Is Constable an artist of nostalgia?

This is a story of an artist in his time, and the unexpected ways in which his works, and the ideas on which they were based, have been transformed in the present-day to mean something quite different.  First, look at the sketch above: Barges on the Stour at Flatford Lock, painted around 1810. It has an immediacy, a capturing of a natural effect, that is remarkable for that date. Yet Constable is famous with the public not for this kind of thing but for The Haywain: 

Is Constable’s an art of nostalgia? Like other cultural figures that are appropriated as embodying a national tradition, Constable cannot be held entirely guilty for the ideas attached to his works. What looks to us today like a rural idyll was a working landscape. Nonetheless, the scenes celebrated by Constable are a very specific rural, non-industrial vision of the world.

Constable’s work, and his modern reputation, seem to be the result of a two-way tension:

Firstly, Constable created remarkable sketches, both in pencil and in oil, of landscapes and scenes that he observed. Much of what he saw involved clouds and their formations.

Secondly, Constable craved the success of public approval. This could only be obtained by exhibiting large-scale works at the Royal Academy and elsewhere; the small oil sketches would not be accepted. But to create the large-scale works, it seems that Constable lost the wonderful freshness of his oil sketches, even though the larger works are based on the smaller versions.  His big six-foot canvases were not painted at or near the sites portrayed. In any case, you can’t do a six-foot canvas from nature.

How did the second Constable emerge from the first? According to the caption in the V&A, Constable’s Watermeadows near Salisbury, painted 1820 or 1829, was shown to the Royal Academy but was criticised as “a nasty green thing”, at which point Constable withdrew it. That seems to me to summarise Constable’s achievement and limitation. The pictures that were accepted by the Academy were the wrong ones; those that were rejected, like this one, are the truly innovative ones.

“Constable is a painter of the particular rather than the general, the actual, rather than the ideal” (John Sunderland, Constable, 1971). But I don’t think that is quite true. The failure of C is that he did not stick to this principle. His famous paintings (The Haywain) are much less impressive than the studies painted in preparation for it. I saw today in the V&A some of Constable’s oil sketches, and they are a revelation – so different to the dreary formal landscapes of the 19th century. They appear to be very accurate renditions of the landscape, unlike the more formal exhibition pieces, that rearrange parts of the view.

Today’s British public wants an artist like Constable so that it can find reassuring images of a mythical rural tradition. Hence the transmutation of the first Constable to the second was very much in keeping with what the general public want today.  So to answer the question, Is Constable’s the art of nostalgia, I believe in his finished exhibition works, the answer is yes; in the more honest sketches, that is not the case. 

Finding out about the Roman Empire

The Roman Empire: a Very Short Introduction is a book that leaves many questions unanswered. There is no overall attempt at any chronological account, which is fine, but the events that are described are incomplete, and the other topics that are covered are sometimes of questionable relevance; I assume, given the title, that the theme is the Roman Empire, rather than just ancient Rome. The author only has some 130 pages, which he chooses to divide into just 20 pages for history and events, followed by six thematic chapters.

The first chapter, which gives in very concise form (less than 20 pages) an analysis of the assassination of Julius Caesar and states this event was not the real foundation of the Roman Republic; instead, it took place earlier, at “the foundation of an empire under the Republic” – it would be good if the author told us when this took place. In fact, the rest of the book after chapter one was for me something of a non-event, since the questions raised in that chapter were not followed up. Once the author has revealed that the murder of Caesar is not the restoration of democracy but simply a minor event in a power struggle between leading families, the subsequent Empire rather loses interest. Knowing how Pliny praised the emperor Trajan when addressing him is fairly predictable stuff – it is unlikely, after all, that any commentator would condemn the Emperor to their face.

As for the end of the Roman Empire, this is not really covered at all. There is a mention of Gibbon as “the best account” (p3), but no attempt to explain why the Empire ended. The result is tantalizing, just enough to convince us that the author knows his stuff, but not enough to answer the questions sufficiently. It’s not even clear when the Empire ends. There is a chronology at the back that goes as far as 192, but there is no explanation in the book why 192 might indicate any kind of ending. Elsewhere in the text, the conversion of Constantine to Christianity is included, which took place in 312. But there is no more explanation of why 312 an end date for the Empire might be than there was for 192.

There is an interesting chapter on the rise of Christianity. Kelly claims that the Romans could have dealt more effectively with Christians by confiscating their books than by creating martyrs, but to be honest, neither really answers the question we all have of why the Empire ended: did the rise of Christianity put an end to the Empire? We aren’t told.

One aspect that is covered very effectively is the nature of Roman rule. This was a military occupation, and any rebellion or opposition was ruthlessly crushed; according to one account, 985 villages were destroyed in suppressing the Jewish Revolt. Yet, the author points out, 19th-century British commentators described the Roman Empire in glowing terms as “the maintenance of a wonderfully high standard of internal peace and order”, comparing it with a similarly fictitious peace in the British Empire in India.

