Quantcast
Channel: "Tweedland" The Gentlemen's club
Viewing all 3468 articles
Browse latest View live

Blazers and bubbly – a Henley regatta photo essay / The Guardian picture essay

$
0
0

The Guardian picture essay
Blazers and bubbly – a Henley regatta photo essay
Photographer Alicia Canter took to the river Thames for the rowing social event of the year, Henley’s 178-year old royal regatta, and took in the scenes, from the stewards’ enclosure to the fun and frolicks on the water
by Alicia Canter and Matt Fidler
Friday 30 June 2017 08.00 BST Last modified on Friday 30 June 2017 09.06 BST
The Henley regatta is an event synonymous with the English social season, both a competitive rowing event and a chance for the well-heeled to don their blazers and frocks for a spot of traditional summer fun.
The rowing course is just over two kilometres long and straddles Buckinghamshire and Berkshire on either side of the Thames.
Five hundred and seventy-eight crews are entered into the regatta this year. They come from universities, colleges, schools and independent rowing clubs from around the world. Normally more than 100 are from overseas.


















Hackett London: The Royal Henley Regatta Official Clothing Partner Campaign

Straight from "The Devil wears Prada" ... LUCINDA CHAMBERS fired from British Vogue

$
0
0

FIRED BRITISH VOGUE FASHION DIRECTOR LUCINDA CHAMBERS REVEALS: 'I HAVEN’T READ VOGUE IN YEARS'
Lucinda Chambers revealed that she was in fact fired by newly appointed editor Edward Enninful
'The clothes are just irrelevant'

SARAH YOUNG
@sarah_j_young

A candid interview in which British Vogue’s former fashion director said she was fired from the title has been mysteriously removed from the internet.

Ever since the announcement that long-standing editor Alexandra Shulman was to be replaced by stylist Edward Enninful, it became clear that a new era was dawning at the glossy title. Especially as two other departures swiftly followed: managing editor of 24 years Frances Bentley left on the same day, and fashion director Lucinda Chambers announced that she was to step down four months later.

But now, in an extremely open interview with Vestoj, Chambers has said that she was fired - a decision which she said took bosses just "three minutes" to carry out.

In an article published on the "critical thinking" fashion website, Chambers, 57, said she had been fired six weeks ago by Enninful without the knowledge of Shulman.

"A month and a half ago I was fired from Vogue," she says. “It took them three minutes to do it. I didn't leave. I was fired."

But, British Vogue has since responded claiming that this move was not completely unexpected, "It's usual for an incoming Editor to make some changes to the team," the publication told The Independent.

"Any changes made are done with the full knowledge of senior Management."

The interview was promptly taken down as soon as it began to gain traction on social media - a move the site says was due to the "sensitive nature" of the article.

But, Vestoj has since re-published it in its entirety with the hopes that it will spark a discussion which might, in the words of Chambers, "lead to a more empowering and useful fashion media."

Entitled, "Will I Get a Ticket?", Chambers went on to slam some of the magazine's decisions - particularly when it came to advertising.

"The June cover with Alexa Chung in a stupid Michael Kors T-shirt is crap," she admits.

"He’s a big advertiser so I knew why I had to do it. I knew it was cheesy when I was doing it, and I did it anyway."

Then, she shed light on the employment of a fashion editor who, according to Chambers, was employed despite being a "terrible stylist".

"In fashion you can go far if you look fantastic and confident — no one wants to be the one to say 'but they're crap'."

But, perhaps the most revealing extract of the entire interview came when Chambers exposed the reality of the publication she had worked for, for 36 years.


Here, she admitted that she hadn’t "read Vogue in years", slating the clothes as "irrelevant" and "ridiculously expensive".

"There are very few fashion magazines that make you feel empowered. Most leave you totally anxiety-ridden.

"Truth be told, I haven't read Vogue in years. The clothes are just irrelevant for most people – so ridiculously expensive.


"I know glossy magazines are meant to be aspirational, but why not be both useful and aspirational? That's the kind of fashion magazine I’d like to see."


Lucinda Chambers, Fired Vogue Director, Gives Fashion Industry a Kicking
By ELIZABETH PATONJULY 4, 2017

Lucinda Chambers last year. She said in an interview with the journal Vestoj that the fashion industry could “chew you up and spit you out.” Credit Marcy Swingle for The New York Times
PARIS — Hell hath no fury like a fashion editor fired. At the couture shows in Paris this week, the front row was abuzz — both conversationally and electronically — with news of an incendiary interview with Lucinda Chambers, the former British Vogue fashion director, that was unusual in its frank criticism of the 21st-century fashion ecosystem. Soon after its publication, however, and amid talk of legal action, the piece was taken down, only to sensationally resurface again less than 24 hours later.

First published on Monday in Vestoj, an annual academic journal about fashion, the first-person account charted Ms. Chambers’s abrupt departure from British Vogue in May, as well as the broader brutality of the fashion business and the apparent power that heavyweight advertisers have over magazine publishers.

The article was removed from Vestoj’s website the same day it was published, and no reason was initially provided. But multiple screen captures and photographs of its contents continued to be widely circulated, testament to the fact that in the world of social media, nothing really disappears, and to the singularity of a fashion-industry insider breaking ranks and shedding a negative light on the internal machinations of the sector.

“A month and a half ago, I was fired from Vogue,” Ms. Chambers told Vestoj’s founder and editor in chief, Anja Aronowsky Cronberg, referring to her removal by Edward Enninful, who was hired to replace the longtime editor in chief, Alexandra Shulman, in April.

“It took them three minutes to do it,” Ms. Chambers said in the interview. “No one in the building knew it was going to happen. The management and the editor I’ve worked with for 25 years had no idea. Nor did H.R. Even the chairman told me he didn’t know it was going to happen. No one knew, except the man who did it — the new editor.”

After conceding that the fashion industry could “chew you up and spit you out,” Ms. Chambers went on to criticize some of the “crap” magazine cover shoots that she had produced (saying the blame lay in part with Vogue’s allegiances to major advertisers), and the mismanagement of the fashion brand Marni, where she had once worked. She also suggested that Vogue had become an increasingly uninspiring read.

“Truth be told, I haven’t read Vogue in years,” she said. “Maybe I was too close to it after working there for so long, but I never felt I led a Vogue-y kind of life. The clothes are just irrelevant for most people — so ridiculously expensive.”

“What magazines want today is the latest, the exclusive,” she continued. “It’s a shame that magazines have lost the authority they once had. They’ve stopped being useful. In fashion, we are always trying to make people buy something they don’t need. We don’t need any more bags, shirts or shoes. So we cajole, bully or encourage people” into buying.

Many industry power players in Paris were tight-lipped after the article was published, including Mr. Enninful, who said he had “no comment” about the interview as he sat in the front row of the Chanel show on Tuesday. An hour later, Condé Nast, the publisher that owns the Vogue titles, released a short statement that contradicted Ms. Chambers’ account of the end of her employment there.

“It’s usual for an incoming editor to make some changes to the team,” the statement said. “Any changes made are done with the full knowledge of senior management.”

Dozens of readers, meanwhile, were quick to praise Ms. Chambers’s candor. Her profile outside the sector increased after her star turn last year in “Absolutely Fashion: Inside British Vogue,” a BBC documentary in which she won legions of fans thanks to her upfront approach, artistic vision and eccentric yet elegant fashion sense.

Julie Zerbo, of the website the Fashion Law, looked beyond the reader reaction and to the possible legal fallout, wondering on Twitter if Ms. Chambers might be sued:

And then at lunchtime on Tuesday, the tale took a further twist when the article reappeared online.

“Due to the sensitive nature of this article, we took the decision to temporarily remove it from the site, but have now republished it in its entirety,” Ms. Aronowsky Cronberg explained in an email to The New York Times.

“In terms of the reasons why it was removed, they are directly related to the industry pressures which Lucinda discusses in her interview,” she continued. “As you know, fashion magazines are rarely independent because their existence depends on relationships with powerful institutions and individuals, whether it’s for tickets to shows, access in order to conduct interviews or advertising revenue.”

“We created Vestoj to be an antidote to these pressures, but we are not always immune,” Ms. Aronowsky Cronberg added. “We hope Lucinda’s republished interview will spark a discussion which might, in her words, lead to a more ‘empowering and useful’ fashion media.”

Ms. Chambers could not be reached for comment.


Why is Lucinda Chambers airing Vogue's dirty laundry?
The magazine’s long-serving former fashion director has vented her fury in a bracingly candid online interview, claiming she was unceremoniously sacked by the new editor

Tuesday 4 July 2017 14.22 BST Last modified on Tuesday 4 July 2017 22.00 BST

Age: 57.

Appearance: Fabulous, darling.

Let me see … she sounds like she could be a late-starting lady novelist whose risqué debut is selling like hot cakes in Berkshire and beyond? No.

Former mistress of Prince Philip? Nope.

Current mistress of Prince Philip? No. She’s the erstwhile fashion director of British Vogue.

Why erstwhile? She claims she was fired, after 36 years at Vogue and 25 years as fashion director, by new editor Edward Enninful. She reckons it took him three minutes.

That must have stung. She gave a bracingly candid interview to niche journal Vestoj in which she managed to get a few things off her chest.

Ooh, like what? Like doing a “crap” cover with Alexa Chung in a “stupid Michael Kors T-shirt” because “he’s a big advertiser, so I knew why I had to”.

What else? About the industry’s inability to nurture creative talent any more (“I’m thinking of one fashion editor in particular … he will wrongfoot you and wrongfoot you”). About how magazines used to be useful and are now increasingly irrelevant. How far people get on confidence rather than ability in a world beset by insecure people who are too scared to say when someone’s rubbish (one stylist she worked with many years ago was “just terrible. But in fashion you can go far if you look fantastic and confident – no one wants to be the one to say ‘but they’re crap’”).

Cor! Oh, and how she hasn’t actually read Vogue herself for years.

Amazing! Where can I read this stellar-sounding interview? Well, it’s a moving story.

What? It went up on vestoj.com on Monday morning and promptly came down that afternoon. Now it’s back online again with a note from the editor: “Due to the sensitive nature of this article, we took the decision to temporarily remove it from the site.”

May we infer that legal communications abounded in the interim? You may infer whatever you wish. If cease-and-desist letters are named accessory of the season in next month’s edition, then we’ll know.

Any other gossip? Having replaced Alexandra Shulman, editor-in-chief of 25 years, Enninful is likely to want to shake up the title. He pipped deputy editor Emily Sheffield, part of the magazine’s posh-girl old guard, to the role.

Is she a posh girl? She’s Samantha Cameron’s sister.

I see. England really does have only seven families in it, doesn’t it? At most. At most.

Do say: “They never have this trouble at Primark.”

Don’t say: “Whatever you want, if you’ve got a non-disparagement clause in your 

A Curious Friendship by Anna Thomasson

$
0
0


A Curious Friendship by Anna Thomasson review – a 20-year celibate romance
The intense but platonic relationship between the artist Rex Whistler and writer Edith Olivier provides a window into a fascinating section of society

Lara Feigel
Saturday 21 March 2015 10.00 GMT Last modified on Tuesday 2 May 2017 19.56 BST

In 1925, the 19-year-old artist Rex Whistler met the 52-year-old Edith Olivier at a house party in Italy. Within hours, they were arguing spiritedly about the nature of power. Within days, Whistler had persuaded Edith to shingle her hair and raise her skirts, embarking on a new life as a Bright Young Person. Within weeks, this unlikely friendship had become the central relationship in both their lives, as it would remain for the next 20 years.

