Britain's love affair with French Onions

There are few nationalities which can boast a stereotype as well entrenched as the French. Riding a bicycle with a string of onions and a beret, it’s a stubbornly embedded image. Yet as anyone who has been to France can tell you one with little basis in reality. Bicycles might be a common enough sight in Paris as in any other European city, but berets are few and far between while onions are confined to the supermarché. You’d be forgiven for thinking that this stereotype was conjured up out of thin air, the product of some Francophobe’s fevered imagination. And though it might seem out of place in modern France it does have a historical basis. To understand how it emerged you must first learn about the ‘Onion Johnny’.

One of Brittany’s finest agricultural products is the rosé onion. It was first brought to the Roscoff area from Portugal by a 17^th century Capuchin monk. In 1828 a farmer named Henri Ollivier had the idea of renting a barge and selling his onions in England. At this time Brittany was still an isolated and remote corner of France, making it easier to sail across the Channel rather than haul vegetables to Paris. His trip was a financial success and from that point on Roscoff farmers increasingly travelled to England to sell their onions. The rosé onion was not only particularly flavoursome but also long-lasting, explaining its appeal. The sellers were christened ‘Johnnies’ by the English, which they translated into Breton as ‘Ar johnniged’. As the century wore on their reach expanded and they became a common sight in both Scotland and Wales too. As Breton and Welsh are closely related the Johnnies had a distinct advantage in the Welsh-speaking valleys where they were able to pick up some of the language without difficulty.

At first onions were carried on a stick over the shoulder, each bundle weighing up to four kilos. But from the 1930’s on bicycles became increasingly common, preferred as an easier way to transport onions. Draped around the handlebars, the Johnnies could now carry up to 150 kilos. As the Johnnies were the only contact that many British people had with the French at that time, it was assumed that all of France rode around on bicycles with strings of onions draped around them, giving birth to the stereotype. It wasn’t an easy life though. The Johnnies would sail for Britain after the Feast of St. Barbe in July and not return til January. During that time the women were expected to take in the onion harvest as well as manage their households.

The 1930’s might have been the decade which saw the French stereotype born but it was also the beginning of the end for the Johnnies. After the ‘Golden Era’ of the 1920’s, during which the number of Johnnies travelling to Britain reached their peak, the 1930’s saw economic collapse, devaluation of the pound and the introduction of protectionist tariffs badly impact on their market across the Channel. During the war it became impossible to travel to Britain and things only improved marginally following the end of the conflict. But in 2012, with economic conditions in France still suffering following the financial crisis, a replica of an 18^th century sailing ship, the Etoile du Roi, set sail from Roscoff to London. Loaded with onions, it was hoped that the British market would prove more receptive.

If there’s anything to take from the history of the Johnnies it’s the historic economic ties between Britain and France. Long before the EU and the Single Market Bretons were a common sight on British streets, their wares highly prized by the British public. With the spectre of Brexit looming over the Channel and hard Brexiters insisting on a complete divorce from the Continent, it seems pertinent to resurrect the memory of the Johnnies and their long association with Britain. They are just one of many economic threads which have bound Britain to Europe throughout history. 

The many reasons I love The Proms

If there’s one thing to remind you that life isn’t long enough it’s classical music. So many composers, such little time. Not that that stops me trying to listen to as many pieces as possible. Sadly classical music often faces charges of elitism, understandable considering the extravagant cost of concert tickets. Which is one of many reasons I love The Proms. For three months every year the Albert Hall, amongst other venues, showcases a staggeringly wide variety of music. And not only is every concert broadcast and recorded, but tickets are available at refreshingly affordable prices, making the music accessible to anyone just as Henry Wood originally intended.

Ever since its inception in 1895 the Proms has aimed at as wide an audience as possible. This has led to concerts featuring popular music, which though criticised, are intended to attract an otherwise indifferent public. And if some of the uninitiated then decide to go beyond their comfort zone and listen to unfamiliar composers then the policy has succeeded. This year I myself had a number of serendipitous encounters. After a lifetime of incomprehension the joys of Liszt were finally unlocked to me. I was disturbingly thrilled by Prokofiev’s demonic Seven, They are Seven for the first time. I listened to entirety of Dvorak’s 8^th Symphony, appreciating the genius of the other movements besides the adagio. Even Monteverdi’s Vespers, one of my favourite pieces of music and in my opinion one of the greatest achievements of the European musical canon, featured plainchant antiphons I had never heard previously. Even with my own musical background I still find The Proms studded with moments of discovery. For those with little knowledge of classical music, it must be like entering a vast new universe.

And for anyone who accuses classical music of being boring and stuffy, they should have seen me after Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. Never have I been so moved by a performance, classical or otherwise. After standing up and applauding for ten minutes I floated out of the Albert Hall, gliding towards South Kensington Tube Station. All along Exhibition Road I hummed the theme to myself, blissfully unaware of the odd looks being directed at me. Entering the station a woman behind joined in, and laughing I remarked that I knew where she had been earlier. Rarely in my life have I felt such joie de vivre as leaving that concert, and anything which leaves such spontaneous happiness deserves celebrating. 

