After Impressionism: ‘Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?’

Edouard Vuillard Portrait of Lugne-Poe 1891
Memorial Art Gallery of the University of Rochester (New York)

I recently attended ‘After Impressionism,’ an excellent show tracing the development of modern art between the last Impressionist Exhibition of 1886 and the outbreak of the First World War. (The National Gallery, London until 13 August)

The exhibition considers how artists at the dawn of the twentieth century were inspired by the Impressionist spirit of revolution and renewal; and how innovative creative thinking subsequently blossomed across Europe in new cultural hotspots - Barcelona, Berlin, Brussels and Vienna.

Impressionism was characterised by the quest to capture the fleeting moment; the reality of the world around us - with swift strokes of the brush and colours true to the artist’s experience. 

In the wake of this radical movement, Cezanne explored the underlying structures in nature - in landscape, portrait and still life – applying planes of colour that laid the foundations of Cubism. Gaugin went beyond representation of the natural world, using symbolism to convey personal memories and mystical experience. Van Gogh employed bold outlines and ever more intense hues that were charged with emotion. Seurat turned to science to translate light into colour through small dots of complimentary tones. Bonnard and Vuillard flattened their images, giving tranquil domestic scenes a decorative quality.

Vincent Van Gogh - Enclosed Field with Ploughman, 1889

During this period artists looked beyond Europe for inspiration, drawing on Japanese woodblock prints, Polynesian carved objects and African masks.

The creative community thought deeply and debated avidly about the direction they should take with their work. Artists conferred with like-minded modernist writers and formed groups with cool names like the Twenty, the Prophets, the Wild Animals and the Secession. They wrote essays and published journals; held dissident exhibitions and launched radical manifestos.

‘We are tired of the everyday, the near-at-hand, the contemporaneous: we wish to be able to place the symbol in any period, even in dreams.’
Gustave Kahn ‘La Response des Symbolistes’

Hilaire-Germain-Edgar Degas - Combing the Hair ('La Coiffure'). National Gallery, London

The result of all this upheaval and questioning was a period of stunning creative output, diverse in style and approach. At the exhibition you can see Cezanne’s ‘Mont Sainte-Victoire’, a majestic landscape reduced to geometric shapes; Klimt’s ‘Hermine Gallia’, a society lady shimmering in white chiffon; Degas’ ‘Combing the Hair’, an intimate moment all aglow with intoxicating orange. Gaugin presents us with the patriarch Jacob wrestling with an angel, observed by bonneted Breton women. It’s a woozy, dreamlike image. Munch’s ‘Death Bed’ reveals grief in the raw. Mondrian races towards Abstraction before our eyes. And in Ramon Casas’ ‘The Automobile’ an elegant woman drives a car directly at us, headlamps blazing. It is as if she is hurtling towards the future.

‘With faith in growth and in a new generation of creators and those who enjoy art, we call all young people together, and as the young that bear the future within it we shall create for ourselves elbowroom and freedom of life as opposed to the well-entrenched older forces. Everyone who renders directly and honestly whatever drives him to create is one of us.’
German Expressionist Manifesto

Ramon Casas i Carbó - Car. 1902

The exhibition suggests that people working in the creative industries should be arguing, discussing and debating ideas. We should be pioneering new perspectives and practices; experimenting with new partners and inputs.

It prompts us to reflect on our craft: Can we describe what makes our work different? What defines our generation’s outlook and output, in contrast to what has gone before? 

One of Gaugin’s paintings of 1897-8 was entitled ‘Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?’ Perhaps we should be asking the same questions.

'If you could read my mind, love,
What a tale my thoughts could tell.
Just like an old time movie
About a ghost from a wishing well,
In a castle dark or a fortress strong,
With chains upon my feet.
You know that ghost is me
And I will never be set free.
As long as I'm a ghost, you can't see.’

Gordon Lightfoot, ‘If You Could Read My Mind'

No. 423

Somerset Maugham on Reason and Passion: ‘I Don’t Offer You Happiness. I Offer You Love’

W Somerset Maugham, 1957. Photograph: Jane Bown/The Observer

A little while ago I saw ‘The Circle,’ a splendid 1921 play by W. Somerset Maugham. (The Orange Tree Theatre, Richmond until 17 June)

‘I suppose it’s difficult for the young to realize that one may be old without being a fool.’

Maugham is rarely performed nowadays. Perhaps his writing is a little too polished, his characters a little too aristocratic, for modern tastes. Nonetheless, he was a sharp, witty wordsmith with an eye for the nuances of social attitudes and cultural change, and he has been described as ‘the missing link between Wilde and Coward.’

‘England seems to me full of people doing things they don’t want to because other people expect it of them.’

‘The Circle’ considers the compromises of marriage and the consequences of love. In a lightly humorous way, it asks us to reflect on the true nature of happiness.

‘Man is a gregarious animal. We’re members of a herd. If we break the herd’s laws we suffer for it. And we suffer damnably.’

The action takes place at a Dorset country house where Arnold Champion-Cheney is preparing to meet his mother, Lady Kitty, for the first time since she ran off with her husband’s friend Lord Porteus 30 years ago. 

‘I don’t mean to bear malice, but the fact remains that she did me the most irreparable harm. I can find no excuse for her.’

Arnold is a somewhat stiff fellow, who serves as an MP and is primarily interested in politics and furniture.

‘It always makes me uncomfortable when people are effusive.’