Almost immediately, they transformed each other. Whistler was a diffident, chiselled beauty, a dazzling draftsman whose Arcadian scenes were at odds with the artistic climate of his time. Although he had started to move in aristocratic circles (he met Olivier through the decadent young peer Stephen Tennant), he was awkwardly aware that his father was a builder. Olivier encouraged his romantic vision and introduced him into society, finding him a patron to pay the rent of a London studio.

Olivier was an energetic and original woman whose autocratic father had prevented her from straying far beyond the family home. In her 20s, she had briefly acquired independence by studying at Oxford. During the first world war, she had almost inadvertently established the Women’s Land Army. But it was only now, bereft of both father and sister, that she could realise her talents. Encouraged by Whistler, she began to write dark, fantastical stories set in the Wiltshire countryside she loved. Her first novel, published in 1927, was an immediate success.

Anna Thomasson uses their friendship to tell their life stories, following them both until their deaths in the 1940s. This doesn’t sound immediately promising; before reading the book, it’s hard to see how a celibate 20-year friendship could sustain our interest over the course of so many pages. But it’s a relationship that provides a window on to a fascinating world, and the story is narrated with elegant verve.

Part of the interest lies in the enticing cast that quickly gathers in and around Daye House, Olivier’s picturesque Wiltshire home. There is Diana Cooper, Diana Mitford, Ottoline Morrell, Edith Sitwell, Winston Churchill. Most prominently, there is Siegfried Sassoon (who has a lengthy affair with Tennant) and Cecil Beaton. If we know Olivier now, it’s because we recognise her from Beaton’s photographs, casually louche on the lawn with a cigarette in her hand or posed as a stately Elizabeth I at one of their many elaborate fancy-dress parties. Like Whistler, Beaton came to rely on Olivier for artistic and emotional advice. “I really adore her and love her more than almost any friend I have,” he wrote in 1931, with only mild hyperbole.

But most of all, the interest – even the suspense – of Thomasson’s account comes from the central relationship itself. Both Whistler and Olivier were virgins when they met. More interested in love than sex, they were dreamers who encouraged each other’s taste for elaborate fantasies.

As their friendship became more romantic, a language of courtly love developed. This could be flirtatious: “Seeing you against that pink pillow in bed the other day,” Whistler informed Edith, “I feel I must, in honesty, raise your marks for seduction from five to at least eight!” They enjoyed the frisson of physical intimacy. Sharing a suite of rooms with Whistler at a house party, Olivier noted in her diary that her bath was “really in his bedroom, but we are so easy with each other that this seems all right ”. Another time, she described dancing with him at a fancy-dress party where he removed his wig and danced with “his own shapely head” on view. “His beauty unbelievable ... it was a dream ... it must remain a dazzling memory.”

It would be easy to dismiss them both as sublimating sexual desire: her for him, and him for the often overtly homosexual young men he gathered around him. Thomasson doesn’t forget the importance of sex for both of them, but she is also alert to the possibility of other kinds of intensity. In the process, she portrays an emotional climate subtler than our own; certainly one in which friendships were more intense than they commonly are now, perhaps because people were more accustomed to repressing sexual inclinations.

In the first decade of their friendship, both Whistler and Olivier seem to have been content to live celibate lives, fulfilled by the creative and loving closeness of their friendship. This had its costs. For her, it could be exhausting keeping up the high spirits and jet-black hair of her youth, and socially awkward spending so much time with a coterie of younger men. It’s not surprising that she avoided either thinking about or meeting Whistler’s mother. She was uneasily aware of the indignity of an evening spent cavorting in Soho with Whistler and Beaton, pretending that she was drunk.

There was also the more painful cost of loving a man whom she knew to be only on loan to her. This is pain that animates her first novel, The Love-child, which tells the story of a lonely spinster who brings into being an imaginary child called Clarissa, “the creation of the love of all her being”, only to murder her accidentally, casting Clarissa from her mind after she falls in love with a man. Thomasson’s reading of the novel is subtle and convincing. She portrays Olivier as using her writing to live through the betrayal that she, more than Whistler, knows must ensue.

The drama, cleverly marshalled, of Thomasson’s account, comes from Olivier’s fear that Whistler will leave her, that mere friendship, however intense, leaves you without claims. The curiousness of the relationship leaves the reader eager to know what will transpire. And Thomasson is an excellent guide, ready to answer the most difficult questions, but reluctant to judge or to simplify.

In the end, sex does intrude. Whistler is almost seduced by an older man and then falls in love with one impossibly unattainable beautiful and aristocratic girl after another, eventually losing his virginity aged 29. But it is war that irrevocably separates them, leading Whistler to the French battlefield, where he writes to Olivier hoping for “the great joy” of seeing her again. His death a few days later leaves their love intact, enabling her to dream of his ringing the doorbell and embracing her “with great love” before she dies of grief, unable to face “this long lonely life without him”.


• Lara Feigel is the author of The Love-charm of Bombs: Restless Lives in the Second World War.









The Return of the School Snake Belt.

$
0
0




English School Uniform Garments: The Snake Belt

Other iems like the snake belt seem to have been oprimatily worn in England. Some like the snake belt have almost disappeared. The so-called 'snake-belt' was at one time an extremely common item of English (and indeed of British) school uniform, although it tended to be worn on many other occasions too as part of regular boyswear. It consisted of an elasticated strip, fastened at the front with an S-shaped metal hook-buckle fashioned as a snake; it was, obviously, this feature of the belt which gave it its popular name.

Introduction
The so-called 'snake-belt' was at one time an extremely common item of English (and indeed of British) school uniform, although it tended to be worn on many other occasions too as part of regular boyswear. It consisted of an elasticated strip, fastened at the front with an S-shaped metal hook-buckle fashioned as a snake; it was, obviously, this feature of the belt which gave it its popular name. A metal slide, together with a loop in the belt, enabled it to be adjusted to an individual boy's waist far more sensitively than could be done with the usual tang and series of holes and also, of course, allowed its length to be increased as a boy grew. The slide and loop arrangement also ensured that there was no long end left dangling - an important matter of safety during the frequent rough-and-tumble of boy life. Sometimes, but not always, a flap was provided behind the snake-buckle. Boys' short and long trousers were provided with loops through which the belt could be threaded.

Chronology
We are not sure precisely when the snake belt first appeared or who invented it. It was clearly being worn by the 1860s, but we are not sure that it was a specifically school style. Another portrait shows three brothers wearing tunics with snake belts over them. We do not know if these were school outfits. The earliest we note the snake belt in the photographic record was belts worn with tunic suits by two Glasgow brothers in 1863. An Origin in Sportswear

Most items of what has come to be regarded as 'traditional' English/British school uniform were borrowed from sportswear of the late 19th or early 20th century and in this respect the snake-belt is no exception, for it was in sportswear that this distinctive item of dress first appeared. In 1888 the famous English cricketer W. G. Grace declared that 'braces ['suspenders' in America] are not worn when playing cricket': belts, he considered, were less restrictive of movement. [Cunnington and Mansfield, p. 31.] The snake-belt was a favourite form. The early examples were made from silk and were often advertised as 'cricket and lawn tennis belts', as in a catalogue of 1907: 'ORDINARY CRICKET AND LAWN TENNIS BELTS / Silk, striped colours fitted with snake buckles, each 2/6 / plain ... 2/0'. [Aldbrugham, p. 994.] The sums of money are in the British pre-decimal coinage and stand for two shillings and six pence and two shillings respectively: 12.5p and 10p in modern British currency). As the advertisement states, they were available in a single colour ('plain') or in stripes: where there were stripes they consisted of two outer ones in one colour and a central one in a contrasting colour. The different colours meant that sporting clubs - cricket clubs, for example - could obtain them in their own club colours. Not surprisingly, schoolboys would wear them in school colours with cricket flannels when playing in school cricket matches. From there they were adopted as part of school uniform wear.

Colours
Their availability in a wide range of single or twinned colours meant that they could be readily obtained in school colours to match those of blazer, school cap, tie, and badge. The travel writer Eric Newby recalls visits to the Boys' Shop at the world-famous Harrod's in London in the 1920s and '30s to be kitted out with, amongst other items of school uniform, 'flannel shorts supported by belts striped in the school colours with snake-head buckles. [A Traveller's Life, p. 44.] Occasionally, they might be compulsory but more often they were optional. At my own schools in Luton, Beds. they were not compulsory but many boys wore them. At Hart Hill Primary School, which introduced a school uniform during my time as a pupil there, the snake-belt had two brown stripes and a central yellow stripe. At Luton Grammar School, where I started in 1957, the belt had two red stripes and a central yellow stripe. The secondary school which my elder brother attended had two dark blue stripes and a central pale blue stripe. Those worn by other boys whom I knew in the town had two black stripes with a central red or a central yellow stripe, two maroon stripes with a central grey or a central white stripe, and two green stripes with a central yellow stripe. But other combinations were also available.
Out of school uniform, a boy would still often support his trousers with such a belt, usually his school one. You could, however, obtain them in with two black stripes and a central white stripe: since black and white were the colours of the Luton Town Football Club, some boys in my home town wore a snake-belt with those colours when going to matches on Saturday afternoons. They might also wear them on other occasions out of school in order to declare their allegiance to the local football team.

Changes in the 1930s
At first, snake-belts had been made quite wide - 1.75 inches (44 mm) - and occasionally they incorporated two snake-buckles, one above the other, as in an early 20th-century postcard-size photograph in my possession. This width was not really suitable for boys, especially smaller ones; the belts also had insufficient elasticity and tended to become loose. In the 1930s the width was reduced to 1.25 inches (32 mm) whilst the introduction of artificial fibres gave a lighter webbing with greater elasticity and durability: 'the result was a better belt with a longer life and much neater appearance. [Guppy, p. 59.]

Comfort
The later, improved version was, as I recall from my own schooldays, very comfortable to wear, since it would stretch as necessary with a boy's movements during play - the very reason for their introduction into games such as cricket and tennis. The only discomfort came if the metal slide got twisted, as could happen occasionally: 'One glance was enough to reveal the cause of the trouble,' relates Anthony Buckeridge in one of his Jennings stories: '"Yes, I see what it is," she said. "A clear case of twisted-belt-buckle-itis."'"Wow! That sounds bad," Jennings exclaimed. "Shall I have to see the doctor, Matron?"
'"Oh, no, it's not serious." She straightened out the twisted belt and slackened the adjustable buckle [that is, the metal slide] at the back, which had ridden up over the waistband of his shorts' (According to Jennings, London and Glasgow, 1954, 247). They were worn with both short and long trousers; indeed, in conformity with changed times, the more recent revision of the Jennings story alters 'shorts' to 'trousers' (According to Jennings, revised edition, Wendover, 1986, 182-3; paperback edition, London and Basingstoke, 1991, 196). Partly because of their comfort and partly, I suppose, because of their often bright colours, they were very popular amongst boys themselves: in the post-World War II Austerity era Ray Watkins regretted not having one because of continuing rationing, but eventually obtained one with some change from the purchase of a grey school shirt (Interview in 'Now the War is Over', BBC2 Television, repeat 23 July 1990). Sometimes girls might even envy the boys' possession of these distinctive items of clothing, as Dora Saint (writing as 'Miss Read') recalls (Times Remembered, paperback edition, Harmondsworth, 1987, 36).

