FLEA CONNECTIONS

It must have been in the early 1950s when I painted and sold landscapes and exhibited them to make enough money to live on and give myself a piece of art with part of the proceeds.

One of these “treats” came about after a show in Cork Street when I was prepared to buy something of interest to add to my modest collection.

There was a Rowlandson exhibition on show at a smart Bond Street gallery, and I had always been an admirer of his landscapes, peopled by rather portly 18th Century country folk, often with a sense of humour much to the fore.

This show had magnificent examples for sale, but large and expensive ones.

However, among them was a small work, done shortly before Rowlandson died, and the subject, Flea Catching, was not the kind of picture that was appreciated by the gallery’s clients. So it was unsold and reasonably priced. It became mine. 

This title in his own writing was Flea Catching Rowlandson 1824.

This title by Rowlandson was depicted in the same sepia coloured ink that was the picture’s predominant colour scheme.

It was just of two figures, a pretty girl with her arm down the back of the dress worn by an old crone.

I smile as I pass by it on the stairs of my house for its dexterity and period charm. The fleas were theirs, not mine. 

I know that I had written on this tale before, perhaps in a autobiography that I wrote when I had time and the new-found skill to use an Amstrad computer. 

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The flea theme continues when I lived in two small rooms in London’s Pimlico district, leading a full life, and at the same time, overcoming two bouts of lung TB after the Second World War.

It was then when I was tackled by an aggressive flea that evaded my efforts to catch it. So I bought a rail/sea/rail ticket to Paris, selected a flea-less kit at the ready, and took off all my clothes, standing in an empty bath in readiness to change into my flea-free kit and leave the flea in the clothes to starve in the bath.

When undressing, the flea appeared and I caught it and dispatched it.

I dressed in my flea-free clothes anyhow and went to Paris. 

At that time we were allowed £20 with which to travel abroad.

After arriving in Paris I saw a Pascin drawing in a shop window in the Rue de Seine. It was for sale for £20.  So soon after setting foot in France I handed over all my money, turned around, and came home with it under my arm - all thanks to that flea. 

So in a very short time I acquired an 18th Century Rowlandson, killed a flea, visited Paris, and acquired a Pascin. 

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That was not the end of my flea experiences. Two of these involved fleas in a car. The first was in India when Margreet and I in a rented car with driver to see the skeletal art of Fatahpur Sikri when a flea from a sheepskin covered seat decided on a change of diet and bit both of us.

The other time was when during my Grand Tour of art in Europe and driving across the Pyrenees from Spanish to French art galleries when I saw an old lady struggling up a steep slope with a heavy load. I gave her a lift, for which she was very grateful but left a flea behind her. I dealt with this devil by covering myself with anti-insect powder. 

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But that was still not the end of my flea/art experiences. Now, somehow, a flea has invaded our bedroom. Rowlandson’s drawing was of no help in finding a remedy. We have now sprayed,  powdered, vacuumed and have set a trap that mimics the warmth of a furred pet that lures fleas to a sticky death. We have every faith in this simple contraption as I embark on an illustrated autobiography. 

If and when we catch this varmint, perhaps it might lead to some other artistic venture related to these evasive creatures. 

Fleas and art do seem to be connected in my life.