Richard Warren

"Clearly I tap to you clearly along the plumbing of the world" (W S Graham)

Tag Archives: Christopher Wood

The one good poem of Jacquetta Hawkes

In the ‘forties anyone could write poetry, and did. It was a version of democracy, I suppose, appropriate to a People’s War. Which means there’s still an awful lot of it around on the charity shop shelves. This encourages, let’s admit it, the occasional gratuitous purchase. So how best to approach what, on closer examination, starts to look like an unwise buy? Well, at least this person had a book of poetry published, which is more than I’ve done, so I have to respect that. And then, tucked away among so many disappointing pages, there could always be the odd small gem. Let’s honour that hope.

My latest ‘forties punt is Symbols and Speculations, the one book of poetry by Jacquetta Hawkes, much published and popular archaeologist and writer (Oxfam chazzer, £2.50). Jessie Jacquetta Hopkins was born in 1910.  Graduating from Newnham, Cambridge, she worked in archaeology, marrying fellow digger Christopher Hawkes in 1933, but during the war fell for prolific poet and marginal Bloomsburyite Walter J Turner, taking to poetry herself in 1942. Turner died in 1946. His work –

When I was but thirteen or so
I went into a golden land …

– is understandably ignored today, but one suspects that his hand is heavy on Hawkes’ poems, and with it a version of the metaphysical idealism of Yeats, the master by whom Turner was encouraged. (Hawkes’ father, Cambridge biochemist – and discoverer of vitamins – Frederick Gowland Hopkins, was a first cousin, once removed, of Gerard Manley Hopkins, but that doesn’t seem to have counted for much.) Also in the background of Hawkes’ poetry, more interestingly, is the shade of William Blake, though not always with the happiest results.

Walter J Turner

Symbols and Speculations was published in 1949 by the Cresset Press, which had a bit of literary cachet, publishing Denise Levertov (as Levertoff) in 1946, Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman in 1949, and – year after year – the anti-modernist poetry of Ruth Pitter. Hawkes’ poems were selected by John Howard, a founder of Cresset Press and its perpetual literary adviser. (Her Foreword actually says “Hayward”, but this has to be a slip.)

Howard’s jacket blurb hails Hawkes’ “warmth of sensibility which has resisted the cold, intellectual east wind of Cambridge”, but to my mind “sensibility” (a quality too often demanded of both women and poets) is the problem here, and a bit more cold east wind might have helped. Much of this sensibility is aimed at the natural world, where rooks give their old haunting cries, elegant gazelles race on frail hoofs,  twinkling throngs of linnets fly, and so on. These creatures are at the good end of an inverted Chain of Being that descends nastily to brutalised modern humans via some unspecified Fall; for Hawkes archaeology seems to be a form of Golden Age romanticism, in which the painful toil of our more remote forebears is more than redeemed by their admirable authenticity, borrowed (for a while) from the animals.

Jacquetta Hawkes

Oddly, for a body of poems written between 1942 and 1948, the War never makes an appearance. Humans may now be “herded in alien ways” along “the hollow sockets of the street”, but there is no need, thank goodness, to organise a better society; all that’s required is to dig down to the remains of previous, better streets and to commune a while with the spirits of our forebears until we touch again our lost innocence.

Hawkes’ longest and hardest worked poem, “Man in Nature”, recounts an excavation in Palestine in the ‘thirties in which a prehistoric skeleton is uncovered. A promising enough subject, but it all goes terribly exotic and oriental, with the approaching silent feet of camels and somebody playing Mozart on an oboe in the tomb. (Mozart? An oboe?) At the climax Hawkes experiences some sort of epiphany:

Now from my rock I heard the passing bell,
Silence fell back behind the silent feet,
And as towards the moon I bared my face
From those full tears that hung below each lid
There sprang a track, straight-sided, into space
A shining track that through my vision slid
To span all reaches of the universe.
It seemed, as under me the great globe swung,
I knew some answer, unambiguous –
But that was long ago, and I was young.

Yes, things were so much simpler back at the beginning of time. If only we could remember it! This isn’t ‘forties neo-romanticism; in fact it’s not neo-anything. It’s still somewhere in the eighteen nineties, all so time-fluxed, so universalising, so theosophical.

But it’s all too easy for me to sit here mocking this stuff. If Symbols and Speculations is not headed for the recycling bin, what am I going to salvage from it? There are, admittedly, some good opening moments. For instance:

Far to the north, here on the earth’s pale forehead,
Through the green mapwork of the Orcades
The boat leaves land behind it, more land lies before it,
We are lost between shifting sky and shifting seas.

