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Skulptur im Gruga Park Essen
Mutter und Kind, um 1950
Wagner, Johanna (1919-2005)
Kalkstein
H 1,60 x B 0,85 x T 0,90 m
Jingili Water Gardens day 8-10
In a social environment, each repeating action is slightly different, even when social interactions are limited to a few actors and a limited range of actions is undertaken.
Walking past a stranger and muttering 'good morning' or making a hand or facial gesture, whilst limited is also grounding. Each repeated action improves the experience of the activity. The smile gets bigger and ignoring more pronounced. The gesture shifts from novel to heightened and then to automation. Simple transactions fall into the shadows or normality. The gesture occurs without realization. It is systematized. Is there a way of not plateauing into reductive repetitive activity and to continually improve the experience?
Perhaps gamification? For example, one reaction for one person and another for another person.
My original and prior thoughts were that continuous and repeated actions inhibit each transaction's ability to adapt. So mix it up - change hand & facial gestures - make the play in how the transaction initiates and concludes. Perhaps, switch the which side of the path the transaction occurs. This way the humanness within the transaction transpires the actual activity of walking on a designated and identical path. At what point does this approach breakthrough social norms to become non-sensical or even perceived as a threat?
Obviously, the superficialness of the greeting of unknown people within a simple scenario is different than that of a more complex scenario like greeting known co-workers every morning where discussion is likely to occur. However, the question of improving transactions in social media platforms is comparable. At what time does liking the same person's creative post stop having a sense of quality or uplifting emotion and enters the realm of superficial habit. Doing it because that is what you do or gaming up by employing emojis, comments, and self-promotional statements/links. There is creative opportunities within each transaction within systemic understandings acceptable norms.
It would be stupid if I thought that after 10 days of visiting Jingili Water Gardens, at more or less the same time and following the same path my ability to adapt would be stunted. After 10 circuits over 10 days, I am starting to anticipate what I will most likely encounter, and surprises become significant. It is enjoyable crossing paths with the same people, dogs, and birds. I do enjoy how the sun interacts with the trees and other artifacts within the gardens. Like a game of chess, I am seeing possibilities and anticipating what I can do. I can forecast that if I repeated my actions over a year, my structural, physiological, and behavioral insights would become finer and finer. If I could maintain this level of reflection, the data I collect on each and every transaction would compound, and my knowledge would transcend to a new level of expertise. If I do not maintain this level of reflection will the activity become a chore and a lockin
The promise of Artificial Intelligence and automation is about freeing us from the tyranny of repetitive tasks. Is reflection a burden and will AI extend its capacity to respond on my behalf? More importantly, will I employ it? The symbiotic relationship of walking through Jingili Water Gardens and reflective writing has enabled a creative response. Combined, both repetitive activities required time and effort, dedication and discipline to gain a semblance of personal reward. My simple question is - how do humans gain expertise of intrinsic satisfaction without engaging repetition? My more complex question regards the systematization of Artificial Intelligence and the problem of freedom without repetition.
If the promise is, freedom from repetition enables people to engage in more complex endeavors, however, how do we step up to more complex endeavors without repetition? How does that work in teaching? Will that mean teaching will become more complex, learning will increase and creativity will flourish?
In regards to creating great music, can this be done without developing a skills platform? Iterative improvement, through a step and repeat based process, can create exceptional art. Jackson Pollock achieved remarkable paintings through a repetitive action-based methodology. Despite the similarities, not one of his paintings is a replicant. At the heart, Pollock's artistic creativity is both repetition and reflection. On this basis, the complexity of reflection increases the output enriches. This leads to the next question if creativity is based on iterative improvement at what point is improvement non-recognizable.
Baldessari Cremation Project highlights the normality plateau many repetitive creatives find themselves - that is an expression that relies on iterative improvement eventually recycles and becomes reductive.
In regards to Jingili Water Gardens, how many repeated walks and how much reflection can be applied before reduction occurs and I am basically recycling? I will not reach this realization as I know that the repetitive loop will be broken once I return to work. So on this realization, this is my last Jingili Water Garden reflection.
What have I learned from the experience and reflection?
My quest was to discipline myself into a repetitive activity to question 'just doing it' normality, to observe freedom, and to self impose restricted actions within societal restrictions to find a path forward that increased my creatively in the twilight years of my professional career and address ways of re-entering an artistic career post 60. I believe that I have found a nebulous idea and my next logical step is to goal map creative growth across education and artistic expressions. There are two systems I need to reevaluate and build within. My creativity will be essentially adaptive. That is from within.
Since I graduated in 1981 as an artist and 1983 as an educator much has changed. Within the contemporary art realm, narrative, identity, and experience have become an increasingly important design agent. There are more people who are interested in contemporary art, there are more gallery agents, more venues, more ways to publicize and make publication. Studio arts have exponentiated into a wider scoped creative arts industry. What I can observe is that contemporary art is moving from the margin towards the center. The arts industry seems more professional and commercial in that it not only operates in elite circles but on a mass scale based on a smaller price dividend. Art events are becoming more and more spectacular. As this growth has broadened user base, traditional media-based fine art products have shifted from the leading thought to that of the level of craft. It has found it's based on media specialization. Technology has shifted contemporary artists from producing and refining style to seeking new modes of critical dialogue. The artist-as-genius model has expired. Wow - how do I step into this paradigm?