Oivia Vinall and Chirag Benedict Lobo in The Circle, photo by Ellie Kurttz

Elizabeth, Arnold's wife of three years, is, by contrast, a romantic. She rather admires Lady Kitty for sacrificing her social standing for love, and she has engineered the reunion.  

‘When you’re loved as she’s loved, you may grow old, but you grow old beautifully.’

Elizabeth is beginning to find life as a rural MP’s wife terribly tedious, and she is falling in love with Teddy Luton, her husband’s friend, a charming businessman visiting from Malaya.

It looks like history is about to repeat itself.

As the drama plays out, it transpires that the Champion-Cheneys' guests are not quite the idyllic couple Elizabeth has imagined. Lord Porteus is grumpy and combative. Lady Kitty is selfish and frivolous.

‘My dear, her soul is as thickly rouged as her face.’

Nonetheless Elizabeth is convinced that her relationship with Arnold is redundant.

‘A marriage without love is no marriage at all…When two people are married it’s very difficult for one of them to be unhappy without making the other unhappy too.’

At this point Lady Kitty speaks out for her son, warning Elizabeth that infatuation fades.

‘It breaks my heart to think that you’re going to make the same pitiful mistake that I made… One sacrifices one’s life for love and then one finds that love doesn’t last. The tragedy of love isn’t death or separation. One gets over them. The tragedy of love is indifference.’

As Elizabeth oscillates between fidelity and romance; reason and passion; staying and going, Teddy makes a desperate plea for her to start a new life with him.

'But I wasn’t offering you happiness. I don’t think my sort of love tends to happiness. I’m jealous. I’m not a very easy man to get on with. I’m often out of temper and irritable. I should be fed to the teeth with you sometimes, and so would you be with me. I daresay we’d fight like cat and dog, and sometimes we’d hate each other. Often you’d be wretched and bored stiff and lonely, and often you’d be frightfully homesick, and then you’d regret all you’d lost. Stupid women would be rude to you because we’d run away together. And some of them would cut you. I don’t offer you peace and quietness. I offer you unrest and anxiety. I don’t offer you happiness. I offer you love.’

I was quite taken with Teddy Luton’s speech. 

We spend a good deal of time nowadays reflecting on happiness. We survey the most ‘liveable’ towns and cities, the most agreeable countries and cultures. We calculate and calibrate our own personal satisfaction and wellbeing. We create happiness indexes. The assumption is that all of our decisions, in life and work, should ultimately add up to a higher level of contentment.

Yet perhaps happiness is not all it’s cracked up to be. 

‘There is no more lamentable pursuit than a life of pleasure.’

If we narrowly judge careers against a set of logical contentment criteria; against an imagined goal of enduring happiness, we may end up pursuing a path that is ultimately unfulfilling. Sometimes there’s reward to be found in struggle and challenge; in passion and devotion; in ‘unrest and anxiety’.

Perhaps we should seek a job we love rather than one that makes us happy.

In raising questions about marriage and the conventional understanding of fulfilment, Maugham was somewhat ahead of his time. ‘The Circle’ was booed on its opening night. But I suspect he would have reassured himself that he was ‘merely a very truthful man’.

‘I never know whether you’re a humorist or a cynic, Father.’
‘I’m neither, my dear boy; I’m merely a very truthful man. But people are so unused to the truth that they’re apt to mistake it for a joke or a sneer.’

'My thoughts go back to a heavenly dance,
A moment of bliss we spent.
Our hearts were filled with a song of romance
As into the night we went,
And sang to our hearts’ content.
The song is ended,
But the melody lingers on.
You and the song are gone,
But the melody lingers on.’

Annette Hanshaw, 'The Song Is Ended (but the Melody Lingers On)' (Irving Berlin)

No. 422

Trying To Be Cool About It: An Overheard Altercation with Fabien

© The artist's estate. Photo credit: Fry Art Gallery

‘Right, Fabien, I’m not having this conversation.’

A bald chap with a backpack and casual business attire had just boarded my busy train at Waterloo. He was talking loudly into his phone and was somewhat vexed.

‘If he asks me if I’ve spoken to Fabien, I’m gonna say no.’

I obviously couldn’t hear what Fabien had to say for himself, but the man felt he had some explaining to do.

‘Look, he told me to cc her and so I did. There was nothing I could do.’ 

He was clearly struggling to make his point.

‘I understand you, Fabien, but you don’t understand me. I told you: Matthew is uncontactable and Ainsley is panicking. All I’m asking you to do is not lie.’

There was a good deal of repetition and exclamation. And the conversation finished unsatisfactorily.

‘I’m gonna stop there, Fabien. You’re still not getting it.’

The man hung up and slumped back in his seat.

‘F**k!’

 An uneasy atmosphere lingered in the train carriage. 

The brief altercation had embraced deception, indiscretion, inconsistency and anger. I found myself wondering whether the events that prompted the dispute had merited all this emotion. 

'Anybody can become angry - that is easy. But to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way - that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.’
Aristotle

Sometimes in the world of work, we let people get under our skin, we get hot under the collar. I once kicked a bin over because a package had not been delivered. I regretted it immediately, realising that only a rare few look good when they’re annoyed - Marlon Brando, Joe Pesci, Jack Nicholson, for example. When I kicked that bin I came across more like Norman Wisdom.

