Byron’s Decoupage Screen: Reflecting on Celebrity, High Art and Low Culture

Decoupage Screen, Front and Reverse

'What is the end of fame? 'tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper,"
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.’
Lord Byron, ‘Don Juan’

At a recent visit to the National Portrait Gallery in London, I came across a large folding decoupage screen once owned by Lord Byron.

Decoupage is the art of decorating an object by gluing onto it coloured paper cut-outs from prints or magazines; and then finishing it with a special paint or varnish. Practiced by craftsmen in Italy and France during the eighteenth century, decoupage had become a fashionable hobby by Byron’s time.

This six-foot high, four-panelled screen was created around 1814 by Henry Angelo, Byron’s fencing coach. It could have been used to block out drafts or afford some privacy. Or perhaps it was simply intended for the poet’s amusement. 

The screen is covered on one side with notable characters from English theatrical history: portraits of Shakespeare, Sarah Siddons and Edmund Kean; scenes from plays and representations of monuments. 

On the other side we find bare-knuckle boxers in action poses – long forgotten figures like Jack Broughton and James Figg; Tom Cribb and Tom Molineaux, the formerly enslaved American fighter. These pictures are surrounded by biographies and accounts of bouts cut from the pages of Pierce Egan’s Boxiana or Sketches of Ancient and Modern Pugilism.

'The best of prophets of the future is the past.'
Lord Byron, Journal 1821 

It’s a rather beautiful object in its own right. Busy, bustling, bursting with life. An early nineteenth century version of Pop Art; a scrap-book of contemporary enthusiasms. It’s also a fascinating historical document. It demonstrates that the gifted poet did not just have his head in the clouds. He had a passion for sport and the dramatic arts; for popular culture and celebrity. He was a fan.

'But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.'
Lord Byron, ‘Don Juan’

Detail of painting: George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron Byron, in Albanian costume, painted by Thomas Phillips in 1813

We think of celebrity as a phenomenon of the modern era. But the public have been obsessing about famous people for centuries: athletes were lauded in archaic Greek poetry; actors kept the company of political leaders in Pericles’ Athens; gladiators were feted in ancient Rome; emperors had their profiles stamped on coins that travelled to every corner of their domain.

The cult of celebrity runs deep. We imagine we know these special individuals, that we have insight into their thoughts and feelings. We admire their looks and talents; their taste and wit. We aspire to their glamorous lifestyle. We love and envy them.

The phenomenon has, of course, been magnified by successive revolutions in media: from the printing press to radio and cinema; from television to social networks. In Byron’s time awareness of famous people was circulated through the booming platforms of periodicals and prints. Each innovation fuels the public’s appetite to know a little more, to get a little closer.

'Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.’
Lord Byron, Stanzas Written on the Road Between Florence and Pisa

In the world of advertising, celebrities have long been recognised as vehicles for conferring recognition and positive associations. Although consumers know that money has changed hands, there’s still a sense that their hero has endorsed this brand; that they genuinely like and use it. A form of cognitive dissonance, I suppose.

I confess that when I worked in the industry I tended to avoid celebrity campaigns. For me they entailed borrowed interest, taking a conceptual short-cut. And of course they often came at a high price and with reputational risk. But there’s no denying their effectiveness when brand and spokesperson act in synergy. People adore celebrity.

'All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.'
Lord Byron, ‘Don Juan'

Detail from Screen

I was particularly taken with the fact that Byron was a fan of both high art and low culture: theatre and boxing. As an adolescent I was concerned that my admiration of Homer and Handel; Goya and Graham Greene might be undermined by my devotion to sixties soul music and the Likely Lads. But then – prompted by Melvyn Bragg and the South Bank Show – I came to appreciate that different moods have different cultural modes; that any individual has multiple facets to their personality. 

It’s only human to seek out both the spiritual and the everyday, the sacred and the profane. We should just follow our passions.

