jane brocket

baking peaks

[rock buns, recipe in Vintage Cakes]

I think the market for cake may have peaked. Like overbeaten egg whites and cream, it seems to have  slumped recently. I have noticed collapsed cake businesses in sadly empty premises in several provincial towns, reflecting the reality that it's very hard to make cake pay.

Nevertheless, I have to admit I'm not sorry that the cupcake craze is now waning as I'm not fond of the word or the confection, the way the cake has become a caricature of itself, and the fact that all too often it is looked at and exclaimed over rather than eaten. Give me a fairy cake instead (or 'fairy bun' as I have always said) or, even better, anything that puts taste and texture before style and appearance.

It's ironic after such a cake-peak that it's becoming more difficut to get nice, fresh cake when eating out. Too many places (museums, galleries, cafes, hotels) source a wide range of cakes in order to join in the cake fun. But these turn out to be made by large industrial-style producers who are more concerned about price, profit margins, longevity and looks than ingredients, quality and authenticity. Their cakes look tired, bland and dull, and taste the same. Even the big names and caterers who made such an impression a short while ago would do well to do some random sampling in their concessions as there are some shockingly miserable and stale baked goods on sale at shockingly high prices. There are some exceptions (most recently the London Review Bookshop), but I don't think it will be too long before we are back to Kit-Kats and plastic-wrapped biscuits with our cups of tea - they are are simply safer, longer lasting, easier to store, and cheaper.

However, not all cake is sunk just yet; if we want decent treats, we can always go back to baking at home and producing good, simple, unshowy cakes made with fine ingredients. It seems I'm not the only one to reach this conclusion - by pure coincidence,  just as I was rubbing the butter into the flour to make rock buns, this came onto Radio 4 and confirmed all I was thinking. (I also liked the Raymond Chandler reporting style and the classic quote about tarantulas and angel cake.)

 

he's my brother

 

A big, thick, nicely illustrated biography is perfect  reading for snowy days. Especially a well-written biography of an interesting character such as an elusive, contradictory, elegant, enormously talented and well-connected artist who died far too young and under-appreciated. 

I'm fascinated by the way people choose to live their lives, the choices they make, the opportunities they take or create or miss, and a good biography will get close to its subject but also view him or her from a more objective distance, and reveal something of the contrast between private and public, domestic and official. The Laughter and the Urn, the 1985 biography of Rex Whistler by his brother, Laurence, does all this, and I would recommend it for long sessions on the settee with tea, quilt and fire, as the snow falls, the light fades, and the world grows quiet.

I often choose ex-library copies when buying on abebooks because I like the stamps and marks, knowing where they came from, and how many people have read a book now sadly marked 'DISCARDED'. This book hadn't been taken out very often which is a shame because it's a truly compelling, thoughtful biography by a poet and writer, but also a brother. I don't think I've ever read a biography of a one brother by another before, and realised early on what a huge difference it could make. Having just read the newest book about RW which is excellent but more a general overview of his life and work than a true biography, it was marvellous to get a much closer understanding of RW's personality from LW's accounts of their shared world of childhood, and the revealing, often funny details of the family and school life - and only a brother who was there could have written these. 

There is some ambivalence in fraternal relations in the central section of the book (LW, seven years younger, often felt overshadowed by his immensely successful, social butterfly brother, and at times appears to despise or at least mistrust the 'bright young thing'/socialite circles in which he moved) and the information about the 1920s and 30s is mostly public knowledge. But the brother-biographer comes into his own in the early years (as above), and again in the final years (1939-44) when they were both soldiers, and LW is meticulous in covering RW's war experiences. In these two sections he writes quite differently, with a sense of their bond and closeness but never worship, nostalgia or sentimentality. There is humour, clear-sightedness and a fair placing of RW where he deserves to be for posterity and, above all, deep brotherly love and affection.

