Beg, Steal or Borrow: Ingres and Picasso on Imitation and Inspiration

Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, 'Madame Moitessier'

'You can’t steal a gift. Bird [Charlie Parker] gave the world his music, and if you can hear it, you can have it.'
Dizzy Gillespie

I recently attended a very small exhibition. 

‘Picasso Ingres: Face to Face’ at the National Gallery, London (until 9 October) comprises just two paintings: Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres’ 1856 portrait of Madame Moitessier, and Pablo Picasso’s 1932 work, ‘Woman with a Book.’ 

These two great portraits share the same pose and composition. But they are radically different. Seeing them together, side-by-side, one gets the opportunity to consider the issues of imitation and inspiration.

‘Who is there, among the greats, who has not imitated? Nothing is made with nothing…’
Ingres

Ingres accepted the commission to paint Ines Moitessier, the young wife of a wealthy banker in 1844. But it took him 12 years to finish it. Work was delayed by the sitter having a baby and the artist losing his spouse. He also hesitated over the best pose and the most appropriate gown.

Eventually Ingres, a devoted classicist, settled on a composition inspired by a Roman fresco from Heraculaneum: it depicted the goddess Arcadia seated with her head propped on one hand.

Roman fresco from Heraculaneum, Hercules finding his son, Telephos

Madame Moitessier regards us with a finger of her right hand resting casually on her temple. She sits on a red satin chair and wears a dress of white Lyon silk, patterned with fragile flowers, decorated with bows and brocade. Her skin is pale as alabaster, though there is a slight rosy glow on her cheeks. Her expression is sensitive, serene, imperious and knowing. She is confident in her position in society, her rank confirmed by the expensive jewels pinned to her frock and hanging from her neck and wrist; by the Chinese porcelain and silk fan in the background. There is a mirror positioned behind her and we see her profile in reflection. It is if we can glimpse her interior as well as her exterior self.

Picasso saw Ingres’s painting of Madame Moitessier in Paris in 1921, when it was put on public display for the first time. It must have left an abiding impression. When, over 10 years later, he embarked on a portrait of his lover Marie-Thérèse Walter, he asked her to adopt the same pose as Madame Moitessier.

As in Ingres’ portrait, Walter sits with her right arm resting on a chair, her hand splayed at the side of her head and a finger to her temple. And there is a blush on her cheeks. But there are also dramatic differences between the images. Where Ingres’ work is flawlessly realistic, finely detailed and smoothly finished, Picasso employs avant-garde cubist techniques and applies his paint in thick daubs of bold colours. Walter’s dress is reduced to flattened panels of vivid blue and white with a pinwheel pattern, and she holds an open book rather than a fan. Her face is seen both in profile and front view, her skin and hair are mostly green, and her breasts are exposed. There is a mirror behind the sitter, but in this instance the identity of the figure in profile is unclear. Could it be the artist himself?

The two paintings prompt us to reflect on creative inspiration. 

As Ingres was inspired by an ancient Roman fresco, so Picasso was inspired by a portrait he once saw at an exhibition. Both artists borrowed elements of pose, setting and composition. But both also made significant departures from the source material, making their work very much their own. Each painting echoed the other without copying it.

Pablo Picasso, ‘Woman with a Book’

Many years ago, when I was quite young in the business, a Creative Director explained to me that he approached every brief by thumbing through old D&AD annuals. He would randomly search for sparks and stimulus from historic award winners. At the time I thought this a rather derivative, and perhaps even cynical, approach. It suggested that every task had been set before, and every solution had already been written. 

'If you steal from one author, it’s plagiarism; if you steal from many, it’s research.'
Wilson Mizner

Perhaps I was wrong. Ideas need catalysts. We must open ourselves up to prompts and provocations from all manner of sources. And then we must take a leap.

When considering this theme, Apple founder Steve Jobs often quoted Picasso: 

‘Good artists copy, great artists steal.’

However, it transpires that this thought derived, not from the great Spanish artist, but from a great Anglo-American poet:

‘Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.’
TS Eliot

Maybe it doesn’t matter whose idea it was. As the French film director Jean-Luc Godard observed:

'It’s not where you take things from - it’s where you take them to.'

'I look at you and I see
What I've been looking for.
Now it's very clear to me
We should be together.
You make me feel I could reach
For the impossible.
And knowing how much you care,
I'll be there forever.
You know I'll beg,
Steal or borrow,
To give you sunny days.
And in a hundred ways
I'll bring you love.’
The New Seekers, ‘Beg, Steal or Borrow’ (T Cole, S Wolfe and G Hall)

No. 382

Stage Struck Sickert: ‘Our History is of Today’

Walter Richard Sickert - Minnie Cunningham at the Old Bedford. 1892

I recently visited a fine exhibition of the work of Walter Sickert. (Tate Britain, London until 18 September.)

Over a six-decade career, Sickert painted enigmatic self-portraits, beautifully lit street scenes and grim nudes. He distilled on canvas the magic of the music halls, the majesty of Venetian architecture and the melancholy of everyday domestic dramas. He was a key figure in the modernising of British art, importing avant-garde techniques from France and introducing gritty realism. And he kept experimenting, even in later life.

'The artist is he who can take something ordinary and wring out of it attar of roses.'

I was particularly struck by Sickert’s paintings of Victorian music halls.

There were over 300 music halls in London in the late nineteenth century. They put on performances by singers, dancers, acrobats and comedians. These were raucous, rowdy venues, melting pots of character and class. 

The son of a Danish artist, Sickert was born in Munich in 1860 and grew up in London. His English mother was musical, his grandmother had been a performer at the Princess in Shoreditch, and from a young age he was described as ‘stage struck.’ When he left school at 18 he sought work as an actor and appeared in a number of minor theatrical roles before joining the Slade School of Fine Art in 1881.

'To justify our likes and dislikes, we generally say that the work we dislike is not serious.’

Sickert visited a music hall nearly every night, making discrete sketches of audiences, artists and architecture. Inspired by Degas’s pictures of Parisian café-concerts, he set his work at Gatti’s in Hungerford and Sam Collins’s on Islington Green. And his favourite location was the Bedford in Camden, an intimate venue entered through a narrow alleyway.

Sickert painted the view of the stage from the orchestra pit; the interplay between audience and performer; the large mirrors, elaborate plasterwork and gilded ornaments. He explored complex angles and perspectives, distinctive gestures and reflections. Here we see a claque of fans, mouths agape, in awe of their heroine. Here are the Sisters Lloyd in elegant lace gowns, Minnie Cunningham all aglow in a bright red dress and hat. And Little Dot Hetherington, alone in the spotlight, pointing up at the boys in the gallery. They lean forward, peering through the grate, lost in their own private reveries. 

Walter Sickert Little Dot Hetherington at the Bedford Music Hall 1888–89

'The boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me.
There he is, can't you see, waving his handkerchief,
As merry as a robin that sings on a tree.’
'The Boy I Love is Up in the Gallery’ (G Ware)

Sickert was criticised at the time for choosing commonplace, tawdry subjects. But he was committed to representing the drama of contemporary life.

‘We don’t go back to other days, our history is of today.’

Sickert took his enthusiasm for the theatrical beyond the music halls. He made a display of Easter bonnets at Dawsons’ Department Store look like a stage set.  He suggested that the baccarat players at the casino in Dieppe were enacting a tragic scene. 

'I am the only one who will make any money in this room.'