The expansion of education into society has significantly transformed society. When I entered university it was a privilege of the few. Most students did not complete their senior secondary school. Perhaps the biggest change has been in the realm of completion to “lifelong learning. There is no endpoint. The link between national growth and personal growth through formal education is established. National growth, human capital, and educational attainment underlines human prosperity. I need to question my hierarchical status. Do I remain operational in my current position and incrementally improve until I reach reduction or do I break the loop into a new paradigm of improvement?
What I have gained from the repetitive walks through Jingili Water Gardens and applied reflection is that the creative system is the system thinking. For creativity to benefit systems it cannot be as simple as - get another idea and then just do it. The components that form a system must be viewed as a whole and thinking as a whole. A creative system observes itself thinking throughout its own repetitive iterations. It takes time and thinking discipline for systems to realize creativity. Systems lose creative scope and become reductive and deprecatory. These systems need to reflect on their repetitive artifacts.
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“If anyone does not believe that Holy Mary is the Mother of God, such a one is a stranger to the Godhead.”
– St Gregory of Nazianzus.
Statue of the Mother of God in the Dominican church of Sankt Andreas in Cologne, Germany.
Lucknowi Mutter Pulao ..
This was our staple diet years back prepared by my mother ..fragrance of old Lucknow ..
Now my wife prepares it sometimes ..
(for English scroll down)
Besuch der Zentralen Gedenkstätte für die Opfer von Krieg und Gewaltherrschaft (Neue Wache). Die Königin legte an der Neuen Wache, der Zentralen Gedenkstätte für die Opfer von Krieg und Gewaltherrschaft, einen Kranz nieder. Am Eingang wurde sie von Vizeadmiral Joachim Rühle und einer Ehrengarde empfangen. Während Ihre Majestät im stillen Gedenken verweilte, spielte ein Trompeter "Der gute Kamerad", ein Lied aus dem 19. Jahrhundert, das im Trauerzeremoniell der Bundeswehr eine Rolle spielt.
Die klassizistische Neue Wache ist seit 1993 die Zentrale Gedenkstätte der Bundesrepublik Deutschland für die Opfer von Krieg und Gewaltherrschaft. Sie wurde 1816 nach einem Entwurf von Karl Friedrich Schinkel als Wachhaus für preußische Soldaten gebaut und diente ab 1931 als Ehrenmal, zunächst für die Weimarer Republik und später für die Sowjetunion. Im Inneren des Gebäudes befindet sich direkt unter einem Rundfenster ein einzelnes Objekt: eine vergrößerte Kopie der Skulptur Mutter mit totem Sohn von Käthe Kollwitz. Die Bildhauerin schuf dieses Meisterwerk nach dem Verlust ihres Sohns im Ersten Weltkrieg.
Berlin, Neue Wache, Mittwoch, 24. Juni 2015 - 12.45 Uhr
____________________________________________________
Queen Elizabeth II visiting Berlin, 2015
Visit to the Central Memorial to the Victims of War and Tyranny (Neue Wache). The Queen laid a wreath at the Neue Wache, the Central Memorial to the Victims of War and Tyranny. She was received at the entrance by Vice Admiral Joachim Rühle and a guard of honor. While Her Majesty lingered in silent remembrance, a trumpeter played "Der gute Kamerad", a song from the 19th century that plays a role in the Bundeswehr's mourning ceremonial.
The neo-classical Neue Wache has been the Federal Republic of Germany's central memorial to the victims of war and tyranny since 1993. It was built in 1816 to a design by Karl Friedrich Schinkel as a guardhouse for Prussian soldiers and served as a memorial from 1931, first for the Weimar Republic and later for the Soviet Union. Inside the building, directly under a round window, there is a single object: an enlarged copy of the sculpture Mother with Dead Son by Käthe Kollwitz. The sculptor created this masterpiece after the loss of her son in the First World War.
Berlin, Neue Wache, Wednesday, June 24, 2015 - 12:45 p.m.
Im weitläufigen Innenraum der Neuen Wache befindet sich seit 1993 auf Anregung des damaligen Bundeskanzlers Helmut Kohl die von Harald Haacke auf rund 1,6 Meter Höhe vergrößerte Kopie der Skulptur Mutter mit totem Sohn von Käthe Kollwitz, auch Pietà genannt. Vor der Skulptur ist der Schriftzug „Den Opfern von Krieg und Gewaltherrschaft“ in den Boden eingelassen.
