Manet, Baudelaire and the Flaneur Strategist

Manet, ‘Music in the Tuileries’ 

‘Modernity is the transitory, the fugitive, the contingent - that half of art of which the other is eternal and immutable.’
Charles Baudelaire

Édouard Manet painted the vibrant modern world that was emerging around him in mid-nineteenth century Paris. Working in his own simple, direct style he created a bridge between Realism and Impressionism, and he is considered by many to have been the first modern artist. Some also think he was an archetype for Baudelaire’s ‘flaneur’: a debonair, detached onlooker, wandering the metropolis making acute observations on contemporary life.

Manet prompts us to reflect on our own engagement with change, culture and the city.

'Every new painting is like throwing myself into the water without knowing how to swim.’
Édouard Manet

Manet was born in Paris in 1832, into an affluent middle-class family. His father Auguste, a judge, wanted his son to follow him into the law. Then, when the young Édouard struggled at school, he suggested a maritime career. But a voyage to Rio de Janeiro culminated in failed Navy exams. Finally Auguste relented and allowed his son to pursue his long-held ambition to train as an artist. 

Whilst Manet was a great admirer of the Old Masters, particularly the Spanish School, he was not fond of the Romantic art that dominated French painting at his time. Religious, historical and moral themes seemed less relevant to him than the Realism recently pioneered by Gustave Courbet.

Manet’s inclination towards Realism may have been inspired by the phenomenal structural and social change that was going on around him in his home town. France had been in constant upheaval since the revolution of 1789. When in 1848 Napoleon III became Emperor, he set out to transform Paris from a cramped medieval city into a vibrant modern capital. The Emperor commissioned Georges-Eugène Haussmann to carry out a massive urban renewal programme - demolishing existing streets to create space for a network of interconnecting boulevards, lined with cafes, restaurants and theatres; for new parks and railway stations; for gaslight and improved sanitation.

'I paint what I see and not what others like to see.’

Édouard Manet

Portrait of Charles Baudelaire in Profile by Edouard Manet

Around 1855 Manet became close friends with the poet and critic Charles Baudelaire. Each day they would stroll together through the new boulevards and parks of Paris, discussing the emerging industrial age, the thrill of modern city life and the responsibility of the artist to depict it.

In his essay ‘The Painter of Modern Life’ (published in Le Figaro in 1863) Baudelaire celebrated the work of Constantin Guys, the  war correspondent, water colourist and illustrator. In particular he drew attention to Guys’ mastery of the fleeting moment; of passing fashion; of the here and now.

'He has sought, everywhere, the passing beauty of present-day life, the fleeting character of that which the reader has allowed us to term modernity. Often bizarre, violent, excessive, but always poetic, he has succeeded in concentrating, in his drawings, the flavour, be it bitter or heady, of the wine of Life.'
Charles Baudelaire

In the same essay Baudelaire also described the flâneur, the artist-poet of the modern metropolis.

'The crowd is his element, as the air is that of birds and water of fishes. His passion and his profession are to become one flesh with the crowd. For the perfect flâneur, for the passionate spectator, it is an immense joy to set up house in the heart of the multitude, amid the ebb and flow of movement, in the midst of the fugitive and the infinite. To be away from home and yet to feel oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the centre of the world, and yet to remain hidden from the world... The spectator is a prince who everywhere rejoices in his incognito. The lover of life makes the whole world his family…The lover of universal life enters into the crowd as though it were an immense reservoir of electrical energy. Or we might liken him to a mirror as vast as the crowd itself; or to a kaleidoscope gifted with consciousness, responding to each one of its movements and reproducing the multiplicity of life and the flickering grace of all the elements of life.'
Charles Baudelaire

Manet shared Baudelaire’s enthusiasm for realism, modernity and the city (though he articulated his passion with fewer words).

'One must be of one's time and paint what one sees.’
Édouard Manet

His 1862 work ‘Music in the Tuileries’ presented contemporary Paris at leisure. We see a crowd of smartly dressed dignitaries, intellectuals and socialites, seated, standing and promenading under the chestnut trees. They rejoice in their fashionable clothing, in seeing and being seen. 

We must assume from the title that a concert is taking place, but we can see no orchestra. Manet painted the assembly with loose strokes of the brush, distributing the figures across the picture as if in a frieze, with no obvious focal point. Most of the faces are just a blur. This is a brief passing moment; a story half told. 

In amongst the throng in ‘Music in the Tuileries’ we can identify the painter’s brother Eugène, along with other family members and friends - including the musician Jacques Offenbach, the artist Henri Fantin-Latour and Baudelaire. Manet himself stands at the far left of the picture, impeccably dressed and holding a cane, a participant in the scene, but also slightly detached from it. 

Edouard Manet - Le Chemin de fer (The Railway)

'It is not enough to know your craft - you have to have feeling. Science is all very well, but for us imagination is worth far more.’
Édouard Manet

Baudelaire’s description of the flaneur and Manet’s evocation of it may still resonate with us today. 

We can imagine the Flaneur Strategist: a wandering observer, immersed in contemporary urban life. Someone who engages in culture and change; celebrates the new, the innovative and the fashionable. And yet also stands to one side – watching, witnessing, taking notes – alone in the crowd. 

But the concept of the Flaneur Strategist also poses a challenge. With new technology we increasingly hide behind screens, pods, buds and beats. With maturity and success there is a tendency to withdraw; to cocoon ourselves in comforts. We retreat to the country, to bigger houses and better cars; to our own private bubbles. 

If we want to sustain our careers over the longer term, we would do well to stay in touch with ordinary people; with the rhythm of the city, the clamour of the crowd, the commotion of change – participating in culture, reviewing it from the inside, not the outside.

‘Genius is childhood recovered at will.’
Charles Baudelaire

When it was first exhibited ‘Music in the Tuileries’ was poorly received – by both journalists and the general public. They were uncomfortable with Manet’s contemporary subject matter, his unusual composition and loose technique. Although the artist was fiercely independent, he was always sensitive to criticism.

Édouard Manet - Un bar aux Folies Bergère

'The attacks of which I have been the object have broken the spring of life in me... People don't realize what it feels like to be constantly insulted.’
Édouard Manet

Nonetheless, Manet persevered. ‘Music in the Tuileries’ was followed by more masterpieces: 'Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe', ‘Olympia’, 'A Bar at the Folies-Bergère;' by vital pictures of social events, and street and café scenes; by enigmatic portraits of fashionable people. He became the quintessential artist of the contemporary city; and something of a father figure to the Impressionists - socialising with them in city cafes and offering advice.

What we do not know is whether Baudelaire approved of Manet’s work. The writer remained curiously silent about his friend’s output. Perhaps Manet was not quite ‘The Painter of Modern Life’ that he had in mind.

 
'Some time,
Great times,
Troubled time.
Fire for the times,
Ringing out footsteps,
Calling out steel-heels.
Promised land.
Great times in commotion.
Here comes every day,
It only lasts an hour,
Unhappy the land that has no heroes,
No! Unhappy the land that needs heroes.’

Simple Minds, '20th Century Promised Land' (B Mcgee / C Burchill / D Forbes / J Kerr / M Macneil)

No. 441

A Crisis with the Recycling Bins: Anxiety Expands To Fill The Time Available

I woke up in the middle of the night worrying about the recycling bins.

The council had neglected to collect our refuse the previous day. And so I had donned my Crocs and trotted down the road to review the situation. 