'There are four questions of value in life, Don Octavio. What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love.'
Lord Byron, ‘Don Juan’

'Who killed Davey Moore?
Why an' what's the reason for?
"Not us", said the angry crowd
Whose screams filled the arena loud.
"It's too bad he died that night,
But we just like to see a fight
We didn't mean for him to meet his death,
We just meant to see some sweat.
There ain't nothing wrong in that.
It wasn't us that made him fall.
No, you can't blame us at all.”'

Bob Dylan, 'Who Killed Davey Moore?'

No. 466

Dogs Can Anticipate Incompetence. Can’t We All?

Francisco de Goya,: The Dog (c1820)

'Never tell a fool that he is a fool. All you'll have is an angry fool.’
The Talmud

With his long ears, short attention span and boundless energy, springer spaniel Dillon was very much part of the Carroll household. When he wasn’t chasing birds or his own tail in the back garden, he tended to hang around the kitchen in the hope of scraps from his mistress’s table.

One day, at home alone from school, I decided to prepare myself a Bejam meat pie and baked beans. Though no culinary expert, I felt I was up to the task.

Dillon sat up straight, anticipating opportunity.

I located a meat pie in the chest freezer we kept in the garden shed and promptly popped it in the oven, setting the heat at an approximate level. Then I stirred the beans and set to reading the next chapter of my Graham Greene novel. After some time, alerted by a concerned bark from Dillon, I discovered the pie was beginning to burn on top.

That’ll be well done, I thought. And so I slipped it onto a plate and spooned the beans over - with a little dash of HP sauce for good measure.

As I tucked into my mid-day feast Dillon regarded me with fierce intensity.

Blimey. That’s not what I expected. Though burnt to a crisp on the outside, the Bejam meat pie was still frozen on the inside. I didn’t know that was scientifically possible.

I deposited the unsightly mess in the swing bin. 

Dillon retired to his station under the telly, the look on his forlorn face suggesting he should have expected nothing better.

I read recently that dogs are able to identify stress in humans from their sweat and breath. Indeed new research published in Behavioural Processes has found that canines are capable of recognizing people’s competence at completing certain tasks.

In the first phase of the study scientists arranged for hungry dogs to watch people attempting to open a food container. The conditions were set so that one sample of humans succeeded in the task (‘The Competent’) and another sample failed (‘The Incompetent’).

When the same humans revisited the exercise in the second phase of the test, they were observed by the same dogs. This time the canny canines fixed their gaze on the Competent openers, ignoring the actions of the Incompetent.

The study concluded that dogs can recognize ineptitude and anticipate its reoccurrence. The article also noted that females are particularly good at spotting inadequacy.

I suspect it’s not just dogs that can sense incompetence. As you walk into the room to find half the attendees are running late. As you embark on a discussion without any clarity about the objectives and duration of the session. As you observe the debate running off subject without any moderation. You just know this is going to be a meandering mess of a meeting.

I’m well aware that many executives think meeting hygiene is beneath them. But what some consider cool, the rest of us consider feckless.

'Details make perfection, and perfection is not a detail.’
Leonardo da Vinci

I often advise Planners to address their career in two phases: rigorous youth and then cavalier maturity. My suggestion is that we should employ the first years of work to learn the ABC of business, to assemble the tools of our trade. After that we can afford to be more self-confident and bold; more flamboyant and expressive.

On hearing this recommendation, most people tend to focus on the cavalier element of it. It sounds like fun. But the tedious truth is that successful careers are founded on rigour, reliability, discipline and attention to detail.

Although Dillon regarded me as inept, he was nonetheless happy to accompany me on brisk walks to Haynes Park and beyond. He had the capacity to forgive failure. Which is perhaps another worthwhile leadership lesson.

'Maybe I'm a fool
For loving you so.
And maybe I'm a fool,
I don’t really know.
But I can't stop loving you, darling,
Even though I tried.

So if you should decide
To try me once more.
All you got to do is knock on my door,
And I'll say that I've taken you back.
If taking you back would be foolish,
Then maybe I'm a fool.’

