Dr. Peter Lowe

Professional bookworm, with work appearing in The New York Review of Books, The Modernist, and Russian Art & Culture; occasional blogger for Pushkin House; supporter of blue and white sports teams; lecturer in 20th-century literature

Standing up for Rome

Before the first lines of Julius Caesar have been delivered in the production currently running at London’s Bridge Theatre, you know that the play has been transposed to a very contemporary setting. The Roman feast of Lupercal here becomes a political rally, as Caesar baseball caps and t-shirts are offered for sale while a band storms through ‘Seven Nation Army’ and the populace (in this case comprised of audience members with ‘mob’ tickets) sing along. When the tribunes Flavius and Marullus silence the band and tell the crowd to go home the mood of discontent is a palpable warning of things to come. A crowd inclined to celebrate its hero’s return can swiftly become a lynch mob seeking vengeance for his assassination.

With the rest of the audience seated in the round, looking down on the Roman mob, this production reminds you how volatile that crowd can be. It parts like a sea to allow characters to pass through and take the central stage, closing back in to better see and hear what is being said. In the crucial scene where Brutus gives the assembled people his reasons for Caesar’s death only to give the microphone (literally, in this case) to Mark Antony for the funeral oration, the shift in sympathy and support is seen and heard. As his speech progresses, David Morrissey’s Antony dispenses with the PA system of the Roman forum, speaking plainly and emotionally of his friend’s virtues while skewering the reputations of the ‘honourable men’ who killed him. By the time he produces Caesar’s will and tells the crowd that he “must not read it” for fear that knowing the dead Caesar’s love for them would make the ordinary Roman people ‘mad’ their ‘ears’ are not lent to him, as his famous line asks, but are wholly his, for whatever end he wishes to use them and their owners.

Julius Caesar has always been a play about the exercise of power, but in this production’s post-truth age of ‘alternative facts’ its relevance seems undoubted. At the Bridge, modernisation opens up new areas of emphasis. The baseball caps, “Do This!” t-shirts, and badges sported by the supporters of David Calder’s Caesar are on sale in the theatre lobby, ready to be worn on the streets outside. Ben Whishaw’s bookish Brutus ponders the case for assassination sitting at a desk piled high with volumes on more modern dictators. We never see Caesar with a phone (although other aspects of his wardrobe may look familiar) but it’s hard not to think that in this Rome ‘social media’ means more than simply meeting the crowds in the forum. At times these modern transpositions are a little strained. When Caesar meets his bloody end it comes not with daggers but with handguns: undoubtedly a modern death but lacking, perhaps, the terrible physical closeness of the killing that the conspirators turn into a sign of their courage and that Antony convinces the crowd is the measure of their betrayal.

Running for two hours without an interval, this production gives the play the momentum of a thriller, but also makes clear how swiftly in Shakespeare’s version of the events the assassination paves the way for the civil war that follows. The nature of Shakespeare’s history plays is often their ability to compress time for dramatic advantage, but in removing the interval the audience sees even more clearly that the inevitable consequence of Antony’s speech at Caesar’s funeral is the ‘flight’ of the conspirators from Rome, the establishment of rival armies, and the decisive showdown of the war that ends at Philippi.

Whereas the opening scenes of the play use the ‘mob’ as the citizens of Rome, the later ones require them to stand uneasily around in a series of bunkers and battlefields. Whishaw’s Brutus and Michelle Fairley’s Cassius argue while explosions are heard outside their command post. Plaster falls from the ceiling with each shell that goes off as wounded soldiers are hastily triaged around them. It is a long way from the study/lounge in which Brutus met the conspirators and joined them, and a measure of how ill-adapted the ‘honourable men’ are for the reality that their actions have induced.

In contrast, Antony and Octavius – their rivalry contained for the time being as the pretence of a Triumvirate with the inconsequential Lepidus obscures the real scope of their ambition – appear at the head of a well-drilled, well-equipped army. The ending is not in doubt and the people who gathered to cheer Caesar and stayed to mourn him and swear vengeance on his killers now stand around to survey a tableau of dead bodies. As Antony stands and delivers his final lines on Brutus, able to distinguish between Brutus’ misled patriotism and the ambition of all those around him now that his opponent is safely dead, Kit Young’s Octavius climbs on to plinth and salutes the crowd below. Balloons fall from the ceiling as the play ends in the transition from a threatened (if flawed) democracy to the incipient autocracy that Caesar’s death was supposed to prevent and ended up accelerating. Make Rome Great Again.

Julius Caesar runs at the Bridge Theatre, London, until 15th April. For more information see: https://bridgetheatre.co.uk/whats-on/julius-caesar/

A Year of Reading

Once again, newspapers, websites, and booksellers are showcasing their ‘Books of the Year’ and looking back on the past 12 months and some of the best work to have appeared in them. I don’t always keep quite the same pace with contemporary publications – often because I’m still reading my way through the previous year’s list and/or tackling books written a century or more ago – but, for what it’s worth, here’s my 2017 list of the books that have said the most to me this year.

In fiction, Ali Smith’s Winter continued the seasonal quartet begun with 2016’s Autumn and showed Smith once again to be one of the keenest and most thought-provoking commentators on our modern lives. Picking her way through the material, social, and emotional landscape of Brexit Britain, she has once again woven a tale as “rich and strange” as anything in Shakespeare and yet at the same perfectly rooted in the trials of everyday life. The thought that there are two more seasons still to come is comfort indeed.

Alan Hollinghurst’s The Sparsholt Affair was a masterly tour of the artistic and emotional changes of the past century, and proof that in his analysis of the subtleties of social life Hollinghurst is perhaps the Henry James of our time, without the nearly-impenetrable prose. Amanda Craig’s The Lie of the Land was another superb survey of British life, revisiting the ‘state of the nation’ novels of the late-Victorian period and infusing the genre with Brexit-era ambiguity.

