Turner and Constable: Poetry and Truth, Fire and Rain

Turner, Snow Storm - Steam - Boat off a Harbour’s Mouth

I recently enjoyed an exhibition of the work of the English landscape painters JMW Turner and John Constable. (‘Rivals and Originals’ is at Tate Britain, London until 12 April.)
 
'It is only when we are no longer fearful that we begin to create.’
JMW Turner
 
These two profoundly talented artists were born just a year apart - Turner in 1775, Constable in 1776. Together they transformed landscape painting from a minor genre into a major art form. The juxtaposition of their narratives and output helps to illuminate the differences between them, and to clarify their extraordinary individual strengths.
 
'I never saw an ugly thing in my life: for let the form of an object be what it may - light, shade, and perspective will always make it beautiful.’
John Constable
 
Turner was a working-class Londoner, the son of a Covent Garden barber. Encouraged by his father to pursue an artistic career, he funded his studies during his teenage years by working as an architectural draughtsman’s assistant and a watercolour copyist.
 
'I have no secret but hard work. This is a secret that many never learn, and they don't succeed because they don't learn it.’
JMW Turner

Turner, Rain Steam and Speed -The Great Western Railway

Constable, the son of a wealthy Suffolk corn merchant, was a country gentleman unencumbered by financial worries. But he had to navigate his parents’ disapproval of his artistic path. When, as a 16-year-old, he carved a small windmill into the timbers of a mill owned by his father, it was perhaps an indication of his determination.
 
'Still I should paint my own places best; painting is with me but another word for feeling.’
John Constable
 
Turner’s talent was appreciated early. Enrolled in the Royal Academy at 14, he was one of the youngest artists to be elected an Associate Member, and became a full Academician in 1802. Constable, by contrast, struggled to achieve recognition, and was only admitted as a full Member 27 years after Turner.
 
Constable, who sketched in oils outdoors, developed a style of fast, broad brushstrokes that was free and loose - an approach that some criticised for being ‘crude.’ He primarily painted his native Stour Valley: romantic, naturalistic landscapes that captured the light and weather conditions at different times of day; depictions of honest country folk working in harmony with nature and God. 
 
‘I live wholly in the feilds (sic) and see nobody but the harvest men.’
John Constable

Constable, The White Horse

Turner, sketching in pencil, travelled across Britain and Europe in search of subjects. His intense, atmospheric work, blending imagination with observation, explored light, colour and motion; mythical and biblical scenes; violent storms, shipwrecks and misty mountainsides; the impact of new technology; man in awe of nature’s fearsome power.
 
'Indistinctness is my forte.'
JMW Turner
 
I was particularly taken with Turner’s workspace. Potential purchasers were welcomed into a viewing gallery, and the artist would spy on them through a peephole before deciding whether to meet them. His studio was filled with sketchbooks and stacks of paper, pigment in jars, paintings in progress; sheets that had been drenched in colour hanging on lines to dry. His housekeeper’s seven Manx cats roamed around, leaving paw prints on the back of his drawings. This was an intimate, unruly, private space, where he could experiment and let his imagination run free. 

Constable, Cloud Study

Back in my days in the Ad Agency, there was a good deal of debate about giving account people greater access to the creative department. Some argued for integrated brand teams: letting daylight into the process, introducing more collaborative cohesion and efficiency. Over time I arrived at the view that this was misguided. Creative people need a studio of their own.
 
During their lifetimes, critics often compared the two great artists with each other. Turner was thought to offer poetry, while Constable presented truth; Turner was fire to Constable’s rain. Inevitably an exhibition like this begs the question: which artist do you prefer?
 
When I was younger, I leaned towards Turner’s passion and raw emotion: his thrilling depiction of a train forging its path through the summer rain; the House of Commons all ablaze; a steamboat tossed in the heart of a snowstorm. But as I’ve aged, I’ve drawn closer to Constable’s evocation of balance and harmony: his endlessly fascinating studies of cloud formations (what he called ‘skying’); his magnificent ‘six-footers’ of rural tranquillity, designed to ‘solicit attention.’
 
The truth is that our tastes fluctuate, not just with age, but with our ever-changing moods. I can’t choose. They are both formidable, revolutionary artists.
 
 
'Daylight turns to moonlight and I'm at my best.
Praising the way it all works, and gazing upon the rest, 
The cool before the warm, the calm after the storm.
The cool before the warm, the calm after the storm
I wish to stay forever, letting this be my food.
Oh, but I'm caught up in a whirlwind,
And my ever changing moods.’
The Style Council, 'My Ever Changing Moods’ (P Weller)

No. 554

In the Final Reckoning, Kindness Trumps Success

The Funeral of Shelley by Louis Édouard Fournier. Walker Art Gallery Liverpool

I read recently in The Times (12 January, Rhys Blakely) about a study into the language used in obituaries.

A team of academics, led by David Marcowitz of Michigan State University, has analysed 38 million US memorials that appeared between 1998 and 2024 on the Legacy. com platform. 

As Markowitz observes, death notices illuminate what we hold dear:

‘Obituaries serve as a unique source of information about how societies value different kinds of lives. They reveal broader patterns of remembrance by showing who is remembered, for what contributions, and how cultural values are expressed through these acts of memory.’

The research, published in the journal The Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, found that the most prevalent personal value in obituaries was tradition (religious participation and enduring customs etc) which was represented in about 80% of cases. Next came benevolence (caring for the welfare of others) with 76%. Words relating to ‘achievement’ and ‘power’ featured far less often – in fewer than 25% of cases.

