‘I Thought You Said You Could Skate’: What Funny Girl Teaches Us About Career Conviction

Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl 1968

‘I'd rather be blue over you
Than be happy with somebody else.'
'I'd Rather Be Blue Over You'  (B Rose / F Fisher)

‘Funny Girl’ is a 1968 musical rom-com loosely based on the life of comedian Fanny Brice. Directed by William Wyler, it stars a luminous Barbra Streisand in her film debut, reprising a role she performed previously on Broadway. 

We are in New York in the early years of the twentieth century. Fanny is a stage-struck young Jewish woman whose mother runs a saloon on the Lower East Side. She gets a part in the chorus line of a vaudeville dance troupe at Keeney’s Oriental Palace. But with her unconventional looks she feels she doesn’t quite fit in.

'I'm a bagel on a plate full of onion rolls.’

What’s more, Fanny can’t dance. Fired by Keeney after a disastrous audition, she is quizzed about her ambition by dance coach Eddie. 

Eddie: You’re no chorus girl. You’re a singer and a comic… So why’d you try out for the chorus?
Fanny: Cos that’s what you were looking for. If you were looking for a juggler, I’d have been a juggler. Just got to get on stage somehow. 

Fanny is bemused by the fact that Eddie gave her a chance in the first place.

Fanny: How come you hired me?
Eddie: Because you wanted it so much.

Eddie conspires with Fanny to try her luck again, this time in a roller skating act.

Eddie: Are you sure you can roller skate?
Fanny: Can I roller skate?

In purple and green velvet-striped shift dress, with matching hat, tights and skates, Fanny takes to the stage. She teeters and totters, and careers out of control - crashing into the scenery, bumping into the other skaters, almost toppling into the orchestra pit. She causes chaos everywhere she rolls. 

Eddie: I thought you said you could skate!
Fanny: I didn’t know I couldn’t.

Fanny’s performance is a disaster. But the audience finds it totally hilarious.

Her comedy act at Keeney’s gets her noticed, and six months later she is offered a role in the Ziegfeld Follies on Broadway. Despite her inexperience, she continues to display the bloody mindedness that earned her her first break. In her debut show, reluctant to perform a romantic song straight, she disobeys management and gives it a comic twist. Subsequently she insists on singing her own songs. Such grit and determination accelerate Fanny’s journey to becoming a top Broadway star.

'Who is the pip with pizzazz?
Who is all ginger and jazz?
Who is as glamorous as?
Who's an American beauty rose,
With an American beauty nose,
And ten American beauty toes?
Eyes on the target and wham
One shot, one gun shot and bam!
Hey Mister Keeney
Here I am.’
'I'm the Greatest Star’ (J Styne / B Merrill)

‘Funny Girl’ became the highest-grossing film at the US box office in 1968, and it received eight Oscar nominations. Streisand won Best Actress, tying with Katharine Hepburn. Though it was her first movie, Streisand took a hands-on interest in how it was shot. At the wrap party Wyler gave her a director's megaphone in mock recognition of her contribution. 

Maybe Streisand was channelling Fanny Brice. Indeed we can all take career lessons from the legendary Broadway star.

Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl. Photo: Columbia.

We may shy away from certain roles and challenges because we’re concerned about our inexperience. We may be constrained by our fear of failure, by our modest estimation of our own abilities. But Fanny suggests that we should overcome our doubts and dithering; that, setting our sights on our ultimate goal, we should seize every opportunity with complete conviction. 

Of course, we may find out that we can’t skate. But perhaps we’ll discover another talent in the process.

Fanny’s ascent to the top is not completely seamless. She becomes attached to a charming but hopeless gambler (played by Omar Sharif). Nonetheless she navigates her romantic dilemmas with the same resolve and tenacity with which she approaches her career.

As Barbra Streisand so compellingly puts it: ‘Don’t rain on my parade!’

'Don't tell me not to fly,
I've simply got to.
If someone takes a spill
It's me and not you.
Who told you you're allowed
To rain on my parade?’
‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’ (J Styne / B Merrill)

No. 392

Winslow Homer: Telling Stories with Ambiguous Endings

Winslow Homer- The Fog Warning

'The sun will not rise or set without my notice and thanks.’
Winslow Homer

I recently attended an exhibition of the work of Winslow Homer, a great American artist rarely seen in Europe (National Gallery, London until 8 January).

Homer, who began his career as a commercial illustrator, developed a style of Realist painting that captured the drama of the Civil War and the underlying tensions of so-called Reconstruction. He depicted rural and coastal idylls, the daily struggle of fishing communities and the raw power of the sea. His pictures draw viewers into their story. And leave them asking questions.

'Look at nature, work independently and solve your own problems.'

Born into a middle-class home in Boston in 1836, Homer was taught to paint by his mother, a gifted amateur watercolourist, and at 19 he was apprenticed as a commercial lithographer. Within a few years he was working as a freelance illustrator with his own studio in Boston, producing wood engravings of local town and country life for the booming magazine market.

Winslow Homer- The Veteran in a New Field

In 1859 Homer opened a studio in New York, and soon he was commissioned by Harper's Weekly to cover the Civil War, sending back compelling illustrations of battle scenes, military hospitals and camp life. He translated some of his wartime images into paintings and began exhibiting, selling and building his reputation as an artist.

Homer’s paintings display the immediacy, clarity and narrative power of a commercial illustrator. But, unaccompanied by explanatory copy, they ask us to imagine the next event, the subsequent outcome. They leave the viewer to complete the story.

'I regret very much that I have painted a picture that requires any description.'

A sharpshooter, precariously perched on a branch, takes aim through his scope. Surely imminent death awaits his unwitting target. A Union officer encounters three Confederate prisoners from the front. The captives express a combination of stubborn pride, humiliation and fear for the future. A veteran sets to work scything a field of wheat. The image calls to mind ‘beating swords into ploughshares’. But it also suggests the legions of war dead.

Winslow Homer- A Visit from the Old Mistress

With the ensuing peace Homer turned his attention to scenes of domestic innocence: kids playing in the fields and messing about in boats; women taking carefree walks on the beach. Perhaps he was nostalgic for simpler times. Perhaps he was optimistic for his country’s prospects. 

But Homer also reflected on the enduring tension between the two communities in the South. Each of his paintings on this subject seems to ask pressing questions.

A former slaver meets four of her now freed slaves in their modest home. How do they address each other? How can they forget what has gone before? A Black family dress a man in carnival costume to celebrate Independence Day. Can they finally plan for better times? Two Black women carry harvested cotton in the morning light. Are they enjoying their new freedom, or realising that so little has changed?

Homer became something of a recluse, avoiding social engagements and refusing to meet journalists or potential clients.

'The most interesting part of my life is of no concern to the public.’

Winslow Homer- The Life Brigade

In the early 1880s the artist spent two years in the English coastal village of Cullercoats, Northumberland. Here he depicted the daily struggles of ordinary fishing folk; the constant threat posed by the cruel sea. 