In a year when ‘reality’ often seemed stranger than fiction it was reassuring to have astute chroniclers and commentators on events that often tested the limits of what was credible. Luke Harding’s Collusion: How Russia Helped Trump win the White House summarised and contextualised the events still unfolding and which will surely continue to dominate 2018’s headlines. Masha Gessen’s The Future is History: How Totalitarianism Reclaimed Russia reminded us that there is far more to ponder in terms of Russian policy than the saga of Trump’s election, and that what happens inside Russia itself as Putin stands for another 6-year term as president may yet be the largest global concern of all.

2017 was, of course, the centenary of the Russian Revolution(s) and amidst a host of art exhibitions and film screenings there were excellent new additions to the canon of writing on those events and their aftermath. Yuri Slezkine’s The House of Government was as monumental as the Moscow apartment complex that provided it with its setting and its cast of characters, all rising and falling within the vortex of 20th century Soviet power. As ambitious as a Tolstoyan novel, and as disturbing as a thriller, it charted the life and death of a ruling class and a nation through an era that still reverberates in the present. In the same vein, the second volume of Stephen Kotkin’s immense biography of Josef Stalin (Waiting for Hitler 1929-1941) showed the man at the heart of Russian’s century at his most murderous and enigmatic, dictatorial in power even as he made himself the living embodiment of the Revolution in whose name millions were urged to sacrifice their lives or had those lives taken from them anyway.

My book of the year, however, is a Russian text of a different kind. Recognised by a Nobel Prize for Literature in 2015, the historical works of Svetlana Alexievich have only recently become available for English readers and constitute perhaps the most important recent additions to the canon of Russian writing. Her poly-vocal histories weave together the voices of witnesses and survivors, often captured after years of silence (self-imposed or state-enforced) and setting down on the record their own roles in the seismic events of their time. Whether discussing nuclear catastrophe (Chernobyl Prayer), war in Afghanistan (Boys in Zinc) or the freefall of post-Soviet society (Second-Hand Time) the reader in her works is surrounded by a multitude of thoughts, emotions, and griefs, each carefully woven into a text that reads like the collective memory of a community or a nation.

My book of the year is the English publication this year of The Unwomanly Face of War (Penguin Classics) – a book originally written in the 1980s and comprising the testimonies of a few of those millions of Soviet women who served in the armed forces between 1941 and 1945. In its pages the reader meets a generation of women whose heroism was crucial to the ‘Great Patriotic War’ that defined 20th century Soviet life (and is still extensively invoked by Putin’s regime today as a rallying point for national loyalty and sentiment) but whose stories were officially erased from the national narrative of masculine triumph. Only after decades of silence did anyone ask them to speak, and when Alexievich transcribes their words their stories assume a cathartic nature. Collating the details often lost in the broad sweep of history, the book gives us an experience of war (and peace) by turns surreal and disturbing but illuminated by moments of joy and relief as welcome as they are unexpected. That many of the voices Alexievich recorded are now silent makes her work all the more vital and the greater cause for our gratitude and recognition. In a year when we have often been deafened by what the poet Osip Mandelstam (writing amidst the Purges of Stalin’s rule) called ‘the noise of time’ The Unwomanly Face of War – like all of Alexievich’s works – demands our attention and affirms our faith in the human ability to endure all things.

The Suppliant Women of Contemporary London

At the start of the Young Vic’s current production of Aeschylus’ The Suppliant Women (in association with the Actors Touring Company and the Royal Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh) the Chorus stands and affirms its readiness to perform the play while the names of financial supporters are read. This, as far as we know, was common practice in Athens, when such works first went before a viewing public in the 5th century BCE. Those things done, a libation is poured for Dionysus – god of wine and theatre – and the play begins.

The revival of these ritual steps reminds us both of how the Greeks saw theatre in a societal and religious sense and also of how those ideas are still carried into the world of today. The financial backers are not thanked individually this time: all those who have purchased tickets are too numerous to name along with the funding bodies whose institutional support echoes the benevolence of the wealthy Athenians. The Chorus, too, made up of women from the local area, takes on the parts that would have been played by young Athenian males, working alongside professional actors to realise the play. The libation is poured from a bottle of wine rather than a ceremonial bowl, but as the red liquid stains the front of the stage it is still possible to feel, amidst the incense and the authentic music provided by Callum Armstrong and Ben Burton, that something of the ancient original persists on a November afternoon in 2017.

Of all the ancient Greek plays, though, this revival feels the most urgent and vital. Its plot, the tale of fifty women fleeing forced marriage in Egypt and seeking asylum in Greece, brings into focus issues that preoccupied the ancient world every bit as much as that of today. What are the obligations of the country to which refugees flee? What do we mean when we talk of ‘safety’, ‘sanctuary’, ‘tolerance’ and ‘understanding’? How far will we be asked to go on the behalf of those who are strangers to us until they arrive on our doorstep? The play is staged in contemporary dress, so the women could well have fled their homes in the clothes they are wearing, while King Pelasgos in his business suit could just as easily be the minister delegated the task of resolving their asylum claim. It all looks and sounds ritualised, but with a real trace of the bureaucratic and the political.

In the tense exchanges of the opening hour of the play pleas are submitted, promises made, arguments offered and, finally, a decision reached. The women will be offered the protection of Argos: a course of action proposed by the King but crucially approved by the populace. When the Egyptians arrive and try to claim what they consider ‘theirs’ the Greeks stand firm. When the issue was still in the balance Pelasgos had pondered that “to bar you brings horror, but welcome brings war.” The decision to help, even at the risk of incurring consequences, is arguably the play’s great lesson: from this stems much of the Greek awareness of why they were to be considered superior to other nations. A sense of justice prevails, a belief that there is a ‘right’ course of action and a duty to pursue it. The play creates tension while the women’s fate is in the balance, but the resolution of that anxiety is the affirmation of the Greek world-view.