The interior of the Neue Wache showing the Käthe Kollwitz sculpture Mother with her Dead Son. This sculpture is directly under the oculus, and so is exposed to the rain, snow and cold of the Berlin climate, symbolising the suffering of civilians during World War II.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Whilst her mistress is enjoying a Christmas and New Year visit with her parents at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, Edith, Lettice’s maid is using her time before Lettice returns to give the flat a thorough dusting and clean along with the help of Mrs. Boothby, the charwoman* who comes to help Edith with all the harder jobs around the flat. Whilst Mrs. Boothby tackles the makeup stains in Lettice’s bathroom, Edith has borrowed a small ladder from Robert, the Cavendish Mews’ residential handyman, and is dusting the crystal chandelier in the dining room. She gaily hums ‘The Parade of the Wooden Soldiers’** which she had enjoyed listening to on New Year’s Eve after Frank brought a gramophone around to her parents’ house in Harlesden where they held a small party. The trade union friend Frank borrowed the gramophone from also supplied a whole range of wonderful shellac records which everyone at the party took turns selecting from to play. Thanks to his generosity, Edith and Frank had danced their way around her parent’s kitchen, foxtrotting into 1925. She smiles as she remembers the highlight of spending so much time with Frank that evening, even if her parents and friends were right there with them. She’s also glad that, thanks to Mrs. Boothby’s wise counsel, she has reconciled with the idea that if Frank is offered a job as a manager or assistant manager of a grocers in one of the new Metroland*** suburbs being bult in Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Middlesex, as his wife, she will join him. As she runs a damp cloth over the pendeloques**** and festoons***** of crystal, she wonders, and quietly hopes that Frank will propose to her in 1925.
“’Ere Edith dearie,” Mrs. Boothby calls from the dining room floor below. “Whatchoo ‘ummin’ so cheerfully ‘bout?” She utters one of her deep fruity, phlegm filled coughs a she speaks. “Finkin’ ‘bout Frank was you?”
“Never you mind what I was thinking about, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith answers back, feeling the hotness of a blush rising up her neck and filling her face.
“Aye! Aye!” Mrs. Boothby points a gnarled and bony, careworn finger at Edith’s blushing figure up the ladder. “So, you was finkin’ of ‘im!”
Edith sighs. “I just wish I knew when he was going to propose, Mrs. Boothby.”
“Ahh! ‘E will, dearie, when ‘e’s good and ready! You’ll see!”
“I think I need one of those clairvoyants I see adverting discreetly in the newspapers.” Edith mutters. “They’ll give me the answers I seek.”
“Ahh me! Always in a rush ain’t you?”
“What do you mean, Mrs. Boothby?”
“Just sit back and enjoy the expectation, Edith dearie! That’s the best part of bein’ in love!” the old Cockney says with another fruity cough before sighing deeply. “What it is to be young an’ in love.”
“Oh, you do talk some rot sometimes, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith scoffs dismissively, her face growing redder. “I’ll have you know that I was simply humming to pass the time more pleasurably.” she continues, trying to cover up Mrs. Boothby’s correct assessment of her thoughts. “Cleaning chandeliers is no easy job, you know.”
“Try cleaning Miss Lettice’s barfroom!” the old Cockney char exclaims, arching her back, and rubbing the base of her spine, the opening of her lungs eliciting a few more heavy coughs. “Lawd knows what’s in that muck Miss Lettice wears on ‘er face, but it marks the porcelain good ‘n’ proppa. I only cleaned in there wiv Vim****** a bit before Christmas! Whatchee done, slappin’ that stuff on ‘er pretty face for, anyroad?”
“Miss Lettice had a few parties to attend before Christmas, Mrs. Boothby, especially those American Carters’ Thanksgiving Christmas ball in Park Lane*******.”
“Were it fancy dress then, this party of ‘ers?” Mrs. Boothby asks.
“No, just a formal ball, although by all accounts there was quite a to do. Why do you ask, Mrs. Boothby?”
“Well, I just fought, what wiv all them red an’ black marks on ‘er vanity, she must ‘ave slapped on a lot of makeup an’ gone in fancy dress.” Mrs. Boothby opines.
“Yes!” Edith giggles girlishly. “As a clown!”
The two women begin laughing, a little at first, then their peals growing more raucous until Mrs. Boothby starts coughing again. Doubling over as her whole wiry body is wracked with coughing, she struggles to catch her breath.
Edith scrambles down the ladder. “Let me get you some water.” she exclaims, rushing through the green baize door to the kitchen before Mrs. Boothby can try to say anything. She returns a few moments later with a tumbler of water. “Here!” She thrusts the glass into the old woman’s shaking hand. “Drink this.”
“Fank… you… Edith… dearie.” Mrs. Boothby manages to say in a horse whisper between coughs as she gratefully lifts the glass to her dry lips and gulps the water shakily, pausing every now and then to elicit another heavy cough.
“Come,” Edith says kindly. “Sit yourself down here.” She pulls out one of the black japanned dining chairs from the oblong table.
“But.. Miss Lettice…” the old woman gasps.
“Miss Lettice isn’t here to worry about you sitting on one of her precious dining chairs, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith assures her. “And besides,” She guides the old woman carefully down onto the white satin cushioned seat. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, even if she did know.”
The old woman settles against the wooden slats of the chair’s back and slowly catches her breath.
