From the previous post – in Dresden with a Baroque master one day and the evening prior in Düsseldorf with a contemporary literary superstar. As I suggested: some of the perks of higher office!
As I post, I haven’t as yet seen this video, but the event has been well reported upon in Germany and I hear tell it was a successful meeting of two outwardly very different women – of different generations and heritage – but both of whom during the last decade or so have found (international) fame and influence, and a search for (and finding of) commonality that included, beyond their respective crafts of State and art, a quiet and personal discussion on grief springing from Adichie’s essay (now book) that I have previously discussed and an open and sincere invitation from Adichie for the soon to be ex-Bundeskanzlerin to visit Nigeria, that is, with all the freedoms and interests of the private person.
In the waning days of her Kanzlerschaft, and plagued still by the crises that have defined it, Angela Merkel must surely crave for some moments of respite. One of them may well have been her opening last week, alongside the Prime Minister of the Netherlands, Mark Rutte, of the Johannes Vermeer. On Reflectionexhibition at the Dresden Gemäldegalerie.
The exhibition has as its centerpiece the familiar Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window, with an unfamiliar new look. After years of restoration, during which it was proven that the ‘picture within a picture’ on the rear wall (uncovered by x-ray imaging forty odd years ago) had been painted over by another hand than that of Vermeer, the Cupid has now been revealed and the painting restored to its original condition.
Before restoration
Restored to reveal Cupid on wall
Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window, Johannes Vermeer, circa. 1657-59, Staatlichen Kunstsammlungen Dresden (SKD)
For a chronology of the painting’s not uneventful life, and the technical aspects of the restoration, refer to the SKD website (details are also in English). And, the NYT had a very informative article during the week.
No longer a favourite white tee for him and her (or me), but still it caught my eye; any wonder when it so cries: “Fruits of the loom: why Greek myths are relevant for all time!” And, it continues, and gets only better: “…Classicist Charlotte Higgins explores stories that weave together the fabric of our existence“. A must read, then, on The Guardian website.
Greek Myths: A New Retelling
And having done so – read the above said article I mean – I know this to be an introduction of sorts to coincide with the publication in the UK of Charlotte Higgins’ own new book Greek Myths: A New Retelling (Jonathon Cape, 2021), and which is to be published in the US in December. I haven’t read Higgins’ previous books, but she is known to me from her excellent and varied cultural journalism at The Guardian, and her declared rational behind her “retelling” is so compelling, that this too now a must read.
Interesting, also: drawings by Chris Ofili! What a coup by whoever, or whatever circumstance, initiated his involvement.
In the digital magazine, Aeon (very accessible and very much to be recommended) “Great Art Explained” series: the famous Hokusai work, The Great Wave off Kanagawa (circa. 1830) in a short video (also on YouTube and embedded below) explained.
And, exceedingly well explained in my opinion; especially informative is the greater look at the rigid class hierarchy of the Edo period from which ukiyo-e (simplistically put: the traditional Japanese wood block prints of the time) sprung, and evolved – from its folkloric, hedonistic beginnings to a broader range of subjects that, with Hokusai, would find inspiration in the landscape. Mount Fuji would replace the Kabuki actor as the star of the popular print.
The video, then, is not just about one work, nor one artist, but offers a glimpse at an art form rooted in the traditions – cultural and technical – of Japan but, with a nation’s opening up to the world after two centuries of self-imposed isolationism, that was to be influenced from without (for instance; away from the human form as prime subject, Prussian blue ink, perspective techniques), and then, in turn, to make its own mark on movements elsewhere, especially on the impressionist and post-impressionist movements in 19th century western Europe. (This Wikipedia article on ‘Japonisme’ is informative in this respect.) Not dissimilar to the to and fro of waves – both great and small – falling upon shores – near and far- in a continual rhythmic exchange; dislocating silt and sand from one place and depositing it in the next.
This latter observation reminded me of a – to then be sought out again – stunning interactive piece last year from Jason Farago, and still on the NYT website (for those with access). Linked to here and headed A Picture of Change for a World in Constant Motion, Farago investigates another Katsushika Hokusai print, “Ejiri in Suruga Province” from his renowned cycle “Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji.”. Without the iconic appeal of “The Great Wave”, Farago does however excavate from this work an awful lot of stuff that feels contemporaneous, and connects our fast and furious times to the frenetic pace of life on the brink of modernity at the turn into the last century; in disparate regions of the world with cultural traditions in opposition only when considered under a purely chauvinistic gaze.
In this tenth print of the series, the wave metaphor has been blown away by the wind – the winds of change perhaps; more than fishing vessels on high seas threatened, their crews bowed, praying in unison, the mighty Mount Fuji made minute, this landscape, while treacherous still and with a winding path difficult to traverse, it is well-peopled by those taking their destiny in their own hands, doggedly facing down the head-winds.
