611: Talent: More Carrington

A stunning pencil portrait of Noel Carrington by his talented sister whom I admire more each day.  

(There speaks the obsessive)

 

(Click for larger image)

Amazing that for so long her work was rather neglected.  Not only have I Gerzina's biography on order, but I am now awaiting a copy of Jane Hill's The Art of Dora Carrington. Oh dear...

And here's a little snap of Carrington with Iris Tree:

Here's Miss Tree photographed by Man Ray, a print displayed at the National Portrait Gallery:

Miss Tree is a subject well worth addressing in a future post here; perhaps I will.

Until the next time

610: Thank You BBC4

Recently here I referred in my post An Obsession: The Carrington Saga, to BBC4's screening of the excellent Scandinavian police thriller The Bridge which concluded a week ago.

Showing splendid prescience in anticipating withdrawal symptoms amongst the viewers, BBC4 has filled the 9:00 - 11:00 spell on Saturdays with a Belgian detective series called Salamander.  Last  night I watched the first two instalments and consider the programme a worthy replacement, although of course only time will tell.

Thanks BBC4.

Until the next time

609: Plebgate

It is not easy for me to explain why I have resisted the urge to comment on this farce; all the traditional (for me) elements were present after all!

ple·be·ian

[pli-be-uh-n] Show IPA

adjective

1.

belonging or pertaining to the common people.

2.

of, pertaining to, or belonging to the ancient Roman plebs.

3.

common, commonplace, or vulgar: a plebeian joke.

So the rather unprepossessing Police Constable Keith Wallis has been sentenced to a year in what he probably knows as "the slammer."  His defence counsel informed the court that his client had been "suffering from mental health problems" and in addition he was alleged to have been drunk at the time of the offence.

 

 The unprepossessing P.C. Keith Wallis.  Image BBC

There are one or two matters arising from this case.

First (being serious) this officer was a member of the Diplomatic Protection Squad; if it is true that Wallis had the  "mental health problems" claimed, then why was he employed in such a sensitive division of the Police Force?  Indeed, why was he in the Police at all?  Do these diplomatic protection officers carry arms?  As Private Eye likes to ask from time to time, I think we should be told.

Second, much was made of Mr Andrew Mitchell's swearing and especially use of the word "plebs."  Where's the problem?  I would be willing to bet that the individuals concerned are indeed plebeians as are the majority of the population; why the sensitivity?

I can offer an answer to the rhetorical question that concluded my last paragraph, thereby I suppose, de-rhetoricising it.  I offer the explanation that whilst it is perfectly acceptable in these so-called democratic times to abuse individuals for being "posh," "snobs," for having attended a public school, or for membership of e.g. The Bullingdon Club, any reference to the lower classes in any sense perceived by said lower classes as derogatory, is practically a crime.

Double standards again I fear; quelle surprise.

Actually, I suggest that the greatest shock is the revelation that a member of the police lied!  Ho ho ho.

Until the next time.

608: As I Suspected

I watched, the other night, Jeremy Paxman's beautifully presented programme entitled The War Machine.

I do not feel that the quality of the presentation was matched by the content.  There was little about the higher direction of the war, although Lloyd George received honourable mentions for his successful  efforts in increasing production of munitions.

The majority of the programme, to my jaundiced eyes at least carried a distinctly left-of-centre flavour, with far too much time for example being given to a pair of frightful Scottish communists (well they sounded like communists) who attempted to justify the strike action taken in Glasgow by shipyard workers in 1915.

As readers here know, I consider that the First World War was a terrible mistake, but the country having become involved in the war, then strike action (and there was plenty in the 1939-1945 conflict too) is disgraceful.

Anyone who can be bothered to read Corelli Barnett (Audits of War etc.) will discover that it was stone-age individuals like those two losers who largely contributed to the destruction of the ship-building industry in this country - and not only ship-building.  We are seeing the same sort of Luddite attitude today in the strikes on the London Underground; I despair of this country sometimes.

I still have a sort of forlorn hope that subsequent programmes will a) intelligently consider grand strategy, b)not spend their entire allotted time on hoi polloi and c) not recycle the usual rubbish that all the generals were hopelessly incompetent.  I also hope for NO MUSIC; the BBC insists in its historical programmes in adding music everywhere.  Why?