They’d clearly picked up everyone else’s. I wondered if they were punishing me for some crime of refuse mismanagement. Had I left the bins in the wrong location? Had I included inappropriate materials? Had I misallocated some coffee cups or bubble wrap?

Over the coming week I would have to eke out the small amount of space left in the green containers. With a little prudent packing and assiduous compression, I could perhaps make it through. But then I realised there was a public holiday approaching and I’d need to survive an extra day before the collection.

And so here I was in a cold sweat, uneasy and apprehensive, calculating in the dark.

Of course I shouldn’t be stressed at all. Since I’ve stepped back (as they say) from the front line of professional engagement, I have been fortunate to lead a relatively easygoing life. The recycling collection is really not that important.

And yet, when I think about it, the amount that I fret has remained pretty constant. In the past I was anxious about pitch strategies, client relations, budget reconciliation and redundancies. Now I’m equally troubled by desk clutter, ticket booking and sandal closure; by muesli stocks, thank you cards and name recollection.

'To be without some of the things you want is an indispensable part of happiness.’
Bertrand Russell

I read a review of the recently published book 'After Work.' Its authors Helen Hester and Nick Srnicek cite what’s known as Cowan’s Paradox. Some years ago American historian Ruth Schwartz Cowan established that the amount of time spent on domestic work did not decrease at all between the 1870s and the 1970s. The benefits of a century of labour-saving devices had been countered by behavioural and attitudinal changes in the home - such as increasing standards of hygiene, more intensive parenting and more elaborate cooking practices. 

This phenomenon calls to mind Parkinson’s Law. In an article about bureaucracy in The Economist in 1955 the naval historian C Northcote Parkinson observed that officials tend to want subordinates, not rivals; and that they like to make work for each other. Consequently ‘work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion.’

Reflecting on my recycling dilemma, perhaps, in similar vain, anxiety expands to fill the time available.

'My life has been full of terrible misfortunes, most of which never happened.’
Michel de Montaigne

Certainly it is human to worry. We naturally get upset and unsettled, whether about substantive issues or trivialities. We torment ourselves with dark thoughts and grim forebodings. We toss and turn; brood and stew. Small annoyances become massive grievances. Trifling concerns become tremendous fears.

Of course an excess of stress can be crippling. We need to do everything we can to help sufferers and limit its effects.

But that doesn’t mean we should seek to eradicate anxiety entirely. In moderation and properly directed, our worrying wards off complacency. It builds preparedness and resilience. And, more than this, it stimulates creativity; motivates change; propels action.  

'Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity.'
T S Eliot

This prompts me to conclude that we should regard anxiety, not as an enemy to be defeated, but as a troublesome friend to be accommodated. 

And with respect to our work worries, we should endeavour to keep them in proportion. In my own experience, the most irritating incidents, the most troublesome clients, the most disturbing prospects, don’t seem so important with the passing of time.

'Worrying is paying interest on a debt you might not even owe.'
Mark Twain

Now, a few weeks on from my sleepless night, I’ve caught up with the recycling, and the refuse collection has resumed its natural rhythm.

I should relax. But of course I have other things to worry about.

'Success is having to worry about every damn thing in the world, except money.'
Johnny Cash

'Do I worry cause you're stepping out?
Do I worry cause you got me in doubt?
Though your kisses aren't right, do I give a bag of beans?
Do I stay home every night and read my magazine?
Am I frantic, cause we lost that spark?
Is there panic when it starts turning dark?
And when evening shadows creep, do I lose any sleep over you?
Do I worry? You can bet your life I do.’

Ink Spots, ‘Do I Worry?’ (B Worth / S Cowan)

No. 440

Ella Fitzgerald: ’I’m Going to Try to Find Out the New Ideas Before the Others Do'

I recently enjoyed a documentary about the life and work of Ella Fitzgerald. (‘Just One of Those Things,’ 2019, by Leslie Woodhead)

'Just don’t give up trying to do what you really want to do. Where there is love and inspiration, I don’t think you can go wrong.'

Ella Fitzgerald had a smooth, clear, precise voice, with an extraordinary range. She excelled at swing, she mastered scat and she gave us definitive interpretations of the Great American Songbook. Dubbed the Queen of Jazz, the First Lady of Song, she overcame hardship and discrimination to achieve success. And she consistently embraced change.

'There's a saying old, says that love is blind.
Still we're often told, seek and ye shall find.
So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mind.
Looking everywhere, haven't found him yet.
He's the big affair I cannot forget,
Only man I ever think of with regret.
I'd like to add his initial to my monogram.
Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?
There's a somebody I'm longing to see,
I hope that he turns out to be,
Someone who'll watch over me.’
'Someone to Watch Over Me’ (G Gershwin / I Gershwin)

Born in 1917 in Newport News, Virginia, Fitzgerald's mother Tempie took her to Yonkers, New York in a bid to escape poverty and prejudice. As a child Fitzgerald would make the short trip into bustling Harlem where she could hear the best of blues, jazz and musical theatre, and dance on street corners for nickels.

Following the Stock Market Crash of 1929 and the death of her beloved mother in 1932, life took a turn for the worse. Fitzgerald moved in with her aunt, began skipping school and her grades suffered. She was placed in a state reformatory for girls over 100 miles from home. Beaten and placed in solitary confinement, deemed ‘ungovernable’ by the authorities, she ran away to Harlem and took to sleeping rough.

'It isn’t where you came from, it’s where you’re going that counts.'

In 1934 Fitzgerald signed up to compete in the first Amateur Night at the legendary Apollo Theater. She intended to dance, but on seeing that accomplished tap duo the Edwards Sisters were on before her, at the last moment she opted to sing instead. The crowd laughed and jeered at the scruffy 17-year-old in her dirty dress and work boots. But her version of Hoagy Carmichael’s ‘Judy’ won them over and secured first prize.

‘Once I got up on stage I felt the acceptance and love from the audience. I knew I wanted to sing before people the rest of my life.’

In the wake of this success, Fitzgerald was enlisted by Chick Webb, a celebrated drummer and bandleader who specialised in swing, the good-time dance music of the time. With her impeccable timing and perfect pitch, she fitted right in. 

Fitzgerald recorded a string of hit songs with Webb including the huge hit ‘A-Tisket, A-Tasket’, a song she co-wrote. 

'A-tisket, a-tasket,
A brown and yellow basket.
I send a letter to my mommy,
On the way I dropped it.
I dropped it, I dropped it,
Yes, on the way I dropped it.
A little girlie picked it up
And put it in her pocket.’
'A-Tisket, A-Tasket’ (E Fitzgerald / V Alexander)

When Webb died in 1939, Fitzgerald took over as head of the band, and the outfit was renamed Ella Fitzgerald and Her Famous Orchestra. She clearly had natural authority, and she rose to the top despite not being conventionally good looking.

‘I know I’m no glamour girl, and it’s not easy for me to get up in front of a crowd of people. It used to bother me a lot, but now I’ve got it figured out that God gave me this talent to use, so I just stand there and sing.’

With the United States’ entry into World War 2, many of Fitzgerald’s musicians were drafted and the group was disbanded. What’s more, public taste was moving on - from upbeat swing to the mellow crooning of Frank Sinatra and the sentimental swoon of Glenn Miller. She realised she had to evolve, and she found her answer in the fast tempos, complex chord progressions and virtuoso playing of the burgeoning be-bop movement. While performing with Dizzy Gillespie's big band, she started scat singing, improvising along with the brass. 

