Van Gogh & his letters

Where are all the sunflowers? Van Gogh, sunflowers. Sunflowers, Van Gogh. Oh, and chairs and beds. Van Gogh, sunflowers, chairs and beds. Colour too. Wonderful, vibrant colour is what we associate with Van Gogh. Although sunflowers are pretty thin on the ground in this exhibition, shape and form, texture and light are there displayed in glorious technicolour. And letters.

The exhibition explained with his drawings and sketches his interest in various forms and ideas. We could how see the different styles took hold and developed into the paintings we know and love. He was primarily enthused and inspired by Japanese prints and from this grew his interest in painting.

Like many artists his changes in technique were influenced by the artists and movements of the time but Van Gogh largely worked out how to achieve the effects for himself. And worked by himself. His continuing interest in different genres led him to become a painter of portraits, still life and landscape and he mastered them all.

But the exhibition that has been on at the Royal Academy in London also showed something quite different. It showed that Van Gogh was just as prolific with his pen. Black and white. Paper and pen. What is so very interesting about Van Gogh’s work is that for every painting of his there is a letter to accompany it. He painted – often a painting a day – and wrote to his brother daily. His letters explain – often with sketches - what he is trying to achieve and how he is doing it.

We therefore do not have to rely on the ‘art experts’ opinion. Now, I have nothing against experts. I admire them, I envy them, indeed I love to hear them explain an art work. But this is from the horse’s mouth. The artist himself. We don’t have somebody else’s interpretation. Somebody else’s view of what the artist was trying to achieve. It is fascinating.

The other thing that struck me about this exhibition - or perhaps I should say that struck me when I learned more about Van Gogh, the man – is that he was a highly intelligent, thoughtful man who could have succeeded in so many other areas, particularly writing. He suffered from manic depression – now referred to as bi-polar disorder – the crippling suicidal lows of the disorder often accompanied by highly charged, exuberant and creative highs. Highs in which genius can shine through.

Art – and frenzied painting – must have given vent to the need to be ‘doing’ and creating in a much more tangible way than something less physical, like writing, would have. And it filled his lonely hours, because his illness affected his ability to make and keep relationships.

As children all we knew about Van Gogh was that he was that mad drunken Dutchman, who chopped off his ear and painted sunflowers in the South of France. That he was an intensely religious man, who wrote well and taught himself to be a great painter, was totally off our radar.

We take as read that Van Gogh had an innate talent for painting. But, without the highs of his disorder and the obsessions (those sunflowers!), would he have had the mental drive, physical energy and inspired vision to develop his style and medium as often as he did in such a short period of time. I doubt it.

With correctly balanced modern drugs, Van Gogh would probably have avoided his terrible bouts of depression and had a normal social life. But would we ever have seen such an amazing collection of works. The number of them, and the quality of them, is more than many wonderful artists achieve in a lifetime. And Van Gogh was only 34 years old when he shot himself. See this exhibition if it emerges elsewhere, and wonder at the man.

Lucy

Effi Briest by Theodor Fontane

Fifty fifty: that was how it panned out. Half of us liked the novel, Effi Brest, the other half was rather disappointed.

I like a reflective novel. I enjoy being left with something to think about, something to ponder. To have the text throw up questions and for myself, the reader, to find my own answers. And I have no objection at all to lack of events. Not for me searing, screaming action every step of the way. Fontane pares then pares again. But there comes a time when Less is More become Less is Less: I do want emotion. And perhaps in Effi Briest some of those events left to the reader’s imagination (sometimes later clarified) are perhaps a little too obscure, too coy, even so bland as to escape the reader's notice until the end of the book!

Effi, the heroine, is a charming, impetuous, beautiful young woman. Married too young, to a man too mature. The only thing she and her husband have in common is ambition: both for their own versions of status and power. They have a child: Effi is left alone much of the time and too much is expected of her. Her husband is kind but not demonstrative. Her loneliness leads her into the arms of a passionate man, and, eventually, this and the demands of Society results in a cruel fate.