Review: 'The Prime of Monteverdi'

If there is one venue in London ideal for Venetian music it must be St. Brides. Both its gilded ceiling and baroque woodcarvings give a definite whiff of La Serenissima and its antique grandeur. Even the watery light coming through its windows on a rainy day seem to suggest the lagoon, though many Venetophiles would argue than rain falling in the street is a poor replacement for streets made of water. 

Musicke in the Ayre chose well to hold its concert dedicated to Monteverdi and his Venetian period here on the 8th of September. Called ‘The Prime of Monteverdi’, this seemed ironic as only half the program consisted of his work. The problem though with including other composers alongside such a genius is that they can rarely match him. This occasion was no exception. As gifted and capable as Alessandro Grandi or Flamminio Corradi were, their compositions lack the frisson of Monteverdi's work and can be easily dismissed as pleasing fluff. Several of the lute compositions, including Giovanni Kapsberger’s Canario and P.P. Melli’s Dimi Amore, were pleasant but borderline dull.

Monteverdi himself of course did not disappoint. Pulchra es, the first piece, sent shivers down my spine as did the plaintive Si dolce e’l tormento, its primal wail reminiscent of Lamento della ninfa. Special mention goes to soprano Alysha Paterson, who executed the excruciating florid passages of Quel sguardo sdegnosetto with a confident grace lacking in more celebrated singers. The cherry in the cake was the Pur ti miro, the final duet in Monteverdi’s opera L’incoronazione di Poppea, though I was shaken after being informed that its real composer might have been Benedetto Ferrari. An enjoyable event, I only wish that the concert had stuck true to its title and focussed more on the man himself. 

John Singer Sargent: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Watercolour

In my opinion watercolours were always a second-rate artform. I’m sure my contempt dated back to primary school art lessons. The clumsy splotches of watery colour, the pools of paint, the ubiquitous brown which seemed to annex every other tone, from a young age I associated watercolours with chaos. And not creative chaos either but sheer anarchy, albeit of a watered-down variety. As far as I was concerned watercolours barely even classified as art, unless your idea of a masterpiece was a soggy sheet of crumbling paper.

Therefore when I learnt of the Sargent: The Watercolours exhibition at the Dulwich Picture Gallery I was conflicted. John Singer Sargent, one of the defining figures of fin-de-siècle opulence and painter of the startlingly seductive Madame X, seemed an eternity away from the messy and mediocre world of watercolours. But having seen some tantalising glimpses of the work on display I bit the bullet and visited.

Never in my life have I seen watercolours created with such delicate and effervescent beauty. Sargent’s palette seems to sparkle out of the frame in a way that oil paintings could only envy. I could feel the Mediterranean sun toasting his Venetian palazzos, while swaying with the water surging underneath. The way he draped light over his landscapes addsan extra layer of ephemeral gorgeousness to the underlying view, like a piece of couture over a naked body. The evening sun reflecting off Santa Maria della Salute smoulders sensuously, as if the church itself throws ‘come-hither’ eyes in our direction. These pictures peer out from a dream landscape, one too perfect, too idealised for our own universe.

I entered the exhibition with a distaste for watercolours: I left intoxicated with their beauty. I wandered if I should give them another shot myself. But I doubt I could rival Sargent’s gift for the sublime. I might just leave it to the experts.  

London's heritage is becoming elitist

Earlier this year, walking down one of the many interminable tunnels found in every Tube station, I noticed a poster on the wall. I don’t normally pay much attention to these ads, whether they be for kitsch West End musical revivals or photographs of Her Majesty in front of Windsor Castle (perhaps visitors who don’t see Queenie should sue The Royal Collections Trust for false advertising?) But this one was lucky enough to be scrutinised by me. There wasn’t anything extraordinary about it: a clumsy collage of Westminster Abbey mobbed by a crowd of dead celebrities, including Charlotte Bronte, King James I, etc. Though my interest was piqued, this had nothing to do with the who’s-who of dead Britons. I’d been to Poets Corner of course but had no intention of returning. Not because I disliked the Abbey but because I refused to pay the princely sum of £20 to enter, £22 if bought at the door. So looking at this trite poster I felt outraged that despite feebly protesting maintenance costs, the Abbey was still able to splash out on a London Underground advertising campaign. Not long after seeing this poster another ad for the Abbey popped up on my internet browser. This was evidently a multi-pronged strategy.