At a time when the beaches of Greece are frequently filled with incoming boats from North Africa and the Eastern Mediterranean this play feels incredibly timely. At a time when issues of gender discrimination and sexual abuse are so widespread the women’s pleas for equality and understanding carry a powerful charge. In this production the Chorus is been made up of women from the local community who have rehearsed their parts in the evenings and weekends of the past two months. Alongside the other actors, their collective speech and movement foregrounds the suppliant women’s plight: by turns fearful and optimistic, putting their lives in the hands of strangers but knowing that doing so represents their best hope. The overall effect is remarkable, and a testament to the work of everyone involved. For the play’s original Athenian audience this work, along with other (now sadly lost) parts of the tetralogy from which it alone has survived, was a ritual affirmation of the values that made them who they were. For London in this age of Brexit, fake news, and immigration bans it challenges us to ask whether what the Chorus call “this thing called democracy” matters as much to us as it did two and a half millennia ago.

The Suppliant Women is at the Young Vic Theatre, London, until 25th November. For details see: https://www.youngvic.org/whats-on/the-suppliant-women

The Future of Yesterday

It may be far from St Petersburg, but in this centenary year of the Russian Revolution London’s museums and galleries have offered some excellent exhibitions. From the visual arts at the Royal Academy to the documentary material at the British Library and, perhaps most intriguingly, the Design Museum’s fascinating display of the Soviet plans for Moscow that were conceived in high idealism and destined to remain unfulfilled as the Communist Party’s focus shifted to the realities of power, both in its maintenance and its insecurities.

Tate Modern has been saving its own Revolutionary exhibition for later, preparing as it now is to stage what will surely be a superb display of propaganda posters in November. Interwoven with that, though, it now offers a retrospective of the work of Russian conceptual and installation artists Ilya and Emilia Kabakov that powerfully and beautifully captures the traces of where the idealism of 1917 may have gone when the reality of Soviet society ossified in its place.

Rejecting the official doctrines for the visual arts, Ilya Kabakov (his collaboration with Emilia begins in the late-1980s) produced most of his early works in the knowledge that they were not for public display. In several of these pieces it seems, oddly then, as though we are actually looking at standard works of Socialist Realism. Large-scale paintings show a woman being given back her Party card after an internal inquiry, a construction site, or a series of stereotypical images ostensibly found in storage after their fictional Socialist Realist creator fell from favour. Only on closer inspection do the cracks in this surface reality become visible, revealing other realities beneath – a building site where none of the projects is remotely on schedule, or a painting adorned with sweet wrappers in a failed attempt to assert its ‘brightness’ to the required Socialist standard.

The slippage between real and ideal continues throughout the exhibition. In of the larger rooms the installation work ‘Not Everyone will be Taken into the Future’ draws upon Kabakov’s childhood experience of Soviet Youth camps and the fear of being left behind by progress but merges this with the artistic legacy of the Suprematist Kasimir Malevich to capture a sense of a potential aesthetic, political, and social future always out of reach. One wall of the room is taken up by a mock-up of a carriage from the Moscow Metro, heading (or so it seems) into the wall while the work’s title runs like a destination on its LED screen. Discarded canvases litter the tracks over which the train has just run, indicating that many will be discarded en route to Utopia if, indeed, Utopia itself exists.

It more recent works, both Kabakovs have returned to oil painting, although the ‘Two Times’ and ‘Vertical Painting’ series both have the illusion of collage: scraps of images that could have been torn from the Socialist Realist canon now pasted over and alongside other similar scenes or, in a deliberate attempt to defamiliarise what we see, over 17th century artworks. After the USSR’s collapse, they force us to ask, how are we to regard such images? The carefully staged happiness continues to look false, but if more recent history has produced little that is better a strange sense of nostalgia remains. It was a lie, perhaps, but the smiles on the faces remain, even in fragmented form.

Nostalgia – that longing both for time and place – permeates the exhibition, but challenges the viewer to think that the Soviet past may itself be the object of those longing backward glances. At the centre of the display space is Ilya’s 1990 work ‘Labyrinth (My Mother’s Album)’ in which we walk along dimly-lit corridors intended to evoke a communal housing apartment, reading framed sections of his mother’s life-story accompanied by faded photographs and the faint but always audible sound of Ilya’s recorded voice singing songs remembered from childhood. As the segments of a life accumulate, we find hardships balanced with moments of pride: reminders of purpose and identity and an almost timeless Russian fatalism that simultaneously recognises the shortcomings of its Soviet life but questions whether alternatives were ever really possible in any case.

The dream of the Revolution, the exhibition suggests, was only ever going to be that: a yearning for something ‘other’ now exposed as a fake by an age trapped in its own matrix of manufactured truth. The installation that provides the image for the Tate’s poster, ‘The Man who Flew into Space from his Apartment’ (1985) captures this perfectly. Primed for what we see by a range of supporting ‘documents’ that record the testimonies of his neighbours in a communal apartment block, we peer through the doorway of a boarded-up room and see, amidst the debris, a large elastic spring suspended beneath a hole in the ceiling. From this spot, we are told, the room’s inhabitant launched himself skywards in the hope of being taken up in one of the ‘energy streams’ that circle the Earth. Too poor to furnish his room more fully, we learn that he used old Soviet posters in lieu of wallpaper, and they remain covering the walls as though representative both of the idealism that this amateur Gagarin brought to his mission and the prosaic reality from which he made so spectacular an escape. No indication is given as to whether this space flight was successful: an empty pair of shoes denote where the man once stood, but our scepticism as to his ability to transcend his surroundings as hoped is itself challenged by his absence and the large hole blown in the roof by his exit. Did he succeed after all? Not everyone, we are reminded by the exhibition’s title, was going to be allowed into the glorious future the Revolution promised. As we stand ready to dismiss its failures, Kabakov suggests that for all of our superiority we may, perhaps, be the ones left behind after all.

