yarnstorm

terribly, terribly english

      

Train Landscape (1939) Eric Ravilious

Thinking about the pale, grey, watery light at this time of year usually makes me long for heat and sun and warmth. And yet. I'm beginning to think there's something in the washed-out tones of England when the leaves have fallen and the days are short.

The Westbury Horse (1939) Eric Ravilious

I thoroughly enjoy writing a blog which is read all over the world. The international aspect of blogging about crafts and domestic life cuts through barriers and universalises and enriches our experiences. But there are times when I feel terribly, terribly English, and just this week I've been immersed in Englishness in films and paintings.

 

Wiltshire Landscape Eric Ravilious

I still retain my northern vowels, but I do like a bit of cut-glass poshness in a film. I could listen to the plummy drawl of George Sanders all day and loved his suave English gentleman in Voyage to Italy, a strange film in which GS's Englishness is transported to Italy and comes under threat as everyone gabbles madly in Italian while he smokes and smiles sardonically, before uttering some withering line to perfection.

Then there's the clipped accent of David Niven in the wonderful A Matter of Life and Death (1946). I loved the image of the English airmen in heaven - all frightfully jolly and uncomplaining, and nary a consonant out of place.

Yesterday I went to a screening of They Knew Mr Knight (1946) organised by Persephone and it proved to be the epitome of 1940s English cinema. It is an adaptation of the brilliant Dorothy Whipple novel of the same name. It featured a family with immaculate BBC accents - living in Nottingham, when everyone knows that the earthy, flat-vowelled DH Lawrence heroes comes from there. But their Received Pronunciation was audibly untouched by Northernness even as their lives unravelled. Great film, though.

This year my Englishness is even extending to an appreciation of the landscape. Usually, I stay indoors and distract myself with bright yarns and fabrics. But I've been thinking about some of the English artists I like such as Stanley Spencer, Evelyn Dunbar and Eric Ravilious, and realising that, in fact, I love the organic, weathered, often neutral colours in their paintings.

Baker's Shop from High Street (1938), illustration by Eric Ravilious

It is now that Eric Ravilious' vision comes into its own. His delicate watercolours of the denuded landscapes of Wiltshire and Sussex. The fabulously evocative high-street shops in winter. The bleak war-time naval paintings in which everything is grey and dark.

 

Design for Child's Handkerchief by Eric Ravilious

But Ravilious also painted quite cheery interiors and had an endearing sense of humour in his designs for textiles and pottery.

 

I have this Wedgwood mug which is a recent reproduction of his alphabet design. (Please note that this Englishman chose a quince for the letter Q - clearly a man after my own heart.) The detail I love most, though, is near the top of the inside. It's a yacht for Y which floats on the tea when the mug is filled.

And today I've been to my usual quilting shop to discover that I am known as their 'Wednesday lady'. Yes, we are so English that, even after several years, we are not on first name terms. Which amuses me, in an English way.

You have to take your English pleasures where you can find them at this time of year.

one to knit, one to see, one to read, one to relish

 

The One to Knit is my new Jelly Bean cushion. It was inspired by a painting, a passage in a book and a picture in a magazine and will be my English Drawing Room cushion in gold with purples (hyacinth, lilac, plum) - a colour combination I adore.

The One to See is the David Hockney exhibition at The National Portrait Gallery.

   

I had a personal art-fest on Monday and visited the Velazquez and Cezanne exhibitions at The National Gallery, had a cup of tea in the posh new cafe there, and then went round the corner to see the Hockney portraits. I've been a little ambivalent about Hockney for years (I've seen plenty of his work at Salt's Mill - a wonderful place, worth visiting if ever you are in West Yorkshire) and went prepared to love, hate or be indifferent.

I was bowled over. 150 portraits in all kinds of media from the sparse, coloured pencil drawings, to highly coloured oils laden with cobalt blue and emerald green, from photo-collages to ultra-fast watercolours. As Bill Bryson wrote, 'that boy can draw'. I also discovered that he paints flowers quite beautifully.