We ought to take our jobs seriously. It’s only by doing so that we can extract any satisfaction from them. But we should be aware that intense concentration and a narrow focus can result in a disproportionate response to setbacks. The blood pressure rises and the red mist descends. We can’t help getting irritated and indignant.

'The greatest remedy for anger is delay.'
Thomas Paine

It’s always best to take a breath and count to 10. The issue at hand probably doesn’t matter that much. And if it does matter, then it deserves a considered, calculated reply. We should ‘try to be cool about it.’

Perhaps that’s what the irate bald man should have said to Fabien.

'I'm trying to be cool about it,
Feeling like an absolute fool about it.
Wishing you were kind enough to be cruel about it,
Telling myself I can always do without it,
Knowin' that it probably isn't true.’

boygenius, ‘Cool About It’ (J Baker / L Dacus / P Simon / P Bridgers)

No. 421

Maliphant: Challenging the Hierarchy of Creation

Russell Maliphant’s ‘Vortex’ © Roswitha Chesher

A little while ago I attended a performance of ‘Vortex’ by the Russell Maliphant Dance Company. (Sadler’s Wells Theatre, London. Touring England until 29 June.) The piece represents choreographer Maliphant’s response to the work of abstract expressionist painter Jackson Pollock. 

‘I didn’t want to make a piece that was literally about Pollock, that said this is his life. ‘Vortex’ is more tangential than that. It’s about energy, paint, gravity, form, physicality.’

‘Vortex’ begins with a single dancer in front of a large canvas that glows gold at his touch. The canvas is then tilted and athletically scaled. It becomes a spinning stage on which a performance is played out; a screen onto which spiralling silhouettes are projected.

The team of five dancers twist and turn, roll and rotate - gracefully, elegantly, hypnotically. They skip around a metal bucket swinging from the ceiling. They pirouette alongside a beautifully billowing silk sheet. They sway under a cascade of falling sand, tracing circular patterns on the stage as it settles. And all the while lighting designer Ryan Joseph Stafford bathes them in ligneous stripes, radiant pools and flickering shadows.

It’s a compelling piece.

Russell Maliphant’s ‘Vortex’

‘Philosophically, personally, I like calm.’

Maliphant is known for creating fluid, smooth, circular movements, and in this context we are reminded of Pollock’s process and product: his bold, physical painting technique and his emotionally expressive, colourful canvases. 

In an interview after the show Maliphant offered a definition.

‘What is choreography? The interaction of the figure, the light, the movement and the space.’

I pondered this concise articulation for a moment, before I noticed that it didn’t include music. Maliphant had consciously omitted what many would imagine as a foundational component of dance. He explained that music was important to him, but it did not come first - changing the hierarchy of the creative process was central to his approach. 

I think that – curiously - creative people can sometimes be quite conservative in their outlook; somewhat set in their ways. Too often they are constrained by the inertia of their own assumptions; by the straitjacket of custom and convention. We would all benefit from occasionally reordering standard practices; challenging technical hierarchies; setting aside our methodological habits. 

Because if you want to change the product, you should try changing the process.


'Well, I've been afraid of changing,
Because I've built my life around you.
But time makes you bolder,
Even children get older,
And I'm getting older too.

Oh, take my love, take it down.
Climb a mountain and turn around.
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills,
Well, the landslide will bring it down.’

Fleetwood Mac, 'Landslide' (S Nicks)

No. 420

Dancing at Lughnasa: When ‘Atmosphere Is More Real than Incident’

From left, Bláithín Mac Gabhann, Alison Oliver, Louisa Harland and Siobhán McSweeney in ‘Dancing at Lughnasa’ © Johan Persson

‘Look at yourselves, will you! Just look at yourselves! Dancing at our time of day? That’s for young people with no duties and no responsibilities and nothing in their heads but pleasure.’

I recently saw an excellent production of Brian Friel’s 1990 work ‘Dancing at Lughnasa.’ (The National Theatre, London until 27 May.)

This ‘memory play’ is shot through with nostalgia and wistfulness. It asks us to consider how we reconstruct our own past; and how our recollections are as much forged from atmosphere as incident.

A middle-aged man Michael Evans recalls the summer of 1936 when he was a young boy living with his unmarried mother and four spinster aunts in rural Donegal.

Oldest sister Kate, a teacher and the only wage earner in the house, is prim, devout and worried about how to make ends meet. Joker Maggie sings popular songs, tells riddles and smokes Woodbines. Chris, Michael’s mother, is dreamy, romantic and prone to depression. Quiet, thoughtful Agnes, in wraparound apron, takes particular care of wellington-booted, ‘simple’ Rose.

‘When are we going to get a decent mirror to see ourselves in?’
‘You can see enough to do you.’
‘Steady on, girl. Today it’s lipstick; tomorrow it’s the gin bottle.’

The sisters babble, bicker and bake soda bread on the large iron range. They tend to their pet white rooster, fetch turf and pick bilberries by the old quarry. They reflect on old friends and missed opportunities; on family secrets and whether to attend the forthcoming harvest dance. 

Justine Mitchell & Siobhán McSweeney. Photo by Johan Persson

‘This must be kept in the family, Maggie! Not a word of this must go outside these walls – d’you hear? – not a syllable!’

Humour, discipline, determination and faith sustain them through what are clearly tough times. Their world is on the cusp of change. The school plans to lay off Kate due to falling rolls, and a new factory seems likely to deprive the two younger siblings of the little money they earn knitting gloves at home. Even the civil war in faraway Spain threatens to impact on their lives.