We may note that, in the final reckoning, kindness consistently trumps success.

This may give us pause for thought in the world of work, when we reach those forks in the road that require us to make difficult decisions.

There is a business tradition that encourages toughness, aggression and hostility: commerce is competitive; it’s dog-eat-dog out there; the end justifies the means.

‘You’ve got to look after number 1 to survive.’

Sobering to reflect that, in the long run, in the court of community opinion, we will be judged by our consideration for others. 

Concepts like courtesy and concern, tenderness and tolerance have not conventionally been regarded as essential to business performance. They are too soft. But perhaps these qualities are critical. Perhaps they represent the basis for an enduring legacy. 

'Let me know,
Have you started to lose your love for me?
And if so,
Will you still continue to be on my side?
Tell me if you still care about me.
Tell me if you still care about me.
I was so insecure with you,
Did you still want me?
So I let go of the feeling that you
Were still all mine.
Tell me if you still care about me.
(Show me that you care)
Tell me if you still care about me.’
The SOS Band, 'Tell Me If You Still Care’ ( J Harris III, T Lewis)

No. 553

All My Sons: ‘It Doesn’t Excuse You That You Did It for the Family’

Bryan Cranston, Marianne Jean-Baptiste, Hayley Squires and Paapa Essiedu In All My Sons
Directed by Ivo Van Hove at Wyndham’s Theatre

I recently saw a fine production of Arthur Miller’s ‘All My Sons.’ (Directed by Ivo van Hove, the Wyndham’s Theatre, London until 7 March)

Jim: Every man does have a star. The star of one's honesty. And you spend your life groping for it, but once it's out it never lights again.

The play considers the divisive impact of grief on families; the secrets and lies that corrode relationships; the tension between moral responsibility and self-interest; the tarnished American Dream.

Joe (to his son, Chris): You wanted money, so I made money. What must I be forgiven?

It is 1947 and Joe Keller (Bryan Cranston), a self-made businessman nearing 60, leads an apparently happy, comfortable suburban life with his wife Kate (Marianne Jean-Baptiste), pillars of their local community. He has made his money in engineering, manufacturing parts for the US military.

However, a cloud hangs over the household. During the war Joe’s company sold a number of cracked cylinder heads to the Air Force, which resulted in the deaths of twenty-one P-40 pilots. He was exonerated, but his business partner was imprisoned for the crime. What’s more, we learn that Joe and Kate’s oldest son, Larry, a pilot, disappeared during the conflict while on a mission off the coast of China.

Larry has now been missing 3 years, and Kate still cannot believe he is dead. She keeps his clothes in the closet, his shoes shined. She suffers headaches and can’t sleep. She dreams about him at night and finds herself weeping uncontrollably in the kitchen, pacing about in the garden at 4 in the morning. A tree planted in his memory has fallen over in a storm during the month of his birth, and she has briefed her neighbour to compose his horoscope.

Kate: He’s coming back, and everybody has got to wait.

The rest of the family are convinced of Larry’s death, but Kate’s refusal to accept it puts their lives on hold. This is particularly difficult for Joe and Kate’s younger son, Chris (Paapa Essiedu ), who has fallen in love with Larry’s sweetheart.

Chris: We’re like at a railroad station waiting for a train that never comes in.

As the play progresses, we learn more about the cylinder head incident. Joe is keen to highlight the pressure they were all under at the time.

Joe: It was a madhouse. Every half hour the Major callin’ for cylinder heads, they were whippin’ us with the telephone. The trucks were hauling them away hot, damn near. I mean just try to see it human, see it human.

It gradually becomes clear that Joe knew more about the faulty parts than he has been letting on. He explains that the business could have gone under, that he behaved in his family’s best interests.

Joe: Chris, I did it for you, it was a chance and I took it for you.

Idealistic Chris won’t accept his father’s defence.

Chris: Is that as far as your mind can see, the business? What is that, the world – the business? What the hell do you mean you did it for me? Don’t you have a country? Don’t you live in the world?

Kate too challenges Joe’s narrow perspective.

Kate: Joe, Joe… it doesn’t excuse you that you did it for the family.

This theme still resonates today. Corporate executives seldom acknowledge that their behaviour is driven by self-interest. But they often justify their actions - and their misdeeds - by their ongoing responsibilities to their shareholders, their employees, their families. Leaders need to comprehend that families exist within society; companies are sustained by communities; employees cohabit on the planet. Our lives are interconnected and interdependent. Our ethical duties extend beyond the confines of our homes and offices.

Chris: You can be better! Once and for all you can know there's a universe of people outside and you're responsible to it.

At length Joe realises that Larry shared Chris’ broader view of social obligation. And we come to appreciate the meaning of the play’s title.

Joe: Sure, he was my son. But I think to him they were all my sons. And I guess they were, I guess they were.

'Girl, I stand accused
Of loving you just a little too much.
And I hope, oh Lord,
Sure enough hope it's not a crime.
Oh, guilty of loving you.
Oh, baby.

Oh, I hope that I
That I never, never, never have to testify.
But if I do, if I do, everyone's gonna cry, baby.
That boy is guilty, oh Lord,
Of loving you.’

Al Green, ‘I Stand Accused’ (B Butler, C Mayfield & J Butler)

No. 552

The ‘Subtle Simplicity’ of William Nicholson

William Nicholson - The Lustre Bowl with Green Peas

I recently enjoyed a trip down to Chichester to see an exhibition of the work of William Nicholson. (Pallant House until 10 May)

Nicholson was incredibly versatile. A printmaker, illustrator and designer, he also painted portraits, landscapes and still lifes. He had a gift for elegant clarity and quiet understatement, for keen-eyed observation.

