OK, I know I'm about to wade in where angels fear to tread but those of you that know me knew that I would, didn't you? One of my biggest problems in life is that I just can't keep my mouth shut, especially where issues of justice and fairness are concerned. This week we are observing Holocaust Memorial Day, a very important jolt to the senses every year, I always think, and never more so than today, which is the 65th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau by the Russians. Those of you that read my 'Wilcommen, Bienvenue, Welcome' blog some months ago will know how moved we all were by out trip to Auschwitz in December 2007. I defy anyone to go there and not think 'there but the grace of God'.
As a history student in the days before colour television was invented [only joking!], I found myself forever pondering how one of the most civilised and cultured nations could have acquiesed to such a load of racist bunkum. We cannot lay the blame on the Wagnerian images of blond, Aryan, blue eyed and supernatural beings of German mythology. No, the road to 'The Final Solution to the Jewish Question' was perpetrated in little more than an hour by Reinhard Heydrich and his fellow Nazi and SS leaders at the Wannsee Conference, held on the outskirts of Berlin, in 1942. Certainly, many horrific atrocities preceded this event but it was only in 1942 that one of the greatest crimes against humanity was validated.
In between the first performance of 'Das Rheingold' in Munich on September 22nd 1869, the prologue to Wagner's vast operatic trilogy, 'Der Ring des Nibelungen', and the Wannsee Conference on January 20th 1942, there was a constant 'drip, drip' of anti-Semitism. It is easy to see with hindsight how miniscule, unattributed stabs gradually cut away at the very fabric that bound German society together. The cuts became tears, and then slashes, until eventually whole swathes of the German population had been torn completely into redundant and disposable pieces. It was not long before the exercise was repeated throughout the rest of Europe. How could it have happened? The question is as pertinent today as it ever was.
But it could not possibly happen again, I hear you say, and please God, you are right. Carly Whyborn, chief executive officer of the Holocaust Memorial Day Trust said this week,"Britain is not Nazi Germany in the 1930's. It is not Pol Pot's Cambodia. But on Holocaust Memorial Day we can pause to look at how we treat those around us. We can all make the choice to challenge exclusion when we see it happening - we can choose to stop using language that dehumanises others and we can stop our friends and family from dehumanising and excluding others." Martin Stern, a Dutch survivor of Theresienstadt, says, "we won't solve the problem by UN resolutions on genocide. The only hope is that in the future every child in the world should be educated to immunise it against the tendency to hate others and to regard others as inferior."
Yet in the same week that we publicly remind ourselves of the lessons from our immediate history, France decides to recommend a total ban on Muslim women wearing the niqab, the full veil, in public places. I may be missing something but, as I understand it, the percentage of women donning such attractive and enticing attire is less than 0.1% of France's total Muslim population. I mean, after all, how many women would voluntarily opt for such incarceration. I may be opening myself to a massive deluge of hate mail but, really, it strikes me that the bulk of these women who say that it is their choice are educated, smart, sassy women, with a chip on their shoulder and the Islamic equivalent of two fingers up to Sarkozy's all -controlling state. Just who is the proponent of free and unfettered choice here?
The niqab is a cultural relic from the middle east. Saudi Arabia, with its Wahabi brand of extreme and anti feminist Islam, is the great perpetrator of such illiberal dress codes. Women do not have a choice there about not wearing it, any more than women in France will soon have a choice about whether they can choose to wear it and keep their jobs or claim their benefits. The big difference is that Saudi women have no choice and are therefore no real threat to the social order. French women do have a choice and, as a consequence, are seen to threaten the status quo. These women, many it has to be said, who are converts, flaunt their veils voluntarily, and that is their crime. Historically, none of us really cared about the veil when women were kept quiet behind closed doors, least of all the likes of men obsessed with beautiful and alluring women, like Nicolas Sarkozy.
Why is it always the women who are made the scapegoats in these power games? And now, as if some great practical joke has been played on the women of Afghanistan, Gordon Brown and Hamid Karzai are talking about making deals with deeply dodgy members of the Taliban, with appalling human rights records, and bringing them into the so-called democratic political process. It beggars belief. We pussyfoot around, making daft and wildly inaccurate speculation about the chosen attire of women in our own privileged communities, whilst we sell out our sisters to help exit a war we never wanted in the first place. With the Taliban back in town, the genie has sure as hell been let out of the bottle now. My heart goes out to the women of that beautiful and beleaguered country.
My own views on the veil are somewhat coloured by my education at the hands of Ursuline nuns. They had a very nice line in wimples, and there is not, as far as I can see, very much difference. They were certainly de-sexualised, permanently, as it happens, because of their vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. Not much difference there then. In fact, the headmistress of my school, a six footer in stockinged feet, called Sister Philip, bore a striking resemblance to the late, great Peter Cook in 'Bedazzled'. When you have grown up with women clad from head to toe in black, you do not fear them in the least. In all truthfulness, I can't say that the issue of what women wear, however long or short, high-necked or low cut, black or white has ever really bothered me in the slightest. Surely, after all, that is one of the privileges of living in a free society? Whilst I would not relish my daughter adopting the tattoos and piercings of a Goth, I don't honestly think that it would justify throwing her out of the house.