That’s fine; I like that. Unfortunately, stanzas two, three and their successors are already lined up at the cliff edge. Or take the first half of “Intimations” (a too typically dreadful Hawkes title):

What was it that just before the event on Salisbury station
Christopher Wood caught between a muslin cap and the ocean?
What is it that Greco’s Christ greets from the garden?

That’s more like it! Especially the Christopher Wood bit. But then the last three lines deliver the answer:

There was something my beloved knew when, a seabird, he was borne on the silence above me
And which opens its wings across the evening sky when I ride home wearily.
What is this invisible butterfly that lures man even along life’s narrowing alley?

No. Noooooo … However, just as I’m about to give up, throw the book away and ride home wearily myself, following my invisible butterfly along life’s narrowing alley, I come across this, tucked away at the bottom of page 20:

DRESS

She who must suffer most
Her dress shall be the best,
Neglecting not at all
Slim glove or slender waist.
She who must suffer most
Goes like an eager bride
Being in love’s own dress
Suitably crucified.

Yes. At last. I think she’s nailed it. Something simple, direct but affecting, sparse but graceful, in a lyrical, Blakean mode that is not whipped up into kitsch, but is entirely appropriate to the personal pain in which the poem is founded. And personal pain is, as we know, rarely a wise stimulus for poetry that aims to be anything more than therapeutic, so all credit here. (It is also, in the best sense, if I can say this, a woman’s poem, befitting an archaeologist who proposed that the Minoan civilisation was ruled by a dynasty of benevolent queens.) Thanks to this one, rather anthologisable little gem, Symbols and Speculations is saved, earning its centimetre back on my shelf. Phew.

At about this time, Hawkes met J B Priestley, marrying him in 1953. By all accounts it was a most loving partnership. In 1958 she helped found the CND. She published no more poems.

Do the character and underlying philosophy of her poetry throw any light on the validity of her professional interpretations as an archaeologist? That’s a good question, but one I’m not qualified to answer. We might also wonder if current understandings and reconstructions of our remote past and its remains are still coloured by similar romanticisms.

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Kettle’s Yard: Vortex Gaudier-Brzeska

How have I contrived not to visit Kettle’s Yard in Cambridge until now? But we’ll certainly be going back. More Gaudier-Brzeskas than you can manage, almost to the point of fainting, plus some extraordinary David Jones and Christopher Wood, and a whole lot more besides. In 1926 H S (“Jim”) Ede bought up a couple of thousand drawings and other pieces from the Gaudier estate, following the sad death of Sophie Brzeska, and many of them are still in his preserved home, which forms the core of the expanded “New” Kettle’s Yard, just reopened.

To be honest, the house and its contents are still the important bit. The new bolted-on gallery spaces are a fine asset, but I found the curation of the current show a bit nebulous, and the quality of the contemporary work a little up and down. You can’t grumble though; it’s an amazing place.

Ede’s core mission was to reclaim and to make permanent Gaudier’s standing in the aftermath of his posthumous fall from fashion. And indeed, the more you stare at his work, the more important it appears. Once stuffed away in a box on the margins marked “Interesting cul-de-sacs”, Gaudier’s sculpture has since assumed its proper place at the core of things, articulating a language of form that, in its full and happy integration of the mechanical and the natural, seems more appropriate today than ever. “Plastic soul is intensity of life bursting the plane”.

Here are snaps of some favourite pieces in the house; I haven’t identified them individually as the entire collection can be called up bit by bit in the “collection database” on the Kettle’s Yard website, which also has 360 degree doodads of the interior of the house and a great deal more worth browsing. Photos just can’t do justice to David Jones; his drawing is properly visible only face to face, in its actual scale. But I’ve put some in anyway. Click everything to enlarge as slides.

Christopher Wood

David Jones

 

Henri Gaudier-Brzeska

 

Pukka dreams: Christopher Wood & Cedric Morris

Here’s a recent impulse buy I don’t regret: Cedric Morris & Christopher Wood. A Forgotten Friendship, by Nathaniel Hepburn, published last year to accompany a show of the two that tours till this June.