‘’Must learn to observe.’ This maxim is as perfect for a painter as for a scientist.’

William Nicholson, quoting the scientist Michael Farraday

Nicholson was born in Newark-on-Trent in 1872, the youngest son of an industrialist and Conservative MP. Having trained in art in London and Paris, he collaborated with his brother-in-law James Pryde, under the name Beggarstaffs. Together they designed posters for Kassama Corn Flour and Rowntree’s Elect Coffee; for theatre productions of Hamlet, Cinderella and Don Quixote. 

William Nicholson - A was an Artist

From the outset, Nicholson’s work was characterised by wit and sophistication; simplicity and restraint. He went on to produce illustrations for The Square Book of Animals, The Velveteen Rabbit, The Book of Blokes, and many more besides. He created woodcuts for a collection of London types - barmaid, guardsman, sandwich man, newsboy - and a pictorial alphabet - A is for Artist, B is for Beggar, C is for Countess… 

And D is for Dandy. Nicholson was something of a dapper dresser. In ‘A Bloomsbury Family’, William Orpen painted him in starched collar and yellow waistcoat, wrapped in his favourite black and white polka-dot dressing gown, a black slipper dangling from one foot. His children, gathered round the table, look bored. His wife Mabel Pryde, in smart Edwardian attire, stands at the back and reaches for the door.

William Orpen -  ‘A Bloomsbury Family’

Gradually Nicholson turned to portraiture as a reliable source of income. Essayist Max Beerbohm is rather solemn, his top hat and stick casting a shadow against a bare wall. Social reformers Sidney and Beatrice Webb warm themselves by the fire, a terrier at their feet. Actress Wish Wynne, wearing a maid’s outfit for a performance, turns her back. And blonde-bobbed artist Diana Low, set against a primrose curtain, looks confidently straight out at us.

 It is thought that Nicholson used his son Tony as the model for his 1917 portrait of a First World War soldier in goatskin jerkin, peering over the lip of a trench. The following year, Tony died from wounds received in action, and Mabel fell victim to the Spanish flu.

‘It is difficult to rebuild in words what one records in paint.’

William Nicholson - Miss Wish Wynne, Actress, in the Character of Janet Cannot for the Play 'The Great Adventure''

Nicholson expanded his artistic repertoire further still. He painted the landscapes of Sussex and the Downs: rolling hills and luminous skies, verging on abstraction. He painted still lifes that explored the relationship between light and dark. Affectionate depictions of treasured objects, they dazzle and enchant. 

Some flowers in a mug rest on top of a pile of books. A Lowestoft bowl stands beside some cut tulips and one melancholic fallen petal. There is a silver bowl on a white tablecloth, another accompanied by a fan and tassel; a lustre bowl with green peapods; a brass canister with a quill and some journals; a ruby glass with a necklace, a gold jug. A silver casket is carefully placed on a vibrant red leather box, a pair of white gloves to one side.

These are modest, understated images. In their stillness, they prompt the viewer to pause, to reflect in silent wonder. The metal objects shimmer in the light, catching reflections. If you stand up close, you can see that Nicholson has achieved a luminous effect with just a flick of a brush loaded with white paint.

William Nicholson - Gold Jug

Though Nicholson’s art celebrated simplicity, he had a complex family life. He had a long-running affair with his housekeeper, and, after Mabel’s death, he married a family friend who had also been close to his son Ben. Somehow, they navigated the situation. His children went on to form a creative dynasty, with Ben becoming an artist, Nancy a designer, and Kit an architect. 

Nicholson picked up the pots, jugs and other ceramics that featured in his still lifes in the Caledonian Road market, second hand shops and pubs. He also collected silver, and was a particular fan of the work of 18th century silversmith Hesther Bateman. He wrote to a friend: 

‘Hesther Bateman… was a wonderful artist. I have four or five of her silver masterpieces. Subtle simplicity is her ‘note.’’ 

 The phrase could equally be applied to Nicholson’s work.  

Simplicity is hard to attain. It requires focus and sacrifice; moderation and restraint. It demands that we make deliberate choices, that we learn to say ‘no’. Ultimately, as Leonardo observed, ‘simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.’

'I don't believe in fretting and grieving,
Why mess around with strife?
I never was cut out to step and strut out,
Give me the simple life.

Some find it pleasant dining on pheasant,
Those things roll off of my knife.
Just serve me tomatoes and mashed potatoes,
Give me the simple life.

A cottage small is all I'm after,
Not one that's spacious and wide.
A house that rings with joy and laughter,
And the ones you love inside.

Some like the high road, I like the low road,
Free from the care and strife.
Sounds corny and seedy, but yes, indeed,

Give me the simple life.'
Etta Jones, 'Give Me the Simple Life’ (R Bloom, H Ruby)

No. 551

Phaedra: A Life of Surprises

Alexandre Cabanel - Phaedra, 1880. Oil on canvas. Musée Fabre, Montpellier

As I took my seat at the National Theatre, I was surprised to see a stylish young couple settling in next to me. 

We had bought tickets to see the classical work Phaedra. This would typically be the domain of quarter-zips and blazers, the floral midi-dress and white trainers; of fleece, grey hair and walking-sticks.

I was concerned that the stylish young couple would find this ancient Greek tragedy about a woman who falls in love with her stepson hard going.

Nonetheless, as the lights went down, I hoped for the best.