With my own children I have always worked on the principle that if you say, "Yes, Darling, you look wonderful," and try your very best not to show any emotion in your face, as your eyes widen to the size of saucers, they usually tire of the desire to shock. Often, I found, threatening to adopt a fashion vaguely similar did the trick, particularly when tattoos were being considered. My big fear for the young women of France is that this very cowardly and silly recommendation will encourage droves of young Muslim women to make a stand. It would not be unreasonable, after all, to stand up for one's rights. We've all done it when we've felt we've been cornered. It's a natural human response. When I was young I did things that I'm now ashamed of, purely out of sheer bloody-mindedness. Why do we suppose young Muslim women are any different?
But, I guess, that's the real point. We do think that they are different. We do, somehow, and by proxy, think that we know what's best for them. We think that they are a threat to the very foundation of our liberal state. We think that it is the stuff of nightmares, the beginning of the rolling back of everything that we hold most dear. They, I suspect, think they are the height of edgy chic, the Islamic equivalent of punk or grunge. They strut their stuff with pride, especially on the smartest shopping streets in Paris and London. It identifies and radicalises them. It gives their lives meaning. It empowers them rather than subjugates them. In short, their niqabs are the very antithesis of everything we believe them to be.
I have listened to smart, young, giggling girls, swathed in black from head to toe, in Whiteley's or Selfridge's, and I promise you their conversation is the chat of all young women. I am sure that the same conversations are heard by other women every day in Lafayette and Bon Marche. "Shall I take the red or the black?" is a question about shoes, not cables. They are not a threat to us. I have no doubt that they are much more of a threat to their potentially militant brothers. They have made a choice, and they are proud of it. We should leave them be. We should stop this 'drip, drip' of cultural superiority right now and concentrate on the lessons of Holocaust Memorial Day. We owe it to our children.
Thursday 28 January 2010
Friday 22 January 2010
I Love Paris Anytime
Just when I was beginning to feel those winter blues creeping up on me, despite a good effort on the work front, a friend rang to suggest meeting up in Paris for some serious R and R. Well, what can a girl say? Bien-sur! I wouldn't have passed up the opportunity for the patisserie in Paris and a few days indulging my love of art for all the cheap offers on Easyjet. Indeed, it was the best of all possible worlds. I was able to meet up with my darling friend, Caroline, by train - she arriving at Montparnasse from Toulouse, me at Gare du Nord from London. Our little group was complete when Carole flew in from Bristol with her two very beautiful and utterly delightful daughters.
Spending time with young people always lifts the spirits, particularly when they laugh at your jokes and don't treat you like the geriatric that you know you are not that far off becoming. Holly, who is 25, is a History of Art student at Bristol University and passionate about her subject. Rosie, a mere 21, is an art student and loving all that that entails. Their mother owns a fabulous contemporary art gallery in Clifton, which shows Caroline's eclectic work amongst others of the great and the good, including Terry Fost and Patrick Caulfield. I was the joker in the pack, with merely a desire to be an 'artist', but probably rather more of the liquid variety!
We found our 'appartement' through my good friend and Caroline's sister-in-law, Inez Sarramon, who had borrowed it on our behalf from a male friend, who is away from some months in Argentina. It was fabulous, and not just because it was in the Marais, in the 4th Arrondisement, which is one of the most prestigious addresses in Paris. It was a penthouse flat with double patio doors and balconies on three sides, looking out in every direction. To the south-east, to the blue tubes and red and white cubes of the Pompidou Centre, to the east, to the Gothic church of St Gervais, to the north east, to the grande dame of Paris, Notre Dame, lit up in remembrance of its central place in the city's history, and to the north, the blue-white, shimmering dome of Sacre Coeur. It was too muggy and misty to see Montmartre, but through the haze we could just make out the line of the Eifel Tower. Location! Location! Location, indeed!
The owner, like many artistic and cultured gay men, is a man of exquisite and cosmopolitan taste. Everywhere one looked was a feast for the eye. There is a terrace covered in terracotta pots filled with greenery which, even in winter, were luscious and thriving. Amongst them, wherever one's eye alighted, were artefacts from around the world. Heads, masks, lanterns, candleholders and sculptures were displayed in their full glory and it was so very sad that the weather prevented us from sitting out and savouring their presence, alongside the fabulous views. The youngsters, however, made the most of the exterior space in their almost hourly requirement for a nicotine fix.
Inside, the art was to die for! Having detested my mother's penchant for snazzy 50's furniture when I was growing up, chucking out lovely Victorian pieces in the process, I have never understood the collector's obsession with that period. Not now! I am totally and utterly converted, for to see it laid out in minimal style and surrounded by contemporary art and beautiful things, it was a joy to behold. Against a background of plain white walls, the elegant, simple lines of simply curved veneered furniture works perfectly with contemporary style. Hugo's collection, from his multifarious trips abroad, of amazing cosmopolitan pieces, could not possibly have been shown off to better effect. In my bedroom, there was even the most fantastic collection of black and white photographs, mainly of men, engaged in sports ranging from boxing to gymnastics. I could have died a happy woman there and then.
After dinner chez nous, [from an afternoon's food shopping indulgence, prosciutto, a morel fettucine, followed by a walnut, Roquefort and feuille de chene salad, and not one, but two, tartes aux pommes, all washed down with copious quantities of vin rouge], we were ready for bed in anticipation of some serious art observing. The next morning, it really didn't matter that the weather was grey, because in the Rodin Museum on 79 rue de Varenne, Rodin's beautiful chateau home, the natural light from the vast array of windows all around dominated the great man's life's work within. If ever a soul dominated a space, then Rodin pervaded every pore of his grand domestic interior. You could physically feel his strength of will and purpose from beyond the grave. No wonder poor little Camille Claudel, such a talented artist in her own right, was so overwhelmed. It seems to me that she was like a butterfly at the foot of a bear.