Westminster Abbey advertisement

London’s exhibitions are expensive enough. Tate Modern’s Soul of a Nation: Art in the Age of Black Power will set you back £15. The Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition costs £14, and even with an Artfund card you only get a one pound reduction. But it seems that the nation’s most iconic buildings are being barred to all but the wealthiest. Admission fees to museums and other public institutions has long been a contentious issue, and the allocation of state funding subject to the whims of successive governments. Labour has generally been in favour of universal admission while the Conservatives have opposed it. Under Thatcher many national museums were pressured into introducing fees, around half caving in while others, including the British Museum and National Gallery resisted. Those that did introduce fees however suffered declines in visitor numbers, such as the Victoria and Albert Museum. After it started charging entry in 1997 its visitor numbers had halved by the following year. But in 2009 Art Fund discovered that the V&A, which had then scrapped admission fees by 2001, saw its visitor numbers more than double over the following years. Sheer numbers can be a problem too though, in which case charging for admission can reduce pressure. One of the reasons Westminster Abbey introduced fees in the late 1990’s was in response to the swelling numbers of visitors. Back then it was referred to as ‘the Westminster Waiting Room’ due to its popularity with continental touring groups, who would meet there before returning to Waterloo Station. But on the other hand, can this policy be too successful? Ten years ago St. Pauls admitted that fees had risen by 25% to compensate for falling visitor numbers. Understandable as 85% of the cathedral’s income comes from tourism, but wouldn’t further increasing prices only further reduce tourist numbers? Perhaps they should try reducing prices. Speaking personally, I would visit more if a ticket didn’t cost the equivalent of an easyJet flight.

But unlike national museums historic places of worship receive minimal government funding, despite the Church of England alone being responsible for almost half of the country’s Grade I listed buildings, three of which are designated World Heritage Sites (Durham Cathedral, York Minster and Westminster Abbey for the curious amongst you). But it does seem a strange coincidence that those religious sites which do charge are also the highest on a tourist agenda. St. Albans, less than twenty minutes by train from St. Pancras, boasts an ancient abbey church after which it was named. Well, the saint to whom the church was dedicated but I’m being pedantic. The abbey church, now the city’s cathedral, is an astonishing testament to a lost England of the Middle Ages. On the piers lining the nave, hidden by whitewash for centuries as in so many other English churches, are depictions of the saints. Before the Reformation pilgrims would make their devotions before these sacred images, gradually passing deeper into the abbey’s heart and approaching the relics within. Behind the presbytery the tombs of Saints Alban and Amphibalus have been reconstructed, quite literally relics of a distant era. Like a time machine this extraordinary place takes you back to a very different England, a land which still revered the saints and practised pilgrimage. So how much do you have to pay to enter this portal to the Middle Ages? Nothing, not a penny.

  

St. Albans Cathedral

Even closer to the tourist bastions of St Pauls and Westminster Abbey is Southwark Cathedral. The present building was largely constructed between the 13^th and 15^th centuries, though with inevitable Victorian alterations. It is associated with many of Shakespeare’s contemporaries such as the dramatist John Fletcher, who was buried inside. And yet despite this illustrious history and its prime real estate location the cathedral continues to allow free access to visitors (St. Pauls likes to make a virtue out of allowing worshippers in for free, the same way our charitable government generously permits us to breathe its air gratis). Southwark cathedral is not high on the criteria of most tourists so if it did start charging £20 for access then it would become a place of literally undisturbed tranquillity. And yet surely it’s still subject to the same maintenance costs as its more celebrated sister across the Thames.

Southwark Cathedral

Just last weekend, anxiously tapping my feet as the escalator at Euston squeaked upwards, anxious not to miss my train to Liverpool but weighed down with luggage, I noticed another ad on the walls. Every one of the thirty screens lined above the handrail featured a shot of the Imperial State Crown, before panning out to a child gawping at it idiotically. To see the Crown Jewels though will set you back £24.80 (£21.50 if bought online prior), more than three times the minimum wage for those aged 25 and older. Perhaps the Tower of London wouldn’t need to advertise if it didn’t insist on bankrupting the very people hoping to get in. Just a thought. 

Syria: A Conflict Explored (Or Is It?)

Though the horror that is Syria continues to drag on without end, that has not prevented the Imperial War Museum from holding an exhibition on the conflict. It opens with these wise and cautious words: we have tried in this exhibition to offer a balanced viewpoint on a bitter conflict for which there seems no end in sight. Alas its meagreness means that no viewpoint makes more than the most cursory of appearances. The few objects include: a child's lifejacket retrieved from the island of Chios; Several Western and Middle Eastern newspapers reporting on ISIS executions; and some outrageously kitsch Putin-Assad china. Whatever garbled message these erratic and sparse displays are attempting to make eludes me, though they certianly don't offer an in-depth analysis of the turmoil. In the next room a film provides a more thorough examination of Syria's recent history and descent into violence, but focussing on this defeats the purpose of mounting an exhibition in the first place. We might as well just watch it from home. One redeeming feature is the price: free admission. But unless you have a passion for realpolitik commemorative plates, don't bother coming. 

When Britain lost its grip: A Millennial remembers Diana

Eating dinner with a friend the other day the unavoidable subject of Princess Diana came up. I asked him what he remembered of her death:

‘I remember feeling very annoyed that my morning cartoons had been cancelled. And when I went upstairs to tell my parents that she’d died, I was told it was just a bad dream’.

My friend was seven at the time, myself a mere six years of age. What I do remember therefore is hazy. William and Harry standing forlornly with their mother’s coffin trailing past is the only definitive image I can recall. But I also remember Diana’s name lingering in the air for some years afterwards, like a persistent echo. Her presence seemed to hang in the atmosphere, haunting a world unable and unwilling to release her.