A woman with her child strapped to her back, braces herself against a gale. The Life Brigade regards the bleak weather from the shelter of their station as they contemplate the task in hand. A lone fisherman in a tiny rowing boat turns to look at the approaching fog and the distant ship on the horizon. He’s a long way from safety.

Critics often asked Homer to explain what was going on in his paintings. And he always resisted.

'Anything written or printed under a print or picture takes the attention from it and, if it is very black or white in any marked degree, will utterly destroy its beauty.’

Winslow Homer- Kissing the Moon

The ocean came to dominate Homer’s later life and work. He set up home in coastal Massachussetts, lived for a brief time in a lighthouse and settled in Prouts Neck, Maine. He wintered in Florida, Cuba and the Bahamas. And all the time he painted wild seascapes, brooding clouds, perilous rocks; brave fishermen confronting nature’s fierce beauty.

Homer died in 1910 at the age of 74. He left a body of work that is bracing, dramatic, involving; that captures the spirit of a troubled age. He had an eye for the decisive moment, a gift for telling stories with ambiguous endings.

In the field of commercial communication we often employ narrative as a means of engagement; as a powerful tool for transmitting messages. But perhaps too often we join all the dots, clarify the conclusions, detail the denouement. Homer suggests that, if we sustain a certain amount of ambiguity; if we leave space for the audience or viewer to complete the story; if we pose questions and dilemmas, then we may achieve a more rewarding, more memorable effect.

Some messages are best suggested.

'Hark now, hear the sailors cry,
Smell the sea and feel the sky.
Let your soul and spirit fly
Into the mystic.
When that fog horn blows
I will be coming home.
Yeah, when that fog horn blows
I want to hear it,
I don't have to fear it.'
Van Morrison, ‘Into the Mystic’

No. 391

The Carping Coffee Man: Every Team Needs a Sceptic

'I personally believe we developed language because of our deep inner need to complain.'
Jane Wagner

Most mornings I buy a coffee from a chap with a van parked on an Islington street corner. The charming Doriano regales me with stories of Sardinian cuisine, Moto GP and his heavy metal heroes. I explain to him bread pudding, cricket and Prefab Sprout. It’s a happy exchange.

Doriano has been away on holiday recently, and I’ve had to find a new, temporary coffee vendor. I noticed that the bloke with a stall just outside the tube station wears a lot of Fred Perry and has a photo of Charlie George on his shelf. And so I decided to give him a try.

‘A large latte please.’

‘Sugar?’

‘No thanks.’

And then the trim, wiry guy behind the counter broke spontaneously into something of a rant.

‘I mean, they might as well have a Tube strike every day. The commuters are never coming back. They’re all bloody working from home. I don’t know why I bother.’

I commiserated and withdrew. He was obviously having a bad morning.

The next day, when I popped by, the coffee man was on the phone to Islington Council. He looked up at me without a smile.

‘They’re perfectly happy to suspend the parking on our estate at a moment’s notice. But will they ever give a refund? Will they even answer the bloody phone? No chance.’

On my third visit, a Saturday, the barista, without any prompting, launched into a further complaint.

‘I don’t normally work weekends. But the wife wanted me to go round and help her brother put a fence up in his back garden. He’s a banker or something, earns a packet. So I’ve got to build his bloody fence on my weekend. Not likely!’

I’ve come to appreciate the Carping Coffee Man. He isn’t afraid to hide his frustrations with life. He’s being true to himself. And I’m being invited to share his woeful worldview. 

'Blind belief in authority is the greatest enemy of truth.'
Albert Einstein

I think I’ve enjoyed our exchanges because they are so at odds with the false charm and rehearsed pleasantries that one so often encounters at conventional high street chains. The vacuous look, the hollow gesture, the painted smile.

‘Enjoy!’ 

In the advertising industry we’ve always been keen to promote eagerness and enthusiasm. We were boosterish before it was fashionable. And I would often propound the notion that ‘positive people have bigger, better ideas.’

I still subscribe to this view. 

However, at the same time I’m a firm believer in diversity of thought - that every team needs a sceptic. Because sometimes the vision needs testing, the assumptions need challenging and the corporate bubble needs bursting. Natural critics supply insurance against groupthink. They keep leaders’ feet firmly on the ground. And curiously, they often lighten the mood. 

'Neurotics complain of their illness, but they make the most of it, and when it comes to taking it away from them they will defend it like a lioness her young.’
Sigmund Freud

As I stood awaiting my large latte this morning, the Carping Coffee Man seemed to have nothing to moan about. But then an unfortunate woman came up and asked for some change. 

‘No, I have not got any change, Mrs. Try the bloody bank!’

'There's a stain on my notebook where your coffee cup was,
And there's ash in the pages, now I've got myself lost.
I was writing to tell you that my feelings tonight
Are a stain on my notebook that rings your goodbye.
Oh, now she's gone
And I'm back on the beat.
A stain on my notebook
Says nothing to me.’
Squeeze, ‘Black Coffee in Bed’ (C Difford / G Tilbrook)

No 390

Selling the Alphabet: How Sesame Street Applied Commercial Techniques to Achieve a Social Good

'Sunny Day
Sweepin' the clouds away.
On my way to where the air is sweet.
Can you tell me how to get,
How to get to Sesame Street?’
‘Sesame Street Theme’ (J Raposo / J Stone / B Hart)

I recently watched a fine documentary about the children's television series Sesame Street. (‘Street Gang: How We Got to Sesame Street’, 2021, directed by Marilyn Agrelo) 

Combining live-action, sketch comedy, animation and puppetry, Sesame Street has been both entertaining and educating kids on PBS since 1969. It was the first pre-school educational show to base its content on research and to involve collaboration between producers, writers, educators and analysts. From the outset the series sought to apply commercial techniques to achieve a social good.

1. ‘A Brilliantly Simple Notion’

‘The people who control the system read. And the people who make it in the system read.’
Joan Coonie

Sesame Street began with a problem.  In the mid ‘60s Lloyd Morrisett, a psychologist and vice president at the Carnegie Foundation, was troubled by the poor educational performance of low income, inner city children.

‘We found that those children who had entered school 3 months behind, by the end of the first grade they’d be a year behind, and get farther and farther behind. And I wondered whether there was a possibility that television could be used to help children with school. But television was not very popular with the Carnegie staff. Academics were not interested in television. They did not have it in their homes.’
Lloyd Morrisett

In 1966, at a dinner party in Gramercy Park, New York, Morrisett discussed the issue of pre-school education with his host, television producer Joan Coonie.

‘I knew the answer. I knew the answer right away. Every child in America was singing beer commercials. Now where had they learned beer commercials?...So to me it was clear. The kids just adored the medium. So why not see if it could educate them?’
Joan Coonie

Coonie and Morrisett set about assembling the team that would become the Children's Television Workshop (CTW). A critical early recruit was experienced writer and director of children’s television, Jon Stone.

