Should one not be adequately informed, by virtue of professional or personal interest, in the social and cultural history of Victorian England (and the Georgian that preceded it), one could be forgiven for not easily placing the name Pugin (says she absolving herself!). That is, to be precise: Augustus Welby Northmore Pugin[a] (/ˈpjuːdʒɪn/PEW-jin; 1 March 1812 – 14 September 1852). And so pasted from Wikipedia; for, having come to the end of a fabulous biography, I now realise I have been saying – in my head anyway – quite correctly (by chance!) the first syllable but consistently mispronouncing the last syllable with a hard ‘g’. And for reasons I can’t say, for there is that rule dependent upon the following vowel and in days gone I certainly had a penchant for an icy gin and tonic of a summer evening. Too long a stay in Germany perhaps, where the g of Germany and gin is confined to words derived from other languages – like, for instance, ‘Germany’ and ‘gin’!
As mentioned previously, in a weaker moment last year I relented and, despite my modest budget, subscribed to the London Review of Books. The reading of a random piece here and there or a rare purchase at a Hauptbahnhof en route from here to there had become a bit tiresome. And I haven’t regretted doing so; even when some articles tend to veer too left of my (fading) scope of vision. While sometimes delivery has been tardy (unfortunately a digital only sub. is not offered so it is always the case that I have an online version for a significant time before the hard copy turns up) and this year has seen a hefty price hike, I am sticking with it for the moment. During the year gone I have discovered some really excellent pieces of writing – from people known to me and not, about subject matter with which I am familiar and that which I’m not.
Rosemary Hill is an example of such an ‘unknown’ (to me) with whom I have been glad to become acquainted. As it transpires, Hill is not only a regular contributor to LRB, but a widely respected writer and cultural historian. Early in the year gone, I was impressed by a ‘Diary’ piece in which Hill, inspired by the 1921 census becoming available and an interest in discovering her father as the baby he then was and the family that surrounded him, explores her familial roots in South London and in doing so vividly illustrates the conditions under which the ‘working-classes’ lived at the end of the nineteenth century and into the twentieth. Then later I listened to a series of podcasts hosted by Rosemary Hill on Romantic Britain coinciding with her new book Time’s Witness (I await the paperback – remember, the modest…meager budget – ordered and due in a couple of weeks) which led to the discovery of her 2008 Wolfson History Prize winning book God’s Architect: Pugin and the Building of Romantic Britain (2007), of which an immaculate paperback copy fell into my hands.
Pugin. Beyond my own linguistic shortcoming, the pronunciation is important. Because it is as such that the subject is simply and mostly referred; and it is his father who bears the more august title – Augustus Charles Pugin; a French artist and skilled draughtsman who found sanctuary in London during the revolutionary years. In Rosemary Hill’s telling, I was immediately captivated in the opening chapter by the embedded story of his parents – such a vivid, sympathetic portrait is drawn of the union of Augustus and Catherine Welby, their gifts and moral fortitude, their entrepreneurship – commissions, books, drawing school, tours at home and abroad, and always in search of the medieval – and, in the case of Catherine, a turning to religious fervor. And Catherine it was who ‘organized’ their successes – and suffered the most for their failures. Hill invites her readers to imagine this close, little family unit of the early 19th century, and it is fun to do so, and to consider the extraordinary influence the unusual and highly creative upbringing must have had on their precocious son.
This Pugin: to follow then the brilliant arc of circumstance and industry that were to define his earthly path as it intersected with the celestial plane; drawn with mortal hand – but by higher order. A divine plan indeed. Pugin sought something transcendent in his work and in his life, and in Catholicism he found both consolation for the bereavements that followed him and spiritual accompaniment for architectural ambitions to reinvent the Gothic for his age and restore harmony and faith to God’s house(s) on earth. It was from influential Anglo-Catholic families and coteries – who made up for their small numbers with single-minded devotion and loose purse-strings – that Pugin drew most of his commissions. More generally, Hill’s discussions on the passing parade of intimates and acquaintanceship, their spiritual practices and community-building initiatives empowered by the ferment of 19th century counter-Reformation theological thought (the Oxford Movement for instance), make for lively reading. And suggest, in retrospect, that the foundations of the Established church, under constant stress during this period, were never repaired; the cracks remaining visible in the Anglican Church today.
Pugin’s method was one of absolute immersion. His intentions – obsessions – went beyond the structural – to include fixtures and fittings (rood screens were an obsession), furnishings, textiles, etc. – and, importantly, in respect to churches or clerical buildings embraced the liturgical, his liturgical preferences – in objects, attire, music. A total design experience one could say. And one that did not always find favor – he had his detractors. But more often than not even they could not help but be impressed by Putin’s drive and single-mindedness.
For me an interesting aspect was the (posthumous) influence Pugin had on church building in Australia in the second half of the nineteenth century (from original plans and mostly under the instruction of his sons) – something that has only been explored in relatively recent times. I am beginning to wonder whether herein does not lie my (inexplicable) attraction. Do I subconsciously recognize those graceful, gothic lines from the Australian bush? (Hill catalogues the Pugin influences; one of which is known to me.)
Of course there is one building for which Pugin’s contributions are most famous. Should one pass by the Palace of Westminster and look upon Big Ben striking at any hour, I encourage one to give some thought to this man called Pugin; one who certainly prospered during an era of unparalleled technical progress but for whom suffering and hardship was a constant companion. With this in mind, it is hardly surprising that none other than Charles Dickens was an exact contemporary. In my mind’s eye as I read, Pugin very well took on the contours of Dickens or a Dickens character. A caricature made real.
To enjoy Rosemary Hill’s excellent book one does not have to understand the feinheits of architectural history in general and that of 19th century England in particular. The man – with all his gifts, his eccentricities, his warmth – and the world he lived in and the legacy he left is enough. Paired with an interest in extending one’s own aesthetic appreciation, Hill’s book is a truly rewarding read.