'I just tried to do [with my voice] what I heard the horns in the band doing.'

Although Louis Armstrong was the first to use his voice in this way, Fitzgerald took scat to new heights, embracing more intricate and sophisticated melodies. On her 1960 live album ‘Ella in Berlin’ you can hear her 5-minute scat version of ‘How High the Moon’ in which she quotes from over 40 other songs - including jigs, nursery rhymes, folk ballads, bop solos, novelty numbers and show tunes. It’s a joyous cascade of spontaneous invention. As she closes, she’s so exhausted that she sings ‘sweat gets in your eyes’ rather than ‘smoke.’

'Listen to my tale of woe,
It's terribly sad but true.
All dressed up, no place to go,
Each evening I'm awfully blue.
I must win some handsome guy,
Can't go on like this.
I could blossom out I know
With somebody just like you.
So...
Oh, sweet and lovely lady, be good.
Oh, lady, be good to me.
I am so awfully misunderstood,
So lady, be good to me.’
'Oh, Lady Be Good’ (G Gershwin, I Gershwin)

In the 1950s Fitzgerald’s manager Norman Granz persuaded her that she should evolve beyond jazz clubs onto the concert stage. He created the Verve label as a platform for her talent, and suggested she make recordings of the work of ‘tin pan alley’ composers and lyricists, like George & Ira Gershwin, Rodgers & Hart and Irving Berlin. 

‘I had gotten to the point where I was only singing be-bop. I thought be-bop was 'it', and that all I had to do was go some place and sing bop. But it finally got to the point where I had no place to sing. I realized then that there was more to music than bop… It was a turning point in my life.’

‘Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Cole Porter Song Book’ was the first of eight such sets that Fitzgerald recorded for Verve between 1956 and 1964. Her moving interpretations of these classic show tunes prompted the public to reassess what had come to be regarded as a trivial and ephemeral genre. 

'The only thing better than singing is more singing.’

Throughout her life Fitzgerald faced the indignities of racism. She struggled to get gigs in certain upmarket nightclubs and was barred from certain hotels. TV and radio producers were reluctant to book her. She was only given one dedicated TV special. Although racial segregation rules were abolished in 1954, Granz had to tear down 'Whites Only' and 'Negro’ signs when touring in the South. In 1955 a group of armed Texas police raided a concert in Houston and arrested several performers, including Fitzgerald and Dizzy Gillespie, for ‘gambling’ in a backstage dressing room. 

‘Maybe I’m stepping out - but I have to say because it’s in my heart - but it makes me feel so bad to think that we can’t go down to certain parts of the South and give a concert like we do overseas, and have everybody just come to hear the music, enjoy the music. Because of the prejudice thing that’s going on… I’m just a human being.’

 Fitzgerald summed up her frustration in a conversation with Tony Bennett.

‘Tony, we’re all here.’

While continuing to record the occasional studio album, Fitzgerald toured relentlessly in the United States and internationally, sometimes working as many as 48 weeks in a year. She just loved performing. She put on her last show in 1993 and died at home in 1996, at the age of 79. 

'I sing like I feel.'

In watching the documentary, one can’t help but be impressed by Fitzgerald’s extraordinary talent, drive and resilience - and by her appetite for change: from dance to song; from swing to be-bop to popular standards.

'A lot of singers think all they have to do is exercise their tonsils to get ahead. They refuse to look for new ideas and new outlets, so they fall by the wayside… I’m going to try to find out the new ideas before the others do.'

In her acceptance speech on receiving the NAACP President’s Award in 1987, 70-year-old Fitzgerald addressed the young talent assembled in the hall.

‘Thank you. I’m so proud to be in class with all of these younger ones coming up. They ain’t gonna leave me behind. I’m learning how to rap.’

 
'Every time we say goodbye,
I die a little.
Every time we say goodbye,
I wonder why a little.
Why the Gods above me,
Who must be in the know,
Think so little of me,
They allow you to go.
When you're near
There's such an air of spring about it.
I can hear a lark somewhere
Begin to sing about it.
There's no love song finer,
But how strange the change
From major to minor.
Every time we say goodbye.’
'Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye’ (C Porter)

No. 439

Rear Window: A Race of Peeping Toms?

Still from Rear Window with actors James Stewart and Grace Kelly,

The 1954 Alfred Hitchcock thriller ‘Rear Window’ concerns itself with voyeurism; with the paralysing effect that our curiosity into the lives of others can have on our own relationships. As such it offers a perceptive analysis of a very modern condition.

‘I can smell trouble right here in this apartment. First you smash your leg. Then you get to looking out the window, see things you shouldn’t see. Trouble.’

The film opens with a view of a Greenwich Village apartment building on a hot summer’s morning. A cat runs up the garden stairs. A couple sleeps on the balcony to keep cool. A businessman puts on his tie to go to work. We see a man listening to the radio while shaving, and a young woman exercising while making herself a coffee. There are pigeons perched on the roof.

This scene fascinates professional photographer Jeff Jefferies (James Stewart), who lives opposite and is confined to a wheelchair with a broken leg. 

‘Six weeks sitting in a two-room apartment with nothing to do but look out the window at the neighbours.’ 

The more Jeff watches, the more he is captivated. As day turns to night, he begins to build narratives around each household.

Two amorous newlyweds are handed the keys to their new accommodation and draw the blinds. A glamorous dancer fends off the persistent attentions of gentleman callers. A troubled pianist searches relentlessly for a new hit. There’s a middle-aged couple who lower their small dog to the garden in a basket; a travelling salesman with a bedridden wife; and a sculptor next door who thinks he over-waters his plants. There’s a lonely spinster who prepares dinner for an imaginary sweetheart and greets him with an imaginary kiss.

‘You'd think the rain would've cooled things down. All it did was make the heat wet.’

Jeff is so caught up in the theatre playing out in the building opposite that he cannot pay proper attention to his girlfriend Lisa (Grace Kelly), a refined society woman who works in fashion. He confides in Stella (Thelma Ritter), the nurse attending to his convalescence, that he doesn’t see much future in their relationship

‘She's too perfect, she's too talented, she's too beautiful, she's too sophisticated, she's too everything but what I want.’

Jeff believes that Lisa’s glamorous lifestyle is incompatible with his own gruelling career as a travelling photojournalist. Stella suggests he’s over-thinking things.

‘When two people love each other, they come together - WHAM - like two taxis on Broadway.’

Still from Rear Window: The Apartment Block

Jeff’s resistance to Lisa’s charms is hard to believe. She’s smart, funny, considerate - and a vision in an embroidered white tulle circle skirt and off-the-shoulder black top; with a chiffon shawl and a pearl choker necklace; with red lipstick, blue eyes and elegantly coiffed blonde hair. (Kelly’s wardrobe was designed by Edith Head.)

‘Well, if there's one thing I know, it's how to wear the proper clothes.’

One night, after a spat with Lisa, Jeff is left alone in his apartment. He hears the sound of breaking glass and a woman’s scream:

‘Don’t!’

Reaching for his binoculars, he sets them aside for his telephoto lens. He observes the salesman in the building opposite making repeated trips back and forth carrying a suitcase. Drifting in and out of sleep, he wakes to see the same man cleaning a large knife and handsaw. 

By the time Lisa visits Jeff the next morning, he is convinced that the salesman has murdered his wife. 