The production was a modern ‘re-imagining’ of the Phaedra story by Simon Stone, drawing on versions by Euripides, Seneca and Racine. (This was 2023. It’s not on-stage now, I’m afraid.)

Helen (Phaedra), a charismatic politician, convenes a meal with her husband, teenage son and married daughter. They are visited by Sofiane, the son of Helen’s former, now dead, lover.  

Sofiane blames Helen for stealing his father away from his mother, and believes their affair led to his death. He has fantasised about Helen since childhood, and she, dissatisfied with her marriage, falls for him, recognising a strong resemblance to her lost partner.

I sensed at the interval that the drama had engaged the couple next to me. It was complex, psychologically nuanced, unpredictable. Would Helen turn out to be a hero, villain or victim?

But then the plot took a further twist. Sofiane embarks on another affair – this time with Helen’s daughter.

At this point the young woman next to me was startled. She extended her hands in front of her and audibly exclaimed: ‘What the actual f**k!’

I would not normally approve of audience participation of this sort. But it was such a natural, spontaneous response. She was genuinely shocked.

'There are two kinds of taste, the taste for emotions of surprise and the taste for emotions of recognition.'
Henry James

I was pleased that a classical play, albeit a modern version, could provoke such a reaction. But of course. Greek tragedy concerns itself with fate and free will; with pride and desire, violence and vengeance; with flawed heroes coming to terms with their weaknesses and mistakes. The plots would comfortably adapt to contemporary Netflix dramas.

‘The element of surprise is the most important thing and what keeps me interested in writing.’ 
Phoebe Waller-Bridge

We imagine that it’s difficult to disarm and unsettle contemporary generations. That they’re too knowing, cynical and worldly wise. That they’ve seen it all before. 

But if you set the right context for an audience; if you manipulate their assumptions, suggest the plot is going one way and then take it another, then it’s still possible to jolt people out of their seats.

And surprise remains one of the most potent tools in the storyteller’s armoury.

‘What the actual f**k!’

'Never let your conscience be harmful to your health.
Let no neurotic impulse turn inward on itself.
Just say that you were happy, as happy would allow.
And tell yourself that that will have to do for now.
Darling, it's a life of surprises.
It's no help growing older or wiser.
You don't have to pretend you're not crying,
When it's even in the way that you're walking.’

Prefab Sprout, ‘A Life of Surprises’ (P Mcaloon)

No. 550

The Restless, Fearless Life of Lee Miller: ‘Getting Out on a Damn Limb and Sawing It Off Behind You’

Lee Miller - Model with Lightbulb c1943
© Lee Miller Archives.. leemiller.co.uk

‘She is as modern in her viewpoint as next year’s skyscraper.’
Chicago Tribune, on Lee Miller, 1933

I recently enjoyed an extensive exhibition about the life and work of Lee Miller. (Tate Britain, London until 15 February)

Model, fashion and fine art photographer, surrealist and war correspondent, Miller was an independent spirit, a fearless innovator, a restless, determined, adventurous soul. 

‘[I was] practically born and brought up in a dark room.’
Lee Miller

Born in 1907, into an upper middle-class household in Poughkeepsie, New York, Elizabeth Miller grew up familiar with photography, since her father, a keen amateur, often used her as a model. Expelled from various schools, aged 18 she travelled to Paris to study lighting, costume and design. Back in New York, she was taught experimental drama, life drawing and painting.

'My fingers feel empty with longing to create.'

While Miller was out and about in Manhattan one day, Condé Nast, the publisher of Vogue magazine, just stopped her from stepping in front of an oncoming car. This incident precipitated her modelling career, and by the spring of 1927 she was featured on the cover of both British and American Vogue.

Lee Miller - Self Portrait 1930

Tall and slender, with cropped blonde hair arranged neatly under a cloche hat, Miller embodied the sharp, androgynous style of the era. Renaming herself Lee, she became one of the most sought-after models in New York, snapped by leading fashion photographers like Edward Steichen.

But Miller was always restless for fresh knowledge and new experience.

‘I would rather take a picture than be one.’

In 1929 she moved to Paris, apprenticing herself simultaneously to fashion-photographer George Hoyningen-Huene and the surrealist artist Man Ray. She presented herself to Man Ray unannounced. 

‘I told him boldly I was his new student. He said he didn’t take students, and anyway he was leaving Paris for his holiday. I said, I know, I’m going with you – and I did.’

Miller soon became Man Ray’s model, collaborator and lover. They took photographs of each other from every angle: in profile, from above, below and behind; asleep, naked, head under a bell jar. They tried out new processes: most notably solarisation, a technique by which a print or negative is briefly re-exposed to light during development; the tones of the image partially reverse, creating a dreamlike halo. Also experimenting with crops, enlargements and reflections; unusual juxtapositions and disorientating angles, they created a world of enigmatic beauty - of mysterious hands, street furniture and tar puddles; of strange statues in light and shadow; of love, power and desire.

‘Some of them are pictures I saw in my imagination, just as I would a painting, and I assembled the material for them.’

Miller and Man Ray worked so closely together that it was often difficult to assign authorship, and some co-created work was subsequently published solely in Man Ray’s name.

‘It doesn’t matter. I can’t claim anything; we were like one person when we were working.’

Miller found herself at the centre of an avant garde set that included Pablo Picasso and fellow surrealists Paul Éluard and Jean Cocteau. Cocteau featured her as a classical statue coming to life in his 1930 film, ‘The Blood of a Poet.’