But looking back in retrospect two decades later and with a dash of maturity on my side is like recalling a bad dream. August 1997 feels like an alternate universe, one where mass hysteria and seething emotion boiled over unhindered. Where a tyranny of overwrought anguish spurred on the public’s competitive grief. A place where Elton John could rerelease Candle in the Wind as one of history’s highest selling singles, the original’s tragic subtlety replaced by cringeworthy gushiness and shameless sensationalism. I needed a good wash after hearing ‘goodbye England’s rose’ for the first time recently.

Of course Elton was merely giving the public what it wanted, a grand finale to the spectacle that constituted much of Diana’s life. In the aftermath of her death everyone was expected to join the frenzied circus act or risk its displeasure. The Queen, who refused initially to dance for the crowd, suffered its wrath. But how many at the time considered that Her Majesty’s duties were to her grandsons first. And grieving the loss of their mother it seems horrifying that they were thrown to the wolves. Sorry, I mean the British public. People who despite never having even met the woman decided to out-wail her own blood and kin, convinced that their grief was equal to that of her sons. How dismal the sight of the princes forced to survey the wasteland of cheap, mass-produced rubbish hurled before Kensington Palace like a Disneyfied bin night. Understandably William was baffled at having to compete with the general public in grief.

It seems hard to accept that these people could have genuinely felt such grief or have honestly felt much concern for Diana’s sons. I can’t help but suspect that for many it was a bit of cathartic fun, like rewatching the films guaranteed to make you cry. As Jonathan Freedland suggested, ‘for many millions what they had lost was not so much a real person as a beloved character in a story. They grieved but then they moved on - to new soaps, new celebrities, new heroines’.

The Queen, released almost a decade later and starring Helen Mirren, did much to vindicate Her Majesty’s actions in the wake of Diana’s death. Rather than the ice-queen, locked away within her remote frozen fortress, we saw her acting as a grandmother. Those who in 1997 threw a tantrum over the Royal Family’s silence obviously forgot that the Queen’s priorities lay first with her family and not with random members of the public. Having said that, her address to the nation was necessary. Like a mother comforting her upset children, the Queen helped the nation get a bloody grip on things.

So at the twentieth anniversary I feel ambivalent. Sad of course at the death of a compassionate young woman. But also bewilderment at the country’s reaction to it, treating the occasion like a heart-rending episode of Emmerdale. Instead of focussing on her as the People’s Princess, the public needed to remember that she was the princes’ mother first. 

The Weird and Wonderful World of Balenciaga

Whether you love his radical, architectural approach to couture or instead dismiss his clothes as baggy rubbish, Balenciaga’s influence on fashion cannot be denied, whether for good or evil. The Victoria and Albert Museum explores his legacy on modern fashion as well as the inspiration he continues to provide to countless contemporary designers.

The Flamenco Dress greeted me at the beginning like an old friend. Easily one of the most gorgeous pieces in the entire exhibition, Balenciaga here combined minimalism with a more conservative aesthetic, referencing simultaneously the traditional fashions of Spain as well as the hour-glass silhouette of the early 60’s. Its watermelon pink, which would have been garish on anything else, here lends further boldness to the dress’ daring profile.

Another stunning but infinitely less conventional dress would be the 1967 white silk evening gown. At first glance it appears nothing more than a bed sheet. But as you move around the abstract grace of its cut and the piercing simplicity of its design woos you. While hardly the most flattering of frocks, as a testament to the beauty of pure design it succeeds miraculously.

Another piece from the mid-60’s, this 1966 dress was designed for Ava Gardner. It resembles a mozzetta, a cape worn by the Spanish clergy. It also evokes the enormous leg o’mutton shoulders of the 1890’s. The original design was far more severe, Ava Gardner insisting on the inclusion of a floral trim. Comparing the finished dress to a photo of the earlier design I’d argue that Ava was right.

This 1968 dress works. Almost. Despite its sumptuous silk gazar fabric and playful lantern-sleeves (in hommage to their lacy, 18th century predecessors), this is a dress with too much going on, like a rogue garden. The rich purple floral pattern is too clustered, resembling an eczema outbreak.

Having purified ourselves in the lower section, our adoration of the original designer marking our ablutions, we tread apprehensively into the upper sanctuary. Like passages from the scriptures, the walls are lined with quotations in praise of Balenciaga. And scattered across the room are offerings given in devotion by younger designers. Supposedly all have been inspired by Balenciaga, though some more successfully than others.

One piece by fellow Spanish designer Sybilla is an obvious tribute to Balenciaga’s 1961 green silk gazar dress. A serendipitous combination of elegance and surreal abstraction, its balloon-like shapes swoop down confidently, like emerald clouds wafting to earth. Upstairs is Sybilla’s version, but though undeniably inspired by the earlier model it is a sad imitation. Balenciaga’s robust clouds have deflated, reduced to flopping bin liners. Even the colour has degraded, Balenciaga’s gem-like emerald reduced to a sour olive.

Sybilla's inferior imitation

Hussein Chalayan’s tulle dress is a coagulated shadow of Balenciaga’s greatest designs, the master’s stark simplicity reduced to a mere shapelessness. He himself admits that ‘in a way we’re just regurgitating what the mid-century designers have done’. The alarming red-splattered top hints at a gruesome homicide, as if the dress was actually a decapitated rubber duck.

