Showing posts with label Picasso. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Picasso. Show all posts

28 May 2026

Spirit of Place

Far Horizons


The other day, on my Thames Path Walk, I stopped briefly at Kelmscott Manor, the summer home for many years of William Morris and his entourage. 


Kelmscott Manor

It is a peaceful place, its old stones and leaded windows giving it a dignity that is then gently upheld by the unpretentious gardens.




In keeping with the charitable aim of my walk, I remember the visit here in 2013 that I made with my wife, Amanda.



Amanda was fond of the designs that Morris, Burne-Jones, Webb and Rossetti produced under the general umbrella of the Arts and Crafts movement.  




But perhaps I was more interested in the collective efforts, the dynamic of such groups of people who shared ideas and thoughts and inspired art that was essentially something to be lived with..... 


Red House, Bexley heath

I may be wrong [You often are.... Ed] but I have found visiting the homes of writers and artists (too many to mention, but for example, W B Yeats's Thoor Ballylee, Dylan Thomas's Boat House, Hardy's Cottage, Shaw's Corner and Henry Moore's Perry Green, T E Lawrence's Clouds Hill and New Place in Stratford-upon-Avon..... As well places abroad such as Thomas Mann's Buddenbrookhaus in Lübeck or Leopardi's House in Recanati.... [As you said, too many to mention.... Ed].....  Yes, I have found that visiting the homes of artists, writers and musicians (Elgar's, Britten's, Palestrina's.... I could go on [You do.  Ed]) gives me more of an idea of their lives and inspiration that any amount of academic research, [Lightweight!  Ed].

Kelmscott House, Hammersmith
William Morris Gallery, Walthamstow
But this, however, is/was merely a preamble to the recent trip we made to Sussex, to follow up an exhibition of the work of Lee Miller at The Tate....

My point is, perhaps [You don't know?  Ed] that open communities of people with similar interests can be very fertile ground for developing ideas.  It is true that some artists and writers work best in isolation (and need much undisturbed time to get to grips with their creations) but, I think, it is rare that such people don't also enjoy conversation and socialisation and contact with others.  An example might be Joyce in Paris, where he would work scrupulously through the mornings, but then frequent Les Deux Magots, or such haunts, for white wine (which he called electricity) and company later in the day.

However, before we track down Lee Miller at Farleys, we visit Charleston, which in 1916 became the home of Vanessa Bell with her friend and lover Duncan Grant (and his partner David Garnett), who, as conscientious objectors, sought farm work and a place out of London.


Charleston in Firle, East Sussex
They never bought the 16th century farmhouse, but rented it continuously until Grant's death in 1978 (Vanessa Bell died in 1961).  In between the wars they returned to London, but used it as a retreat and holiday home.  At the start of the Second World War they returned here permanently.


The Bloomsbury Group, which included Vanessa's sister Virginia Woolf, as well as the artist Roger Fry, frequently met here and it would have been buzzing with experimental thinking and alternative ideas. My late friend, the novelist Simon Mawer, was fascinated by the life of the place and was working on a novel set here when he died prematurely last year.


Right from the start, Bell and Grant decorated every room with their art work - not just paintings, but also textiles, ceramics and furniture.  Now preserved by the Charleston Trust it is today a place where visitors may appreciate the ambience as it was but may also enjoy exhibitions or take part in a year-round calendar of festivals and events.




The studio is especially interesting - though it was an add-on and is in need of repair now. It has a real sense of being lived in and used, and it is almost as if it is only temporarily without a practising artist.....





Outside, the gardens are another work of art, with a naturalness that goes well with the informality of the house.


Anyway, after a breath of air and some wonderful views from nearby 217 metre high Firle Beacon:

Looking north from Firle Beacon - Charleston is off to the right

The horizon stretches beyond our vision, teasing the imagination, befuddling the focus - we head to Farleys Farm.....

Farleys House, Muddles Green, Chiidingly, East Sussex

As the website for Farleys House & Gallery (Home of the Surrealists) says, The exterior of Farleys House gives no hint of the visual excitements to be discovered within. You will find brightly coloured walls, rambling corridors and generously proportioned oddly asymmetric rooms filled with a remarkable and eclectic collection of artworks, all of which provides the visitor with a glimpse into the remarkable lives of its former occupants Lee Miller and Roland Penrose.

Farleys House, Muddles Green, East Sussex
All of the above is true, though you can only visit the ground floor, and photography is prohibited, so I cannot share with you the variety of exhibits nor the range of rooms, from Lee Miller's custom-built kitchen (towards the end of her life she became a cordon bleu chef) to her own book-lined study, but, thanks to the Farleys Team, this is the Dining Room, a part of the original farmhouse,

Fireplace, Farleys House, East Sussex, England by Tony Tree (j13a)
Tony Tree © Lee Miller Archives, England 2026. All rights reserved. leemiller.co.uk

and this is a corner of the sitting room:

Sitting Room Farleys House, East Sussex, England by Jim Holden (JH 0278)
Jim Holden © Lee Miller Archives, England 2026. All rights reserved. leemiller.co.uk

The tour is fascinating - but the legacies of Lee Miller, one of the twentieth century's most remarkable photographers (she was, among many other things, a brilliant fashion photographer in New York but then also an extraordinarily tenacious and risk-taking war photographer in the Second World War, capturing the fall of Hitler's Eagle's Nest in Berchtesgaden, and being amongst the first to enter the concentration camp at Dachau) and that of her husband Roland Penrose, an artist in his own right, but also founder of the ICA and biographer of Picasso..... These are closely guarded and, with reason, so are the art works within the house.