And, if all that was not enough, the master is to feature in an upcoming exhibition at the British Museum; Hokusai: The Great Picture Book of Everything (30 September 2021 – 30 January 2022) – a recently acquired collection of small drawings, rarely before seen. The exhibition website is a wellspring of information, and includes an online look at the entire collection.
Next week sees the publication of The Women of Troy, Pat Barker’s sequel to her critically and popularly well-received retelling of Homer’s Iliad, The Silence of the Girls; told with a woman’s gaze and one firmly focused on Briseis. (Reviewed in 2018 here in The Guardian by Emily Wilson.)
Barker has whetted the appetite for a timely read in this short piece she has written for The Guardian; she returns to her motivations in writing the first book, and it seems a classic ‘what came next’ is to be expected of her follow-up.
More generally, it was interesting to read Barker’s comments relating to the richness of opportunities at an author’s disposal to explore mythological characters, as opposed to the constraints imposed on fictions with historical figures and situations in their midst; burdened as they are with facts and evidence. It is any wonder, then, that the mythical narratives are returned to again and again by new generations of artists and writers seeking creative freedom; re-worked and re-imagined, made fit for contemporary reception.
Here’s to a girls night out with Briseis and friends (again) – grown up and grown old – or not – our fates shared through the ages (of man!).
Should one dare claim acquaintance with Thomas Cromwell or, better said, the man so vividly brought within a hair’s breadth of life in Hilary Mantel’s three monumental works of fiction (last spoken about by me here), then publication of new research into Austin Friars, the place (also brilliantly described/imagined by Mantel) that Cromwell called home, is a matter deserving of attention.
The former Augustinian Priory complex from the “Copper-Plate Map” of c.1550 (1 – Church; 2 – Cloister; 3 – Cromwell’s House; 4 – Gate-House)
The University of Exeter historian, Nick Holder, who has spent his (still short and oh so promising!) academic life researching the medieval friaries of London, has published a wonderful article in the Journal of the British Archeological Association (and for all to read!), in which he reconstructs the historical Thomas Cromwell’s original tenement on the Augustinian estate and the expansive residence that he later developed on adjacent land; purchased as his status and circumstances rose, and to be enjoyed only briefly before his grisly demise. Referencing an array of documentary evidence – surveys, deeds, letters – Holder richly illustrates his findings with his own drawings and plans and there is a particularly fine artist’s reconstruction of Cromwell’s mansion on Throgmorton Street in 1539 by Peter Urmston. The piece is detailed – chock a block full of information on purchases, artisans and tradesmen, building materials – but such fun to read and look at and imagine along with, that the lay time traveler is not left behind, rather taken along, back to the hurly-burly of medieval London. Evidenced, also, is a location that thrives from commerce and merchant endeavor and prospers from its cosmopolitan custom and flair – Italians, French, Germans, Dutch. Welcome to the London of the Tudors! (Puts to shame some little England sorts of these days! I say not Brexit, years on I remain in denial!)
As intimated, I consider Mantel’s descriptions of interiors, exteriors, even of posteriors to be absolutely dazzling, but I can’t think that she wouldn’t have been delighted to benefit from Holder’s work. Or perhaps she had been allowed a glimpse, because I did notice Holder’s first engagement with the subject was in his doctoral thesis in 2011 (also available! an academic obviously not adverse to sharing of his scholarship! he shall have his reward!) on the Friaries of London in general; that before the publication of Mantel’s second book.
Beyond the spatial reconstruction, amongst many there has been quite some interest in inventories (of artwork, books, etc.) that have been uncovered, and that seem to suggest Cromwell was not quite the zealous religious reformer that some would portray him, but rather a traditional Catholic of the day. I actually find myself not so surprised; for Mantel’s Cromwell, irrespective of his bluster and impatience with religious fervor, did seem to me to have at least some sympathy with those of the old faith, if not the more fundamentally inclined papists. Certainly, Cromwell’s lengthy, youthful Florentine sojourn (and all the catholic accoutrements that would have implied), seems to have clearly influenced his aesthetic tastes, not to mention provided him with an apprenticeship in the interaction of religion with the politics of sovereignty and power (just think, around about that time, for instance: Medicis, Borgias, Machiavelli, Savonarola!). While, any higher religious imperative that Cromwell may once have had, may at least have been diminished by his pursuit, and hanging on to, of political power and the King’s favor, I recognized an inherent spiritualism, an attraction to mysticism and a respect for the pious (especially when they were women, for instance, Catherine of Aragon and her daughter Mary Stuart, Th. More’s daughter Margaret Roper) that would have been anathema to the Protestant zeitgeist.
A short while ago I had my say on this, from afar and detached but nevertheless troubled. Now, I discover an article at the Antigone Journal by one very much attached, and much more troubled at the loss – the loss of an opportunity to participate, even lead, in reshaping the study of the ancient and classical world as one of the foundations of learning (for everyone).