I finished it last night, a little stiff from sitting still for so long, and very moved by the final chapters. Today I'm still thinking about what we choose to value or overlook, and how an artist or writer can miss out the acclaim he or she deserves when alive. Apart from Edith Olivier, high society and the art world never really appreciated RW and his talents, not in the way his family did when he was young and his fellow-soldiers did when he was older. There was much wringing of hands and elegant letter-writing when he died, but there could have been far more active acknowledgement of his wonderful talents and output while he lived. Too often we don't realise or articulate how much something or someone means to us they are taken away.

the more it snows

[Snow in Russell Square (c1935-40) Stanislawa De Karlowska (Birmingham)]

...the lovelier it looks, the less likely I am to get to London to see it, and more I'd like to. I'd be very happy wandering again around the squares of Bloomsbury to see them blanketed in snow, but trains aren't running, schools are closing, and BBC Radio Berkshire have phoned to ask if I'll give Tony Blackburn an update on what's happening in my area.

[ Snow in London (c1935) Richard W Marriott (Worthing Art Gallery)]

Which is funny, because I can only update on what's happening outside my window, and I'm not too sure he wants a running commentary on how well my violet hyacinths are doing and how beautiful they look with a backdrop of thick snow, and big, fat, swirling flakes.

[Rooks, Hyacinths and Snow (c1935) Winifred Nicholson]

I could put on my coat and wellies, hat and gloves, though, and do a little Pooh-style pondering and measuring of snow to show that I'm a well informed reporter. 

[Illustration by EH Shepard]

Then I could share my thoughts with him and his listeners, because I'm considering who has painted snow best. EH Shepard's illustrations have lodged in my brain since childhood and he captures snow brilliantly just by making little marks on lots of white space. The Impressionists, particularly Monet and Sisley, evoke the softness and light-play of snow, while Russian artists paint snow scenes with vigour and energy and drama. Dutch painters show just how many things you can do in the snow - I love their action-packed snowy crowd scenes - and Scandinavian scenes are often quite everyday as befits countries which deal with snow sensibly and efficiently. Unlike here, where the best you can hope for from local radio is a cutting-edge report from a housebound flapjack-maker. 

perambulation

 

[8 Fitzroy Street Vanessa Bell (Eastbourne)]

A true perambulation, a walk around a territory, an inspection of an area on foot. This is what I did yesterday, covering a good deal of Bloomsbury from west to east, and finding all kinds of things to keep me interested and to deflect my attention from the cold and rain. Bloomsbury is great walking territory ; there are guided walks which sound excellent, or you can take a fairly shambolically planned route like mine which follows personal whims and fancies, and incorporates good cafes, excellent architecture, many famous and historical locations, a mix of neighbourhoods, and a lovely sense of London life. I didn't take photos, partly because of the dreadful light, but also because there are times when I just like walking and looking and taking things in without feeling the need to stop and record (I still don't understand why people go to concerts only to see most of the action through a phone camera).

Itinerary and highlights:

Start: Warren Street tube, a Charles Holden station (1934) which must have looked incredibly futuristic and beacon-like when first built.  

Round the corner to Honey & Co, lavishly praised in the FT and the Guardian, so worth a try for breakfast. Chaotic service but excellent Fitzroy buns, their version of the Chelsea bun made with sour cherries and pistachios.

[Fitzroy Square (1923-24) Christopher Nevinson (Tate)]

Now Fitzroy Street where Rex Whistler and others had studios, andf the very beautiful and elegant Fitzroy Square on one side. This, I think, is the nicest of all of V Woolf's London addresses. Fitzroy St runs into Charlotte St and is classic shabby, still slightly Bohemian London, with lots of tiny cafes with bad but characterful plastic fascias, any number of newsagents, and a touch of seediness. 

Divert to Lantana just off Goodge St, a place I've wanted to visit for a while. I didn't stop - just picked up a couple of (not-fresh) friands for Simon & Phoebe - but I'd go back for coffee which they take very seriously.

