Roger Mayne: ‘Please Take My Photo, Mister’

Hitting hard … Goalie by Roger Mayne. Photograph: © Roger Mayne Archive / Mary Evans Picture Library

The photographer Roger Mayne is best known for his images of children and young people on the streets of post-war London. (‘Roger Mayne: Youth’ is at The Courtauld Gallery, London until 1 September.)

Born in Cambridge in 1929, Mayne studied Chemistry at Oxford University, and it was there that he became interested in photographic processing. After National Service, he moved to London and found work as a freelance photographer for London magazines and book-jacket designers.

Between 1956 and 1961 Mayne took around 1400 images of the life on Southam Street on the northern edge of Notting Hill.

‘My reason for photographing the poor streets is that I love them, and the life on them.’

 © Roger Mayne Archive. Mary Evans Picture Library 2021

With dirty hands and tousled hair, kids climb through ruined buildings and run around graffitied bombsites. ‘MS is Mad,’ ‘QPR’, ‘God Save the Queen.’ In knitted cardigans and tank tops, in short trousers and gingham skirts, they congregate on doorsteps and at street corners, playing games, planning adventures. Mingling with the other kids, there are a few children from the recently arrived West Indian community. A boy in a blazer dives desperately to save a goal. Two girls perform handstands against a corrugated iron fence. Another runs down the street in tears, clutching her arm.  

The pictures are at once disturbing and uplifting. We witness the poverty, poor hygiene and everyday jeopardy of war-ravaged London. But we also see the timeless grace of children at play, their joyful energy and enthusiasm, their resilience and their lust for life.

The kids regard us with glee, curiosity, suspicion. Sometimes they are absorbed in their own world. Sometimes they perform for the camera. 

'You used to get this cry, ‘Please take my photo, Mister’.'

Jive dancing on Southam Street, 1957 © ROGER MAYNE ARCHIVE

Mayne’s empathy with young people led to him being commissioned to provide images for the covers of child psychology and sociology books. Their titles still resonate today: ‘Children Under Stress’, ‘Black British, White British’, ‘Poverty: The Forgotten Englishmen.’

‘Photography involves two main distortions – the simplification into black and white, and the seizing of an instant in time. It is this particular mixture of reality and unreality, and the photographer’s power to select, that makes it possible for photography to be an art.’

Mayne went on to capture the emergence of the teenager on London streets. The subjects’ gaze becomes more assertive, occasionally sullen, challenging. There are frowning Teddy Boys in dapper Edwardian suits; self-assured Mods in sharp Italian tailoring; bohemian Beatniks twisting the day away at the Richmond Jazz Festival. A lass in a pleated skirt, sitting on her friend’s lap, silently sips her lemonade. Teenage girls in trousers conspire at the Battersea Funfair. Two young women shake hands on a Soho street, one glancing sideways with a furtive look. A girl jives on Southam Street. 

In 1958 the Notting Hill area that had seemed so harmonious in Mayne’s earlier photos became the scene for race riots. The following year Mayne provided a shot for the cover of ‘Absolute Beginners’, Colin MacInnes’ celebrated novel about youth culture and simmering racial tension. We see a Mod couple on a deserted west London street. The man looks away from us towards his cream raincoated girlfriend. She crosses the road, hands in pockets, her head turned disconsolately towards the pavement.

Absolute Beginners (original book cover)

In reflecting on his craft, Mayne quoted the abstract artist Sir Terry Frost:

‘If you know before you look, you can't see for knowing.’

This sums up the open-mindedness with which Mayne approached all his work. And explains the truthful, haunting quality of his pictures.

In any creative or strategic endeavour, we must first set aside biases and assumptions, if we are properly to see what is really going on.

Although Mayne’s pictures have a timeless quality, capturing the essence of childhood innocence and youthful independence, they are also profoundly nostalgic. We are reminded of an era when city streets offered kids security, fresh air and friendship. Alas no more in this age of anxiety. Most of Southam Street was demolished in 1969 to make way for the Brutalist high rise apartment building, the Trellick Tower.

'I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar.
I am the son and heir
Of nothing in particular.
You shut your mouth.
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way?
I am human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does.’
The Smiths, ‘How Soon Is Now?’ (J Marr / S P Morrissey)

No. 484

The Hot Wing King: ‘Don’t Sit So Close to the TV… You Gotta Sit Back and Let a Picture Come into View’

From left, Jason Barnett, Kadiff Kirwan, Simon-Anthony Rhoden. Images - Helen Murray

‘The Hot Wing King’ by Katori Hall tells the story of four gay Black men preparing to compete in the annual Hot Wing Contest in Memphis, Tennessee. (Directed by Roy Alexander Weise, at the National Theatre, London until 14 September)

Cordell: I got that Lemon Pepper Wet. That Lemon Pepper Dry. Dem Suicides: Hot-Hot and HOT! Them Blueberry Birds and even…some Parmesans.

Cordell (Kadiff Kirwan) is the gifted, driven head chef, with a new recipe that he hopes will earn them this year’s hot chicken crown.  

Cordell: Spicy. Cajun. Alfredo. With Bourbon Infused. Crumbled. Bacon.

His crew, the New Wing Order, also includes his partner Dwayne (Simon-Anthony Rhoden), an overworked manager at a local hotel; laid back barber Big Charles (Jason Barnett); and camp fashion victim Isom (Olisa Odele).

Cordell: Isom, make sho you stir counter-clockwise and scrape the bottom after every five minutes. The key to the Crutchfield recipe is smoke. And lots of it.

Cordell needs to instil some discipline and determination in his friends, if they are to reach their goal.

Cordell: I just need y’all to be focused now. I for one am tired of losing. The New Wing Order been trying fuh five years and ain’t never won the top prize. But these folks gone learn tomorrow.
 
And so, they diligently soak hickory chips, flash fry bacon, chop and marinade wings. And they get acquainted with Cordell’s secret ingredient.

Big Charles: Wooooooo, bwoy, who woulda thunk a pepper straight harvested from the bush of western Uganda is the secret to the Crutchfield recipe… It might not taste like nothing at first. But the moment that heat hit, the seeds leak that peli-peli oil and burn all the way through the marinade… Well, I know where I need to go when the aliens come. This peli-peli fuck they ass up.

Gradually, we get to know the characters through their cooking and conversation. And we learn that there are underlying tensions at play. Cordell has recently left his wife and two sons in St Louis to move in with Dwayne. He is haunted by a sense of failure as a father, and, as yet unable to find work in Memphis, he is uneasy with his dependency on Dwayne. To make matters more complicated, Dwayne’s troubled nephew is also keen to take up residence.  

Cordell: I’m one part selfish, two parts stubborn and one part…scared.

The discussion around the kitchen counter drifts seamlessly between the frivolous and the profound. They chat about basketball, try on Hawaiian shirts decorated with chicken wings, and break into a joyous song and dance routine to Luther Vandross’s ‘Never Too Much’. They also consider family, fatherhood and masculinity; sexuality, grief and guilt.  