In 1932, Miller left Man Ray, returned to New York, and set up a portrait and commercial photography studio. Clients included BBDO, Elizabeth Arden, Helena Rubinstein and Saks Fifth Avenue. Two years later, exhausted by the demands of the corporate world, she abandoned her studio to marry the Egyptian businessman Aziz Eloui Bey.

Man Ray with Lee Miller, ‘Homage de DAF de Sade’

Miller relocated to Cairo and continued to take extraordinary photographs. Travelling through Syria, Palestine, Lebanon, Cyprus, Romania and Greece, her work retained its unique sensibility: uncanny, enigmatic, disorientating. A desert seen through a torn screen, reflections caught in a wheel-hub, statues clothed in shadow; eery rock formations, the domes of a monastery, a disembodied bull’s head on a cart.

'There were lots of things, touching, poignant or queer, I wanted to photograph.’

Having tired of her life in Egypt, in 1937 Miller returned to Paris. On the day she arrived, she met the British surrealist painter Roland Penrose. They fell in love and settled in London. War was on the horizon, but she was determined to stay in Britain. 

‘Years ago I fought and struggled to live in Europe – chose my friends in these countries – and their way of living – so I can’t leave now just because there isn’t enough butter to go round.’ 

As a US citizen, Miller was ineligible for war work. And so, offering her services to British Vogue, she embarked on a new career as a photojournalist. She documented the Blitz, employing her signature style: imaginative use of shadow, solarisation and strange props (fire protection masks, a stuffed bear, an inflatable fish…).  

An ‘unexploded bomb’ sign hangs from a desultory pot plant in an empty street. A smartly dressed model poses elegantly under an arch, the building behind her completely destroyed. A discarded shop dummy stands forlorn amidst the rubble.  

Miller also took striking portraits of women war workers: searchlight operators, machinists and mechanics; parachute packers and pilots.

‘It seems pretty silly to go on working on a frivolous paper like Vogue. Though it may be good for the country’s morale, it’s hell on mine.’

In late 1942, Miller gained accreditation with the US Army as a war correspondent for Condé Nast Publications. She followed the 83rd Infantry Division across Europe: through France, Belgium, Luxembourg and into Germany; through Denmark, Austria, Hungary and Romania. We see discarded boots and ammunition, field hospitals and burns victims. There are soldiers frozen in the snow, fallen statues and dead Nazis. 

Lee Miller - Portrait of Space, Al Bulyaweb, near Siwa, Egypt

'We heard bombers approaching over our shoulders… I had the clothes I was standing in, a couple of dozen rolls of film, and an eiderdown blanket roll. I was the only photographer for miles around and I now owned a private war.'

Miller’s images included the first recorded use of napalm. She also documented the abomination of the Nazi concentration camps at Buchenwald and Dachau. In a cable to her editor in London she wrote:

‘I IMPLORE YOU TO BELIEVE THAT THIS IS TRUE.’

At this time Miller worked closely with the American photojournalist David E Scherman, a correspondent with Life magazine. On April 30, 1945, Scherman took a photograph of Miller sitting in Hitler’s bath, with the dried mud of the morning's visit to Dachau still on her boots. That same day Hitler committed suicide.

'I took some pictures of the place, and I also got a good night’s sleep in Hitler’s bed. I even washed the dirt of Dachau in his tub.’ 

In the aftermath of war, Miller recorded the euphoria of liberation giving way to disillusion. 

‘I’m taking a lot of kid pictures, because they are the only ones for whom there is any hope… And also we might as well have a look at who we’re going to fight twenty years from now.’

Lee Miller - Fire Masks, Downshire Hill 1941
© Lee Miller Archives.. leemiller.co.uk

In 1947 Miller divorced Bey, married Penrose and gave birth to a son, Antony. The family settled in Farleys House in East Sussex, and through the 1950s and ‘60s, they hosted numerous parties for visiting artists. 

Miller continued working for Vogue until 1953, covering fashion and celebrities. But her heart wasn’t in it, and eventually she gave up professional photography, dedicating herself instead to gourmet cookery. The relentless work, and the exposure to death, destruction and suffering, had taken its toll. (She also no doubt suffered trauma from her childhood, having been raped by the guest of a family friend when she was seven.) She underwent severe bouts of clinical depression and struggled with alcoholism.

Miller died of lung cancer at Farleys House in 1977, aged 70. Her extraordinary life and contribution to art, fashion, photography and journalism had by that time faded in the public consciousness. Thankfully, after her death, Antony Penrose discovered her archive in the attic: roughly 60,000 negatives, prints and journals.

'It seems to me that women have a bigger chance at success in photography than men... Women are quicker and more adaptable than men. And I think they have an intuition that helps them understand personalities more quickly than men.’

Lee Miller and David E. Scherman - ‘Lee Miller in Hitler’s bathtub, Hitler’s apartment.' 1945
© Lee Miller Archives.. leemiller.co.uk

Lee Miller was an extraordinary woman. So gifted and so brave. She encourages us all to pursue fresh experiences, to learn new skills, to cultivate our own unique perspectives - with vigour, zeal and commitment. She teaches us to forge our own paths in life.

In 1969, Miller was asked by a New York Times reporter what drew her to her craft. 

‘Being a great photojournalist is a matter of getting out on a damn limb and sawing it off behind you.’