   

Alliums David Hockney

I read it several weeks ago, but I still keep thinking about The Crafter's Companion, brainchild of Anna Torborg. There is plenty to praise in this One to Read: photos, patterns, projects. But what I enjoyed most was reading how all the contributors got started, where their inspiration comes from, where they work and what they enjoy about making things. They are a talented bunch with some great, individual stories and they give the book real resonance. Anyone who is interested in the hand-made and hand-making should read these personal explanations of what makes crafters tick.

And finally, One to Relish. I scan the birth announcements in The Times every day (and in The Daily Telegraph should I happen to find a copy abandoned somewhere - I know, I'm a bag-lady at heart), but there haven't been that many names worth relishing recently. But this week a Cosima Celery made her grand entrance. Wonderful.

more than a colour-fix

The Howard Hodgkin retrospective at Tate Britain isn't a busy exhibition, which is excellent because viewers and paintings alike require space. I went one morning as the gallery opened and managed to go round the virtually empty rooms twice. First to look, then to understand.

I have loved HH's work for years. Once I made the journey from Brussels to London for the day just to see his 1996 exhibition at the Hayward Gallery. All the colour, swirls, lines, dots, brush strokes and splodges entrance me. He is the only abstract artist I can say I begin to understand. I can see the optical effects of Bridget Riley and swoon at Mark Rothko's canvases, but I could never claim to understand them.

But HH's work is so emotive, primal and outrageous that I can attempt discern the feelings and memories he is trying to evoke. Not all the time, mind, because some of the paintings at the Tate come across as facile and pretentious (and that's not even mentioning the novelistic titles which I can't always read with a straight face). But when faced with a great HH, you just know it's great.

'Alpine Snow' 1997

Like the one above which is my favourite 'new' painting, and the one below which I think is one of his masterpieces.

'Rain' 1984-89

I have read a few books and many articles on HH, but there is little in the books shown here (and on my sidebar) to elucidate and explain his true artistic impulse. They tend to concentrate in overblown, purple prose ('visceral' is an over-used word) on the enigmatic HH himself, and not on his passionate paintings.

By sheer coincidence, I was reading A Wreath of Roses (1949) by Elizabeth Taylor as I travelled into London. In this novel, she explores the character of a painter, and manages to articulate better than any art critic the fundamental nature of a true artist. Her writing acted as a perfect medium through which to look at the HH paintings, for even though Elizabeth Taylor writes about a figurative artist, this character suddenly embraces abstract art at the end of her life and it all makes sense, both in the novel and in the exhibition.

When it comes to understanding artists, the best book I have ever read on the subject is The Unknown Matisse (1998) by Hilary Spurling. Unlike the spare, lucid prose of ET, this is a massive, fact-filled biography, but it contains a masterly portrait of the artist at work and reading it a few years ago opened up my understanding of all art and artists.

But I know there's so much more yet to apprehend that I'll have to go back the HH exhibition, even if it's only for an almighty colour-fix.

jolly hollyhocks

It was too hot to knit or to quilt this weekend. I would have expired with anything lighter than a little linen in my hands. So I ironed one of my vintage transfers onto fabric (holding my breath and going even redder in the face with the tension of trying to position it correctly). It's a large picture and I've decided to use thick strands of DMC embroidery thread to gain quick and even coverage, and I'm trying to be a little more relaxed about my stitches this time as I want a speedier, more homespun result.

I love hollyhocks and the way they are incorporated into so many 1930s hand embroideries, so I started with the huge hollyhock (or 'olly 'ock as one of my friends once called them - quite seriously) and had a great time on Saturday totally ignoring the World Cup and grappling with threads and colour.

This year we have quite a few self-seeded (sown?) hollyhocks after years of trying to establish them. I love their height, their toughness, their deeply veined leaved, their tight buds and, above all, the wonderful flowers in all shades of pink, peach, yellow and ruby. The hollyhocks have a protection zone around them (ie I shout at anyone who goes near them) as last year Simon pulled a few up thinking they were weeds. Love the man, not so about sure his flower recognition skills.