Over to Store Street, with cafes and shops looking very self-consciously tasteful after the nicely uninhibited parts of Fitzrovia I'd seen, but worth a look because it leads to the spectacular Senate House (1932-37) which often stands in for Soviet Moscow as a TV and film location.

[Imperial Hotel, Russell Square Stanislawa de Karlowska (Nottingham). And this is what it looks like now.]

Then Russell Square, the Brunswick Centre (honourable mention of Skoob Books here) and the very atmospheric Marchmont Street: Kenneth Williams lived at no.36 for 20-odd years and the School of Life is at no.70.  Next, Gray's Inn Road and the amazing Trinity Court (1934-5), then Mecklenburgh Square which was partly bombed in the war and now has a mix of styles, although one side still has a brilliantly grandiose and imposing terrace intact.

[Mecklenburgh Square, Winter Enslin du Plessis (Southampton)]

Here I had a break to a see friend, warm up, talk for a long time. This is why I came into London, the rest was just spur of the moment.

Back via Great Russell Street  and British Museum-land, still with many funny, fusty little shops and businesses, where the highlight is the London Review Bookshop and Cafe which does great lunches and out-of-this-world cakes surrounded by books and copies of the LRB to read. Then on down a wet and puddly Charing Cross Rd which is now so sadly lacking in interesting bookshops to the National Portrait Gallery to see the Thomas Struth photos, a little exhibition of Marilyn Monroe photos, and for a quick stare at the awful portrait of the Duchess of Cambridge (people looking quite astonished and not sure how to compose their own faces in reaction to it).

End. Return to provincial life. Until the next time.

steaming

[yesterday morning]

Although I wish I were as hardy as the swimmers who leap into the Serpentine, or the ponds at Hampstead, or the sea at Brighton all year round, the truth of the matter is that if I am going to swim outside in winter, it has to be in a heated pool. Not only is it more enjoyable, it's also so much more picturesque and atmospheric. On really cold days the steam rises thickly and fellow swimmers are invisible until they loom out of the mist. The spindly branches of the trees are outlined against the sky as if in charcoal, and any rains falls softly making little spots on the surface of the water. It's a quick dash from the changing room to the water (paving stones are wickedly cold under bare feet), and the warm water is easy to enter. I find the end of my nose gets a little chilly as I swim, but it's a small price to pay for breathing fresh air instead of overheated fumes.

I meet a friend for swims here in winter when the pool is quiet. There are a few regulars, some swimmers having lessons, the odd triathlete training and putting everyone to shame. It's open 365 days a year and it's a wonderful, down-to-earth, no-frills community pool. And there's a brilliant little cafe (and huge terrace overlooking the pool) where you can get big fry-up breakfasts, bowls of porridge, papers to read, and mugs of steaming tea to enjoy after a swim. I nearly said to 'warm up after a swim', but of course the joy of this place is that you never really get cold in the first place, no matter how low the tempearture.

grand provincial tour

[Braintree Station (c.1961)Edward Bawden. In the Fry Gallery in Saffron Walden which is on the list.]

A while ago I wrote about my plan for a Grand Provincial Tour, a week of visiting provincial art galleries with some tea and cake, books and buildings thrown in for good meaurure. I know it was all fantasy, but it had its roots in reality. The basic premise of the Tour was to explore provincial towns with a simple cultural agenda, and as I'm still as keen as ever on walking around cities and towns, browsing in bookshops, looking at old shop fronts, finding good cafes and paintings, I see no reason why I shouldn't do the Tour, but just not as a single one-week tour, more a peripatetic tour.

This blindingly obvious solution only occurred to me last night after I'd been to Eastbourne for the day yesterday as I was telling Phoebe about my visit. I hadn't thought of it as the beginning of something, just an away-day on the train. But the more I think about it, the more it makes sense to see Eastbourne as No.1 on my list of Provincial Towns to Visit for Cake and Culture and More Besides. I already have plans to see another place to visit very soon, but the map of Great Britain is suddenly looking very exciting as I consider where else I could go.