Cordell: Thass when I knew that there was someone on this earth strong enough to hold me. All of me. All the pieces. All the shards…
Big Charles: Must be nice for someone to know you like that.
Cordell: It ain’t. They know all your cracks. Where to press to make you cave in on yo’self.
Big Charles: And where to put the superglue, I reckon.

I was quite taken with a comment made by Isom, when the tensions between Cordell and Dwayne are threatening to boil over.

Isom: As my mama say – Don’t sit so close to the TV… Meaning, you gotta sit back and let a picture come into view.

This is sound advice. In life and work we can sometimes get too involved in a conundrum, too immersed in the detail. We look closer, dive deeper, think harder. But the solution eludes us.
 
Often it’s worth stepping back, taking a breath, accommodating some context. The best Strategists don’t just grapple with the particulars of a problem. They also take into account broader cultural and social change, adjacent circumstances and accompanying conditions. They let a picture come into view.

As Cordell observes towards the end of this splendid play, the best ideas can come when you least expect them.

Cordell: What is a mistake, but merely a new dream, a frontier untamed, a sweet discovery? In this case, a flavor yet to be tasted.

'I can't fool myself, I don't want nobody else to ever love me.
You are my shining star, my guiding light, my love fantasy.
There's not a minute, hour, day or night that I don't love you.
You're at the top of my list 'cause I'm always thinking of you.
I still remember in the days when I was scared to touch you,
How I spent my day dreaming, planning how to say I love you.
You must have known that I had feelings deep enough to swim in,
That's when you opened up your heart and you told me to come in.
Oh, my love,
A thousand kisses from you is never too much.
I just don't wanna stop.
Oh, my love,
A million days in your arms is never too much.
I just don't wanna stop.
Too much, never too much, never too much, never too much.’

Luther Vandross, 'Never Too Much’

No. 483

Biba: ‘The Only Thing You Have Is What’s in Your Head’

 I recently attended a fascinating exhibition about the legendary fashion brand Biba. (The Fashion and Textile Museum, London, until 8 September.)

‘The market was instant for that age group, they wanted it there and then. They didn’t want to wait, as they didn’t look to the future in any way.’
Barbara Hulanicki

Between 1964 and 1975 Biba sold fast, affordable fashion to young people in London, the UK and beyond. Fusing the creative flair of Barbara Hulanicki with the commercial nous of her husband Stephen Fitz-Simon, Biba offered bold outlines, simple construction, vibrant colours and imaginative fabrics. It was a magical, immersive shopping experience, a lifestyle brand that endlessly reinvented itself.  

‘It isn’t just selling dresses, it’s a whole way of life.’

Hulanicki was born in Warsaw in 1936. After her diplomat father was assassinated in Palestine in 1948, the family moved to Brighton. She studied at the Brighton School of Art, and then worked as a freelance fashion illustrator for magazines such as Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Tatler and Women's Wear Daily. She quickly realised that the elite couturiers were out of step with emerging youth culture and the changing tastes of modern women.

Pink Gingham Dress

In 1961 Hulanicki wedded Stephen Fitz-Simon, an ad man employed at the London Press Exchange. With Hulanicki working from home and Fitz-Simon doing long hours in the office, their married life got off to a challenging start.  

‘We could both see we were on a collision course, so I was desperate to try and find something we could do together.’

Fitz-Simon foresaw that illustration was being eclipsed by photography, and so encouraged Hulanicki to pursue her interest in design. In 1963 the couple set up a mail order fashion business, Biba's Postal Boutique ('Biba' was the nickname of Hulanicki's younger sister, Biruta). The following year they had their first significant success when they advertised a pink gingham dress and matching headscarf in the Daily Mirror. The outfit looked similar to one recently worn by Brigitte Bardot, and 17,000 units were sold.  

Hulanicki and Fitz-Simon were emboldened to open the first Biba boutique, in Abingdon Road, Kensington. The store had a nightclub feel, with dark interiors and loud music, muddled merchandise and clothes hanging from hat-stands. Breaking with the conventions of the time, it offered late-night shopping, young, approachable staff and communal changing rooms.

'It was like fishing: you would never know what you might come back with.’

As a fashion illustrator, Hulanicki was predisposed to simple lines and bold silhouettes, and she avoided fussy details. She designed mini-shift dresses and mini-skirts; jump suits, coats and hats, in ‘bruised’ purple, plum, olive, rust, mulberry, mauve and black - what she called ‘auntie colours.’

‘We started off with just really simple shapes, little smocks and shifts, as it kept the manufacturing headaches away.’

Fitz-Simon aimed to keep prices below the disposable weekly income of the average London secretary. And so the skirts, tops and accessories sold for a few pounds or less, dresses for under three pounds. And for the first few years, to keep costs down, the garments had no label, and were only available in sizes 8 to 12.

‘I wanted to make clothes for people in the street, and Fitz and I always tried to get prices down, down, down.’

Biba - Bridgeman Images

The Biba boutique became hugely popular, frequented by the glitterati of the day: Twiggy, Cher, Cilla Black and Cathy McGowan. In 1966 they set up in larger premises on Kensington Church Street. The new shop boasted a black and gold exterior, and striking red and gold wallpaper inside, along with antique mahogany shelving.  

‘From day one of the first Biba I was never quite certain which came first, the clothes or the interiors.’

In 1969 Hulanicki and Fitz-Simon launched an even bigger Biba store on Kensington High Street, featuring Victorian wooden fixtures and Art Deco inspired sets. Staffed almost entirely by women, the shop had one of the first workplace creches.

As Biba grew, it retained its cost consciousness. Shops opened in autumn and winter months, when sales of coats ensured higher profit margins. Evening dresses were labelled as dressing gowns so that they would be subject to lower tax. 

Typically, Hulanicki designed for a young woman with long thin arms, flat chest, low waist and straight hips.  

‘The silhouette was as long as possible… like a drawing. [The ideal Biba girl has] a skinny body with long asparagus legs and tiny feet.’

Hulanicki evolved her creations in step with changing tastes and appetites. There were slim trouser suits, with square shoulders and fitted sleeves. There were plunging necklines, wrap-over bodices and round-edged collars; culottes, coordinated separates and long diaphanous dresses. Whereas previously apparel retailers tended to offer longevity at a premium price, she made sure that there was a constant succession of fresh, affordable seasonal releases.  

'We are determined that customers shall be able to buy summer clothes in summer and autumn clothes in autumn.’

Hulanicki took inspiration from history - from Victoriana, the Pre-Raphaelites, Art Nouveau and Art Deco; from Mucha, Mackintosh and Klimt. Biba’s celtic knot brand device, created by Anthony Little, echoed the illustrations of Aubrey Beardsley.