Walter Sickert: Noctes Ambrosianae (1906)

In 1915 Sickert painted red-suited Pierrots performing on Brighton Beach. It’s a rather sad sight. Do the empty deckchairs call to mind the absent soldiers fighting across the channel?  

Sickert often used the titles of his pictures to suggest narratives. 

A whiskered fellow takes a puff on his cigar as his wife stares disconsolately at the wall. The picture is called ‘Ennui,’ and to press home the theme of a troubled marriage, there’s a bell jar on the sideboard containing stuffed birds. A man turns away from his seated wife and makes for the door. He’s ‘Off to the Pub.’

'It is said that we are a great literary nation, but we really don’t care about literature. We like films and we like a good murder.’

Sometimes Sickert clearly wanted to toy with the viewer’s imagination.

A clothed man sits in a claustrophobic room, on an iron-framed bed, his head down, his hands clasped. Beside him is the naked figure of a woman, turned away from us. The picture was first titled ‘The Camden Town Murder,’ referring to an actual event of 1907. But the artist subsequently retitled the work: ‘What Shall We Do for the Rent?’ What’s he up to here? Are we witnesses to a scene of financial desperation, or to a hideous crime?

Walter Sickert, The Camden Town Murder or What Shall We Do for the Rent?

'Pictures, like streets and persons, have to have names to distinguish them. But their names are not definitions of them, or, indeed, anything but the loosest kind of labels.'

Perhaps Sickert was still at heart an actor, revelling in role-playing and ambiguity.

'Never believe what an artist says, only what he does.'

In the 1930s Sickert used black and white newspaper photos as visual references for paintings of dramatic events. 

Reporters huddle in the rain to greet the arrival of Emilia Earhart after her solo crossing of the Atlantic. King Edward VIII steps purposefully from his limousine, a busby held protectively in front of him. A miner released from a lengthy underground strike kisses his wife with gusto.

'That picture gives you the right feeling, doesn’t it?'

Walter Sickert, The Miner

Although this was late in his career, Sickert was alert to new possibilities. He recognised the spontaneity of the snap-shot; the power of the camera to capture the fleeting moment. His use of photography is quite extraordinary, foreshadowing Warhol, Bacon and Richter. 

'Photography, like alcohol, should only be allowed to those who can do without it.'

Throughout his long career Sickert consistently shone a revealing spotlight on small but significant events and moments; gestures and relationships. Though he remained a mysterious figure, he taught us a great deal: to see drama in the everyday; to elevate the ordinary; to amplify truth.

‘The most fruitful course of study lies in a persistent effort to render the magic and poetry which [artists] daily see around them.’

’Now I never was a one to go and stint myself.
Cos if I like a thing, I like it, that's enough.
But there's lots of people say that if you like a thing a lot,
It'll grow on you and all that sort of stuff.
Now I like my drop of stout as well as anyone,
Although stout you know is supposed to make you fat,
And there's many a lar-di-dar-di madam wouldn't dare to touch it.
'Cos she mustn't spoil her figure, silly cat.
I always hold in having it if you fancy it.
If you fancy it, that's understood,
And suppose it makes you fat?
I don't worry over that.
A little of what you fancy does you good.’
'A Little of What You Fancy Does You Good’ (G Arthurs, F Leigh)

No. 381

The Silent Witness: Sometimes Encouragement Is Better Than Advice

West Ham fans at a game on 1 March 1930 pass a young boy to the front of the stand. Getty Images

'The only thing to do with good advice is to pass it on. It is never of any use to oneself.'
Oscar Wilde

My father was not one to offer advice to his children. True, he was wont to cite trusty aphorisms: ‘You can’t go wrong with a Cotes du Rhone,’ ‘Just the sight of water is very relaxing,’ and such like. And he would happily demonstrate how best to hold a pint jug. But, generally speaking, Dad did not volunteer sage life lessons or the wisdom of his extensive experience. Perhaps he didn’t feel qualified.

His was a style of passive parenting that has since gone out of fashion. He was certainly a constant presence at home: grumpy in the morning, watching sport on telly in the afternoon, eating dinner from a tray in the evening – and smoking Embassy throughout. But he was, for the most part, a silent witness to our adolescence.

So it was a surprise to see him one Saturday morning standing on the sidelines of one of my schoolboy rugby matches. He’d previously expressed little interest in my sporting adventures, and he’d not told me he was attending this fixture.

There was a cluster of other parents nearby. The usual suspects - goading, chiding and instructing at the top of their voices.

‘Watch the blind side!’
‘Take him round the legs!’
‘Test them with high balls!’

Dad stood separate and apart, taking a puff on his cigarette, keeping his own counsel.

Towards the end of the game I looked up and he was gone. He’d probably slipped away for a quiet pint in the New Inn.

Nonetheless, my father’s visit to the rugby had some effect. Although he had not offered any particular instruction, I ran faster, dived further and pushed harder that morning – all in the hope of impressing him. His silent presence had been an encouragement.

'Good advice is something a man gives when he is too old to set a bad example.'
Francois de La Rochefoucauld

I was chatting recently with my old friend, the magnificent BBH Creative Director Nick Gill. He told me that occasionally nowadays he is asked to meet a new, younger occupant of the Creative Director’s chair. His approach to these meetings is simple:

‘I always offer encouragement, not advice.’

Perhaps Nick senses that new leaders have their own ideas, their own plans, their own way of working. They want to create their own culture, set their own direction, leave their own mark. And they’d like to make their own mistakes too.

'I am glad that I paid so little attention to good advice; had I abided by it I might have been saved from some of my most valuable mistakes.'
Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sometimes advice, however well intentioned, can be confusing, misleading, patronising even. The lessons of the past may not necessarily map the future. Sometimes it’s better to offer words of encouragement and support. Or, like my father, simply just to be there.

'The people sensible enough to give good advice are usually sensible enough to give none.'
Eden Phillpotts

'Penetrating voices going through my head,
I haven't listened to a thing they've said.
Always there waiting with the answers,
Won't suffer the consequences.
Torn between the two,
Right or wrong,
There is no answer.
Don't tell me what to do.
It’s my choice.
I'll take it.
I'll chance it.
Don't dictate.
Don't dictate,
To me.’
Penetration, ‘Don’t Dictate’ (M Chaplin)

No. 380

On the Ethics of Folk Music: The Quest for Simple, Not Simplistic, Solutions

Simon Robson (Cecil SHarp) & Mariam Haque (Louie Hooper) Photo by Robert Day

‘Young women they swim like ducks in the water.
Young women they swim like ducks in the water.
If I were a young man I soon would swim after.’
‘Hares on the Mountain’ (collected from Louie Hooper)

I recently attended a performance of ‘Folk’ at the Hampstead Theatre, London (until 6 August). This fine play, written by Nell Leyshon, explores the ethical issues around the collection of folk songs in England in the early twentieth century.

Louie: They’re my mother’s songs. They ain’t your songs.
Sharp: They’re folk songs. They belong to all of us.

Leyshon focuses the drama on a series of encounters between composer Cecil Sharp and impoverished glove-maker Louie Hooper. Sharp, who runs a music school in London, visits Louie’s Somerset village of Hambridge in search of folk songs. He is on a mission to preserve traditional English music, which he fears will be lost forever as industrialisation sweeps away agrarian culture.  

Sharp: People learn them while they work in the fields. But now the machines are taking over… They’ll plough the fields and harvest the corn. And once they take over, there won’t be any singing. These fields will fall silent.