The most impertinent of the votive offerings is a 2002 dress designed by Belgian Dries van Noten. Claiming to be inspired by 1950’s Balenciaga, it’s difficult to see how. Observing this mess is like raking through the gaudy remains of a charity-shop after a tornado.

Van Noten's impertinence 

With relief you then discover Yuki and Issey Miyake’s stunning white dress. But though beautiful, its pleating and long flowing lines owe far more to the underappreciated Mariano Fortuny than Balenciaga. On which note, why hasn’t the V&A dedicated an exhibition to him yet?

Roksanda Ilincic, the preferred choice of Mrs. Trump and other political women, makes an appearance too. Her watermelon-toned gown is the same shade as Balenciaga’s Flamenco dress. But while the lantern-sleeves are reminiscent of the master, Ilincic incorporates them better. Contrasting with a long and narrow hem, they provide a sense of flowing movement and exuberance in an otherwise restrained dress.

Looks familiar right

Lord Nelson must remain

It’s just as painful to watch now as it was two years ago. Footage of Isis fighters destroying Assyrian and Akkadian artefacts in Mosul Museum. It’s more than the destruction itself which is horrifying though, it’s the attitude behind it. The inflexible, dogmatic worldview which condemns anything non-Islamic, non-Sunni to oblivion, whether ancient temples, churches, monasteries or even mosques, albeit of the ‘incorrect’ variety. But ancient artworks aren’t just valuable for their beauty, they also offer lessons on human nature. No one dwarfed by an Assyrian Lamassu can ignore the message of power and ruthless ambition.

In America a similar dogmatic approach has appeared over the controversy surrounding Confederate statues. Ever since a campaign in South Africa two years ago succeeded in removing Cecil Rhodes’ statue from the University of Cape Town there have been similar movements across the globe. Let me just state that I am not comparing these campaigns to ISIS, one of the vilest scourges in recent history. I’m merely commenting on their approach to problematic art. And though not wishing to weigh in on the American debate, lacking the expertise to offer an opinion, I do sympathise with those wishing to remove statues erected with the primary intention of commemorating Antebellum racial inequality.

But this morning I was dismayed to read Afua Hirsch’s exasperating piece in the guardian calling for the removal of Lord Nelson’s statue in Trafalgar Square. After briefly dismissing him as a rabid racist for being friends with slave-owners, who were an unfortunate but not uncommon element in Georgian society, she calls for Nelson’s banishment. But as others have pointed out, Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square was erected in utterly different circumstances to statues of Confederate generals in the US. Nelson was commemorated by a grateful nation following the French wars, while the generals were used to refute Reconstruction and Civil-Rights America. But even if Nelson did have connections to the slave trade, is that sufficient reason for his damnatio memoriae? In the implacable perspective of those like Hirsch, contaminated individuals such as Lord Nelson should be banished from public space lest they further pollute it. But will this reverse history, preventing the Atlantic slave trade from occurring in the first place? I doubt it. Maybe they just read Ninety Eighty-Four’s ‘who controls the present controls the past’ too literally. Avoiding the uglier aspects of our history is irresponsible, and removing Nelson would be tantamount to sweeping the problems of the past under the rug.

I’ve personally never been a big fan of Henry VIII. When he wasn’t decapitating his wives he was outlawing homosexual acts between men. The Buggery Act of 1533 was used to persecute gay men until 1828 (when the even more repressive Offences against the Person Act was legislated), and though repealed in 1553 it was reinstated under Queen Elizabeth I a decade later. As a gay man I hardly find this endearing. Yet it's important not to ignore this part of British history. There is one statue of Henry in London, above the gate of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in Smithfield, looking typically plump and scornful. And outside St Dunstan-in-the-West is a 16th century statue of his daughter Elizabeth, regally decked out as usual. Both monarchs ensured centuries of misery for gay men in England. Yet taking down their images won’t change that, if it did then I’d be the first to topple them. Simply covering up the crimes of the past won’t make them go away, but by acknowledging them we can ensure that the suffering of the past wasn't in vain.

Blessed are the Peace Makers: IWM and Pacifism

With centennial commemorations of the First World War still in full progress the trauma of that conflict continues to throb. Unlike 1914, today there is a consensus on the immorality of war, and few would seriously celebrate wholescale slaughter on the battlefield for its own sake. It’s hard to see anything other than horror in the stark images of trenches choked with splintered corpses and muddy bones.

The Imperial War Museum’s People Power: Fighting for Peace, which closes this week, charts the history of pacifism throughout the 20^th century. As the nature of warfare transformed dramatically over the century and technological advancements gave a single button the power of life and death over millions, the exhibition also asks whether non-involvement alone can be morally justified.

At the beginning of the exhibition hangs a Quaker flag from the early 20^th century, made several years before the nightmare of the First World War clutched the world in its unshakeable grasp. On one side reads ‘Blessed are the Peace Makers’, Matthew 5:9. On the reverse is a picture of a dove, an olive sprig in its mouth as it swoops down on a world ravaged by war. It encourages us to become makers of peace, but what does that mean? Is it enough to not pick up a gun? Or do conflicts need to be prevented before they erupt? Can a peace maker allow technology to evolve in ever crueller directions? These were questions confronting pacifists in the 20^th century.