Snake-Belt versus Braces
Braces (suspenders) were sometimes worn with school uniform and both short and long trousers were provided with braces-buttons as well as belt-loops. John Mortimer amusingly recalls his preparatory school headmaster vacillating over the issue of braces versus the snake-belt: '... you are round-shouldered through the wearing of braces! Unbutton your braces and cast them from you. Each boy to acquire a dark-blue elastic belt with a snake-buckle, to be slotted neatly into the loops provided at the top of school shorts.' But a little later he fulminates: 'Why are you an offence to the eyes, all tied up like parcels? I say unto you, there will be no more belts or the wearing thereof. Abandon belts! Each boy to equip himself with a decent pair of sturdy elastic braces!' (Clinging to the Wreckage: a Part of Life, London, 1982, paperback edition, Harmondsworth, 1983, 31-32)

Availability
In their heyday, from the 1930s through to the 1960s, snake-belts were easily available from a large number of shops and stores and even from market stalls which sold boyswear. Official school outfitters stocked them in the colours of local schools, but most colour combinations - certainly the brown and yellow of my primary school and the red and yellow of my grammar school - were available at the other outlets, usually at less cost, although they were inexpensive items wherever they were purchased - certainly when compared with leather belts.

The Situation Today
The snake-belt is seen much less often these days, although they can sometimes be found. They are sometimes even thinner, being about 1 inch (25 mm) in width. Occasionally too trousers for smaller boys will have a sort of false version, consisting of just the two ends, sewn to the sides of the trousers and fastening in front with the snake-buckle. The trousers have elasticated backs and are self-supporting so that the 'belts' are decorative rather than functional.

Sources

Aldbrugham, Alison. "Introduction", Yesterday's Shopping: the Army and Navy Stores Catalogue, 1907, (Newton Abbot, 1969).

Cunnington, Phillis and Alan Mansfield, English Costume for Sports and Outdoor Activities, London, 1969).

Guppy, Alice. Children's Clothes 1939-1970: The Advent of Fashion (Poole, 1978).

Smith, Terence Paul. Terence submitted the first draft of this page.


A Traveller's Life (paperback edition, London, 1983).


In the era before low slung jeans every boy in the land would have had his trousers held up by these elasticated belts with traditional metal snake fastening.
We have now had them remade in adult sizes so they are both practical and nostalgic.
The adult belts will adjust from 22" to 42" waist and are 1 1/8" wide
Plain and striped colourways.
Actual colours may vary slightly from the images
Made in England and sent in presentation box so an ideal gift for the overgrown schoolboy..









When I was a Photographer by Félix Nadar

$
0
0




The absurd life of Félix Nadar, French portraitist and human flight advocate
Newly translated into English, Nadar’s writings offer us the opportunity to revisit a bizarre and compelling character who took portraits of the Parisian cultural elite

Adam Begley
Wednesday 23 December 2015 09.00 GMT Last modified on Tuesday 2 May 2017 19.08 BST

Nothing about Nadar was ever straightforward, as the photograph on the cover of When I Was a Photographer reveals. There he is, a dapper daredevil in his top hat and floppy cravat, in the basket of a gas balloon, floating high among the clouds, binoculars at the ready, ballast and grapnel hook within easy reach. He’s scanning the horizon, coolly indulging one of his ardent enthusiasms: human flight.

But the photograph is a fake: it was staged in his plush studio on the top floor of 35, Boulevard des Capucines, in the heart of fashionable Paris. The clouds are a painted backdrop, the basket dangles in perfect safety a couple of feet above the floor of the studio. Even that intent gaze is a con: Nadar, who was myopic, could see into the distance only with his specs on.

He was 80 when he published Quand j’étais photographe, now translated for the first time into English and recently published by MIT Press. The book presents a fresh opportunity to consider a bizarre and compelling character whose genius blossomed in mid-19th-century Paris just as Baron Haussmann, under orders from Emperor Napoleon III, was radically reshaping and modernising the French capital by tearing down medieval neighborhoods and laying out broad, tree-lined boulevards.

Half a century before he published When I Was a Photographer, Nadar was already a notorious Paris bohemian and a celebrated caricaturist. Then, in his mid-30s, he abruptly emerged as the world’s first great portrait photographer. He made it his mission to create individual portraits of the entire Parisian cultural elite, from Alexandre Dumas to Honoré Daumier, from Sarah Bernhardt to Hector Berlioz, each one a penetrating likeness that captured what he called the “moral intelligence” of the sitter and demanded to be appreciated as a work of art.

In the age of the selfie, Nadar reminds us of the brave beginnings of a medium that changed the world. A pioneer photographer with any ambition needed to be part scientist (Nadar liked to call the darkroom his laboratory), part artist, part salesman – and yet a whiff of the mountebank clung to the nascent profession.

Though Nadar believed fervently in the artistic value of photography, he also understood that photographs and publicity work hand in hand. The self-portrait-as-balloonist, probably taken in 1864, was a carefully thought out exercise in self-promotion, essentially a publicity shot designed to sell two publications: a memoir and a manifesto.

The memoir was a breathless account of his disastrous flight in a humongous gas balloon he christened Le Géant. He had built it with the express purpose of proving the futility of attempting to navigate in balloons – Nadar believed the future of flight would be in “aero-locomotives”, an idea which baffled his contemporaries. He demonstrated the perils of ballooning with his epic second ascent in Le Géant: it ended with a crash-landing that dragged on for half an hour, as the balloon bounced perilously through a rural landscape, nearly killing everyone aboard. The catastrophe made headlines from Paris to New York.

The manifesto, called Le Droit au Vol (The Right to Flight), is a polemic in favour of “heavier-than-air” aerial navigation – and against the helplessness of balloons wafted here and there by the wind. “When he wants to,” Nadar writes, “man will fly like a bird, better than a bird – because … it is certain that man will be obliged to fly better than a bird in order to fly just as well.” He sent the manuscript to his friend Victor Hugo, who replied in an open letter – modestly addressed “To the Whole World” – in which he hailed Nadar as a prophet and a hero. Nadar evidently agreed; witness the pose he struck in the faux-ballooning photo: Prophetic Hero Aloft.

One of the more amusing chapters in When I Was a Photographer tells the story of how, when Paris was besieged by the Prussians in 1870, Nadar established the world’s first airmail service, organising a fleet of balloons to float sacks of correspondence over enemy lines. There was one problem with the scheme: the mail could get out (as long as the balloon landed beyond the reach of the Prussian forces), but because balloons can’t be steered, return mail couldn’t be sent back in.

The ingenious solution, proposed to Nadar by an anonymous citizen, was photographic – or, to be precise, micrographic. The return correspondence was photographed on microfilm and the tiny negative strapped to a carrier pigeon’s leg. Once safely in Paris, the microfilm was enlarged, the precious letters distributed. “Our Paris, strangled by its anxiety over its absent ones,” Nadar writes, “finally breathed.”

Who was this curious creature? Born Gaspard-Félix Tournachon in Paris in 1820 (Nadar was a nickname that became a pseudonym), he was a promising but erratic student. His father, a publisher and bookseller, went bust when Nadar was 13 and died four years later. From the age of 16, Nadar was essentially on his own; instead of family, he had friends, a network of bohemians who lived in garrets, assembled in cafes, and wrote or painted – or at least aspired to write or paint.

Nadar wanted to write and called himself a man of letters. But in fact he was a hack journalist and a mediocre novelist. He drew with greater success, and by the time he was 30 was better known as a caricaturist than a writer. He spent a great deal of time and energy satirizing the political aspirations of Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte, the nephew of Napoleon I, but no amount of ridicule could slow the rise of Louis-Napoléon, and when he proclaimed himself emperor in 1852 he dispensed with the liberal pieties of the Republic and muzzled the press. Political caricature, which time and again had swayed French public opinion, was expressly banned.

Nadar took refuge in the cultural life of the capital. He launched an epic project (he liked to think big): a series of four outsized lithographs depicting 1,200 luminaries, with a separate sheet devoted to writers, playwrights and actors, artists and musicians. He only ever got around to a first sheet, showing the writers and journalists, but the 250 caricatures in the Panthéon-Nadar secured his fame. A financial flop (only 136 copies of the lithograph were sold), it was a critical triumph – “The Panthéon-Nadar will be the joy of every museum, of every intelligent salon” – and made Nadar a household name in Paris.

Ambitious and chronically restless (his friend and fellow bohemian Baudelaire exclaimed: “Nadar, the most astonishing expression of vitality”), he veered off in a new direction as soon as the lithograph was published. Having paid for his feckless younger brother to apprentice with a professional photographer, he helped set him up with his own studio – and in the process caught the bug.

“Photography is a marvelous discovery,” he wrote a couple of years after his debut in 1855, “a science that engages the most elevated intellects, an art that sharpens the wits of the wisest souls – and the practical application of which lies within the capacity of the shallowest imbecile.”

What set his own work apart, in his estimation, was his feel for light and the connection he made with the sitter. The early camera was a bulky box perched on four rickety legs. When the photographer ducked under a black cloth to peer through the lens, the contraption looked like a giant caped spider staring with a single dark eye. Nadar relied on the flow of his famously charming banter to trick the sitter into ignoring this unnerving instrument.

An early portrait of Théophile Gautier shows his friend unbuttoned in every respect, dressed in an exotic-looking robe over a pale shirt left open at the neck. Gautier also sports a loosely knotted, flamboyantly striped scarf; one hand is buried to the wrist down the front of his trousers, an insolent gesture just shy of obscene. He could only be a bohemian, a wild and unconventional artist, the sort who would espouse art for art’s sake (in fact, Gautier coined the phrase). Under a prominent brow and a broad, brightly lit forehead, the eyes, baggy and shaded, gaze off into the distance. It’s not that he’s unaware of the camera; he’s snubbing it.

Nadar had a nickname for his friend Théophile: le Théos, as in the Greek for god. Already celebrated as a poet, novelist, critic, playwright and travel writer, Gautier was not yet, at the time of the photograph, at the peak of his fame. But his pose suggests that he saw no reason to question himself or to doubt that he’d enjoy the approving judgment of posterity.

Gautier was one of hundreds of writers, artists and musicians who posed for Nadar. Their names, however, are not dropped in When I Was a Photographer. The book is a grab-bag of unrelated pieces, some of them only tenuously connected to photography. There are gems, flashes of charm and brilliance, and also long stretches that will puzzle today’s reader. Nadar wrote for his crowd, a plugged-in elite. He never stops to explain himself to the uninitiated.

The most engrossing (and ghoulish) of the chapters, Homicidal Photography, is about a notorious murder case of 1882: a pharmacist who killed his wife’s lover with the help of his wife and brother. Nadar doesn’t identify the perpetrators until the very end, and only indirectly, by giving the name of the pharmacy.

Who killed whom isn’t the issue, as far as Nadar is concerned. For him, the point of the story is the power of a single photograph to shape public opinion. The victim’s corpse, fished from the Seine where it was dumped, was photographed by the police, and the grotesque image inflamed the passions of the crowd. “The whole mob set to barking,” Nadar writes, “howling on this trail of blood.”

None of the other chapters is as dramatic; many are mere anecdotes illustrating the newness of photography and the incomprehension with which it was greeted. Written near the end of his life, When I Was a Photographer is more of a postscript than an introduction. Digressive, allusive, at times almost evasive, it gives the flavour of Nadar as a writer, but not much in the way of practical information.

The bare-bones chronology at the back of the English translation was lifted from the excellent, fact-filled catalogue (now, sadly, out of print, but sometimes available in good used book stores) of the glorious mid-1990s exhibition of Nadar’s work at the Musée d’Orsay and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. That catalogue remains the best way to get to know the enchanting and maddening Nadar.