As well as working extensively in cotton, linen, chiffon, satin and velvet, Hulanicki experimented with heritage fabrics like marocain, flanesta, crepe and crepe de Chine.  

‘We were always desperate for something different. We’d always had hundreds of fabric reps coming into Biba and we produced thousands of in-house prints.’

Early problems with sourcing prompted her to limit lines to 500 pieces in any one fabric. So the shop was always freshly stocked, and there was a sense of urgency when customers found something they liked.

‘Take it or leave it, but if you wait it won’t be there when you come back.’

Consequently, Hulanicki and Fitz-Simon established long-term relationships with textile manufacturers and attended countless textile fairs in the quest for ideas.

‘We went to all the fabric fairs: Milan, Bologna, Spain, Paris. I was obsessed. I had to see everything.’

Barbara Hulanicki, 1964. © Barbara Hulanicki

The brand rapidly extended into menswear, unisex fashion and couture – and into children’s wear, which Hulanicki designed as scaled down versions of adult styles.  

‘They have minds of their own. At three they come into us and choose everything, even their hats. They know what they want.’

The Biba look could be completed with accessories: floppy hats and elegant headscarves; colourful boots, plastic jewellery and feather boas.  

‘First you’ve got the dress, then the tights, then the shoes, then the hat, and then you get to the face…and nothing.’

There was also a hugely successful range of cosmetics, sold through 300 Dorothy Perkins shops in the UK, and in more than 30 countries worldwide. Biba was the first company to produce a full range of cosmetics for both Black skin and for men.

Mail order took Biba garments and accessories nationwide in the UK. In the United States fabrics were sold with accompanying patterns through Macy’s, and a Biba department was set up in Bergdorf Goodman.

Biba at High Street Kensington became one of the most profitable stores in the world. It had over 100,000 visitors per week and an annual turnover of more than £200 per square foot (compared with £50 per square foot in an average department store).

Twiggy in the Rainbow Room, Biba © Justin De Villeneuve and Iconic Images

‘When people like something, they need mark I, mark II and mark III. A progression.’

And so, in 1973, the brand scaled up yet again, with the launch of Big Biba, also on High Street Kensington. Spread over seven stories and fifteen departments, the store had an Art Deco interior celebrating the Golden Age of Hollywood. It sold Biba washing powder, baked beans, babies’ nappies and satin sheets. There was Biba wallpaper, paint, cutlery and soft furnishings. At Big Biba you could see an exhibition, visit a beauty parlour and take tea on Europe’s largest roof garden. In its Rainbow Room restaurant, you could watch bands like the New York Dolls, Cockney Rebel, the Pointer Sisters and Liberace.

The store attracted up to a million customers every week, its aesthetic chiming with the emergent glam rock movement. Freddie Mercury’s girlfriend Mary Austin worked there.

‘When [Queen] fans come over here, that ought to be the first place they go.’
Freddie Mercury

However, the stresses of running such a multi-faceted, endlessly changing fashion and lifestyle phenomenon became too much. Hulanicki and Fitz-Simon had sold 70% of the business to retailer Dorothy Perkins in 1969. Three years later Dorothy Perkins was taken over by property developer British Land, an owner that was unsympathetic to Biba’s creative culture.

‘Every time I went into the shop, I was afraid it would be for the last time.’

As well as the financial and workload pressures of running such a mercurial business, there were also challenges that came out of left field. In an episode that foreshadowed today’s ethical concerns about fast fashion, in 1971 the urban terrorist organisation The Angry Brigade (who had disrupted the Miss World competition the previous year) bombed the store.

‘Women are slaves to fashion, Biba leads fashion, therefore blowing up Biba will liberate Biba.’
The Angry Brigade

In the end Big Biba lasted just two years. Its fixtures and fittings were auctioned off and it was occupied by squatters. In 1975 it made way for a Marks & Spencer and a British Home Store.  

‘I was okay for two days and then it hit me. I didn’t know who I was any more. Biba had been my life, my dream.’

Biba had been a revolutionary presence in the British fashion and retail world, ushering in the era of fast, affordable fashion and the lifestyle brand. It had shone brightly, fabulously, and then burnt itself out.

Twiggy in Biba © Justin De Villeneuve and Iconic Images

Biba teaches lessons about the dynamism of youth culture, the imperative of immediacy and affordability, the essential thrill of the retail experience and the relentless quest for inspiration. It also challenges us to manage brand extension with care; and to consider the social and environmental costs of fast fashion.

After the collapse of Biba, Hulanicki moved to Brazil, where she opened several stores and designed for labels such as Fiorucci and Cacharel. In 1987 she settled in Miami, where she ran an interior design business and worked as a consultant. She is still there today.

'Now, whenever I finish something, I take some photographs and say 'goodbye'. When you lose everything, you realise that the only thing you have is what's in your head.’

'I'm in with the in crowd, I go where the in crowd goes.
I'm in with the in crowd, and I know what the in crowd knows.
Anytime of the year, don't you hear? Dressing fine, making time.
We breeze up and down the street, we get respect from the people we meet.
They make way day or night, they know the in crowd is out of sight.
I'm in with the in crowd, I know every latest dance.
When you're in with the in crowd, it's so easy to find romance.'
Dobie Gray, 'The 'In’ Crowd’ (B Page)

No. 482

Which One’s Mike?: ‘Every No Takes Me Closer to a Yes’

Lill Tschudi | Jazz Orchestra (1935)

I’m also partial to a pub singalong.

I enjoy watching friends perform, revealing their talents, exposing their vulnerabilities. I like the link to the traditions of the past, the nostalgia for the songs of our youth, the giddy spirit of community.

And so, when I had a birthday celebration recently, I invited a number of my mates to sing one number each. Richly talented Mike volunteered to act as Music Director, agreeing song selections and arrangements, rehearsing the acts, playing keyboard backing.

On the evening itself, as the guests gathered in a Clerkenwell pub, Niece Rosie approached me. A smart, funny Young Person with bags of charisma, she was originally unable to attend the gig.
 
‘I’m so glad you’ve made it, Rosie. Brilliant.’
‘Yes, and I’m up for singing a song!’

She beamed a big, open smile at me. But I had to disappoint her.

‘I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. Mike agreed the tunes with the singers weeks ago. He’s rehearsed with them and established the right pitch for their voices. It’s all been impeccably pre-produced.’
‘I’m sure I could just give it a go.’
‘No, I’m sorry. It just won’t work.’
 
Niece Rosie regarded me with a benign grin.
 
‘Which one’s Mike?’ she said. And with that she was gone.

A little later I was informed that Niece Rosie would be performing Elton John’s ‘Rocket Man.’

There’s a lesson here for anyone who works in the persuasion business. When you hit a blockage, a bump in the road, don’t waste your time repeating yourself, bashing your head against a brick wall. Seek a roundabout route, a sympathetic ally. Search for the person who can influence the decision. Find the real decision maker.  And never take no for an answer.