Some of us felt that Effi was little more than a cipher. That none of the characters developed. I’m not sure I agree. In tune with some others, I think Effi is a character that grows on the reader. As the novel progresses we get to know her better and as the other characters develop we also come to feel sympathy for her. We also appreciate her husband for his good points, in spite of his controlling character. Ultimately, perhaps, we have a real sympathy for him.

Symbolism is strong in this work, we are told, but for the modern readers much of it is lost. Just as the uneducated visitor would miss the classic symbolism and allegorical associations of the 18th century landscape garden, such as that at Stowe, so too does the modern reader miss the Victorian symbolism so prevalent in this most classic of novels. The symbolism of flowers, colours, myths and monsters is not what it was.

And then this is a highly Victorian moral tale: infidelity can lead to the break-up of families, to heartbreak and decline. Ambition and the pursuit of position above all else can be an empty cup. Insistence on honour and status is meaningless compared to forgiveness and the closeness of family. Women, married too young, have not yet had time to develop their character. And women – certainly at the time this novel was written – were at the mercy physically, mentally, and economically, of their men.

Even the characters are imbued with this morality: the old, the disfigured, the poor and unattractive – these are the characters in the book that are the most worthy. Gieshubler, the chemist, Roswitha the servant, the old doctor, Rummschuttel, all display the sort of discretion and kindness that is to be expected of the fortunate. In contrast, those in positions of superiority are not magnanimous but sometimes vindictive and cold.

The novel reminded me here and there of Anna Karenina. But Anna Karenina has dramatic scenes, passion, heart. Whereas at pivotal points in Effi’s life, Fontane gives us barely a hint of emotion: her marriage, the birth of her child, a lover, a death, a separation. I found the lack of that emotion described at such passionate moments, odd.

Nevertheless I did enjoy the novel. There is much to absorb and some very fine writing. But don’t expect action and don’t wait for emotion. Take it on holiday and read it when you have relaxed enough to have readjusted to a slower pace.

Lucy

Buckingham Palace Garden

Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?
I’ve been to London to visit the Queen.
Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you there?
I walked round the garden and breathed the fresh air.

Why are things seldom as one expects them? I have seen the gardens at Buckingham Palace before. But only the very public view of it, from below the garden front. That is the lawn where the famous Garden Parties are held: where honoured ladies in hats, gents suited and booted, hover in expectation for a chat and a cuppa with her madje.

But I have recently been for a private view of the gardens. Well, as private as is possible with twenty three other people present. And I had imagined that somewhere – born of long remembered tales of Lewis Carroll, C.S.Lewis or Frances Hodgson Burnett no doubt - that tucked away somewhere there was a hidden and private garden.

Well, I was wrong. There is no secret garden. Just some handsome trees, lots of stunning shrubs, waves of brilliant daffodils and waterside plantings. None of the Royals don their wellies and gardening gloves at Buck House. It was in the Gardens at Mey that the Queen Mother pruned her roses and at Highgrove that Charles hones his design skills and tries out his green ideas. And one gets the impression that Her Majesty the Queen and Princess Anne are more au fait with the muck than the magic.

Henry VIII first had his eye on this landscape back in the 1500’s. James I planted mulberry trees (the wrong sort for the silk production he envisaged) and successive monarchs dabbled with formality. But in 1760 the garden was professionally designed by the famous Lancelot Brown who swept away anything that even hinted at formality.

For him it was all serpentine paths, turf, trees and still water. Not a straight line in sight. Fortunately there was no-one in residence who was very interested in the garden (William IV chose to live at Clarence House instead) or willing to spend money on its upkeep after that. Queen Victoria is supposed to have said that only the dog enjoyed the garden!