Wood by Wood

Wood by Wood

I hadn’t really noticed the connection between Christopher Wood (self-taught painter and opium smoker, who threw himself under an incoming train at Salisbury railway station in 1930) and Cedric Morris (self-taught painter and Bright Young Baronet, who, with his lifelong partner Arthur Lett-Haines, went on to found the East Anglian School of Painting and Drawing, only to have it burned down in 1939 by the young Lucian Freud). But when you set their work side by side, as in these pages, the likeness becomes obvious.

And instructive. Both men espoused a fashionable naivety of style, and at first glance the similarities shout. Yet on closer inspection we may feel that Morris can’t have had to work too hard at becoming a naïf, being basically a rich boy who couldn’t draw too well to begin with – a sort of upper class Outsider. But Wood had to unlearn earlier sophistications, and it’s Wood who comes out on top here. Morris’s world is the real world minus some element of the real that he never quite mastered; Wood’s world is the real world but somehow wonderfully reordered and recreated.

Morris by Morris

Morris by Morris

Wyndham Lewis knew Kit Wood well, remembering him as “a sixfooter who … camped in my garden”, and estimating him as “the only ‘post-war’ English painter of outstanding merit.” In my piece on Lewis’s The Apes of God, in the Wyndham Lewis Annual for 2008, I argue for Wood as the inspiration for that novel’s naïf “genius” Dan Boleyn. But unlike Boleyn, as Lewis recognised, Wood’s “romantic nature was able to organize itself sufficiently to get something out of paint. His pictures have imaginative beauty which is as easy as a reverie and it does not put you under duress like a nightmare. It is the gentle dream of a dairymaid. But it is a pukka dream.”

Lewis had encountered Morris. Did he find Morris’s dream pukka? I’m not sure.

Nathaniel Hepburn has researched the doings of Wood and Morris’s artistic and social set in painstaking detail, and his book is a welcome addition to the Wood corpus – lavishly illustrated and already available online for considerably less than the headline price. Hepburn is curator of Mascalls Gallery, a proper public gallery housed at a Kent comprehensive. In these times of cultural austerity, as Gove batters the breath out of the curriculum with his nasty little Ebacc, just how good is that?

Speaking of schools, I’m struck by the strong parallels between the cult of the naïve, the minimal tuition at the Paris “academies” frequented by Wood and Morris, the laissez-faire regime of Morris and Lett-Haines’s East Anglian School, and the strictly hands-off approach to art education pioneered at Dudley in the ‘twenties by Marion Richardson (with the approval of Roger Fry). Richardson aimed to preserve adolescent direct expressiveness at the cost of any kind of instruction, and hers became the dominant model of school art well into the ‘sixties, eventually being superseded in many schools only by a belated sub-Bauhaus approach. My grammar school Art master would sooner have shot himself than have been caught actually teaching me anything, but that’s maybe a topic for another time …

Humphrey Spender’s ‘Atomic Flower’ and the New Apocalypse

(Since this was first posted, a larger image of this painting has become available at the ‘Your Paintings’ site, here.)

The release of the Public Catalogue Foundation’s (PCF) volumes of Oil Paintings in Public Ownership, and the development of the “Your Paintings” website, gives us all, at long last, a chance to see just what’s hidden away in the vaults of our local galleries that rarely or never comes out into the daylight.

Wolverhampton Art Gallery (my local) devotes whole furlongs of wall space to its unrivalled collections of Georgian and Victorian sepia mediocrities (the Fuseli excepted), justified by a display policy focused around social and historical content, a policy which also drives their recent purchases and contemporary collection. This doesn’t allow too much of an airing for the very decent 20th century material they mostly keep under the carpet.

A thumb through the PCF Staffordshire catalogue reveals quite a bunch of modernist and English surrealist items at Wolves: John Armstrong, John Banting, Wilhelmina Barns-Graham, John Selby Bigge,  Duncan Grant, Tristram Hillier, Thomas Esmond Lowinsky, Augustus Lunn, John and Paul Nash, John Piper, William Roberts, Stanley Spencer, John Tunnard, Anthony Twentyman (six canvases), Edward Wadsworth, Alfred Wallis and, last but not least, Christopher Wood. Most are not often seen on the walls, and some never. They would make a good roomful, and a nice change from all those dull Georgian worthies and Victorian farm girls.

