: this is best. She’ll get experience; and I’m the one out there, not you.”
Something like “Jinky-jinky-jinky.”
The insistance was firm. Despite what reservations there may have been, the other was weakening.
“Wah-wah-wah.”
“Absolutely.”
“Ah-ah.”
“Sure: I’ll vouch anyway. You said I was acting personnel, remember ?”
The manager waffled a few minutes, since it was probable that he would have liked even the pretence of an imprimitur.
“Sure, come out in a moment. Anyway, there’s something else, you should look at this: the contract for the plumbing on the repairs at Happy Valley has gone over twenty per cent.”
Anguish, and evidently a wrenching of the papers from the proffered hand.
It seemed to engross the manager completely, and Lucy waited in suspense.
“I’ll go and tell her then ?” softly. And he must have said something in the nature of an abstracted rear-ditch attempt to assert decisiveness. Then it just went quiet and no more than two minutes later she came out and told Lucy she had the job.
Lucy gurgled.
Lucy’s natural effervescence returning began to make her light-headed. Juli found a standard contract and Lucy stared mouth parted whilst the other checked it over: the rippling hair was just a fraction lighter than the wind-tossed barley just when iced by it’s dainty awn in the peak of ripeness she decided.
They adjusted the hours Lucy wanted to work, and Juli suggested that Lucy might care to accept her fares as this was company policy. The office manager, Mr. Pumpkiss, evidently felt he should inspect their new acquisition, and wandered out to beam vaguely as Juli made the proper introductions. He seemed nice enough, a strange diffident glancing at Juli rather dazed as to what had just happened but unquestionably accepting of the outcome even before he saw Lucy properly and realised just how well it had resolved: a tall rangy chap with half-moon glasses and thick silky grey hair dressed in a grey tweed jacket, beige open-necked shirt and greenish corduroys, any Tory told he was a teacher would be fast to denounce him as a type of the forces for ill in that naughty profession. If not totally on the ball — Juli would disdain the cheapness of warning Lucy that he could be a terror in the fashion of merry owners of a affectionate and mild Airedale — he was quite competent at the overall strategy of his remit, but prone to agonise at the frequent lapses of minutæ he was subject to. He also had a considering trepidation of his light-hearted and ingenious young senior administrator: he shuddered at the thought that she would sometime leave: more and more as time fast moved, she was invaluable; but whilst he was easily assured that his job was safe, since she frankly had no ambition and no undermining qualities, and that in fact she helped preserve him in that place, that simple ability so easily demonstrated, and sardonicism — so often unrelieved by even a decent pretense of sensitivity — had it’s unrelaxing side. On the other hand, he was percipient enough to realise the pure gaieté of her spirit was not matched with any particular chirpiness, and indicated an ice-filled good-nature rather than an obnoxious generosity of soul; and this pitilessness had it’s own attraction. His real worry was waking up to discover in the morning paper that the Housing Association had decided to invade Poland.
Bought a book on wooden effigies a couple of days back — ‘Wooden Monumental Effigies in England and Wales‘, by Alfred C. Fryer, 1924. Apparently there were then left — from a previous cast of thousands destroyed by: Time; parliamentary army cunts; reforming vicars; mad villagers, etc. etc. — 96 of these curious sculptures on tombs.
Here’s how to make one:
The medieval artist selected a piece of oak, sound at the heart, in good condition, and sufficiently wide for him to carve the figure of a knight in armour or a lady in kirtle and long mantle lying on a board or bed. The portion of the board with the effigy on it, as well as the cushions upon which the head rested, and the animal at the feet, were hollowed out and filled with charcoal to absorb moisture. Having carved the figure and fastened with wooden pins such parts as lay beyond the size of his block it was ready for decoration. The effigy would then be sized and pieces of linen would be glued over the cracks and other inequalities. The decorator would then give the figure a thin coat of so-called gesso, with a still thicker coating for those portions he desired to decorate in relief, such as the mail or surfaces afterwards to be gilded or silvered. Before the gesso hardened the decorator impressed it with various matrices or stamps of diverse patterns: some being for mail of various sizes and others for decorative purposes. Several processes were in use for gilding those surfaces required to be treated in this manner. To give depth or richness to the gold or silver leaf, they were first treated with bole Armenian applied with white of egg either left dead or burnished with an agate. All the painting on the effigy was done in distemper ( tempera ). Finally the figure was covered with a coat of plain or tinted oleaginous varnish, which was needful, but, alas ! it did not prove to be a sufficient protection.