‘Even though I was only a child of seven at the time I know I had a sense of unease, some awareness of a widening breach between what seemed to be and what was, of things changing too quickly before my eyes, of becoming what they ought not to be.’

Through it all the women lift their spirits by dancing to their unreliable wireless (fondly referred to as Marconi). To the fast heavy beat of a ceili band, one by one they break into a jig. Knitting dropped, feet stomping, arms, legs and hair flying - they sing and shout and spin and turn. It’s a wondrous sight of wild, raucous, almost pagan, abandon.

‘I had witnessed Marconi’s voodoo derange those kind, sensible women and transform them into shrieking strangers.’

‘Oh play to me, Gypsy, the moon's high above,
Oh, play me your serenade, the song I love.
Oh sing to me, Gypsy, and when you are gone,
Your song will be haunting me and lingering on.’

Gracie Fields, ‘Play to Me, Gypsy’ (K Vacek / J Kennedy)

Brian Friel. Image courtesy of RTÉ

Friel was in his early sixties when he wrote ‘Dancing at Lughnasa’. It was based quite closely on his own upbringing. What’s striking about the play is that not too much happens. The sisters have to tend to their brother, who has returned from missionary work in Uganda suffering from mental illness. Chris must navigate occasional visits from Michael’s charming but feckless father. And Rose goes walkabout. In a concluding speech Friel explains that his recollection of this distant time is constructed more from mood than particular events.

'There is one memory of that Lughnasa time that visits me most often; and what fascinates me about that memory is that it owes nothing to fact. In that memory atmosphere is more real than incident and everything is simultaneously actual and illusory.'

In the communications business we, quite appropriately, spend a good deal of time constructing narratives. Stories are powerful vehicles for messages; for conveying features, benefits and rewards. But do we sufficiently attend to atmosphere – to the mood, spirit and feelings that we wish our brands to express? Surely atmosphere provides the fabric for enduring recollections.

As ‘Dancing at Lughnasa’ demonstrates, you can convey a great deal without recourse to specific incidents, actions or narratives – and sometimes without using words at all.

'When I remember it, I think of it as dancing. Dancing with eyes half closed because to open them would break the spell. Dancing as if language had surrendered to movement – as if this ritual, this wordless ceremony, was now the way to speak, to whisper private and sacred things, to be in touch with some otherness. Dancing as if the very heart of life and all its hopes might be found in those assuaging notes and those hushed rhythms and in those silent and hypnotic movements. Dancing as if language no longer existed because words were no longer necessary…'

'Twas on the Isle of Capri that he found her
Beneath the shade of an old walnut tree.
Oh, I can still see the flowers blooming round her
When they met on the Isle of Capri.
She was as sweet as the rose at the dawning
But somehow fate hadn't meant it to be,
And though he sailed with the tide in the morning,
Yet his heart's on the Isle of Capri.’

Gracie Fields, 'Isle of Capri’ (J Kennedy / W Grosz)

No. 419

‘Why Are All These People Here?’: A Provocative Question at the Sydney Opera House

I have recently returned from my first trip to Australia. 

My brother Martin and I thoroughly enjoyed the sea and sunshine; walks and views; fresh food and robust wine. We visited museums, galleries and surf clubs; vibrant markets, friendly pubs and the hallowed MCG. We spotted wallabies, kookaburras and brush turkeys; drank piccolo coffees, sipped Coopers from schooners and paid at the bar. It struck me as a country of progress and positivity; optimism and opportunity.

On one occasion we were standing outside the Sydney Opera House, admiring its splendid ceramic-tiled shells. How magnificent to see this familiar building up close.

An Indian tourist approached and asked to have his picture taken. Once we had obliged, the young man had another request.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Of course. What is it?’

‘I’d like to know: Why are all these people here?’

‘What do you mean? Why are these people in Sydney?’

‘No. This place, here.’ He gesticulated at the clusters of sightseers wandering around the building’s forecourt. ‘I asked the Security Guard and he doesn’t know.’

We hesitated for a moment.

‘Well, this is the Sydney Opera House. It’s an architectural masterpiece. It’s one of the wonders of the modern world.’

‘Oh. Thank you. I see.’

The tourist nodded gratefully at our explanation, though he still seemed a little perplexed.

'I think, at a child's birth, if a mother could ask a fairy godmother to endow it with the most useful gift, that gift should be curiosity.’
Eleanor Roosevelt

We spend a good deal of time nowadays describing in great detail the trends and fashions that are impacting our world. We have reams of data, stacks of statistics to prove our points and evidence our observations. But I wonder if we spend enough time endeavouring to comprehend the underlying forces driving change, the truest cause. Do we sufficiently stop to enquire: ‘Why are all these people here?’?

We know from the relentless enquiries of children that Why? can be challenging and disarming. It is a simple question, but it takes us to the most interesting places – particularly when it is repeated.

The Toyota Motor Corporation used to ask Five Whys of a technical fault in order to establish its root cause. They believed that only after Five Whys did one arrive at the real issue, and by this method they found that product problems often derive from people and processes.

'The basis of Toyota’s scientific approach is to ask why five times whenever we find a problem … By repeating why five times, the nature of the problem as well as its solution becomes clear.' 
Taiichi Ohno

We stood talking to the Indian tourist for a little while longer. It transpired he was over on holiday from New Delhi. Not far from Agra and the Taj Mahal, we thought. Perhaps that’s why he seemed so unimpressed.