The gifted philosopher Bertrand Russell was involved with anti-nuclear demonstrations in the early 1960’s despite approaching the age of ninety. He was compelled to do so by the threat of nuclear annihilation. First president of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND), founded in 1957, he resigned in 1960 to form the Committee of 100, concerned that CND was not involved in sufficient direct action and hence losing the public’s interest. In a photo from the era we see Russell seated on the ground in the middle of a sit-in, gaunt and venerable, surrounded by supporters.

A poster from the same time asks bluntly ‘Would you press the button? Will you let them?’, inviting the reader to join Russell and seven thousand others in a demonstration outside the air ministry (assuming they wouldn’t). By the post-war period ‘sitting it out’ was no longer enough. To thwart a nuclear apocalypse you needed to be actively engaged. War must be stopped before it begins and the bomb destroyed before it explodes.

Public support for the CND wound down after 1963 in response to the Test Ban Treaty, the conflict in Vietnam overshadowing nuclear concerns. But to use a cliched phrase, the Cold War heating up again by the early 80’s, the CND found itself again leading a crusade against nuclear destruction. Images from that period don’t baulk at portraying an alternative view of the special relationship: Britain relegated as the US’ toilet. But with their conical peaks, the two turds dumped on the Midlands also resemble nuclear warheads, in turn implicating the ethical foundations of NATO military strategy. Underneath we see a grotesque map of Great Britain and Ireland, both composed entirely of corpses. The message is stark: if nuclear war is permitted to go ahead then our countries will be reduced to just that, fields of bodies.

The Unending Cult of Human Sacrifice, an uncompromising title for an uncompromising artwork. Painted by C.R.W. Nevinson, official war artist during the First World War, the piece was completed in 1934. In sweeping Hollywood fashion, the artist shows warfare ranging from across the centuries compressed into a single battle, artillery and bayonets in the foreground replaced by knights and chariots in the distance. Scattered amongst the clashing armies are images of Christian iconography, the Virgin Mary backing one side whilst several saints stand against her. A crucified Christ has been hauled up like one of many flags and the dove of peace has been supplanted by planes of war. The message is stark: morality and religion cannot be perverted to support war, to sustain its unending cult. Complacency is the friend of death. 

Fahrelnissa Zeid and the battle for Turkey's soul

This article was also published on Modern Magazine

Despite its stunning location straddling two continents, locals describe Istanbul’s atmosphere as ‘hüzün’. Roughly translated as melancholy, this bittersweet emotion has long haunted the city on the Bosphorus. But the anxiety currently gripping Turkey is neither sweet nor ancient. Ever since the failed coup attempt against President Erdoğan in July last year the country has been in turmoil. A purge targeting perceived dissidents has led to the arrest of tens of thousands including teachers, academics, civil servants, journalists and military officers. All have been accused of connection with the Gülen movement, founded by the prominent dissenter Fethullah Gülen. And despite it being over a year since the attempted uprising the crackdown continues. At the commemoration ceremony on the anniversary of the coup Erdoğan made clear that he had no intention of curtailing it. Announcing that he wished to reinstate the death penalty Erdoğan was criticised by the EU, who warned him that doing so would jeopardise Turkey’s stalled membership talks. Opponents have accused him of using the coup to strengthen his grip on the country, and earlier this year a referendum passed giving him almost unlimited political powers as well as undermining the independence of the Turkish judiciary. Having always identified with the conservative Islamic faction of Turkish politics, in opposition to the traditional secular elite, at last month’s commemoration Erdoğan declared that the coup plotters were ‘unbelievers’ and that ‘my nation march with their flag and their faith’. Long accused of pursuing an Islamic agenda, the news last month that Turkish children would no longer be taught evolution in school appeared to confirm those fears. The Ministry of Education announced that Darwin’s theory was ‘too controversial’ for school children to understand. Many Muslim Turks reject evolutionary theory as it contradicts the account of creation given in the Quran. And even more recently Turkey became embroiled in a dispute with Israel over the Temple Mount, Erdoğan accusing it of undermining Jerusalem’s ‘Islamic character’.

Turkey appears poised on the brink of change as Erdoğan’s power grows increasingly authoritarian and confrontations with other states leave it ever more isolated. Like an antidote to this dismal situation came Tate Modern’s exhibition on the female Turkish artist Fahrelnissa Zeid. Regarded as a pioneer of abstract art in Turkey, she is the latest of non-western artists to be exhibited recently. But just like Turkey itself Zeid’s art was split between tradition and modernity, between international trends and the allure of her heritage. Born in 1901 into a prominent artistic family, she was one of the first women to enter Istanbul’s Academy of Fine Arts and travelled across Europe in the 1920’s. In the galleries and museums there she encountered modern art for the first time. In 1934 she married Prince Zeid bin Hussain, the Iraqi ambassador to Turkey at the time, and as a diplomat’s wife Zeid travelled the world. But it was only in the 1940’s that she began to paint in earnest. Becoming involved with the D-Group in Istanbul, a group of young Turkish artists, she started to display her work.