Sharp also seeks to challenge the belief, widely held in academic circles, that England has never had a music of its own. It is known on the continent as ‘das land ohne musik’ - the land without music. 

Cecil Sharp Photograph by Arnold Genthe

Sharp: I’ll prove we have our own music and one day people will see that I saved them.

Louie has found temporary work at the vicarage where Sharp is staying. When he hears one of the many melodies she has learned from her mother, he is hugely impressed.

Sharp: That song… You can’t imagine, but I didn’t even know it existed. And not just me. Nobody knew it existed.

Sharp believes Louie will be a particularly valuable source in his endeavour.

Sharp: The thing about you, Louie, is that you don’t know what it is that you know.

In his conversations with Louie, Sharp makes observations on the genesis of folk songs. Since they are orally transmitted and remembered by heart, they tend to comprise short verses and simple choruses. They also develop and change as they are passed from one singer to another.

After his first meeting with Louie, Sharp has to return to London, but he resolves to return for more material.

Sharp: I have to come back and completely empty you out of songs. I shall hold you upside down and shake you till every song has fallen out.

‘Said I: Pretty maid, shall I go with you
In the meadows to gather some may?
She answered: O no, sir, my pathway is here.
Any other would lead me astray.’
‘As I Walked Through the Meadows’ (collected from Louie Hooper)

Louie Hooper

When Sharp arrives back in Hambridge, he presents Louie with a signed copy of his first compendium of traditional ballads, including those that he has collected from her: ‘Folk Songs from Somerset by Cecil J Sharp.’

Sharp: I’ve signed this one for you. For Louie Hooper. ‘Exchange is no robbery.’ It is a fair exchange, isn’t it, Louie? Your songs for this book.

At this point Louie becomes uncomfortable with Sharp’s enterprise. His publication doesn’t give due credit or recompense. It fixes a particular version of each song, denying it further interpretation or evolution.

Louie: In my world the songs change. When different singers do them. Each of us have our own song. Now you’ve done that, they can’t change. Now you’ve pinned them down so tight there’s no room for them to breathe. They’ll always be what you’ve written down.

Worse still, in transcribing the folk songs for a broad base of pianists and singers, Sharp has stripped them of their beats and trills. He has in effect ‘tidied’ them up.

Louie: But that ain’t what I sung to you. It didn’t sound like that.
Sharp: Look, you have to understand that I had to make it so that anyone could play it. And sing it.

As an audience we get to compare the wonderful mournful complexity of the originals with Sharp’s rather ponderous versions. Louie has a point.

Louie: You only see what you want to see. You make everything too simple.

There’s a lesson here for anyone working in the business of marketing and communication. We too deal in distillation and reduction. We must be careful that, in the process of definition, we do not deny brands the opportunity to modulate and mutate; and that, in removing the extraneous and unnecessary, we do not also lose nuance and texture, beats and trills. We should seek simple, not simplistic, solutions. 

There’s no doubt that Sharp did us all a service in preserving a musical heritage that would otherwise have been lost. But he was an arrogant and prejudiced man, and his endeavour came at a price. As Louie points out, he had no right to speak for England.

Louie: You come here thinking you know what England is. You don’t. It’s all more complicated and more changing and more strange than you reckon.

‘Oh where have you been, Rendal, my son?
Oh where have you been, my sweet pretty one?
I’ve been to my sweetheart! Oh make my bed soon,
I’m sick to my heart, and fain would lay down.’
‘Lord Rendal’ (collected from Louie Hooper)

No. 379

Fred and Ginger: Making It Look Easy With Work and Worry

Fred: I’d like to try this thing, just once. Come on, honey.
Ginger: We’ll show them a thing or three!
‘Flying Down to Rio.’ (Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers hit the dance floor in their first film together)

I recently watched a couple of documentaries about the legendary dance partners, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. (I’d particularly recommend episode 2 of ‘The RKO Story: Tales from Hollywood.’)

Between 1933 and 1939 Astaire and Rogers appeared together in nine RKO musical films – classics like ‘The Gay Divorcee’, ‘Top Hat’ and ‘Follow the Fleet’; ‘Swing Time’, ‘Shall We Dance’ and ‘Carefree’. They sparred and swooned, quipped and crooned; shimmied and span, twisted and turned. They defined a thrilling dance style that fused tap and ballroom with a dash of ballet. And they gave cinemagoers some welcome respite from the gloom of the Depression. 

'Part of the joy of dancing is conversation. Trouble is, some men can't talk and dance at the same time.’
Ginger Rogers

People working in creative industries today could learn a good deal from Fred and Ginger’s approach to their craft; from their robust mentality and rigorous process.

'Well, I thought I knew what concentrated work was before I met Fred, but he's the limit. Never satisfied until every detail is right, and he will not compromise. No sir! What's more, if he thinks of something better after you've finished a routine, you do it over.'
Ginger Rogers

 1. Get Taught and Trained

'Some people seem to think that good dancers are born, but all the good dancers I have known are taught or trained.’
Fred Astaire

Fred Astaire was born in 1899 in Omaha, Nebraska. As a young boy his mother encouraged him and his older sister Adele to form a song and dance act, and during the 1920s they had considerable success on Broadway and in London. They split in 1932 when Adele married and settled down. 

Like many stage performers of the day, Astaire determined to try his luck in Hollywood. But his first screen test was not encouraging:

‘Can't act. Slightly bald. Also dances.’

Nonetheless producer David O Selznick  thought Astaire had something.

'I am uncertain about the man, but I feel, in spite of his enormous ears and bad chin line, that his charm is so tremendous that it comes through even on this wretched test.’

Astaire made his film debut in 1933 and that same year RKO Pictures proposed a small role, dancing with Ginger Rogers in ‘Flying Down to Rio.’

Rogers, born in 1911 in Independence, Missouri, was by then an established Broadway actress who had been performing in movies since 1929.

'My mother told me I was dancing before I was born. She could feel my toes tapping wildly inside her for months.'
Ginger Rogers

Astaire and Rogers were offered fifth and forth billing respectively on ‘Flying Down to Rio.’ But Astaire was initially reluctant to become part of another dance double act. He wrote to his agent:

'What's all this talk about me being teamed with Ginger Rogers? I will not have it - I did not go into pictures to be teamed with her or anyone else.’

 2. In an Era of Drabness, Make Things Glamorous

Astaire and Rogers’ performance in ‘Flying Down to Rio’ was considered its highlight. RKO, keen to capitalize on the success, commissioned them to appear together in more pictures. And they secured Astaire’s commitment to the partnership by giving him a percentage of the films' profits, a contractual rarity at that time.

'Do it big, do it right and do it with style.'
Fred Astaire

The couple danced so well together. They had an instinctive understanding, a natural chemistry. And their personalities complemented each other. While he was stylish and sophisticated, she was smart and sassy.  

'He gives her class and she gives him sex appeal.’
Katharine Hepburn

Astaire-Rogers movies told sentimental stories of glamorous people in fabulous locations. Astaire was consistently decked out in top hat and tails, and Rogers wore the most elegant dresses. The films had wit and style, luxury and romance, music and dancing. They offered welcome escape from the realities of recession-hit daily life.

‘It was [Producer Pan Berman’s] idea to make things glamorous in an era of drabness.’
Hermes Pan, Choreographer

3. Be a Team at All Times

RKO surrounded Astaire and Rogers with a team of talented practitioners across a range of disciplines.