And the gardens, including Lee's own herb garden, are a treat.....


And within sight of the Long Man of Wilmington on the northern slope of Windover Hill, there are some interesting exhibits which I was allowed to photograph....


Including this Sea Creature, the creation of Antony Penrose, the son of Lee Miller and Roland Penrose, who is still resident at the Farm.

Sea Creature, 2000, Oak and Lead, Antony Penrose

It was a delight to meet Antony, whose books about his mother include The Lives of Lee Miller:


  Lee Miller's War:


and Lee Miller: Photographs:


Antony was charming and welcoming and clearly loves the interest people are taking in his family and his home.  I am very grateful to him for granting me permission to use these snapshots:

Antony Penrose
I don't think I am misrepresenting history by saying that the relationship between Lee and her son could have been better during his childhood, but then not everyone's mother can be described as: Photojournalist, war correspondent, model and Surrealist muse.... one of the most important women photographers of the twentieth century.....  And not only that, when you read about her life, particularly during the war and immediately afterwards, it is exhausting just to read about it!  Imagine what it must have been like to live it? Not many could have stood that pace, that stress, that pressure. And then to marry and have a child?  Settling down can not have been straightforward.


Tony was born in London in 1947, but in 1949 they all moved to Farleys, where he grew up largely supervised by Patsy Murray, the daughter of Lee and Roland's housekeeper and cook. While the house was often alive with famous guests (Picasso visited twice, but friends and connections included a Who's Who of contemporary artists) it wasn't until he was an adolescent that he grew to know Lee better. In the sixties, as he describes in The Lives of Lee Miller, things began to improve: he had escaped from school and home early and after some years in engineering found he missed the cows and the land too much, so began to study farming. Absence from from home for long periods while he worked on other people's farms  helped heal the breaches. Gradually he and Lee became more tolerant of each other.  Whenever he brought friends home, Lee was as welcoming and hospitable to them as she was to her own guests.....

Antony Penrose

Then, in 1971, Tony embarked on a three year round-the-world trip, returning in late 1974 with his New Zealand born wife, Suzanna, and setting up home and starting his own family nearby. Sadly, however, despite the new-found closeness, Lee was diagnosed with cancer, and she died on July 21st, 1977.


*****

Ours was an inspiring trip, in a lovely part of this world.  I feel I understand Lee Miller a little better for the visit, and, when subsequently we called in at the 18th century Six Bells Pub in Chiddingly, where Lee had taken Vogue models  as well as guests such as Picasso, Man Ray and Max Ernst, I felt even more as if she was still around. The pub is a friendly delight and really has not changed much over the years. It was almost as though time had paused, and something rare was in the air.....



The weather was perfect, and afterwards we walked on the South Downs Way, near the Seven Sisters, with the land, sea and sky all distinct but interacting, each an important part of the view, contributing to something both awe-inspiring and at the same time harmonious.  It was not hard to imagine how it was once, and how it may be again.....  My horizons have been extended, I think.....


I like the phrase Spirit of Place (genius loci) - which Lawrence Durrell used as a title for some essays and letters about places he loved in Greece and the Aegean. It refers to the character of a location and melds the physical features of a place with its cultural aspects and human connections. Here, at Charleston and then at Farleys, though I cannot pretend to know much about the people who came and went through these spaces (John Maynard Keynes? OK, I should know, but it's all a blank.....) I feel the frisson of an imaginative world, and come away feeling somehow the better for it......




*****

For more details about Charleston please see:



and for more about Farleys this is the link:



And should you like this and would like to know  more about William Morris, please see my earlier piece at:



*****

With very many thanks to my autista and compagna.



*****



31 March 2025

Paris encore

 The Writing's on the Wall




I was 22 when I took this picture in a poky little zinc, just by the Bouquinistes on the Rive Gauche of the Seine. I had a Zenith 35mm camera and I perched it on the bar and shot the unsuspecting woman as she chatted with another.




Just the other day, only 52 years later, I had a small glass of white wine in the same bar  with the same tables and mirrors.....  However, sadly, it was a different woman, which blurred my vision.....




Funny how time confuses us. As Paul Verlaine wrote:

Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant
D'une femme inconnue, et que j'aime, et qui m'aime
Et qui n'est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même
Ni tout à fait une autre, et m'aime et me comprend.

Mon rêve familier



Verlaine died in this building in 1896.  25 years later Ernest Hemingway came here.


39, rue Descartes


Although Papa H only worked here, he lived with Hadley just nearby:


74, rue du Cardinal Lemoine


While, just round the corner, was James Joyce:


71, rue du Cardinal Lemoine


Valery Larbaud supervised the translation of Ulysses into French.