'How many times do I have to try to tell you
That I'm sorry for the things I've done?
But when I start to try to tell you,
That's when you have to tell me
Hey... This kind of trouble's only just begun.
I told myself too many times:
Why don't you ever learn to keep your big mouth shut?
That's why it hurts so bad to hear the words
That keep on falling from your mouth.
Tell me
Why...
I may be mad,
I may be blind,
I may be viciously unkind.
But I can still read what you're thinking.’

Annie Lennox, ‘Why'

No. 418

Berthe Morisot: ‘Wanting to Capture the Smallest Thing’

Berthe Morisot - Young Woman Watering a Shrub

'It is important to express oneself... provided the feelings are real and are taken from your own experience.’
Berthe Morisot

I recently attended an exhibition of the work of Berthe Morisot. ('Shaping Impressionism' is at The Dulwich Picture Gallery, London, until 10 September.)

Morisot was a pioneer, a founding member of the Impressionist movement. Constrained from painting in public, she created works of private reflection and quiet calm. She teaches us to treasure brief moments and small gestures, stillness and restraint.

‘My ambition was limited to wanting to capture something of what goes by, just something, the smallest thing.’

Morisot was born into an affluent family in Bourges, France in 1841. Her father was a civic administrator, her mother was related to the Rococo painter Fragonard. Since the art schools of the time were closed to female students, she was taught privately by tutors who included the landscape painter Corot. Copying works in the Louvre, always chaperoned, she met Renoir and Fantin-Latour; Degas, Manet and Monet, and became part of a lively artistic set. Manet painted her portrait on at least 11 occasions, transfixed by her intense gaze, her dark hair, eyes and dress. 

'Dreams are life itself – and dreams are more true than reality; in them we behave as our true selves – if we have a soul it is there.’

In 1864 Morisot began submitting her work to the Paris Salon. In 1874 she married Manet’s brother Eugène and participated in the first Impressionist exhibition. She went on to exhibit at all the subsequent Impressionist shows, except that of 1878, when she was recovering from the birth of her daughter, Julie. 

'Real painters understand with a brush in their hand.’

Berthe Morisot - In the Apple Tree

Whereas the male Impressionists often painted the bustling life of the city’s streets, cafes and clubs, Morisot was restricted by her class and gender to domestic scenes. Her work captured women and children at home and in the garden: secluded private moments, intimate interior lives.

Morisot’s sister Edma waters her shrubs in her long white day dress. Two girls play at catching a goldfish in a basin. Madame Escholier regards us with her clasped hands resting on a writing desk. A young woman in a glamorous silk gown inspects herself in the mirror as she adjusts her hair, a precious instant of tranquility before the night ahead. Here’s Julie perched on the bough of an apple tree; Julie playing the mandolin; Julie toying with a pet chicken in her lap at the feet of a tired young maid. (Julie appeared in nearly 50 of Morisot’s canvases before the age of 12.)

'A love of nature is a consolation against failure.’

Morisot didn’t have a studio, painting instead in the living room and bedroom. Her brush strokes were loose and light, quick and free. One critic dubbed her ‘the angel of the incomplete’. She certainly had a knack for capturing the fleeting moment. 

Social norms may have prevented Morisot from painting grand public scenes. But she made a virtue of this constraint and was quietly resolute. 

'I do not think any man would ever treat a woman as his equal, and it is all I ask because I know my worth.’

Berthe Morisot - Woman at Her Toilette, 1875/80

She demonstrates the subtle force of the informal and intimate, the personal and private; the emotive power of ‘the smallest thing.’

In 1893 Morisot lost her husband and her hair turned grey with grief. She painted Julie dressed in mourning black, staring straight at us, a greyhound at her feet and one hand planted firmly on the sofa. 

Two years later Morisot contracted influenza while nursing her daughter. Aware that she was fading fast, she wrote a letter of farewell to the 16-year-old.

'My dearest little Julie, I love you as I lie dying; I shall still love you when I am dead. I beg of you, do not cry; this parting was inevitable. I would have liked to be with you until you married – Work hard and be good as you have always been; you have never caused me a moment's sorrow in your little life. You have beauty, good fortune; use them well. I think the best thing would be to live with your cousins in the Rue de Villejust, but I do not wish to force you to do anything… Do not cry, I love you more than I can tell you.’

Morisot died soon after. She was 54.

Berthe Morisot - Julie Manet and her Greyhound, Laertes, 1893

'A cigarette that bears a lipstick's traces,
An airline ticket to romantic places,
And still my heart has wings.
These foolish things remind me of you.
A tinkling piano in the next apartment,
Those stumbling words that told you what my heart meant,
A fair ground's painted swings.
These foolish things remind me of you.
You came, you saw, you conquered me.
When you did that to me,
I knew somehow this had to be.
The winds of March that make my heart a dancer
A telephone that rings, but who's to answer?
Oh, how the ghost of you clings!
These foolish things remind me of you.’