“That’s it.” Edith says soothingly, crouched before the old woman, rubbing the top of Mrs. Boothby’s hand lightly with her fingers. “Take a few deep breaths.” When the old Cockney coughs heavily a few more times, Edith pushes the glass across the black polished surface of the table. “Drink some more water, Mrs. Boothby.”
“Fanks.” Mrs. Boothby huffs.
Once she has finished the glass, Edith returns to the kitchen to refill it, commanding Mrs. Boothby to remain seated in her absence. When she returns with the tumbler full of fresh water again, Mrs. Boothby asks, “So what ‘appened?”
“What do you mean, Mrs. Boothby? “ Edith asks, taking the seat at the top of the table, diagonally across from the old Cockney charwoman. “We were taking and then, you just started coughing.”
“Not me, ya berk********.” Mrs. Boothby says raspily. “Miss Lettice!”
“What do you mean, Miss Lettice?”
“You said there was much ado at that fancy American party Miss Lettice went to.” Mrs. Boothby elucidates. “What ‘appened?”
“Well,” Edith says with a shaky intake of breath. “It was all over the newspapers the next day.”
“What was, Edith dearie?”
“Well, the hostess, Mrs. Georgie Carter used to be not so well off before she married Mr. Carter. I remember once Miss Lettice asked me to box up a few bits and pieces from her wardrobe she’d barely worn, or decided she didn’t like, and when Mrs. Carter, when she was still Miss Kitson-Fahey that is, came around for luncheon, Miss Lettice told her that she was going to give the box to charity and would Miss Kitson-Fahey please get rid of it for her.”
“So?”
“So, of course the clothes were really meant for Miss Kitson-Fahey to wear. Miss Kitson-Fahey and Miss Lettice were around the same size you see, and her clothes, even her everyday ones, were a bit shabby and old fashioned, and the next time she came to luncheon she was wearing some of them, only with the buttons changed or a new trim on them to try and disguise where they came from originally.” Edith nods. “And Miss Lettice never said anything to her.”
“But what’s that got to do wiv the party, Edith Dearie?”
“Well, now that Miss Kitson-Fahey is Mrs. Georgie Carter, well, she’s richer than Croesus********* isn’t she? So, when she wants anything now, she just gets it. And she decided that all the Bright Young Things********** like Miss Lettice at the party, should go on a scavenger hunt.”
“A what?” Mrs. Boothby asks.
“A scavenger hunt, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies. “You know, where the host or hostess of a party makes up a list of items and then their guests have to go and find them. Bert and I used to play it at each other’s birthday parties when we were little, with our friends and the local children who we invited. Mum would make a list of things that would be easily found, like a currant bun, because we were having them for birthday tea, or some flowers that grew in the garden, a peg from the laundry basket, or a certain toy, and we’d break off into groups and try and bring back as many things on the list Mum gave us as we could.”
“Sounds daft to me.” Mrs. Boothby grumbles.
“Well, Mrs. Carter’s list must have been daft because people from the party were caught all over London in the early morning doing ridiculous things. Two men from the party, drunk as lords*********** according to the newspapers, were arrested trying to get across to Duck Island************ in St James Park to steal swan feathers. Another party guest was detained for being a public nuisance after she tried to scale the wall at Buckingham Palace in order to steal the wellies************* of the King’s head gardener, and Tallulah Bankhead************** the American actress appearing in the West End was cautioned after she was caught trying to steal a sheep from a poor distressed farmer in the wee hours as he drove his flock up New Bridge Street to the Smithfield Markets!”
“What?” Mrs. Boothby’s eyes grow wide. “Daft that is! What people want to do, goin’ ‘round getting’ into trouble wiv Bobbies*************** an’ bovverin’ good law-abidin’ folk like that for?”
“For a lark, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith exclaims. “They were all things on Mrs. Carter’s scavenger hunt list.”
“What? A live sheep?” Mrs. Boothby scoffs.
“And swan feathers and wellies from the King’s gardener.”
“I ‘ope Miss Lettice didn’t go in for none of that silliness.”
“Well, I can’t say she didn’t, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith admits with a downward gaze. “But at least she had the sense not to end up in the newspapers like Ms. Bankhead or the others did. She got in very late that evening, or should I say early in morning after the party, because I was already up and having my breakfast when she came stumbling in through the front door with her sister Mrs. Lanchenbury, wearing a bobby’s helmet!”
“No!” gasps Mrs. Boothby, causing her to cough again.
“Drink some more water, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith insists before going on. “Miss Lettice handed me the helmet from her head when I walked into the entrance hall, and told me to dispose of it as I saw fit, as she and Mrs. Lanchenbury had no further need of it. Then they both giggled and stumbled away into Miss Lettice’s bedroom, where I found them a few hours later, fast asleep, still fully dressed, lying across her bed!” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what other mischiefs they had been up to, but Miss Lettice’s grey crêpe romain**************** frock was covered in marks and stains, some of which I can’t get out.”
“Well, if she flings it out, you can salvage some bits off it, I’m sure, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says comfortingly.