When I saw the Rodin exhibition in London, I have to confess that I was underwhelmed, despite the very great talent of his bronze founder, Alexis Rudier. We know his work so well, it is almost too prolific. We have been so saturated by images of 'The Thinker', 'The Kiss' and 'Ugolino' that we take them for granted. Mostly, we have not seen the real thing so our perception is tainted. It is the price we pay for high exposure. As a society we know more about these great men of art and their works, but we have become inured to their true value. Like music downloads, at the flick of a mouse, we can indulge our thirst for knowledge but we cannot experience the real thing. Just as a great concert gives us an insight into the personality of the performer, so the soul of an artist speaks to us through the physicality of his work. There is no substitute for the real thing.
Here, not only can we see 'The Burghers of Calais', 'The Gates of Hell' and 'The Danaid', to name but a few, in the place that he so loved and where he worked from dawn until dusk, we can also see hundreds of smaller and less well known pieces. We can see his maquettes. We can see his portraits and some of his drawings. We can walk in his garden and savour its views. In short, we can walk in the great man's steps. We can see the work of Camille Claudel too, which is beautifully and sympathetically executed and not to be underestimated. We were privileged, for currently in residence is the Rodin/Matisse exhibition. Like the Picasso/Matisse at Tate Modern, I had no idea of the relevance of a contemporaneous showing of their respective works. It is always a revelation, and this week was no exception.
Whilst Caroline favoured Rodin's drawings as far superior to the creator of 'Fauvism', I wasn't so sure. Side by side, Matisse seems much heavier handed, less sensuous [and sensual], and considerably more free with interpretation. Despite her preference, and I greatly respect her superior knowledge, I still love Matisse's drawings and would happily have them on my walls. I said to her that I felt that Matisse was a 'voyeur', looking but not touching, whereas one had the feeling that Rodin had explored every hidden nook and cranny of the models that he depicted so beautifully. This man loved women and he knew what turned them on. The sensuousness and intimacy of lovers whispers hidden sweet nothings from every sketch. He knew his power and he used it ruthlessly.
From there, after an omelette and a glass of wine, we headed to the Musee d'Orsay where, unhappily, the permanent and stunning collection of Impressionist art is temporarily housed on the ground floor whilst its permanent location is being renovated. Had I not been many times before, I would have been disappointed. Then again, maybe not, for just to see this mind-blowing collection is the highlight for me of a trip to Paris. As with the Rodin, after endless birthday cards and Athena posters, there is a danger of saturation because one feels one already knows so many of them intimately. Not so. They are alive and kicking and the biggest high this side of legal! The vibrancy, the life, the light, the colour and the narrative of these paintings is the stuff of legend. We know them because they speak to us. They tell of the lives of ordinary people, 'paysans', painters, ballet dancers, music hall girls and prostitutes, and we know them. There is Oscar Wilde, with his luminous red nose enjoying himself in the dim light of the 'Moulin Rouge', alongside the poor little flat foreheaded bronze ballet dancer, with her real tutu and cream satin ribbon, wishing for the opportunity of a new life in the 'corps de ballet'.
This is Paris. This is life. Many of the paintings depict life in other places, like Rouen, or Arles, or even Tahiti, but they belong to Paris. They are a magnificent part of the history of this great city, and we love them for it. They are its heritage, just as they are ours. Where were they when the Germans rolled in in 1940? Where did they go? What lives have they led? They speak of the resilience of this great city, for they are still here to tell us their story. I could not imagine a life without them. Like a long lost lover, every time I come here I have to run and see them. They look even more enticing in January because the world outside is so grey. And, even better, you don't have to queue to see them. There is hardly a soul around you to encroach on the pure joy of such blissful reunion. As Eurostar is full of lots of £69 special offers at present, probably because people are worried about breakdowns due to fierce weather, I would recommend you jump on a train from St Pancras International and treat yourself to the best and cheapest high in the world. I love Paris anytime, and the great advantage of January is that it's almost all yours. Go on, spoil yourself! You're worth it!
Spending time with young people always lifts the spirits, particularly when they laugh at your jokes and don't treat you like the geriatric that you know you are not that far off becoming. Holly, who is 25, is a History of Art student at Bristol University and passionate about her subject. Rosie, a mere 21, is an art student and loving all that that entails. Their mother owns a fabulous contemporary art gallery in Clifton, which shows Caroline's eclectic work amongst others of the great and the good, including Terry Fost and Patrick Caulfield. I was the joker in the pack, with merely a desire to be an 'artist', but probably rather more of the liquid variety!
We found our 'appartement' through my good friend and Caroline's sister-in-law, Inez Sarramon, who had borrowed it on our behalf from a male friend, who is away from some months in Argentina. It was fabulous, and not just because it was in the Marais, in the 4th Arrondisement, which is one of the most prestigious addresses in Paris. It was a penthouse flat with double patio doors and balconies on three sides, looking out in every direction. To the south-east, to the blue tubes and red and white cubes of the Pompidou Centre, to the east, to the Gothic church of St Gervais, to the north east, to the grande dame of Paris, Notre Dame, lit up in remembrance of its central place in the city's history, and to the north, the blue-white, shimmering dome of Sacre Coeur. It was too muggy and misty to see Montmartre, but through the haze we could just make out the line of the Eifel Tower. Location! Location! Location, indeed!