First there was choreographer Hermes Pan, one of the few people Astaire would allow into his creative process.

‘We were always seeking ideas. Fred hated to repeat himself in anything.’
Hermes Pan, Choreographer

By contrast with the set-piece spectaculars of Busby Berkeley musicals, Astaire and Pan designed dance routines that were elegantly integrated with the plotlines of the films. 

‘To go from reality to fantasy is a difficult thing. Dialogue is reality. Dance is fantasy, and song. So you have to slide into it before the people are conscious that you are doing it.’
Hal Borne, Accompanist

Writer Allan Scott crafted light comedy dialogue to propel the drama gently forward.

‘The thing uppermost in my mind always was sentiment and absurdity. In other words, combine the two with a sort of rippling kind of dialogue without too many obvious jokes.’
Allan Scott

RKO employed a company of seasoned actors to play alongside Astaire and Rogers: including Edward Everett Horton, Helen Broderick and Erik Rhodes. And the music was composed by America’s greatest songwriters: Cole Porter, Jerome Kern, George and Ira Gershwin, and Irving Berlin.

‘Berlin came in one afternoon, and he was a terrible pianist, just awful…He played ‘Cheek to Cheek’ and sang it. Of course he had an awful voice too. ‘Heaven, I’m in heaven…’ When he got through it, we looked at each other and said: ‘Oh yes, very good.’ ‘Is it?’ ‘Must be. He wrote it.’’
Hermes Pan, Choreographer

The set designers adapted the fashionable art deco styles of the day, and generally worked in white so as best to show off the dancing. The cinematographers learned to follow Astaire and Rogers’ every move, employing a close-tracking dolly camera.

Finally RKO producers ensured consistency by scheduling the same technicians to work on each new movie.

‘We worked as a team at all times. So when Mark [Sandrich, Director] got ready to do a picture, he said we’re going to go on such-and-such a date, everybody in the studio knew that, every department knew that. When he got ready to go, he had his crew.’
Joseph Biroc, Camera Operator

‘Heaven... I'm in heaven,
And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak.
And I seem to find the happiness I seek,
When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek.
Heaven... I'm in heaven,
And the cares that hung around me through the week,
Seem to vanish like a gambler's lucky streak,
When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek.’
Fred Astaire, ‘Cheek to Cheek’ (I Berlin)

 4. If It Doesn’t Feel Right, Do It Over

'What counts more than luck is determination and perseverance. If the talent is there, it will come through. Don't be too impatient. Stick at it. That's my advice. You have to plug away, keep thinking up new ideas. If one doesn't work, try another.’
Fred Astaire

Astaire was hard working and obsessive, an absolute stickler for detail. 

‘Fred Astaire was such a perfectionist, and if a thing didn’t feel right they did it over.’
Maurice Zuberano, Set Designer

Rogers shared Astaire’s uncompromising standards

'The only way to enjoy anything in this life is to earn it first.'
Ginger Rogers

The creative process began with Astaire and Pan working out routines together, and then Rogers was introduced to the steps a few weeks later. The duo had daily rehearsals for five to six weeks until they were ready for principal photography. 

‘We would dance all day, every day in a rehearsal hall at RKO Studios. And we had a great deal of fun. There’s something about rehearsals that’s really very exciting. When you actually got to the shooting and doing the scene, the fun has kind of gone out of it to some extent.’
Ginger Rogers

Only when Astaire, Rogers and Pan were entirely confident in a routine would they expose it to the broader team.

‘I never wanted to show numbers that we were doing until we had them pretty well finished, and invited them to come and take a look …. Usually they loved what they saw, because we knew what we were doing by that time.’

Astaire insisted that dance routines be filmed in as few shots as possible, typically with just four to eight cuts, while holding the dancers in full view at all times. This proved incredibly challenging. One sequence in ‘Swing Time,’ which required the duo to dance while climbing stairs, took 47 takes to perfect. By the end of the shoot, Rogers' feet were bleeding.

‘I can only get the job done if I beat myself to a pulp. You rehearse and get to know it so well, you don’t look as if you’re wondering what the next step is.’
Fred Astaire

5. Employ Constructive Anxiety

In his youth Astaire’s sister had branded him Moaning Mini. He fretted before, during and after a production.

‘I worried about things 10 years after I did them.’

Such was Astaire’s apprehension around the work that he couldn’t stand to review the rushes himself, and so sent Pan in his place.

‘He said: How was it?
I said: Oh, it was great.
He said: I don’t like the way you said great.’
Hermes Pan, Choreographer

Conventionally we consider worry a corrosive condition. But Astaire’s was a constructive anxiety. It produced better work.

'Things have come to a pretty pass,
Our romance is growing flat,
For you like this and the other
While I go for this and that.
Goodness knows what the end will be,
Oh, I don't know where I'm at...
It looks as if we two will never be one,
Something must be done.
You say eether and I say eyether,
You say neether and I say nyther,
Eether, eyether, neether, nyther,
Let's call the whole thing off!’
Fred Astaire, ‘Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off’ (G &I Gershwin)

6. Argue, Don’t Quarrel

There were longstanding rumours, possibly started by the studio to drum up publicity, that Astaire and Rogers didn’t actually get on with each other. They spent many years setting the record straight.

'We had fun and it shows. True, we were never bosom buddies off the screen. We were different people with different interests. We were only a couple on film.’
Ginger Rogers

There were certainly a few occasions when Rogers’ dramatic costume choices frustrated Astaire. In one routine in ‘Follow the Fleet’ her heavily beaded, bell-shaped sleeves slapped Astaire every time she took a turn. 

'The world needs strong women. There are a lot of strong women you do not see... It's kind of nice to be able to play a strong woman who is seen.'
Ginger Rogers

In ‘Top Hat’ the ostrich feathers in her blue gown flew off in all directions when she span, and all over his tuxedo. Astaire argued repeatedly for Rogers to change her costume. But she held her ground. And she was right: the cascading feathers enhance the graceful fluidity of the dance.

‘I guess I couldn’t blame him. But I had designed the dress and I was going to wear it. And I did.’
Ginger Rogers

Astaire explained afterwards that robust arguments are critical to successful working relationships.

‘We never quarrelled. We argued about something, which you do with anybody you’re working a routine or dances with.’
Fred Astaire

By the end of the ‘30s the partnership had run its course. Rogers wanted more challenging dramatic roles and Astaire was keen to work with other dancers. What’s more, musicals were expensive to produce and RKO was facing financial difficulties.

And so that was more or less it. Astaire went on to make movies with Rita Hayworth, Cyd Charisse and Judy Garland. Rogers won the 1941 Academy Award for her performance in ‘Kitty Foyle,’ and by the mid-1940s she was the highest-paid actress in Hollywood. 

'This search for what you want is like tracking something that doesn't want to be tracked. It takes time to get a dance right, to create something memorable.'
Fred Astaire

Astaire and Rogers made one last movie together (their first in colour) when Rogers stepped in for a sick Judy Garland for 1949’s 'The Barkleys of Broadway'. When they filmed the last dance, a large crowd of crew members from productions past and present gathered to bid them farewell.

'I did everything Fred did, only backwards and in high heels.'
Ginger Rogers

Astaire and Rogers had revolutionised dance on film. They had set new standards for performance and artistry. They had given joy to millions of people all over the world. And they had made it all look easy.