Ilya and Emila Kabakov, ‘Not Everyone will be Taken into the Future’ is at Tate Modern, London, until 28th January 2018. For more details see http://www.tate.org.uk/whats-on/tate-modern/exhibition/ilya-and-emilia-kabakov

Past and Present – Anselm Kiefer at the Hermitage

As the centenary of the October Revolution draws closer, Saint Petersburg is a city that invites the visitor to think about how events in the past carry forward into the present and shape the future. Visiting the Hermitage museum last week I couldn’t help but recall the ‘footage’ of the Winter Palace being stormed in Sergei Eisenstein’s 1927 film October – in which a crowd of ‘extras’ made up, in some cases, of actual revolutionaries from a decade earlier, ‘re-enacted’ the process of breaking into the home of the Provisional Government and seizing it for the Bolshevik cause. The knowledge that more damage was done to the Palace in this 10th anniversary celebration than in the actual event reminds us that ‘history’ is always in the process of being edited in line with the requirements of the present. For the record, we managed to avoid the queues snaking around Palace Square by making use of a strangely under-employed automated ticket machine and entering by the side door.

Navigating this immense museum is a challenge, not least because in many rooms it’s not clear whether your focus should be the Old Masters on the walls or the rooms themselves. The Hermitage is not a ‘neutral’ gallery space, but a gallery inside a palace, and your attention is always demanded by something in the decor. This task made more challenging as the never-ending stream of guided tour groups floods into its rooms, positioning anywhere up to fifty people in front of a single painting, straining to get a good angle for the selfie that they all aspire to get in front of a 60cm high Leonardo or something similar.

At the top of the grand staircase – used so effectively in October – there is a temporary exhibition in the Nicholas Hall of Anselm Kiefer’s monumental paintings. The first solo show that Kiefer has been given in Russia, ‘For Velimir Khlebnikov: Fates of Nations’ allows his immense canvases to fill the Hermitage’s dauntingly large rooms. From Rembrandts and Van Dycks the visitor is taken into Keifer’s mysterious landscapes, dark and muddy, framed by reeds or trees, often receding towards an unstable vanishing point. With the paint applied so thickly that it stands out from the canvas (if you can, stand as close to side-on to a Keifer painting and you’ll know what I mean here) they have a sculpted quality, as though the layers of paint were themselves the layers of history through which the painter tries to probe. In these works, as in many that featured in his recent show at London’s Royal Academy of Arts, Keifer makes use of a model boat or submarine, rusted and cut in half so as to be affixed to the canvas, navigating its uncertain world.

The presence of History in Kiefer’s work has long been a critical talking point, and for a German artist born in 1945 the past is often inescapable. In these works, though, the invocation in the titles of many paintings of Khlebnikov, a leading figure in Russia’s early-20th century avant-garde, draws the viewer back to the Saint Petersburg setting, and the intersection between art and history, between the ideals of the poet and the realities of how era-defining changes occur on the streets. Khlebnikov saw the turmoil around him as part of a still-larger process of historical flux, with states rising and falling at each other’s expense but without a final resolution. Like many of the artists and writers who saw the early Soviet period he died (in 1922, aged 36) before the outcome of its upheaval was fully clear. In a new century, Kiefer’s work reminds us that the past casts a long shadow, and it is as hard for us to escape its influence as it is for the model boats in his works to free themselves from the swathes of paint around them. In 2017 his work can, perhaps, have no better home than the top of the staircase that revolutionaries ‘stormed’ a century ago and have been re-imagining ever since.

‘Anselm Kiefer – For Velimir Khlebnikov: Fates of Nations’ is at the Hermitage Museum, Saint Petersburg, until 3rd September 2017. For more information see:

https://hermitagemuseum.org/wps/portal/hermitage/what-s-on/temp_exh/2017/kiefer/?lng=en

Meeting Mr Eliot

In recent years T. S. Eliot enthusiasts have been recipients of a host of materials that many, perhaps, doubted they would ever get to see. Having made do for years with a solitary edition of his letters (published in 1988) that ended with the appearance of The Waste Land in 1922, and with a body of poetry and prose reprinted largely in the form that Eliot himself approved it in the early 1960s, the reader and student of arguably the poet of the Twentieth Century now finds themselves with a complete annotated 2-volume set of his poetry, the first volume of Robert Crawford’s biography, a still-unfolding multi-volume Complete Prose and, incredibly, an edition of his Letters that sets new standards for its scope and completeness. Now seven volumes in, each of which comes in at close on a thousand pages, we are up to 1934-35. Professor John Haffenden (who has overseen the project since Volume 3) deserves praise and thanks from all Eliot readers for taking on so complex a job and discharging his duties with such editorial care.

On the cover of the new volume Eliot is captured in a still from 16mm home movie footage outside Canterbury Cathedral, squinting a little, perhaps, in the June sunlight as his play Murder in the Cathedral is prepared for its initial performances in the Chapter House. In terms of Eliot’s writing this volume is dominated by his forays into drama: the verse-pageant The Rock, performed to raise funds for church-building in London and, emerging out of that, a play about Thomas Becket that goes by the title of ‘The Archbishop Murder Case’ or ‘Fear in the Way’ until it finally acquires that by which it is known today. There is little in the way of poetry, although the volume ends, tantalisingly, with a letter from New Year’s Eve 1935 to Donald Brace in which Eliot refers to a poem he hopes to finish ‘within the next fortnight’ – a work which will become ‘Burnt Norton’ and, in time, the first of the great Four Quartets sequence. Although he expresses his doubts as to the subject, Eliot’s poetry isn’t finished after all.