Great care and thought was always bestowed on the decoration of medieval effigies so that they glowed in colour and gleamed with gold leaf. The tints adopted were of the purest and brightest obtainable; for example, coloured grounds would be powdered with gold or white devices, yet exceptions to the heraldic rule of placing colour on colour and metal on metal are occasionally met with. For example, black patterns are sometimes depicted on green or red grounds, and in a few instances gold devices are found on white surfaces. These are, however, rare exceptions against the well-known rule of heraldry which was adopted generally, and, of course, the armorial bearings are correctly displayed on shield and surcoat, jupon and tabard, and on the lady’s heraldic mantle. Red, blue, green, and white, and a sparing use of black, are found most frequently in use, and they are arranged so that they never clash, and by the avoidance of large surfaces of any one tint a beautiful colour scheme is obtained which is always harmonious and never gaudy.
Michael de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk and the Countess of Suffolk in Wingfield church [1415]
The minority of my immediate forebears who were not born in London are the ones who moved there asap and stayed the rest of their lives, so though not a resident, it has no mystery, or even much interest, to me; plus most cities now appear to be disintegrating even whilst expanding — however, it is a necessity just to recharge there occasionally. Yesterday I went to London on the spur of the moment. There are really only three things to do in a city in the daytime, excluding shopping: wander around looking at buildings and stuff, yet there are too many people about to make this fun — which up to, say 1950, was in most cities ( ignoring the massive poverty areas which continue in the Third World, but have now in western societies have a just-as-good substitute in wantonly appalling concrete housing blocks which lack the picaresque interest of the dire areas of the past, but smell better ) a major pleasure for the curious idler; spectacle entertainment; museums or galleries.
Tate Britain ( the old Tate ) was light and airy; whereas the Wallace Collection is dark victoriana, which was a nice contrast. In the Tate I just looked at the regular sequence up to the excellent pre-raphaelites — which affirmed my uninterest in most 18th century painting — and the Turner exhibition. At the Wallace, a surfeit of armour with some beautiful daggers, although the western arms were cruder than the asiatic, they had more elegant vigour… and renaissance plates, and the Schroder Collection of silver. Of the paintings there, I rather liked Delacroix’s Execution of the Doge Marino Faliero, partly because I had only read of this in de Sismondi a few weeks back. Owing to the angle I couldn’t quite work out what had happened to the head, but souvenir hunters will take practically anything…
Burne-Jones - Sidonia von Bork 1560
‘Sidonia von Bork is the central character in Wilhelm Meinhold’s gothic romance ‘Sidonia the Sorceress’. The novel is set in sixteenth-century Pomerania and chronicles the crimes of the evil Sidonia, whose beauty captivates all who see her.’
Henry Wallis - The Room in Which Shakespeare Was Born
Unfortunately, I missed this…
William Bell Scott - Rossetti’s Wombat Seated in his Master’s Lap
The recent absence was due to unavoidable circumstances, and will occur any time the Goldberg scale rises above 65 degrees. To cheer up the numerous devotees of Google who come here looking for art-works rather than ethical considerations on suicide — which latter search would be useless since I have no regard for ethics whatsoever — here’s another few Grandvilles.
I generally agree with loosening copyright laws, particularly when the originator has no chance of profiting from their genius, having been dead these few hundred years and some little punk is claiming the rights, but never for altering the artist’s intentions…
This site, Death By Copyright devoted to that cause, states that the law was wrong to protect this artist, Michael Snow, from the desecration of his sold art by the purchasers:
Michael Snow was commissioned to do a sculpture called “flight stop” consisting of a number of geese in flight in the atrium of the Toronto Eaton Centre. During christmas of 1981 the Eaton Centre placed red ribbons around the necks of the geese. Snow brought an action against the Centre to get an injunction in order have the ribbons removed.
I know there are valid arguments against the death penalty: but it sure comes in useful if correctly applied. Beuys would have set coyotes on them…
