Art and Light in the early 1930s

I have been thinking about art and that any painting worth its salt must be one of imagination on the artist's behalf and on that of the viewer. Also, that the composition of the work, whatever form it might take, in any age, needs the utmost compositional skill on the part of the artist for a successful reward. 

As I spend many hours of composing with drawings before the actual process of painting (now in pastel), I was thinking about how my art had changed over the years, other than from 1960 working from my head rather than my eye. So I thought it might be of interest to look at a watercolour that I did in 1932 when I was seven years old. This work was in the form of a Christmas card. The subject of which as Father Christmas on his sleigh delivering presents at night.

If I gave myself the same task today, there would be striking similarities. 

There was a simple band of white for snow on which a sleigh, laden with parcels, sported the prow of a Viking ship. The sleigh of goodies was drawn through a black night with a full moon by a single reindeer. Santa, holding the reins, sits on a chair. I would have a job to improve on it as a Christmas card. But there was one main and interesting difference between then and now - the lamp on the sleigh. In the painting, this sleigh light does not carry far. It stops rather suddenly in the blackness of the night - why?

Unlike modern battery and generated electricity vehicle lights, that can shine, blink, and illuminate the path ahead, this one does not.

In a time when we made our own gas to light the downstairs of our house (electricity had yet to reach us), and used candles to light our way upstairs to bed, carbide lamps were used for the road.

In a carbide lamp the lower part was the container for dry carbide. Above it was another container for water. And in between was a device to allow drips of water to fall on to the carbide to produce acetylene  gas. This inflammable gas was emitted through a ceramic jet and lit with a match. Behind the flame was a reflector. By present day standards this form of lighting was abysmally poor. But with it we could ride a bicycle at night. And if it was good enough for bicycles then, it was also good enough for Santa's sleigh. 

Duffus

The war had ended. My services as a pilot were no longer of importance and, in the shockingly cold winder of 1947, through lack of heat and food, I had contacted TB. So instead of being demobilised when my service time was up, I was invalided out of the RAF. As a medical student later I was struck down by the same affliction. 

I had little money and no prospects.

I took a room in the less salubrious area near Victoria Station, where, having left it for two council rooms, fellow pilots came to see me, only to be told: "he's gone". They presumed that I had died of TB (there was no cure at that time). Miraculously for them (and I suppose for me, too), I re-appeared alive years later on television, doing a Gardener's World programme for the BBC.

I obtained the two very small council rooms, possibly because of my poor health or war record. The one (living) room looked out over the railway lines of Victoria station, the window of which was never opened because of smoke from engines parked beneath and the noise of steam jets punctuating the air day and night. I even added to the existing pollution of soot and smog by heating this room, by the only means  available then, from a coal-burning fireplace. But I am a cook, and could happily feed myself and friends for a week or so with several recipes using a cheap pig's head. The rooms became known as my "Murky Chambers". Fortunately, my grandfather, who had been knighted, left a wife who was not averse to flaunting her title. Through her, I suppose, my name was added to a social register - or something of that order.

Rich parents, with often plain daughters, were keen to give parties and balls for their coming-out, debutante offspring. For these occasions there was a need for young men of "breeding" to be part of the scene.

Johnny Coates (later of Yellow Submarine fame), being a relation of Lord Rank, was also on the same register. We became "party" friends. Many an invitation came our way. All we needed was a dinner jacket.

Because of my menial abode I was quite unable to return this welcome hospitality. I could offer cheap Algerian red wine aplenty, but a pig's head, though delicious, was hardly adequate fare. And the murky chambers were far too small.

The one invitation that we enjoyed especially, came from the debonair Duffus of Dalclaverhouse.

It so happened that to make these parties more fun, I would sometimes adopt the name of Sir George ffortescue-Williamson, Could Duffus, with his splendid name, be doing the same?

Duffus lived in Knightsbridge where he presided over his generous hospitality.  We liked him. Later I learned that he was deeply in debt, borrowing on the strength of his name and the prospect of a great inheritance that never materialised. Which was a shame. And he really did own his grand, Scottish name - unlike my own: Sir George....