The fact that each new volume of Eliot’s correspondence covers only two years of his life is a reflection, in part, of how much business that life contained. Editorial duties at Faber and Faber and on the Criterion take up time and space, although the letters produced by such duties allow us to see Eliot promoting and encouraging the work of Louis MacNeice, Stephen Spender, W. H. Auden, Marianne Moore and others, along with an ongoing correspondence with Ezra Pound, conducted in a idiolect known to both parties but designed to frustrate the reader almost as much as a reading of Pound’s Cantos would do.

Two external factors, however, make this volume significant. The first is in Eliot’s personal life, and his decision – on returning from his 1932-3 teaching year at Harvard – to formally separate from his wife Vivienne. Eliot biographers have wrestled with this for years, trying to see the separation as one not only rooted in Eliot’s despair at his marriage but also a spiritual conviction that only so drastic an action could save both parties. Vivienne’s unstable mental state, with its bouts of psychosomatic ill-health undoubtedly placed an enormous strain on the couple, especially when Eliot’s own fragile mental equilibrium is considered as well, but the asceticism of his ‘renunciation’ puts his still relatively new Christian faith to the test and is arguably something that he was never wholly able to explain to himself. When in ‘Little Gidding’ (1942) the speaker is warned of “the things ill done and done to others’ harm / Which once you took for exercise of virtue” it’s hard not to see the roots of that crisis in the behaviour of a man who lodges with a priest so as to avoid returning to his marital home and conducts all dealings with his wife through a solicitor as he files writs to have his personal effects and books recovered. When Vivienne attempts to track her errant husband down to the Faber offices in Russell Square Eliot’s secretaries keep her occupied with excuses while Tom exits by a rear door to avoid seeing her. Unstable as she may have been, Vivienne could hardly have been treated thus and not suffered even greater anguish. Towards the end of the volume we learn that she has attended a public lecture given by her husband on 18th November 1935 and ‘met’ him afterwards – an event that Eliot scholars will recall as the occasion when Tom is said to have said “how do you do?” to his wife, signed the books she was holding and with a final comment about being unable to talk with her at that moment made his exit, never to see her again.

This volume of letters is strengthened considerably by the inclusion of letters written by Vivienne at this time, giving the reader a sense of how Eliot’s wife was struggling to come to terms with his departure and of the immense mental strain that she was herself under as her husband embarked upon the path to what the Eliot biographer Lyndall Gordon called his ‘new life’. Vivienne writes repeatedly to remind Tom that the door to his ‘home’ remains open and unlocked, and that she considers herself still ‘Mrs Eliot’, a woman beset by legal worries and visits from bailiffs employed to recover Eliot’s possessions from their flat. In some letters she expresses her concern that Eliot may have been kidnapped, or to be held in some durance that prevents his return. Eliot scholars have long rationalised the separation in terms of the crisis between Tom’s spirituality and Vivienne’s mental illness, but having Vivienne’s voice included reminds us of the human cost on both sides of this unhappy equation. It is greatly to the credit of the editors that ‘the wife’ should get her voice heard here, and although it doesn’t lessen the prevailing sense of tragedy in the Eliot’s marriage it certainly lays to rest the simplistic idea of Vivienne’s mental collapse as entirely unrelated to her husband’s path of spiritual austerity.

We also know that Vivienne attended that November 1935 lecture in her British Union of Fascists uniform and that, sadly, is the other growing concern that this volume contains. Letters to Ezra Pound warn against ‘involving’ himself with “that Mosley”, whose Blackshirts were themselves to appear in The Rock amongst the worldly critics over whom the Church prevails. The publication of Pound’s Jefferson / Mussolini further raises issues, as the Italian-based poet travels further along the road that would ultimately lead to the Pisan Cantos, a prison cell, and a charge of treason. In this volume then we have the close friend flirting with Fascist ideology and the lonely, isolated wife who finds in political extremism the sense of belonging she lost when her husband walked out on her. One feels on finishing this collection that the Eliot squinting into the June sunlight on the book’s cover is as conscious of the darkness as he is of the light, both in the world around him and in the lives of those whose lives intersect with his own.

The Letters of T. S. Eliot Volume 7: 1934-1935 (ed. John Haffenden) is published by Faber and Faber, priced £50.

Goodbye to All That?

A few years ago I wrote an academic book on the idea of ‘Englishness’ in the 1930s and 1940s. Taking the title of J. B. Priestley’s wonderful 1934 work English Journey as my starting point, I added an ‘s’ to highlight the fact that I was concerned with the plurality of journeys made in and around England in the inter-war years, and the ways in which this heightened sense of national self-awareness created a store of patriotism that was usefully tapped in the struggle of World War Two. English Journeys was the result.

Researching and writing the book was an immensely enjoyable experience, bringing me into contact with a host of travel guides from the period, and giving me an opportunity to read in depth the work of authors – Betjeman, Priestley, Orwell – that had long been favourites. It was also a fascinating reminder that while the British public were being urged to jump into their cars and motor off in search of unspoilt village idylls they were also being urged to support campaigns for preservation and reform. As Priestley suggested, there were multiple ‘Englands’ to visit at this time: historic and ‘quaint’; (post)industrial and impoverished; ‘modern’ and soulless. Not every journey was a happy one, and the fault-lines of the 1930s opened wide in many travelogues. For every voice that hymned the ‘unchanging’ elements of British life in this period there was another calling for constructive change. This gave my book its overarching theme: that the wartime slogan ‘Your Britain: Fight For It Now’ was not merely a call to preserve the nation’s unspoilt beauty, but also a rallying cry that would run through to the Labour government’s election in 1945 and underpin the welfare state that was set up to address the poverty, disease, and ignorance that had blighted much of the pre-War country.