“Oh, I intend to, if she does.” Edith agrees with a shallow but emphatic nod. “Which I think she will do.”
“You’ll make me and your mum proud, dearie!”
“Waste not, want not.”
“Exactly! And the bobby’s ‘at?” Mrs. Boothby croaks. “Whatchoo do wiv that then?”
“Well, I decided I couldn’t put it in our dustbins, in case anyone found it there! I didn’t want the household involved, and I certainly didn’t want to be incriminated,”
“So?”
“So I put it in Mrs. Clifford’s dustbin downstairs instead. Myra was fit to be tied when she found it. I heard her scream all the way up the tradesman’s stairwell. Next thing I knew, she was on my threshold, helmet in hand, thumping on the door, causing quite a scene!”
“I ‘ope you gave ‘er what for!”
“I opened the door, and when she accused Miss Lettice of putting it in her mistress’ dustbin, I told her that Miss Lettice was sleeping and had been since she came home from the party, so she couldn’t have put it in there, and could she please be quiet so Miss Lettice and Mrs. Lanchenbury could sleep undisturbed.” Edith then adds with a smug smile, “And I wasn’t lying. Miss Lettice didn’t put it in her dustbin.”
The two women chuckle heartily together over the incident.
“That Myra’s a toffee-nosed snob of a maid, anyway,” Mrs. Boothby smiles.
“Just like Mrs. Clifford.” Edith opines.
“It couldn’t ‘ve ‘appened to a nicer person. She’s no…”
BBBBRRRINGGG!
The telephone in the drawing room starts ringing, stopping Mrs. Boothby mid sentence.
Edith looks through the double doors into the adjoining drawing room. “That infernal contraption!” she mutters.
BBBBRRRINGGG!
“They ain’t goin’ away, you know, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby remarks sagely. “Miss Lettice ain’t the only one wiv one of them fings in their ‘omes. They’s even turnin’ up on the streets nah, in red booths*****************, you know?”
Edith gets up from the table, and leaving Mrs. Boothby where she sits with her half emptied tumbler of water, walks into the drawing room and up to the black japanned occasional table upon which the silver and Bakelite telephone continues to trill loudly.
BBBBRRRINGGG!
“I should knock you over, next time I’m dusting. Let’s hear you ring then, infernal contraption!”
BBBBRRRINGGG!
“I can answer it for you, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby offers, knowing that Edith will never accept her offer. “If you like.”
Edith hates answering the telephone. It’s one of the few jobs in her position as Lettice’s maid that she wishes she didn’t have to do. Whenever she has to answer it, which is quite often considering how frequently her mistress is out and about, there is usually some uppity caller at the other end of the phone, whose uppity accent only seems to intensify when they realise they are speaking to ‘the hired help’ as they abruptly demand Lettice’s whereabouts.
BBBBRRRINGGG!
“Come on now Edith!” she tells herself, smoothing her suddenly clammy hands down the apron covering her print morning dress. “It’s only a machine, and the person at the other end can’t hurt you, even if they are angry that you aren’t her.”
BBBBRRRINGGG!
“Mayfair 432, the Honourable Miss Lettice Chetwynd’s residence.” Edith answers with a slight quiver to her voice. Her whole body clenches and she closes her eyes as she waits for the barrage of anger from some duchess or other titled lady, affronted at having to address the maid. A female voice speaks down the line. “Oh Mrs. Hatchett, how do you do. What a pleasant surprise! Yes, this is Edith, Miss Chetwynd’s maid.” She smiles and her anxiety dissipates.
Lettice decorated some of the principal rooms of Mrs. Hatchett’s house, ‘The Gables’ in Rotherfield and Mark Cross in Sussex, in 1921. Even though Mrs. Hatchett is a little overbearing, it is only because she is enthusiastic. Edith likes her because Mrs. Hatchett, being a banker cum Labour politician’s wife, and formerly a London West End actress, has not been born with a pedigree that finds talking to the staff offensive, like so many other callers on Lettice’s telephone.
Edith listens. “No. No, I’m afraid that Miss Chetwynd isn’t at home, Mrs. Hatchett.” She listens to the disappointed response. “She’s still with her family in Wiltshire.” She listens. “Yes, I can have her telephone you in Sussex. I’m quite sure Miss Chetwynd still has…” Mrs. Hatchett cuts Edith short and she listens again. “Queen Anne’s Gate******************? Really? Oh congratulations, Mrs. Hatchett.” Edith listens again. “Oh! Oh well I’m quite sure she would delighted to do that for you, but not being privy to her diary, I shall have to get her to telephone you.” She listens again. “Yes, I’d just take it down. One moment whilst I fetch a pencil and paper, Mrs. Hatchett.” Edith puts the receiver down on the table next to the telephone base and brushes her clammy palms down her apron for a second time. The then picks up the pencil atop the pad of paper that Lettice left for her to jot any messages on from the lower tier of the table. Picking up the receiver in her left hand she stands poised with pencil in hand to write and says, “I’m ready for your message now Mrs. Hatchett. Please go ahead. She writes a message based on Mrs. Hatchett’s response. “Yes. Yes, I’ll make sure Miss Chetwynd receives your message when she returns from the country. Very good. Good day Mrs. Hatchett.”