Elizabeth (Bessie) Coleman

Bessie Coleman, born into a family of Texan sharecroppers in 1892, grew up picking cotton and washing laundry. Her early interest in aviation was snubbed, because flying schools at the time admitted neither women nor Black people. So she taught herself French at night, and saved the money to learn to fly in Paris. She became the first African American woman to hold a pilot’s license. On her return to the United States ‘Brave Bessie’ had a successful career as a stunt flier at air shows, celebrated for her ‘loop the loops’ and ‘figure 8s’. She explained her persistence thus:

‘I refused to take no for an answer. Every no takes me closer to a yes.’
 
Niece Rosie stood before the crowd, reading the lyrics from her phone, delivering her song with crystalline clarity, mellow tunefulness and soulful warmth. The audience swayed in time with the music, joined in with the chorus and roared approval as she took her ‘timeless flight.’   

‘It's lonely out in space
On such a timeless flight.
And I think it's gonna be a long, long time
'Til touchdown brings me round again to find,
I'm not the man they think I am at home.
Oh, no, no, no,
I'm a rocket man,
Rocket man,
Burning out his fuse up here alone.’
Elton John, ‘Rocket Man’ (E John / B Taupin)

No. 481

The Amnesiac Industry: If We Have No Memory of the Past, We Can Have No Vision for the Future

‘Mnemonic’ at the National Theatre Photo: Johan Persson 

‘Mnemonic’ is a play about memory and migration, ancestry and storytelling. (The National Theatre, London, until 10 August).

The body of a man has been discovered under Tyrolean ice. It turns out to have been preserved for over 5,000 years. How did the Iceman get there? Where did he come from? Was he a shaman or a shepherd, a victim of a patriarchal challenge, or of a pogrom?  

A woman disappears on the morning of her mother’s funeral. She has set off on an odyssey across Europe, in search of the father she never knew.

Her partner, left behind in London, desperately tries to make sense of it all.

A 1999 work by the Complicité theatre company, ‘Mnemonic’ was conceived and is directed by Simon McBurney. This imaginative, layered production uses props and visual effects to take us on a speeding train, into bars and bedrooms, and up to an Alpine ridge. We are invited to don a mask and feel a dead leaf. We meet migrants living in London suburbs. And an articulated chair plays a starring role. We are prompted to reflect on the interconnectivity of our pasts and futures; on the fundamental human need for narratives.

In particular, the play asks us to consider memory.

‘Memory is a pattern. Of electrical synaptic connections. Each time you remember, your brain has to re-make this pattern. It is a creative act, and it happens at a speed no computer can match. But the memory is different each time. And because the pattern can never be exactly the same, so it is… an imaginative act. Remembering is about discarding and choosing, forgetting and creating, losing and finding, dismantling and simultaneously re-making.’

Simon McBurney

‘Mnemonic’ begins with a discussion of a celebrated neuroscience case. (Also outlined in the Programme Notes by Daphna Shohamy, Professor of Brain Science at Colombia University.) In the 1950s a man underwent surgery for a severe condition of epilepsy. The surgeon removed his hippocampus, a seahorse-shaped structure behind each ear. The patient recovered well - his past memories, language, reasoning and sense of self remaining intact. But he lost the ability to create new memories.

‘[Subsequent research has established that] Patients with hippocampal damage struggle not just with new memories, but also with imagining the future. When asked to envision future events – such as plans for next weekend, or their next birthday party – their minds draw a blank.’
Daphna Shohamy

I was struck with this thought that our memories determine our capacity to imagine the future.

The communications industry proudly proclaims its talent for predicting, managing and creating change. It positions itself firmly in the future, always looking forward to the next horizon; to tomorrow’s world.

But it tends not to be so expert in the past, rarely reflecting on historic models, case studies and thinking; seldom studying the learnings of previous generations.  

It is an amnesiac industry. And as such it is constrained in its ability to progress at pace, and cursed continually to re-make past mistakes.

I’d advise young strategists to be historians as much as forecasters. I’d encourage them to read Paul Feldwick’s analysis of how different eras have understood advertising effectiveness (‘The Anatomy of Humbug’); to consider old D&AD, APG and IPA Effectiveness annuals; to talk to veteran practitioners; to visit the History of Advertising Trust.

Because if we have no memory of the past, we can have no vision for the future.

'Did we give up too soon?
Maybe we needed just a little room.
Wondering how it all happened,
Maybe we just need a little time.
Though we did end as friends,
Given the chance we could love again.
She'll always love you forever,
It's not hard to believe.
I want you and I need you so I’m...
Sending you forget me nots,
To help me to remember.
Baby please forget me not,
I want you to remember.’
Patrice Rushen, ‘Forget Me Nots’ (P Rushen, T McFaddin, F Washington)

No. 480

Skeleton Crew: ‘People Don’t Know How to Merge’

Pamela Nomvete as Faye. Photo - Helen Murray

‘Skeleton Crew’ by Dominique Morisseau (directed by Matthew Xia, at the Donmar Warehouse, London until 24 August) considers the impact of industrial decline on communities and individuals.
 
Faye: I don’t abide by no rules but necessity. I do what I do till I figure out another thing and do that.

The play is set in 2008, in the breakroom of one of the last small car plants operating in Detroit. There’s a microwave and a refrigerator, a tatty couch and crates of kitchen supplies. The heating has packed up and the bulletin board screams instructions.

‘FRIDGE EMPTIED EVERY FRIDAY’
‘NO GAMBLING ON THE PREMISES. DEZ, THIS MEANS YOU.’
‘YOU SEE YOUR MAMA HERE? NO? THEN CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF!’

Between shifts, the workers change shoes at their lockers, prepare themselves some food and coffee, and talk around the table. Dez (Branden Cook), a smart young hustler, charms his colleagues and plans for the future. Shanita (Racheal Ofori), diligent and  thoughtful, does everything by the book. She loves her work.

Shanita: I feel like I’m building somethin’ important. Love the way the line needs me. Like if I step away for even a second and don’t ask somebody to mind my post, the whole operation has to stop. My touch…my special care…it matter. I’m building something that you can see come to life at the end. Got a motor in it and it’s gonna take somebody somewhere. Gonna maybe drive some important businessman to work. Gonna get some single mama to her son’s football practice. Gonna take a family on their first trip to Cedar Point. Gonna even maybe be somebody’s first time. Who knows? But I like knowing I had a hand in it.  

And then there’s Faye (Pamela Nomvete), the formidable veteran with ‘a lifetime of dirt between her nails.’ She ignores the strictures against on-site smoking and gambling, and dishes out sarcasm and worldly wisdom.

Faye: Ya’ll youngins don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout how to fix up no car. Treat ‘em ‘bout as dumb as you treat women. Put a bunch of pretty jewelry on her – gold rims – trick out her exterior, and on the inside, she ain’t got nothin’ to run on. No care. No substance. Just put all your attention on the shit that don’t matter. That ain’t how to make her purr like you really want.  