‘Joan had a brilliantly simple notion. Children are watching a tremendous amount of television. If they’re going to watch that much television, why not: 1. Find out what it is they like to watch? 2 Find out what would be good for them to watch? And then put the two together and that’s the show.’
Jon Stone

The original cast of Sesame Street in set, 1969

2. Extensive R&D

The initiative secured funding from government and private foundations, and there followed two years of research and development. Coonie had to overcome initial scepticism about her leadership.

‘Someone said it won’t be taken seriously if a woman heads it. But the problem is they didn’t have a project without me. Much of it was in my head. Which I pointed out to them.’
Joan Coonie

The CTW researchers established that, in order to attract and retain young people’s attention, an educational show would need a strong visual style, repetition, fast-moving action, humour, music, animation and short films. They drew up a detailed curriculum, and in a comprehensive Writer's Notebook outlined communication goals without specifying characters or contexts. They decided that it would be easier to teach writers how to interpret the curriculum than to teach educators how to write comedy.

‘They told me that we had to incorporate all this education into this show. I was convinced that it would be impossible to do. I’d never written anything like this before. But nobody had written anything like this before.’
Jon Stone

Joan Coonie © Sesame Workshop

3. Creative Execution

Stone decided to set the show in an inner city environment, and chose the name Sesame Street to suggest the magic of ‘Open Sesame!’

‘I wanted to capture that New York energy, because to the three-year-old cooped up in the room upstairs, the action is on the street.’
Jon Stone

Stone created a group of characters to inhabit Sesame Street. There was Gordon, a high school science teacher and his wife Susan, a nurse; Mr Hooper, the proprietor of the corner store; Bob the music teacher; and Maria and Luis who ran the Fix-It Shop. The actors cast in these roles were ethnically diverse to reflect the core target audience. 

‘When you’re growing up and you don’t see yourself in the media, then you get the feeling that you don’t exist. And that’s when you start thinking that you’re not part of this society – of this culture.’ 
Sonia Manzano (Maria)

Another key component of Sesame Street was the music, much of which was composed by Joe Raposo. He contributed classic numbers like ‘I’m an Aardvark’ and ‘Over, Under, Around and Through,’ and guests included the likes of BB King, Stevie Wonder, Johnnie Cash, Paul Simon and Dizzy Gillespie.

'Now what starts with the letter C?
Cookie starts with C.
Let's think of other things
That starts with C.
Oh, who cares about the other things?
C is for cookie, that's good enough for me.
C is for cookie, that's good enough for me.
C is for cookie, that's good enough for me.
Oh, cookie, cookie, cookie starts with C.’
'’C’ Is For Cookie’ (J Raposo)

Critically Stone also signed up puppeteer Jim Henson, whose Muppets had been appearing on late night TV comedies and adverts.

‘When I first heard about it from Jon, I loved the idea of it - the whole idea of taking commercial techniques and applying them to a show for kids.’
Jim Henson

Henson populated the show with his distinctive puppets: cute and lovable Grover; Cookie Monster with his voracious appetite; Kermit, the soft spoken everyman frog and occasional news reporter; Bert and Ernie, friends with totally different perspectives.

Richard Hunt, Jim Henson, and Frank Oz on the set of Sesame Street

4. Test and Learn

At first the show’s street scenes did not contain Muppets, for fear that interaction with real actors would confuse the young audience. But researchers tested trial programmes, using a slide projector as a ‘Distractor,’ and they found that kids paid more attention during the Muppet segments. And so Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch were introduced to the live-action sequences. 

Oscar, the green grumpy character who lived in a trashcan, was crafted to represent the more challenging encounters that kids experience in daily life.

‘Oscar’s the dark side of everybody. He’s what children are constantly told they must not do. Don’t say that, it’s bad. Don’t do that. Don’t talk back.’
Jon Stone

Big Bird, bright yellow and eight feet tall, was initially conceived as just a dumb goofy guy. But he was adapted to be a peer for the audience.

‘I think I should play him as a child who’s just learning and doesn’t know a lot of things yet.’
Caroll Spinney (Puppeteer)

Experiences such as these fed into what became the CTW Model: collaborative planning; a detailed curriculum; developmental research; measurement and response.

CTW’s analysts established that children liked seeing other children on TV. And so Sesame Street featured ordinary kids, not child actors, whose unscripted interactions with the core characters became hugely popular.

The researchers also discovered that, when adults co-viewed the show with their children, learning was enhanced through the conversation that went on during and after. And so the writers deliberately scripted more sophisticated gags, cultural references and guest appearances that would appeal to an older audience.

'When I find I can't remember
What comes after
A and before C.
My mother always whispers
letter B.
Letter B, letter B, letter B, letter B
She whispers buh-buh-buh means letter B.’
‘Letter B’ (C Cerf)

Jon Stone with Ernie and Cookie Monster

5. Keep Evolving

Supported by innovative local marketing programs to win the interest of target communities, Sesame Street premiered in November 1969. It was an immediate hit.

‘When it went on-air the phone started ringing off the wall. No one had ever seen anything like it.’
Joan Coonie

Within a few series the show became something of a cultural phenomenon.

‘I think Sesame Street is the greatest thing that ever happened in television.’
Orson Welles

‘My little daughter watches it and she’s getting so smart. She knows everything about it.’
Muhammad Ali

Of course, there were challenges. At its launch the state commission in Mississippi voted not to air the show. Coonie was steadfast in its defence.

‘There’s no question that we are integrated and we reflect to some degree inner city – I would say Black inner city – life. And we’re very proud of that. I mean, if that’s our worst sin, I’m happy to be a sinner.’
Joan Coonie 

The early programs were also criticised for being over-stimulating; for their representation of women and Latinx characters. When a specifically African American Muppet was introduced, some from the community complained of stereotyping.

The show took such objections onboard, and continued with its model of test and learn. It adapted and evolved with changing times and circumstances.

In 1982 the production team had to respond to the death of Will Lee, who had played Mr Hooper since its inception. They determined that, since kids do sometimes encounter mortality, then the show too should find a way of dealing with it: confirming that Mr Hooper was not coming back; but making it alright to feel sad.

‘If we’ve been trying to be truthful, why should we short-change kids now?’
Sonia Manzano (Maria)

Sesame Street is one of the longest-running shows in the world. By its 50th anniversary in 2019, it had produced over 4,500 episodes, two feature-length movies, 35 TV specials and 180 albums. Its YouTube channel has almost five million subscribers. Some 86 million Americans have watched it as children. 

Sesame Street is also one of the most studied and monitored shows in television history. Consistent patterns of data collected over 30 years indicate that the program has had significant positive effects for its viewers across a broad range of subject areas.

The story of Sesame Street should be an inspiration to anyone working in business. It encourages us to reflect on the opportunities to employ commercial techniques to create positive social change. Yes, we can.

‘Sesame Street wanted to give kids tools to create the world they wanted to live in.’
Sonia Manzano (Maria)

'It's not that easy bein’ green.
Having to spend each day
The color of the leaves.
When I think it could be nicer
Bein' red or yellow or gold,
Or something much more colorful like that.