Aretha Franklin, ‘Maybe I’m a Fool’ (J. L McFarland)

No. 412

The Fallen Idol: ‘We Make One Another’

‘You know what happens to little boys who tell lies…’
Mrs Baines, ‘The Fallen Idol’

'The Fallen Idol' is a fine 1948 drama directed by Carol Reed, based on a short story by Graham Greene.

The film is set in and around the French Embassy in London over a weekend when the Ambassador is away. We watch events through the eyes of Phillipe, the Ambassador’s eight-year-old son (Bobby Henrey). Phillipe observes from the balcony, through the banisters. He spies from the fire escape, through the hall window. He has only a restricted view of the adult world and he only partially comprehends its complexities.

Phillipe idolises Baines the butler (Ralph Richardson), a reserved, gentle man who keeps him entertained with exotic stories and imaginative games. But the boy is not so keen on Baines’ wife (Sonia Dresdel), the cold, strict and joyless housekeeper.

Baines, trapped in a loveless marriage, has been secretly courting a secretary who works at the Embassy. Phillipe stumbles into the couple meeting in a teashop.

Phillipe: Funny, isn't it? Julie working for the Embassy and all this time she was your niece.
Baines: Yes. It's a scream.

Baines asks Phillipe to keep their encounter to himself. It will be their little secret.

‘Give me your handkerchief. It's things like that give secrets away.’

Events come to a head. There is a quarrel and Mrs Baines falls down the Embassy’s grand marble staircase to her death. The police are called. Impressionable young Phillipe wants to protect his friend, but at the same time feels compelled to tell the truth. He must reassess his fallen idol.

The film concerns itself with secrets and lies. Baines lies to Phillipe about his adventures in Africa. Phillipe lies to Mrs Baines about his pet snake MacGregor. Baines lies to his wife about his affair. Mrs Baines lies to Phillipe to find out what he knows. It’s a picture of a social order sustained and corrupted by falsehood.

Phillipe must learn that some lies are well intentioned and innocent, while others are all-consuming and corrosive.

Baines: There's lies and lies.
Mrs. Baines: What do you mean by that?
Baines: Some lies are just kindness.

At a critical point in the story Baines endeavours to explain to Phillipe the failure of his marriage.

Baines: There are faults on both sides, Phile. We don't have any call to judge. Perhaps she was what she was because I am what I am. We ought to be very careful, Phile. 'Cause we make one another.
Phillipe: I thought God made us.
Baines: Trouble is, we take a hand in the game.

I was quite taken with this idea: ‘we make one another.’

We spend a good deal of time nowadays asserting our individual freedom and personal responsibility. But sometimes we neglect to consider that personal responsibility extends to the impact we have on others. By our words and actions we shape the way people think, feel and behave. We set the tone, determine the norm. We create context.

This applies as much in business as it does in ordinary life. Leaders must recognise that their role is not just to fix corporate vision and strategy; to meet commercial targets and goals. They must also define corporate culture and values: establish the ethical environment in which staff can perform; set the standards by which colleagues are expected to behave. We are making one another.

It’s sometimes believed that to succeed in commerce you have to be hard-hearted and cold-blooded. And yet I read recently about a study conducted by researchers at University of California that challenges this assumption. 670 students were asked to take a personality test. Ten years later the subjects were interviewed again, along with their respective work colleagues. It transpires that those students who had been aggressive, manipulative and selfish progressed no further in their careers than the kind and generous ones. Indeed the selfish students’ failure to form good relationships with their colleagues had constrained their advancement. In an interdependent world nice people don’t finish last.

In the middle of the police investigation into the death of Mrs Baines, a smart little man interrupts proceedings to adjust one of the Embassy’s ornamental clocks. When asked to come back later, the man persists, and explains that the procedure really must be carried out on the first Monday of every month.

‘They behave much better if they’re looked after.’