Jeff: Why would a man leave his apartment three times on a rainy night with a suitcase and come back three times?

Lisa: He likes the way his wife welcomes him home?

Film Poster: Rear Window

The couple then spy the suspect tying a rope around a large trunk and overseeing removal men. Now Lisa too is persuaded of the man’s guilt, and they set about proving it.

‘Tell me exactly what you saw and what you think it means.’

‘Rear Window’ was an extraordinarily inventive production. It was shot at Paramount Studios in an enormous indoor set that replicated a real Greenwich Village courtyard. Hitchcock directed the entire movie from Jeff's apartment, communicating with the actors in the building opposite via radio microphones and earpieces. The film only employed sounds arising from the normal life of the characters and the street: the noise of kids playing and a man whistling; of car horns and a passing barrel organ; of partygoers singing ‘Mona Lisa’ and the pianist practising his new composition.

Lisa: Where does a man get inspiration to write a song like that?

Jeff: He gets it from the landlady once a month.

A core theme of ‘Rear Window’ is voyeurism. Jeff’s obsession with observing other people’s private dramas seems to prevent him from living his own. And since we the viewers share Jeff’s perspective of the apartment block opposite, we are complicit.

‘That’s a secret private world you’re looking into out there. People do a lot of things in private they couldn’t possibly explain in public.’

The worldly-wise Stella points out that sometimes our curiosity can be cancerous.

Stella: We've become a race of Peeping Toms. What people ought to do is get outside their own house and look in for a change. Yes sir. How's that for a bit of homespun philosophy?

Jeff: Reader's Digest, April 1939. 

Stella: Well, I only quote from the best.

Rear Window: ‘Stella and Jeff’: Thelma Ritter and James Stewart

This thought still resonates today. The more we are absorbed in the trivia of celebrity and social media, the more we are subsumed in apathetic torpor. We become incapable of addressing our own real life issues. 

Happily Jeff and Lisa’s quest to catch the killer also repairs their fractured relationship. They are united in the fear and excitement of the chase; in shared action. They are a team. And perhaps there’s a lesson here for us all. 

At the end of the movie we see that the pianist has finally cracked his song and a romance with the spinster is blossoming. The dancer has been reunited with her devoted partner, a soldier who has been away on active service; and the newlyweds have begun to bicker.

The still convalescing Jeff sleeps contentedly, blissfully unaware of all this. Lisa reclines on a nearby chaise longue in red button-down shirt, blue jeans and loafers. She sets aside her book – ‘Beyond the High Himalayas’ - and picks up her copy of Harper’s Bazaar – the Beauty Issue.

‘Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, men have named you.
You're so like the lady with the mystic smile.
Is it only because you're lonely they have blamed you
For that Mona Lisa strangeness in your smile?
Do you smile to tempt a lover, Mona Lisa?
Or is this your way to hide a broken heart?
Many dreams have been brought to your doorstep,
They just lie there and they die there.
Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa?
Or just a cold and lonely lovely work of art?’

Nat King Cole, ‘Mona Lisa’ (R Evans, J Livingston)

No. 438

Six Blokes in a Lewes Pub: Meaningful Trivia and Embedded Brands

Image: Hulton Deutsch//Getty Images

On a recent weekend visit to the market town of Lewes, my wife set about investigating the various antique and bric-a-brac shops. Thoughtfully she found a friendly pub to occupy me while she browsed. 

The front bar of the Brewers Arms was quiet, cosy and carpeted. I fetched myself a pint of Harvey’s, spread my newspapers across the table and appraised my fellow drinkers. 

Six balding blokes in their 50s and 60s sat nearby. They wore a selection of check shirts, trainers, jeans and shorts, and were engaged in the kind of conversation familiar to mature men all over the land.

‘I visited a few pubs in Seaford last week.’

‘Some nice boozers in Seaford, Pete. I mean you start straight away with the Railway.’

‘And the Cinque Ports, of course.’

‘And then there’s that place with the pool table. You don’t see a pool table so often nowadays.’

‘Have you ever noticed there’s no pub on the seafront at Seaford? There’s the Wellington – that’s set back. The King’s Head – set back. And the Old Boot – set back. Interesting, ain’t it?’

No one wanted to pursue the issue of the Seaford seafront pubs, and the discussion drifted onto the likely fortunes of Tottenham Hotspur this season, the quality of dancing at Mick Jagger’s 80th birthday party and the relative merits of different potato formats. 

My wife has given up asking me what I chat about with my male friends. She’s accustomed to hearing that there were no personal updates or emotional disclosures; no frank exchanges or heart-to-hearts - just meandering reflections, incidental observations and well rehearsed anecdotes. 

I’m aware that this is probably our roundabout way of navigating our emotions; of signalling our states of mind; of confirming our friendship. It’s meaningful trivia.

One of the group stopped the Bar Manager as he passed by collecting glasses.

‘Dave, I hear you’ve had some Summer Lightning in your cellar. Now Summer Lightning goes down so easy. One or two is never enough.’

‘All gone, Des. Sorry.’

‘You’re gonna have to put me on speed dial for the next time you get some in. Summer Lightning is a lovely drop of stuff.’

‘Sure, Des. It’s definitely popular. I’ve been thinking of getting in Winter Lightning too.’

It struck me at this point that the best brands sit comfortably in our everyday conversation. For all the loud pronouncements and bravura gestures of many modern upstarts, the brands that endure do so by more moderate means: by becoming familiar friends, reliable acquaintances, integral to the cultural landscape. They embed themselves within our meaningful trivia.

‘Squeeze another one in, anyone?’

‘Oh, go on, Pete, I’ll keep you company.’

‘You know it makes sense.’

‘Two pints of Harvey’s please, Dave.’

 
'Well, I hope that I don't fall in love with you.
Because falling in love just makes me blue.
Well, the music plays and you display your heart for me to see.
I had a beer and now I hear you calling out for me,
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

Well, the room is crowded, people everywhere,
And I wonder, should I offer you a chair?
Well, if you sit down with this old clown, I’ll take that frown and break it.
Before the evening's gone away, I think that we could make it,
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.’

Tom Waits, ‘I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love With You’

No. 437

Lumet’s Lessons: Preparing for Lucky Accidents

‘All great work is preparing yourself for the accident to happen.’
Sidney Lumet

Between 1957 and 2007 Sidney Lumet directed some 50 films. He gave us thrilling legal dramas, like ’12 Angry Men’ and ‘The Verdict’; gripping analyses of corrupt institutions, like ‘Serpico’ and ‘Network’; and searing psychological stories, like ‘The Pawnbroker’ and ‘Dog Day Afternoon’. He presented us with moral ambiguity, isolated anti-heroes and prisoners of conscience; flawed individuals struggling to find justice and truth. He was known as ‘the Dickens of New York’, ‘the actor’s director.’ And he taught us a great deal about the creative craft. 

‘If you prayed to inhabit a character, Sidney was the priest who listened to your prayers, helped them come true.'
Al Pacino

1. Start with Empathy

‘All good work is self revelation.’

Lumet was born in Philadelphia in 1924 to Polish immigrant parents who worked in the Yiddish theatre. He grew up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, studied acting at the Professional Children's School, and, from the age of 5, appeared in several Broadway productions and one movie. After attending Columbia University, he served as a radar repairman in India and Burma during World War II. On his return he enlisted as a member of the inaugural class at New York's Actors Studio. 