But green's the color of spring
And green can be cool and friendly-like.
And green can be big like an ocean
Or important like a mountain or tall like a tree.

When green is all there is to be,
It could make you wonder why.
But why wonder, why wonder?
I am green and it'll do fine.
It's beautiful and I think it's what I wanna be.'
Kermit, ‘Bein’ Green’ (J Raposo)

No. 389

The Creative Life of Milton Avery: ‘Why Talk When You Can Paint?’

Husband and Wife, 1945 by Milton Avery. © 2022 Milton Avery Trust/ Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York and DACS, London

‘I always take something out of my pictures, strip the design to essentials. The facts do not interest me so much as the essentials of nature.'
Milton Avery

I recently attended an excellent exhibition of the work of American artist Milton Avery (Royal Academy, London until 16 October).

From working class stock, Avery took factory jobs to sustain him while he studied art. Continuing to attend night classes and visiting galleries at the weekend, for the most part he laboured in obscurity, creating a painting every day in his small New York apartment. Never affiliated to any particular group, he created a bridge between American Impressionism and Abstract Expressionism and inspired younger artists to follow their own path. 

Avery teaches us a good deal about living a truly creative life.

‘I never have any rules to follow. I follow myself.’

Born in 1885 in Altmar, New York, the son of a tanner, Avery grew up in Connecticut. He left school at 16 and spent a decade working in different blue-collar jobs - as an aligner, an assembler, a latheman and a mechanic.

With a view to acquiring more lucrative skills, Avery enrolled in an evening class in ‘commercial lettering’ at the Connecticut League of Art Students. Soon after, his tutor advised him to transfer to life drawing. In 1917 he began working nights in order to paint in the daytime. 

Blue Trees, 1945 (Collection Neuberger Museum of Art)

From the Impressionists Avery adopted the practice of drawing and painting outdoors, en plein air. His early work captured the essential beauty of blossoming trees, peaceful rivers, big skies and setting suns.

In 1924 Avery met Sally Michel, a young art student, and two years later they married and moved to New York. Her income as a commercial illustrator enabled him to devote himself more fully to painting. 

The Averys spent the summer months in the country, where he made sketches and painted watercolours. Once back in New York, he translated these into oils in their modest apartment. (He didn’t have a studio.)

'Nature is my springboard. From her I get my initial impetus. I have tried to relate the visible drama of mountains, trees, and bleached fields with the fantasy of wind blowing and changing colors and forms.'

Avery’s daughter March recalls that he approached his art ‘like a factory worker.’

‘He was always painting in the living room…He would get up, have breakfast – coffee and an English muffin – and get to work. At noon, break for lunch. He would then paint in the afternoon until about 5 pm.'
March Avery Cavanaugh

March in Brown, 1954.
Oil on canvas. 111.8 x 81.3 cm. Private collection. Courtesy Victoria Miro, London

Avery was a taciturn man. Days would go by without him saying a word. 

‘Why talk when you can paint?’

The Averys spent every Saturday visiting galleries and museums, including, from 1929, the newly opened Museum of Modern Art. They regularly hosted soirees, their guests including young artists Mark Rothko, Adolph Gottlieb and Barnett Newman. Avery sat quietly sketching, while the attendees discussed art and read poetry, and black cocker spaniel Picasso demonstrated his latest tricks.

Gradually Avery’s landscapes evolved beyond naturalistic representation: views were simplified and details omitted; planes were flattened, colours and shapes distorted. His work became more abstract.

Avery also painted intimate domestic scenes, again in a colour-rich, minimalist style. March sits in quiet reflection, her chestnut hair wrapped in a neat babushka, her face delicately etched, her torso distilled into a plum-coloured flat form. A husband and wife relax at home, she in a cornflower blue dress, arms folded, he in a brown suit and cobalt bow tie, puffing on his pipe. 

'I try to construct a picture in which shapes, spaces, colors, form a set of unique relationships, independent of any subject matter. At the same time I try to capture and translate the excitement and emotion aroused in me by the impact with the original idea.’

Avery participated in a number of small group exhibitions, and a few of his paintings were purchased by major museums and collectors. But for the most part he was under the radar. It was not until 1952, when he was 67, that he received his first full-scale retrospective. 

As he grew older Avery’s art continued its journey towards abstraction. He thinned his pigments and painted blocks of colour on the canvas in closely related tones. And yet his work always retained some connection to the original inspiration.

Boathouse by the Sea, 1959
Oil on canvas. 182.9 x 152.4 cm, 72 x 60 in © [2022] The Milton Avery Trust. Courtesy Victoria Miro

Two cream-sailed yachts trace their way through a flamingo-pink sea. A view of a boathouse is reduced to horizontal planes of black, yellow, turquoise and orange. Amber and lemon beach blankets sit alone on peach sand beneath a butterscotch sky. 

Avery’s colours express an intense sense of time and place. 

‘I eliminate and simplify, leaving apparently nothing but color and pattern.'

Avery died in 1965 following a long illness, and, appropriately, he was buried in the Artists Cemetery in Woodstock, New York. The painters that had so enjoyed his hospitality were forever grateful for his encouragement.

'Avery is first a great poet. His is the poetry of sheer loveliness, of sheer beauty.’ Mark Rothko tribute to Milton Avery, 1965

Avery was driven by a love of art, of nature and of colour. He wasn’t looking for attention or recognition. He teaches us that a creative life requires total dedication, an independent spirit, a generous heart and an endlessly curious mind.

'Art is like turning corners, one never knows what is around the corner until one has made the turn.’

'The corner, where struggle and greed fight.
We write songs about wrong ‘cause it’s hard to see right.
Look to the sky, hoping it will bleed light.
Reality's a bitch, and I heard that she bites
The corner.
The corner was our Rock of Gibraltar, our Stonehenge
Our Taj Mahal, our monument.
Our testimonial to freedom, to peace, and to love.
Down on the corner.’ 
Common, ‘The Corner’ (L Lynn/ K West/ A Oyewole/ U BHassan/ L Moore)

No. 388

The Serene Stag Party: When a Leader Loses Control

'When you were made a leader you weren't given a crown, you were given the responsibility to bring out the best in others.’
Jack Welch, Former CEO of General Electric

It was a privilege to be appointed Martin’s Best Man - but also something of a challenge. How to design a stag weekend that would entertain my older brother’s friends, integrate a diverse set of personalities and still accommodate our Dad and his mate Bernie from the Drill?

This was 1993 and well before the era of exotic and expensive trips to Riga, Vilnius and Vegas. I determined that, given the sophistication and maturity of the attendees, the theme should be one of laid-back contemplation. It would be a Serene Stag Party. 

I rented a remote farmhouse near Acle Bridge on the Norfolk Broads, and as we gathered on the Friday evening, we settled into an exchange of amusing stories and telling anecdotes. I’d bought a couple of bottles of whiskey and a pack of cards to sustain the mellow mood. All seemed to be going well.