The owner, like many artistic and cultured gay men, is a man of exquisite and cosmopolitan taste. Everywhere one looked was a feast for the eye. There is a terrace covered in terracotta pots filled with greenery which, even in winter, were luscious and thriving. Amongst them, wherever one's eye alighted, were artefacts from around the world. Heads, masks, lanterns, candleholders and sculptures were displayed in their full glory and it was so very sad that the weather prevented us from sitting out and savouring their presence, alongside the fabulous views. The youngsters, however, made the most of the exterior space in their almost hourly requirement for a nicotine fix.
Inside, the art was to die for! Having detested my mother's penchant for snazzy 50's furniture when I was growing up, chucking out lovely Victorian pieces in the process, I have never understood the collector's obsession with that period. Not now! I am totally and utterly converted, for to see it laid out in minimal style and surrounded by contemporary art and beautiful things, it was a joy to behold. Against a background of plain white walls, the elegant, simple lines of simply curved veneered furniture works perfectly with contemporary style. Hugo's collection, from his multifarious trips abroad, of amazing cosmopolitan pieces, could not possibly have been shown off to better effect. In my bedroom, there was even the most fantastic collection of black and white photographs, mainly of men, engaged in sports ranging from boxing to gymnastics. I could have died a happy woman there and then.
After dinner chez nous, [from an afternoon's food shopping indulgence, prosciutto, a morel fettucine, followed by a walnut, Roquefort and feuille de chene salad, and not one, but two, tartes aux pommes, all washed down with copious quantities of vin rouge], we were ready for bed in anticipation of some serious art observing. The next morning, it really didn't matter that the weather was grey, because in the Rodin Museum on 79 rue de Varenne, Rodin's beautiful chateau home, the natural light from the vast array of windows all around dominated the great man's life's work within. If ever a soul dominated a space, then Rodin pervaded every pore of his grand domestic interior. You could physically feel his strength of will and purpose from beyond the grave. No wonder poor little Camille Claudel, such a talented artist in her own right, was so overwhelmed. It seems to me that she was like a butterfly at the foot of a bear.
When I saw the Rodin exhibition in London, I have to confess that I was underwhelmed, despite the very great talent of his bronze founder, Alexis Rudier. We know his work so well, it is almost too prolific. We have been so saturated by images of 'The Thinker', 'The Kiss' and 'Ugolino' that we take them for granted. Mostly, we have not seen the real thing so our perception is tainted. It is the price we pay for high exposure. As a society we know more about these great men of art and their works, but we have become inured to their true value. Like music downloads, at the flick of a mouse, we can indulge our thirst for knowledge but we cannot experience the real thing. Just as a great concert gives us an insight into the personality of the performer, so the soul of an artist speaks to us through the physicality of his work. There is no substitute for the real thing.
Here, not only can we see 'The Burghers of Calais', 'The Gates of Hell' and 'The Danaid', to name but a few, in the place that he so loved and where he worked from dawn until dusk, we can also see hundreds of smaller and less well known pieces. We can see his maquettes. We can see his portraits and some of his drawings. We can walk in his garden and savour its views. In short, we can walk in the great man's steps. We can see the work of Camille Claudel too, which is beautifully and sympathetically executed and not to be underestimated. We were privileged, for currently in residence is the Rodin/Matisse exhibition. Like the Picasso/Matisse at Tate Modern, I had no idea of the relevance of a contemporaneous showing of their respective works. It is always a revelation, and this week was no exception.
Whilst Caroline favoured Rodin's drawings as far superior to the creator of 'Fauvism', I wasn't so sure. Side by side, Matisse seems much heavier handed, less sensuous [and sensual], and considerably more free with interpretation. Despite her preference, and I greatly respect her superior knowledge, I still love Matisse's drawings and would happily have them on my walls. I said to her that I felt that Matisse was a 'voyeur', looking but not touching, whereas one had the feeling that Rodin had explored every hidden nook and cranny of the models that he depicted so beautifully. This man loved women and he knew what turned them on. The sensuousness and intimacy of lovers whispers hidden sweet nothings from every sketch. He knew his power and he used it ruthlessly.
From there, after an omelette and a glass of wine, we headed to the Musee d'Orsay where, unhappily, the permanent and stunning collection of Impressionist art is temporarily housed on the ground floor whilst its permanent location is being renovated. Had I not been many times before, I would have been disappointed. Then again, maybe not, for just to see this mind-blowing collection is the highlight for me of a trip to Paris. As with the Rodin, after endless birthday cards and Athena posters, there is a danger of saturation because one feels one already knows so many of them intimately. Not so. They are alive and kicking and the biggest high this side of legal! The vibrancy, the life, the light, the colour and the narrative of these paintings is the stuff of legend. We know them because they speak to us. They tell of the lives of ordinary people, 'paysans', painters, ballet dancers, music hall girls and prostitutes, and we know them. There is Oscar Wilde, with his luminous red nose enjoying himself in the dim light of the 'Moulin Rouge', alongside the poor little flat foreheaded bronze ballet dancer, with her real tutu and cream satin ribbon, wishing for the opportunity of a new life in the 'corps de ballet'.