And in the Wolverhampton basement there is also this: Atomic Flower by Humphrey Spender. (This small image here will have to do for the time being.) Yes, that’s Spender the photographer, Mass Observationist, textile designer and brother to poet Stephen. His paintings (a bit of a sideline) tended to follow prevailing styles, which in the late ‘thirties for him meant surrealism, though Michel Remy carefully excludes him from his 1991 study, Surrealism in Britain. This canvas is dated to 1939-40, and is not among his most technically accomplished, even for that relatively early date. But to me it seems of unusual interest.

The collection catalogue describes it as an “open interior of a room in a landscape. Inside the room is a giant flower with a colourful fiery centre. There are scientific/mechanical objects placed in the landscape.” The “room” is perhaps better described as a box-like building with the near wall and roof missing. A front door is left hanging in space above the steps, and a window has clearly been blown out. The walls appear black and charred.

Distant mountains are fronted by a flat plain punctuated by receding poles or fence posts in the manner of Paul Nash etc. The foreground objects clearly owe a great deal to Edward Wadsworth’s semi-surreal marine still lives, a couple resembling ship’s screw propellers in a non-specific way. In the corner of the room sits a metal object composed of three elliptical loops around a central axis.

At the heart of the building, and of the composition, a huge dark textured flower unfolds, its five molten petals surrounding a centre of orange and blue flames – the atomic flower of the title. Despite the naivety of its execution, the image achieves a disquieting and threatening quality.

Given the dating, we are likely to take this for a Blitz image, a surrealist variant of the bombed street ruins made iconic, in a neo-romantic way, by John Piper, John Minton et al. On the other hand, given the title, this does look uncannily like a premonition of nuclear warfare – gleaming scientific instruments creating a mushroom-like exploding fiery form that devastates the landscape. And where is this landscape? (New Mexico? Los Alamos?) How likely is any of this for 1940?

Nuclear fission was discovered on the eve of World War two, and a practicable atomic bomb was still widely considered impossible in 1940, the Manhattan Project not getting under way until 1942. Could the dating of the painting be wrong? Or the title have been adopted at a later date?

The term “atomic flower” is now sometimes colloquially applied to the familiar stylised  “atom symbol” representing electrons circling the nucleus. Variants show either three or four ellipses, making six or eight “petals”. Remarkably, a three dimensional version of this symbol is present in the painting, in the shape of the scientific object on the corner of the floor. The symbol may have been known to Spender at this time in some diagram form, but the term “atomic flower” is a recent coinage, making his prescience even more striking.

The term has lately acquired a different connotation. As a contribution to the work of the US Human Interference Task Force, charged with devising “nuclear semiotic” warnings against contact with stored radioactive waste that will remain intelligible for the next 10,000 years, the SF writer Stanislaw Lem has proposed the development of “information plants” or “atomic flowers” that would grow only in the vicinity of terminal storage sites. Spender’s monstrous flower lends itself well to this scenario.

Though the fear of “nuclear apocalypse” was not born until 1945, the catchphrase “Apocalypse” or “New Apocalypse” was coined in 1940 as an umbrella for the vague coalition of philosophical anarchism, “personalism” and neo-romantic tendencies in the arts, loosely related to surrealism, promoted during the war years by Henry Treece, J F Hendry, Stefan Schimanski, Robert Herring and others in reviews such as Transformation and Kingdom Come. It seems ironic that at the end of the war, just as the coherence, such as it was, of the New Apocalypse movement was unravelling, the prospects for nuclear apocalypse suddenly drew terrifyingly close. A real New Apocalypse!

The poetry of the Apocalypse movement has since been largely discredited in critical terms, though British neo-romantic painting has enjoyed a re-evaluation over recent years. The quality of the Apocalypse poets and writers was variable, to say the least. But the movement is not without interest, and I aim to consider some aspects in the future on this site. Spender’s Atomic Flower would have made a fine poster image for the New Apocalypse.

Seven Suicides: some Dead British Artists

My friend and colleague Shirley suggested the other day that I put online “Seven Suicides: some Dead British Artists”, my series of large pen and ink drawings and accompanying texts, which visualise the regrettable deaths of various 20thc British artists. These were exhibited briefly at St Peter’s Church in Wolverhampton in late 2007, and haven’t been seen since. So here they are (or use the tab at the top here). The names of the seven are on the flier for the show on the right here, and are among those in the tags below.

My comments on the critical neglect of Robert Colquhoun and Robert MacBryde were written before the publication of  Roger Bristow’s 2010 joint biography and catalogue raisonee of the Two Roberts, The Last Bohemians. (Naff title, but a most excellent book.)