Lumet loved drama, but he realised that performing was not for him. So he set up his own theatre workshop and appointed himself director, while also teaching at the High School of Performing Arts.

His early experience gave him a life-long empathy with actors.

‘I understand what they're going through. The self-exposure, which is at the heart of all their work, is done using their own body. It's their sexuality, their strength or weakness, their fear. And that's extremely painful.’

Scene from 12 Angry Men

2. Turn Your Disadvantages into Advantages

In 1950 Yul Brynner, who was directing television dramas at the time, invited Lumet to join him at CBS. When Brynner left to star in ‘The King and I,’ Lumet took over. He shot two live shows a week: murder mysteries, comedies and original plays. His output included the innovative ‘You Are There’, a series that covered historical events – such as the death of Socrates and the Boston Tea Party - with modern news techniques.

In 1957 Lumet was commissioned to produce his first movie, ‘12 Angry Men’ starring Henry Fonda. A taut examination of the US jury system - shot in just 19 days - the drama played out in a claustrophobic jury room one sweltering New York summer.

From the outset Lumet displayed a thoughtful and imaginative approach to his craft.

‘It never occurred to me that that was a difficult thing to do, to do a whole movie in one room. You come in with a certain arrogance when you’re young… I knew that the way to do it was to turn what was seemingly a disadvantage into an advantage. As the movie went on, I made the room smaller:  the lenses got longer and longer, so that walls kept pulling in closer and closer, the camera kept dropping, dropping, dropping, so finally the ceiling was right over their heads. So that actually the whole piece kept contracting. And dramatically that’s what the movie was about.’

3. Be Whatever They Need You to Be

In the early phase of his film career Lumet was often tasked with translating stage plays onto the big screen. Between 1960 and 1962 he adapted classics by Tennessee Williams, Eugene O'Neill and Arthur Miller. 

Lumet’s theatre background clearly impacted his style of movie direction. He rehearsed a minimum of two weeks before filming, and during that time he also blocked the scenes with his cameraman. Consequently, when it came to the actual production, he would usually shoot a scene in one take, two at the most, and he consistently delivered on time and on budget.

Lumet had a natural affinity with actors. He worked with them individually on their parts and he was happy to share ideas. He would often improvise dialogue and had the best exchanges incorporated in the script.

 ‘My job is to be whatever they need me to be. I’m no believer in any particular kind of technique. I’ll work any way they want to work.’

Image from The Hill

4. Trust Your Instinctive First Response

Lumet soon broadened his output beyond stage adaptations. His work tackled serious, psychological themes: the agonies of conscience; guilt and innocence; honesty and truth.

‘The Pawnbroker’ (1964), starring Rod Steiger, reflected on the enduring mental scars of a Holocaust survivor living in Harlem. ‘The Hill’ (1965), with Sean Connery, examined the brutality of a military prison. ‘Fail Safe’ (1964), again featuring Henry Fonda, exposed the ease with which Cold War misunderstandings could escalate into nuclear destruction. 

In selecting a script Lumet always trusted his gut.

‘I respond to a script or an idea completely instinctively, don’t try to analyse it, don’t try to fit it into a preconceived notion of what I want. And then, after a number of years, I can look back and I can say: ’Oh, that’s what I was interested in at that time.’’

5. Plunge in with Faith

Lumet extended this instinctive approach into the production process.

‘Self deception is really necessary to even go to work in the first place. Because the work itself is so hard you’ve got to be prepared to say: ‘I believe in this. I don’t see the problem.’ A kind of plunging in with faith.’

Lumet continued to be fascinated by the technical possibilities available to him in film. In ‘The Pawnbroker’ he used flashbacks to communicate the persistence of memory. In ‘The Hill’ he employed just three lenses: 24, 21 and 18mm. As the drama developed, he distorted the foreground and let the background recede to create the impression of escalating mental pressure.

Lumet compared his process to that of making a mosaic.

'Someone once asked me what making a movie was like. I said it was like making a mosaic. Each setup is like a tiny tile. You color it, shape it, polish it as best you can. You'll do six or seven hundred of these, maybe a thousand. Then you literally paste them together and hope it's what you set out to do. But if you expect the final mosaic to look like anything, you’d better know what you’re going for as you work on each tiny tile.’

Sidney Lumet with Al Pacino on the set of Serpico. Photograph: Everett Collection/Rex Features © Artists Entertainment Complex

6. Set the Mental Juices Flowing

Having grown up in New York during the Depression, Lumet witnessed a good deal of poverty and corruption. His films often focused on malpractice in the system and the fragility of justice.

‘If we are to have faith in justice we need only to believe in ourselves and act with justice. I believe there is justice in our hearts.’

‘Serpico’ (1973) starring Al Pacino, told the story of a whistleblower in the New York City police force, ‘a rebel with a cause.’ ‘Network’ (1976) presented Peter Finch as a news anchor suffering a breakdown, railing against the iniquities of modern media. ‘The Verdict’ (1982) featured Paul Newman as a washed up lawyer taking on a medical negligence case to salvage his career.

'I have always been fascinated by the human cost involved in following passions and commitments, and the cost those passions and commitments inflict on others.'

Lumet consistently aimed for more than entertainment.

‘While the goal of all movies is to entertain, the kind of film in which I believe goes one step further. It compels the spectator to examine one facet or another of his own conscience. It stimulates thought and sets the mental juices flowing.’

7. If It Moves You, It’ll Move Them

For the most part Lumet was a social realist. He insisted on the most natural light and he edited his films so the camera was unobtrusive. He employed camera techniques sparingly and only in service to the core theme of the movie.

‘I hate technique for the sake of technique.’

Conscious that the urban environment provided a vibrant canvas for his work, and sensitive to the particular rhythms of his hometown, Lumet preferred to shoot in New York. 

‘Locations are characters in my movies. The city is capable of portraying a mood a scene requires…. New York is filled with reality; Hollywood is a fantasyland.'

Lumet often worked with true stories. 1975’s ‘Dog Day Afternoon’, based on real events that took place in Brooklyn three years earlier, starred Al Pacino as a small time crook who plans a robbery to pay for his partner's sex reassignment surgery. But the heist goes badly wrong and turns into a hostage situation under the media spotlight.

The film included an emotionally draining scene in which Pacino’s character calls home. Lumet incurred Pacino’s anger by asking him to do a second take. But the director had a reason. 

‘When we’re tired we weep more easily, we laugh more easily. We’re just wide open.’

Lumet didn’t double guess the public’s reactions. His driving principle was that if a shot moved him, it would move them.

‘If I'm moved by a scene, a situation... I have to assume that that's going to work for an audience.’

8. Prepare for Lucky Accidents

Lumet had a strong work ethic, developing more than one movie a year for most of his career.

‘If I don't have a script I adore, I do one I like. If I don't have one I like, I do one that has an actor I like or that presents some technical challenge.’

Inevitably this prolific approach led to as many failures as successes. 

I’m just a great believer in quantity – more chances for the accident to happen…I need one hit, so I can get the money for three more flops.’

Lumet believed that there was a price to pay for ambitious film-making.

‘Great scripts can be screwed up more easily. Because the demand that they make is so much greater. Is there anything more boring than a bad Hamlet?’

Lumet saw his role as maximising the chances of ‘lucky accidents.’