'You don't own me,
I’m not just one of your many toys.
You don't own me,
Don't say I can't go with other boys.
And don't tell me what to do,
Don't tell me what to say,
And please, when I go out with you,
Don't put me on display.
You don't own me,
Don't try to change me in any way.
You don't own me,
Don't tie me down, 'cause I'd never stay.
I don't tell you what to say,
I don't tell you what to do.
So just let me be myself,
That's all I ask of you.
I'm young, and I love to be young.
I'm free, and I love to be free.
To live my life the way I want,
To say and do whatever I please.’
Lesley Gore, 'You Don’t Own Me’ (J Madara/ D White)

No. 549

Anna Ancher: ‘Staying Mainly at Home’

Anna Archer - Interior With Red Poppies. 1905 Oil on Canvas

I recently saw an excellent exhibition of the work of Danish artist, Anna Ancher. (The Dulwich Picture Gallery, until 8 March).

Anna Brøndum was born in 1859 in Skagen, a fishing town at the top of the Jutland peninsula, the northern-most point in Denmark. Her father owned the Brøndums Hotel, whose guests included artists attracted to the area by its extraordinary light and seascapes. 

On the night Anna was born, the inn was visited by Hans Christian Andersen. Her mother took this as auspicious, and encouraged her daughter to pursue a creative career. Anna studied drawing in Copenhagen and Paris, and in 1880 she married fellow painter Michael Ancher. When she subsequently gave birth to a child, there was social pressure to devote herself to household duties, and her former art teacher advised her to ‘throw away her painting box.’ Nevertheless, she persisted.

Anna Archer -Sunlight in the Blue Room. 1891. Oil on Canvas

Anna often depicted quiet domestic interiors. Her elderly mother, in white lace bonnet, is in repose - comfortably tucked in under a crimson blanket. Her sisters fall asleep at the table, exhausted after a hard day’s work managing the inn. A young woman is engrossed in her book, seated next to a vase of gorgeous red poppies. 

Anna was particularly skilled at capturing light - the golden glow of a lamp; the radiant flickers cast by the evening sun against the studio wall. Sunbeams fall across a blue room, as Anna’s blonde-bobbed daughter concentrates on her knitting. Light filters through a cream curtain, as a maid stands by the kitchen sink with her back to us. 

The hotel and the Ancher house became a vibrant hub for Skagen’s creative community. In the exhibition there are photos of them lunching in the garden, walking on the shore, enjoying a fancy dress party. Their portraits of one another still line the walls of the Brøndums dining room today, with Anna and Michael placed at the centre.

Anna Ancher - The Maid in the Kitchen. 1883 - 1886. Oil on Canvas

Anna also painted the dunes and heathland of this remote spot; the boats on the strand; children playing on the beach. She portrayed the poor local community hard at work. An old man whittles sticks. An elderly lady plucks a goose. A baker counts her coins. Scythe and rake at the ready, three farm labourers march across the field at harvest-time.

Although Anna travelled widely round Europe, visiting Germany, the Netherlands, Italy, Britain and France, nearly all her art depicts scenes around Skagen. There is gentle affection, mutual respect, quiet intimacy, in these portraits. As a local girl - the only local in the artists’ community - she was trusted by her sitters. 

‘I firmly believe that the very best thing is to go on small trips, but staying mainly at home and painting the people of one’s own country.’
Anna Ancher

Anna Ancher - Harvesters. 1905. Oil on Canvas

Anna teaches us that we don’t have to go far to find inspiration. There is compelling material on our doorsteps – if we are willing to recognise and mine our unique understanding of home.

'Perhaps home is not a place, but simply an irrevocable condition.’
James Baldwin

Time for a festive break.
Have a restful Christmas. 
My next post will be on Thursday 8 January 2026.
If you’re missing me, there are lots of old articles to read in the Index.
See you on the other side, I hope.

'Sorry I'm not so merry,
But I feel like this yearly
Christmas time isn't my vibe,
Brings no joy into my life.
Watch the snow as it's falling,
And I don't feel a damn thing.
Only darken the tree lights,
Just another December night.
Sleigh bells ringing,
Still I feel sad.
It'll have you thinking
Of all the things
That you don't have.
But I know
If I'm feeling lonely,
I can't be the only one,
Drowning in my tears.
So somebody show me
How am I supposed to have fun
At the loneliest time of year?
The loneliest time of year.’

Mabel, ‘Loneliest Time of the Year’ (C Purcell / T Jean-marie / U Emenike / M Mcvey / N Nyassa)

No. 548

The Pointillist Dilemma: Can Painstaking Precision Express or Elicit Passion?

Henry van de Verde (1863-1957) - Avondschemer (Twilight) c.1889. Oil on Canvas

I recently visited an exhibition of Pointillist works. (‘Radical Harmony’ is at the National Gallery, London until 8 February, 2026.)

‘Some say they see poetry in my paintings; I see only science.’
Georges Seurat

Pointillism is the painting technique whereby small, distinct dots of pure, complementary colours are applied in patterns to form an image. Developed by artists such as Georges Seurat and Paul Signac in the 1880s, it was based on colour theory and the study of optics. Viewed from a distance, the colours were believed to ‘blend in the eye’ to create vibrant, nuanced tones and an illusion of light.

Georges Seurat (1859 -1891) - Le Bec du Hoc, Grandcamp 1885. Oil on Canvas

The artists themselves balked at the term Pointillism. (Seurat and Signac preferred Divisionism.) However it was labelled, the approach particularly lent itself to landscapes. Blue and orange, red and green, yellow and white dots and dabs cohere to form waves lapping against sandy beaches, clouds melting into the horizon, dunes extending into the distance. In the soft morning light, boats are moored by the river, birds flutter over jagged rocks, a lighthouse looms on a far-away shore. At dusk a lone, hunched woman treads the village path, deep in thought.