Another way is to look closely at his photographs. He had future generations in mind when assembling his portrait gallery of eminent contemporaries; he wanted to present posterity with a “convincing and sympathetic likeness” of the people he admired. Roland Barthes (who thought Nadar was the world’s greatest photographer) confessed that his own fascination with photography was “tinged with necrophilia … a fascination with what has died but is represented as wanting to be alive”.


We can’t really know someone by peering at a photograph taken 150 years ago (the same is true of a selfie taken 15 minutes ago). Yet the magic of Nadar’s portraits – their sincerity, their freshness, the unwavering faith they demonstrate in the possibility of capturing a piercingly accurate psychological likeness – tempts us to forget our scepticism, to look past the sepia tint, the old style hats and coats, and our doubts about the veracity of photographic images. We’re tempted, when we first see them, to trust the spark of recognition, that instant when we come face to face with a fellow being who’s alive and knowable.





THE ITALIAN GENTLEMAN : LA PRÉFACE Hugo JACOMET

$
0
0

 THE ITALIAN GENTLEMAN :
LA PRÉFACE
Hugo JACOMET
14 JUIL 2017

Gentlemen,
j’ai la joie de vous annoncer officiellement, avec presque deux ans de retard, que mon livre “The Italian Gentleman” est depuis quelques semaines chez l’imprimeur et qu’il sera disponible dans les librairies du monde entier le 26 octobre 2017.
Afin de bien clarifier les choses en termes d’édition (et d’éditeurs), ce livre verra tout d’abord le jour en langue anglaise (donc en édition originale) chez deux éditeurs majeurs : Thames & Hudson à Londres et Rizzoli à New York. Les deux éditions sont identiques, sauf la couverture qui sera très légèrement différente. Thames & Hudson (mon éditeur principal) couvrira prioritairement les marchés européens, moyen et extrême orientaux tandis que Rizzoli couvrira prioritairement le marché nord-américain.
L’année prochaine, en 2018, trois autres éditions sont prévues : une édition en langue française (avec a priori un contenu photographique légèrement différent et la publication de nombreuses photos inédites), une édition en langue italienne et une autre en langue allemande.
Les pré-commandes de l’édition originale sont d’ores et déjà ouvertes chez Amazon.fr comme vous pouvez le constater en suivant ce lien : The Italian Gentleman
Comme vous pouvez vous en douter, et au vu de l’immense investissement personnel et financier que ce volume a représenté pour mon équipe, pour mon camarade Lyle Roblin (photographe du livre) et pour moi-même, toute pré-commande de votre part sera la bienvenue et sera très (très) appréciée.
L’événement de lancement et de dédicace du livre aura lieu au mois de novembre à Paris dans un lieu très prestigieux. La date et le lieu de l’événement vous seront révélés dans ces colonnes durant les premiers jours de septembre.
En attendant, et pour vous remercier de votre patience et de votre fidélité, j’ai le plaisir de partager avec vous aujourd’hui en exclusivité la préface intégrale du livre en langue française.
En espérant que ce premier paragraphe vous donne envie de faire l’acquisition du livre, je vous donne rendez-vous en novembre pour une soirée de dédicace qui s’annonce d’ores et déjà comme exceptionnelle.




THE ITALIAN GENTLEMAN
par Hugo Jacomet
Photographies Lyle Roblin
PREFACE
Ce livre constitue, de très loin, le projet le plus long, le plus excitant, le plus exigeant, le plus émouvant mais aussi, et surtout, le plus complexe de ma vie d’auteur, de chroniqueur de l’élégance masculine classique et peut-être, l’avenir me le dira, de ma vie d’homme tout entière.
Si j’utilise ici, à dessein, le terme complexe, si cher à Edgard Morin, c’est qu’il décrit à merveille ce projet éditorial extravagant qui aura occupé presque trois années de mon existence.
J’étais parfaitement conscient, au moment où j’ai accepté d’écrire ce livre, que la tâche consistant à tenter de rendre compte de l’apport exceptionnel de l’Italie à l’élégance des hommes, surtout depuis les années 50, serait compliquée. Mais je n’imaginais pas un seul instant que la tentative de décrypter, à défaut d’expliquer, le style italien masculin dans toutes ses dimensions, tout son foisonnement et tout son génie, demanderait autant d’efforts et, oserais-je le dire, autant de sacrifices.
Je savais, dès le début du projet, qu’il me faudrait passer un peu de temps de l’autre côté des Alpes afin d’approfondir ma connaissance, que je considérais par ailleurs comme déjà excellente, du sujet. Pourtant après quelques semaines seulement en Lombardie, à Rome et dans la baie de Naples j’ai vite compris que j’avais très largement surestimé mon expertise dans le domaine et que mener – vraiment- à bien cette entreprise allait me prendre du temps. Beaucoup de temps.
Au début de l’année 2015, en pleine période de finition de mon premier livre « The Parisian Gentleman », deux choix s’offrent alors à moi.
Soit je décide d’écrire le livre depuis mon bureau parisien avec les outils d’aujourd’hui (comprenez l’internet et les e-mails) en demandant à mon ami le talentueux photographe Lyle Roblin, canadien de naissance et milanais d’adoption, d’effectuer des prises de vue dans certaines maisons – tailleurs, chemisiers, bottiers, fabricants d’accessoires – sélectionnées par mes soins.
Soit je prends le risque de me lancer à corps perdu dans une entreprise déraisonnable à tous points de vue (surtout économique) et de produire cet ouvrage « à l’ancienne », en m’installant – littéralement – avec Sonya mon épouse adorée, en Italie pour une année entière (qui se transformera, finalement, en presque deux années) et de sillonner le pays sans relâche à la recherche des meilleurs artisans oeuvrant, en pleine lumière ou dans l’obscurité, à l’élégance des gentlemen du monde entier.
Le livre que vous tenez aujourd’hui entre les mains est donc le fruit de ces deux années d’immersion totale au cœur de l’Italie de l’élégance masculine : plus de 100 ateliers, boutiques, usines, showrooms visités un par un, plus de 70 diners aussi gargantuesques que sympathiques de Biella à Rome, de Milan à Naples, de Florence à Bologne, plus de 15 000 prises de vue effectuées par mon complice Lyle, sans qui ce livre n’aurait jamais vu le jour, probablement plus de 4000 kilomètres parcourus dans la bien-nommée « botte » italienne en voiture, en train, en avion, en taxi, en Vespa et à pied et, finalement, plus de cinquante maisons choisies, étudiées, photographiées et chroniquées dans cet Italian Gentleman intégralement produit « à la main » et qui, je l’espère, vous servira de guide dans cet immense labyrinthe aussi fascinant que déroutant de l’élégance à l’italienne.
A l’instar de mon précédent ouvrage « The Parisian Gentleman », ce livre n’a pas pour objectif de constituer un catalogue exhaustif et parfait de toutes les maisons transalpines spécialisées dans l’art tailleur et bottier. Dix livres n’y suffiraient sans doute pas. Cet « Italian Gentleman » n’a pas non plus la prétention de raconter avec une précision académique l’histoire du tailoring Italien, de ses racines et de tous ses acteurs, car cela demanderait le travail d’une vie entière pour le faire correctement.
Ce voyage au cœur de l’Italie de l’élégance masculine est plus simplement le compte-rendu d’un voyage personnel de deux ans m’ayant conduit des showrooms les plus luxueux aux ateliers les plus sommaires, des palaces les plus rutilants aux sous-sols les plus crasseux et des usines les plus chirurgicalement organisées aux salons de maitres-tailleurs ayant appris leur art dans les années 30 et 40 et produisant encore dans leur propre salle à manger des vêtements comme plus personne n’en réalise sur terre.
C’est de cet amalgame anarchique, de cette sédimentation complexe, de cette histoire fabuleuse, mais que personne ne raconte de la même manière de l’autre côté des Alpes, que j’ai tenté de rendre compte avec ce livre.
Deux années à essayer de trouver son chemin dans un tel foisonnement humain, cela vous change un homme. En ce qui me concerne, je ne serai plus jamais le même, et pas uniquement parce que depuis un certain séjour de quatre mois à Naples, je parle désormais avec les mains…
Save
— — —
Pré-commande du livre disponible sur Amazon : The Italian Gentleman
304 pages, 447 photos originales.

Hugo JACOMET.


Dunkirk review

$
0
0

Dunkirk review – Christopher Nolan's apocalyptic war epic is his best film so far
5 / 5 stars
    Nolan eschews war porn for a powerful and superbly crafted disaster movie – starring Kenneth Branagh, Tom Hardy and a decent Harry Styles – with a story to tell

Peter Bradshaw
Monday 17 July 2017 21.00 BST Last modified on Monday 17 July 2017 22.14 BST



Britain’s great pyrrhic defeat or inverse victory of 1940 has been brought to the screen as a terrifying, shattering spectacle by Christopher Nolan. He plunges you into the chaotic evacuation of the British Expeditionary Force from northern France after the catastrophic battle of Dunkirk –helped by the now legendary flotilla of small civilian craft. It is part disaster movie, part compressed war epic, and all horribly appropriate for these Brexit times.

Nolan’s Dunkirk has that kind of blazing big-screen certainty that I last saw in James Cameron’s Titanic or Paul Greengrass’s United 93. It is very different to his previous feature, the bafflingly overhyped sci-fi convolution Interstellar. This is a powerful, superbly crafted film with a story to tell, avoiding war porn in favour of something desolate and apocalyptic, a beachscape of shame, littered with soldiers zombified with defeat, a grimly male world with hardly any women on screen.

It is Nolan’s best film so far. It also has Hans Zimmer’s best musical score: an eerie, keening, groaning accompaniment to a nightmare, switching finally to quasi-Elgar variations for the deliverance itself. Zimmer creates a continuous pantonal lament, which imitates the dive bomber scream and queasy turning of the tides, and it works in counterpoint to the deafening artillery and machine-gun fire that pretty much took the fillings out of my teeth and sent them in a shrapnel fusillade all over the cinema auditorium.

The film is, of course, on a massive Nolanesque scale. The Battle of Dunkirk is traditionally seen in terms of a miraculous underdog littleness that somehow redeemed the disaster. The plucky small boats countered the memory of a British army dwarfed by Wehrmacht strategy and a British establishment humiliated by the suspicion that it was only Hitler’s miscalculation or mysterious realpolitik in halting the German advance that permitted the evacuation in the first place. A different kind of Dunkirk movie might have included High Command scenes in Berlin showing the generals arguing with the Führer about precisely this. Maybe Nolan didn’t want his film hijacked by a lot of satirical fake-subtitle YouTubers.

The event itself entered Britain’s pop-cultural bloodstream after the war by way of the opening titles to TV’s Dad’s Army, with its Nazi map-arrows pushing north and the Flanagan theme inspired by Leslie Norman’s 1958 film Dunkirk, starring John Mills and Richard Attenborough. But Nolan is not having any morale-raising laughter or chirpiness. His disaster is big; the stakes are high, the anxiety is unbearable.

We are forced into eardrum-perforating action straight away. A squaddie named Tommy (Fionn Whitehead) scrambles desperately to the beach through the Dunkirk streets under heavy fire and sees the bad-dream panorama in front of him: hundreds of thousands of stranded French and British soldiers waiting all over the sand. Corpses are being buried there. There are no ships to rescue them and – apparently – no air cover to prevent them being picked off. Tommy is to come into contact with fellow soldier, Alex (Harry Styles, making a perfectly strong acting debut). Meanwhile, RAF pilot Farrier (Tom Hardy) is, in fact, engaging the enemy overhead and taking desperate risks with fuel. A grizzled naval officer played by Kenneth Branagh – channelling Jack Hawkins in The Cruel Sea (1953) – broodingly scans the horizon. And on the home front, a Mr Dawson, laconically played by Mark Rylance, takes his little cruiser, joins the people’s armada, encounters a traumatised officer (Cillian Murphy) and endures a terrible sacrifice, which he lives to see mythologised and falsified by the press.

