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 and lull them into a false sense of security; 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

Wayne Thiebaud: When the Common Becomes Uncommon

Wayne Thiebaud (1920-2021), Boston Cremes, 1962. Oil on canvas, Crocker Art Museum © Waynw Thiebaud

I recently enjoyed a small exhibition of the work of Wayne Thiebaud. (The Courtauld Gallery, London until 18 January)

'Discipline is not a restriction, but an aid to freedom.'
Wayne Thiebaud

Thiebaud is celebrated for his colourful still lifes of everyday American items – cereal packets, yo-yos, gumball and pinball machines; baloney sausages, hot dogs, pies, cakes and ice creams. His art, created in the post-war economic boom, captures both the confidence and optimism of the era, and the creeping anxiety that accompanied it. He was dubbed ‘the laureate of lunch counters and diners.’

‘The objects are… like small landscapes, buildings or characters in a play with costumes.’

Born in 1920 in Mesa, Arizona, Thiebaud lived and worked in Sacramento, California. His early career was spent as an illustrator and commercial art director. He apprenticed at Walt Disney Studios, drawing ‘in-betweens’ of Goofy, Pinocchio, and Jiminy Cricket, and during World War 2 he served as a graphic designer in the US Army. After the conflict, he studied at San Jose and Sacramento State Colleges, and thereafter devoted himself to painting and teaching art.

Having spent time among New York’s avant garde art set in 1956–7, Thiebaud began painting the food displayed in bakeries, delicatessens and diners – stripped back, minimal images, reflecting Cezanne’s belief that everything in nature can be reduced to three fundamental shapes: the sphere, cone and cylinder.

‘From when I worked in restaurants, I can remember seeing rows of pies, or a tin of pie with one piece out of it. Those little verdute [views], in fragmented circumstances, were always poetic to me.’

Painted with heavy pigment and exaggerated colours, Thiebaud’s pictures offer tantalising access to candy counters; to frosted cakes and custards; to toffee apples and Boston cremes. There are tempting pies and pastries, seductive lollipops and slabs of nougat. Three ice cream cones – strawberry, chocolate, vanilla – sit in their stand, waiting to be devoured.

‘The ice cream cone, for me, represents a kind of joy, a sort of temporariness… That very bright spirit that it once had, that kind of colour, light, liveliness, soon will be gone.’

Wayne Thiebaud Pie Counter, 1963

Carefully arranged, set against neutral backgrounds and artificially illuminated, such sweet delights cast crisp, deep shadows. They seem organised in perfect patterns. But then we notice the small changes of colour and light, the subtle inconsistencies of angles. 

‘At first glance, the pies look mechanical and have a sameness. At least, most people will think they do until they study them closely.’

These poignant still lifes suggest the beauty of the everyday, a nostalgia perhaps for childhood simplicity. We may find them a little melancholy. The cakes are processed and shaped, their colouring is synthetic - the products of assembly lines and mass production; of escalating consumerism. As well as eliciting longing, they also prompt us to reflect on the fleeting fulfilment that ultimately awaits. The reward rarely matches the promise. Desire walks hand-in-hand with disappointment.

Wayne Thiebaud (1920-2021), Cakes, 1963. Oil on canvas, National Gallery of Art, Washington © Waynw Thiebaud

'If we don't have a sense of humor, we lack a sense of perspective.’

In creating his art, Thiebaud was certainly drawing on his experience as a commercial illustrator. There is a clarity, focus and directness about his work. He encourages those of us employed in creative businesses to recognise the visual power of everyday items; to celebrate their inherent beauty and strangeness; to make the common uncommon.

‘Common objects become strangely uncommon when removed from their context and ordinary ways of being seen.’


'Oh to live on Sugar Mountain,
With the barkers and the colored balloons.
You can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain,
Though you're thinking that you're leaving there too soon,
You're leaving there too soon.
It's so noisy at the fair,
But all your friends are there,
And the candy floss you had,
And your mother and your dad.
There's a girl just down the aisle,
Oh to turn and see her smile.
You can hear the words she wrote,
As you read the hidden note.
Oh to live on Sugar Mountain,
With the barkers and the colored balloons.
You can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain,
Though you're thinking that you're leaving there too soon,
You're leaving there too soon.’

Neil Young, ‘Sugar Mountain'

No. 544

Kerry James Marshall: Seeing the Unseen

Kerry James Marshall - Untitled (detail), 2009. Acrylic on PVC panel. 155.3 x 185.1 cm
Yale University Art Gallery

‘I’m always interested in doing the thing that nobody else is doing.’
Kerry James Marshall

I recently enjoyed an extensive exhibition of the art of Kerry James Marshall. (‘The Histories’ is at The Royal Academy, London until 18 January, 2026.)