Until the next time

607: An Obsession: Carrington Saga

Here in England, we have recently been provided with a great treat by BBC4 in the form of The Bridge, this time, the ten-episode second series.  Wonderfully cast, directed and filmed. this crime thriller is really quite riveting, not least because of the central characters, in particular the rather baffling Saga Noren, the curiously obsessive but highly-efficient, Swedish police detective.  Towards the end of the series, we were given a little information about Saga’s difficult upbringing, apparently something to do with her mother and we are led to think, the cause of Saga's problems with human relationships, both personal and professional.

 

 

Saga (Sofia Helin) (Image: BBC)

  

The latter point is of course by no means unusual in life; there are innumerable cases in reality (I definitely KNOW of one case) duly reflected in fiction – as with Saga.  This brings me to my interest in the Bloomsbury Group, variously perceived as artistic  and philosophical pioneers and/or snobbish, narcissistic, unpatriotic, parasites.  South African poet Roy Campbell was highly critical, his feelings in his poem The Georgiad leaving little doubt in the mind of the reader:

    Now Spring, sweet laxative of Georgian trains,
    Quickens the ink in literary veins,
    The Stately Homes of England ope their doors
    To piping nancy-boys and crashing Bores,
    Where for week-ends the scavengers of letters
    Convene to chew the fat about their betters...
    Hither flock all the crowd whom love has 
    wrecked
    Of intellectuals without intellect
    And sexless folk whose sexes intersect....

And:

Dinner, most ancient of the Georgian rites,

The noisy prelude of loquacious nights,

At the mere noise of whose unholy gong

The wagging tongue feels resolute and strong,

Senate of bores and parliament of fools,

Where gossip in her native empire rules;

What doleful memories the word suggests -'

When I have sat like Job among the guests,

Sandwiched between two bores, a hapless prey,

Chained to my chair, and cannot get away,

Longing, without the appetite to eat,

To fill my ears, more than my mouth, with meat,

And stuff my eardrums full of fish and bread

Against the din to wad my dizzy head:

When I have watched each mouthful that they poke

Between their jaws, and praying they might choke,

Found the descending lump but cleared the way

For further anecdotes and more to say.

O Dinners! take my curse upon you all,

But literary dinners most of all...

But whatever one’s position, it cannot be denied that there was real talent there, for example: Virginia Woolf, her sister Vanessa Bell, Duncan Grant, Lytton Strachey, Dora Carrington, E.M.Forster, Maynard Keynes etc.  Mind you, even Forster (bearing in mind many of the group's prosperous upper-middle-class origins) observed:

    "In came the nice fat dividends, up rose the lofty thoughts"

 Carrington

It may well be that I am obsessive by nature - certainly the  criticism has been made -  I have developed a deep fascination for the life, work, and character of painter Carrington - as she wished to be known; I have ordered Gretchen Gerzina's biography in order to research my current heroine's life further.  

Carrington’s mother was apparently a classic Victorian religious maniac. Poor Carrington, her mother’s religious prudery appears to have had a devastating effect on her daughter which led to confusion about her sexual identity culminating one supposes, in her deep love for Lytton Strachey, a homosexual, and, following his death in 1932, her subsequent suicide.  Fortunately, her father it would seem, was a little more enlightened, leading one to wonder how he managed to tolerate his wife.  Carrington's brother Nicholas, wrote the following concerning the mother, which should give the reader a clear idea of her character:

“..The first was extreme prudishness. Any mention of sex or the common bodily functions was unthinkable. We were not even expected to know that a woman was pregnant. Even a word like 'confined' was kept to a whisper. The second was church-going and behaviour on Sunday. We all came to hate the whole atmosphere of a Sunday morning. The special clothes, the carrying of prayer books, the kneeling, standing and murmuring of litanies…” 

Horrible indeed and serving to reinforce my profound loathing of religion; given that suffocating atmosphere,  I find it easy to sympathise with the idea of the Bloomsberries worshipping at the feet of G.E.Moore and behaving accordingly.

Carrington’s work is undeniably superb, so here, a couple of examples:

        

And I had to include this gem as well:

 

Inevitably there are many articles and blog pieces about Carrington, this one is well worth reading and includes a wonderful example of the artist's work.  One of the better biographical articles is here.

Searching for information I also came across a fascinating blog article by artist Richard Warren, called Seven Suicides.  His illustration of Carrington is well worth including so here it is:

 

Meanwhile, if you would like to see Carrington in action (though sadly not painting), go here.

I hope soon to be able to return to this - to me - fascinating subject.

Until the next time.