The exhibition begins with this first period. Paintings such as Third Class Passengers betray the inspiration of Fauvism, as indicated by its bold colours and non-realist style. But despite its European influence, the subject is undeniably Turkish. The ship’s floor is covered with a kaleidoscope of oriental carpets, their melange of patterns prefiguring Zeid’s later abstract work. Sitting on top of them are veiled women and taqiyah wearing men. Zeid has used modern art to represent an ancient Anatolian aesthetic.

A self-portrait from 1944 shows a rather ferocious looking woman, eye-brows arched in defiance. Wearing a fashionable mustard jacket and with Lauren Bacall hair against a dark green Holbein background she conveys the impression of an elegant, westernised woman. And yet there is an almost sickly quality to her face, as if the ‘hüzün’ of Istanbul has seeped into the paint itself.

As the wife of a diplomat Zeid led an international lifestyle. Living in Britain during the late 1940’s, she was inspired by Loch Lomond during a visit to Scotland. The resulting work, entitled simply Loch Lomond, shows the creeping influence of abstraction. For though the scene itself remains representational, festivities on the shore in full swing whilst leaf-like boats bob on the water, the sky has been transformed into a mosaic of multicoloured tesserae while the loch has been divided into two opposing patches of red and blue. The picture also exhibits her cosmopolitan attitude, finding creativity in starkly different countries and cultures.

Another work from this period was the bluntly titled Fight against Abstraction. A surrealist medley of images swirl out of the canvas towards us, mostly limbs and faces, while the patchwork abstract background threatens to absorb them. Like a chaotic nightmare Zeid conveys the crisis she was undergoing as she stood at an artistic crossroads.

But by the 1950’s she had come to fully embrace abstraction, and had exhibited in Paris, London and New York, achieving major recognition. But while likely influenced by the rise of abstract expressionism in the post-war period, Zeid’s abstract pieces also recall the non-figurative tradition of Islamic art, in particular its predilection for geometric patterns and designs. A favourite would have to be Break of the Atom and Vegetal Life. As if looking at the Big Bang you can sense the energy surging throughout this work. But rather than violently erupting out there is an elegance to the spiralling forms, like ripples criss-crossing on water.

In 1958 Zeid’s life became entwined with international politics. The entire Iraqi royal family were killed in a coup except for Zeid and her husband who were fortunate enough to be in Italy at the time. But faced with so much uncertainty, for her husband was no longer ambassador, she put art aside until the next decade. Though she had already begun moving away from abstraction, upon resuming painting in the 1960’s she entered a new phase. Her painting of the Thames during the Golden Jubilee beckons from across the room tantalisingly. The hazy buildings engulfed by honey coloured light appear futuristic, as if this Sci-Fi Impressionism allows you to cross time. Rather than London 1977 it feels more like London 2077.

When her husband’s family were assassinated Zeid’s privileged life came to an end. Not long afterwards she cooked her first meal, roast chicken. The bones left afterwards inspired her to create a new form of sculpture, which she called ‘paleokystallos’. Essentially painted chicken bones coated in resin, their simple geometric patterns are reminiscent of stone age art. As she became older Zeid seemed to yearn to connect with her heritage, as if these sculptures provided a medium to her female ancestors. The portraits she painted in the final decades of her life also expressed this desire. Commenting on her self-portrait, Someone from the Past, she stated “I am a descendant of four civilisations. The hand is Persian, the dress is Byzantine, the face is Cretan and the eyes Oriental.” So though interested in her culture, this did not make her a narrow Turkish nationalist. Instead she sought to embrace the multitude of influences which have contributed to Turkish identity. And looking at her portraits, with their Byzantine iconography and exaggerated features reminiscent of the Fayyum portraits, that receptiveness appears obvious. In 1975, five years after the death of her husband, Zeid moved to Jordan where her son lived. There she established an art school and continued working up until her death in 1991.

Despairing over Turkey’s future, economist Ersin Şenel has accused Erdoğan of using the coup as an excuse to entrench his own power, stating that he ‘has turned polarisation – ethnic, sectarian and cultural – into a political strategy. The opposition seems weak and divided’. And with political uncertainty likely to continue the economy has suffered too. So it’s no wonder that ‘thousands of educated Turks are seeking ways to flee and find another life in dignity and peace where they might secure the basic protection of law, citizenship, healthcare or social support’. Perhaps they might find solace in Fahrelnissa Zeid’s story. A cosmopolitan artist who comfortably combined the artistic traditions of her own heritage with international modernism, she stands in contrast to the divisive nationalist and sectarian policies of Erdoğan’s Turkey. For those Turks who look beyond their own borders as well as those who seek greater plurality within them, Zeid offers an alternative model of Turkishness. 