These shimmering outdoor scenes, verging on abstraction, seem still and silent. They have an austere, dream-like, spiritual beauty.

This distinctive artistic movement was regarded as radical in its time. Camille Pissarro called it ‘a new phase in the logical march of Impressionism.’

Maximilien Luce (1858-1941) - Morning, Interior (1890). Oil on Canvas

However, some in the art establishment were sceptical of Pointillism’s scientific basis and painstaking process, describing it as ‘the death of painting.’ One critic complained of 'landscapes that look as though they have been made by artillery and confetti.'

Some of the Pointillists shared an interest in anarcho-communism – a political movement which championed the rights of working people. In an increasingly industrialised age, they painted the struggles of the lower classes, or an idealised vision of social harmony. 

Sunlight streams into a modest room, as an artisan puts on his boots to start his day. Teams of men are silhouetted by the blazing blast furnace. On the evening before a strike, a man holds his hands to his head in despair.

‘Justice in sociology, harmony in art: same thing.’
Paul Signac

Paul Signac (1863-1935) - La Salle à Manger (The Dinning Room) c1886. Oil on canvas.

The Pointillists also turned their attention to portraits and interior scenes.  

In the summer heat, five women in white linen relax in an orchard. Another sits in the garden, absorbed in her book. A lady shows off her bright orange dress. A husband stokes the fire, while his wife turns away to look out of the window. It’s breakfast-time in a middle-class home: as the maid brings the morning newspaper, the mistress sips her coffee and an elderly man puffs at his cigar, in solemn silence.

The figures can come across as somewhat isolated, lost in their own worlds. There is an intimation of boredom and domestic estrangement.

This sense of the uncanny, of alienation, may be by design. But one also suspects that these images display the limitations of the style. In adhering to academic rigour, in painstakingly applying the technique, there seems a stiffness, a loss of passion and emotion. The pictures come across as rather bloodless.

This poses a challenge for anyone working in a creative discipline. We may on occasion fall slaves to method and ideology. Sometimes executional exactitude and obsession with detail can constrain us. We must always leave room for true expression and raw emotion. 

Pointillism captured the imagination of the artistic avant-garde for a number of years. Pissarro and Vincent Van Gogh experimented with their own versions of the technique, the latter employing strokes rather than dots. But the approach was restrictive, a cul-de-sac. In his later work, Signac became increasingly spontaneous, and other Pointillists gave up its rigours entirely. Seurat, who occasionally criticised his fellow artists for their lack of intellectual purity, continued to adhere to the theory. However, in 1891 he died, aged just 31. As the decade progressed, Pointillism’s influence waned.


'If you really love him,
And there′s nothing I can do,
Don't try to spare my feelings,
Just tell me that we′re through.
And make it easy on yourself,
Make it easy on yourself.
'Cause breaking up is so very hard to do.
And if the way I hold you
Can't compare to his caress.
No words of consolation
Will make me miss you less.
My darling, if this is goodbye,
I just know I′m gonna cry.
So run to him,
Before you start crying too.
And make it easy on yourself,
Make it easy on yourself.
‘Cause breaking up is so very hard to do.’
Jerry Butler, 'Make It Easy on Yourself’ (B Bacharach, H David)

No. 547

Figures in Extinction: ‘If Separation is the Question, Then Connection is Surely the Answer’

Still from Figures On Extinction © Andrew Perry

‘Figures in Extinction’ is a three-act dance work that considers the climate crisis, the segmentation of the brain, and society’s attitudes towards death. It is at the same time thought provoking and deeply moving. (Sadler’s Wells, London, 5-8 November 2025. I’m afraid it’s over now. Let’s hope it returns some time soon.)

‘The way you treat the outer world reflects what is happening in your inner world.’
Simon McBurney

The piece is a collaboration, between the choreographer Crystal Pite and the theatre-maker Simon McBurney; between Nederlands Dans Theater and Complicité. The plan was for Pite to lead the first part, for McBurney to lead the second, and for the third segment to be composed jointly. In practice, the co-creators found that sharing responsibility was more productive.

‘I choreographed all sorts of things, and Crystal wrote scenes and shaped stories. We didn’t stay on our patch because we never felt we had a patch.’
Simon McBurney

In fluid, restless motion, the dancers congregate and scatter, circle each other and separate, coil and uncoil. With sweeping gestures and sinuous lines, arms arch, bodies quiver and hands flicker. The mood is dark and sombre, as a voiceover takes us on a philosophical journey.

Figures In Extinction -  Nederlands Dans Theater and Complicité

Section one catalogues the animals, plants and places that have become extinct in the last century. The dancers’ subtle movements suggest the Pyrenean ibex, the Asiatic cheetah and the passenger pigeon; a warbler and a macaw, a herd of caribou and a shoal of hand-fish; poisonous frogs, blossoming irises and melting glaciers.

‘That’s what we do, as humans: we label and list, like in a museum.’
Crystal Pite

We hear an innocent child struggling to understand the absences. Meanwhile, a suited climate change denier stalks the stage, spouting false claims and flawed logic. 

In the second part, humanity itself comes under the microscope. We listen to a lecture on brain science by psychiatrist and neuroscientist Iain McGilchrist, the words dramatized by the dancers

‘The left hemisphere yields clarity and power to manipulate things that are known, fixed, static, isolated, decontextualised, explicit, general in nature, but ultimately lifeless. The right hemisphere by contrast yields a world of individual, changing, evolving, interconnected, implicit, incarnate living beings within the context of the lived world.’
Iain McGilchrist

McGilchrist contends that, in our hyperactive contemporary culture, the left brain has become dominant, creating a tendency to rules, control, bureaucracy, and a loss of freedom.