Anika Prather’s piece is a very personal lament at the demise of the Classics Department at Howard University; until now the only such existing at a H.B.C.U., and one of the founding departments of the university in 1867. Prather, a Howard graduate (though not a Classics major), and more recently an adjunct professor there, records the profound influence her engagement with Classics at Howard had upon her (as it did Toni Morrison and Zora Neale Hurston before her), and the role it played in offering an alternative version of what a person, any person, could be; freeing her from the constraints of society and emboldening her to aspire to the best version of herself – into a confident, searching, questioning Black woman. Really a heck of an endorsement.
Dare I say, Prather’s loyalty to Howard is such that she may be more restrained than I; for I have mused unto myself in recent weeks, that the timing begs to suggest that cost cutting was probably in order to finance other personnel and departmental obligations that are, shall we say, more splashy. (Mentioned by me in this recent blog entry.) The University has stated that various Classics related courses will be incorporated over a range of departments, and though that sounds a bit wishy-washy to me, perhaps the powers that be will come up with an acceptable arrangement, and I hope they are held to their commitment.
Having dared say, now, may I say; I bet if there was still a Classics department at Howard, at least one of its new appointments would be stealing into lectures at every opportunity and doing a sly course of study. Ta-Nehisi Coates could not help but be enthralled by gods and goddesses and the games they play, and mortal man and woman and the dead languages they speak. And all their shared conceits and contrary whims and delusions of grandeur – and some with hearts and souls that really are grand. Coates placement in the English Department may offer some promise that ancient narratives and ideas will indeed find a way into other courses of study – albeit in an interdisciplinary fashion.
Madeline Miller’s 2018 novel re-telling of the mythical and minor goddess Circe came to hand, and was duly read and quickly so, and was enjoyed and deserves, therefore, a few words. And, and, and…
pub. Little Brown and Company, 2018
It had occurred to me that I was perhaps not amongst the intended readership of this book, but I was not deterred, after all, as an “Old Adult” I have read Pullman and Rowling in the interests of a younger generation (near and dear), but that is not quite the same as that peculiar hybrid mix of YA and fantasy fiction to which I discovered Miller’s Circe tended. I don’t say that dismissively, rather with some regret at my own mounting years.
Written in the first person from the point of view of Circe herself, I did succumb to the spell cast by her voice – irritable to the gods, feisty to a mere mortal as I – but found myself to be at the same time mildly irritated by the substance behind it. Miller gives her goddess a cadence that is both intimate and distanced, worldly and naive, ancient and very young; too much duality can blur the edges and obscure the essence of a character. But maybe so it must be; for this Circe has a mortal core centered within an immortal world – or the other way around. The narrative that the author spins around Circe’s far flung familial connections, that has her turning up all over the place in Greek mythology, has its attractions; for my acquaintanceship with her had been previously limited to The Odyssey and Odysseus’ sojourn on her island of exile, Aiaia. Tempting the reader with her interpretation of those ancient fragmentary tales, Miller conjures for her idiosyncratic enchantress a ‘what came before’ and ‘what came next’ that has a sort of magic, and is not without appeal. Her book may lack the complexity demanded of (and by!) the gods (and the greater myth system that has them at its foundation), but it is, nevertheless, a spirited work of imaginative fiction.
This Circe deserves her release from the incessant mobbing in the mythical playground of the gods, from the abusive father, Helios – the Sun, the Son – and from all the nasties – mother, siblings, relos however many times removed, and marauding mortal men. Circe’s tribulations are a godly version of the veritable tick box of the abuse and belittlement faced by women at home and abroad – misogyny, humiliation, violence, dependency. Miller’s Circe, though, defies victim-hood and her presumed fate, proves herself to be more than a song and a refrain in The Odyssey, more than a supporting character in the myths of god and man. Cast out as a failed daughter, as a rejected and vengeful nymph, she re-invents herself, explores her talents, builds a home of her own. Seeking the company of man, she is maltreated again – understated! to say it plainly: she is raped. Be assured they got their just rewards – and not they alone, generations will pay for the sins of the fathers. But she never gives up on them; they, who she sees (unlike her Olympian tormentors!), as more than foolish mortals with foolish ways, easy fodder for the next divertissement. This Circe is a searcher, a survivor, a self-made woman. She is a lover and a mother and a forgiver – for those few who pass muster, she will risk all.
As Penelope once weaved and deceived, so Circe concocts and conceives – with purpose and with patience. In the end – can it be? – the gods! they misread the Fates, got it wrong! They underestimated, made presumptions, and a troublesome witch blew them off course. Having dared to turn a man into a god and coming to grief, they thought her fate sealed, now what will they have to say about a goddess craving mortality?
The novel, Circe, is not quite a cauldron full, not a potent witch’s brew reeking of entrails and god knows what, rather one with just a tantalizing whiff of the dark; a refreshing light draught, its ingredients drawn from fields, ancient and fertile. To extend the metaphor: an airy romp for the young and young of heart. Maybe, at least, I still retain a little of the latter; because I did appreciate this read.