'The truth is that nobody knows what this magic combination is that produces a first-rate of work. I’m not being modest. There’s a reason some directors can make first-rate movies and others never will. But all we can do is prepare the groundwork that allows for the ‘lucky accidents’ that make a first-rate movie happen. Whether or not it will happen is something we never know. There are too many intangibles.'

1976 Sidney Lumet & Faye Dunaway on the set of 'Network'

9. Make Sure Everyone’s Going in the Same Direction

In the course of his career Lumet was nominated four times for a directing Oscar. But he never won. He lost out to some great movies: 'The Bridge on the River Kwai’, 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' and ‘Gandhi.’ In 1976 the Academy preferred ‘Rocky’ to Lumet’s masterpiece ‘Network.’ 

‘Everyone was saying we were going to take it all. And on the flight out to LA, [screenwriter Paddy Chayefsky] said, 'Rocky's going to take Best Picture.' And I said, 'No, no, it's a dopey little movie.' And he said, 'It's just the sort of sentimental crap they love out there.' And he was right.’

In 2005 Lumet was presented with an Honorary Academy Award. 

‘I wanted one, damn it, and I felt I deserved one.’

Lumet died at the age of 86 in 2011. 

In some ways, with his gritty depictions of the modern city and his concern for individual conscience and social justice, Lumet was a director in the neo-realist tradition. But in his empathetic relationship with his actors and his instinctive judgement, he also looked forward. And he provided us with a compelling definition of contemporary leadership in any field.

 ‘My job is to get the best out of everybody working on [the film]. And make sure we are literally going in the same direction. That’s why I’m called the Director.’

'Accidents will happen,
They only hit and run.
You used to be a victim, now you're not the only one.
Accidents will happen,
They only hit and run.
I don't want to hear it, because I know what I've done.’

Elvis Costello and the Attractions, ‘Accidents Will Happen'

No. 436

Edward Hopper: The Lonely City

Edward Hopper - Automat (1927)

'All I ever wanted to do was to paint sunlight on the side of a house.’
Edward Hopper

I recently watched an insightful documentary about the artist Edward Hopper. (‘Hopper: An American Love Story’ (2022) by Phil Grabsky)

Hopper painted beguiling pictures of ordinary folk and everyday lives - individuals lost in thought; groups of people, each isolated and remote; private dramas played out in public places. He created a brooding world of alienation and ennui, and distilled a truth about the modern urban experience: that we can be living and working in a vibrant, bustling city, surrounded by entertainment, community and opportunity – and yet still feel terribly empty and alone.

'In every artist’s development, the germ for the later work is always found in the earlier. What he once was, he always is, with slight modifications.'

Hopper was born in 1882 in Nyack, New York, the son of a dry-goods merchant. He grew up in an affluent, intellectual Baptist household, and from an early age he was encouraged to draw by his mother. Having enrolled at the New York School of Art and Design, he subsequently took up a career in commercial illustration, a job he detested.

‘Well, illustration really didn’t interest me. I was forced into it by an effort to make some money, that’s all.’ 

Edward Hopper - Office At Night (1940)

In his early 20s Hopper made three trips to Paris, where he pursued his studies in literature, language, architecture and art. Naturally conservative, while in the French capital he avoided the avant-garde. He was a tall, shy, awkward young man, whose first romantic encounters were overwrought and frustrating. In 1910 he returned to the United States, and thereafter never left.

'I am very much interested in light, and particularly sunlight, trying to paint sunlight without eliminating the form under it, if I can.'

From the outset Hopper was fascinated by light and shadow, and he often painted urban and architectural scenes - stairways and window frames; porticos and pavements; turrets, towers and mansard roofs. His city pictures were sparsely populated, or devoid of people entirely. They had an eerie stillness.

Hopper’s early work was poorly received, rarely exhibited and seldom sold.  He remained on the margins for many years. This was all to change in 1923, when, on a summer painting trip in Gloucester, Massachusetts, the 41 year old encountered Josephine Nivison, whom he had known at art school. She was his opposite - short, talkative and sociable - and she set about taking this intense, introverted man in hand.

Nivison persuaded the Brooklyn Museum to include some of Hopper’s work alongside her own in a forthcoming show. One picture was purchased by the museum for $100, and from that point on he was set fair. 

Hopper and Nivison married in 1924 and settled into his Washington Square apartment in Greenwich Village, where they resided for the rest of their days. He was at last able to give up his job as an illustrator.

'The only real influence I've ever had is myself.’

Edward Hopper - Room in New York, 1932.

Hopper’s most celebrated paintings present seemingly mundane moments in the lives of ordinary people. They have a voyeuristic feel and sometimes their subjects are as if spied from a distance. (In his youth Hopper had enjoyed observing life in the streets, offices and residential buildings as he travelled by train into New York.) The viewer is invited to speculate: Who are these characters? What are they thinking about? What is really going on here? 

A bald fellow in a white shirt with sleeve garters sits on the sidewalk smoking a cigar, absorbed in his own private world. A middle-aged man methodically rakes the lawn of the garden adjoining his clapboard house. It’s 11-00AM and a woman with long dark hair leans forward in her armchair to stare out of the apartment window. She is naked but for a pair of flats. At the automat a lady in a cloche hat and jade green coat concentrates on her coffee. A woman in a pink slip perches on her bed and soaks up the morning sun. A pensive female usher, in smart blue uniform, leans against the wall of the movie theatre, her blond hair illuminated by a side lamp. 

There’s a cinematic quality to Hopper’s work. No surprise perhaps as he and Nivison often took trips out together to the movies or the theatre.

'When I don't feel in the mood for painting I go to the movies for a week or more. I go on a regular movie binge!'

When Hopper paints more than one subject, the characters rarely interact, touch or look at each other. We see them assembling in the hotel lobby, dining at the restaurant, reading on a train. They are together, but apart. An executive works at his desk, while nearby his assistant silently gets on with her filing. Three customers sit at the cherry-wood counter of a diner. Drinking coffee, eating a sandwich, smoking a cigarette. Each seems preoccupied. A smartly dressed couple relax at home. He reads the paper intently, she half-heartedly plays a few notes on the piano. 

There’s a melancholy sense of disappointment in these images; of boredom and bewilderment. What has happened? How did I get here? Is this it?

'Great art is the outward expression of an inner life in the artist, and this inner life will result in his personal vision of the world.’

Edward Hopper - Self-Portrait (1925–1930)

In the mid-1930s Hopper and Nivison built a summer-house in South Truro on Cape Cod and they went on field trips for fresh material in their 1925 Dodge. They had a troubled, but enduring marriage. She subordinated her career to his, managing his appointments and sharing his reclusive life-style. He was generally withdrawn and aloof, and was rather dismissive of her art. He nonetheless used her as the model for all his female characters - just changing the faces.

Hopper was a slow, meticulous painter and he made many compositional sketches before he was comfortable with a scenario. His output could be as low as two pictures a year.

‘One good picture is worth a thousand inferior ones.’

He didn’t like interviews and he avoided explaining his work.

‘The whole answer is there on the canvas. If you could say it in words, there would be no reason to paint.’

Once, when asked what his artistic objective was, he simply replied:

‘I’m after me.’

It’s hard to avoid the conclusion that this silent, secretive, introspective man was presenting us with his own sense of alienation and isolation; his own interior sadness.

'So much of every art is an expression of the subconscious that it seems to me most of all the important qualities are put there unconsciously, and little of importance by the conscious intellect. But these are things for the psychologist to untangle.'