'I don't believe in hope. I believe in action, if I'm an apostle of anything. There are always going to be complications, but to a large degree, everything is in your hands.’

Working mostly in acrylic, Marshall has spent a lifetime creating large-scale figurative paintings of the African American experience. Drawing on art history, he celebrates Black lives of the past and present, and reimagines a world where Black individuals and communities are central to the narrative. He strives to ensure that the hitherto unseen is seen.

'You have to recover the capacity to imagine yourself as an ideal and figure out how to project that into the world.’

Born in 1955 in Birmingham, Alabama, aged 8 Marshall moved with his family to South Central Los Angeles. He was always acutely aware of the Civil Rights struggle. 

’You can't be born in Birmingham, Alabama, in 1955, and grow up in South Central near the Black Panthers’ headquarters, and not feel like you've got some kind of social responsibility.’

Marshall studied at Otis College of Art and Design in LA. He chose to pursue figurative painting at a time when abstraction was the dominant form.

‘Abstraction was supposed to be ‘advanced.’ There weren’t even any Black people who wanted to paint Black people.’

Kerry James Marshall - De Style (detail), 1993. Acrylic and collage on canvas. 264.2 x 309.9 cm. Los Angeles County Museum of Art,

A critical moment in Marshall’s early career came when he read Ralph Ellison’s 1952 novel ‘Invisible Man’. An unnamed protagonist is rendered invisible in a racially divided America, because people ‘refuse to see’ him.

'It is sometimes advantageous to be unseen, although it is most often rather wearing on the nerves.'
Ralph Ellison, ‘Invisible Man’

Inspired by Ellison’s book, Marshall created a series of works in which Black figures are set against dark backgrounds, so that they become almost invisible to the viewer. He then embarked on rewriting the American story; raising questions about Black absence from art history and the American Dream.

‘When you go to an art museum, the thing you're least likely to encounter is a picture of a Black person. When it comes to ideas about art and about beauty, the Black figure is absent.’

Marshall, who has spent much of his life in Chicago, painted scenes of everyday African American life: homes, city streets, nightclubs and art galleries; children playing in the park, customers chatting at the barbershop, lovers dancing in their bedroom

At a time when many housing projects were run down, he portrayed them positively, with flowers blooming, birds swooping, young couples promenading. He painted a contented Black family relaxing by a city lake - dressed in smart white clothes, listening to music, water-skiing, playing golf and croquet. For a public library in Chicago, he presented a group of kids mesmerised by ‘The Big Book of Knowledge’, ‘The Golden Book of Wonder’, ‘The Wonderful Book of Life.’ 

Kerry James Marshall - Knowledge and Wonder (detail), 1995. Oil on canvas. 294.6 x 698.5 cm
City of Chicago Public Art Program and the Chicago Public Library

'Black people occupy a space, even mundane spaces, in the most fascinating ways. Style is such an integral part of what Black people do that just walking is not a simple thing. You've got to walk with style. You've got to talk with a certain rhythm; you've got to do things with some flair. And so in the paintings I try to enact that same tendency toward the theatrical that seems to be so integral a part of the Black cultural body.'

Approaching his themes with wit and a sideways glance, Marshall makes images that are often complex and layered; uneasy and ambivalent. African Americans are seen swimming in a pool on the edge of a restricted private residence; taking a ride in a Californian theme park - thrilling, frightening, dangerous. His work is also rich in symbolism, integrating motifs from Yoruban religion and Haitian Voodoo; Black Panther slogans; the red, black and green of Marcus Garvey’s Pan-African Flag; references to the Black Star Line – the shipping company that Garvey founded to encourage economic independence for the African diaspora. 

Throughout his career, Marshall has used various Black pigments to depict skin colours - Ivory Black, Mars Black and Carbon Black - mixing in other colours to render Black fully chromatic. He has rarely depicted the browns of real skin tones.

‘If you say Black, you should see Black… I tend to think having that extreme of color, that kind of Black, is amazingly beautiful...and powerful. What I was thinking to do with my image was to reclaim the image of Blackness as an emblem of power.’

Kerry James Marshall - ‘Past Times’ (1997)

Asking us to reconsider the American narrative, Marshall has created portraits of slave rebels, poets, artists, abolitionists and activists. He has addressed the Middle Passage, the Civil Rights struggle, the Black Power and Black Lives Matter movements. He has commemorated fallen heroes (‘We mourn our loss.’), questioned the legacy of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, and challenged romantic representations of African history. 