There is an excellent chapter (chapter 4) on the Roman love affair with all things Greek, which is fascinating, but not very central to the Empire; then there is a chapter called Living and Dying, that devotes several pages to life expectancy at the time; hardly relevant to the success or failure of the Empire. It also includes some questionable statements, such as that each woman in the Empire needed to have “at least five children” to maintain the population (p107). Since the Empire did not collapse because there weren’t enough people, this is not very useful.

All in all, certainly a Very Short Introduction, but one that could have organised its space more effectively.

Whistler and Illuminated Manuscripts

What connection, you might say, is there between the artist Whistler and illuminated manuscripts? Not much, I hear you answer. But there is almost as little connection between Whistler and Nature, and that is the title of a whole book – to be honest, a deeply disappointing book. Described as “published to accompany the exhibition” Whistler and Nature, it fails to explain how only a minority of the works in the exhibition are about nature, and yet makes clear how Whistler grew up in an environment of engineering and construction. His early landscapes include figures in the background erecting telephone cables, so clearly, he wasn’t striving for the traditional picturesque. Mention of the picturesque leads to a lengthy discussion of Capability Brown and William Kent that does not seem very relevant to Whistler. A claim is made that Whistler used the techniques of Gainsborough, which doesn’t seem very relevant either. More maddeningly, the book includes two of Whistler’s exquisite portraits, which are not discussed in any detail in the book. Why struggle to find links between Whistler and Nature, if he paints portraits as good as these? The book seems an object lesson in earnestly searching for themes in Whistler that are not the most fruitful ones for exploring what Whistler actually painted: urban landscapes, including industry and fog - when he wasn’t painting portraits. Some of those portraits, including At the Piano, 1858, are remarkable studies of adolescents.

The curator of the exhibition, and author of the bulk of the book, Patricia De Montfort claims in a rather over-elaborate way that Constable is depicting human industry in works like Dedham Lock (1820), and so, presumably, Whistler was following in a tradition of depicting industry in the picturesque landscape; I see the depiction of industry as accidental, not central to the theme of Constable’s painting, which in my opinion looks less like a study of human activity than a sense of nostalgia for a golden age; there is little industry in East Anglia.  Slightly more relevant is perhaps a Turner watercolour of Leeds, 1816, which certainly does appear to be a depiction of an industrial city, complete with smoke from chimneys. But surely the justification for Whistler’s Wapping is that the painter had grown up in a family of engineers, had studied at West Point, and liked the feel of activity and business from depicting working ships.

The real interest in Whistler is perhaps the series of Nocturnes (few if any of which appear in the exhibition), including the Nocturne: Blue and Silver – Bognor (1874). These paintings simplify their ostensible view dramatically, and reduce it to a dusk or night-time scene, including a few artificial lights enabling the view to be discerned. Of course, as modern viewers, we find it incredible that any art can be created in Bognor, or, for that matter, we don’t immediately think of urban Westminster as a site for art. That finding of beauty in the fog and the haze of a modern city, and reducing an image to broad, almost abstract masses of colour, is where Whistler becomes interesting – the painter of modern life, to use Baudelaire’s phrase. It is as if he was depicting a landscape in the manner of Howard Hodgkin or Ivon Hitchens, a hundred years before either of them.

As for figures in Whistler’s landscapes, Ms de Montfort quotes Whistler himself on the role of one of these figures:

My picture of a Harmony in Grey and Gold is an illustration of my meaning a snow scene with a single black figure and a lighted tavern. I care nothing for the past, present, or future of the black figure, placed there because black was wanted at that spot.

Unfortunately, the author fails to take this hint and spends two pages describing the “intellectual tradition of the figure in the landscape”. As Beckett would say, no meaning where none intended.

The final chapter of the book, by Clare Willsdon, makes a claim for Whistler as a painter of gardens. If art criticism could be described like the children’s game where you search for the subject and are either hot or cold, depending on how close you are, then this writing is very cold indeed. Certainly Whistler created some engravings set in gardens; his wife was a keen gardener, and the resulting images are unobjectionable, perfectly competent, but not very memorable. It’s not the Whistler I remember.

What to make of Whistler

The Red Dress, 1894

There are two Whistler exhibitions running concurrently at the Fitzwilliam, Cambridge museum. One is a travelling show that appears to have been mounted by the Hunterian Collection of the University of Glasgow, without any curatorial involvement from Cambridge, while, in true Fitzwilliam style, the other is from the Fitzwilliam’s own collection of prints - a completely independent exhibition. Intriguingly, you can sometimes see the same print in both exhibitions, but with different captions. The Fitzwilliam’s own captions look to me to be more informed about how the print was made, and often about the context.

What can we say about Whistler? One of the most cantankerous people who ever lived, is the first thing that comes to mind. Publishing a book about negative things people have said about you (The Gentle Art of Making Enemies) suggests a pretty feisty character, and pushing your brother-in-law through a plate glass window does somewhat reduce my sympathy for Mr Whistler.