This is Paris. This is life. Many of the paintings depict life in other places, like Rouen, or Arles, or even Tahiti, but they belong to Paris. They are a magnificent part of the history of this great city, and we love them for it. They are its heritage, just as they are ours. Where were they when the Germans rolled in in 1940? Where did they go? What lives have they led? They speak of the resilience of this great city, for they are still here to tell us their story. I could not imagine a life without them. Like a long lost lover, every time I come here I have to run and see them. They look even more enticing in January because the world outside is so grey. And, even better, you don't have to queue to see them. There is hardly a soul around you to encroach on the pure joy of such blissful reunion. As Eurostar is full of lots of £69 special offers at present, probably because people are worried about breakdowns due to fierce weather, I would recommend you jump on a train from St Pancras International and treat yourself to the best and cheapest high in the world. I love Paris anytime, and the great advantage of January is that it's almost all yours. Go on, spoil yourself! You're worth it!
Wednesday 13 January 2010
Long Nights and Lazy Days
January is a quiet time for most of us. The excesses of the festive season have taken their toll and most of us feel instantly queasy at the prospect of another mince pie or piece of Christmas cake, never mind a swig of Stone's Ginger Wine or Amaretto [now unfashionably called 'Disaronno'!], or whatever secret tipple it is that you only ever indulge in over the Christmas period. We vow to give up drinking, diet and take more exercise but the crippling cold mitigates against our good intentions and we finish up behaving just as badly, only we now feel guilty about it. Next year my New Year's resolution will be to not make any New Year's resolutions until the advent of spring. I want to see buds on the trees and bulbs in full bloom before I deprive myself of life's little pleasures.
I am one of those weird, warped people that actually likes January. I love to curl up with a good book by a fire, or watch crap movies on TV, or God forbid, 'Silent Witness', after a good stew or casserole and a glass or two of a robust, preferably Languedoc, red wine. More importantly, I always find that I am inspired to work, albeit at a leisurely pace, in January. There are so few distractions to lure me away from my desktop, I give in gracefully and go to bed genuinely looking forward to getting up in the morning and getting going again. Lunch, of course, intervenes, especially when I decide to raid the vegetables in the fridge to make masses of hearty soup. Apart from the ritual of making it at the beginning of the week [stock from Sunday lunch's chicken, peeling and preparing vegetables, watching over pot etc], it's a warm and welcoming interlude in the course of a day's gentle work.
Being a natural dilettante, though, even with minimal distraction, my limited concentration wavers as the natural light begins to wane. Charlie, our Jack Russell, will not let me ignore him indefinitely. He always senses when I am beginning to tire of my labours and knows exactly how to redirect my attentions. Even if I wanted to continue writing, I couldn't. No matter what the weather, we have to head off to the riverbank and the playground where his fellow canine chums hang out. Like teenagers in jeans and sloppy sweatshirts with hoods, dogs are pack animals, for sure. The upside of being a dog 'mum' for me is that I get to meet other owners, but more importantly, that I have become much more acutely aware of the miniscule daily changes of a single season.
There is always something new to see, like a secret cosmic message, which presages the change to come. January, more than any other month, keeps itself to itself and hides its hidden treasures, like a pirate's secret map. You know that there are hidden gems, but you have to search very hard to find them. Along the lane at Bardies, one of the greatest joys of the whole year is to see the tiny, delicate, wild snowdrop bulbs pop their heads up into the cold January air. They are so fragile, their flowers can be destroyed in minutes by a hailstorm or vicious downpour. As quickly as they come up, so they disappear for the rest of the year, when they are only sleeping. They have been there for generations and their brief sojourns above ground must have warmed the hearts of so many before us.
I am sad because this year I think I shall miss them. The heavy snowfalls and perishing cold in the UK has made travelling parlous. Since we set off for Bardies on 17th December, and wrecked the car in the snow in the process, the British weather map has been more akin to an Alpine one. With airports closed on a weekly basis and Eurostar regularly getting stuck in the tunnel, for the first time that I can remember, I haven't been down to my beloved Bardies in January with my laptop in tow. Post the hard work and chaos of Christmas, I have always relished starting my year's work off with time to myself, and there is nowhere in this world more conducive to creativity than Bardies [but, hey, I'm biased!]. Tucked up in the warm, with my music, books and computer for company, I need for nothing. I could, and would, hibernate there all winter if there were no other demands on my time.
In this semi-hibernation mode, I began to muse on how other non-employees like me work. Whenever I read an obituary, I am always taken aback by how prolific so many talented people have been. It similarly occurs to me, though, that for many people maybe it just seems to be so. I heard the supremely gifted Jennifer Saunders saying on the radio the other day that she had been known to dictate new material to her young daughters, who wrote it all down in pencil and crayon, in the car on the way to a script deadline meeting. Over a whole lifetime, it matters less how much you produce as the quality of it when you finally get round to doing it. Surely for all of us, our natural instinct is to sleep the winter away?