I need very little encouragement to collect books, and this project was an excellent opportunity to fill the shelves with all manner of 1930s travel literature, from the ‘King’s England’ series of Arthur Mee to the ‘English Heritage’ and ‘The Face of Britain’ books produced by the firm of B. T. Batsford. These are particularly collectible, on account of their wonderfully Art Deco-style dust jackets, with artwork supplied by Brian Cook. Although the content was not always so reassuring, these books conveyed the sense of England (which is, in much of this literature, a synecdoche for ‘Britain’ – problematic as that may often be) as an unchanging entity of country villages, old churches, castles, and pubs with thatched roofs. Second-hand bookshops were scoured at length as my collection of these grew – justified (in as much as one ever needs to ‘justify’ buying books) by their relevance to the work in progress.

Last week I sorted through this collection carefully, took out the volumes that I wished to keep and sold the rest on at a local antiquarian bookseller. I did this because I needed the shelf space (literally) but also because I’ve come to feel that the nostalgia that I explored in my research is part of the problem of where the UK has gone wrong, a naive sense of an idyllic past which resulted in the awful own-goal of last June’s ‘Brexit’ vote. I’m not blaming Batsford’s publications for the rise of UKIP, but at the same time it seems clear that so much of the great future that post-Brexit Britain is promised by advocates of life outside the EU is not really a future at all but a return to the past, or to a very specific and unattainable past that is found in the literature of the 1930s and offered, then as now, as the antidote to present woes.

Calls for the recovery of ‘lost’ greatness or tranquility are nothing new, of course: there have been lost ‘Golden Ages’ from Antiquity onwards. The rhetoric of life in 2017 Britain, though, is quick to proffer a world before the country was ‘sold out’ to Brussels as an ideal state to which return may, tantalisingly, be possible if the British people will only reject any notion of the world’s having moved on in the past 50 or so years. Hence, we see the delivery of the Article 50 leaving letter greeted, on the front page of a national newspaper, with a photo of a UKIP politician drinking a pint (naturally, there are no 500ml glasses in Britain) of (English) beer outside a pub, triumphantly reasserting the victory of ‘Britishness’ over the corrosive influence of EU bureaucracy. In such times, minor details become causes. In a land obsessed by a television programme about baking and still working through its Second World War nostalgia, turning the clock back to the 1950s feels perfectly logical. As Tom Whyman noted in a ‘New York Times’ article back in February, the post-Brexit UK is danger of becoming “the world’s biggest church fete” with its export policy seemingly structured around sales of cheese, jam, and biscuits.

What is missing in this facile re-working of the national past is any of the balance that made the 1930s such a fascinating decade for me to study. In as much as those books dealt with the nation’s past they also offered ideas and suggestions for its future. Not everything ‘old’ was by definition ‘good’, and slums did not become acceptable places to live just because the buildings had been built a century earlier. The authors I found myself admiring as I research the decade were not those content to praise the past but those like Priestley who wanted to forge a better country out of the better parts of its heritage and the desire that better things may be possible in its future. For all of the bold boasts to have followed last year’s events, the vision of the future is, as far as I can see, vague and unconvincing, best defined not by what it offers but by what has been cast off. The past tense is crucial: like an America destined to be “made great again” the British people have apparently “got their country back“.

Nostalgia is, now, all-encompassing, because if EU membership was a national mistake then something better than membership must be held up as a goal to be (re)claimed. Thus, the rhetoric of the ‘finest hour’ of World War Two victory resurfaces – when Britain resisted tyranny and kept freedom alive. Evidently, though, the intellectual contortions needed to make the nation’s struggle of 1940 – great and necessary as that certainly was – applicable to its current temper tantrum are beyond those would prefer to keep things simple. The Foreign Secretary, discussing the financial costs of Britain’s EU departure, advised other member states not to indulge in “punishment beatings” once the plucky Brits have once again managed to escape the Prisoner of War camp that is the European Union. That the EU has largely kept peace in Europe for sixty years does not make this WW2 fascination any less viable for those who think little of consequence has happened in Britain’s relationship with the continent since D-Day.

I don’t blame the Batsford guides for this, but as I looked at them I knew that if I was going to write anything new I needed room for other books, other ideas. Clearing the shelf was a prelude to a new project – a move away from nostalgia into other debates and enquiries. Bound as the country is to the wheel or nostalgic sentiment, it is too much to hope, I suspect, that the UK will undergo any such winnowing of its sentiments until the consequences of last June’s vote are unavoidably, painfully, clear to even the most hardened of the currently triumphalist 52% of the electorate who voted ‘Leave’. Even nostalgia, in the final analysis, is not going to be what it used to be.

Tom Whyman’s excellent article can be found at the link below:

Falling from Grace

Major art exhibitions are, of course, planned years in advance, and if they seem to have a striking resonance with the world in which they finally open that may be as much fortunate coincidence as it is inspired curatorial intent. All the same, though, with the state and direction of the US so prominently in the minds of many the fact that London is currently hosting two major shows of the nation’s art gives visitors ample opportunity to put America’s cultural life into the spotlight and to see if any of that light reflects back in such a way as to provide suggestions for the present and the near-future.

The British Museum’s survey of print-making in the US from the 1960s to the present reminds the viewer of how the political is never far away even in the most superficially aesthetic of pieces. From Warhol and Rauschenberg to May Stevens and Willie Cole the issues that have polarised the nation, challenged it, and forced it to re-define itself for the better (however imperfect that ‘better’ may still be in relation to the ideal) are never far away. Calling the exhibition ‘The American Dream’ reminds us that for the past fifty or so years US history has had its moments of breath-taking achievement alongside its public setbacks and disappointments.