'I suppose I made it look easy, but gee whiz, did I work and worry.’
Fred Astaire

'The weather is frightening,
The thunder and lightning
Seem to be having their way.
But as far as I'm concerned, it's a lovely day.
The turn in the weather will keep us together.
So I can honestly say
That as far as I'm concerned, it's a lovely day.
And everything's okay.
Isn't this a lovely day to be caught in the rain?
You were going on your way, now you've got to remain.
Just as you were going, leaving me all at sea,
The clouds broke, they broke and oh, what a break for me.’
Fred Astaire, ‘Isn’t This a Lovely Day’ (I Berlin)

No. 378

Cornelia Parker’s ‘Sympathetic Magic’: A Different View of Creative Destruction

Cornelia Parker, Cold Dark Matter: An Exploded View 1991 Tate © Cornelia Parker

'When I was a kid, my mother used to say, 'You always want to be different.' I couldn't work out what she meant. I was just trying to be myself.'
Cornelia Parker

I recently visited an excellent retrospective of the work of British artist Cornelia Parker. (Tate Britain, London until 16 October.)

'If people say, 'You can't do that,' you can be sure I will do my utmost to do it.'

The exhibition brings together almost 100 works from the last 35 years. Parker finds, collects and assembles objects. She pulverises, crushes, cuts and burns them; stretches, spills, drops and explodes them – ‘making, unmaking and remaking.’ She prompts us to reflect on the meaning we attach to things; the melancholy of missed opportunities and the ever-present menace of violence in our society; the true value of creative destruction.

The Negative of Words

'I feel our relationship to life, to the rest of the world, is very tenuous. It feels fleeting.’

Sometimes Parker considers absences. The delicate shavings collected by a silversmith from hand-engraved inscriptions suggest unspoken words. The fine black lacquer residue left over from records cut at Abbey Road Studios evokes unheard songs. The cracks between cemetery paving slabs, cast in dark bronze, prompt a sense of danger. You better watch your step. 

'I think my work is like a spiral: you keep coming back on yourself, but you're at a different place.'

The work can be quite haunting.

As you wander around an array of crushed brass instruments hung in a circular space, you notice the shadows thown against white walls. Parker intends the piece to bring to mind ‘a mute marching band, frozen breathlessly in limbo.’ As you walk through a big tent made from the red material left behind after Remembrance Day poppies have been cut away, you are inevitably prompted to think of wasted lives. 

'I think your subconscious knows far more than your conscious, so I trust it.’

Parker presents us with objects that have a problematic future - the steel that will become a Colt 45, the blank discs that will become coins – and with materials that have a grim past. A bag of incinerated cocaine is arranged in an elegant pile. Pornographic videotapes, dissolved in solvent, form suggestive inkblots. A gun is reduced to a heap of red rust. 

Perpetual Canon

‘If you start with a found object, that object already has a history to draw on.’

These things are in a constant state of becoming and having been. They are on a journey. And in recasting them, Parker transforms their significance along with their fate.

‘My work is consistently unstable, in flux, leant against a wall, hovering, or so fragile it might collapse. Perhaps that is what I feel about my own relationship with the world.’

Parker may be asking us to think, not just about the items themselves, but about the people who invest these things with meaning; about individuals and their relationships with each other; about the darkness on the edge of town.

'Violence is part of everybody's life, whether you like, or express it, or not. My work utilises all the energies that I have, and part of it is violent, and I'd rather it be out than in.’

An Oliver Twist doll has been chopped in two by the guillotine that decapitated Marie Antoinette. A bullet has been melted down and spun into a fine thread. The poison of a rattlesnake is intermingled with its antidote and black and white ink to form Rorschach blots.

'Beauty is too easy. Often in my work I take beautiful objects and do extreme things to them, so that they are overlaid with something a bit more sinister and violent.’

Parker wrapped Auguste Rodin’s ‘The Kiss’ in a mile of string. 

‘It became a piece about the complications of relationships - the strings that bind you together can also smother you.’

Cornelia Parker, studio, London 2013 : © Anne-Katrin Purkiss

Parker’s most famous work is perhaps ‘Cold Dark Matter: An Exploded View.’ She took an ordinary garden shed – ‘the place where you store things you can’t quite throw away’ - and used Semtex to blow it up with all its contents. She then suspended the debris in mid-air. There’s a torch, a trowel and various other tools; pots, planks and pitchforks; a bike, a book and a broom – all shattered, shredded and scattered; frozen in time, as if the shed ‘was re-exploding, or perhaps coming back together again.’

'I take things that are worn out through overuse, that have become clichés… and I give them a more incandescent future.’

In a recent interview (RA Magazine) Parker threw light on her shed piece by using a term coined by social anthropologist JG Frazer: ‘sympathetic magic.’ In Pagan rites and rituals actions were performed on representative objects in order to affect future outcomes. They would, for example, make an animal sacrifice in order to ensure a good harvest, shedding blood so as to protect lives.

‘You mimic the thing you are most afraid of, thereby warding off the imminent danger.’

Perhaps by focusing on our doubts, fears and frustrations; by reconfiguring the objects that represent our complacency, errors and anxieties, we can address our past and change our future; we can cast out demons. Perhaps we have a choice.

We usually encounter the concept of creative destruction in a business context. It is a wearily familiar phrase uttered enthusiastically by our tech overlords. It tends to come hand-in-hand with a wanton disregard for jobs, communities and social impact. I found Parker’s articulation of the idea far more compelling.

'A lot of my work has been about stuff I've been frightened of: cliffs, explosions, meteorites, that kind of stuff. I would have been this trembling blob of fear if I hadn't got into making art, which is a good way of deferring it.’

'Everything must change.
Nothing remains the same.
Everyone must change.
No one and nothing remains the same.
Young becomes old.
Oh, mysteries do unfold.
'Cause that's the way of time.
Nothing and no one remains the same.
There is so little in life you can be sure of,
Except the rain comes from the clouds,
Sunlight from the sky,
And hummingbirds do fly.’
Nina Simone, ‘Everything must Change’ (I Benard)

No. 377

My M&S Joggers: Making Difficult Disclosures in Public Places

'Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.’
André Malraux

We had a few friends over for dinner and there was a lull in the conversation. This might be the time, I thought, to mention my M&S joggers. 

And so I began:

‘I read an article the other day about people making random purchases during lockdown - to alleviate the boredom. Well I’ve decided to jump on board the casualisation trend by buying myself some navy Marks & Spencer’s joggers. With a matching hoodie.’

My wife looked across at me – in silence.

‘Really, Jim?’ said a friend. ’When are you planning on wearing them?’

‘I thought I’d loaf around the house a bit on a quiet day. They’ll be fine for popping to the gym or down to the shops. Maybe I could wear them at the local. Actually the joggers and hoodie look rather good together as a matching pair.’ 

I sensed my wife’s gaze from the other end of the table. A frown had formed on her face. Still she said nothing. But I knew what she was thinking. 

She would regard any departure in the direction of sports casual-wear as an ominous lowering of sartorial standards, a first step on the slippery slope towards sloth and indolence; a concession to age and decay. She would not approve.

Indeed the anticipation of my wife’s censure had prompted me to raise the subject at a social gathering. I’ve determined over the years that it’s best to make difficult disclosures in public situations. It diminishes the displeasure; diffuses the danger. It cushions the crime in a soft layer of gentle admonishments and light-hearted reproach.

‘Bit of a change from wearing suits all day, Jim.’

‘Are you sure you’re sporty enough for joggers?’