Ella Fitzgerald, 'These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You)’ (H Link / H Marvell / J Strachey)

No. 417

Dionne Warwick: Driving in Style Down the Middle of the Road

Dionne Warwick posed in Hyde Park, London in 1965. Photo : David Redfern/Redferns

‘You cannot separate the voice from the heart. Dionne’s music inspired people to see and look forward to the best part of themselves.’
Stevie Wonder

I recently watched an entertaining documentary about the career of sublime singer Dionne Warwick. (‘Don’t Make Me Over’, directed by Dave Wooley and David Heilbroner, 2021)

'Years ago I learned to be totally responsible for Dionne Warwick. I will not wait for opportunities. I will create them.’

Through the ‘60s and ‘70s Warwick performed peerless versions of Bacharach & David songs - classics like ‘Don't Make Me Over’, ‘Anyone Who Had a Heart’ and ’Walk On By’; ‘Alfie’, ‘A House Is Not a Home’ and ‘Do You Know the Way to San Jose.’ In the ‘80s she successfully re-launched her career, scoring more hits and winning countless awards. And she went on to be an effective activist and campaigner.

‘They’re not gonna tell me what to do.’

Warwick was the mistress of a particular form of American popular song. Achieving sustained mainstream success is deceptively difficult. She teaches us how it can be done with style and grace.

'Anyone who ever loved
Could look at me
And know that I love you.
Anyone who ever dreamed
Could look at me
And know I dream of you,
Knowing I love you so.
Anyone who had a heart
Would take me in his arms and love me too.
You couldn't really have a heart
And hurt me like you hurt me,
And be so untrue.
What am I to do?’
‘Anyone Who Had a Heart’ (B Bacharach / H David)

Born in 1940, Marie Dionne Warrick was raised in a middle-class neighbourhood in East Orange, New Jersey. Her mother worked in an electrical factory and her father was a Pullman porter.

'My parents gave me stability and a belief in myself and in all the possibilities life has to offer. I was told the only limitations I would ever face were those I placed upon myself.’

Music was central to Warrick’s life from the start. Her mother, Lee Drinkard, managed a gospel group. Accomplished vocalist Cissy Houston (mother of Whitney) was her aunt and lived in the same family home. Legendary opera singer Leontyne Price was a cousin.

'I come from a singing family, and, as is said, 'the apple does not fall far from the tree.'’

Warrick sang in church where her grandfather was a minister. At the age of 6, when she was invited to stand on some books to perform ‘Jesus Loves Me,’ she received her first standing ovation. At the age of 17 she took the stage at the famously challenging Amateur Night at the Apollo Theater Harlem.

‘If you think it, you can do it.’

Dionne Warwick and Burt Bacharach at Pye studios in London. 29th November 1964. (Photo by Bela Zola/Daily Mirror/Mirrorpix via Getty Images)

After finishing High School in 1959, Warrick studied at the Hartt College of Music in West Hartford, Connecticut. There she learned to read, play and write music, a technical education that would sustain her throughout her career. At the same time she found work singing backing vocals for recording sessions in New York City.

In 1962 Warrick was spotted at one of these sessions by songwriter Burt Bacharach, and hired to record demos of songs he had written with lyricist Hal David.

‘As long as it doesn’t interfere with my education – because my mother would kill you, and me too.’

Warrick hoped that one of the demos, ‘Make It Easy on Yourself,’ would become her first single release. When she discovered Bacharach & David had given the song to another artist, Jerry Butler, she was not happy.

‘That didn’t sit too well with me. So when I got to New York I kind of let them know: ‘Ahah. You don’t do that to me. One thing I want you both to understand is there’s something you can never do to Dionne – that’s try to make her over. So don’t even think it.’’

Bacharach & David apologised and were inspired by Warrick’s rebuke to write her first hit, 1962’s ‘Don't Make Me Over.’ Warrick's name was misspelled Warwick on the record label and she adopted the new construction thereafter.

'Don't make me over
Now that I'd do anything for you.
Don't make me over
Now that you know how I adore you.
Don't pick on the things I say, the things I do,
Just love me with all my faults
The way that I love you.
I'm begging you.’
‘Don’t Make Me Over’ (B Bacharach / H David)

Touring on the Chitlin’ Circuit in the American South, Warwick experienced the indignities of racism – only being allowed to use Black hotels, restaurants and toilets; not feeling safe to stay in certain towns; performing to segregated audiences.

At one such gig Sam Cooke advised her before she went on stage: ‘Do not turn your back on the white folk.’

Young Warwick wasn’t willing to comply.

‘First thing I did when I went out there, I walked straight to the band and turned my back and played to the ones that looked like me.’

On another occasion Warwick made a point of adapting the lyrics to Ray Charles’ ‘What I Say’.

'Tell your mama, tell your pa, we're gonna integrate Arkansas.'

She was warned by the police that she had minutes to get out of town.

'I refuse to allow prejudice to defeat me.’

Bigotry couldn’t stop Warwick’s progress. She scored hit after hit in the US and abroad, touring Europe to great acclaim. Marlene Dietrich announced her on stage at the Paris Olympia and introduced her to the world of couture.

‘She took me shopping, much to the chagrin of my accountants.’

Warwick was not a raw-voiced R&B or gospel artist in the traditional sense. Rather her singing was light and elegant. Her voice floated above and around the instrumentation. It could be delicate, soft, and then startlingly robust. It was always under complete control.

Warwick’s technical skills enabled her to navigate Bacharach’s complex compositions. Indeed she inspired him to write more challenging tunes.

‘To sing Bacharach’s melodies you almost had to have a music education, just to read what he wrote – different registers, time signatures. The man marched to his own drummer. If you wanted to be part of that, you had to march with him.’