[The Terminus, Penzance Railways Station Cornwall (1925) Stanhope Forbes. In the National Railway Museum, York, which has been visited but is still on the list]

There is such a huge wealth of stuff to see and do all over the country that the possibilities are enormous; I always have a number of destinations on my list at any given time - at the moment these are St Ives, Salt's Mill and Wakefield -  but it gets even more interesting once you start making real plans. All I need are some OS maps, a few Shell Guides, the spirit of Pevsner, Piper and Betjeman, an Art Fund pass, some train timetables, Google for the bookshops and cafes, a good pair each of shoes and glasses, and I'm off. I don't mind travelling alone as I've been doing this since I was a teenager, and there are times when I realise it's easier on my own because I don't have to make apologies for Victorian churches/musty second-hand bookshops/incomprehensible art installations/poor catering. But I also don't mind travelling with an uncomplaining companion who will enjoy whatever's on offer, read maps, be enthusiastic about lettering/railway stations/time-warp cafes, and not decide that it's time to leave after thirty minutes.

[Letchworth Station (1912) Spencer Gore. Also in the NR Museum in York]

So I'll be taking my Tour as and when I can, creating a personal map of provincial Britain (I may include some smaller places in/on the edges of London, too), travelling by train if possible. I have no schedule, no deadline, no pressure - just plenty of curiosity and a love of travel, no matter how provincial. 

First stop of the Tour is Eastbourne - post coming soon.

snug

My definition of the saying 'snug as a bug in a rug': me in bed under a duvet and quilt with books and hot-water bottle.

Now I'll be even snugger with John Betjeman et al as I've just knitted a hot-water bottle cover from a couple of skeins of cashmere yarn bought from here quite a few years ago. I never got round to using it, but always thought how good it would feel under my feet (almost as good as in my hands - it's amazing how sensitive feet are). So in an idle-I-can't-sit-and-watch-TV-with-nothing-to-do moment, I cast on 45 stitches on 4.5mm needles and knitted with double thickness yarn, making it up as I went along. I ran out of yarn to make a 100% cashmere back, so used a single strand plus a strand of Rowan wool/cotton yarn. I deliberately made sure the knitting was abnormally thick and tight in order to achieve maximum tactile pleasure and bottle insulation. It really is remarkably soft and warm, and makes being a bug even more enjoyable.

I may be some time abed. 

back in the jug agane

Tom and Alice would quite happily get on a train to go back to university, weighed down by clean washing, toasters and new hats. But when asked if they'd like a lift and a few groceries to restock bare kitchen cupboards, of course they say yes. And we are delighted to oblige, although I have to admit I still feel too young to be the parent of two university students, and do all I can not to fall into the classic routine of asking inappropriate questions/commenting on the state of the bedroom/kitchen/bathroom when we arrive.

Family life changes all the time, but goodness me the departure to university and the fact/possibility of not seeing your offspring for up to eleven weeks is a big one. Tom and Alice rack up just two or three nights a term back at home; even though they are pretty close (same city, different institutions) they were clear that we all had to behave as if they'd gone to universities miles away, which is absoutely understandable. As time goes by, Simon and I are finding that it gets easier with each departure, and that we simply get used to them not being here, although it helps enormously to know that they are both having a really good time. 

At the end of term they return in need of sleep, a full fridge and a washing-machine, fill all available space, strew shoes everywhere, gradually re-adjust to home (sooooo boring), and it's as though they've never been away. Then they are back in the jug agane. The return journey is filled with talk of what they will be doing, what they are looking forward to - and I wouldn't miss that time in the car for the sake of an afternoon at home. We drop them off with rice and pasta and spices and pastes, carefully avoid any mention of domestic arrangements, realise after five minutes that we are no longer needed, and leave. It's a quieter journey back, but it doesn't take long to separate ourselves geographically and emotionally. I'd be more worried if it did, having watched Alice go through a very unhappy first university experience.