So I thank Duffus very much. And if he still lives (most of that generation "have gone") I wish him well.

Public Speaking

 I have managed in a long life to avoid speaking in public - except twice.

The first time was for the editor of a newspaper where I had a weekly column. He asked me to give a talk to his club. I think it was called The Lions. I did my best to decline, but we were friends and the continuation of my column was important to me. So I agreed.

For my talk I wore a country-designed jacket that incorporated several ordinary pockets and two large poacher's pockets. 

I was expected to talk about wine, which was the subject of my column. So I started off with a bit about the nonsense of wine language by critics and the blurb on bottles, and that wine you like will almost certainly go with the food you like. This debunking approach to the subject was expected of me. 

Then I manoeuvred my talk around to food, singing the praises of a classic tomato salad, an ideal dish with which to start almost any meal. "You may," I continued, "like to know how to make it the way they do in France."

From one of my poacher's pockets I produced a large plate. Then from another pocket a thin bladed and very sharp knife, and from the third, a large tomato. These I placed on a tall stool that I had arranged to stand next to me.

I halved, cut away the firm centre, and then thinly sliced the tomato. There was a slightly astonished look on the faces of my audience.

Next from the pockets came two small pots of pepper and salt, then a bottle of home-produced vinegar, and one of olive oil. With these I dressed the tomato slices (being generous with the oil and frugal with the vinegar).

From yet another hiding place I produced a small onion and chopped some of it finely before scattering some of the small pieces over the tomato slices. 

Lastly out came a bunch of parsley and scissors with which to cut a sprinkling of the herb over the lot. 

That was the end of my "speech". There was laughter and much applause.

Then I produced every fork that I owned so that my audience could sample the result of my talk.

The second speech was in quite a different setting, and very much grander.

There were so many of my paintings in an exhibition at Guildhall Art Gallery, where other contributors were given single offerings, that I was asked to give a speech and formally open the exhibition in front of friends, critics and the public.

The show was a commemorative one concerning Tower Bridge. And as I had lived in dockland, painted and written books on it, I had many a tale to tell. But not liking the idea of a major speech, I practised and practised it for weeks beforehand. I even dreamed of it. I could think of almost nothing else. But I was committed and had to go through with it. Could I remember my 15 minute oration? 

Before my speech was due I was preceded by a Guildhall official who was very much an accomplished speaker.

My turn came. I was introduced on to the stage. I was off.

My tales were obviously popular and were greeted with laughter. Then I forgot my story plan and stopped talking, soon to take up again and reach the end, when I cut the tape and pronounced the exhibition OPEN. There was much applause. One listener thought that my mid-speech stumble was done on purpose for effect.

I hope never again to go through such an ordeal, but should I have to - at a wedding for instance - I have a story planned. It will be directed at the groom to illustrate that as much as we men love women, some take a little understanding at times. 

The Life of Trees

 In the garden of a house that I bought near Andover, in Hampshire, there were two larch tree saplings growing wild in an unsuitable place in the garden. So I moved them to an out-of-the-way spot where they could grow, in freedom without overcrowding or casting unwanted shadows. Though small, they were staked firmly and planted fairly close to each other.

When they had grown into real trees, one bore beautiful little blue flowers on its branches, the other none. So, presumably, they were female and male. 

When I last saw them from the nearby lane, they looked very grand, very tall, and very fine. I felt the pleasure of having become a successful larch tree matchmaker.

A friend of some years ago was dying of cancer. Before she died she turned strongly religious. She died.

Before that she gave us a small cutting of a bay tree. This was planted in a suitable pot and allowed to form a five foot high bare trunk with its fragrant leaves on top. 

Because she was so keen on God, we named her "Elizabeth's Tree" and formed the top into a cone shape, like an arrow pointing to heaven, where she presumably went.

Perhaps because of its position it thrived initially but went into decline. So I moved it, still in its original pot to another place in our small London garden. In doing so I pruned it with excessive vigour into a proposed ball-shape. This it loved and has now become a thick ball of aromatic leaves atop its bare trunk. It is a fine tree that enhances our garden in its new position.

I don't know if there is any religious significance in all this - me being an atheist and all.