'You can't hide your lyin’ eyes,
And your smile is a thin disguise.
I thought by now you'd realize,
There ain't no way to hide your lyin' eyes.’
The Eagles, ‘Lyin’ Eyes’ (D Henley / G Frey)

No. 310

‘The Third Man’: The Singular of Data is Anecdote

'A person doesn't change just because you find out more.’
Anna Schmidt, ‘The Third Man’

Vienna after the war is worn out, struggling to pull itself together. It’s a city of desperate poverty, bleak bombsites and crumbling baroque architecture. The Military Police search the seedy clubs and dank bedrooms for forged papers and contraband. Elderly men in homburgs and fur-collared overcoats scurry across damp, cobbled streets. Querulous landladies shout up spiral staircases with tatty walls. Nervous tenants exchange furtive glances and slam their shutters to the world. Children play in the rubble.

It’s the middle of the night and someone’s hiding in the darkness - in a doorway, with a cat at his feet.

‘Come out, come out, whoever you are.’

A light is turned on in a nearby apartment building and the mysterious figure is briefly revealed. He stares straight back at us, silent, knowing. He permits himself a smile. It’s Harry Lime, a dead man. 

‘The Third Man’ is a 1949 British thriller written by Graham Greene and directed by Carol Reed. The film is a magical confection of shadows and light, shot at woozy, disorientating angles that suggest a world out of kilter. It is accompanied by the zither music of Anton Karas - mischievous and menacing.

‘It’s better not to get mixed up in things like this… I saw nothing. I said nothing.’

Joseph Cotten in “The Third Man.”

Joseph Cotten stars as Holly Martins, an author investigating the death of his old friend Harry Lime, played by Orson Welles.

Martins learns that Lime had a reputation as ‘the worst racketeer that ever made a living in this city.’ He stole penicillin from military hospitals, diluting it, and selling it on the black market. Many innocent people have died. 

Eventually Martins discovers that Lime has faked his own death and he tracks the criminal down to the Prater Amusement Park. They take a ride together on the famous ferris wheel. Challenged to defend his actions, Lime offers a chillingly cynical perspective. 

'Nobody thinks in terms of human beings. Governments don't. Why should we? They talk about the people and the proletariat, I talk about the suckers and the mugs. It's the same thing. They have their five-year plans, so have I.’

Lime draws Martins’ attention to the distant figures in the Amusement Park down below.

‘Victims? Don't be melodramatic. Look down there. Tell me. Would you really feel any pity if one of those dots stopped moving forever? If I offered you twenty thousand pounds for every dot that stopped, would you really, old man, tell me to keep my money? Or would you calculate how many dots you could afford to spare?’

Lime is of course a dark, amoral character. There is something disturbing about the way he objectifies and distances human beings in order to justify his actions. It still resonates today.

When we freely refer to people as consumers, cases and categories; as users, markets and ethnicities, are we not denying them their individuality, identity, personality and character? When we analyse them as data on a chart, as dots on a matrix, do we not strip them of their essential humanity?

It’s an easy mistake to make.

You may be familiar with the aphorism: ‘The plural of anecdote is not data.’ This is a helpful admonishment in the world of marketing, where we are often tempted to extrapolate grand themes and significant cultural change from a few isolated events. The heart sinks when a report begins:

‘We have a good deal of anecdotal evidence…’ 

But it’s equally important to look through the other end of the telescope. The singular of data is an individual’s experience. It is an incident in one person’s life. It is his or her particular story. The singular of data is anecdote.

The best strategists are capable of seeing the big picture and the small. They can join the dots to observe the contours of social change. But they can also look behind the dots to consider particular people’s lives with humility and insight. 

Perhaps Harry Lime has one opinion that should give us some encouragement. He suggests that good things can come of bad experiences; that culture emerges stronger and richer from times of crisis and upheaval.

'Don't be so gloomy. After all it's not that awful. Like the fella says, in Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love - they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.’

 
'We walked in the cold air.
Freezing breath on a window pane,
Lying and waiting.
A man in the dark in a picture frame,
So mystic and soulful.
A voice reaching out in a piercing cry,
It stays with you until
The feeling has gone, only you and I.
It means nothing to me.
This means nothing to me.
Oh, Vienna.’

Ultravox, ‘Vienna’ (W Currie / M Ure / C Allen / W Cann)

No. 287