Indeed one of our dinner guests actually commended me on my good taste.

‘Well, I think they sound great. Everyone likes joggers. Have you tried them on?’

‘Yes, and I’ve bought a grey set too!’

I think there may be a lesson here for brands. Don’t suppress your secrets, or cover up your mistakes. Don’t whisper them quietly in the hope they’ll not be noticed; or confess them only to the few who are directly affected. Rather you should expose your blunders to the sunlight of popular scrutiny; acknowledge your missteps in the court of public opinion. You may find that people respect your openness, accept your contrition and forgive your failings. 

‘Three things cannot long stay hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth.’
Buddha

I’ve still not properly worn my M&S joggers and hoodie combo. I’ve been waiting for a bout of illness, or a festive season, or a weekend in the country…

But I still think they look rather fine.

'If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.'
George Orwell
 

'There's a note underneath your front door
That I wrote twenty years ago.
Yellow paper and a faded picture
And a secret in an envelope.
There's no reasons, no excuses,
There's no second-hand alibis.
Just some black ink
On some blue lines and a shadow you won't recognize.’
The Civil Wars, '20 Years', (J Williams / John White)

No. 376

Blood Memories: Alvin Ailey’s Emotional Embrace

Alvin Ailey. Photo: Norman Maxon, New York Public Library

'I’m Alvin Ailey. I’m a choreographer. I create movement and I’m searching for truth in movement.'

I recently watched a fine film documenting the life and work of choreographer Alvin Ailey. (‘Ailey’ directed by Jamila Wignot, 2021)

'I wanted to explore Black culture, and I wanted that culture to be a revelation.’

Ailey was an innovative dance maker who channelled his own experience onto the stage. He founded a company that celebrated African American culture and produced performances that resonated with audiences all over the world. His work was heartfelt, dramatic and supremely lyrical. Where the traditional ballet world could be cold, cerebral and rarefied, here was dance that was warm, physical and sensual - created around what most of us today would recognise as dance music. 

‘As choreographers we start with an empty space and a body or two, and we say ‘Carve this space.’ I love creating something where there was nothing before.’

There’s a great deal we can learn from this visionary man.

1. ‘Justify Your Steps’

Born in Rogers, Texas in 1931, Ailey was raised by his mother, who moved from town to town looking for work in the cotton fields or in domestic service. 

‘Texas was a tough place to be. I mean if you were Black you were nothing.’

When Ailey was 12 they moved to Los Angeles where he had his first taste of dance on stage, seeing performances by the Ballet Russe of Monte Carlo and by the African American pioneer Katherine Dunham. 

Ailey studied dance under Lester Horton whose company was one of the first racially integrated troupes in the United States.

‘Lester taught us to justify movement. Not just to do a step, but to feel something about the step. Not just to do a plie, but to give it some kind of emotion.’

After Horton’s death in 1953, Ailey took on the role of company director and began to choreograph his own work. He also performed in a number of Broadway shows. 

2. Find ‘Release’

At that time opportunities for Black dancers and artists were occasional and marginal.

‘You were very specially a guest artist there. You could move into this neighbourhood for a minute. But after you’ve finished doing your gig, please move out.’
Judith Jamison, Dancer

Ailey resolved to establish his own company, one that would celebrate the African-American experience and at the same time provide secure work for Black performers. 

'I always felt that that dance was a natural part of what I wanted to express, that what I can do with my body was a part, a very important part, of me, and a way to release some of those things in myself that I had been looking for.’

Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater in a 2018 performance of "Revelations," at New York City Center.
Photo: Andrea Mohin/The New York Times

3. Draw on Your ‘Blood Memories’

In 1958 Ailey founded the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater and set about creating dance to the music of spirituals, gospel and blues; conveying movement and imagery recollected from church, house parties and roadside honky-tonks. Two years later these ‘blood memories’ formed the basis of his most iconic work: ‘Revelations.’

'I came up with a piece. A saga to the Black experience. I would call it ‘Revelations’. . . My blood memories. The memories of my parents, uncles and aunts. Blues and gospel songs that I knew from Texas.’

Spinning, striding, swooning and swaying; hands outstretched, lowered to the soil and reaching for the sky. The dancers are torn between joy and pain, suffering and salvation. In long white robes they process to church, holding their parasols up high. Hands on hips, backs arched, heads to heaven. They wade in the water; run to save their souls; settle down on stools to talk at sunset, in canary coloured gowns and hats, fans fluttering.

'I've been 'buked and I've been scorned
Tryin' to make this journey all alone.
You may talk about me sure as you please.
Your talk will never drive me down to my knees.’
Mahalia Jackson, ‘I’ve Been Buked’ 

4. Dramatise Universal Themes

While Ailey articulated his community’s values and experiences in his work, he also sought to explore universal themes and to be broadly entertaining. His ballets addressed love and loss, the trials of being an artist, the tribulations of being a mother, the death of a friend.

'I wanted to do the kind of dance that could be done for the man on the streets, the people. I wanted to show Black people that they could come down to these concert halls. That it was part of their culture being done there. And that it was universal.'

A still from Ailey. ‘He’s a public figure, who can’t live out all of himself in public.’ Photograph: Neon

5. If You Want to Say Something, You’ve First Got To Get the Audience’s Attention

In the 1960s the US State Department sponsored AAADT's international tours to Asia, Africa, Europe and Russia. Performances broadcast on Moscow television were seen by over 22 million viewers. By the start of the 1970s the troupe had established a reputation at home and abroad. And in 1972 it became a resident company of New York City Center.

Ailey was keen to convey his concerns about civil rights and social injustice. He believed that a message first needs an audience.

‘In order to say something to an audience you’ve got to get them to look at you and listen to you. So if I’m trying to make a protest statement, the audience is much more likely to get that message if they can hear something like ‘House of the Rising Sun.''

Ailey’s 1969 piece ‘Masekela Language’ was prompted by the assassination of Black Panther activist Fred Hampton. In one scene a group of dancers cradle a dead man, as a voice addresses the audience, repeating over and over: ‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen.’

6. Wrap Your Colleagues in an ‘Emotional Embrace’

Ailey had a robust commitment to excellence and a fierce passion to realise his vision. He could be a hard taskmaster. But he also established a deep supportive rapport with his dancers. He wrapped them in an emotional embrace.

‘If he was talking to you from 50 feet away you would feel that embrace. You would feel that comfort in knowing you could make an absolute fool of yourself. You would feel safe to extend yourself enough so that you felt free.’
Judith Jamison, Dancer

7. ‘You Have to Be Possessed’

Ailey regarded dance as a vocation and he was well aware that it came at a price. 

‘Dance, it’s an enormous sacrifice. I mean, it’s a physical sacrifice, dancing hurts. You don’t make that much money. . .  It’s a tough thing, you know, you have to be possessed to do dance.'

Ailey was a private man. He felt unable to speak publicly about being gay and he had trouble developing relationships. He also put himself under intense pressure to sustain the company’s finances and to keep producing new and innovative work.

'We still spend more time chasing funds than we do in the studio in creative work.'

'No matter what you write or choreograph, you feel it's not enough.’

'Sometimes you feel bad about yourself when there's no reason to.’

In 1980, isolated and exhausted, Ailey suffered a breakdown. He was later found to have been suffering from bipolar disorder. 

‘The agony of coming from where I came from and then dancing on the Champs Elysee. The contrast of all that. On one hand, the darkness where you feel like you are just nobody, nothing. And the other hand, you are the king, you’re on top of the world.'