In military terms, Dunkirk is almost entirely static for most of its running time: the battle is over before the film has begun, and there is no narrative context of the sort offered in Leslie Norman’s version. Nolan surrounds his audience with chaos and horror from the outset, and amazing images and dazzlingly accomplished set pieces on a huge 70mm screen, particularly the pontoon crammed with soldiers extending into the churning sea, exposed to enemy aircraft. It is an architectural expression of doomed homeward yearning. There is a tremendous image when some of the soldiers do manage to scramble aboard a destroyer, and are welcomed with tea and that now vanished treat, bread-and-jam, and so tiny rectangles of red surreally speckle the grey-and-khaki picture. It is also persuasively horrible when soldiers wait by the surf’s edge, which has become a lapping scummy froth, as if these are the survivors of some horrible natural disaster.


Christopher Nolan might have found some inspiration from the Dunkirk scene in Joe Wright’s 2007 movie Atonement, but otherwise he brings his own colossal and very distinctive confidence to this story. It’s a visceral piece of film-making.

Tweedland Images / Just Soldiers

INTERMEZZO / Tweedland / Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson - Interview with Kenneth Harris (video)

$
0
0


Kenneth Harris interviews HRH Duke of Windsor, the former King Edward VIII, and his spouse Wallis, Duchess of Windsor

Sunday Images / Tweedland / Just Two ...

William Crockford's St James's Club

$
0
0

Crockford was born 13 January 1776 in Temple Bar, London, the son of a fishmonger, and for some time himself carried on that business. He married firstly (1801) Mary Lockwood and secondly (20 May 1812 St George's Hanover Square) Sarah Frances Douglass. After winning a large sum of money (according to one story, £100,000) either at cards or by running a gambling establishment, he built a luxurious gambling house designed by Benjamin and Philip Wyatt at 50-53 St James's Street in 1827. In order to ensure exclusiveness, he organized the house as a members' club under the name "The St James's Club" though popularly known as "Crockford's Club" and it quickly became the rage – every English social celebrity and every distinguished foreigner visiting London hastened to become a member. Even the Duke of Wellington joined, though it is alleged this was in order merely to blackball his son, Lord Douro, should he seek election. Hazard was the favourite game, and very large sums changed hands.




Crockford retired in 1840, when, in the expressive language of Captain Rees Howell Gronow, he had "won the whole of the ready money of the then existing generation." He took approximately £1,200,000 out of the club, but subsequently invested some of it unwisely, particularly with two of his sons and one daughter (Henry, Charles and Fanny Crockford) in mining and zinc manufacturing in Greenfield, Flintshire, Wales. Crockford died at his home 11 Carlton House Terrace (later Prime Minister Gladstone's home) on 24 May 1844. and lies buried in a family vault underneath Kensal Green Cemetery Chapel London






Crockford's, the popular name for William Crockford's St James's Club was a London gentlemen's club, now dissolved. It was established in 1823, closed in 1845, re-founded in 1928 and closed in 1970. One of London's older clubs, it was centred on gambling and maintained a somewhat raffish and raucous reputation. It was founded by William Crockford who employed Benjamin Wyatt and Philip Wyatt to construct the city's most opulent palace of gentlemanly pleasure, which opened in November 1827 and he employed two of London's finest chefs of the time, Louis Eustache Ude and then Charles Elmé Francatelli to feed its members, food and drink being supplied free after midnight.

From 1823, the club leased 50 St. James's Street, and then nos. 51–53, which enabled Crockford to pull down all four houses and build his palatial club on the site. After the club's closure, this continued to be used as a clubhouse, at first briefly by the short-lived Military, Naval and County Service Club, and then between 1874 and 1976 it was home to the Devonshire Club.




“The Georgian Art of Gambling takes readers on a wild tour through high and low society in Georgian England to reveal all aspects of the widespread love of gambling. From detailed accounts of the fashionable card and dice games of the day, as played in fine homes and gambling houses alike, to wagering on blood sports like cockfighting and bull baiting, and such less gruesome affairs as boxing and cricket, Claire Cock-Starkey brings to life the world of Jane Austen; Beau Brummel; Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire; and more. We see aristocrats ruined by the turn of a card; activists mounting antigambling campaigns through pamphlets, broadsides, and legislation; and the devious machinations of card sharps and dice loaders. Cock-Starkey also offers rules and descriptions for a number of games that have fallen out of favor, along with copious anecdotes and facts about the culture of chance in Regency England.”

Eight Ghosts: The English Heritage Book of New Ghost Stories

$
0
0

With stories by Kate Clanchy, Mark Haddon, Andrew Michael Hurley, Stuart Evers, Max Porter, Sarah Perry, Kamila Shamsie, Jeanette Winterson and an introduction from Andrew Martin.
In the winter of 2016 English Heritage sent some of the UK's finest contemporary writers to stay at different sites of historical importance across the UK. From Max Porter at Eltham Palace to Mark Haddon deep in York's Cold War Bunker their experiences informed their chilling creations. Eight authors, eight ghost stories, eight unsettling, supernatural creations set loose in time for Halloween.
With a foreword by Andrew Martin and fascinating background detail on English Heritage sites and their supernatural legacies, this is a book to be savoured - and read aloud - as the nights draw in this winter.


Not giving up the ghost story … Audley End House, in Essex, which inspired Sarah Perry’s story. Photograph: Alamy Stock Photo

'A genuinely disturbing place': England's spookiest sites inspire new ghost stories from top writers

The likes of Jeanette Winterson, Mark Haddon and Sarah Perry have penned dark tales of ancient houses and hauntings, spanning the country from Audley End in Essex to York Cold War Bunker


Danuta Kean
Wednesday 19 July 2017 14.55 BST Last modified on Wednesday 19 July 2017 15.58 BST

Beneath Dover Castle, an imposing Gothic bulk atop the chalk hills of the English port, is a labyrinth of tunnels. Dug in the 18th century for troops garrisoned there as a first line of defence against revolutionary France, the tunnels have recently developed a ghostly reputation.

Once a month, English Heritage, which manages the site, evacuates the tunnels for staff to perform sweeps, searching for any of the mysterious figures that tourists have reported seeing. In one report, a heavy door slammed shut and a stretcher trolley, part of a wartime exhibit, raced along the corridor as if pushed by a violent force. In another, a stranger in wartime fatigues approached a small boy asking for his help to find “Helen” (neither man nor his quarry were found).

With such tales coming out from many of its historic sites, it is a little surprising that English Heritage felt it needed to recruit authors to invent new ghost stories. But the charity has commissioned eight – including Jeanette Winterson, Mark Haddon and Sarah Perry – to contribute to Eight Ghosts, a collection of spectral tales set in some of its spookier sites, including Dover Castle, Hadrian’s Wall and Audley End.

Ghost stories and the gothic tend to have a resurgence in the aftermath of periods of rationalism and scientific advance
Sarah Perry
“The castles and stately homes of England have long inspired ghostly myths and legends,” says English Heritage editor Bronwen Riley. “After all, white ladies, cursed souls and headless apparitions all need somewhere fitting to haunt.”

Some of the authors did not have to travel far from their own geographical origins. Glaswegian Kate Clanchy chose Housesteads Roman Fort on Hadrian’s Wall, Northumberland, while Perry chose Audley End in Essex, which she visited as a child. Others chose more unusual settings: Haddon used the York Cold War Bunker – described by English Heritage as its “most modern and spine-chilling” site – while Jeanette Winterson selected Pendennis Castle, Cornwall.


 Ruins of the barnsUNITED KINGDOM - NOVEMBER 15: Ruins of the barns, Housesteads Roman Fort, Hadrian’s Wall (Unesco World Heritage List, 1987), Northumberland, England, United Kingdom. Roman civilisation, 2nd century. (Photo by DeAgostini/Getty Images)


Location is vital to a good ghost story, and ancient houses and abandoned barracks are standard tropes in a genre that has deep roots in English architecture; from Mr Lockwood’s bedroom in Wuthering Heights to the Dartmoor manor in Catherine Fisher’s Chronoptika series. As Andrew Michael Hurley, author of horror novel The Loney and, in Eight Ghosts, a story set in the dungeons of Carlisle Castle, says: “Buildings, like ghosts, are things that endure beyond the usual human span of life. They are the theatres in which the past may be replayed.”

Kamila Shamsie saw the ruins of Kenilworth Castle as “like a bombed-out building”, making them a perfect backdrop to her tale of the castle’s night security guard, who has arrived in England from an unnamed war-torn country and is facing the horrors of his past through the prism of a night in which the events may be real or imagined.

“I drew very much on the ghost stories that the English Heritage staff at Kenilworth told me – stories of voices from behind locked doors, presences felt in the kitchen,” the Burnt Shadows author says. A specific architectural feature of the building niggled her imagination, she adds: “I noticed that the guidebook kept referring to unusually large windows built into Kenilworth Castle through the centuries – it raised the question: did they want to let in the light or were they afraid of something in the dark?”

 Elizabethan Gardens Open At Kenilworth Castle After ReconstructionKENILWORTH, ENGLAND - APRIL 30: Historic interpreters Hilary Janewood and Charles Neville re-enact a meeting between Queen Elizabeth I and the Earl of Leicester in the new Elizabethan Gardens in the grounds of Kenilworth Castle on April 30, 2009 in Kenilworth, England. English Heritage has reconstructed the pleasure gardens created by Robert Dudley the Earl of Leicester which he built to impress and court Queen Elizabeth I over 400 years ago. The garden has painstakingly been re-created with the aid of archaeology and historic notes and cost over GBP 2.1 million. (Photo by Christopher Furlong/Getty Images)


Historic interpreters re-enact a meeting between Queen Elizabeth I and the Earl of Leicester in the grounds of Kenilworth Castle. Photograph: Christopher Furlong/Getty Images

The architecture of ghost stories is based in the landscape of memory, whether real or imagined, which often means they contain a dreamlike quality – think of the nightmarish glimpse of the sheet-wrapped ghost in MR James’s Oh, Whistle, and I’ll Come to You My Lad. Perry, who visited the Great Hall at Audley End for the first time in 20 years for her story, had this uncanny feeling while gazing at the Jacobean splendour: “I thought I’d forgotten it all – but there was the yew hedge looking like black stormclouds, and the fire buckets hanging from the ceiling, as if I remembered it all from a dream.”

There are creepy exceptions to the gothic homes and castle ruins: the York Cold War Bunker may be a modern structure, but Haddon calls it “a genuinely disturbing place … It was in use during my lifetime in the expectation that the majority of the human race might be burned from the surface of the earth,” he says. “You don’t get that kind of frisson at Kenilworth Castle.”

 York Cold War Bunker was in active service from the 1960s-90s and was designed as a nerve-centre to monitor fall-out in the event of a nuclear attack.