I say, ‘fortunately’, because too much cash and too much insistence on the fashionable, is responsible for the ruination of many a garden. Later, John Nash had a go at dredging the lake, but left the informal layout well alone. The choice of planting and the lake encouraged wild-life and when finally Victoria’s beloved Albert took an interest in the garden it was fortunate too that he valued it. By enhancing its structures and planting more trees.

Only one long border has been added since Brown’s original design, bowing to the late Victorian and Edwardian craze for herbaceous planting. It was designed to stun the garden party visitors with a riot of colour in June. And then a traditional rose garden – now pruned to perfection – was planted, sitting slightly uncomfortably in its setting. These, then, were the only formal Reptonian touches. Two modest deviations from the simplicity of the English Landscape style.

It is so rare to see such an unspoilt informal garden on such a formal site. Banish all ideas of Versailles, perish the thought of Villa d’Este, forget parterres and topiary. Here the garden of Buckinham Palace is a natural green and pleasant place in the midst of hustle and bustle and buildings. Rus in urbe. A peaceful, private parkland in the heart of London. And I quite understand why the Royal family might like to keep it that way.

Lucy

South African Writers – Coetzee, Brink, Gordimer, Paton et al.

Off to beautiful Cape Town for a holiday and a bit of research I packed my novels: one of the best bits of the holiday – wall to wall reading. A last minute panic that these might run out, I looked on my bookshelves for unread paperbacks. Coetzee. Perfect. A South African author. Immerse myself in the culture sort of thing.

Now I have read a few books by Coetzee. Brilliant writer if not a bundle of laughs. Disgrace was a novel that certainly gets to the heart of South African life and the violence that wrecks lives. But what did I pick up? Slow Man. I should have checked first.

I am going to South Africa. I want to read a South African writer writing about South Africa. What do I do, I pick up a novel by Coetzee (A SA writer alright) but find the novel is set in Australia. That’s where he lives now. Australia.

It’s good, no doubt about it. Slow novel about Slow Man. Very readable, touches of humour and perception. But as Slow Man never leaves his flat he could be living anywhere. I suppose he could even have been living in a suburb of Durban, Port Elizabeth or Cape Town.

Of course, I could have chosen to read some of the other great names of SA literature. One of the most well known books must be that of Olive Shriener – The Story of An African Farm – made famously into a film. Although it describes a fate that has befallen women throughout the centuries, her character makes a choice that we do not often read about. However, the life she describes hardly exists anymore in the Cape.

Ask any Capetonian whom one should read when visiting the Cape and those of a certain age will suggest a favourite of theirs, Laurence Green. His easy style travelogues are a pleasant read but leisurely travel, drawn out three course lunches and descriptions of picturesque spots are largely a thing of the past for South Africans. Set from the nineteen twenties on his stories are now period pieces.

Of course, there are later famous novelists. Nadine Gordimer, for one, an exceptional writer, so perceptive, but she gets down to some pretty gritty realism in her work. A bit dated now, in some ways, but sadly totally up to date in her descriptions of shanty towns and life for the average unemployed South African.

Andre Brink, another big name, can also be a bit of - well, how can I put it – a depressing read. The Other Half of Silence is pretty brutal and his others are also fairly heavy work in my opinion. In an attempt to be more upbeat I could perhaps suggest some younger or more recent South African writers.

There is Barbara Trapido’s book, Frankie & Stankie, detailing what life was like in the Cape in the fifties. She doesn’t do the ‘great work of literature’ bit but what a good story teller she is. This novel is a much lighter read than the others I mention and one (at last) with laugh aloud humour. And Mark Behr; his first novel The Smell of Apples is very good. Definitely an insight into modern African life in the Cape – but an unsettling one for several reasons.