The autoworkers speculate about the reduced staffing on the lines and the recent spate of plant machinery thefts. They wonder whether the site is at risk of closure.

Dez: Rumors ‘bout shuttin’ down been circulating every year. Then it go away. That’s just how it is. Can’t worry ‘bout it. Cuz if it don’t happen you done worried for nothin’. And if it do happen, you done worried twice.

We learn how the threatened shutdown impacts each of the characters differently. Reggie (Tobi Bamtefa), the studious foreman with neat hair and a white buttoned-down shirt, has bought a house in a good area and settled his kids in a new school. Dez has been saving up to start his own repair shop, and desperately needs his wage and overtime. Faye is well aware that her retirement package will be significantly better if she can just make it to 30 years’ service.

Faye: Told you, don’t be listening to rumors. You inhale every rumor, you clog up your lungs. Die of asphyxiation of other people’s bullshit.

We also come to appreciate that the characters’ concerns are compounded by their own particular personal challenges. Faye has been sleeping overnight in the breakroom. Shanita is pregnant and periodically bursts in in tears. Dez keeps a gun in his locker.

Dez: Need me a good severance deal…if…shit goes down.
Faye: If ‘if’ was a spliff, we’d all be high.

Racheal Ofori as Shanita. Photo - Helen Murray

As the play proceeds, all these ingredients simmer and come to the boil. We are presented with a compelling case study in the dignity of labour; the social cohesion created by industrial jobs, and destroyed by wholesale layoffs; and the resourcefulness and grit of working people.

As a young Planner I was taught that one of the fundamental responsibilities of advertising was to keep the factories open; to keep the lines moving; to sustain jobs. It’s worth being reminded of that occasionally.

I was particularly taken with a speech made by Shanita after a tough commute to the factory.

Shanita: This whole city is under construction. That’s what I discovered on my way into work today. Traffic on the 75 was crazy. They done took everything down to one lane. And people don’t know how to merge. Cars backed up for miles cuz people don’t know how to merge. Don’t matter what freeway you take, it be the same selfish behaviour on all of ‘em. Everybody got somewhere to be and don’t wanna let you in. Even when you honk at ‘em. Even when you try to smile pretty and be polite with it. That shit used to work at one point. I could always squeeze into a lane with a smile. But not no more. Nobody wants to merge no more. We just gettin’ squished into smaller lanes while they make these promises to fix the freeways and don’t seem like they ever really get fixed. And at the end of the day, we just hate drivin’ with each other cuz ain’t enough space and assholes don’t wanna let you in. All I can think anymore is if we just merged, shit would flow so much better.

The world is more fragmented, individualistic and isolating than at any time in human history. And yet we are stronger together - in life generally, and in work specifically.  

We need to remember how to merge.

'Gotta find me an angel
To fly away with me.
Gotta find me an angel
And set me free.
My heart is without a home,
I don't want to be alone.
I gotta find me an angel
In my life, in my life.
Too long have I loved,
So unattached within.
So much that I know
That I need somebody so.
So I'll just go on
Hoping that I find me someone.
Gotta find me an angel
In my life, in my life.
I know there must be someone
Somewhere for me.
Oh, I've lived too long
Without the love of someone.
And there's no misery
Like the misery
I feel in me.
Gotta find me an angel
In my life.’
Aretha Franklin, ‘Angel’ (C A Franklin / William N Sanders)

No. 479

Karaoke Strategy: Always Rehearse in Private Before You Perform in Public

Everett Shinn ‘Revue’ 1908

I confess I’m partial to a bit of karaoke.

I like the theatre of it, the amateurishness and enthusiasm. I like the cozy intimacy of the booth, the excited loading of the playlist, the sporadic arrival of the drink orders. I like it when Michelle sings Carly Simon, and Mike channels Bowie, and everyone joins in on the chorus to ‘Life on Mars.’ I like the muffled thunder of people chanting ‘Wonderwall’ next door. I like the way it celebrates both individuality and community; the way it helps everyone to remember and forget.

I’m only a moderate singer, but I enjoy joining in. And I have learned that it’s best to come to karaoke armed with a few tunes up your sleeve.

And so, when I was recently invited to a karaoke evening, I was prompt to perform my version of Orange Juice’s ‘Rip It Up.’ I know I can deliver this with a decent impersonation of Edwyn Collins’ refined vocal stylings, and with the added value of my awkward ‘80s dance-steps.

'When I first saw you,
Something stirred within me,
You were standing sultry in the rain.
If I could have held you,
I would have held you.
Rip it up and start again.’
Orange Juice, ‘Rip It Up’ (S R Greenaway / T W Collins)

Before too long, my slot at the microphone came round again, and I turned to another old favourite: Engelbert Humperdinck’s ‘The Last Waltz’. I’ve long been charmed by its crooning evocation of 1960s dancehalls. It’s true, I struggle somewhat with the high notes. But it’s such a romantic sentiment that I’m sure no one notices…

'I wondered should I go or should I stay,
The band had only one more song to play.
And then I saw you out the corner of my eye,
A little girl, alone and so shy.
I had the last waltz with you,
Two lonely people together.
I fell in love with you,
The last waltz should last forever.’
Engelbert Humperdinck, 'The Last Waltz’ (J B Mason / L D Reed)

As the evening wore on, my supply of known numbers was running out. I couldn’t find my signature song, The Smiths’ ‘Please, Please, Please,’ on the machine. And I was conscious that my picks had, to this point, been somewhat antique.

Karaoke is very much about self-expression, not just in the way that you perform, but in the songs you select. Perhaps my repertoire was betraying my late-Boomer life-stage.

Now the microphone was coming round to me again. What was I to do? Maybe I should choose something more current and contemporary; something that demonstrated I was still in touch with popular culture?

I’ve always had a soft spot for Lana Del Ray’s melancholic chansons noires, and in particular her 2011 classic ‘Video Games.’ I’d not sung this before, but it seemed in a low enough register, and, at that particular moment, lubricated a little by industrial Malbec, I was sure I could give it a go…

Sadly, when the tune came up, I discovered that, in truth, I only really knew the chorus. As the lyrics scrolled by, I sought desperately for some residual recollection of a melody. To no avail. And so I delivered most of the song in a rather awkward monotone. This was more woeful butchery than wistful beauty.  

I sensed the audience’s attention waning, switching to the next item on the playlist, to the next singer on the stage.  

I had failed.

'It's you, it's you, it's all for you,
Everything I do.
I tell you all the time,
Heaven is a place on earth with you.
Tell me all the things you wanna do.
I heard that you like the bad girls.
Honey, is that true?’
Lana Del Ray, ‘Video Games’ (E Grant / J Parker)

I guess the conclusion here is that we should never attempt a karaoke tune without previously establishing that it is within our skillset - that we can perform the verse and the bridge, as well as the chorus. Preparation pays.