Edward Hopper - New York Movie (1939)

It struck me that in the world of work we make many assumptions about our colleagues’ wellbeing and state of mind. We imagine that - because ours is a youthful, vigorous, convivial industry; because the city is such a dynamic, inspiring, populous place – our fellow employees are fulfilled and satisfied, content and connected. We put on parties, inductions and talks to fuel their enthusiasms. We send upbeat missives and promote unifying values. We celebrate success. But we too often fail to understand that many of our colleagues feel remote and detached. They are lost in the lonely city.

'I have tried to present my sensations in what is the most congenial and impressive form possible to me.'

Hopper died in his Washington Square studio in 1967. Nivison passed away ten months later. One of his last paintings simply presented sunlight and shadow falling across an empty room.

'Mother, I tried, please believe me.
I'm doing the best that I can.
I'm ashamed of the things I've been put through,
I'm ashamed of the person I am.
Isolation, isolation, isolation.’
Joy Division, ‘Isolation’ (S Morris / I Curtis / B Sumner / P Hook)

No. 435

Small Plates: Do Your Processes Liberate or Constrain?

Chaim Soutine (1893-1943) - Le petit pâtissier

‘Hi Matthew, Alice. It’s been quite a while. We’ve got lots to catch up on.’

My wife and I were meeting our friends in a rather cool Turkish restaurant. 

A waitress presented herself at the table with a welcoming smile.

‘Have you dined with us before? We have a small plates/sharing concept. We suggest you choose three dishes each and then see how it goes from there. They’ll arrive as they’re prepared by the kitchen.’

I’m conscious that I can no longer expect to enjoy my own preference of pie, potatoes and gravy at every dining establishment. The world has moved on. And indeed I’m aware that the Young People like the sociability and tasting opportunities afforded by small plates. 

And so I was happy to roll with it. 

‘That’s great. Excellent. Fire away!’

Of course, before we could hear about Matthew and Alice’s recent adventures, we would first have to embark on the rather lengthy process of dish selection.

‘How about some grilled mackerel with bulgur?’

‘Yes, and sourdough pide.’

‘Does anyone have any food sensitivities?’

‘We’ve got to try the house sucuk. It’s made with fermented green tomatoes.’

‘I don’t think we really need twelve dishes. We can always order more later.'

‘What’s cultured kaymak butter?’

There was a good deal of polite debate and discussion. Eventually the order was submitted and I could finally hear what Matthew and Alice had been up to…

But soon the small bowls started arriving. They continued to turn up sporadically every couple of minutes. And with each delivery came another interruption, in the form of a precise description of the particular dish before us.

‘Here’s the aubergine sogurme with almonds and a chicken and mushroom broth. Enjoy!’

In fact the food held centre stage for much of the evening, allowing very little time for other topics.

‘So Matthew, Alice, have you managed a holiday this year?’

‘Hold on a moment. I’ll just cut this mutton loin neatly into four.’

‘And how’s the building work?’

‘We only seem to have three of this dish. I’d be happy to skip it if everyone wants some.’

Of course, the meal was exceptional. And we ended up having a splendid time.

But I was struck by the fact that process can sometimes get in the way.

This can also be the case at work. 

Very often businesses embrace sophisticated systems for managing a task. There are timing plans, Gantt charts and sign-offs; kick-off meetings, briefs and briefings; reviews, catch-ups and check-ins. All designed to smooth a project’s path towards its destination. But sometimes the process can actually dampen enthusiasm, reduce spontaneity, increase expense and generally slow things down.

'Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.'
Confucius

Consequently some creative businesses renounce all operational discipline, claiming that invention and innovation cannot be harnessed and constrained. For them the best ideas emerge from a magical chaos.

I worked for many years at the ad agency BBH. It had a formidable creative reputation, but nonetheless saw an important role for process. It believed that structured procedures and orderly timelines could, in moderation and with expert application, provide the space to focus minds and the freedom for genuine inspiration. The company espoused ‘processes that liberate.’

Perhaps we should all review our day-to-day operational practices. Are they accelerating us in the right direction, or impeding our advance? Do they liberate or constrain? Do we have too much or too little process? 

My experience at the Turkish restaurant reminded me of an early ‘70s ad for Buitoni tinned ravioli. A big chap eats his pasta in silence for most of the commercial. At the end he looks up, and in a high-pitched voice proclaims: ‘Don’t talk. Eat!’

It amused us immensely as kids. 

Sometimes nowadays I’m inclined to articulate the opposite expression: ‘Don’t eat. Talk!’

 
'Nighthawks at the diner of Emma's Forty-Niner.
There's a rendezvous of strangers around the coffee urn tonight.
All the gypsy hacks and the insomniacs.
Now the paper's been read, now the waitress said:

'Eggs and sausage and a side of toast,
Coffee and a roll, hash browns over easy,
Chile in a bowl with burgers and fries,
What kind of pie?''

Tom Waits, ‘Eggs and Sausage'

No 433

The Truth and Beauty of Bill Evans: ‘Jazz Is Not a What, It Is a How’

Bill Evans in Copenhagen 1964. Photo © Jan Persson

‘Ultimately I came to the conclusion that all I must do is take care of the music – even if I do it in a closet. And if I really do that, somebody’s gonna come and open the door of the closet and say: ‘Hey, we’re looking for you.’’
Bill Evans

I recently watched a fine documentary about the life and work of jazz pianist and composer Bill Evans. (‘Time Remembered’, 2015, produced by Bruce Spiegel)

'Develop a comprehensive technique, and then forget that and just be expressive.’

With his unhurried, gentle, impressionistic playing, Evans created elegant, mournful works that meander with intent. Albums like ‘Everybody Digs’, ‘Portrait in Jazz’,’ Explorations’ and ‘Moon Beams’; legendary live recordings at the Village Vanguard, convey a sublime sadness. He teaches us to dig deeper and think harder in the quest for truth and beauty.

‘The jazz player, ultimately, if he’s going to be a serious jazz player, teaches himself.’

Born in 1929 in Plainfield, New Jersey, Evans began playing the piano at 4 or 5 and was classically trained. At 13 he fell in love with jazz, particularly admiring Nat King Cole and Bud Powell.

‘Jazz is the most central and important thing in my life.’

In 1955 Evans moved to New York, installing his piano in a small, cramped apartment on 83rd Street. He focused single-mindedly on making it as a musician.

‘At that time I made a pact with myself… I gave myself ‘til I was 30.’

Evans supplemented his natural talent with an incredible work ethic. He practised every available hour, took jobs performing in clubs in the evenings and carried a music notebook wherever he went.

'I like people who have worked long and hard, developing through introspection and dedication. I think that what they arrive at is, usually, deeper and more beautiful than the person who seems to have that ability and fluidity from the beginning.'

After producer Orrin Keepnews was played one of his demo tapes over the phone, Evans was signed to the Riverside label, the home of Thelonious Monk. His first album, released in 1956, sold only 800 copies. But he managed to catch the attention of Miles Davis, who took him on the road and enlisted him for the recording of the 1959 classic ‘Kind of Blue.’

‘I want to build my music from the bottom up, piece by piece. And I just have a reason, that I arrived at myself, for every note I play.’

Subsequently Evans formed a series of trios, the first of which, with bassist Scott LaFaro and drummer Paul Motian, was seminal. He embarked on a stunning period of music making. 

'Jazz music has always been a place where anything is possible.'            