York Cold War Bunker was in active service from the 1960s-90s and was designed as a nerve-centre to monitor fall-out in the event of a nuclear attack. Photograph: Christopher Furlong/Getty Images

The popularity of ghost stories has been tied to societal change: in Victorian times, with their servants suddenly popping out of hidden passages around their creaky, gaslit houses, and spiritualism coming into vogue, the middle classes marvelled at the ghostly possibilities of new technologies such as radio and telephones, setting new parameters for what was possible. Their popularity today, Perry believes, reflects the insecurities of our age. “Ghost stories and the gothic tend to have something of a resurgence in the aftermath of periods of rationalism and scientific advance, as if the reader sighs and thinks: wouldn’t it be nice if there was more to it all than this?” she says.

Haddon believes this hunger, for something beyond what is provable, is what drives writers to the genre. The self-proclaimed “ardent materialist” says: “I think a lot of literature is driven by a desire to find some kind of doorway into that other place. To look at it another way, isn’t the function of all fiction to bring the dead to life?”

Eight Ghosts: The English Heritage Book of New Ghost Stories is published in October 2017 by September Publishing.

Ten Times / Just Vintage

The Nato Strap / G10 Military Nylon Strap

$
0
0

 (…) “Interestingly enough, the term “NATO strap” came into use as a shortened version of NATO Stocking Number (NSN), and otherwise has very little to do with the strap carrying its namesake. The more appropriate name for the “NATO” strap is actually the “G10” — which is how we’ll refer to it from here. In 1973, “Strap, Wrist Watch” made its debut in the British Ministry of Defence Standard (DefStan) 66-15. For soldiers to get their hands on one, they had to fill out a form known as the G1098, or G10 for short. Subsequently, they could retrieve the strap at their unit’s supply store of the same name.

Though DefStan’s name for the strap was decidedly nondescript, its specifications were distinct and specific. MoD-issued G10 straps were nylon, only made in “Admiralty Grey” with a width of 20mm, and had chrome-plated brass buckle and keepers. Another key trait was a second, shorter piece of nylon strap attached to the buckle. Since the strap was to be used by the military, it needed to be functional and fail-safe. The extra nylon had a keeper at its end through which the main part of the strap passed through after it had been looped behind the watch. This created a pocket, limiting the distance the case could move. As long as the strap was passed through properly and snugly on the wrist, the case would stay exactly where it was needed. The bonus feature of a strap that passes behind the watch is there so that in the event that a spring bar breaks or pops out, the case will still be secured by the other spring bar.

Since 1973, the G10 strap has seen only slight modification. The current version has been downsized to 18mm (this is due to the 18mm lugs found on the Cabot Watch Company’s military issue watch) and now has stainless steel hardware. In 1978, a company known as Phoenix took over production of MoD-spec G10 straps; those would be the “real deal” if one were looking for them today.

Not long after the simple “Admiralty Grey” G10 was issued, British military regiments began wearing straps honoring their respective regimental colors with stripes of all colors and combinations. One strap’s stripe pattern has become more famous than all the rest, but to call it a G10 or a NATO strap is actually a misnomer. When Sean Connery’s Bond famously wrist-checked his “Big Crown” reference 6538 Submariner in Goldfinger, he revealed an interestingly striped nylon strap. Aside from being too narrow, the strap was notable because of its navy blue color with red and green stripes. Many watch enthusiasts have labeled this strap as the “Bond NATO.” Despite the strap’s similarities to a G10, Goldfinger began filming in 1964, nine years before the first MoD G10 strap was issued. Timeline issues aside, it’s clear that the strap Connery wore had a very simple one-piece construction, not unlike that of a waist belt, and distinct from a true NATO.

Despite Bond’s trendsetting strap choice, it would be many years before the nylon strap industry would take hold. Like many other trends born from utilitarian military items (M65 Jackets, camouflage, etc.), early G10 strap adopters were attracted to the item’s usefulness and “tacti-cool” street cred. The usefulness is still intact, but now that there are literally hundreds of straps of different colors, stripes and materials sold by vendors around the world, the street cred has become more “faux” than ever. This shouldn’t stop you from wearing one, however. The straps are inexpensive, extremely durable, and can be switched out to fit whatever outfit or mood you’re in. In fact, most watch nerds probably have more G10s than they do watches.

G10s have been heavily trending upwards over the last several years or so. While it may be a fad that eventually fades, they don’t appear to be going away in the short term. Watchmakers like Tudor, Blancpain, Hamilton and Bremont have been either throwing in a G10 as an accessory to a watch purchase, or flat out offering one as the main strap option. The horology purist may scoff at such a thing, but watchmakers would be foolish not to ride the G10 wave; and while they come in varying degrees of quality, a good one is a trustworthy piece of equipment with a rich history.”









Robert Hardy obituary

$
0
0




Robert Hardy obituary
Actor who starred on TV in All Creatures Great and Small and became associated with the role of Winston Churchill

Michael Coveney
Thursday 3 August 2017 18.01 BST Last modified on Thursday 3 August 2017 22.00 BST

Robert Hardy, who has died aged 91, was one of the most instantly recognisable and authoritative actors of the past half-century on television, especially in the role of Winston Churchill – whom he played in at least eight incarnations – and as Siegfried Farnon, the senior vet in the long-running BBC series All Creatures Great and Small, based on the semi-autobiographical novels of James Herriot.

Leading actors have often become associated with living characters – Michael Sheen with Tony Blair, for instance, or Meryl Streep with Margaret Thatcher – but Hardy relished the challenge of playing a historical figment, someone already lodged in his own mythology, though he did happen to know, and became a personal friend of, Herriot’s veterinary colleague, the eccentric Donald Sinclair, the acknowledged basis and inspiration of Farnon’s character.

“The great joy of acting,” he said, “is getting into the part, which is why I enjoy playing people who actually lived.” His patrician manner and gloriously disdainful bearing meant that he specialised in high-born politicians, diplomats and royalty: Prince Albert, Gordon of Khartoum, Mussolini, several Shakespearean kings and Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, all fell naturally within his compass. He played the last of these, the doomed favourite of Glenda Jackson’s austere Virgin Queen, in the great 1971 BBC six-part series Elizabeth R. For a time, if there was a “class” series or TV film to be made – An Age of Kings, a decade earlier; Edward the Seventh (starring Timothy West; Hardy was consort to Annette Crosbie’s Queen Victoria) in 1975 – Hardy’s very presence was guarantee of its quality.

But his range was not confined to costume drama. He played in countless contemporary works on television, though he never gained a foothold in Hollywood. He was probably, at that time, too crusty – his voice, which stung as much as it sang, had the distinctive, dry property of superior sandpaper – and he was too rigidly clubbable and respectable for Hollywood’s idea of a “gentleman” in the raffish style of Rex Harrison or David Niven.

His early career as a leading light at both Stratford-upon-Avon and the Old Vic, though, suggested he might follow his great friend Richard Burton to even greater glory. He was the first David Copperfield on BBC TV (in 1956), and a fiery Prince Hal and Henry V at the Old Vic – in this role he developed what became a lifelong interest in the history of the longbow – and you could say that he spent the rest of his life adapting his golden boy pre-eminence to lesser, and then older, character parts.

Hardy’s background defined a personality which, he admitted on Desert Island Discs in 2011 (“Music is a constant in my life, my head is filled with it”), came with a spine of steel and a streak of ruthlessness. His choice of records included Beethoven, Poulenc, Berlioz, Sibelius – and Pearl Bailey singing What Is a Friend For? He was prickly to a fault and, by his own admission, “difficult to live with”. There was always a sense of danger in his acting: he was like a corked bottle of combustible gas.
Born in Cheltenham, he was the youngest of six children of Major Henry Harrison Hardy, headmaster of Cheltenham college, and his wife, Edith (nee Dugdale), and was educated, after prep school (“absolute hell”), at Rugby and Magdalen College, Oxford, where his tutors were CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien. Still, his degree was “shabby”, and he pitched straight into the professional theatre in a spirit of rebellion, having split his time at Oxford – where he played Fortinbras in Kenneth Tynan’s First Quarto Hamlet in 1948 – with a period of service in the RAF.

He made his professional debut at the Memorial theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon in 1949, touring to Australia as Banquo in Macbeth, and making his first London mark as Claudio in John Gielgud’s revival of Much Ado About Nothing at the Phoenix in 1952. His star rose at the Old Vic in three seasons, 1953-56, when he played Laertes to Richard Burton’s Hamlet and Claire Bloom’s Ophelia; Ariel in the Tempest; Dumaine in Love’s Labour’s Lost; and a dashing Prince Hal to Paul Rogers’s Falstaff.

After West End stints in The Caine Mutiny Court Martial, and as Lord Byron in Tennessee Williams’s Camino Real, he returned to Stratford in 1959, playing a highly rated, viciously evil Edmund to Charles Laughton’s King Lear; the King of France in All’s Well That Ends Well; and a devious tribune alongside Laurence Olivier’s Coriolanus.

Thus established, he launched his notable television career alongside seasons at the Bristol Old Vic and in the West End, playing the Count in Jean Anouilh’s The Rehearsal and, in 1963, the adulterous wine merchant in Iris Murdoch’s A Severed Head at the Criterion. One of his most glittering performances came in 1967, as Sir Harry Wildair in the George Farquhar Restoration comedy The Constant Couple at the New (now the Noël Coward) theatre.

For five years in the late 1960s, he appeared as a thrusting oil-company executive in the BBC’s groundbreaking The Troubleshooters, a series that started in black and white and ended in colour. This was an immensely popular programme, with gripping plotlines of global espionage, free-market enterprise, middle-aged testosterone, internal politics and dangers on the North Sea oil rigs.

After that, Hardy did not expect All Creatures Great and Small to be a success; he thought it would “bore the town and annoy the country”. Instead, it played in all for 90 episodes between 1978 and 1990. He also fitted in eight episodes of The Wilderness Years in 1981; his portrait of Churchill between the wars, reclaiming his “lost” career before going to the Admiralty in 1939, remains a highlight of TV acting, vigorous, peppery, lovable and bullish, but not remotely an “impersonation”, honoured with a Bafta award.

That portrait hardened into something more like mimicry in a feeble musical, Winnie, at the Victoria Palace in 1988; Hardy did little more than intone highlights from the great speeches as part of a wartime cabaret in bombed-out Potsdam to launch the 1945 general election campaign. His other Churchills included an appearance in the television abdication drama The Woman He Loved (1988), and the miniseries War and Remembrance (also 1988), starring Robert Mitchum as a second world war naval officer. He played Churchill in French, in Paris, in a play called Celui Qui A Dit Non (1999). His last, seriously ailing Churchill was in Marion Milne’s TV movie Churchill: 100 Days That Saved Britain (2015), with Phil Davis as his physician, Charles McMoran Wilson, and Jemma Redgrave as Clementine.

Hardy’s West End adieu had been in Roy Kendall’s Body and Soul (1992), an old-fashioned problem play – the “problem” being the ordination of women into the Church of England – in which he bristled with charm and alertness as an astonished bishop whose vicar, Christopher, has returned to the parish after a sex change.

 Before then, he popped up on film in Alan Bridges’ The Shooting Party (1985), with a deluxe cast of James Mason, Edward Fox, Dorothy Tutin and Gielgud, and in David Hare’s Paris by Night (1988), a political thriller led by Charlotte Rampling and Michael Gambon. His Indian summer in British-based movies continued in Kenneth Branagh’s Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1994), Ang Lee’s Sense and Sensibility (1995), Mrs Dalloway (1997) with Vanessa Redgrave, The Tichborne Claimant (1998) and Oliver Parker’s An Ideal Husband (1999), lining up alongside Cate Blanchett, Minnie Driver, Rupert Everett and John Wood.