'If you're constantly being reminded of the ways in which your history and your narrative as a people were rooted in loss and decay, then you're in deep trouble. Once you make a certain kind of peace with the past, then you should be completely oriented towards speculation about the future.’

Marshall prompts us to rewrite the script: to reflect on the unseen figures in our own lives, in our communities and workplaces; the people we walk past and ignore, the assumptions we make, the fallacies we quietly condone, the injustices we sustain by our inaction.

He encourages us to set aside empty despair; to take practical, progressive steps to solving problems; to see the unseen.

'I think we need to remember... that a lot of energy was put into changing things to get us to the point where we are now. But being where we are now doesn't mean that we don't have to put in the same kind of energy to get us to a place where we ought to be.’

'Baby, baby,
You don't understand,
How much I love you, baby.
And how much I wanna be your only man.
Baby, baby, baby,
You don't have to go.
Stay a little while longer, baby.
I wanna talk to you just a little more.
I see the little tears in your eyes about to fall.
You are wondering if I'm for real.
But if you cry, I wonder why you cry.
I tell you, know why this is how I feel.
Baby, I'm for real.’
The Originals, 'Baby, I’m For Real' (A G Gaye / M Gaye)

No. 543

My Mini Cooper Negotiation: Strategists Don’t Necessarily Cut the Best Deals

I’d never bought a new car before. Nonetheless I was feeling flush, and I had always wanted a Mini Cooper. The elegant design, the compact, playful personality, all those associations with the Swinging Sixties, the Beatles, the Italian Job.

I’d spotted a classic example in the window of Stratstone Rover in Soho. It was in British racing green, and had a white roof and white stripes on the bonnet. I was smitten.

As I entered the dealership, I was approached by a charming young man in a suit.

‘Are you looking at anything in particular, sir?’

‘Well, yes actually. I’d like to purchase that Mini Copper in the window please.’

‘Beautiful, isn’t it, sir? And it just so happens that that car is available.’

He quoted me a figure. I hesitated. I’m not a car person, but I vaguely remembered conversations in the pub about always negotiating a better price.

‘Can you do me a deal on that?’ I asked nervously.

The salesman looked a little challenged. He perhaps realised he had a serious haggler on his hands.

‘Hold on one moment, sir. I’ll have to talk to my manager.’

He disappeared for a short while, and I began to wonder if I was being troublesome.

The salesman returned.

‘I’ve spoken to my manager, sir, and there is something we can do. We’ll throw in a walnut-look dashboard and a Union Jack gear knob – completely free of charge.’   

‘Oh, excellent. Thank you very much. Great. I’m in.’

And so we continued to the salesman’s office, and I paid full list-price for the Mini-Cooper – with a walnut-look dashboard and a Union Jack gear knob completely free of charge.

In my time at the Agency, I’d like to think that I was of some value - in making observations about changing consumer culture, in developing long term plans for Client brands, in writing briefs that pointed creatives in the right direction. But I would not claim to have been the toughest negotiator. 

Sales is a skill I have always respected, not least because it’s one in which I was so lacking. Strategists don’t necessarily cut the best deals.

Neat, nippy, and nimble, over the years my Mini Cooper gave me a great amount of pleasure. Sometimes uncomfortable, occasionally temperamental, but always enjoyable, it was like driving a go-kart round London. Other Cooper drivers winked their headlamps at us when we passed. And on long journeys, we would wind the windows down and sing along to ‘Birdland’ by Weather Report. 

What price happiness?

'This is the self-preservation society,
This is the self-preservation society.
Go wash your German bands, your boat race too.
Comb your barnet fair, we've got alot to do.
Put on your dickie dirt and your Peckham Rye.
'Cause time's soon hurrying by.
Get your skates on mate.
Get your skates on mate.
No bib around your Gregory Peck today, eh?
Drop your plates of meat right up on the seat.
This is the self-preservation society,
This is the self-preservation society.’

'Get a Bloomin' Move On!’ (Q Jones / D Black)

No. 542

Blitz: The Art of Cultural Commentary

Photo Sheila Rock

‘From half-spoken shadows emerges a canvas. A kiss of light breaks to reveal a moment when all mirrors are redundant. Listen to the portrait of the dance of perfection. The Spandau Ballet.’
Excerpt from poem introducing Spandau Ballet on-stage, Robert Elms

I recently visited a splendid exhibition mapping the story of London’s Blitz club. (The Design Museum, London until 29 March 2026)

For eighteen months between 1979 and ‘80, this intimate Tuesday night event, held in a World War 2-themed wine bar on Great Queen Street, Covent Garden, was the vortex of a thriving creative community that embraced fashion and music, film, art and design. It was the spiritual birthplace of the New Romantic movement. 