As in karaoke, so in life and work. We are often encouraged to follow our intuition, to trust our gut. But I think we should only do this up to a point.

Once we have listened to our heart, we should then pay heed to the practicalities; run through the rationalities. We should always rehearse in private before we perform in public.

For my last number I decided to return to more familiar territory. I belted out Elton John’s ‘Your Song’ with relief and recognition. Yes, I was playing it safe. But I’m a man of a certain age, of limited vocal talents. I’m comfortable with that. And you can tell everybody, that this is my song.   

‘It's a little bit funny,
This feeling inside.
I'm not one of those who can easily hide.
I don't have much money, but boy if I did,
I'd buy a big house where we both could live.
And you can tell everybody
This is your song.
It may be quite simple, but
Now that it's done.
I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind,
That I put down in words,
How wonderful life is
While you're in the world.’
Elton John, ‘Your Song’ (B Taupin, E John)

No. 478

Billy Wilder: ‘Nobody Can Portray What the Audience Can Imagine’

Billy Wilder

'If there's anything I hate more than not being taken seriously, it's being taken too seriously.'
Billy Wilder

I recently watched a couple of extended interviews with the legendary film-maker Billy Wilder. (‘Billy, How Did You Do It?’ (1992), Volker Schlondorff; ‘The Writer Speaks: Billy Wilder’ (1995), The Writers Guild Foundation)

'I have ten commandments. The first nine are, thou shalt not bore. The tenth is, thou shalt have right of final cut.'

Born into a Jewish family in a small town in Poland in 1906, Wilder was raised in Vienna and found work as a journalist and screenwriter in Berlin. After the Nazis’ rise to power, he moved briefly to Paris, before relocating to Hollywood in 1934. His mother, grandmother and stepfather were all victims of the Holocaust. 

‘Anyone who doesn't believe in miracles isn't a realist.’

Having learned English from scratch, Wilder co-wrote ‘Ninotchka’ (1939), the film where Garbo laughed, and ‘Ball of Fire’(1941), one of the great screwball comedies. He then took to directing, so that he could better control his vision.

‘People ask me if directors should also be able to write. I say to them: ‘What is important is that he is able to read.’’

Wilder went on to co-write and direct ‘Double Indemnity’ (1944), the prototype film noir; ‘The Lost Weekend’ (1945), the first movie to take alcoholism seriously; and ‘Sunset Boulevard’(1950), the definitive Hollywood expose. He filmed ‘Stalag 17’ (1953), the archetypal prisoner-of-war movie, and ‘Witness for the Prosecution’ (1957), the classic courtroom drama. He shone a spotlight on the cynicism of the press in ‘Ace in the Hole’ (1951). And he made us laugh like drains with ‘Some Like It Hot’ (1959) and ‘The Apartment’ (1960). Over six decades he created more than fifty films and won seven Academy Awards.

'An audience is never wrong. An individual member of it may be an imbecile, but a thousand imbeciles together in the dark - that is critical genius.’

In the interviews the elderly film-maker, still with an Austrian accent, looks back on his extraordinary career with authority, insight and a twinkle in his eye. Let us consider some of the lessons he imparts.

'Shoot a few scenes out of focus. I want to win the foreign film award.’

Wilder on the set of Double Indemnity (1944)

 1. Don’t Bore People

Wilder was at heart a popular entertainer. He wasn’t interested in arthouse credibility.

'Some pictures play wonderfully to a room of eight people. I don't go for that. I go for the masses. I go for the end effect.’

For Wilder the greatest crime was to be tedious.

'The Wilder message is don't bore - don't bore people.’

2. Start with the Architecture

Wilder’s films crossed many genres. They were characterised by tightly woven, intricate plots and dramatic reversals; by sharp dialogue and simple, elegant direction.  

‘Writing a movie is a mixture of architecture and poetry.’

Every twist and turn in the plot is carefully choreographed. Every scene is engineered like a Swiss timepiece.

‘The film has to be very precisely constructed, but the construction must not show.’

In ‘Double Indemnity’ (1944) a perfectly planned crime is undone by a car that fails to start. Expecting a rendezvous with his lover, the murderer is surprised by a visit from his boss. Counter to convention, a door opens onto a corridor, just so as to give Barbara Stanwyck somewhere to hide.
 
‘We have to find the mechanics and then write the scenes hiding the mechanics.’

Wilder was prepared to sacrifice great material if it didn’t serve the overall narrative. ‘Sunset Boulevard’(1950) was originally shot with an opening scene in the city morgue. In previews the audience burst out laughing when an identity tag was attached to a dead William Holden’s toe. Though Wilder loved the sequence, he cut it because it was setting the wrong mood.

3. Create Great Moments that Shake the House

Wilder was always thinking about audience attention.

‘Once you have the audience captured – once they are playing that game with the people on the screen – this is like you’ve got them by the throat, you can’t let it go. You squeeze a little more and more and more. Don’t let them escape. Don’t wake them up. Don’t let them realise this is only a movie that they’re seeing.’

And so he peppered his films with climactic moments. 

‘The strength of a film comes from those great moments that shake the house.’

As illustration of these mini-climaxes, he cites the rotten meat scene in Eisenstein’s ‘Battleship Potemkin’ (1925); the hitchhiker sequence in Capra’s ‘It Happened One Night’ (1934); the four-fingers reveal in Hitchcock’s ’The 39 Steps’ (1935).

'An actor entering through the door, you've got nothing. But if he enters through the window, you've got a situation.'

Wilder on the set of The Apartment (1960) with Shirley MacLaine and Jack Lemmon

4. Laughter Snowballs

Wilder was particularly attuned to the rhythm required for comedy.

‘In order to get laughs, you first have to create an atmosphere…One sporadic laugh and then nothing for 5 minutes is worse than no laughter at all. [Laughter] snowballs.’

For the final scene between Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon in ‘Some Like It Hot’ (1959), Wilder gave Lemmon a pair of maracas and got him to shake them after each gag. He did this to create space for audience laughter before Curtis delivered his next straight line.

The movie ends with Lemmon revealing his secret to his wealthy suitor.

Jerry: But you don't understand, Osgood! [pulls off his wig]… I'm a man!
Osgood: [shrugs] Well, nobody's perfect!

5. The Public Has to Add It Up

Wilder's first significant success in Hollywood came when he collaborated with Ernst Lubitsch on ‘Ninotchka’ (1939). The great German director taught him to let the audience work some things out for themselves.

‘Lubitsch was not afraid that people won’t understand him. Unlike people that say 2 + 2 makes 4, 1 + 3 also makes 4, 1+1+1+1 also makes 4. But Lubitsch says 2+2…That’s it. The public has to add it up.’

And so Wilder relates his stories with subtlety and a light touch. He advises, for instance, never to show a character having an idea.

'It’s too difficult to act and it’s very difficult to believe.’