On the Saturday, equipped with an Ordnance Survey map, I led everyone on a scenic ramble around the Broads. Along winding paths and over awkward stiles; past disused windmills and romantic Saxon churches; sighting boats and barn owls; admiring voles, dykes and reed beds. It was all rather beautiful.

That night we had a relaxed dinner in a charming country pub. Again there was an air of warm-hearted bonhomie. I congratulated myself on a project well managed.

It’s true, a few of the group had in mind a more vibrant occasion. Scouse Mike in particular observed that a stag weekend should be characterised by shenanigans and tomfoolery; wild nights of mirth, music and dancing. 

I explained that that was not really the concept. This was the Serene Stag Party.

As we approached last orders in the pub, Mike pressed me about the possibility of going to a nightclub.

‘Come on, Jim. Club! Club! Club!’

‘No, that’s not part of the plan, Mike. And besides, haven’t you noticed? We’re in the middle of nowhere.’

Mike persisted. 

‘Club! Club! Club!’

At this point the Head Barman, who had overheard our conversation, made a helpful intervention in his distinct rustic burr.

‘There are nightclubs in Norwich and Yarmouth, you know. And Dave from the village can take you in his minibus.’

‘Club! Club! Club!’ cried Mike.

I tried to argue with him.

‘But I’ve got that bottle of whiskey for us to drink by the log fire when we get back.’

It was to no avail. Soon Mike was joined in his revolt by the rest of the company.

‘Club! Club! Club!’

That was it. My authority had evaporated. Mike took over the reins.

‘What do you think? Should we go to Norwich or Yarmouth?’

With a knowing smile, the Head Barman scanned the motley crew and pronounced.

‘No jeans in Norwich.’

Before long everyone was clambering into Dave’s minibus in a mood of reckless abandon, and they were on their way to Yarmouth.

I wandered disconsolately back to the farmhouse with my Dad and his mate Bernie from the Drill. We had a quiet whiskey by the fire and went to bed.

I was the Leader who Lost Control.

'Leadership is the art of getting someone else to do something you want done because he wants to do it.’
General Dwight Eisenhower

The lesson here is simple. Leadership is about more than a title, or a reporting line, an org chart or a corner office. Leaders cannot presume that a chosen plan will be adopted and executed without question. To be a leader you need to earn people’s commitment; to establish a shared vision; to take people with you. Successful leadership requires enthusiastic followership.

'I must follow the people. Am I not their leader?'
Benjamin Disraeli

In the early hours of Sunday morning, in dribs and drabs, the members of the stag party found their way back to the farmhouse. They’d had a fantastic time in the Yarmouth nightspot and all agreed it had made it a truly memorable weekend.

I reflected that perhaps the Serene Stag Party had not been such a good idea after all.

'Put yourself in my place
And you wouldn't do the things you do to me.
If you put yourself in my place
You'd know the meaning of misery.
Sleepless nights, tossing and turning,
Days and nights of worry and wondering.
Put yourself in my place
Then you will realize why there are tears
So many tears in my eyes.'
Maxine Brown, ‘Put Yourself in My Place’ (W Drain, R Obrecht)

No. 387

The Unwritten, the Unspoken and the Unspeakable: Arthur Miller’s ‘Fruitful Conflicts’

Rebecca Miller filming Arthur Miller in wood shop
Courtesy of Telluride Film Festival

‘I think it’s a process of approaching the unwritten and the unspoken and the unspeakable. And the closer you get to it, the more life there seems to be.’
Arthur Miller

I recently watched the fine 2017 documentary ‘Arthur Miller: Writer.’ It was directed by Rebecca Miller, the daughter of the great American playwright, and based on interviews she conducted with him over many years in the family home in Roxbury, Connecticut. It is therefore a more intimate and informal portrait than a conventional film biography.

We see an elderly Miller engaged in cooking and carpentry, gardening and pond management. He prepares a chicken for dinner, makes a coffee table and walks the dog. And in amongst all this domestic administration, he reflects on a life spent seeking truth.

‘What a real playwright has to do is to say to the audience, in effect: ‘This is what you think you’re seeing in life every day.’ And then to turn that around and say: ‘This is what it really is.’’

As the documentary revisits the writer’s key works, it becomes clear that, with each play or screenplay, Miller was confronting the challenging realities he observed in the world around him, in his relationships and in himself. 

1. Confronting His Father

Miller was born in 1915, to Polish-Jewish parents, in Harlem, New York. His father owned and managed a business that manufactured women's clothing and employed some 400 people. His mother was a cultured woman with a lust for life. And Miller grew up in comfort on 110th Street in Manhattan.

The family lost almost everything in the Wall Street Crash of 1929.

‘First the chauffeur was let go, and the summer bungalow was discarded, the last of her jewellery had been pawned or sold. And then another step down – the move to Brooklyn.’

Miller was obliged to deliver bread and wash dishes to pay for his college tuition. He saw his father diminished, retreating into himself. And he looked on as his parents’ relationship decayed.

‘I could not avoid awareness of my mother’s anger at this waning of his powers – a certain sneering contempt of him that filtered through her voice.’

Miller became acutely conscious of the impact that exterior events have on interior lives.

‘I contracted the idea that we are very deeply immersed in the political and economic life of the country and of the world; and that these forces end up in the bedroom, and end up in the father and son, father and daughter arrangements.’

No surprise perhaps that, when Miller wrote his first play, ‘No Villain,’ while studying at the University of Michigan, it was a portrait of a New York immigrant family endeavouring to manage a garment business through the Depression. 

‘No Villain’ won Miller a prize and set him on his way to becoming a playwright. His first major success came with 1947’s ‘All My Sons.’ Based on a true story, it related how a thriving businessman with a happy family life is discovered to have been manufacturing faulty aircraft parts during the war.

Miller saw in this theme a means to puncture post-war American euphoria; to challenge the complacent view that all was well with the world. And he also recognised an opportunity to further explore the relationship between fathers and sons.

In ‘All My Sons’ Miller played out the disputes with his father that he had never been able to have face-to-face. 

‘You know, the truth of the matter is that I never had an argument with my father. That was part of the problem. We could never come to a fruitful conflict. So it took my work to do that.’

2. Confronting the American Dream

Miller’s next and greater triumph came a few years later. It started with a couple of lines:

‘It’s all right. I came back.'

Convinced that these words could lead to something compelling, but uncertain how to proceed, Miller resolved to take his mind off things. He set about building a small studio at his home in Roxbury. 

'When I closed in the roof it was a miracle, as though I had mastered the rain and cooled the sun. And all the while afraid I would never be able to penetrate past those first two lines.' 

Then, suddenly, inspiration struck. In just one night, Miller wrote Act I of ‘Death of a Salesman.’

'When I lay down to sleep I realized I had been weeping – my eyes still burned and my throat was sore from talking it all out and shouting and laughing.'