Bill Evans. Seen here as he appears on the cover of the 2016 legacy release of the album ‘Some Other Time’

Tall and thin, sharp-suited; hair slicked back and wearing glasses, Evans played with his head hung over the piano, fingers lightly caressing the keyboard. There was a look of intense concentration on his face. With his own unique harmonic language; with melodies that floated, and rhythms that de-emphasised the beat, he created what Davis described as ‘crystal notes or sparkling water cascading down from some clear waterfall.’

Evans thought deeply about his craft. Though jazz was often regarded as somewhat cerebral, he sustained that it should always express emotions.

'It bugs me when people try to analyze jazz as an intellectual theorem. It's not, it's feeling.’

Ultimately Evans held that his music should have a spiritual dimension.

'Art should teach spirituality by showing a person a portion of himself that he would not discover otherwise.’

I was particularly taken with this statement:

'Jazz is not a what, it is a how. If it were a what, it would be static, never growing. The how is that the music comes from the moment, it is spontaneous, it exists at the time it is created.'

In the creative professions we tend to treat ideas as precious commodities, stable and fixed. We worry a great deal about people stealing our strategies, copying our concepts. What if another Agency gets hold of our pitch deck? What if a competitor mimics our campaign?

'To imitate someone is to insult them.'

I’ve always felt that creative ideas are fragile, mercurial properties, worth little in the hands of rivals. Viewed through other people’s eyes our proposals generally come across as cold, hollow, flat and lifeless. Great concepts need to be articulated by the people who originated them; animated by advocates that believe in them. And then set free.

Like Evans, the best communicators invest their ideas with spontaneity and emotion; with personality and performance. 

Persuasion is not a what, it is a how.

'Keep searching for that sound you hear in your head until it becomes a reality.’

Evans was quiet and introverted. He lacked confidence, was hurt by criticism and for much of his life he was haunted by tragedy. In 1961 Lafaro was killed in a car crash. He was just 25. In 1973 Evans’ long-term girlfriend Ellaine Schultz jumped in front of a subway train after he ended their relationship. Six years later his beloved brother Harry, who had been diagnosed with schizophrenia, shot himself. 

Evans consistently turned to narcotics to dull the pain. He died in 1980 from haemorrhaging and bronchial pneumonia, the result of decades of substance abuse. He was 51.

Not long before he passed, Evans called his collaborator and friend Tony Bennett and relayed some advice:

‘Just go with truth and beauty, and forget the rest.’

'The scene is set for dreaming,
Love's knocking at the door.
But oh my heart, I'm reluctant to start,
For we've been fooled before.

The night is like a lovely tune.
Beware, my foolish heart.
How white the ever constant moon.
Take care, my foolish heart.’

Bill Evans and Tony Bennett, ‘My Foolish Heart' (N Washington / V Young)

No. 432

Gwen John’s Interior Lives: Seeing People As They Are, Not As We Would Want Them To Be

Gwen John, The Convalescent 1920-23

'If it isn’t right, take it out!’

I recently visited an excellent exhibition of the work of artist Gwen John. (‘Art and Life in London and Paris’ is at the Pallant House Gallery, Chichester until 8 October.)

John painted pensive women in austere rooms, in soft light and closely related colours. Her portraits have a haunting stillness. They capture her sitters somber, at ease, in repose. Perhaps we see something of their true selves, their interior lives.

‘I may never have anything to express, except this desire for a more interior life.'

Born in Haverfordwest, Wales in 1876, and raised in Tenby, John was the daughter of a dour solicitor and a frail, artistic mother who died when Gwen was 8. Educated by governesses, she studied at the Slade in London, the only art school in Britain that accepted female students at the time.

In 1904 John settled in Paris, finding work as an artist’s model and falling in love with the sculptor Auguste Rodin. Six years later she moved to the suburb of Meudon to be close to him. She would remain there for the rest of her life. 

'Decide on the subject, before sleeping, for the unconscious mind.'

Young Woman in a Red Shawl. Gwen John (1876–1939)

John’s women look contained and self-possessed. Often they sit with their hands on their lap and a slight tilt of the head; with dropped shoulders and a blank expression. A young brunette holding a black cat stares into the distance. A convalescent in a plain blue dress examines a letter, a pot of tea at her side. A woman reads a book by a gingham-curtained window, relishing the seclusion. 

John created moods of quiet isolation, of fragile presence, her sitters almost blending into their surroundings. Sometimes she added chalk to her paint to enhance the muted effect.

‘People are like shadows to me and I am like a shadow.’

When, after a decade, John’s affair with Rodin ended, she turned to Catholicism. She painted a series of portraits of the nuns at the local convent in Meudon, including a commissioned series of the order’s founder, Mère Marie Poussepin. These works perhaps provided the ultimate test of her art. The sitters’ habits and wimples suppress their individuality, but their personalities shine through in their eyes and expressions.  

Gwen John, Mère Poussepin 
© The Henry Barber Trust, The Barber Institute of Fine Arts, Univeristy of Birmingham

‘In talking, shyness and timidity distort the very meaning of my words. I don't pretend to know anybody well.’ 

From what we know of John, she was sociable and given to intense, passionate attachments, to both men and women. But she also clearly treasured solitude, as a subject for her art and as a precondition for her creative process.

‘A beautiful life is one led, perhaps, in the shadow, but ordered and regular, harmonious. I must stay in solitude to do my work.’

John began one notebook of 1912:

'Rules to Keep the World Away
Do not listen to people (more than is necessary)
Do not look at people (ditto)
Have as little intercourse with people as possible
When you have to come into contact with people, talk as little as possible
Do not look in shop windows’

For much of her life John was overshadowed by her flamboyant younger brother and fellow artist Augustus. In the exhibition there are two portraits, side-by-side, of Dorelia McNeil, Gwen’s friend and Augustus’ lover. Augustus painted her at the outset of their relationship, in 1903, with flushed cheeks and sensuous gaze, a yellow posy in her hands. In Gwen’s portrait from later that year, Dorelia, arms folded and wearing a simple black dress, looks straight at us with an expression of silent strength. 

We get a sense that, while Augustus painted the woman he wanted to see, Gwen portrayed her as she was.

There is a lesson for us all here. We carry around with us impressions of our friends and colleagues. We regard them through the prism of our own tastes, preferences, experiences and expectations. But often our assumptions do not tally with reality, and this can lead to misunderstanding, resentment and disappointment. Perhaps we should endeavour to regard our acquaintances and associates as subjects, not objects; to see people as they are, not as we would want them to be.

'I cannot imagine why my vision will have some value in the world. And yet I know it will. I think I will count because I am patient and recueilli (contemplative) in some degree.’

For much of John’s career her sole patron was an American lawyer and art collector, John Quinn. After he died in 1924 she struggled financially and her work tailed off. She stopped painting entirely around 1933 and took to gardening. 

In September 1939, as war descended on Europe, John wrote her will and travelled without any luggage to Dieppe, a town she had visited a number of times before. She collapsed in the street and died in hospital 8 days later. She was 63.

 
'Wish you gave me your number.
Wish I could call you today, just to hear a voice.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.

If I didn't know the difference, living alone would probably be OK.
It wouldn't be lonely.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.

A lot of hours to occupy, it was easy when I didn't know you yet.
Things I'd have to forget.
But I better be quiet now.
I'm tired of wasting my breath,
Carrying on and getting upset.'

Elliott Smith, 'Better Be Quiet Now'

No.431