It still feels a little odd to have twins somewhere else other than home, but this is what growing up and moving on is all about. It's what you want to happen - you want to get them launched into the world, going off and seeing us and home from afar. We feel a great sense of achievement in getting them this far without any major mishaps (always thankful for this, having seen what can and does go wrong) and we are having to separate ourselves from them, just as much as they are separating from us. It's life, it's the way it goes, it's not a surprise, but when it does happen it makes you realise you have crossed a significant line, and that it's time to look forward. And it's always lovely to see them when we do.

Plus, for a little while, we still have one at home.

ls lowry

A Northern Town (1969-70)

It could be one of many northern towns, but somehow, with his firm, economical lines, LS Lowry makes it every northern town you have ever known or seen. He manages to capture all the salient details - buildings, greyness, dirt, human activity, street life - in a few strokes of the pencil.

Bandstand, Peel Park

I grew up with these chimneys, immensely tall, thin, blackened church spires, red mills, football grounds (before they became stadiums), flat caps and whippets, corner shops and queues, children playing outside, terraced houses, bare trees, bandstands and boating lakes. It all now sounds cliched and very Monty Python 'Professional Northerner', but Lowry's landscapes and people were those of my childhood, and therefore completely realistic to me. Even now when we drive up to Stockport and see the viaduct ahead of us not much has changed, although the smoke and smog have gone (the grey skies remain).

Tree in a Square 1969

I once saw a tiny Lowry drawing in the house of one of my Mum's friends. Before this, I'd only ever seen the paintings and the reproductions, never one of his drawings. I couldn't believe how much character and energy he could compress into a few lines, the fact that this piece of art was bought for very little at all (Lowry and drawing both being pretty unfashionable). He captured the essence of growing up in a northern town, and it was the first time I understood what painting and drawing from life could mean; that was me, my life, my surroundings in those paintings.

The Viaduct, Stockport 1969

And now, at last, thanks to some high-profile pressure the Lowrys will be coming south to London for an exhibition which will no doubt divide opinion and give rise to plenty of north/south commentary. The anti-Lowry arguments are utterly predictable and over-rehearsed (Brian Sewell will no doubt lead the attack), so it will be interesting to see if anything different, useful and insightful can be said in the mainstream media. I'm not holding my breath.

 

mary fedden

[The Lemon Mary Fedden (1976]

I look at Mary Fedden's paintings, particularly her still lifes, with great pleasure. I can't find any great meaning or depth or symbolism in them; they are simply beautiful. This quality is what causes the critics great consternation; only difficult or shocking or ugly or challenging works are generally considered worthy of attention whereas painting - and looking for pleasure - are activities deemed shallow and worthless. I couldn't disagree more, and thank heaven for artists like MF who celebrate colour, ordinary objects, daily life, and in doing so make them compelling subjects for art.

[The Pot of Shells Mary Fedden (1971)]

I've also recently read a big book on Mary Fedden (1915-1912) which is packed with paintings and drawings. The text is good, insightful, and clear but ultimately the author struggles to make a strong argument for greatness precisely because MF refused to make any claims for her art other than to say that painting flowers was one of the most exciting things in the world, and that she simply couldn't not paint. She was a self-effacing, utterly natural painter but this doesn't make for good art history/criticism copy, although it did mean she sold thousands of cards and prints.   

[The Cake Shop Mary Fedden (1971)]

While the book allows for a long, enjoyable wallow in her lovely paintings, it also reveals how brilliant MF was at drawing. I could happily live with several MF paintings on my walls, but a drawing or two might be even better as I know I would examine them closely all the time to see how her hand must have moved over the paper, how she filled in spaces and left other parts quite empty. She has a very spare, very delicate style (you can see how she influenced Hockney when she taught him) which is beautifully fresh and light. Sometimes she coloured in just one object (a lemon, a tulip) almost as a simple, direct colour statement, but it also throws into the relief the simplicity of the combination of dark grey pencil and off-white paper. She makes drawing look like child's play, and that takes huge talent.