As the scholarly Graham Robb says in his wonderful book, 'The Discovery of France', that men and women who did almost nothing for a large part of the year tend not to figure prominently in history books. "The tradition of seasonal sloth was ancient and pervasive. Entire Pyrenean villages of wood, like Bareges on the western side of the Col du Tourmalet, were abandoned to the snow and reclaimed from the avalanches in late spring. Other populations in the Alps and the Pyrenees simply entombed themselves until March or April, with a hay-loft above, a stable to one side and the mountain slope behind." According to a geographer writing in 1909, he cites, "the inhabitants re-emerge in spring, dishevelled and anaemic". He goes on to say that human hibernation was a physical and economic necessity, since lowering the metabolic rate prevented hunger from exhausting supplies.
Nineteenth century economists and bureaucrats were appalled at such idleness and, just like today, compared France's more leisurely approach to productivity to the capitalistic and competitive economy of Britain. They were even more horrified by the troglodytic dwellings of the Dordogne, the Tarn, the Loire Valley, and the limestone and sandstone belt that stretches from the Ardennes to Alsace. Thousands of people disappeared into cliff faces, caves, chalkpits or quarries dug deep below the vineyards for months on end. In Arras and other Flanders towns, one third of the population lived in 'boves', from an old French word for 'cavern', in whole cities carved into medieval quarries. Their priority was survival, not economic growth, and the impetus for trade remained social rather than economic. "Most felt safer cocooned in idleness," says Graham Robb.
Sitting here in Salisbury on a cold, snowy January night, I can see their point. With no light, power or heat, and almost no food to sustain them, they were totally at the mercy of the elements. Life underground in the sleep-inducing gloom was infinitely preferable to the hardships above. Long nights and lazy days became the norm and, by all accounts, remained so until well into the twentieth century. It seems to me to have been a much better life than that of the average British mill worker and it goes a long way towards explaining our different cultural and economic heritages. Who knows, the EU Working Time Directive may have its roots in such ancient custom and practice.
So, for now, I am making the most of this time. Gone are the usual stresses and strains and demands on my time, for the snow has given us all a sense of perspective. Things that we would have loved to have done, we have been forced, along with our cars, to abandon. Work is enjoyable because it is uninterrupted by extraneous, and usually unnecessary, considerations. Life evolves into a rhythm and we seek out and find our inner selves in the process. I would say, 'Long may it last', but I also know that its true appeal lies in its temporariness. Spring will come, gradually, and these long nights and lazy days will be no more. For then I will look back with pleasure at my uninhibited slothfulness, as I rush round to catch up with everything that must be done, and for which there is no time to wait.
I am one of those weird, warped people that actually likes January. I love to curl up with a good book by a fire, or watch crap movies on TV, or God forbid, 'Silent Witness', after a good stew or casserole and a glass or two of a robust, preferably Languedoc, red wine. More importantly, I always find that I am inspired to work, albeit at a leisurely pace, in January. There are so few distractions to lure me away from my desktop, I give in gracefully and go to bed genuinely looking forward to getting up in the morning and getting going again. Lunch, of course, intervenes, especially when I decide to raid the vegetables in the fridge to make masses of hearty soup. Apart from the ritual of making it at the beginning of the week [stock from Sunday lunch's chicken, peeling and preparing vegetables, watching over pot etc], it's a warm and welcoming interlude in the course of a day's gentle work.
Being a natural dilettante, though, even with minimal distraction, my limited concentration wavers as the natural light begins to wane. Charlie, our Jack Russell, will not let me ignore him indefinitely. He always senses when I am beginning to tire of my labours and knows exactly how to redirect my attentions. Even if I wanted to continue writing, I couldn't. No matter what the weather, we have to head off to the riverbank and the playground where his fellow canine chums hang out. Like teenagers in jeans and sloppy sweatshirts with hoods, dogs are pack animals, for sure. The upside of being a dog 'mum' for me is that I get to meet other owners, but more importantly, that I have become much more acutely aware of the miniscule daily changes of a single season.
There is always something new to see, like a secret cosmic message, which presages the change to come. January, more than any other month, keeps itself to itself and hides its hidden treasures, like a pirate's secret map. You know that there are hidden gems, but you have to search very hard to find them. Along the lane at Bardies, one of the greatest joys of the whole year is to see the tiny, delicate, wild snowdrop bulbs pop their heads up into the cold January air. They are so fragile, their flowers can be destroyed in minutes by a hailstorm or vicious downpour. As quickly as they come up, so they disappear for the rest of the year, when they are only sleeping. They have been there for generations and their brief sojourns above ground must have warmed the hearts of so many before us.
I am sad because this year I think I shall miss them. The heavy snowfalls and perishing cold in the UK has made travelling parlous. Since we set off for Bardies on 17th December, and wrecked the car in the snow in the process, the British weather map has been more akin to an Alpine one. With airports closed on a weekly basis and Eurostar regularly getting stuck in the tunnel, for the first time that I can remember, I haven't been down to my beloved Bardies in January with my laptop in tow. Post the hard work and chaos of Christmas, I have always relished starting my year's work off with time to myself, and there is nowhere in this world more conducive to creativity than Bardies [but, hey, I'm biased!]. Tucked up in the warm, with my music, books and computer for company, I need for nothing. I could, and would, hibernate there all winter if there were no other demands on my time.
In this semi-hibernation mode, I began to muse on how other non-employees like me work. Whenever I read an obituary, I am always taken aback by how prolific so many talented people have been. It similarly occurs to me, though, that for many people maybe it just seems to be so. I heard the supremely gifted Jennifer Saunders saying on the radio the other day that she had been known to dictate new material to her young daughters, who wrote it all down in pencil and crayon, in the car on the way to a script deadline meeting. Over a whole lifetime, it matters less how much you produce as the quality of it when you finally get round to doing it. Surely for all of us, our natural instinct is to sleep the winter away?