Opera and sex in Une éducation manquée

Opera is often dismissed as elitist and with Covent Garden’s exorbitantly priced tickets in mind it’s not hard to see why. But there was absolutely nothing elitist about Une éducation manquée, Emmanuel Chabrier’s one act operetta, performed at the Arcola Theatre. Set in 18^th century France, the story revolves around two young newly-wed aristocrats, who unfortunately haven’t a clue about what should happen on their wedding night. The delightful tale involves drinking songs and opportunely timed lightning bolts among the sexcapades, ending with a worldly education shall we say.

Part of the Arcola Theatre’s Grimeborn festival, Une éducation manquée was produced by Pop-up Opera, a touring operatic company which aims to make the genre more engaging and intimate. So if you arrived expecting La Scala-scale scenery, stage and orchestra you would be disappointed. But the piano and cosy performance were good fun and the singers excellent, with Susanna Fairbairn as the innocent groom Gontran, Christine Buras as the equally innocent bride Helene, and Oskar McCarthy as the inebriated tutor Pausanias.

But at times the production did seem to get a bit carried away with itself. The surtitles took great liberties with the libretto (at least as far as my dodgy French could work out) which was amusing at first but eventually became frustrating when you wanted to know what was being said, or rather, sung. But the occasional emoji and use of text-speak did provide an entertaining contrast to the usual weighty lines, and the in-jokes surrounding ‘hymen’ cleverly took the piss out of operatic convention. While acknowledging that pianist and musical director William Cole played flawlessly, at the end of the day a piano can’t compete with the richness of a full orchestra.

Pop-up Opera’s Une éducation manquée might not threaten the Royal Opera House, but for those new to the genre or who simply want something more light-hearted than Othello it makes a good alternative. 

Monteverdi's surprise

My brows furrowed in consternation. ‘What is this?’ I wondered. From far below the solid and, dare I say, slightly stolid intonation of plainchant carried upwards to my seat. ‘It can’t possibly be Monteverdi.’ I was sitting in the rausing circle (or stingy seats as I prefer) at the Royal Albert Hall for the Proms. And having listened to Monteverdi’s Vespers many hundreds of times, I knew each section like the back of my hand. Easily one of my favourite pieces of music, its endless variety has delighted me for years. But I had never heard it with the plainchant antiphons before each movement. I later discovered that Monteverdi had originally intended it so. But once the tenor sang,  the trumpet-like Deus in Adiutorium I knew it was my favourite piece. I cannot emphasise how incredible this music is. For everyone out there who reads these words, if you have not listened to the Vespers of 1610 then I urge you to do so. I personally prefer Sir John Eliot Gardiner’s 1990 recording. If there is one thing you need to do before you die it’s this. No other composer can match Monteverdi for his ingenuity and the sheer gorgeousness he created. 

Gardens, Nature's Graveyards

It is a truth universally acknowledged that people like a bit of greenery. Why else would we insist on having those pointless voids of space known as gardens. Perhaps it’s a vestige of our primeval past, before the emergence of agriculture and civilisation, before humanity crammed itself into sprawling metropolises. When our distant ancestors still hunted and gathered their food, meaning the more lush and fertile an area the more it could provide. Before we even had bread let alone became breadwinners. Though most of us have now left that way of life behind it remains imprinted on our DNA.

Despite being inspired by the natural world gardens are still fundamentally different to it. The natural world is constantly evolving and changing. As beautiful as they are (or at least as we exclaim so), nature’s intricately complex ecosystems are brutal places, ‘red in tooth and claw’. Plants and animals kill and eat one another. It is the cycle of life, and nature is more concerned with survival than mere aesthetics. Being a vegetarian I might try to ignore it but there’s no pretending otherwise. Gardens might be inspired by the natural world but they lack its vitality, its infinite process of development and change. Instead they are carefully tended to, flowers and plants being selected with discrimination and then lovingly doted upon. A garden is an artwork in the archaic sense, a composition created through artifice. There is nothing in nature that resembles the choreographed flowerbeds and fastidiously trimmed hedges of dedicated horticulturists. This is a ‘civilised’ version of nature, stripped of its chaos. Any untrammelled flourishing is quickly stamped out in favour of a regime of coercion. If a butterfly, zig-zagging its way freely through the air, represents the natural world then its dead equivalent encased behind glass represents a garden.

A garden is an exclusive place too, founded on principles of strict segregation. Only those plants with prior approval are permitted to vegetate there, within the confines imposed. But intruders are swiftly and brutally exterminated. Any weeds unfortunate enough to have strayed into forbidden territory are violently uprooted. Neither are animals welcome within the horticultural stronghold. Domestic cats are one exception, even if only given leeway to avoid a dispute with disgruntled neighbours. But creatures lacking a human master can expect no mercy. Moths will be squashed. Squirrels shot at. Poison will be smeared over every leaf and branch to punish any intruder for their audacity. A garden is a graveyard, those species lucky enough to be selected growing over the carcasses of the less fortunate.

Maybe instead of endless hours watering, pruning, clipping, uprooting, poisoning, shooting and killing we should adopt a different approach. Allow our gardens to develop as Mother Nature intended, not as fragile and moribund artworks to be admired like an animal in a cage but as evolving ecosystems. We should treat them like Tibetan mandalas, to be erased upon completion as a reminder of life’s transience.