Edith hangs up the receiver and sighs with relief. “Damn infernal contraption!” she mutters as she glares at the telephone shining brightly under the light of the electrified chandelier above.
“See!” Mrs. Boothby says from her place at the dining room table. “That weren’t so bad, were it, Edith dearie?”
“That’s only because it was Mrs. Hatchett, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith sighs. “She’s lovely in comparison to some of those toffee-nosed ladies and duchesses who telephone here.”
“Ain’t she the wife of Charlie Hatchett the politician?”
“That’s right, Mrs. Boothby. Mr. Hatchett is a Labour MP, and was part of Mr. MacDonald’s government last year.”
“E’s the MP for Tower ‘Amlets*******************, and that includes me!” Mrs. Boothby says excitedly. “Fancy that! Cor! What a small world. Eh?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Hatchett have just taken possession of a townhouse in Queen Anne’s Gate,” Edith says, perusing the note she has written down on the pad for Lettice. “And she wants Miss Lettice to redecorate the drawing room for her.”
“Queen Anne’s Gate, you say?” Mrs. Boothby says. When Edith nods in confirmation, the old Cockney woman eyes her sharply before going on, “It ain’t right that.” She mutters as she shakes her head.
“What’s not right, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks.
“That ain’t!” the old Cockney woman protests. “That fancy new ‘ouse in Queen Anne’s Gate!”
“Well, I suppose Mr. Hatchett needs to be close to the Houses of Parliament.”
“Nah, e’s supposed to be a Labour MP, ain’t ‘e?”
“He is. Mrs. Boothby. I just said so. Didn’t you hear me?”
“And that’s the workers’ party, ain’t it?”
“Yes, Mrs. Boothby, or so Frank tells me.”
“Well, Mr. ‘Atchett ain’t no lord like some of them uvver politicians.” Mrs. Boothby opines before taking another sip of water. “‘E says e’s just an ordinary man, like us, Edith dearie.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I’d say Mr. Hatchett was quite like us, Mrs. Boothby, even if he does.” Edith scoffs lightly as she replaces the pad and pencil back on the lower shelf of the table on which the telephone stands. “He’s a banker, or rather he was before he became a politician. That doesn’t make him a lord, but it puts him a rung or two above you and I, Mrs. Boothby.”
“Well ‘e said ‘e was just an ‘ard workin’ man, like anyone else.” Mr. Boothby crumples up her nose in disgust. “But I don’t fink it’s right for ‘im to say that if ‘e’s goin’ to live in Queen Anne’s Gate in a fancy big ‘ouse like them lawds, even if it is decorated by Miss Lettice, and yet some of ‘is constituents is the poorest people in the land!”
Edith laughs loudly. “Are you suggesting he and Mrs. Hatchett should live in an ordinary two-up two-down******************** like my parents?”
“That’d be a step up for me!” Mrs. Boothby retorts. “I only got two rooms for Ken ‘n’ me, and the privvy’s a shared one dahwn the end of the rookery*********************.”
“Somehow, no matter how egalitarian she is, I don’t think Mrs. Hatchett would like to live in a semi-detached********************** villa in Metroland*********************** like Frank and I hope to someday.” Edith shakes her head. “And I think Mr. Hatchett is a man of pretensions, so I’m sure he won’t want to live in even the best rooms available in Poplar. Queen Anne’s Gate is so close to the Palace of Westminster that it will be very handy for Mr. Hatchett to get to the House easily, and I’m sure Mrs. Hatchett will be entertaining dignitaries quite a lot as an MP’s wife.”
“Well,” Mrs. Boothby mutters. “I’ll be ‘avin words wiv Mr. I’m-just-the-same-as-you-‘Atchett, next time I sees ‘im out there campaignin’! I shall give ‘im a good piece of mind! Lyin’ like that to poor folk like me who can’t even ‘ave their own private privy! It’s a scandal, that is!”
“Yes,” Edith giggles. “Almost as scandalous as Mrs. Carter’s scavenger hunt.”
*A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.
**’The Parade of the Tin Soldiers’, also known as ‘The Parade of the Wooden Soldiers’, is an instrumental musical character piece, in the form of a popular jaunty march, written by German composer Leon Jessel, in 1897. In 1922, the instrumental version of ‘The Parade of the Wooden Soldiers’ was a hit single performed by Carl Fenton's Orchestra. Hit versions were also recorded by the Vincent Lopez Orchestra in 1922 and by Paul Whiteman and his Orchestra in 1923.
***Metroland is a name given to the suburban areas that were built to the north-west of London in the counties of Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Middlesex in the early part of the Twentieth Century that were served by the Metropolitan Railway. The railway company was in the privileged position of being allowed to retain surplus land; from 1919 this was developed for housing by the nominally independent Metropolitan Railway Country Estates Limited (MRCE). The term "Metroland" was coined by the Met's marketing department in 1915 when the Guide to the Extension Line became the Metro-land guide. It promoted a dream of a modern home in beautiful countryside with a fast railway service to central London until the Met was absorbed into the London Passenger Transport Board in 1933.