But to choose just one, after all these, I would still plump for Alan Paton’s classic, Cry, The Beloved Country. In my opinion it still deserves the prize for epitomizing life in South Africa. A more simple, moving and sad story would be hard to find. Although, as in Gordimer’s short stories, it is heartbreaking to notice the lack of change for the better in such an absolutely blessed and beautiful country.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

PS If you can suggest other authors you think give a good picture of the Cape please comment but if you prefer to make a private point you can always email me at LucyAnnWhite@googlemail.com

Beyond Black by Hilary Mantel

Well before Hilary Mantel won the Booker with her epic Wolf Hall, our Book Group had chosen to do her novel, Beyond Black, about ghosts and ghouls. Well, fiends actually.

Mantel has the most amazing imagination and a wonderful way with words. Her main character, Alison, is an overweight, nervous but successful and gifted physic. She cannot remember what she did as a child, nor can she forget that it must have been something terrible. As a result Alison lives in a constant state of Purgatory.


Alison’s admits that her life as a child was disturbing. The illegitimate and unwanted child of a bitter and drug crazed prostitute, her family life was dysfunctional to say the least - she was maltreated and ignored in turn. And her surroundings were just as awful – she lived in a slum with no vestige of comfort, surrounded by the bleakest landscape, peopled by abusers, users and misfits.

Then as an adult she is constantly visited by ghosts. This is because, Mantel leads us to believe, when people are no longer earthside (alive) they don’t just go to Heaven or Hell. They hang about as spirits – like the fiends - for a long time in a state of neither here or there. In other words in Purgatory. The ghosts – fiends – that haunt Alison (and many of her fellow physics) are very real and thoroughly destructive. She hates them but is scared of upsetting them.

The horrors of her childhood slowly emerge as Colette, her PA, records her memories for a book. Alison has repressed these – not surprising when you find out what they are – and as a result is constantly goaded by the ghosts of her mother’s (and therefore her) former associates.

Mantel’s use of dialect and speech is particularly good – the sort of speech you might hear rogues use at a dodgy fair – the seediness palpable. But I did wonder if the non-Brits in our group might find it difficult to imagine the characters or appreciate the colloquialisms and turns of phrase. When our hostess read out sections the scales fell from their eyes. That makes it all sound so much better than it did in my head, they said. But too late, they had not gotten a feel for the book. So it did turn out to be a cultural thing.

Most of us enjoyed the book. The majority also thought it a bit too long. It was generally felt that a chunk out the middle – or more exactly two thirds of the way through – would have done the story no harm and the readers some good. But others enjoyed it less. They found some of the descriptions (mostly of the fiends’ behaviour) a bit too graphic and gross.

What I found most interesting was reading an interview and a review of Mantel’s autobiographical book, Giving up Ghosts. The parallels between the main character, Alison Hart, and Mantel’s own life were clear. Beyond Black is a very clever, amazingly imagined and well written novel. No doubt. But, for some in the book group, it was just too much of a good (or rather too much of a bad) thing.

Lucy
lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

J.B.Priestly, Harold Brighouse and Terence Frisby – Three Of A Kind.

In our local churches, halls, barns and pubs we enjoy all sorts of cultural musical performances, from large choral works, to soloists, violin recitals and, just lately, actors performing excerpts from various works. This latest took the form of a revue with Prunella Scales and Timothy West (keen to raise money for the Marlowe Theatre in Canterbury) performing ‘Battle of the Sexes’.

The programme consisted of over a dozen excerpts from various plays, essays and letters. All were chosen to fit the theme but some were more entertaining than others. I shall mention the funniest as we need something to laugh about on cold winter days: days when the news seems only to consist of dreary events and terrible disasters.

The piece I found particularly funny – along with the rest of the audience I might add - was from It’s All Right If I Do It by Terence Frisby. Frisby is a novelist and playwright: his long running comedy There’s A Girl in my Soup is well known but his novels not so much so.

The latest, Kisses on a Postcard, is apparently a funny and touching account of his experiences as a young WWII evacuee. West and Scales have now made me acquainted with him and having laughed out loud at the performance I am looking forward to reading his memoir.