With her high cheekbones and elegantly arched eyebrows; with her immaculate hair and chic wardrobe, Warwick was a class act. Her success took her to places that few Black performers had been before – to Vegas and prime time TV shows, hosted by the likes of Ed Sullivan, Perry Como and Danny Kaye. Some critics responded to her sweet voice, clear articulation and pop material by labelling her crossover or middle-of-the-road. Some underestimated her talent.

What strikes me about the Warwick story is that, while it’s relatively easy to stay niche and narrow in your appeal, it is incredibly hard to succeed in the mainstream. She demonstrates that to drive in the middle of the road, you need a rare combination of talent, technique and tenacity. Yes, she sang with poise and grace. But she was precise and meticulous in her delivery, strong and resolute in her engagement with the industry.

'I am an outspoken person. I believe in what I say.’

The mental toughness that helped get Warwick to the top was also very much evident in her later career.

With the chart dominance of disco in the late ‘70s, Warwick considered retirement. She was persuaded back to the recording studio by Clive Davis at Arista.

'You may be ready to give the business up, but the business is not ready to give you up.'
Clive Davis

There followed another string of hits, including ‘I’ll Never Love This Way Again’ and ‘Heartbreaker.’

‘I’m a messenger and I’m carrying messages of love and hope.’

Warwick was one of the first voices in the music business to speak out about the AIDS crisis, recording the benefit single 'That's What Friends Are For' for the American Foundation for AIDS Research (AmFAR) (alongside Gladys Knight, Elton John and Stevie Wonder). Appointed a health ambassador by Ronald Reagan, she prompted him to say the word AIDS in public for the first time.

‘My guide is the bible. Everybody is your brother’s keeper. Everybody. I don’t care who you are – white, black, green, orange and different. You can be striped and you’re still my sister or brother – by the rules of god. And I’ve got to do what is right to help you.’

Warwick subsequently addressed the issue of misogynist lyrics in gangster rap, taking to task the likes of Snoop Dogg, Tupac and Death Row Records’ Suge Knight.

‘You don’t call me out of my name. You don’t know me that well.’

In a 60-year career Dionne Warwick has sold over 100 million records, she has had 56 chart hits and won 6 Grammy Awards. She has been a model of mainstream success – tender, technical and tough. No one dared make her over.

'If you see me walking down the street
And I start to cry each time we meet,
Walk on by, walk on by.
Make believe
That you don't see the tears,
Just let me grieve
In private, because each time I see you
I break down and cry,
And walk on by.’
‘Walk On By’ (B Bacharach / H David)

No. 416

A Misunderstanding at a Pub in Primrose Hill: Seeing Ourselves as Others See Us

Edward Le Bas, Dinner at the Garrick

One afternoon at the turn of the year I was with my old college friends at a pub in Primrose Hill. 

We agreed that it would be good to order food, and so as to accelerate the process, I fetched and distributed some menus. I also took out my Bic biro and a scrap of paper to note down what everyone wanted. 

‘That’s two chicken and mushroom pies, three fish and chips, a salad, some prawns and a bowl of nachos.’

As my friends can be an unruly bunch, I stood up to sustain their concentration.

‘Would you like chips or mash with the pies? Are the fish and chips people fine with mushy peas? Any condiments?’

At this point another group entered the pub, and a smartly dressed, attractive woman directed a beaming smile towards me.

Unaccustomed to such attention, at this or any age, I smiled back.  

And then she stepped forward and addressed me:

‘Do you have a table for five?’

I realised there had been a misunderstanding.

I thought she saw a charming man, and that perhaps there was a spark of electricity between us. 

She thought she saw a member of the waiting staff.

'O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An’ foolish notion:
What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,
An’ ev’n devotion!’
Robert Burns, ‘To a Louse'

I wonder whether we all pass through life suffering similar delusions. 

We imagine ourselves starring in our own movies - whether as romantic heroes or tragic antiheroes. Our partners, friends and family supply the supporting cast. The general public take on the roles of extras. 

And then occasionally we are roused from our fantasy and confronted with the brutal reality. Things are not quite as they seem.

I’m sure this is true in the world of work too. Most of us have a sense of self – of our strengths and weaknesses; of our value and worth - that is inconsistent in certain respects with the broader view. Sometimes we overestimate our contribution. We imagine ourselves vital to the account, crucial to the team, critical to the company. Sometimes we underestimate the part we play - the qualities we take for granted are in fact highly prized by our colleagues.

It’s always worthwhile reaching out to others to hear how we’re doing, to understand how we’re regarded - not just asking our superiors, but our teammates too, at every level. So that, albeit for a brief moment, we can see ourselves as others see us.

I ran the Strategy Department at BBH for some years. When Planners left our business for another job, I liked to conduct my own exit interview. It was an opportunity to hear why they were moving on when they were likely to be most frank. It was always illuminating. If they were interested, I’d offer counsel on how best to navigate their new role.

My final question was always the same: 

‘And what advice would you give me?’


'I would go out tonight,
But I haven't got a stitch to wear.
This man said, 'It's gruesome
That someone so handsome should care.'
This charming man.
This charming man.'
The Smiths, ’This Charming Man’ (J Marr / S Morrissey)

No. 415

The Band Wagon: You Can Teach an Old Dog New Tricks

The Band Wagon, From Left Cyd and Fred Astaire. Photo - Everett

‘The Band Wagon’ is a fine 1953 musical comedy, directed by Vincente Minnelli with songs by Schwartz and Dietz. Starring Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse, it boasts great tunes and cracking dance routines. And it explores some important themes: the interaction between aging talent, timeless skills and contemporary relevance; between entertainment and art, populism and pretension.