‘Death of a Salesman’, which premiered to great acclaim on Broadway in 1949, examined the tarnished American Dream - the psychological damage done to those whose wholehearted belief in aspiration and achievement is disappointed by bitter experience. Its hero Willy Loman is haunted by lies – society’s, his employers’ and his own.

 ‘In Willy the past was as alive as what was happening at the moment- sometimes crashing in to completely overwhelm his mind.’

Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller, in Reno, Nevada, in 1960.
Photograph by Inge Morath / Magnum

 3. Confronting Power

Miller had developed a close friendship with Elia Kazan, the gifted director of ‘All My Sons’ and ‘Death of a Salesman.’

In 1952, with the United States in the grip of the ‘Red Peril’, Kazan appeared before the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) and named eight theatre colleagues who had been fellow members of the Communist Party. 

Miller was shocked and disappointed. He refused to speak to Kazan for the next ten years. 

‘You got the feeling that there was no value anywhere; that we were all the subject of Big Power.’

Miller saw parallels between HUAC’s obsessive enquiries and the witch-hunt that took place in Salem, Massachusetts back in 1692. And so he penned ‘The Crucible,’ which opened on Broadway in 1953. The play explored how quickly social order can deteriorate when intolerance, hysteria and hypocrisy take hold. 

In 1956 Miller was himself summoned to appear before the committee. He gave them a detailed account of his own political activities, but refused to volunteer the names of friends and colleagues. He was found guilty of contempt, fined and given a suspended prison sentence.

‘We are a country of entertainers. You’ve got to be entertaining. Even the fascists have to be entertaining.’

Montgomery Clift, Marilyn Monroe, Eli Wallach, Arthur Miller, John Huston, Clark Gable, The Misfits

 4. Confronting His Own Passions

Miller had married Mary Slattery in 1940. A fellow student at the University of Michigan, she encouraged him to write, and supported him before his plays became successful. Together they raised two children. 

In 1951 Miller had a brief affair with the film star Marilyn Monroe and they remained close. His passion for her became all-consuming.

‘It is as though we were born the same morning, when no other life existed on this earth.’

Miller divorced Slattery and married Monroe. And he channelled his turbulent emotions into 1956’s ‘A View from the Bridge’ - a play concerned with desire, appetite and shame; about a man struggling with a compulsion that will destroy him.

‘The best work that anybody ever writes is the work that is on the verge of embarrassing him.’

In 1960 Miller wrote the screenplay for ‘The Misfits’, which starred Monroe. It was a sad tale of lonely hearts, lost souls and the fading West. 

Miller clearly regarded Monroe herself as something of a tragic misfit. Indeed in the film he had Clark Gable address her with a line he had uttered during their courtship.

'I think you're the saddest girl I ever met.'

During the production their relationship was troubled, and shortly before the film's premiere in 1961, the couple divorced. Monroe died the next year, following a drug overdose.

Two years later Miller wrote the deeply personal ‘After the Fall.’ A man reviews the failure of his marriage to a star who suffers from addiction issues and ultimately commits suicide. 

This was all too raw for critics and audience alike, and the play was not a success.

‘I guess every artist has a tendency to throw himself into the world – to see if he floats.’

 5. Confronting Disappointment

With 1968’s ‘The Price’ Miller finally addressed his Jewish heritage. It was a play about the corrosive effect of financial strife on family relationships; about a family at war with itself. And again it drew on Miller’s own experiences of the Depression.

‘The Price’ did well critically and commercially. But Miller did not feel at ease with the mood of the times. He began to lose his faith in the capacity of theatre to act as a forum for debate, as a vehicle for change.

‘You got the feeling it didn’t matter any more. The whole game was not worth the candle. So you made people feel this or feel that, or laugh or weep. So what’s the hell the difference? What’s the point of it all?’

Miller carried on writing, but had to come to terms with the reality of his diminished popularity and relevance. 

At least he was content with his home life. In 1962 he had married photographer Inge Morath who had worked on the production of ‘The Misfits.’

‘A play always has two lives, the written one and the one lived. The latter, thankfully, is happy.’

Miller and Morath remained together until her death in 2002. Miller died in 2005 at the age of 89 at his home in Roxbury. 

‘The big job is not to make simple things complicated, but to make complicated things comprehensible. In other words, I’m the guy who goes around and says: ‘What is really going on here?’’

Miller spent a lifetime confronting difficult truths and harsh realities. He could be as tough on himself and his own relationships, as he was on the systemic injustices he saw in American society. He suggests that creative people should use their talent to examine ‘the unwritten, the unspoken and the unspeakable’ – to produce ‘fruitful conflicts.’

Perhaps we too should address: the truth of the family ties that bind us; the corrosive effects of our ambition; our attitude to power and authority; the compromises we make in the name of passion; the disappointments of age, as the world passes us by.

‘The truth, the first truth, probably, is that we are all connected, watching one another. Even the trees.’

[Arthur Miller’s ‘The Crucible’ runs at the National Theatre, London from 14 September to 5 November.]

'I'm not gonna get too sentimental
Like those other sticky valentines.
'Cause I don't know if you are loving somebody.
I only know it isn't mine.
Alison, I know this world is killing you
Oh, Alison, my aim is true.’
Elvis Costello, ‘Alison'

No. 386

Glyn Philpot: It’s Never Too Late to ‘Go Picasso’

‘Acrobats Waiting to Rehearse’ Glyn Philpot

Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton

I recently visited a fine exhibition of the work of artist Glyn Philpot. (‘Glyn Philpot: Flesh and Spirit' is at Pallant House Gallery, Chichester until 23 October.)

Philpot was a successful society portraitist who, at the age of 46, shook off convention to embrace modernism. He was a model of mid-life reinvention.

Born in Clapham in 1884, the son of a surveyor, Philpot grew up in Herne in Kent. Having studied at the Lambeth School of Art and the Académie Julian in Paris, he first exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1904. 

Philpot painted the elite of his day: aristocrats, ambassadors and actors. He had a talent for making his subjects look rather elegant and refined, beautifully dressed and coolly composed. His style was influenced by the Spanish and Italian Old Masters, whom he greatly admired. 

‘I am not one of those who think we should begin by striking out methods of our own. I feel that is a gift which only comes afterwards – if it comes at all.’

Mrs Henry Mond by Glyn Philpot (1884-1937)

In 1923 Philpot was elected the youngest Royal Academician of his generation. And by the end of the ‘20s his endeavours had earned him a grand London studio on fashionable Tite Street, a chauffeur-driven car and a country house in Sussex. 

Philpot could afford to travel to France, Italy, America and North Africa, and to explore other artistic avenues beyond professional portraiture. He painted classical and biblical images; scenes from the street, the theatre and the circus. And, exceptionally for an artist at that time, he painted sensitive studies of Black subjects, never characterising his sitters as either stereotypical or subservient. 

Perhaps, as he approached his mid-40s, Philpot felt he needed a change.

In 1930 he served on a panel judging an art competition in Pittsburgh that awarded the Gold Medal to Pablo Picasso for his ‘Portrait of Olga.’