No surprise at all, then, that he joined in the Harry Potter film franchise, appearing in four of the series, starting with the second, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (2002), as Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic.

Hardy’s book about his passion, The Longbow (1976), is a standard work on the subject, and he co-authored another volume, The Great Warbow, in 2004. He served as a trustee of the board of the Royal Armouries, chairman of Berkshire, Buckinghamshire and Oxfordshire Naturalists’ Trust Appeal and as a member of the Woodmen of Arden. He held several honorary degrees and was made CBE in 1981.

He was twice married, first to Elizabeth Fox, and second to Sally Pearson, both marriages ending in divorce. He is survived by a son, Paul, from the first and two daughters, Emma and Justine, from the second.


• Timothy Sydney Robert Hardy, actor, born 29 October 1925; died 3 August 2017

Robert Hardy, Harry Potter actor, dies at 91
Star’s 70-year career included roles as Cornelius Fudge, Churchill, and Siegfried Farnon in All Creatures Great and Small

Mark Brown Arts correspondent
Thursday 3 August 2017 16.42 BST First published on Thursday 3 August 2017 16.32 BST

The Harry Potter actor Robert Hardy has died at the age of 91, his family has said.

They paid tribute to an actor whose theatre, film and television career spanned 70 years.

His children – Emma, Justine and Paul – said: “Gruff, elegant, twinkly, and always dignified, he is celebrated by all who knew him and loved him, and everyone who enjoyed his work.

“We are immensely grateful to the team at Denville Hall [a London retirement home for actors] for the tender care they gave during his last weeks.”

Hardy was also known for his many portrayals of Winston Churchill and as the irascible vet Siegfried Farnon in All Creatures Great and Small.

His early years as an actor were at the Shakespeare Memorial theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon where, while playing Henry V, he developed what became a lifelong interest in the longbow, later publishing two books on the subject.

In his later career, Hardy played Cornelius Fudge, in the Harry Potter movies about the boy wizard, but he came to national attention in 1977 when he was offered the role of the mercurial, cantankerous Siegfried in All Creatures Great and Small, based on the memoirs of the Yorkshire vet Alf Wright who used the pseudonym James Herriot. The stories and chemistry between the actors helped it become one of the BBC’s most successful and popular family evening dramas.

His co-star Christopher Timothy paid tribute to Hardy saying: “He has left an unbelievable legacy of fantastic work for many generations to enjoy and appreciate. A fascinating man, he didn’t suffer fools I can tell you, but he was a good fellow.”

JK Rowling also shared her memories of working with Hardy on the film adaptations of her Harry Potter books. She wrote: “So very sad to hear about Robert Hardy. He was such a talented actor and everybody who worked with him on Potter loved him.”

Hardy played Churchill on numerous occasions, notably in the 1981 ITV series Winston Churchill: The Wilderness Years for which he won a Bafta.

In 2015 Hardy, writing in the Daily Mail, said portraying the wartime leader had “undoubtedly been the greatest challenge of my acting career … To prepare I spent nine months listening - morning, afternoon and evening – to 24 double-sided long playing records of all the speeches he’d made. By the end of those nine months I could tell which of the recordings Churchill had made before lunch, and which he’d made after!”

Hardy had been due to play Churchill once again in the stage production of The Audience, with Helen Mirren as Elizabeth II, but, at the age of 87, was forced to pull out because of injury.

His family said Hardy was a “meticulous linguist, a fine artist, a lover of music and a champion of literature, as well as a highly respected historian. He was an essential part of the team that raised the great Tudor warship the Mary Rose”.

Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know: The Extraordinary Exploits of the British and European Aristocracy by Karl Shaw / London in the Eighteenth Century: A Great and Monstrous Thing by Jerry White

$
0
0

Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know: The Extraordinary Exploits of the British and European Aristocracy
by Karl Shaw

The alarming history of the British, and European, aristocracy - from Argyll to Wellington and from Byron to Tolstoy, stories of madness, murder, misery, greed and profligacy.
From Regency playhouses, to which young noblemen would go simply in order to insult someone to provoke a duel that might further their reputation, to the fashionable gambling clubs or 'hells' which were springing up around St James's in the mid-eighteenth century, the often bizarre doings of aristocrats.
An eighteenth-century English gentleman was required to have what was known as 'bottom', a shipping metaphor that referred to stability. Taking part in a duel was a bold statement that you had bottom. William Petty, 2nd Earl of Shelburne certainly had bottom, if not a complete set of gonads following his duel with Colonel Fullarton, MP for Plympton. Both men missed with their first shots, but the colonel fired again and shot off Shelborne's right testicle. Despite being hit, Shelborne deliberately discharged his second shot in the air. When asked how he was, the injured Earl coolly observed his wound and said, 'I don't think Lady Shelborne will be the worse for it.'
The cast of characters includes imperious, hard-drinking and highly volatile Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe, who is remembered today as much for his brilliant scientific career as his talent for getting involved in bizarre mishaps, such as his death as a result of his burst bladder; the Marquess of Queensberry, a side-whiskered psychopath, who, on a luxury steamboat in Brazil, in a row with a fellow passenger over the difference between emus and ostriches, and knocked him out cold; and Thomas, 2nd Baron Lyttelton, a Georgian rake straight out of central casting, who ran up enormous gambling debts, fought duels, frequented brothels and succumbed to drug and alcohol addiction.
Often, such rakes would be swiftly packed off on a Grand Tour in the hope that travel would bring about maturity. It seldom did.



London in the eighteenth century was very much a new city, risen from the ashes of the Great Fire. With thousands of homes and many landmark buildings destroyed, it had been brought to the brink. But the following century was a period of vigorous expansion, of scientific and artistic genius, of blossoming reason, civility, elegance and manners. It was also an age of extremes: of starving poverty and exquisite fashion, of joy and despair, of sentiment and cruelty. Society was fractured by geography, politics, religion and history. And everything was complicated by class. As Daniel Defoe put it, London really was a 'great and monstrous Thing'.

Jerry White's tremendous portrait of this turbulent century explores how and to what extent Londoners negotiated and repaired these open wounds. We see them going about their business as bankers or beggars, revelling in an enlarging world of public pleasures, indulging in crimes both great and small - amidst the tightening sinews of power and regulation, and the hesitant beginnings of London democracy.
In the long-awaited finale to his acclaimed history of London over 300 years, Jerry White introduces us to shopkeepers and prostitutes, men and women of fashion and genius, street-robbers and thief-takers, as they play out the astonishing drama of life in eighteenth-century London.




London in the Eighteenth Century: A Great and Monstrous Thing by Jerry White – review
Jerry White's study of Georgian London depicts a city teeming with sex and violence

Robert McCrum
Sunday 25 March 2012 00.05 GMT First published on Sunday 25 March 2012 00.05 GMT

Britain and London are virtually synonymous in the eyes of the world. The eve of the Olympics is a good time to go back to the century that saw the making of Britannia and the London we walk and live in today. Jerry White's history of 18th-century London is the culmination of two previous volumes about London in the 19th and 20th centuries. This new book finds him inspired by the city that Daniel Defoe identified as "this great and monstrous Thing called London".

In 1700, it was divided, in separations that linger, into three: the City (London), the court (Westminster and St James's) and south of the river (Southwark). The essayist Joseph Addison, in 1712, looked on it as "an aggregate of various nations distinguished from each other by their respective customs, manners an interests". In 1700, its population numbered about half a million, swelling to approximately 750,000 by 1750 and roughly a million by 1800. By contrast, England's second city, Bristol, had scarcely 30,000 inhabitants.

London was not just staggeringly larger than anywhere else, it was also a vivid new metropolis, much of it in soft pink brick. The Great Fire of 1666 had left more than half of the old city in smouldering ruins. After the union with Scotland, the capital became the outward sign of British prosperity and self-confidence. And the people most attracted to it, for its teeming opportunities, were the Scots.

Georgian London became a Scottish city. Its main architect, James Gibbs, was Scottish. So was the circle that formed around the young George III. That great Londoner, Samuel Johnson, loved to goad the Scots, but his amanuensis, James Boswell, was one himself, and so were five of the six assistants on his famous Dictionary. Scots in the capital often attracted hostility. When officers in highland dress appeared at Covent Garden, the upper gallery yelled: "No Scots! No Scots!" and pelted them with apples.

In other ways, Britannia's London was more extreme but not so different from our own: prey to rioting, seething with sex and violence. Visitors to London, appalled by the atmosphere, also noted what one described as "the vast number of harlots" roaming the streets by night. London was the sex capital of Europe, but hardly uplifting. "She was ugly and lean," wrote James Boswell of one encounter in the park, "and her breath smelt of spirits. I never asked her name. When it was done, she slunk off."

White's account is not exactly new. Much of this book reads like an animated Hogarth cartoon. But he has uncovered a wealth of evidence to sustain a portrait of a society revelling in money and pleasure in ways that recall the excesses of the 1980s.

Contemporaries saw the city as a marketplace for every kind of trade. In the mixing of vice and fashion, there were remarkable social consequences at work, too. White argues persuasively that historians have paid insufficient attention to the role of prostitution in the rise of democracy. It's a pleasing picture that while the women of the town flirtatiously dissolved the bonds of deference, London became a democratic crucible.

But there was a dark side. "Crime and criminals," says White, "knew no bounds of rank in 18th-century London." Suicide was common, executions a public spectacle. Violent property crime rose. In 1780, with the outbreak of the Gordon riots, London seemed on the brink of civil war.

In early June, the mob attacked 10 Downing Street and then moved on to batter the city's prisons, destroying Newgate. It has been calculated that these riots destroyed 10 times more property than was destroyed in Paris during the entire French revolution.

The repression of the 1790s was the response of an establishment reasserting state control. The French revolution and the wars that followed loosened the city's devotion to popular democracy and brought merchants and courtiers from the east and west ends into a loyal alliance behind the throne. London had become the world capital it remains today.


The Duellists - Ultra Realistic Movie Sword Fight

DUEL

$
0
0




A duel is an arranged engagement in combat between two individuals, with matched weapons, in accordance with agreed-upon rules. Duels in this form were chiefly practiced in early modern Europe with precedents in the medieval code of chivalry, and continued into the modern period (19th to early 20th centuries) especially among military officers.
During the 17th and 18th centuries (and earlier), duels were mostly fought with swords (the rapier, and later the smallsword), but beginning in the late 18th century in England, duels were more commonly fought using pistols. Fencing and pistol duels continued to co-exist throughout the 19th century.
The duel was based on a code of honor. Duels were fought not so much to kill the opponent as to gain "satisfaction", that is, to restore one's honor by demonstrating a willingness to risk one's life for it, and as such the tradition of dueling was originally reserved for the male members of nobility; however, in the modern era it extended to those of the upper classes generally. On rare occasions, duels with pistols or swords were fought between women; these were sometimes known as petticoat duels.
Legislation against dueling goes back to the medieval period. The Fourth Council of the Lateran (1215) outlawed duels, and civil legislation in the Holy Roman Empire against dueling was passed in the wake of the Thirty Years' War. From the early 17th century, duels became illegal in the countries where they were practiced. Dueling largely fell out of favor in England by the mid-19th century and in Continental Europe by the turn of the 20th century. Dueling declined in the Eastern United States in the 19th century and by the time the American Civil War broke out, dueling had begun to decline, even in the South. Public opinion, not legislation, caused the change.
In Western society, the formal concept of a duel developed out of the medieval judicial duel and older pre-Christian practices such as the Viking Age holmgang. In Medieval society, judicial duels were fought by knights and squires to end various disputes. Countries like Germany, United Kingdom, and Ireland practiced this tradition. Judicial combat took two forms in medieval society, the feat of arms and chivalric combat. The feat of arms was used to settle hostilities between two large parties and supervised by a judge. The battle was fought as a result of a slight or challenge to one party's honor which could not be resolved by a court. Weapons were standardized and typical of a knight's armoury, for example longswords, polearms etc., however, weapon quality and augmentations were at the discretion of the knight, for example, a spiked hand guard for or an extra grip for half-swording. The parties involved would wear their own armour, one knight may choose to wear full plate armour, whilst another wears chain mail. The duel lasted until the other party was too weak to fight back. In early cases, the defeated party was then executed. These type of duels soon evolved into the more chivalric pas d'armes, or "passage of arms", a type of chivalric hastilude that evolved in the late 14th century and remained popular through the 15th century. A knight or group of knights (tenans or "holders") would stake out a travelled spot, such as a bridge or city gate, and let it be known that any other knight who wished to pass (venans or "comers") must first fight, or be disgraced.. If a traveling venans did not have weapons or horse to meet the challenge, one might be provided, and if the venans chose not to fight, he would leave his spurs behind as a sign of humiliation. If a lady passed unescorted, she would leave behind a glove or scarf, to be rescued and returned to her by a future knight who passed that way.