Then a piece from Hobson’s Choice was moving and amusing. And the humour not dated at all. Prunella Scales had played the part of Maggie Hobson on the stage as a young actress and in this excerpt her husband, Timothy West, was very well cast for her partner, Will Mossop. As usual, it highlighted my ignorance of some writers. Hobson’s Choice is a play by Harold Brighouse first performed in 1916.

Maggie’s father is a dictatorial drunkard cobbler who refuses to help his daughters marry. Maggie proposes to Will, Hobson’s young and talented bootmaker, he accepts grudgingly, they marry, create a successful business and help Maggie’s sisters to marry.

The third I liked was from When We are Married, by J.B.Priestley. Priestly, born in 1894, became a well-known humourous writer and critic. The Good Companions, 1929, his first novel and his best known play, An Inspector Calls, 1936, must both be classed as classics now. When We Are Married is about three couples about to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary when they find an administrative slip means they have not been married at all.

We are given a glimpse of one couple’s reaction to the news. Timothy West plays Councillor Albert Parker (as he did in a 1987 production), a bombastic, sanctimonious, self-satisfied character with Prunella Scales playing his bored and brassed off wife, Annie. Albert says he will do his duty and marry Annie again – Annie says, no thank you, she’s had enough.

The audience recognises these well-observed characters that are as real to us today as they were when Priestley wrote it in 1938. Again, the humour is timeless and the acting by West and Scales excellent.

It’s not often you spend a couple of hours in church on a Sunday afternoon and come out laughing your socks off – hats off to the vicar for allowing it. And now it’s off to the bookshelves (or the bookshop) for me to find what I have got written by this lot, and several hours of very happy reading in the dull winter weeks ahead.

Lucy
lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

Rabbie Burns Night

What is it about the English that when they have even an ounce of Scottish blood they like to boast about it. And, of course, it gives them an excuse to take part in any Robert Burns' evening going. I can’t talk, I’m as guilty as the next ‘One Quarter Scottish’ Angle. Perhaps it’s just that we like any excuse for a party. And, let’s face it, the Scots know how to enjoy a dram or two.

But to hear a true blue Scot read out ‘wee sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie’, in that wonderful pure lilting brogue is so romantic and evocative of a period now gone. It’s like the first time you hear Shakespeare acted and spoken properly. Suddenly everything makes sense. Years of studying the bard at school can often put a person off for life.

Shakespeare is so wooden, it’s so meaningless, you often hear school children say. But take them to a first class performance of a Shakespeare play and you will hear the laugh out loud, watching it all with rapt attentive faces as they have never done in class. It’s the nuances, the breaths taken in the correct places and the humour that the actors manage to imbue it with.

Watch amateurs enact Shakespeare, then watch a professional troupe - it is often as different as chalk from cheese. The first – no matter how polished - can be stilted, the second lively and funny, bawdy and deep. I personally don’t like Shakespeare on television or the radio – I think his plays are made for the live stage. Only there do you get that wonderful feeling of being part of it, which is how the plays were intended.

Listening to the poems of Robert Burns can be much the same: unintelligible to the English ear. In To A Mouse Burns is assuring the terrified little field mouse that he means him no harm, and goes on to apologise to the mouse for all the harm man does and the sad state of his own life.
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattie!

But translate it and it loses it’s charm completely. Difficult to follow or not, just one phrase from this sad and moving verse, has been quoted by many of us at some stage, without us even knowing it came from this poem.
But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men,
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

Another equally well known poem of Burns, Address to A Haggis, loses all when Anglicised. The Haggis, to Burns, was a symbolic part of Scottish culture. A student of politics or history can enlarge on all the reasons why this was so important to Burns – and all Scots – at the time. But for the rest of us we simply enjoy the dialect, vivid language and humour of the poem.
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftan o’ the pudding-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace
As lang’s my arm. ‘

So here’s to Robert Burns on his special night and all of you too, Slanj; Lang may yer lum reek!

Lucy