On his return from America Philpot hired a studio in Montparnasse, Paris and furnished it with chrome Bauhaus furniture. He set aside the rich colours and traditional glazes that had characterised his work to-date. Employing a cool, dry colour palette, his brushwork became loose and light, sparse and spare. He was a convert to modernism.

‘I am evolving a new way of painting to meet the new things I want to do.’

Philpot gave up the lucrative society portraiture that had made his name. Instead he embraced a broader range of subjects and themes. 

Henry Thomas, Glyn Philpot (1884–1937). Pallant House Gallery

In a mood of mystical calm, two muses stand at the tomb of a poet. A doorman, dressed smartly in red coat and white top hat, ushers his customers into the nightclub with a sideways glance. A Jamaican man sits in profile, like a Florentine prince, against a batik backcloth. A group of women in Marrakech, wrapped in their big burnous cloaks, blend into the blue and pink background - almost abstract shapes. Two male acrobats waiting to rehearse, one with his arms folded, regard us in silence.

The critics of the time, confused by Philpot’s change of direction, thought it a serious mistake. The Guardian observed that: ‘a studio in Paris among the wild men of art is disturbing to an Old-masterish painter.’  A 1932 review of a Philpot exhibition in The Scotsman was headlined:

‘Glyn Philpot ‘goes Picasso’.’

Group of Women, Marrakech. Glyn Philpot (1884–1937). Jerwood Collection

Sadly Philpot’s modernist phase did not last long. He died from a stroke in 1937. He was just 53. 

As tastes evolved and his celebrated sitters receded into history, Philpot lapsed into obscurity. Only decades later did the art establishment reappraise his work and recognise him as a key figure in British modernism.

Philpot teaches us that, whatever age we are, wherever we are in our career - if we are open to stimulus and alert to inspiration - we can still adjust our style and transform our output. We can ‘go Picasso.’ 

It’s never too late to change.

'It's never too late
For rainbows to shine,
For whispering violins
And bubbles in the wine.
Let your heart stay young and strong.
Just one note can start a song.
So don't worry about how long
You've had to wait.
It's never too late.
It's never too late.’
Tony Bennett, ‘Never Too Late’ (R Evans / J Livingston / D Rose)

No. 385

The Salty Coffee: Beware Falling at the Final Fence

The Leopard – 1963 Visconti

'Complacency is the last hurdle standing between any team and its potential greatness.’
Pat Riley, President, the Miami Heat

When I went to university in 1983 I was more confident academically than socially.

An adaptation of Evelyn Waugh’s ‘Brideshead Revisited’ had been a recent hit on telly, and I assumed everyone would carry teddy bears and wear boaters, blazers and brightly coloured scarves. I was concerned that I’d struggle with conversation and convention; with etiquette and deportment. 

On arrival at Pembroke College, Oxford I was allocated a wood-panelled room with a coat of arms on it. And in my first few weeks I had to navigate a complex world of quads and scouts; gowns and grace; butteries and battels tickets. Fortunately I also encountered a group of talented eccentrics who became lifelong friends.

Soon into my first term I was invited, along with a number of other students, to Lunch with The Master. As I’d barely been to a restaurant before, I recognised that this would be something of a challenge. 

It was certainly a rather proper affair. The table was precisely laid, the dress was traditionally formal and the conversation was entirely sober. Staff hovered around the guests policing our every move.

I resolved to tackle this intimidating occasion by carefully copying my neighbours. 

And so, with eyes darting to left and right, I picked up my cutlery in the correct order and held it with the right grip. I added appropriate condiments and drank with suitable moderation. In fact I did everything everyone else was doing, just a half-beat behind. I nodded and smiled. I was courteous and cordial. And as my confidence grew, I even served up a few conversational gambits. 

I reached the conclusion of the meal without putting a foot wrong. As the coffee was served, I sighed with satisfaction.

But the lunch was not quite over.

In those days I was still adding sugar to my coffee, and so I spooned a little into my cup from the silver caddy just in front of me. 

Ugh. This brew tasted unpleasant – quite unlike the Nescafe I drank at home. Nonetheless I persevered. Perhaps it was just a better class of bean.

As we exited the luncheon, my friend Caz tapped me on the shoulder.

‘Did I just see you put a spoon of salt into your coffee?’

Ah yes, that explained it. I’d mistaken the salt for the sugar. An elementary error. The shame and embarrassment. I’d fallen at the final fence. 

What was I to learn from the incident of the salty coffee?

Well, firstly that we shouldn’t be intimidated by unfamiliar social situations. Every environment can be handled with a sensitivity to form and a willingness to engage. 

But perhaps more importantly, I was taught that confidence can usher in complacency; that we are most at risk of failure as we approach the final fence. 

'It's not a very big step from contentment to complacency.'
Simone de Beauvoir, Philosopher, Writer

I’ve witnessed this phenomenon a good deal in business. The slackening off at the conclusion of a process, the assumption that the pitch is in the bag - that the deal is more or less done.  But the race isn’t over until you cross the finish line.

'Success breeds complacency. Complacency breeds failure. Only the paranoid survive.'
Andy Grove, CEO Intel

I have since read that some people nowadays like to put a little salt in their coffee. It’s healthier and less bitter apparently. Perhaps, yet again, I was a pioneer…

'Sometimes we wish for the better,
When we have it good as it gets.
Sometimes the grass isn't greener,
As soon as we find out, we forget.
Sometimes a fool doesn't know he's a fool.
Sometimes a dog, he don't know he's a dog.
Sometimes I do stupid things to you
When I really don't mean it at all.’
Babyface, ‘Sorry for the Stupid Things’ (K Edmonds / D Simmons)

No. 384

The Persistent Positivity of Mavis Staples: ‘Just Another Soldier in the Army of Love’

‘I’m not gonna stop. I was there. I’m still here. I’m a living witness.’

I recently attended a performance by 82-year-old Mavis Staples, lead vocalist of the legendary Staple Singers. I followed this up by watching a moving documentary about her life and career: ‘Mavis!’ (2015, written and directed by Jessica Edwards)

'The devil ain't got no music. All music is god's music.’

The Staple Singers pioneered a hybrid of gospel, folk and soul that combined melodic sweetness with a gutsy guitar sound, raw vocal storytelling and an urgent message. With their heartfelt ‘freedom songs’ they took a leading role in the civil rights struggle. And to this day Mavis Staples sustains their calls for progress with resolute positivity.

‘We’ve come to you this evening to bring you some joy, some happiness, inspiration and some positive vibrations.’

Let’s consider how Mavis and the Staple Singers can ‘take you there.’

'I know a place
Ain't nobody cryin’,
Ain't nobody worried,
Ain't no smilin' faces 
Lyin' to the races.
Help me, come on, come on.
Somebody, help me now.
Help me, 
Help me now.
Oh, let me take you there.
Oh-oh! Let me take you there!’
The Staple Singers, ‘I’ll Take You There’ (A Isbell / A Hardy)

1. ‘Family is the Strongest Unit in the World’

Born in 1914, the youngest of 14 children, Roebuck ‘Pops’ Staples grew up on a cotton plantation near Drew, Mississippi. Having learned to play guitar from local bluesmen, he dropped out of school to sing with a gospel group. In 1935 he married Oceola Staples and they moved to Chicago where Pops found work in meatpacking, construction and steel. 