'One man on a lonely platform,
One case sitting by his side.
Two eyes staring cold and silent,
Shows fear as he turns to hide.
Aaah, we fade to grey (fade to grey)
Feel the rain like an English summer,
Hear the notes from a distant song.
Stepping out from a back shop poster,
Wishing life wouldn't be so long.
Aaah, we fade to grey (fade to grey).’
Visage, 'Fade to Grey’ (M Ure / C J Payne / W Currie)

Spandau Ballet, 1980 - Graham Smith

Publicised by word of mouth, the Blitz was co-hosted by Steve Strange and Rusty Egan - Strange enforcing a strict dress code at the door, Egan mixing art rock and electro-disco on the dance floor. 

Since the Blitz was located between the Central and St Martin's Schools of Art, it attracted an inventive, style-conscious crowd. Combining vintage finds from second-hand charity stores, with pieces from theatrical costumiers and their own flamboyant designs, the Blitz Kids displayed bags of sartorial individualism and ingenuity. They embraced frills, ruffles and high-waisted trousers; androgynous make-up, elaborate hairdos and ostentatious hats. Their eclectic, fantastical outfits looked both backwards to the past and forwards to the future, evoking Weimar nightlife and the Golden Age of Hollywood; pirates, Pierrots, Bohemians and dandies.

‘[Fashion] is irrelevant – style is all important.’
Robert Elms

‘I can’t stand people who wear pound notes – money is no substitute for confidence.’
Christos Tolera

‘I hate the High Street and suppression of individuality.’
Christopher Sullivan

Boy George - Andy Rosen

The show plots how the Blitz scene was born out of the economic and political turmoil of late 1970s Britain. Drawn from working class council estates and lower middle-class suburbs, the regulars took advantage of cheap rents and squats in central London; free university tuition and late-night buses. Kicking against drab consumerism and conventional youth culture, they were inspired by the restless creativity of David Bowie; by the experimentation of European avant-garde cinema and the sedition of punk; by the glamour of the soul scene and the transgression of drag acts and cabaret. 

‘I feel the gaze against my skin,
I know this feeling is a lie.
There's a guilt within my mind,
I know this feeling is a lie.
I don't need this pressure on.
I don't need this pressure on.’
Spandau Ballet, 'Chant No. 1 (I Don't Need This Pressure On)’ (G Kemp)

The Blitz launched the careers of many musicians, including Spandau Ballet, Visage and Boy George (who was employed there as a cloakroom attendant). Influenced by Kraftwerk’s electronic sound, working with affordable synthesizers, innovative drum machines and reel-to-reel tape recorders, they created a futuristic brand of British synthpop. And while the music played, the clubbers - serious expressions on their faces, elbows pumping at their sides - engaged in their own jerky, metronomic dance. Like marionettes vogueing.

Marilyn 1982 - Robert Rosen

The Blitz catalysed new media vehicles, such as i-D magazine, and spawned a long list of designers, artists, filmmakers and writers - from couture milliner Stephen Jones and costume designer Michele Clapton, to DJ and fashion writer Princess Julia and broadcaster Robert Elms. 

‘I’d find people at The Blitz who were possible only in my imagination. But they were real.’
Stephen Jones

I was particularly impressed by the curation of this exhibition (by Danielle Thom) – the way it isolated source influences and trends; critical figures, disciplines and dimensions; far-reaching impacts and effects. This kind of granular cultural commentary, with its neat charts and flow diagrams, can sometimes seem too well ordered. In reality, history is inevitably a little more messy. But the approach really helps understanding. It’s one from which all Strategists could learn.

Chronology - Photo Jim Carroll

In mid-1980, David Bowie visited the Blitz and invited Strange and three other regulars to appear in the video for his single ‘Ashes to Ashes.’ This elegant circularity helped propel the New Romantic movement into the mainstream. 

I was too young to go the club (not that I’d have been let in), but old enough to comprehend its consequences. As with many such movements, in time New Romanticism became somewhat commercial and overblown; elitist, pretentious and absurd. But in its pomp, the Blitz clearly had something special: boundless creative energy and ideas; relentless optimism and youthful positivity. And it provided precious glamour to dispel the gloom. 

'Soldier is turning,
See him through white light.
Running from strangers,
See you in the valley.
War upon war,
Heat upon heat.
To cut a long story short,
I lost my mind.
Sitting on a park bench,
Years away from fighting.
To cut a long story short,
I lost my mind.
Standing in the dark,
Oh, I was waiting for man to come.
I am beautiful and clean,
And so very very young.
To be standing in the street,
To be taken by someone.’
Spandau Ballet, 'To Cut a Long Story Short’ (G Kemp)

No. 541