The Royal Academy’s current show is different, however, in its focus on a very distinct period: the decade after the 1929 Wall Street Crash when the US had to face a challenge to many of the ideas that had underpinned its growth and ask some searching questions about what it was and what it could still be. In a world darkening with the clouds of imminent war these paintings show Americans trying to make sense of what had happened to what must have looked for so long like an unstoppable rise to pre-eminence. With a ruined economy, a dust bowl instead of a farming belt, and an uneasy sense that the world outside of the US was by no means inclined to remain stationary while it sorted itself out, many of the items in this show give insights into how America tried to find itself again before its dream was lost altogether. The exhibition’s title, ‘America After the Fall’ brings a post-lapsarian reference to the US in the 1930s, a fall from security, from confidence, and from grace.

Posters for the exhibition unsurprisingly show the seemingly timeless faces from Grant Wood’s ‘American Gothic’ (1930) – loaned to a show outside of North America for the first time in its history. Beyond this iconic image, though, Wood is represented throughout the Sackler Galleries of the RA with a fascinating range of landscapes and portraits that capture something of the tense mood of the times. The winding road that runs through 1931’s historical interpretation ‘The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere’ for example, an image designed to stir up the patriotic urgency of a nation in peril recurs in 1935’s ‘Death on the Ridge Road’ as the scene of an impending and unavoidable automobile accident, that most 20th century of deaths. The past seems, on occasion, to have been too far away and the future as much a source of concern as of promise.

We see in many of the images in the show the ways by which 1930s America tried to reconnect with itself, both in the greater historical sense and in the more communal, lived experience of its farmers and rural communities whose lives seemed for some artists (though perhaps not for everyone) an antidote to the rootless modernism of the cities and social fragmentation found in them. Edward Hopper’s ‘New York Movie’ (1939) captures this perfectly: the bored usherette leaning against the wall to take the weight off her feet as the few audience members sit spaced about in the auditorium watching the grey and white shapes just visible on the screen. The glamour of Hollywood is seen here as second-hand escapism, briefly diverting attention from the world outside in a manner found in Philip Evergood’s ‘Dance Marathon’ of 1934, in which the energy and grace of Rogers and Astaire becomes a ring of near-unconscious people propping each other up to try and win $500.

Elsewhere, landscapes of industrial plants and images of power turbines hint at an industrial might that had taken a blow but was by no means defeated, and in the later stages of the display the viewer recalls that America’s road not only to national recovery but to global pre-eminence really became clear with the outbreak of World War Two and the sheer volume of US material and manpower added to the scales on the Allied side against the Axis of Germany, Japan, and Italy. In Peter Blume’s ‘The Eternal City’ (1937) we get a glimpse of Italy, and more particularly, Rome under the rule of Mussolini: a landscape of partially excavated Roman ruins (of which ‘Il Duce’ was particularly fond) within which soldiers on horseback beat civilians as priests run and flee. Mussolini himself emerges, surreally, as a bright-green jack-in-the-box, his oversized head looming into the picture to be both terrifying and ludicrous. The countdown to war still had some way to run when Blume’s painting was complete, but for the US the defeat of such dictators would prove to be an act not only of national but of international transformation – the ascent that made the ‘fall’ seem a long time ago. Mussolini’s attempts to revive lost Roman greatness were soon bankrupted, but if there was a new Roman Empire after 1945 it was surely based amid the neo-classical monuments of Washington DC. With history often looking and feeling like it’s running in reverse in 2017, the placement of such an image within this excellent exhibition is timely indeed.

America After the Fall: Painting in the 1930s is at the Royal Academy of Arts, London, until 4th June.

For more information see https://www.royalacademy.org.uk/exhibition/america-after-the-fall

The Spanish Pavilion – Eighty Years On

I have a long list of historical places and events that I would, time-travel permitting, like to see. That doesn’t mean, of course, that I’d like to go back and live completely in the past, but that it would be great to go back, experience something first-hand, and then return to the present enhanced by that experience. Usually, this is linked with the wish to ‘meet’ people in the past, to be present at certain events and eavesdrop on conversations.

The Paris International Exhibition of 1937 holds a particular place in this wish-list. This is not, of course, because I’d like to loiter afterwards and see the unfolding world war that was forecast in the architectural antagonism of the German and Soviet pavilions as they squared off against each other. Rather, it’s because I’ve spent so much time trying to understand those spaces that I often find myself trying to navigate them imaginatively, writing my way around them with the help of photographs and descriptions from those who did visit in person. Their propaganda content was read clearly by many contemporary observers, but the temporary nature of these buildings that look so strangely solid in photographs and newsreel footage only adds, for me, to their fascination. On the one side, Albert Speer’s austere classicism imbuing the ‘Thousand Year Reich’ with ancient grandeur and on the other Boris Iofan’s stepped modernism providing a launching platform for the giant statues on its roof: the dynamism of Soviet power writ large.

I’d be sure to take in the Italian pavilion as well, with its declarations of the nation’s imperial destiny, and the British pavilion, where a life-size photograph of Neville Chamberlain in fishing waders added to the sense that the British still saw the World’s Fair as a purely trade-orientated event: a chance to sell fishing rods and tennis racquets while everybody else was sending signals about their plans for continental dominance.

And then there would be the Spanish Pavilion – a country in the midst of a civil war still intent on showcasing itself to the world as a place of education, culture, and progress. A building (assembled by the Republican government that right-wing rebels were trying to overthrow) in which photo-montages of workers, volunteer brigades, and schoolchildren presented a face to the world that tried by its very existence to resist the advances of Franco’s troops, their ranks enhanced as they were by the German and Italian reinforcements that were slowly tipping the Spanish scales in favour of fascism. Picasso’s ‘Guernica’ would be there, of course – carefully carried across the city from the studio in the Rue des Grands-Augustins – alongside works by Miro and Angus Calder’s ‘Mercury Fountain’ – a blend of the beautiful and the poisonous all too appropriate for a country being torn apart.