Hollyhocks are stately and sculptural and stand up to horrible winds and drought. I'm sure that's why they are the ultimate cottage garden flower. They often frame a crinoline lady, their height and rigidity setting off her billowing skirts.

They allow embroiderers to experiment with stitches and colours. The hollyhocks below are some of my favourites; I love the density of the colours and the beautifully even buttonhole stitches.

While I was looking for jolly hollyhock colour ideas I found some great paintings. Hollyhocks are wonderful on their own - these doubles are incredible - 

   

George Baxter (1804-67) 'Hollyhocks'

and in mixed displays.

 

Albert Williams 'Garden Flowers in September'

Fantin-Latour (one of the most accomplished flower painters, I reckon) captures the beauty of the flowers,

 

'Flower Study' 1876 Henri Fantin-Latour

while Albert Williams used their shape and straightness as a counterpoint to the floppy roses and twining morning glories.

Albert Williams 'Floral Rapture'

and I would give wall-space to this beauty:

'Hollyhocks' 1889 Henri Fantin-Latour

I've finished my first hollyhock and am now moving onto my first crinoline lady (in the same piece). It's great to stitch what's out in the garden, and feel I realy ought to dress up in my best crinoline and waft about to get into the mood for stitching the lady. But really, it's just too hot for that today.

a little light art theft

'Cyclamen and Primula' c 1922-3

Sometimes when I visit an exhibition or gallery, I imagine which paintings I would like to take home. There are plenty of works of art I love and admire, but couldn't have on my own walls. The Pre-Raphaelites would be too intense, the Impressionists too lush, and Stanley Spencer too disturbing.

If I had to pick an artist whose work I would happily steal, it would be a choice between Howard Hodgkin, Eric Ravilious and Winifred Nicholson. All English, all twentieth century, all colourists, all with a very specific individual style.

But if push came to shove, I would admit to coveting a Winifred Nicholson. In fact, I was quite overwhelmed by a desire to possess one of her paintings when I went to a WN exhibition at Kettle's Yard in Cambridge in 2001.

 

'Cineraria and Cyclamen' 1927

If I had to choose one painting to take to my desert island, I'd find it incredibly difficult. I love all her flower paintings for they are simple, luminescent, cool and yet domestic. Her use of colour is extraordinary and her canvases glow and radiate, even though she employs masses of grey and white. She captures the physical properties of light and colour in a bold yet delicate manner and has the ability to place this colour perfectly.

'The Red Flower Pot' 1934

Winifred Nicholson (1893-1981) is also really interesting not only because she was once married to Ben Nicholson who left her for Barbara Hepworth (who promptly had triplets), but also because she developed a complex theory of colour. I love looking at the table of colours she devised; no colours, all words. So the blue column starts with shadow, mist, sea grey, air force blue, fell blue, turquoise and azure, and runs on with baby ribbon blue, sky, forget-me-not, larkspur, lapis-lazuli, horizon and finally zenith. Pure poetry of colour.

   

'The Cumberland Hills' 1948

I could happily have a WN work in every room of the house and never tire of them. But I think I missed my chance of pulling off a spectacular heist in 2001 as WN's paintings are rarely exhibited together. The Tate has a couple of beauties, but I'd guess the security is pretty tight there. Although there's a great chance to test it with the Howard Hodgkin retrospective opening there in June...

Which painting would you steal?

the rain it cometh every day

 

'The Rain it Cometh Every Day' (1906) by Leonard Taylor Campbell

I love this painting. It makes me feel good about the rain. If we didn't have so much of it, I wouldn't be able to empathise with these two beautiful and bored women whose books and knitting have lost their allure. It gives a point to rain, suggests that it's there to alter our mood and to suspend us in a long, grey moment. I love the feeling of lassitude, the heavy sky, the green English garden and the abandoned knitting.

But I like it more in theory and in paintings than in reality. I need more of this to counteract the stagnation and droopiness which comes with so much spring rain.