The Roman Catholic Church was critical of dueling throughout medieval history, frowning both on the traditions of judicial combat and on the duel on points of honor among the nobility. Judicial duels were deprecated by the Lateran Council of 1215, but the judicial duel persisted in the Holy Roman Empire into the 15th century. The word duel comes from the Latin 'duellum', cognate with 'bellum', meaning 'war'.

During the early Renaissance, dueling established the status of a respectable gentleman, and was an accepted manner to resolve disputes.
Dueling remained highly popular in European society, despite various attempts at banning the practice.
According to Ariel Roth, during the reign of Henry IV, over 4,000 French aristocrats were killed in duels "in an eighteen-year period" while a twenty-year period of Louis XIII's reign saw some eight thousand pardons for "murders associated with duels". Roth also notes that thousands of men in the Southern United States "died protecting what they believed to be their honor."

The first published code duello, or "code of dueling", appeared in Renaissance Italy. The first formalized national code was France's, during the Renaissance. In 1777, a code of practice was drawn up for the regulation of duels, at the Summer assizes in the town of Clonmel, County Tipperary, Ireland. A copy of the code, known as 'The twenty-six commandments', was to be kept in a gentleman's pistol case for reference should a dispute arise regarding procedure. During the Early Modern period, there were also various attempts by secular legislators to curb the practice. Queen Elizabeth I officially condemned and outlawed dueling in 1571, shortly after the practice had been introduced to England.

However, the tradition had become deeply rooted in European culture as a prerogative of the aristocracy, and these attempts largely failed. For example, King Louis XIII of France outlawed dueling in 1626, a law which remained in force for ever afterwards, and his successor Louis XIV intensified efforts to wipe out the duel. Despite these efforts, dueling continued unabated, and it is estimated that between 1685 and 1716, French officers fought 10,000 duels, leading to over 400 deaths.

By the late 18th century, Enlightenment era values began to influence society with new self-conscious ideas about politeness, civil behaviour and new attitudes towards violence. The cultivated art of politeness demanded that there should be no outward displays of anger or violence, and the concept of honour became more personalized.

By the 1770s the practice of dueling was increasingly coming under attack from many sections of enlightened society, as a violent relic of Europe's medieval past unsuited for modern life. As England began to industrialize and benefit from urban planning and more effective police forces, the culture of street violence in general began to slowly wane. The growing middle class maintained their reputation with recourse to either bringing charges of libel, or to the fast-growing print media of the early nineteenth century, where they could defend their honour and resolve conflicts through correspondence in newspapers.

Influential new intellectual trends at the turn of the nineteenth century bolstered the anti-dueling campaign; the utilitarian philosophy of Jeremy Bentham stressed that praiseworthy actions were exclusively restricted to those that maximize human welfare and happiness, and the Evangelical notion of the "Christian conscience" began to actively promote social activism. Individuals in the Clapham Sect and similar societies, who had successfully campaigned for the abolition of slavery, condemned dueling as ungodly violence and as an egocentric culture of honour.

Dueling became popular in the United States – the former United States Secretary of the Treasury Alexander Hamilton was killed in a duel against the sitting Vice President Aaron Burr in 1804. Between 1798 and the Civil War, the US Navy lost two-thirds as many officers to dueling as it did in combat at sea, including naval hero Stephen Decatur. Many of those killed or wounded were midshipmen or junior officers. Despite prominent deaths, dueling persisted because of contemporary ideals of chivalry, particularly in the South, and because of the threat of ridicule if a challenge was rejected.

By about 1770, the duel underwent a number of important changes in England. Firstly, unlike their counterparts in many continental nations, English duelists enthusiastically adopted the pistol, and sword duels dwindled. Special sets of dueling pistols were crafted for the wealthiest of noblemen for this purpose. Also, the office of 'second' developed into 'seconds' or 'friends' being chosen by the aggrieved parties to conduct their honour dispute. These friends would attempt to resolve a dispute upon terms acceptable to both parties and, should this fail, they would arrange and oversee the mechanics of the encounter.

In the United Kingdom, to kill in the course of a duel was formally judged as murder, but generally the courts were very lax in applying the law, as they were sympathetic to the culture of honour..This attitude lingered on – Queen Victoria even expressed a hope that Lord Cardigan, prosecuted for wounding another in a duel, "would get off easily". The Anglican Church was generally hostile to dueling, but non-conformist sects in particular began to actively campaign against it.

By 1840, dueling had declined dramatically; when the 7th Earl of Cardigan was acquitted on a legal technicality for homicide in connection with a duel with one of his former officers, outrage was expressed in the media, with The Times alleging that there was deliberate, high level complicity to leave the loop-hole in the prosecution case and reporting the view that "in England there is one law for the rich and another for the poor" and The Examiner describing the verdict as "a defeat of justice".

The last fatal duel between Englishmen in England occurred in 1845, when James Alexander Seton had an altercation with Henry Hawkey over the affections of his wife, leading to a duel at Southsea. However, the last fatal duel to occur in England was between two French political refugees, Frederic Cournet and Emmanuel Barthélemy near Englefield Green in 1852; the former was killed. In both cases, the winners of the duels, Hawkey and Barthélemy, were tried for murder. But Hawkey was acquitted and Barthélemy was convicted only of manslaughter; he served seven months in prison. However, in 1855, Barthélemy was hanged after shooting and killing his employer and another man.

Dueling also began to be criticized in America in the late 18th century; Benjamin Franklin denounced the practice as uselessly violent, and George Washington encouraged his officers to refuse challenges during the American Revolutionary War because he believed that the death by dueling of officers would have threatened the success of the war effort. However, the practice actually gained in popularity in the first half of the nineteenth century especially in the South and on the lawless Western Frontier. Dueling began an irreversible decline in the aftermath of the Civil War. Even in the South, public opinion increasingly came to regard the practice as little more than bloodshed.

The most notorious American duel was the Burr–Hamilton duel, in which notable Federalist and former Secretary of the Treasury Alexander Hamilton was fatally wounded by his political rival, the sitting Vice President of the United States Aaron Burr. This duel was reenacted in the musical Hamilton to the song "The World Was Wide Enough".

Another American politician, Andrew Jackson, later to serve as a General Officer in the U.S. Army and to become the seventh president, fought two duels, though some legends claim he fought many more. On May 30, 1806, he killed prominent duellist Charles Dickinson, suffering himself from a chest wound which caused him a lifetime of pain. Jackson also reportedly engaged in a bloodless duel with a lawyer and in 1803 came very near dueling with John Sevier. Jackson also engaged in a frontier brawl (not a duel) with Thomas Hart Benton in 1813.

On September 22, 1842, future President Abraham Lincoln, at the time an Illinois state legislator, met to duel with state auditor James Shields, but their seconds intervened and persuaded them against it.

On 30 May 1832, French mathematician Évariste Galois was mortally wounded in a duel at the age of twenty, the day after he had written his seminal mathematical results.

Irish political leader Daniel O'Connell killed John D'Esterre in a duel in February 1815. O'Connel offered D'Esterre's widow a pension equal to the amount her husband had been earning at the time, but the Corporation of Dublin, of which D'Esterre was a member, rejected O'Connell's offer and voted the promised sum to D'Esterre's wife themselves. However, D'Esterre's wife consented to accept an allowance for her daughter, which O'Connell regularly paid for more than thirty years until his death. The memory of the duel haunted him for the remainder of his life.

In 1808, two Frenchmen are said to have fought in balloons over Paris, each attempting to shoot and puncture the other's balloon. One duellist is said to have been shot down and killed with his second.

In 1843, two other Frenchmen are said to have fought a duel by means of throwing billiard balls at each other.

The Russian poet Alexander Pushkin prophetically described a number of duels in his works, notably Onegin's duel with Lensky in Eugene Onegin. The poet was mortally wounded in a controversial duel with Georges d'Anthès, a French officer rumoured to be his wife's lover. D'Anthès, who was accused of cheating in this duel, married Pushkin's sister-in-law and went on to become a French minister and senator.

In 1864, American writer Mark Twain, then a contributor to the New York Sunday Mercury, narrowly avoided fighting a duel with a rival newspaper editor, apparently through the intervention of his second, who exaggerated Twain's prowess with a pistol.

In the 1860s, Otto von Bismarck was reported to have challenged Rudolf Virchow to a duel. Virchow, being entitled to choose the weapons, chose two pork sausages, one infected with the roundworm Trichinella; the two would each choose and eat a sausage. Bismarck reportedly declined. The story could be apocryphal, however.

Duels had mostly ceased to be fought to the death by the late 19th century. The last known fatal duel in Ontario was in Perth, in 1833, when Robert Lyon challenged John Wilson to a pistol duel after a quarrel over remarks made about a local school teacher, whom Wilson married after Lyon was killed in the duel. Victoria, BC was known to have been the centre of at least two duels near the time of the gold rush. One involved a British arrival by the name of George Sloane, and an American, John Liverpool, both arriving via San Francisco in 1858. Duel by pistols, Sloane was fatally injured and Liverpool shortly returned to the US. The fight originally started on board the ship over a young woman, Miss Bradford, and then carried on later in Victoria's tent city.[36] Another duel, involving a Mr. Muir, took place around 1861, but was moved to an American island near Victoria.

The last fatal duel in England took place on Priest Hill, between Englefield Green and Old Windsor, on 19 October 1852, between two French political exiles, Frederic Cournet and Emmanuel Barthélemy, the former being killed.

By the outbreak of World War I, dueling had not only been made illegal almost everywhere in the Western world, but was also widely seen as an anachronism. Military establishments in most countries frowned on dueling because officers were the main contestants. Officers were often trained at military academies at government's expense; when officers killed or disabled one another it imposed an unnecessary financial and leadership strain on a military organization, making dueling unpopular with high-ranking officers.

With the end of the duel, the dress sword also lost its position as an indispensable part of a gentleman's wardrobe, a development described as an "archaeological terminus" by Ewart Oakeshott, concluding the long period during which the sword had been a visible attribute of the free man, beginning as early as three millennia ago with the Bronze Age sword.






SUNDAY IMAGES / JEEVES in PARIS

Viewing all 3468 articles
Browse latest View live


<script src="https://jsc.adskeeper.com/r/s/rssing.com.1596347.js" async> </script>