There is no mention of the episode with the brother-in-law in the “Whistler and Nature” exhibition (curated by Patricia de Montfort, lecturer in history of art at Glasgow University, although there is no mention of her position in the catalogue). Here we have a rather sanitised Whistler, grouped by theme. Many of the drawings and prints are very small, and the exhibition’s strange insistence on roping the spectators back from the works means it is difficult to see them. By contrast, the Fitzwilliam’s own show does not prevent you getting close to the works, nor from photographing them. Incidentally, the “Nature” part of the Whistler and Nature show seems to be rather widely interpreted. It includes the female nude, studies of Venice and The Thames; I don’t know why the exhibition wasn’t simply called “Whistler in the Hunterian, Glasgow, with a few other works”.

Unfortunately, the catalogue follows the recent trend of not including all the works in the exhibition, nor even making it clear which of Whistler's works are included or not. Even more unfortunate, the best Whistler by far in the catalogue, the oil painting Wapping, from the Washington National Gallery of Art, is not included. 

Whistler’s nudes are a disappointment, at least based on this display. They appear to be a long series of females wearing some diaphanous clothing, with the aim of capturing the movement of the material. The result is simply rather vague and inconsequential. Some of Whistler’s oil paintings of seascapes capture much better the evanescent quality that he was evidently seeking.

Similarly, the exhibition’s attempt to link Whistler to contemporaries (Albert Moore, Japanese paintings) does not seem to be sufficiently clear. I didn’t see much of a link between the Moore painting and Whistler’s own work, nor did I recognise the Japanese elements pointed out to me in the captions. That doesn't mean they aren't there, simply that I didn't see them from the works displayed. 

The Kitchen, 1858

For me, the best works were the small oil paintings and some of the highly worked engravings, in which Whistler shows true skill in using the various print-making techniques he had learned. One print in particular, The Kitchen, 1858, achieves some wonderful broad areas of dark shading that I didn't think were possible from an engraving. Some of the lithographs look to be simply transmitting pencil shading to paper, without any intermediate printing process – truly remarkable. Apparently, the caption tells us, Whistler learned to draw not directly onto the plate but onto a sheet that was then transferred. However he did it, the results are superb - a good example is The Red Dress, 1894. 

What to do about tourists in Cambridge

Encourage them, is the simple answer.

I didn’t (initially) choose this topic. It was a presentation, believe it or not, at the Cambridge Antiquarian Society spring meeting (March 2019). What is their interest in Cambridge tourism? Pretty negative, from the sound of it. And after hearing complaints about the tourists (including local councillors asking for bus parking to be more controlled, and one comment in this presentation about a tax on coaches visiting Cambridge) I am moved to write.

Here, then are my suggestions for the positive management of tourism in Cambridge, based on the following premises:

• Tourists visiting Cambridge is a good idea. The tourists should not be shunned. After all, they could be visiting Alton Towers or Madame Tussauds. Here, they are looking for an educational experience.
• The tourists are concentrated in and around Kings College. Hence there is a need to disperse the tourists. I suggest three new areas: Parker’s Piece, the station, and the area around Kettle’s Yard. 

 Here, then, are my ten suggestions:

1. A new museum of Cambridge positioned perhaps at the railway station – the Mill building. This museum would be (a) the designated repository of archaeological finds in Cambridgeshire, (b) would cover Cambridge growth and industry rather than the University specifically. Alternatively, it could occupy the former cinema in Hobson Street (which has been empty for years). This museum should take over the computing museum, which has truly the worst location of any museum ever.
2. Converting two or three of the city centre churches to tourist-based activities: St Bene’t, or Little St Mary’s. This policy has been very successful in Norwich.
3. Double the size of the Fitzwilliam Museum, with Heritage Lottery Funding. The Fitzwilliam is capable of taking twice as many visitors as it currently has. The Ashmolean had 937,000 visitors in 2017, and is moving from Feb 2019 to seven-day opening. The Fitzwilliam had 397,000 visitors in 2017. Here is a way of relocating over half a million of Cambridge visitors!
4. A museum of Cambridge University. This could be based in the Police and Fire Station building, both relocated further out of the centre. Include rooms on China and Cambridge, Japan and Cambridge, with details of alumni and artworks, etc. The Oxford Story was in my opinion a very valuable introduction to the university for visitors. It had around 165,000 (declining to 100,000) visitors per year.
5. The Cambridge Museum (formerly the Folk Museum) takes over the church of St Giles opposite and becomes twice as large. Create a museum cluster around Kettle’s Yard, with a redesign of the whole area, to create a more pedestrian-friendly space, including street cafes, and other public spaces. Make this space one of the dispersal zones.
6. The Cambridge University Library opens a museum and café, showing some of the illuminated manuscripts from its collection. The Bodleian has 771,000 visitors annually.
7. A tourist train, battery-powered and single-deck, running through the middle of Jesus Green and Parker’s Piece, as well as the central triangle (King’s Parade, Sidney Street, St Mary’s Street). Each train holds a maximum of 50 people. The train route would start at the station and would go around the central triangle.
8. Open some university buildings to visitors, such as the Senate House.
9. Congestion charging for cars along Trumpington Street and Regent Street, set at a price that means the traffic is not gridlocked along these streets.
10. Sign posts between the station and the city centre, including signs to individual colleges (how radical!) The principle is simple: do you want to encourage tourists, or confuse and bamboozle them, as currently happens? Anyone arriving at Cambridge Station only reaches the centre of Cambridge with great difficulty.