Alvin Ailey Dance Theater in the "Move, Members, Move" section of Revelations, in 2011.Earl Gibson/AP

8. ‘Don’t Be Put in a Bag’

Ailey recovered and returned to the company, transferring day-to-day management to his protégé Judith Jamison. He carried on producing work and sought increasingly to break from the constraints imposed on him by the expectations of critics and audiences.

'The problem is, if you’re a Black anything in this country, people want to put you into a bag. People sometimes say, ‘Well, you know, why is he doing that now, why can’t he stick to the blues and the spirituals?’ And I’m also a 20th century American, and I respond to Bach, and Ellington, and Benjamin Britten, and Samuel Barber, and why shouldn’t I?’

9. Make It Easier for the Next Generation

'I wanna be ready.
I wanna be ready.
Ready to put on my long, white robe.'
‘I Wanna Be Ready’

In 1989 Ailey died from an AIDS-related illness. He was 58. 

Ailey was a pioneer who had his eyes on the horizon. As well as creating more than 100 ballets, he ensured that his company performed pieces by other choreographers so that its future would be secure without him. Following his death, Jamison took over as artistic director and the AAADT went from strength to strength. Ailey had always wanted to make it easier for the next generation. His aim was true.

‘To provide a place of beauty and excitement, a place for other choreographers to experiment. To provide a place where people can come and feel like they can add themselves and then reap the benefits of what they put in. I want it to be easier than it was for me.’

'I wanna go where the north wind blows.
I wanna know what the falcon knows.
I wanna go where the wild goose goes.
High flying bird, high flying bird, fly on...
I want the clouds over my head.
I don't want no store bought bed.
I'm gonna live until I'm dead.
Mother, mother, mother, mother save your child.
Right on, be free.’
Voices of East Harlem, ‘Right On, Be Free’ (C Griffin)

No. 375

Joanna Hiffernan, Whistler’s ‘Woman in White’: Writing Our Own Stories

James McNeill Whistler - Symphony in White, No. 1: The White Girl

‘My painting simply represents a girl dressed in white standing in front of a white curtain.’
James McNeill Whistler 

A little while ago I attended a small exhibition focusing on James McNeill Whistler’s paintings, prints and sketches of one particular woman: Joanna Hiffernan. (‘Whistler’s Woman in White’ was at the Royal Academy, London.)

Most famously Hiffernan featured in Whistler’s 1862 painting ‘The Woman in White.’ But as his friend, model, lover and executive assistant over two decades, she appeared in many of his other works.

Whistler’s paintings of Hiffernan are radiant and beautiful. Combining realism with aestheticism, they introduced a new chapter in modern painting. And they prompt reflections on our ability to tell our own stories.

Hiffernan was born in Limerick, Ireland in 1839, one of five daughters to a teacher. Along with thousands of other poor Irish immigrants at the time, the family moved to London when she was about 5.

Born in Lowell, Massachusetts in 1834, the son of a railway engineer, Whistler left America aged 21 to study art in Paris, before settling in London in 1859. The following year he met Hiffernan, who was earning money as an artist’s model. 

‘She has the most beautiful hair that you have ever seen! a red not golden but copper – as Venetian as a dream!’
James McNeill Whistler in a letter to Henri Fantin-Latour

The couple moved into lodgings in Rotherhithe and were soon at the heart of London’s creative scene, attending parties, gallery openings and seances together. 

Whistler meanwhile worked on his definitive painting of Hiffernan and submitted it, under its original title ‘The White Girl,’ to the Royal Academy annual exhibition in 1862.

‘The White Girl has made a great sensation – for and against.’
Joanna Hiffernan 

Wearing a white muslin dress, Hiffernan stands against a white damask curtain and on top of a bearskin rug. She has long, loose, copper-coloured hair, big green eyes and full lips. Composed and thoughtful, she holds her arms by her sides and a white lily in one hand.

The picture is enigmatic. Viewers are left to interpret her dreamy expression, her casual posture, the lightly held lily and the vanquished bear.

‘Some stupid painters don’t understand it at all, while Millais for instance thinks it splendid, more like Titian and those old swells than anything he has seen – but Jim says that, for all that, the old duffers may refuse it altogether.’
Joanna Hiffernan 

James Abbott McNeill Whistler, Symphony in White, No. 2: The Little White Girl, 1864.

Hiffernan was right. ‘The White Girl’ was rejected, first by the Royal Academy, and then by the Paris Salon. These institutions were perhaps confused by its understated colours, muted mood and lack of narrative.

‘The picture should have its own merit, and not depend on dramatic, or legendary, or local interest… As music is the poetry of sound, so is painting the poetry of sight.’
James McNeill Whistler

Now living with Hiffernan in Chelsea, Whistler painted her in white again – first standing by the fireplace, holding a Japanese fan, glancing at her reflection in the mirror; and then accompanied by another woman, reclining on a sofa and staring straight out at us. 

When these three ‘Symphonies in White’ were eventually exhibited, they benefitted from an association with the recent Wilkie Collins bestseller ‘The Woman in White’ (which Whistler claimed never to have read). They created a popular sensation, marking a turning point in the artist’s career.

Whistler went on to paint and sketch Hiffernan repeatedly. Here she is in a bustling dockside bar in Wapping; staring wistfully out at the countryside from a doorway; dressed in a fashionable silk kimono and holding a Chinese vase. Here we see her relaxing in the studio; having her hair brushed; sitting back wearily in an armchair, her long copper locks spread out around her.

In 1865 Hiffernan and Whistler joined Gustave Courbet for a working holiday on the Normandy coast. Both artists produced a series of atmospheric seascapes, and Courbet painted Hiffernan. In later life the Frenchman wrote nostalgically to Whistler about their time together.

‘Do you remember Trouville and Jo who played the clown to amuse us? In the evening she sang Irish songs so well because she had the spirit and distinction of art.’
Gustave Courbet

Wapping, 1860–64. National Gallery of Art, Washington, John Hay Whitney Collection

In 1866 Whistler’s mother (who looks so formidable in his famous portrait), disapproving of his relationship with Hiffernan, urged him ‘to promote a return to virtue in her.’ He subsequently gave his partner power of attorney to manage his affairs while he travelled, and wrote a will leaving her his whole estate.

In time Whistler moved on to another mistress. But he and Hiffernan remained on good terms, and she cared for his son by another woman. In the end she died before him, in 1886, at the age of 47. She had been suffering from bronchitis. 

The recent exhibition collected some 70 works. I was struck by the fact that it comprised nearly all of the known images of Hiffernan.

Weary 1863

It’s strange to think that, with the exception of a few letters, the records of Hiffernan were refracted through the eyes of others. We understand that she was beautiful, intelligent and had a vibrant personality. But we cannot really grasp what she felt about herself and her world.

Of course, nowadays it’s hard to imagine that all the pictures of oneself could be assembled physically in one place. There are so many of them. And through social media platforms we can create our own images and write our own narratives. We have agency. We can take back control.

But that is less the case with work. It being a team exercise, we often suppress the self in seeking collective objectives. There is an ever-present pressure to conform and fit in.

Nonetheless I feel it’s important to maintain something of one’s own identity in a professional context. We should be able to define the terms by which we engage with our employers – setting the boundaries of who we are and why we’re here - and, optimally, those terms should align with the company’s values and vision. At BBH, while applying myself to its commercial goals and creative ambitions, I insisted on pursuing my own projects, writing in my own style, presenting in my own way. I’m confident it benefitted the business. And it certainly helped me. 