Prenez donc tout de moi : le sens de ces poèmes,
Non ce qu'on lit, mais ce qui paraît au travers malgré moi:

Le Don de Soi-Même

I can see these guys, now, sipping vin blanc (electricity - JJ) in a bar like this:




Although legend has it that Joyce (not to mention Hemingway) enjoyed more than a glass or two in various bars:





While a few blocks away Sylvia Beach had started a bookshop, Shakespeare & Co, and published Joyce's masterwork.


12, rue de l'Odeon

While a little further off, near the Jardins du Luxembourg, Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas were the talk of the town, with their literary and artistic parties:




27, rue de Fleurus

Which a little later on would have included Pablo Picasso who wasn't to be left out (and nor were Matisse, Gauguin or Ezra Pound):



7, rue des Grands Augustins

Yes, the writing is on the wall, all over the Left Blank (sic), and the bodies are piled high.  Balzac (Who he?  Ed.) died in 1850.  More recently, Oscar Wilde lost his duel with his wallpaper (One of us has got to go):


13, rue des Beaux Arts

Those inter-war years must have been something?  William Faulkner was at 42 rue de Vaugirard in 1925; George Orwell stayed at 6 rue Pot de Fer in 1928;  Henry Miller was on the fifth floor of 36 rue Bonaparte in 1930.  Joyce lived at 19 different addresses between 1920 and 1939, and Hemingway certainly lived in a number of apartments, and drank nearly everywhere, causing mayhem and getting F Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda very drunk at times, and all the while Josephine Baker was performing in Paris (and drinking at La Coupole in Montparnasse - possibly with my Great Grandmother and Anna Pavlova).  Samuel Beckett lived much of his life in Paris from 1928 until his death in 1989, and worked closely with Joyce on Finnegan's Wake.




Then, after the Second World War, it was the turn of the Beat Generation, some of whom (though not Jack Kerouac) stayed here:





There are plaques all over the city, and streets and squares named after some of these writers and artists.  They all tell stories, and, for me, the  interest is in being where these people were, seeing some of the buildings they would have known.


Place du Panthéon, 75005 Paris France


It's an emotional thing, I guess, not historical, nor in any way exact (there wouldn't have been so many cars in the 1920s, nor would there have been so many tourists, like me, wandering about.)

I have written about Paris before and, should you be interested, you can see my earlier piece, Paris: City of Light, at https://www.richardpgibbs.org/2014/07/paris-city-of-light.html

and in that piece I had pictures from some of the high spots, including the towers of Notre Dame.  I had actually come to the city on this occasion with the express intention of seeing the 'new' Notre Dame, but found it impossible to get tickets.  According to the official website between 10 and 15 thousand tickets are issued two days in advance of admission, but, try as I might, not one came my way.  So I went down there to see if there was any chance of getting in, but the queues were so enormous I gave up - it would have been more like Paris Gard du Nord (or Euston) station at rush hour than a cathedral (and it is still a building site).....




And so I meander about the city streets.  The fashionable cafes and restaurants are full, and, as a solo traveller, there is no joy in even asking for a table.....

I am not the only one, of course.  Others manage on their own:




Though how exactly on your own you are depends on your speed dial, I suppose:




One tablet, however, hits me hard.  Not something from La Belle Epoque, but a reminder of how things have changed:




Georges Wolinski was an 80 year old cartoonist and comics writer, who was killed in cold blood, with eleven others, at about 11.30 am on January 7th 2015 in the attack on the offices of Charlie Hebdo by two men claiming membership of Al Qaeda.  

It is hard to try and connect the mass of humanity, from all sorts of cultures and nationalities, who squeeze into Notre Dame de Paris, with those who use religion as a basis for brutal assassinations.  It is hard to square the hordes of tourists with the inequalities of the world - though where I fit into that paradox is also hard to explain. 

La belle époque appartient maintenant au passé.  




It is evening.  I stroll up to Montmartre, where the crowds are happy.  Windmills still exist, though not as Van Gogh would have seen them.




The old places are still old, but somehow they seem like stage sets:




I have un Ricard in a bar, and write in my diary.  The waiter asks if I am writing my memoir.  I reply that I am writing his.....  Neither of us knows the whole story.




Out in the street, I reach out to touch a cat's nose.  Memories of Meadow.  But l'accordioniste slaps me away.  He is right, of course, but neither of us knows the full story.....




It is busy on the steps of the Basilica of Sacré Cœur de Montmartre.  Youthful spirits curl in the wreathing air, the city a mosaic carpet stretching away below:




And when I turn to look back, the basilica seems to crown the  crowd:




But back in my room the view is somehow more complex.  I have to travel away, and I think of my home.  Greatness is not everything.  I am conflicted, always wanting something else. 


 

I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use -- silence, exile, and cunning.

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young man
James Joyce




So take everything from me: the meaning of these poems,
Not what one reads, but what appears through them despite myself:

The Gift of Oneself
Valery Larbaud

*****

[Dedicated to the memory of Lindsay Webster, À la recherche du temps perdu]


*****