Similarly, the murder in ‘Double Indemnity’ (1944) is not shown on screen. Rather, it is conveyed by a slight move of Barbara Stanwyck’s head as she drives the car in which it takes place.

'Emotions that are of startling strength, or vehement reactions, are best shot and acted by an actor with the back to the camera. Nobody can portray what the audience can imagine.’

Wilder on set

6. The Best Director Is the One You Don’t See

Wilder was first and foremost a writer, and his filmic style always served the script. 

'How do you make sure they understand what you want to tell them? How do you direct their eyes to that thing? How do you make them remember? The subtler you are, the more elegantly you do it, the better a director you are.’

His complex narratives required simple direction.

‘There are only two kinds of film for the public. The simple story padded out, furnished in rococo. The simple plot allows visual embellishment. Then the complex story filmed simply, in order to make it comprehensible. But if it’s complicated and you also make arabesques, then the audience won’t understand.’

Wilder was no fan of technical tricks and imaginative camera angles.

‘I shot fast with as few camera positions as possible. Good positions, interesting positions. But nothing…tricky. If they notice the camera you’re lost…The best director is the one you don't see… Shoot the son-of-a-bitch and let’s go home’

7. It’s Much Easier to Say ‘Do Less’ than ‘Do Something’

Wilder had a particular talent for getting great performances from his actors. Fourteen of the stars he directed were Oscar-nominated, including Barbara Stanwyck, Audrey Hepburn and Charles Laughton; Jack Lemmon, Shirley MacLaine and Walter Matthau. 

‘A director must be a policeman, a midwife, a psychoanalyst, a sycophant and a bastard.’

He often cast against type, enlisting tough guy James Cagney for a comedy role, and Disney hero William Holden to play a villain. He worked with Marilyn Monroe on two of her best pictures.

'An endless puzzle without any solution.’
 
In ‘Sunset Boulevard’ (1950) Wilder cast Gloria Swanson as a silent era film idol desperate for a return to the spotlight. Swanson, a silent star herself, had virtually given up cinema, and some warned him that her traditional acting style was too expressive. But that’s what Wilder wanted from the role.
 
‘It’s much easier to say ‘do less’ than ‘do something.’’

8. Keep Some Ideas in the Bottom Drawer 

Watching David Lean’s romance ‘Brief Encounter’ (1945), in which a couple conduct a tryst in a friend’s flat, Wilder was prompted to ponder:

‘What about the man who has to crawl back into his warm bed?’

He wrote a 5-page outline and popped it in a drawer filled with assorted first acts, characters and scenes.

Some years later Wilder was so enjoying working with Jack Lemmon on ‘Some Like It Hot’ (1959) that he determined he had to collaborate with him again. But on what? He went to his bottom drawer and pulled out the 5-page outline that would eventually become ‘The Apartment’ (1960).

Wilder with IAL Diamond

9. Approach Creative Collaboration Like Bank Tellers

Wilder’s writing career was marked by two significant partnerships: with Charles Brackett from 1936 to 1950; and with IAL Diamond from 1957 to 1981. 

Here Wilder describes his working routine with Diamond.

‘When you think of two guys writing a screenplay, what comes to mind? You visualise two crazies screaming at each other, or dancing on the furniture when they have come up with what they think is a doozy. Iz and I, we’re more like bank tellers. We open the shop at 9-30. There was a quick exchange of ‘morning’, ‘morning.’ I would sit behind my desk and he would slouch in the black Eames chair, his feet on the ottoman. He would be chewing gum or sucking on a toothpick - anything not to smoke too much. Sometimes the muses would come and whip our brow and we would whip up 10 or 12 pages a day, his on the typewriter and me with the yellow pad. There was no arm twisting, no pulling rank, no shouting, no screams of ecstasy because one came up with an idea that was maybe not too bad. The highest accolade you could get out of Iz was: ‘Why not?’’

10. Don’t Delude Yourself

Wilder was happy to acknowledge that even a talented film-maker gets it wrong sometimes. The key is to make an honest mistake, and to follow it with a hit.

‘Having been at it for a long time, I don’t delude myself. Usually when a picture doesn’t work, you go round and you say it was ahead of its time, the release was too close to Christmas, the release of the picture was too close after Christmas because people had spent their money on presents. The picture was a failure because there was so much sun and people wanted to go to the beach. And then it was a failure because it rained and nobody’s on the streets. All kind of excuses…’
 
Wilder gained his final Academy Award nomination for the screenplay of 'The Fortune Cookie' (1966), the first film pairing Jack Lemmon with Walter Matthau. But as the ‘60s turned into the ‘70s, he felt increasingly uncomfortable with the fashion for technical wizardry and special effects; with the spiralling cost of film production and the consequential conservatism. Most of his movies were made on budgets of between $800 and 900k.

'Most of the pictures they make nowadays are loaded down with special effects. I couldn't do that. I quit smoking because I couldn't reload my Zippo… They don't want to see a picture unless Peter Fonda is running over a dozen people, or unless Clint Eastwood has got a machine gun bigger than 140 penises. It gets bigger all the time, you know. It started out as a pistol, and now it's a machine gun. Something which is warm and funny and gentle and urbane and civilized hasn't got a chance today. There is a lack of patience which is sweeping the nation - or the world, for that matter.’

Wilder’s later films failed to impress critics or the public. In 1976 he remarked:

'They say Wilder is out of touch with his times. Frankly, I regard it as a compliment. Who the hell wants to be in touch with these times?’

He died aged 95 in 2002, leaving a legacy of some of the most entertaining films in Hollywood history. His gravestone reads:

‘I’m a writer. But then nobody’s perfect.’

'Isn't it romantic?
Music in the night, a dream that can be heard.
Isn't it romantic?
Moving shadows write the oldest magic word.
I hear the breezes playing in the trees above,
While all the world is saying you were meant for love.
Isn't it romantic?
Merely to be young on such a night as this?
Isn't it romantic?
Every note that's sung is like a lover's kiss.
Sweet symbols in the moonlight.
Do you mean that I will fall in love perchance?
Isn't it romance?
Sweet symbols in the moonlight.
Do you mean that I will fall in love perchance?
Isn't it romantic?
Isn't it romance?’

Mel Torme, 'Isn’t it Romantic?' (R Rodgers, L Hart)

No. 477

‘Line!’: When Words Fail You

Mary Cassatt, In the Loge

I recently attended the very first night of a new production at the theatre.

The lead actor was having terrible trouble remembering his lines.

You could see it in his fixed concentration; in the way he stared straight ahead, not responding to the other performers. You could hear it in his hesitations; in the unusual rhythm of his delivery.

There was clearly only one thought on his mind:

‘What’s my next line? What’s my next line? What’s my next line?’

And then, eventually, the inevitable happened: words failed him.

There was a brief pause, a stunned silence, and, with a look of defeat, he called out into the darkness:

‘Line!’

A voice from off-stage read a prompt in a flat voice.