As Albert Einstein is reputed to have said:

'The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honours the servant and has forgotten the gift.’

Figures In Extinction -  Nederlands Dans Theater and Complicité. Photograph: Tristram Kenton/The Guardian

McGilchrist concludes that we are increasingly confined in a ‘hall of mirrors.’

‘There’s a hall of mirrors effect; the more we get trapped into this, the more we undercut and ironise things that might have led us out of it. We just get reflected back into more of what we know about what we know.’
Iain McGilchrist

The third act considers mortality. Families gather round a death bed. A body decomposes. The Doomsday Clock ticks towards midnight. And yet still we turn away from accepting these stark truths.

Whilst in awe of the choreography and touched by the grand themes, I confess I found myself struggling to understand how the three parts of ‘Figures in Extinction’ linked together. And then, in the programme notes, I read an interview with Pite and McBurney conducted by Sanjoy Roy. The work, it transpires, is fundamentally concerned with separation and connection.

‘We began with the desire to approach the climate crisis, but as we dug deeper, we felt it boiled down to separation: our perceived separation from the living world, our separation from the intuitive mind, our separation from the dead. And if separation is the question, then connection is surely the answer. You can feel a yearning for connection running like a luminous thread through the whole show.’
Crystal Pite

I found this rather a compelling thought. It’s true: as technology professes to draw us closer together, we find ourselves drifting further apart. Separated by screens, shepherded by algorithms, isolated by doomscrolling, our information is edited and moderated; our thinking is processed and packaged; our experience is filtered and abstracted. We yearn for intimacy, authenticity, real feeling. We need to re-learn connection.

'Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer.'
EM Forster, 'Howards End'

'Hold my hand.
I am afraid.
Please pray for me,
When I am away.
Comfort the girl,
Help her understand.
No memory,
No matter how sad,
And no violence,
No matter how bad,
Can darken the heart,
Or tear it apart.
Take my hand,
When you are scared,
And I will pray,
If you go back out there.
Comfort the man.
Help him understand,
That no floating sheet,
No matter how haunting,
And no secret,
No matter how nasty,
Can poison your voice,
Or keep you from joy.'

Perfume Genius, ’Normal Song’ (Michael Hadreas)

No. 546

JD’s Introduction to Rugby: The Unifying Power of Inspirational Speech

Fran Cotton ‘Mud Man' by Colin Elsey

Shivering in the September drizzle, 100 or so 11-year-old boys, in pristine maroon sports jerseys, congregated along the touchline of the Campion School First XV pitch. It was 1975, and this was to be our introduction to rugby.

A short, track-suited man walked purposefully onto the turf and turned to face us. John Davies, known to everyone as ‘JD’, was the head sports-master and a former scrum-half in the legendary London Welsh side of the 1960s. Wily, determined and tough, he spoke in terse, clipped sentences, in a beguiling Welsh accent. Though small in stature, he had a commanding presence.

‘Take a look at this pitch, boys. This is a field of dreams, an arena for titans, a place where heroes are forged. Beautiful, isn’t it?’

He paused for a moment. 

‘You can look at this pitch, but you cannot step on it. You have to earn the right to play for the Campion First XV.’ 

JD then pointed at a mysterious red puddle at his feet.

‘You see this? Can you guess what it is?… It’s blood. Blood that has been spilt for this team – making a stand, holding the line, defending the lead. Ask yourself: Have I got what it takes? Am I prepared to make the sacrifice? Am I willing to shed blood - for this team, this school, this sport?’

At which JD turned away and marched back to the school building, leaving us all in silence - awe-struck, terrified, thrilled.

John Davies (the shorter man in a white headband) was part of the great 1960s London Welsh side, which included seven Lions

And so we set about learning to tackle, bind, ruck and maul; to line-out, hand-off, and drop-kick. We ran figures of eight round the playing fields, launched ourselves into tackle bags, and pushed scrum machines up inclines. We trained in all weathers, toiled in thick mud, washed in cold showers.

And all this time, JD’s words were ringing in our ears. We wanted to win this man’s approval, to live up to his high standards, to make the required sacrifice.

Looking back, I’ve no idea what liquid was actually in that red puddle. Was it paint, or line-marker perhaps? In any case, it certainly did the trick. 

Leadership in the world of work nowadays is characterised by soft speech, gentle engagement and a light touch. We rightly celebrate listening and empathy. But there is still a place for the visionary address, for passionate words that ‘stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.’ Because well-judged rhetoric focuses the mind, fortifies the spirit and unifies the team. It raises performance levels, builds commitment, and sustains colleagues through good times and bad. 

My Campion First XV jersey sits in a drawer upstairs. Its cotton is surprisingly heavy, its red and black stripes understandably faded. I can’t fit into it now. If you look close enough, you can still see a dark, rust-coloured stain: the blood I shed - for that team, that school, that sport, and for that man.

'I was on the outside when you said, you said you needed me.
I was looking at myself, I was blind, I could not see.
A boy tries hard to be a man,
His mother takes him by his hand.
If he stops to think he starts to cry, oh, why?
If you walk away, walk away,
I walk away, walk away, I will follow.
If you walk away, walk away
I walk away, walk away, I will follow.’
U2, ‘I Will Follow’ (P D Hewson / A Clayton / L Mullen / D Evans)

No. 545