****The hanging crystals on a chandelier are called pendeloques, sometimes spelled pendalogues. They can also be referred to simply as prisms.
*****The clusters of crystal trimmings which hang down from the chandelier in a basket are known as a festoon. These can be a few strands or many clusters. Another name for them is a garland.
******Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight.
*******Park Lane is a dual carriageway road in the City of Westminster in Central London. It is part of the London Inner Ring Road and runs from Hyde Park Corner in the south to Marble Arch in the north. It separates Hyde Park to the west from Mayfair to the east. The road was originally a simple country lane on the boundary of Hyde Park, separated by a brick wall. Aristocratic properties appeared during the late 18th century, including Breadalbane House, Somerset House, and Londonderry House. The road grew in popularity during the 19th century after improvements to Hyde Park Corner and more affordable views of the park, which attracted the nouveau riche to the street and led to it becoming one of the most fashionable roads to live on in London. Notable residents included the 1st Duke of Westminster's residence at Grosvenor House, the Dukes of Somerset at Somerset House, and the British prime minister Benjamin Disraeli at No. 93. Other historic properties include Dorchester House, Brook House and Dudley House. In the 20th century, Park Lane became well known for its luxury hotels, particularly The Dorchester, completed in 1931, which became closely associated with eminent writers and international film stars. Flats and shops began appearing on the road, including penthouse flats. Several buildings suffered damage during World War II, yet the road still attracted significant development, including the Park Lane Hotel and the London Hilton on Park Lane, and several sports car garages. A number of properties on the road today are owned by some of the wealthiest businessmen from the Middle East and Asia.
********The full phrase Berkeley (or Berkshire) hunt has been shortened to "berk," which has become a milder slang word of its own, but was originally used by Cockneys. Berk means idiot, as in "you're being a berk."
*********This term to be richer to Croesus, implies great wealth, and alludes to Croesus, the legendary King of Lydia and supposedly the richest man on earth. The simile was first recorded in English in 1577.
**********The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.
***********The idiom "to be drunk as a lord" is a somewhat humorous and old-fashioned expression that is used to describe someone who is extremely drunk. The origin of this phrase likely dates back to a time when the British aristocracy, often referred to as "lords," were known for their heavy drinking habits and lavish banquets.
************Originally built in St James Royal Park in 1665 on the site of a duck decoy, the island is both a sanctuary and a breeding ground for the collection of wildfowl and other birds. There are approximately seventeen species of bird regularly breed in the park, including mute swans and a resident colony of pelicans. Duck Island also houses the water treatment facilities and pumps for the lake and fountain.
*************The term Wellington boot comes from Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, who instructed his shoemaker to create the boot by modifying the design of the Hessian boot. The terms gumboot and rubber boot are both derived from the rubber modern Wellington boots are made from, with the term "gum" coming from gum rubber.
**************Tallulah Bankhead was an American actress. Primarily an actress of the stage, Bankhead also appeared in several films including an award-winning performance in Alfred Hitchcock's ‘Lifeboat’. In 1923, she made her debut on the London stage at Wyndham's Theatre. She appeared in over a dozen plays in London over the next eight years, most famously in ‘The Dancers’ and at the Lyric as Jerry Lamar in Avery Hopwood's ‘The Gold Diggers’. Her fame as an actress was ensured in 1924 when she played Amy in Sidney Howard's ‘They Knew What They Wanted’. The show won the 1925 Pulitzer Prize. Whilst living in London, Bankhead became one of the members of Cecil Beaton’s coterie of hedonistic Bright Young Things. She also had a brief but successful career on radio later in life and made appearances on television.
***************The term “bobby” is not now widely used in Britain to describe the police (except by the police, who still commonly use it to refer to themselves), though it can occur with a mixture of affection and slight irony in the phrase "village bobby", referring to the local community police officer. However, it was very common in mid 1920s London. It is derived from Robert Peel (Bobby being the usual nickname for Robert), the founder of the Metropolitan Police.
****************Crêpe romain is a lightweight semi-sheer luxury fabric, originally of silk with a dull lustre and a wrinkled texture.
*****************The first standard public telephone kiosk introduced by the United Kingdom Post Office was produced in concrete in 1921 and was designated K1 (Kiosk No.1). The Post Office had taken over almost all of the country's telephone network in 1912. The red telephone box K1 (Kiosk No.2), was the result of a competition in 1924 to design a kiosk that would be acceptable to the London Metropolitan Boroughs which had hitherto resisted the Post Office's effort to erect K1 kiosks on their streets.
******************Queen Anne’s Gate is a street in Westminster, London. Many of the buildings are Grade I listed, known for their Queen Anne architecture. Simon Bradley and Nikolaus Pevsner described the Gate’s early Eighteenth Century houses as “the best of their kind in London.” The street’s proximity to the Palace of Westminster made it a popular residential area for politicians.