The actor continued, somewhat disconsolate. And we spent the rest of the play willing him to make it to the end.

Poor bloke.

'Happiness: being able to forget or, to express in a more learned fashion.'
Friedrich Nietzsche

I found myself imagining how splendid it would be if, in everyday life, one could summon an elegant phrase, a witty remark, an insightful comment, with the simple exclamation of the word ‘Line!’ 

Alas we are reduced to the ‘inarticulate speech of the heart.’

I was also reminded of the times at work when I was completely tongue tied - occasions that haunt my dreams to this day.

It’s a critical meeting, a pivotal pitch. I’m well drilled and thoroughly rehearsed. I’m up for the challenge, ready for the test. All eyes are upon me.

And yet suddenly my mouth dries, my vision blurs and my mind empties.

What on earth was I planning to say here?

Over the years I established that the best response to forgetting one’s lines is to set aside the script; to improvise and ad lib; to look to your team.

Sometimes a fumbled explanation can come across as more authentic; a muddled articulation can seem more personal, more heartfelt, than a precisely worded, pre-scripted, line.

Every stumble is not a fall.

'The great enemy of communication, we find, is the illusion of it. We have talked enough; but we have not listened. And by not listening we have failed to concede the immense complexity of our society—and thus the great gaps between ourselves and those with whom we seek understanding.'
William H Whyte

The morning after my trip to the theatre, I related the story of the actor who forgot his lines to Doriano at his coffee van. I observed that it was all a little melancholy, because the performer was an elderly gentleman. His memory must be failing.  

I set off back home, only to be summoned back by Doriano. I’d forgotten to take my latte with me…


’Inarticulate speech, inarticulate speech of the heart.
I'm a soul in wonder.
I'm a soul in wonder.
Inarticulate speech, inarticulate speech of the heart.
I'm a soul in wonder.
A soul in wonder.'

Van Morrison, 'Inarticulate Speech of the Heart No. 2'

No. 476

Now You See Us: Buried Treasure and Hidden Gems

Mary Grace - Self portrait 1760’s . Oil on canvas

'Now You See Us’ at the Tate Britain, London (until 13 October) celebrates over 100 women artists who worked in Britain between 1520 and 1920. The exhibition presents paintings, pastels, needlework, photography and sculpture, that for the most part have been little known and rarely seen.

Here you’ll find Mary Beale’s glamorous depictions of 18th century society ladies, and a rather tender sketch that she made of her young son, his curly tresses tumbling to his shoulders. And there’s Mary Grace, whose only surviving painting is a self-portrait. In a fine primrose silk dress, she sits bolt upright, a palette resting on one arm, and regards us with stern authority.

Through the Looking-Glass, by Louise Jopling, 1875, acquired by the Tate. Photograph: Tate

In the 19th century rooms, Rosa Bonheur takes us to the Highlands, to mournful sheep grazing under a stormy sky. Elizabeth Forbes presents a naturalistic image of a farm labourer, head turned to the floor, in quiet conversation with a young woman at the edge of the woods - terribly romantic. And with its bold brushstrokes and flat appearance, Louise Jopling’s self-portrait suggests a Mancunian Manet.

There’s a good deal of buried treasure here, and many hidden gems.

Elizabeth Forbes - The Edge of the Woods

As we progress through the galleries, we also learn of the many hurdles women artists had to overcome.

For the most part, they were subject, first to their fathers, and then their husbands, limited to the domestic sphere. Having no access to apprenticeships, art was a private, amateur pursuit, one that was only available to the higher social orders, or those related to male artists. Their lives and work were poorly documented.

In 1768 Angelica Kauffman and Mary Moser became founding members of the Royal Academy (along with 32 men). However, when Johann Zoffany memorialised the new institution with a group picture of the Academicians at a life class, Kauffman and Moser were reduced to two indistinct portraits on the back wall - women were barred from life classes on the grounds of propriety. It would take more than 150 years for the next woman to be elected to membership.

Johan Zoffany - The Academicians of the Royal Academy, 1771-1772

There was a commonly held view that women were best suited to ‘imitation’ rather than invention. Miniatures, pastels and watercolours, sectors in which women thrived, were treated dismissively as ‘lower arts’ by the establishment. In 1770, the Royal Academy banned from its exhibitions ‘needle-work, artificial flowers, cut paper, shell-work, or any such baubles’. Joshua Reynolds, the Academy’s President, remarked that working in pastel was ‘just what ladies do when they paint for their own amusement.’

Nevertheless, they persisted. Between 1760 and 1830 some 900 women exhibited at public shows.

Flower painting was considered an appropriate artform for women. Mary Gartside created sublime floral watercolours, whilst at the same time pioneering colour theory. Mary Delany’s collages of spider lilies and flowering raspberry - made with coloured paper placed on black backgrounds (what she called her ‘paper mosaicks’) - are exquisite.

Mary Delany Rubus Odoratus 1772-1782 The British Museum

Gradually in the Victorian era women artists found new galleries, exhibition spaces and events that were less conservative than the Royal Academy. At the same time, they campaigned for access to training, governance and awards. Florence Claxton’s ‘Woman’s Work’ of 1861 shows some women fawning at the feet of a pompous man who sits under a false idol. Other women meanwhile are confined behind ‘the ancient wall of Custom and Prejudice,’ and the door to the medical profession is locked. Only one female artist, Rosa Bonheur, has climbed a ladder to view the ‘forbidden fruit’ beyond.

Florence Claxton, Women's Work, 1861

Founded in 1871, the Slade School of Fine Art in London offered women an education on equal terms with men, and, at last, access to life classes. Soon women students outnumbered men by three to one.

As we enter the 20th century rooms, and the progress towards broader freedoms, we see work from artists who have become more familiar to us: Gwen John, Laura Knight, Vanessa Bell, Nina Hamnet, Helen Saunders. Still, some of these magnificent painters have taken a century to receive proper recognition.

Leaving the exhibition, one can’t help thinking about wasted talent. So many remarkable artists unseen and unacknowledged. So many great works neglected and ignored.We may also be prompted to reflect on the world of work. Are our biases blinding us to untapped abilities and underutilised expertise? Are we failing to realise the true potential of the human capital at our disposal? Are we still missing out on buried treasure and hidden gems?

'I believe talent is like electricity. We don’t understand electricity. We use it. Electricity makes no judgment. You can plug into it and light up a lamp, keep a heart pump going, light a cathedral, or you can electrocute a person with it. Electricity will do all that. It makes no judgment. I think talent is like that. I believe every person is born with talent.'
Maya Angelou

'The most as you'll ever go
Is back where you used to know.
If grown-ups could laugh this slow
Where as you watch the hour snow,
Years may go by.
So hold on to your special friend.
Here, you'll need something to keep her in:
"Now you stay inside this foolish grin"
Though any day your secrets end.
Then again,
Years may go by.’

Rickie Lee Jones, 'On Saturday Afternoons In 1963’

No. 475