The couple had four children - Cleotha, Pervis, Mavis and Yvonne – who grew up together on 33rd Street on the South Side, a melting pot of musical talent. Sam Cook, Curtis Mayfield and Jerry Butler all lived nearby and the Staples house became a social hub.

‘Everybody would come to our backyard because Mamma would make home-made ice cream, spaghetti, coleslaw. So they knew this was a party at the Staples backyard.’

Family meant everything to Pops.

'Pops always taught us that family is the strongest unit in the world. If you stick with your family, nobody can break you, nobody can harm you. You'll always have your family.’

2. ‘Sing What You Feel in Your Heart’

Pops set about giving the young Staples siblings their musical education.

‘Pops called us kids into the living room. He sat us on the floor in a circle and he began giving us voices to sing that he and his sisters and brothers would sing when they were in Mississippi.’

In 1948 Pops formed the Staple Singers, and they took to performing in local churches and on the radio.
Mavis had a deep, gritty voice that resonated powerfully with Pops’ blues guitar.

‘People would say, ‘That’s not a little girl… It’s got to be a man or a big fat woman.’’

Mavis ignored the comments and sang with total conviction.

'I'm just singing what I feel in my heart.’

In 1952 the Staple Singers signed a professional contract and 1956’s ‘Uncloudy Day,’ their first hit, became the first gospel song to sell a million records.

'They tell me of a home far beyond the skies
And they tell me of a home far away.
They tell me of a home where no storm clouds rise
They tell me of an unclouded day.’
The Staple Singers, 'Uncloudy Day'

The Staples Singers in the late 50s (left to right) Pops, Cleotha, Mavis and Pervis. Photograph: Michael Ochs Archives

3. ‘If You Ain’t Shouted the People, You Ain’t Done Shit.’

Mavis learned to use the power of her voice to excite raw emotions in congregations. In the gospel world this is called shouting.

‘If you ain’t shouted the people, you ain’t done shit.’

Audiences would scream and dance in the aisles, and some would be so overwhelmed they had to be carried out by the ushers. Staple Singers concerts were exhilarating experiences.

‘Shouting is not a bad thing. When you shout and let it out, you gonna feel better.’

4. ‘Everybody Don’t Love You’

When Mavis graduated in 1957, Pops took the Staple Singers on the road, marketed as ‘God's Greatest Hitmakers.’ But touring exposed the young family to the indignities of the segregated South.

‘Pops explained to us: ‘Now listen y’all, it’s not like you’re in Chicago. Everybody don’t love you.’’

They were barred from many hotels and restaurants, and they had to learn to be resilient in the face of racist abuse.

‘White kids would try to run us off the highway. But Daddy wouldn’t take it. He’d go right back into them. He took enough of that when he was a boy.’

One Sunday while on tour Pops took the family to hear Dr Martin Luther King preach at his church in Montgomery, Alabama. Pops was hugely impressed, and later announced:

‘I like this man’s message. I really like his message. And I think, if he can preach it, we can sing it.’

The Staple Singers began performing ‘message’ music. Through compelling songs like ‘Freedom Highway’, ‘Why? (Am I Treated So Bad)’ and ‘When Will We Be Paid?’ they became the musical voices of the civil rights movement.

5. ‘Reflect and Effect the Culture’

As the ‘60s progressed, Pops sought to expand the band’s audience by performing in jazz clubs and at folk festivals. This exposed them to music from other genres, and led to them covering contemporary hits with positive themes - by the likes of Bob Dylan, Stephen Stills and Joan Baez.

Inevitably the evolution in style prompted criticism from the traditional gospel community. But the family were insistent that they were staying true to the spirit of their faith.

‘You know gospel ain’t nothing but the truth, and we’re telling the truth in our songs.’

In 1968 the Staple Singers signed to Stax Records. Working with producers Steve Cropper and Al Bell, and with musicians from Booker T and the MGs, their sound became more soulful. This led to more success, and to the hit singles ‘Respect Yourself’ and ‘I'll Take You There.’

Bell observed the special place that the Staples had in the music industry at that time:

‘They say that art in many instances is either a reflection of what’s going on in your culture or in society, or it effects, impacts what’s going on. Staples were doing both.’

'If you disrespect anybody that you run into,
How in the world do you think anybody's supposed to respect you.
If you don't give a heck about the man with the bible in his hand,
Just get out the way, and let the gentleman do his thing.
You're the kind of gentleman that wants everything your way, 
Take the sheet off your face, boy, it's a brand new day.
Respect yourself.
If you don't respect yourself,
Ain't nobody gonna give a good cahoot,
Respect yourself.’
The Staple Singers, ‘Respect Yourself’ (L Ingram, M Rice)

6. Only Stop Singing When You’ve Nothing Left to Say

Sadly Stax was declared bankrupt in1975. The Staple Singers signed to Curtis Mayfield's Curtom label and scored another hit with ‘Let's Do It Again.’ They also memorably performed ‘The Weight’ with The Band in their film ‘The Last Waltz.’ However, with the arrival of disco in the late ‘70s and the growing taste for more heavily produced sounds, the group’s popularity declined.

Gradually time has taken its toll. Pops passed away in 2000, followed by Cleotha and Yvonne. When Pervis died in 2021, Mavis became the last soul survivor.

‘It’s because of you, Pops, that I’m standing here today. And I tell you, you laid the foundation and I am still working on the building.’

Mavis, who made a couple of fine solo albums in 1969-70, has continued to record brilliant music, on her own and with collaborators. She has no intention of packing it in.

‘People always asking me when am I going to retire. I don’t care to retire….I’ll stop singing when I have nothing left to say. And that ain’t gonna happen.’

I was particularly struck by Mavis’ dedication to the cause; by her youthful enthusiasm and her ageless conviction that there is still work to be done.

‘My mind is made up and my heart is fixed and I just refuse to turn around. I have come too far. And I’m determined to go all the way until Dr King’s dream has been realised… And if y’all don’t see me here singing, look for me in heaven…I’ll be walking those streets of gold and singing around god’s throne.’

Mavis and her family teach us that a desire for progress and a commitment to change cannot be lightly held or casually worn. Rather they must come with passion and action; hard work and a hard edge.
As she sang in one of the Staple Singers’ greatest songs, she’s ‘just another soldier in the army of love.’

'Now hate is my enemy. I gotta fight it day and night.
Love is the only weapon with which I have to fight.
I believe if I show a little love for my fellow man
Then one day I'll hold the victory in my hand.
That's why I'm just another soldier in the army of love.’
The Staple Singers, ‘I’m Just Another Soldier’ (R Jackson, H Banks)

No. 383