*******************The London constituency of Tower Hamlets includes such areas and historic towns as (roughly from west to east) Spitalfields, Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, Wapping, Shadwell, Mile End, Stepney, Limehouse, Old Ford, Bow, Bromley, Poplar, and the Isle of Dogs (with Millwall, the West India Docks, and Cubitt Town), making it a majority working class constituency in 1925 when this story is set. Tower Hamlets included some of the worst slums and societal issues of inequality and poverty in England at that time.
********************Two-up two-down is a type of small house with two rooms on the ground floor and two bedrooms upstairs. There are many types of terraced houses in the United Kingdom, and these are among the most modest. The first two-up two-down terraces were built in the 1870s, but the concept of them made up the backbone of the Metroland suburban expansions of the 1920s with streets lined with rows of two-up two-down semi-detached houses in Mock Tudor, Jacobethan, Arts and Crafts and inter-war Art Deco styles bastardised from the aesthetic styles created by the likes of English Arts and Crafts Movement designers like William Morris and Charles Voysey.
*********************A rookery is a dense collection of housing, especially in a slum area. The rookeries created in Victorian times in London’s East End were notorious for their cheapness, filth and for being overcrowded.
**********************A semi-detached house (known more commonly simply as a semi) is a house joined to another house on one side only by a common wall.
***********************Metroland is a name given to the suburban areas that were built to the north-west of London in the counties of Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Middlesex in the early part of the Twentieth Century that were served by the Metropolitan Railway. The railway company was in the privileged position of being allowed to retain surplus land; from 1919 this was developed for housing by the nominally independent Metropolitan Railway Country Estates Limited (MRCE). The term "Metroland" was coined by the Met's marketing department in 1915 when the Guide to the Extension Line became the Metro-land guide. It promoted a dream of a modern home in beautiful countryside with a fast railway service to central London until the Met was absorbed into the London Passenger Transport Board in 1933.
This 1920s upper-class drawing room is different to what you may think at first glance, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures including items from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919. It is two centimetres wide and two centimetres high. The receiver can be removed from the cradle, and the curling chord does stretch out.
Edith’s feather duster, lying on the table, I made myself using fledgling feathers (very spring) which I picked up off the lawn one day thinking they would come in handy in my miniatures collection sometime. I bound them with thread to the handle which is made from a fancy ended toothpick!
The vase of red roses on the Art Deco occasional table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.
Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chair upholstered in white embossed fabric is made of black japanned wood and has a removable cushion, just like its life sized equivalent.
The Chinese folding screen in the background I bought at an antiques and junk market when I was about ten. I was with my grandparents and a friend of the family and their three children, who were around my age. They all bought toys to bring home and play with, and I bought a Chinese folding screen to add to my miniatures collection in my curio cabinet at home! It shows you what a unique child I was.
In front of the screen on a pedestal table stands a miniature cloisonné vase from the early Twentieth Century which I also bought when I was a child. It came from a curios shop. Cloisonné is an ancient technique for decorating metalwork objects. In recent centuries, vitreous enamel has been used, and inlays of cut gemstones, glass and other materials were also used during older periods. The resulting objects can also be called cloisonné. The decoration is formed by first adding compartments (cloisons in French) to the metal object by soldering or affixing silver or gold wires or thin strips placed on their edges. These remain visible in the finished piece, separating the different compartments of the enamel or inlays, which are often of several colours. Cloisonné enamel objects are worked on with enamel powder made into a paste, which then needs to be fired in a kiln. The Japanese produced large quantities from the mid Nineteenth Century, of very high technical quality cloisonné. In Japan cloisonné enamels are known as shippō-yaki (七宝焼). Early centres of cloisonné were Nagoya during the Owari Domain. Companies of renown were the Ando Cloisonné Company. Later centres of renown were Edo and Kyoto. In Kyoto Namikawa became one of the leading companies of Japanese cloisonné.
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My photographs do not belong to the public domain.
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P1010016e
(...)
Ti faccio dono di tutto
se vuoi,
tanto io sono solo una fanciulla
piena di poesia
e coperta di lacrime salate,
io voglio solo addormentarmi
sulla ripa del cielo stellato
e diventare un dolce vento.
Alda Merini
Braunschweig, Helmstedter Straße, Hauptfriedhof, Grabstätte Ludewig
OLYMPUS art filter "Grainy Film", überbelichtet
Diese wundervollen Schönheiten trinken voneinander, ohne dass es den kleinen Bullen stört.
These Hotties drink from each other, without that it interferes with the bull calf.
German postcard. Ross Verlag No. 682/5 . FFG (Froehlich-Flm GmbH). Henny Porten in Mutter und Kind (Mother and Child, Carl Froehlich 1924), co-staring William (Wilhelm) Dieterle.
Sturdy and blond Henny Porten (1890-1960) was one of Germany's most important and popular film actresses of the silent cinema. She became the quintessence of German womanhood, ladylike yet kindhearted and a not a little petit bourgeois. She was also the producer of many of her own films.