As the scholarly Graham Robb says in his wonderful book, 'The Discovery of France', that men and women who did almost nothing for a large part of the year tend not to figure prominently in history books. "The tradition of seasonal sloth was ancient and pervasive. Entire Pyrenean villages of wood, like Bareges on the western side of the Col du Tourmalet, were abandoned to the snow and reclaimed from the avalanches in late spring. Other populations in the Alps and the Pyrenees simply entombed themselves until March or April, with a hay-loft above, a stable to one side and the mountain slope behind." According to a geographer writing in 1909, he cites, "the inhabitants re-emerge in spring, dishevelled and anaemic". He goes on to say that human hibernation was a physical and economic necessity, since lowering the metabolic rate prevented hunger from exhausting supplies.
Nineteenth century economists and bureaucrats were appalled at such idleness and, just like today, compared France's more leisurely approach to productivity to the capitalistic and competitive economy of Britain. They were even more horrified by the troglodytic dwellings of the Dordogne, the Tarn, the Loire Valley, and the limestone and sandstone belt that stretches from the Ardennes to Alsace. Thousands of people disappeared into cliff faces, caves, chalkpits or quarries dug deep below the vineyards for months on end. In Arras and other Flanders towns, one third of the population lived in 'boves', from an old French word for 'cavern', in whole cities carved into medieval quarries. Their priority was survival, not economic growth, and the impetus for trade remained social rather than economic. "Most felt safer cocooned in idleness," says Graham Robb.
Sitting here in Salisbury on a cold, snowy January night, I can see their point. With no light, power or heat, and almost no food to sustain them, they were totally at the mercy of the elements. Life underground in the sleep-inducing gloom was infinitely preferable to the hardships above. Long nights and lazy days became the norm and, by all accounts, remained so until well into the twentieth century. It seems to me to have been a much better life than that of the average British mill worker and it goes a long way towards explaining our different cultural and economic heritages. Who knows, the EU Working Time Directive may have its roots in such ancient custom and practice.
So, for now, I am making the most of this time. Gone are the usual stresses and strains and demands on my time, for the snow has given us all a sense of perspective. Things that we would have loved to have done, we have been forced, along with our cars, to abandon. Work is enjoyable because it is uninterrupted by extraneous, and usually unnecessary, considerations. Life evolves into a rhythm and we seek out and find our inner selves in the process. I would say, 'Long may it last', but I also know that its true appeal lies in its temporariness. Spring will come, gradually, and these long nights and lazy days will be no more. For then I will look back with pleasure at my uninhibited slothfulness, as I rush round to catch up with everything that must be done, and for which there is no time to wait.
Wednesday 6 January 2010
On The Twelfth Day of Christmas.......
Well, what a fun time we've had. I always feel so sad that Christmas finally comes to an end on 6th January. When we were children, it really did start on 24th December with the decorating of the tree and it always ended, not quite as ceremoniously, on the feast of the Epiphany. It was still a special day in the winter calendar, for the Three Kings from the Orient were jolly bringers of gifts. The taking down of the tree was a special rite, with the same distant glimmers of future light as T.S Elliot so poetically propounds in 'The Wasteland'. Of course, when we lived in Madrid 'Los Reyes' was a bigger celebration than than 'Navidad' itself. Most Spanish children had to patiently bide their time through the twelve days of Christmas before they got their presents. Thank goodness, Freddie was only a tot and Ellie just a twinkle in her dad's eye!
The market saturation of the capitalist economic model, from the moment that some enterprising young 'tanenbaum' importer spotted Prince Albert's marketing potential, until now, when Waitrose et al begin stocking their shelves before the end of September, has changed the nature of Christmas for the worse. So many people are sick to death of the whole over-indulgent business that they are treeless by the evening of the 1st January. OK, I know in Austria and Bavaria they often take their trees down to make way for the brightly coloured decorations and firework bonanzas for 'Sylvestre', but that's different, I feel. For one thing, we don't have any skiing to cheer ourselves up!
My Christmas tree has stayed put! For one thing, we had to leave it up at Bardies because we ran out of time. The poor, dead car remained behind, looking decidedly sorry for itself, as we made our own way to Blagnac and onward to Bristol on Easyjet. It wasn't easy transporting two years worth of revision books and files for my daughter's mocks by plane, nor taking our son's keyboard home which he had deemed essential for his composition assignment. Dealing with European offices of insurance companies between 18th December and 2nd January has given us an interesting insight into the EU Working Time Directive. Indeed, one excuse for their tardiness was that they had not answered their telephones because the Christmas party was in progress. I wonder just how many parties they had?
Today, finalement, Regine, my neighbour, has rung to tell me that the car has gone. A result, although poor Regine was convinced that it had been stolen. There is no snow at Bardies currently she tells us, but Regine says that it is due. Back here in Salisbury, our garden looks like Narnia. It is beautiful, but with our 4 wheel drive in transit, we are virtually immobile. The insurance company refuses to give us a replacement vehicle until the car is 'in repair', rather than abandoned awaiting transit. I will desist from putting any expletives into print, but most words required to describe this ludicrous stalemate begin with the letters 'f' and 'b'!