Thanks to the Mayoral Gallery in London’s St James’ we can, until 10th February, make this imaginative journey back in time. Gathering together works by the artists represented in the pavilion, alongside a display on the Paris Exposition itself, material on the incineration of the Basque town of Guernica, and reminders of the subsequent tour that Picasso’s artwork made of England after its Paris debut, the gallery allows the visitor to experience something of the drama within which the pavilion’s contents were made and the sense of urgent resistance with which their creators tried to capture the Spanish crisis.

It is a powerful experience not only to see these works, but to get a sense of the moment in which the creation of art was itself a political act in defiance of fascism. Visiting the gallery on the afternoon of the American presidential inauguration was, for me, a thought-provoking, and ultimately better way of spending a day when ‘history’ was being made than listening in dismay to TV footage of Donald Trump’s rhetoric echoing across central Washington. In the final analysis, thankfully, Art resists dictatorship. At the present moment, we should thank Mayoral for reminding us that this is so.

‘Art Revolutionaries: Homage to the Pavilion of the Spanish Republic, 1937’ is at Mayoral Gallery, London until 10th February 2017. Details may be found here:

http://www.galeriamayoral.com/en/Exposicions/Art%20Revolutionaries%20in%20London/73/

Seeing the World Transformed: Paul Nash at Tate Britain

Career-spanning exhibitions are not always kind to artists. Early brilliance is sometimes shown slipping into repetition or recycling in later years, the promise of breakthrough work perhaps not fulfilled in maturity. As the National Gallery’s recent show devoted to the late works of Rembrandt made clear, there may be a final flourish to celebrate, but the longer the career in question the greater the risk that a retrospective can show the stop-start nature of an aesthetic life rather than its seamless progress. Even Picasso is, perhaps, better seen in ‘periods’ than in allowing his seventy-plus years of work jostle for our attention as we try to keep pace with its creator.

Tate Britain’s survey of the career of Paul Nash is a wonderful exception to this rule. In room after room we see an artist developing as the world around him undergoes tumultuous change, his style retaining trademark elements re-worked in new ways as he finds his own reality altered by two World Wars. From the Aestheticism of his early work (all Burne-Jones and Blake in style) to the trauma of the trenches in 1917 we see a man whose reality was rendered frighteningly strange by his wartime experience. Works like ‘The Menin Road’ are English landscapes re-modelled in hell: the ponds and trees that Constable would have painted now as blasted and poisoned as the men who cower amongst them. Many of these paintings are regularly on display across the Thames at the Imperial War Museum, but to reach them here after seeing Nash’s early, almost Symbolist views of trees makes the scale of his disgust at the reality of the trenches impossible to ignore. The tree stumps of Flanders clearly become the nightmare cousins of the elms that once featured in Nash’s Edwardian pastorals.

With the First World War as such a rupture Nash’s embrace of Surrealism in the 1930s feels like a strangely logical step, as though a man whose sense of reality was forever off-kilter recognised in the movement the potential to celebrate strangeness and allow the unconscious to find expression. Again, a sense of process is crucial: the Sussex Downs and the Kent coast become necessary stopping-off points on his artistic journey, places where he could work through his relationship with the post-War world.

Surrealism led Nash into the avant-garde experimentation of the ‘Unit One’ artists, and the exhibition makes excellent use of the work of Moore, Hepworth, Nicholson and others to show that in that group Nash found a sense of belonging when he arguably needed it most. To step from there into the world of the Shell County Guidebooks may seem like a strange move but it is a measure of the Tate curators’ skill that it feels oddly fitting here. Embracing the possibilities of photography, the qualities of the ‘found object’ and the potential to celebrate the strangeness of the country he saw around him Nash’s contribution to the inter-war boom in domestic sightseeing was to offer a host of ‘sights’ aimed at rendering England ‘rich and strange’ to its own inhabitants. In his paintings from this time the stone circles and monoliths of the prehistoric past assume surreal properties, often places within landscapes that owe more to the topography of the unconscious than any locations that could be found by consulting a motoring guide.

With the Surrealism of the 1930s in mind, the room devoted to Nash’s work from World War Two assumes greater context. ‘Totes Meer’ (‘Dead Sea’) with its breaking waves composed of the wreckage of Nazi aircraft at the Cowley Dump is linked back to the coastal landscapes of the 1920s and shown to be another work in which the human destruction of war is visible in objects rather than bodies. For the wrecked trees of the Western Front we now see wrecked aircraft in the English landscape; their fragments as out of place in the fields of Britain as the gigantic tennis ball that looms large in a Surrealist work like the pre-War ‘Event on the Downs’. Rather than reflect Nash’s own sensibility his second spell as a War Artist found him recording a reality that had caught up with things his imagination had shown him a decade earlier. Britain’s ‘Finest Hour’ was a Surrealist one.

Nash survived the Second World War by a few months, and in the final room of the exhibition the viewer finds him returning to the landscape but using the phases of the moon to imbue the scenes with unearthly light. Focusing on the liminal moment of the ‘equinox’ his final works take the viewer back to the trees of his earliest ones, but now they are coloured, literally, by all that their creator has seen and done. The world has been made strange in order that it may be seen again.

Rarely in my experience has a retrospective captured so completely this sense of progress in an artist’s career whilst reminding the viewer that the journey is one not of movement onwards and away from the sources of initial inspiration but a constant loop of creative return in which each new development refines and revalues the ones before it. Here, one of Britain’s greatest painters has received the exhibition he deserves, and everyone involved in it deserves praise for the thought and care that have made it possible. If you haven’t seen it yet, you really should. If you have seen it, go again and marvel at the cumulative brilliance of Paul Nash’s artistic life.

‘Paul Nash’ is at Tate Britain until 5th March 2017. Details can be found at the link below:

http://www.tate.org.uk/whats-on/tate-britain/exhibition/paul-nash