The film begins with the auction of a top hat and cane that once belonged to Tony Hunter (Astaire), the star of now dated dance movies. No one is interested in making a bid. We join Tony on a train from Hollywood to New York where he overhears fellow passengers discuss him as a has-been. At Grand Central he is heartened to see a crowd of reporters, but they are there to greet Ava Gardner. He realises he’s all washed up.

'The party's over, the game is ended,
The dreams I dreamed went up in smoke.
They didn't pan out as I had intended,
I should know how to take a joke.’ 
‘By Myself’ (A Schwartz / H Dietz)

Nonetheless, Tony is welcomed at the station by his friends, songwriting duo Lester and Lily Marton. They have composed a light musical comedy that will make a perfect Broadway comeback for him. And they are excited to have caught the interest of avant garde theatre director Jeffrey Cordova.

When the team meet up with Cordova, he enthuses about the project. He proposes to bring together diverse performance traditions into something startlingly new; to create a radical reinterpretation of the Faust legend. 

To accommodate the director’s vision, the Martons rewrite their play as a dark, cutting edge musical drama. And Cordova signs up youthful ballerina Gaby Gerard (Charisse) as Tony’s partner.

Tony, however, is apprehensive about starring opposite a classically trained ballet dancer, and one so tall. And Gaby is nervous about working with a Hollywood legend. Their initial meeting goes badly.

Gaby: I'm a great admirer of yours too.
Tony: Oh, I didn't think you'd ever even heard of me.
Gaby: Heard of you? I used to see all your pictures when I was a little girl. And I'm still a fan. I recently went to see a revival of them at the museum.

The company embarks on rehearsals. But Tony, feeling he's being patronized by the creative team, storms out. 

'Let's get this straight. I am not Nijinsky. I am not Marlon Brando. I am Mrs Hunter's little boy, Tony, song and dance man.'

When Gaby’s attempt to patch things up with Tony goes awry, she bursts into tears. They decide to clear the air with an evening carriage ride and walk through Central Park.

'Where to?'
'Oh, leave it to the horse.'

Strolling under a full moon, they reach a clearing. They walk slowly, in step, without a word - he in a cream linen jacket with yellow shirt and tie, she in a simple white dress. She spins. He spins. They sway together - he with his hands behind his back, she with her hands by her sides. They rotate, skip, twist and turn. At first gently, thoughtfully. Gradually they become elegantly entwined, and as the swooning string music is punctuated by stabs of brass, the extensions become more dramatic, the embrace more intimate. He lifts her up and they look into each other’s eyes. They flutter gracefully up a set of steps and settle back into the carriage, hand in hand, without a word. 

This famous ‘Dancing in the Dark’ sequence establishes that Gaby and Tony make natural dance partners. They recommit to rehearsals with renewed vigour. 

However, the first out-of-town tryout of the show proves disastrous. It’s a hugely complicated production, with elaborate sets and muddled stage direction, and it degenerates into a farce. 

'You got more scenery in this show than there is in Yellowstone National Park!’

'I should have listened to my mother. She told me only to be in hit shows.’

At Tony’s insistence, the creative team convert the production back into the light comedy that the Martons had originally envisaged. At last it all comes together.

The show's centrepiece is a 12-minute dance tribute to pulp detective novels. ‘Girl Hunt’, a murder mystery in jazz’ relates a private eye’s adventures on the city’s mean streets. There’s a blonde in distress, who’s ‘as scared as a turkey in November,’ and a sinister brunette with ‘more curves than a scenic railway.’ There’s a gunfight in the subway and trilbied villains at a fashion show; an emerald ring, exploding bottles and a murderous trumpet player. And it all climaxes in Dem Bones Café with Charisse in shimmering red dress and black evening gloves, all sensuous strut, long legs and high kicks.

‘She was bad. She was dangerous. I wouldn't trust her any farther than I could throw her. But... she was my kind of woman.’

After the thrillingly successful Broadway opening, Gaby and Tony embrace in front of the entire cast and crew. 

'The show's a big hit, Tony... It's going to run for a long time. As far as I'm concerned, it's going to run forever.'

So what are we to make of the underlying themes of  ‘The Band Wagon’?

There’s no doubt the project had personal resonances for Astaire. He was 54 and had been indelibly associated with high society dance movies. He often worried about taller partners and had previously considered retirement.

At first the film seems to be an assertion of the enduring power of established craft in the face of contemporary trends and pretentious art-house conceits. But Tony’s ultimate success does not reside in him returning to the top-hat-and-tails tropes of yesteryear. Rather he forges a new, more inventive form of popular entertainment, based on a natural partnership with a star from another discipline.

It suggests that traditional skills can remain relevant - not by grafting them onto the latest fad or fashion - but by investing them with new vigour, input and imagination.

As the cast declare in a final reprise of the show’s big hit: ‘That’s entertainment!’

'Everything that happens in life
Can happen in a show.
You can make 'em laugh,
You can make 'em cry,
Anything can go.’
’That’s Entertainment’ (A Schwartz, H Dietz)

No.414