We have SNOW! Lots and lots of it! The last time I remember snow like this, I was twelve. What a great present for the twelfth day of Christmas, for some of us idle romantics and dilettantes anyway. I love the way the UK just gives up the ghost and gives in gracefully to the elements. Sod it, we think, instead of battling near Arctic conditions, let's just give the kids a day off school and all have some fun instead. Overnight, we all metamorphose into children again and everyone is nice to each other. We are lucky, for we live in the city. I managed to hobble in with my bruised ribs to get to the dentist for my next major dental reconstruction and pick up fresh bread, milk and vegetables on the way. Everywhere was so quiet and everyone was so kind. People seem to be rekindled with the spirit of the Blitz. Friends kindly offered to take our daughter back to school in Blandford in their 4 x 4. She, unsurprisingly, declined, having already been told by her housemistress not to risk the journey.
Many people who did decide to chance it were not so lucky. Being stuck all night on the A3 near Petersfield must have been a nightmare, and thousands are without heat and light in this perishing cold. I am in seventh heaven. We have the fire going, the remains of the ham bone from Christmas making the stock for a hearty ham and pea soup and the Aga [sorry, I've admitted my one last uncontrollable addiction!] keeping the kitchen warm and cosy. I've bought the parsnips to make Jane Grigson's curried parsnip soup for tomorrow, and the potatoes to make a big fish pie with some of the contents of the freezer. I've also got enough mince to make lasagne for the whole street! There's something about cold weather and comfort food, and bugger the waistline. Oh, and I've still got my Christmas tree lights twinkling in the icy darkness. The only blight on the horizon is that they must come down by midnight or bad luck will fall upon us. Old Catholics like me don't dare take too many chances! Happy 'Los Reyes' everyone. Only 353 days to go until the First Day of Christmas!
The market saturation of the capitalist economic model, from the moment that some enterprising young 'tanenbaum' importer spotted Prince Albert's marketing potential, until now, when Waitrose et al begin stocking their shelves before the end of September, has changed the nature of Christmas for the worse. So many people are sick to death of the whole over-indulgent business that they are treeless by the evening of the 1st January. OK, I know in Austria and Bavaria they often take their trees down to make way for the brightly coloured decorations and firework bonanzas for 'Sylvestre', but that's different, I feel. For one thing, we don't have any skiing to cheer ourselves up!
My Christmas tree has stayed put! For one thing, we had to leave it up at Bardies because we ran out of time. The poor, dead car remained behind, looking decidedly sorry for itself, as we made our own way to Blagnac and onward to Bristol on Easyjet. It wasn't easy transporting two years worth of revision books and files for my daughter's mocks by plane, nor taking our son's keyboard home which he had deemed essential for his composition assignment. Dealing with European offices of insurance companies between 18th December and 2nd January has given us an interesting insight into the EU Working Time Directive. Indeed, one excuse for their tardiness was that they had not answered their telephones because the Christmas party was in progress. I wonder just how many parties they had?
Today, finalement, Regine, my neighbour, has rung to tell me that the car has gone. A result, although poor Regine was convinced that it had been stolen. There is no snow at Bardies currently she tells us, but Regine says that it is due. Back here in Salisbury, our garden looks like Narnia. It is beautiful, but with our 4 wheel drive in transit, we are virtually immobile. The insurance company refuses to give us a replacement vehicle until the car is 'in repair', rather than abandoned awaiting transit. I will desist from putting any expletives into print, but most words required to describe this ludicrous stalemate begin with the letters 'f' and 'b'!
We have SNOW! Lots and lots of it! The last time I remember snow like this, I was twelve. What a great present for the twelfth day of Christmas, for some of us idle romantics and dilettantes anyway. I love the way the UK just gives up the ghost and gives in gracefully to the elements. Sod it, we think, instead of battling near Arctic conditions, let's just give the kids a day off school and all have some fun instead. Overnight, we all metamorphose into children again and everyone is nice to each other. We are lucky, for we live in the city. I managed to hobble in with my bruised ribs to get to the dentist for my next major dental reconstruction and pick up fresh bread, milk and vegetables on the way. Everywhere was so quiet and everyone was so kind. People seem to be rekindled with the spirit of the Blitz. Friends kindly offered to take our daughter back to school in Blandford in their 4 x 4. She, unsurprisingly, declined, having already been told by her housemistress not to risk the journey.
Many people who did decide to chance it were not so lucky. Being stuck all night on the A3 near Petersfield must have been a nightmare, and thousands are without heat and light in this perishing cold. I am in seventh heaven. We have the fire going, the remains of the ham bone from Christmas making the stock for a hearty ham and pea soup and the Aga [sorry, I've admitted my one last uncontrollable addiction!] keeping the kitchen warm and cosy. I've bought the parsnips to make Jane Grigson's curried parsnip soup for tomorrow, and the potatoes to make a big fish pie with some of the contents of the freezer. I've also got enough mince to make lasagne for the whole street! There's something about cold weather and comfort food, and bugger the waistline. Oh, and I've still got my Christmas tree lights twinkling in the icy darkness. The only blight on the horizon is that they must come down by midnight or bad luck will fall upon us. Old Catholics like me don't dare take too many chances! Happy 'Los Reyes' everyone. Only 353 days to go until the First Day of Christmas!
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