We should strive to write our own stories, even when we’re at work.

'I am not in love
But I'm open to persuasion.
East or West,
Where's the best
For romancing?
With a friend
I can smile.
But with a lover
I could hold my head back,
I could really laugh,
Really laugh.
Now if I can feel the sun
In my eyes
And the rain on my face,
Why can't I
Feel love?’

Joan Armatrading,’Love and Affection'

No. 374

Designing the Beautiful Game: Play Better, Look Better, Earn Better

Photo credit: Puma archive

'Behind every kick of a ball, there has to be a thought.’
Denis Bergkamp

I recently visited an excellent exhibition exploring the role of design in the development of football. (‘Football: Designing the Beautiful Game’ is at the Design Museum, London until 29 August.)

On entering the gallery you encounter a Zambian ball made from a maize meal sack tied with string. It serves to reinforce the simplicity of the game that has made it so broadly popular.

'One of the reasons football is the most popular sport in the world is because the weak can beat the powerful.’
Marcelo Bielsa

You can see displays of historic balls, boots, banners and badges; archaic shinpads, pumps and goalkeepers’ gloves; the Acme Thunderer, the world’s original sport whistle, invented by a Birmingham toolmaker in 1884.

You can admire George Best’s first pair of boots – on the sides, in neat white painted letters, he recorded the games in which he scored. You can marvel at number 10 shirts worn by Platini, Messi, Zico and Maradonna.

'It’s true I don’t know much about the players here, but they definitely know who I am.’
Zlatan Ibrahimovic (on joining PSG in 2012.)

You can learn that the iconic Brazilian strip, incorporating the four colours of the national flag, was designed by an 18 year old newspaper illustrator. He was responding to a competition after the humiliating loss to Uruguay in the 1950 World Cup Final, when the team wore an all-white kit.

You can observe design’s impact beyond the pitch: from a rudimentary rattle to the reviled vuvuzela horn; from promotional posters to match day programmes and fanzines. There’s Coventry’s splendid Sky Blue programme, which won a D&AD prize in 1972. There are displays about innovative stadium architecture: the San Siro, the Allianz Arena, Tottenham Hotspur and Forest Green Rovers. 

I noted with a pang of melancholy that Spurs’ sophisticated acoustic modelling has not been applied at West Ham’s London Stadium. Indeed, as far as I could see, the Hammers’ main contribution to the exhibition was a hooligan calling card…

One of the two match balls used in the 1930 World Cup final, supplied by Argentina and used in the first half. Credit: Neville Evans Collection

'Before you can coach others, you must learn to coach yourself.’
Johan Cruyff

Football has been so popular that from the early days there were games based on the game. The oldest version of table football was manufactured in Preston in 1884. Then came blow football, Subbuteo and on through to today’s videogames. I enjoyed spotting a couple of photographs, by Julian Germain, of Superhero Subbuteo figures that were painted by BBH’s magnificent copywriter Nick Kidney. 

'Football is the ballet of the masses.’
Dmitri Shostakovich

I was particularly struck by the way that, over the years, design has moved football forward in small increments.

You can trace the development of shirt construction from collared flannelette to crewneck cotton to high tech elastane  - lightweight, breathable and sweat-wicking.

'In football everything is complicated by the presence of the opposite team.'
Jean-Paul Sartre

You can see how the design of footballs progressed: from heavy spheres made with an animal bladder wrapped in thick leather, to panelled balls with large seams. In 1931 the Argentine Superball, inflated using an air valve, dispensed with the leather lace, thus making it easier to head. 1974’s adidas Telstar, comprising 32 panels of white hexagons and black pentagons, was conceived to be more visible on TV. Subsequent balls, made with thermally bonded synthetic panels, have sought to deliver better boot contact and ‘truer flight.’

Note how new technology has changed the game itself, making it faster, more fluid and more skilful. Note too how in recent years marketing has moved the focus onto commercial optimisation. 

'I wouldn’t say I was the top manager in the business, but I would say I was in the top one.’
Brian Clough

Designing the new Brazilian kit. Courtesy of Felix Speller

Consider the evolution of the boot. 

The first footballers wore high-cut, leather work-shoes. By the 1880s players were nailing studs onto their soles to give secure footing on soft ground. Soon the footwear had reinforced toes and ankles. Manufacturers recognised the power of player endorsement to sell boots to a broader public. In the early 1900s MJ Rice & Son launched Steve Bloomer’s Lucky Goal Scorers. In the 1930s a lower cut, lighter boot, more suited to drier conditions and dribbling, was developed in southern Europe and South America. This ‘Continental’ style was adopted by Stanley Matthews, who in the early ‘50s promoted a pair for the mass market in collaboration with the Coop.

'We don’t want our players to be monks. We want them to be better football players, because a monk does not play football at this level.’
Bobby Robson

In 1952 the Puma Super Atom became the first boot with screw-in studs. West Germany were losing the 1954 World Cup Final 2-0 at half-time to favourites Hungary. Adi Dasler (the founder of adidas and brother of Puma founder Rudolf) suggested fitting the team’s boots with longer studs more appropriate to the rain-soaked conditions. West Germany went on to win 3-2 and the match was dubbed the ‘Miracle of Bern.’

'Football is a simple game. Twenty-two men chase a ball for 90 minutes and at the end the Germans always win.'
Gary Lineker

No. 2 Captain America aka Steve Rogers, Full Back. Figure by Nick Kidney / photo by Julian Germain

The 1968 Puma King featured a flexible sole and lightweight nylon screw studs. In 1970 Alan Ball wore boots painted white by Hummell, the first soccer footwear to be neither black nor brown. Subsequently, as pitch conditions improved and the need for protection diminished, boots were given lightweight kangaroo and textile uppers. There are now laceless models to enable a cleaner strike.

'Everything I know about morality and the obligations of men, I owe it to football.’
Albert Camus

It seems clear that football’s progress was driven by a combination of performance enhancement, scientific invention and commercial ingenuity. Marketing expanded the focus beyond the elite players on the pitch, to the broader playing community and indeed to non-playing spectators.

Design helped football and footballers play better, look better, earn better.

'Aim for the sky and you’ll hit the ceiling. Aim for the ceiling and you’ll stay on the floor.’
Bill Shankly

Of course, sometimes design and marketing have gone too far. Their voices have become too powerful. Too many unnecessary strips, unconvincing endorsements and uncalled for innovations have tested fans’ loyalty.

When the adidas Jabulani was introduced at the 2010 World Cup to a corporate fanfare, players complained that it had unpredictable movement. In 1995 the majority of Premier League club sponsors came from the technology and telecom sectors. In 2010 they came from financial services. By 2021 it was mostly betting. And when in 2013 Hull City's owners proposed changing the club's name to Hull City Tigers, supporters staged a protest with a banner proclaiming 'a club, not a brand.'

Designers and marketers need to remind themselves that, as Jock Stein said:

‘Football without fans is nothing.’

'In the marble halls of the charm school
How flair is punished.
Under marble Millichip, the FA broods
On how flair can be punished.
Their guest is a Euro-state magnate
Corporate-ulent.
How flair is punished.
Kicker, kicker conspiracy.
Kicker, kicker conspiracy.’

The Fall, ‘Kicker Conspiracy’ (M Smith)

No. 373